in the studio, we’d spoken only when necessary. But I neither longed for nor resented him, as I’d always sensed he believed. Though I’d been hurt and humiliated by his rejection, it had, I soon realized, freed me and offered clarity. I would never again risk poisoning TNO for myself by falling for or trying to date anyone there. And this decision made me see that there was a different way I wrote when, even subconsciously, I was seeking male approval, male sexual approval: a more coy way, more reserved, more nervous about being perceived as angry or vulgar. It was the syntactical equivalent of dressing up as a sexy zombie for Halloween. From my third season on, I’d embraced my anger and vulgarity. I’d been a gross zombie. I began writing about ostensibly female topics—camel toe and wage inequity, polycystic ovary syndrome and Jane Austen, Do-si-dos and Trefoils and mammograms and shapewear and Dirty Dancing and the so-called likeability of female politicians. By October of that year, I’d written my first viral sketch, Nancy Drew and the Disappearing Access to Abortion, in which Henrietta played the amateur detective. By December, I’d written my second, My Girlfriend Never Farts, which was a digital short that interspersed men at a bachelor party remarking on how their girlfriends and wives always smelled great and were hairless interspersed with shots of the women grunting and sweating as they moved a couch up a staircase, writhing on the toilet with explosive diarrhea, and giving instructions to an aesthetician who was waxing their buttholes. I didn’t try to be disgusting for the sake of being disgusting, but I didn’t try not to be disgusting. A few years after not reciprocating my feelings, Elliot appeared to develop an almost identical friendship with another new female writer except that I had the impression they were hooking up, but it didn’t last. The same season that Elliot became head writer, Nicola Dornan was a musical guest on the show, they began dating, and a year after that, they got married. This development did seem to vindicate his apparent belief that he shouldn’t have settled for me. Quite a few people from TNO had been invited to the wedding, and I hadn’t been one of them. All of which was to say, as we stood in the hallway outside his office, below a framed photo of a legendary TNO alum from the first season dressed as the Easter bunny—many such photos adorned the halls—I knew that Elliot was saying he hoped someday I could get over him. I tried to sound persuasively non-defensive as I said, “Really and truly, Elliot, the Danny Horst Rule sketch isn’t about you. It’s not revenge for you marrying Nicola.” The expression on his face was sympathetic and disbelieving, which made me realize I’d have vastly preferred unsympathetic and believing. Somberly, he said, “You have good qualities, Sally. You’re not out of the game unless you think you are.” I was filled with such loathing for him that it almost retroactively tainted the wise yet not


of bird wouldn’t land on water since her feathers easily became waterlogged and she’d lose her ability to fly. By necessity she’d return to the vessel unless she found dry land. He fed her some scraps of dried fish skin and set her free. After so many days of being trapped, she didn’t understand her freedom, remaining motionless until he nudged her, and she flew into the sky. He stood at the bow, studying her direction of flight. She slowly circled the boat and then set off. She must have seen land. She must have seen Iraro. After many hours following the bird he entered a strange ocean consisting of countless small islands, smooth and white as the clouds. The air was so cold his breath turned to mist. He dropped the sail and, using the steering paddle, brought himself to the nearest island. There were no plants or trees, no creatures of any kind. Scraping the surface with the edge of his paddle produced a fine white dust which turned to water between his fingers. Ui dabbed the dust on his tongue. It wasn’t salty ocean water; it was fresh like rain, as though these islands were clouds that had crashed into the sea. Perhaps this was the place where clouds crashed after they’d finished flying, or perhaps this was where clouds were born and if he stayed here long enough, he’d see these islands puff up and rise into the sky. Ui climbed the mast and perched at the top, perfectly balanced, assessing the view. Far away he saw white cliffs, high and smooth, stretching from one side of the horizon to the other. He wondered how they’d come to be this way. Perhaps set back from the white cliffs, there were white volcanoes, and instead of red, hot lava they spewed cold, white lava. Perhaps there were white forests with white tree trunks and white leaves. Perhaps there were herds of white-fur animals and tribes of white-skinned men and women. He wondered what kind of person could live in a land like this. It must be a different kind of people – a savage tribe; only a savage people could survive in such cold. ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO SOUTH GEORGIA ISLAND TWO THOUSAND KILOMETRES NORTH OF ANTARCTICA ONLY SOCIETY’S OUTCASTS COULD SURVIVE in these freezing waters and over the years Captain Moray had concluded there were no exceptions to this rule. Some of his crew could pass among civilized society for a while, they could entertain a room with tales of their adventures, but they’d pull a knife if they took a dislike to someone, and they took a dislike to a great many people. As the captain of the most successful sealing vessel operating off South Georgia Island, Moray was an expert in choosing his crew from the variety of outcasts on offer, his preference being for the melancholic, the sexual deviants and the thieves. For the thieves there was nothing to steal, for the melancholic there was the ocean to meditate upon and for the


she could go home, sit in the garden and read a book. There was a good one on the coffee table in her living room that she’d just started, called Et Tu Brute? about the murder of Julius Caesar and political assassination. Minnie was already extremely knowledgeable about all things Roman, but now she was becoming even better. A hand squeezed her shoulder and a voice called, ‘Minnie.’ She whirled round to see Francine Jarvis, and Minnie offered a smile. ‘Francine, nice to see you.’ She gazed over her shoulder. ‘Is Melvyn with you?’ Francine rarely went anywhere without her husband at her elbow. ‘He’s over there somewhere – talking to someone from his newspaper.’ She waved a hand in no particular direction. ‘I saw you and I just had to come over and apologise.’ ‘Whatever for?’ Minnie wrinkled her forehead. ‘The dinner party was wonderful fun.’ ‘For what happened with Jensen Callahan, the American. I should have introduced him properly before all the others started to make ghastly comments – they hadn’t realised he was a New Yorker. Melvyn told me afterwards that he’d tried to change the subject twice but – oh, I felt so dreadful, all that stuff about artists and playwrights. I apologised to Jensen before he left, but he didn’t mind at all. In fact, he found it quite humorous.’ ‘I bet he did,’ Minnie agreed with a smile. ‘He was very taken with you too…’ ‘Oh?’ Minnie tried to make her face appear surprised. ‘I’m not sure we had much in common…’ ‘He said he loved talking to you about theatre and literature over dessert. Minnie, he asked if you were single and if I had your phone number. Of course, I didn’t give it to him, not without asking you first.’ ‘Quite right too,’ Minnie said, a cat-with-the-cream expression on her face. If Jensen Callahan wanted to meet her again, he’d have to try harder than that. ‘But we must have another dinner party soon and, of course, you’ll be invited…’ ‘Thank you – that would be lovely.’ Minnie inclined her head graciously. ‘And now summer is coming, I might have a soirée in the garden.’ ‘Melvyn and I will be there – and we could ask Jensen.’ ‘I’ll look at my diary.’ Minnie was being deliberately enigmatic. ‘Oh, is that Melvyn waving?’ ‘It is – I must go.’ Francine kissed the air twice. ‘I just wanted to thank you for saving my dinner party – it could have gone so horribly wrong and you said all the right things. We’ll meet soon.’ ‘My pleasure,’ Minnie replied, remembering how much she’d enjoyed the Eton Mess, glancing into Jensen’s twinkling eyes and bantering with him about the arts. Minnie turned away from the heaving procession, the jangling bells and trumpeting music, and strolled along the banks of the Cherwell, the grounds of St Hilda’s to her left. As they often did, Minnie’s thoughts drifted back to her first term as an Oxford student. She’d been eighteen, skinny, all wild hair, second-hand clothes and books, a third-hand


the night by the wind. The wind itself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky arched high over the moorland. Never, never had Mary dreamed of a sky so blue. In India skies were hot and blazing; this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. The far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray. "Aye," said Martha with a cheerful grin. "Th' storm's over for a bit. It does like this at this time o' th' year. It goes off in a night like it was pretendin' it had never been here an' never meant to come again. That's because th' springtime's on its way. It's a long way off yet, but it's comin'." "I thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in England," Mary said. "Eh! no!" said Martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes. "Nowt o' th' soart!" "What does that mean?" asked Mary seriously. In India the natives spoke different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not surprised when Martha used words she did not know. Martha laughed as she had done the first morning. "There now," she said. "I've talked broad Yorkshire again like Mrs. Medlock said I mustn't. `Nowt o' th' soart' means `nothin'-of-the-sort,'" slowly and carefully, "but it takes so long to say it. Yorkshire's th' sunniest place on earth when it is sunny. I told thee tha'd like th' moor after a bit. Just you wait till you see th' gold-colored gorse blossoms an' th' blossoms o' th' broom, an' th' heather flowerin', all purple bells, an' hundreds o' butterflies flutterin' an' bees hummin' an' skylarks soarin' up an' singin'. You'll want to get out on it as sunrise an' live out on it all day like Dickon does." "Could I ever get there?" asked Mary wistfully, looking through her window at the far-off blue. It was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color. "I don't know," answered Martha. "Tha's never used tha' legs since tha' was born, it seems to me. Tha' couldn't walk five mile. It's five mile to our cottage." "I should like to see your cottage." Martha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again. She was thining that the small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw it. It looked just a trifle like little Susan Ann's when she wanted something very much. "I'll ask my mother about it," she said. "She's one o' them that nearly always sees a way to do things. It's my day out today an' I'm goin' home. Eh! I am glad. Mrs. Medlock thinks a lot o' mother. Perhaps she could talk to her." "I like your mother,"


weight of the what? Or is it the volume is equal to the weight? It's a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second per second. Law of falling bodies: per second per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight. He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded FREEMAN from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air: just drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In. He handed the card through the brass grill. --Are there any letters for me? he asked. While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer probably. Went too far last time. The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope. Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row, City. Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes. He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the letter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No. M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when you. --Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to? --Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular. --How's the body? --Fine. How are you? --Just keeping alive, M'Coy said. His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect: --Is there any ... no trouble I hope? I see you're ... --O,


seemed to imply one unfathomable conclusion. The Cup of Christ is in this wooden box. Langdon again told himself it was impossible. "It's a perfect size," Sophie whispered, "to hold... a chalice." It can't be a chalice. Sophie pulled the box toward her across the table, preparing to open it. As she moved it, though, something unexpected happened. The box let out an odd gurgling sound. Langdon did a double take. There's liquid inside? Sophie looked equally confused. "Did you just hear...?" Langdon nodded, lost. "Liquid." Reaching forward, Sophie slowly unhooked the clasp and raised the lid. The object inside was unlike anything Langdon had ever seen. One thing was immediately clear to both of them, however. This was definitely not the Cup of Christ. 129 CHAPTER 45 "The police are blocking the street," Andr Vernet said, walking into the waiting room. "Getting you out will be difficult." As he closed the door behind him, Vernet saw the heavy-duty plastic case on the conveyor belt and halted in his tracks. My God! They accessed Saunire's account? Sophie and Langdon were at the table, huddling over what looked to be a large wooden jewelry box. Sophie immediately closed the lid and looked up. "We had the account number after all," she said. Vernet was speechless. This changed everything. He respectfully diverted his eyes from the box and tried to figure out his next move. I have to get them out of the bank! But with the police already having set up a roadblock, Vernet could imagine only one way to do that. "Mademoiselle Neveu, if I can get you safely out of the bank, will you be taking the item with you or returning it to the vault before you leave?" Sophie glanced at Langdon and then back to Vernet. "We need to take it." Vernet nodded. "Very well. Then whatever the item is, I suggest you wrap it in your jacket as we move through the hallways. I would prefer nobody else see it." As Langdon shed his jacket, Vernet hurried over to the conveyor belt, closed the now empty crate, and typed a series of simple commands. The conveyor belt began moving again, carrying the plastic container back down to the vault. Pulling the gold key from the podium, he handed it to Sophie. "This way please. Hurry." When they reached the rear loading dock, Vernet could see the flash of police lights filtering through the underground garage. He frowned. They were probably blocking the ramp. Am I really going to try to pull this off? He was sweating now. Vernet motioned to one of the bank's small armored trucks. Transport sr was another service offered by the Depository Bank of Zurich. "Get in the cargo hold," he said, heaving open the massive rear door and motioning to the glistening steel compartment. "I'll be right back." As Sophie and Langdon climbed in, Vernet hurried across the loading dock to the dock overseer's office, let himself in, collected the keys for the truck, and found a driver's uniform jacket and cap. Shedding


tears were not more satisfactory than Josie Pye's companionship when Jane and Ruby appeared, each with an inch of Queen's color ribbon-purple and scarlet-pinned proudly to her coat. As Josie was not "speaking" to Jane just then she had to subside into comparative harmlessness. "Well," said Jane with a sigh, "I feel as if I'd lived many moons since the morning. I ought to be home studying my Virgil-that horrid old professor gave us twenty lines to start in on tomorrow. But I simply couldn't settle down to study tonight. Anne, methinks I see the traces of tears. If you've been crying DO own up. It will restore my self-respect, for I was shedding tears freely before Ruby came along. I don't mind being a goose so much if somebody else is goosey, too. Cake? You'll give me a teeny piece, won't you? Thank you. It has the real Avonlea flavor." Ruby, perceiving the Queen's calendar lying on the table, wanted to know if Anne meant to try for the gold medal. Anne blushed and admitted she was thinking of it. "Oh, that reminds me," said Josie, "Queen's is to get one of the Avery scholarships after all. The word came today. Frank Stockley told me-his uncle is one of the board of governors, you know. It will be announced in the Academy tomorrow." An Avery scholarship! Anne felt her heart beat more quickly, and the horizons of her ambition shifted and broadened as if by magic. Before Josie had told the news Anne's highest pinnacle of aspiration had been a teacher's provincial license, Class First, at the end of the year, and perhaps the medal! But now in one moment Anne saw herself winning the Avery scholarship, taking an Arts course at Redmond College, and graduating in a gown and mortar board, before the echo of Josie's words had died away. For the Avery scholarship was in English, and Anne felt that here her foot was on native heath. A wealthy manufacturer of New Brunswick had died and left part of his fortune to endow a large number of scholarships to be distributed among the various high schools and academics of the Maritime Provinces, according to their respective standings. There had been much doubt whether one would be allotted to Queen's, but the matter was settled at last, and at the end of the year the graduate who made the highest mark in English and English Literature would win the scholarshiptwo hundred and fifty dollars a year for four years at Redmond College. No wonder that Anne went to bed that night with tingling cheeks! "I'll win that scholarship if hard work can do it," she resolved. "Wouldn't Matthew be proud if I got to be a B.A.? Oh, it's delightful to have ambitions. I'm so glad I have such a lot. And there never seems to be any end to themthat's the best of it. Just as soon as you attain to one ambition you see another one glittering higher up still. It does make life so interesting." 35. The


tucked her into bed. “He might never speak to me again. That’s why I’m here instead of there.” I collect her medication from the nightstand and drop the bottles into the lockbox, which then goes back under my bed. Even though there’s no way Lenora could reach them on the nightstand, I can’t be too cautious. Not after what happened with my mother. Back in Lenora’s room, I place the red call button next to her left hand so she can easily use it. “I’ll be right next door if you need me,” I say, which is what I also told my mother every night I was caring for her. Lenora looks up at me, apprehension dulling her green eyes. My stomach clenches as I realize what it means. Even she thinks I’m guilty. I guess that makes us even. My birthday dinner was unbearable. Such an unhappy affair, despite all the effort put into it. There was spring lamb, leek soup, and potatoes roasted in rosemary. The dinner was attended by only me, Miss Baker, my father, my sister, and a special guest at her request--Peter. Although there was a place setting for my mother, she sent her maid to inform us that she felt too weak to come down to dinner. For dessert, the kitchen staff wheeled in a massive three-tiered cake with pink frosting and birthday candles ablaze. I tried to appear enthusiastic as I blew them out. I truly did. But since everything felt so awful, I couldn’t quite manage it. Not that anyone noticed. My sister was preoccupied by flirting with Peter and my father was too busy ogling the newest maid, Sally. I could have grabbed a handful of cake and shoved it into my mouth and only stern Miss Baker would have batted an eye. After dinner, I went upstairs to see my mother. She was in bed, of course, the duvet pulled to her chest. She looked so small and pitiful that it was hard to believe she had once been a great beauty. “The most beautiful girl in Boston,” my father liked to boast back when my sister and I were younger and my parents had at least pretended to love each other. I know he was telling the truth. In her youth, my mother had been astoundingly beautiful. It didn’t hurt that she also hailed from one of the wealthiest families in New England. That fact, combined with her good looks, made her irresistible to my father, who was New Money through and through. A striver of unchecked ambition, he set his sights on Evangeline Staunton. It didn’t matter that all of Boston whispered about how she had taken up with one of the servants, scandalizing her family and edging herself to the brink of being disowned. My father still pursued her with vigor. My mother, of course, enjoyed the attention. More than once, I’d heard her described as a rose blossoming in sunlight. My father’s sun must have shone bright, because in a matter of weeks they wed. My mother got


Chester Ross to think I WaS a ladylike little girl even if I wasn't pretty. Everything went right until I saw Marilla coming with the plum pudding in one hand and the pitcher of pudding sauce WARMED UP, in the other. Diana, that was a terrible moment. I remembered everything and I just stood up in my place and shrieked out 'Marilla, you mustn't use that pudding sauce. There was a mouse drowned in it. I forgot to tell you before.' Oh, Diana, I shall never forget that awful moment if I live to be a hundred. Mrs. Chester Ross just LOOKED at me and I thought I would sink through the floor with mortification. She is such a perfect housekeeper and fancy what she must have thought of us. Marilla turned red as fire but she never said a word-then. She just carried that sauce and pudding out and brought in some strawberry preserves. She even offered me some, but I couldn't swallow a mouthful. It was like heaping coals of fire on my head. After Mrs. Chester Ross went away, Marilla gave me a dreadful scolding. Why, Diana, what is the matter?" Diana had stood up very unsteadily; then she sat down again, putting her hands to her head. "I'm-I'm awful sick," she said, a little thickly. "I-I-must go right home." "Oh, you mustn't dream of going home without your tea," cried Anne in distress. "I'll get it right off-I'll go and put the tea down this very minute." "I must go home," repeated Diana, stupidly but determinedly. "Let me get you a lunch anyhow," implored Anne. "Let me give you a bit of fruit cake and some of the cherry preserves. Lie down on the sofa for a little while and you'll be better. Where do you feel bad?" "I must go home," said Diana, and that was all she would say. In vain Anne pleaded. "I never heard of company going home without tea," she mourned. "Oh, Diana, do you suppose that it's possible you're really taking the smallpox? If you are I'll go and nurse you, you can depend on that. I'll never forsake you. But I do wish you'd stay till after tea. Where do you feel bad?" "I'm awful dizzy," said Diana. And indeed, she walked very dizzily. Anne, with tears of disappointment in her eyes, got Diana's hat and went with her as far as the Barry yard fence. Then she wept all the way back to Green Gables, where she sorrowfully put the remainder of the raspberry cordial back into the pantry and got tea ready for Matthew and Jerry, with all the zest gone out of the performance. The next day was Sunday and as the rain poured down in torrents from dawn till dusk Anne did not stir abroad from Green Gables. Monday afternoon Marilla sent her down to Mrs. Lynde's on an errand. In a very short space of time Anne came flying back up the lane with tears rolling down her cheeks. Into the kitchen she dashed and flung


Mrs. Bone’s grim-faced cousins. She wore a veil during negotiations, and sat on one side of a screen painted with voluptuous nudes. She had to scramble, writing up all her notes, making sure she hadn’t made any errors. By the time they went out to the park to meet the others, she was feeling entirely flustered. “Sleep,” she said now, clearing her throat for attention. “Sleep is the important thing. You’ll want to be razor-sharp tomorrow.” She leaned forward, prodded Hephzibah. “You especially.” Hephzibah swung her parasol in Winnie’s direction. “I won’t sleep a wink,” she said. “It’s far too hot.” She pointed at Winnie. “You’re the one who needs her beauty sleep.” I won’t rise to that, Winnie thought. “Remember, Hephzibah, you’ve got to roll in to the ball early, to keep an eye on the arrivals and get Miss de Vries moving.” “Shall I be given supper?” Winnie sighed. “If you make enough of a fuss, I suppose. Introduce her to Mrs. Bone’s men, make sure Miss de Vries thinks they’re Buckingham Palace policemen, and then get to work upstairs.” Hephzibah frowned. “Can’t you make this thing go any faster, girls?” The Janes thumped the pedals, and the boat roared ahead, churning the water. Winnie could see other boaters looking around in displeasure, rocking on the waves. The motion was making her feel queasy. She tapped Alice’s arm. “Parker. You’ll head upstairs to sew Miss de Vries into her costume. Take your time about it. You want her strained, harassed, and running late.” Alice looked troubled, running her hand through the murky water. “I can’t force her to do anything.” Mrs. King smiled into the distance. “You’ll be fine.” And that was all. How did she do it? Winnie wondered. How could she be so smooth, so certain? Winnie had to clench and unclench her hands when she spoke, consulting her notes. But Mrs. King was different. She held the vision in her head. Look in her eyes long enough and you began to see it yourself, lights glinting in the dark. Mrs. Bone said, wrinkling her brow, “Now listen. I’ve been looking at our crates. You need to do something about them. They’re so heavy they’ll make the whole house shake when you winch them down.” “We’ve oiled the pulley,” said Jane-one. Jane-two nodded. “And we’ll have mats on the floor, to take the landing. We’ve measured everything, even Madam’s bed.” “Hmm,” said Mrs. Bone. “If you say so, my Janes.” Winnie wished she had the knack for convincing Mrs. Bone of something so easily. “Her bed?” said Alice, looking worried. “Do you plan to take her with you, while she’s sleeping?” Jane-one sniffed. “As long as we’re very careful with the angles, as long as we can get it hooked up nice and easy, and it doesn’t swing too much...” Alice scrutinized Mrs. King. “You’re not serious.” “I’m finding this very dull,” muttered Hephzibah, lowering her parasol. “Hephzibah, please,” said Winnie. Alice raised her voice. “Dinah...” “Not Dinah,” Mrs. King replied. “Mrs. King. Unless you’re going to gag


hidden down there. The White Whale's at the bottom of it. Well, well, so be it! Can't be helped! All right! Give way, men! It ain't the White Whale to-day! Give way! Now the advent of these outlandish strangers at such a critical instant as the lowering of the boats from the deck, this had not unreasonably awakened a sort of superstitious amazement in some of the ship's company; but Archy's fancied discovery having some time previous got abroad among them, though indeed not credited then, this had in some small measure prepared them for the event. It took off the extreme edge of their wonder; and so what with all this and Stubb's confident way of accounting for their appearance, they were for the time freed from superstitious surmisings; though the affair still left abundant room for all manner of wild conjectures as to dark Ahab's precise agency in the matter from the beginning. For me, I silently recalled the mysterious shadows I had seen creeping on board the Pequod during the dim Nantucket dawn, as well as the enigmatical hintings of the unaccountable Elijah. Meantime, Ahab, out of hearing of his officers, having sided the furthest to windward, was still ranging ahead of the other boats; a circumstance bespeaking how potent a crew was pulling him. those tiger yellow creatures of his seemed all steel and whale-bone; like five trip-hammers they rose and fell with regular strokes of strength, which periodically started the boat along the water like a horizontal burst boiler out of a Mississippi steamer. As for Fedallah, who was seen pulling the harpooneer oar, he had thrown aside his black jacket, and displayed his naked chest with the whole part of his body above the gunwale, clearly cut against the alternating depressions of the watery horizon; while at the other end of the boat Ahab, with one .. <p 219 > arm, like a fencer's, thrown half backward into the air, as if to counterbalance any tendency to trip: Ahab was seen steadily managing his steering oar as in a thousand boat lowerings ere the White Whale had torn him. All at once the out-stretched arm gave a peculiar motion and then remained fixed, while the boat's five oars were seen simultaneously peaked. Boat and crew sat motionless on the sea. Instantly the three spread boats in the rear paused on their way. The whales had irregularly settled bodily down into the blue, thus giving no distantly discernible token of the movement, though from his closer vicinity Ahab had observed it. Every man look out along his oars! cried Starbuck. Thou, Queequeg, stand up! Nimbly springing up on the triangular raised box in the bow, the savage stood erect there, and with intensely eager eyes gazed off towards the spot where the chase had last been descried. Likewise upon the extreme stern of the boat where it was also triangularly platformed level with the gunwale, Starbuck himself was seen coolly and adroitly balancing himself to the jerking tossings of his chip of a craft, and silently eyeing


remorse, and it filled every day. She made her way back to the cramped room, where she poured herself a measure of sour Inysh wine, more than she would usually drink. Every day Canthe was gone was another day her sisters needed her spear. Mother, she prayed, let me see him, just once. Let it be enough. At midnight, Canthe finally returned. ‘How was your journey?’ Tunuva asked her. ‘Hard. I am sorry for the wait, Tuva. Many roads are closed to hinder the plague.’ Canthe lowered her hood. ‘I was able to speak to a servant from Langarth. Wulfert Glenn has returned to Hróth.’ ‘Hróth?’ ‘It seems he was a retainer to the Hammer himself. Now he is pledged to the new king.’ ‘When did he leave?’ ‘Not long ago. If our luck holds, he will not have gone any farther than Eldyng. It’s not far to sail, if we can find a ship.’ She sat beside Tunuva, keeping a respectful distance. ‘Tell me, Tuva. Will we go?’ Tunuva finished her drink. In this cold place, she found it warmed her. ‘We have come this far,’ she said. ‘I suppose the North is but a little farther, Canthe.’ **** Glorian walked through Arondine Castle as if to her own execution. Her guards followed. For the first time since his arrival, Prince Guma had asked to join her in the royal bedchamber. A fresh ripple of nausea made her swallow. She had the letters – they were sealed in a strongbox, hidden at Offsay Sanctuary – but her nerve could not fail. She could not show fear. Prince Guma waited for her. He wore a quilted bedgown, the crimson and gold of his crest. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, with a polite dip of his head. ‘Thank you for joining me.’ ‘Your Highness.’ The fire snapped as their eyes met. To freeze is an instinct shared by all living things. Think of how a deer stills when it scents a threat, her father reminded her. There is no shame in it, Glorian. ‘Do your guards know Yscali?’ he asked in that tongue. Glorian shook her head. ‘I presume you do.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Good. Then we may speak in private.’ His voice softened a little. ‘You need not be afraid, Queen Glorian. I do not expect this marriage to be consummated, now or ever. It represents a new era of fellowship for Yscalin and Inys, but be assured, it will be chaste.’ Glorian nodded without speaking. A queen should learn the ways of watching. She remained as still and poised as her mother always had. Like a falcon, she waits for her moment to strike. ‘Your Regency Council must be pressing you for an heir,’ he said, reaching for a goblet. He spoke with a distinct northern inflection. ‘I pity you that burden. This is no time to bear a child.’ ‘It is a sacred burden, which I carry with joy,’ Glorian said in the dialect she had learned since childhood, for use at the court at Kárkaro. ‘It is what the Saint expects of


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

"bit en." He went straight upstairs, and the stranger's door being ajar, he pushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a naturally sympathetic turn of mind. The blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most singular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a face of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back, and the door slammed in his face and locked, all so rapidly that he had no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow, and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering what it might be that he had seen. After a couple of minutes he rejoined the little group that had formed outside the Coach and Horses. There was Fearenside telling about it all over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog didn't have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers from the forge, judicial; besides women and children,-- all of them saying fatuities: "Wouldn't let en bite me, I knows"; "'Tasn't right have such dargs"; "Whad 'e bite'n for then?" and so forth. Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it incredible that he had seen anything very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions. "He don't want no help, he says," he said in answer to his wife's enquiry. "We'd better be a-takin' of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter; "especially if it's at all inflamed." "I'd shoot en, that's what I'd do," said a lady in the group. Suddenly the dog began growling again. "Come along," cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the muffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down. "The sooner you get those things in the better I'll be pleased." It is stated by an anonymous bystander that his trousers and gloves had been changed. "Was you hurt, sir?" said Fearenside. "I'm rare sorry the darg--" "Not a bit," said the stranger. "Never broke the skin. Hurry up with those things." He then swore to himself, so Mr. Hall asserts. Directly the first crate was carried into the parlour, in accordance with his directions, the stranger flung himself upon it with extraordinary eagerness, and began to unpack it, scattering the straw with an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall's carpet. And from it he began to produce bottles--little fat bottles containing powders, small and slender bottles containing coloured and white fluids, fluted blue bottles labelled Poison, bottles with round bodies and slender necks, large green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with glass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles with bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil bottles--putting them in rows on the chiffonier, on the mantel, on the


How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were more often-he searched for a simile, found one in his work-torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought? What incredible power of identification the girl had; she was like the eager watcher of a marionette show, anticipating each flicker of an eyelid, each gesture of his hand, each flick of a finger, the moment before it began. How long had they walked together? Three minutes? Five? Yet how large that time seemed now. How immense a figure she was on the stage before him; what a shadow she threw on the wall with her slender body! He felt that if his eye itched, she might blink. And if the muscles of his jaws stretched imperceptibly, she would yawn long before he would. Why, he thought, now that I think of it, she almost seemed to be waiting for me there, in the street, so damned late at night ... . He opened the bedroom door. It was like coming into the cold marbled room of a mausoleum after the moon had set. Complete darkness, not a hint of the silver world outside, the windows tightly shut, the chamber a tomb-world where no sound from the great city could penetrate. The room was not empty. He listened. The little mosquito-delicate dancing hum in the air, the electrical murmur of a hidden wasp snug in its special pink warm nest. The music was almost loud enough so he could follow the tune. He felt his smile slide away, melt, fold over, and down on itself like a tallow skin, like the stuff of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out. Darkness. He was not happy. He was not happy. He said the words to himself. He recognized this as the true state of affairs. He wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run off across the lawn with the mask and there was no way of going to knock on her door and ask for it back. Without turning on the light he imagined how this room would look. His wife stretched on the bed, uncovered and cold, like a body displayed on the lid of a tomb, her eyes fixed to the ceiling by invisible threads of steel, immovable. And in her ears the little Seashells, the thimble radios tamped tight, and an electronic ocean of sound, of music and talk and music and talk coming in, coming in on the shore of her unsleeping mind. The room was indeed empty. Every night the waves came in and bore her off on their great tides of sound, floating her, wide-eyed, toward morning. There had been no night in the last two years that Mildred had not swum that sea, had not gladly gone down in it for the third


this time— “Holy. Sh-sh . . . iiit,” she said on a blasting exhale when he kissed and nuzzled her. He drew the panties down to her ankles, threw them unceremoniously over his shoulder into the darkness, then buried his face in the juncture of her thighs like he was competing in a pie-eating contest. His groan held equal parts relief and lust. She could feel his five-o’clock shadow coarse against her softness, his breath hot. Fast. Anticipatory. “I swear, Natalie, when I’m not dreaming about your pussy, I’m daydreaming about it. I’ve gone down on you so many times, imaginary August has lock jaw. Now I finally get to see you up close. And my imagination? Apparently it sucks.” He dragged his tongue through her slit and pulled back slightly, licking his lips, shaking his head. “I haven’t been doing this pretty thing justice. That changes now.” He quickly worked the front buttons of his shirt and tossed the garment away, followed by the no-nonsense stripping of his tight, white undershirt, the rigid flex of hard-earned muscle causing her fists to yank the sheets, her high heels to dig into the mattress. “Oh,” she said, sounding dazed. “I forgot to take off my shoes—” August pushed her thighs open and dropped down onto his front, one big knee digging into the bed and pushing forward. His open mouth met her flesh and he suctioned it, the entire thing, moaning, before delving his tongue between her folds again, raking it from entrance to apex, where his lavish attention made her eyes cross. His tongue stroked her clit like it was his long-lost love. Not hurried, just thorough. So thorough. Damn. Damn. In the space of a minute, the whole situation went from cautious optimism to imminent blastoff. She was on a roller coaster, cranking vertically to the highest point of the ride. Preparing to take the plunge. Her stomach turned weightless and a ticklish throb began way down deep, back where she’d never felt it before. This wasn’t going to be like one of her self-inflicted orgasms. It was going to build and build and bury her, wasn’t it? Oh God, oh God. “August, please,” she whimpered, her fingertips flying from the comforter to his hair, wrapping around the short strands, holding him in place even though he clearly had no intention of vacating the premises. “K-keep doing that. Do it. Do it. That.” He nodded, squeezing her thigh. Why was that intimate reassurance so sexy? Right there. I can’t believe I’m this wet. And he was living for it, using her readiness to his advantage. He pumped two huge fingers inside of her while flicking his tongue against her clit. Oh. Mama. Was he serious? “Babe, please,” she panted, no idea who she was calling babe. But saying it again, anyway, in the next breath, because what else to call a man making her feel this good? Her whole body was surface-of-the-sun level hot. Knees shaking. Throat strained like she’d just left a Harry Styles concert. Had she been screaming? Was


over her face and neck. In a moment her eyes grew moist, and her glance drooped to the ground. Perceiving that they had really pained her they said no more, and order again prevailed. Tess's pride would not allow her to turn her head again, to learn what her father's meaning was, if he had any; and thus she moved on with the whole body to the enclosure where there was to be dancing on the green. By the time the spot was reached she has recovered her equanimity, and tapped her neighbour with her wand and talked as usual. Tess Durbeyfield at this time of her life was a mere vessel of emotion untinctured by experience. The dialect was on her tongue to some extent, despite the village school: the characteristic intonation of that dialect for this district being the voicing approximately rendered by the syllable UR, probably as rich an utterance as any to be found in human speech. The pouted-up deep red mouth to which this syllable was native had hardly as yet settled into its definite shape, and her lower lip had a way of thrusting the middle of her top one upward, when they closed together after a word. Phases of her childhood lurked in her aspect still. As she walked along today, for all her bouncing handsome womanliness, you could sometimes see her twelfth year in her cheeks, or her ninth sparkling from her eyes; and even her fifth would flit over the curves of her mouth now and then. Yet few knew, and still fewer considered this. A small minority, mainly strangers, would look long at her in casually passing by, and grow momentarily fascinated by her freshness, and wonder if they would ever see her again: but to almost everybody she was a fine and picturesque country girl, and no more. Nothing was seen or heard further of Durbeyfield in his triumphal chariot under the conduct of the ostleress, and the club having entered the allotted space, dancing began. As there were no men in the company the girls danced at first with each other, but when the hour for the close of labour drew on, the masculine inhabitants of the village, together with other idlers and pedestrians, gathered round the spot, and appeared inclined to negotiate for a partner. Among these on-lookers were three young men of a superior class, carrying small knapsacks strapped to their shoulders, and stout sticks in their hands. Their general likeness to each other, and their consecutive ages, would almost have suggested that they might be, what in fact they were, brothers. The eldest wore the white tie, high waistcoat, and thin-brimmed hat of the regulation curate; the second was the normal undergraduate; the appearance of the third and youngest would hardly have been sufficient to characterize him; there was an uncribbed, uncabined aspect in his eyes and attire, implying that he had hardly as yet found the entrance to his professional groove. That he was a desultory tentative student of something and everything might only have been


had no control here. This was Bianca’s world, and this was the day she ascended to the throne of the Silts. There was no one more powerful than her, here, now. Bianca’s hand twirled like she was mixing an invisible drink. Immediately, the red mist around them began shifting, slowly at first, then faster and faster in rhythm with Bianca’s fingers. It engulfed Io and Edei in a cocoon of red, like they were standing in the eye of a hurricane. Through tears in the wall of red, Io caught a glimpse of Bianca Rossi crossing the bridge toward them. “You dare invade my dreams? You dare force me into this wretched memory?” Bianca screamed from somewhere in front of them. “Who the hell do you think you are?” She sounded close, too close— A hand came out of the red mist and punched Io straight in the stomach. Io doubled over in pain, bile rising up her throat. She reached for the Quilt, the threads, anything, but her hands grasped only air. Bianca appeared through the wall of mist. Edei reached for Io— “Don’t move, Edei,” snapped Bianca. He stopped midstep, eyes terrified. Lip curled, Bianca raked Edei up and down. “Hire her, you told me. I can’t solve this without her. I knew she wasn’t to be trusted, but you? I could never have believed I was nursing a viper in my own bosom.” “Is that all you have to say, boss?” His voice was dipped in sarcasm. “What else would you like, Edei?” Bianca barked. “Eight days of slaughter, of sleepless nights by the door, listening to people shriek in pain. Eight days of fighting and losing, eight days of endless death. Someone had to take action, and no one was brave enough but me.” “Is that what you call sending injured fifteen-year-olds back to a fight they have no chance of surviving? Bravery?” “I did what I had to.” You did what you had to, Rosa had said. It was the exact same excuse Io had used to justify sending Thais away. “Tell me,” Edei said, shoulders shaking with constrained rage. “Have you ever used your powers on us? When we go out, to deliver your punishments and defend your turf and risk our lives for you, did you ever force one of us to sacrifice their life for you?” “Oh, darling,” Bianca mocked. “I’m not to blame for your morals. My powers are not coercion—that’s the grace-born. Isobel was already devoted to our cause. I just gave her another chance to prove it. Time, that’s all I do. I buy them time.” For a moment, Edei was deathly silent. “That sounds like a yes to me, Bianca. Do you know how many of our people I’ve buried, Bianca? How many were your fault?” Bianca’s jaw flexed. “You and your cutter think you’re so noble, knights in shining armor. You think you can go through life without compromising your high morals, but I’ve lived through the worst this city can throw at you, and let me tell you,


chapel rectory. The chapel curator lives there. She also happens to be the head of the Rosslyn Trust." He paused. "And my grandmother." "Your grandmother heads the Rosslyn Trust?" The young man nodded. "I live with her in the rectory and help keep up the chapel and give tours." He shrugged. "I've lived here my whole life. My grandmother raised me in that house." Concerned for Sophie, Langdon moved across the chapel toward the door to call out to her. He was only halfway there when he stopped short. Something the young man said just registered. My grandmother raised me. Langdon looked out at Sophie on the bluff, then down at the rosewood box in his hand. Impossible. Slowly, Langdon turned back to the young man. "You said your grandmother has a box like this one?" "Almost identical." "Where did she get it?" 294 "My grandfather made it for her. He died when I was a baby, but my grandmother still talks about him. She says he was a genius with his hands. He made all kinds of things." Langdon glimpsed an unimaginable web of connections emerging. "You said your grandmother raised you. Do you mind my asking what happened to your parents?" The young man looked surprised. "They died when I was young." He paused. "The same day as my grandfather." Langdon's heart pounded. "In a car accident?" The docent recoiled, a look of bewilderment in his olive-green eyes. "Yes. In a car accident. My entire family died that day. I lost my grandfather, my parents, and..." He hesitated, glancing down at the floor. "And your sister," Langdon said. Out on the bluff, the fieldstone house was exactly as Sophie remembered it. Night was falling now, and the house exuded a warm and inviting aura. The smell of bread wafted through the opened screened door, and a golden light shone in the windows. As Sophie approached, she could hear the quiet sounds of sobbing from within. Through the screened door, Sophie saw an elderly woman in the hallway. Her back was to the door, but Sophie could see she was crying. The woman had long, luxuriant, silver hair that conjured an unexpected wisp of memory. Feeling herself drawn closer, Sophie stepped onto the porch stairs. The woman was clutching a framed photograph of a man and touching her fingertips to his face with loving sadness. It was a face Sophie knew well. Grand-pre. The woman had obviously heard the sad news of his death last night. A board squeaked beneath Sophie's feet, and the woman turned slowly, her sad eyes finding Sophie's. Sophie wanted to run, but she stood transfixed. The woman's fervent gaze never wavered as she set down the photo and approached the screened door. An eternity seemed to pass as the two women stared at one another through the thin mesh. Then, like the slowly gathering swell of an ocean wave, the woman's visage transformed from one of uncertainty... to disbelief... to hope... and finally, to cresting joy. Throwing open the door, she came out, reaching with soft


you'll grow up an affected little goose, if you don't take care. I I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang." "If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth, ready to share the lecture. "You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly, and no one contradicted her, for the `Mouse' was the pet of the family. As young readers like to know `how people look', we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable room,though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it. Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-away look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her `Little Miss Tranquility', and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out. The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired


fine evenings of summer, with his wife and children, watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splendour of its light fading from the distant landscape, till the shadows of twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St. Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence of those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a happiness beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting right diffused a serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptions like his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing. The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite plane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening melancholy. The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his retirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them at that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though, in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he restrained the expression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could render him calm to such losses. One daughter was now his only surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteract those traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her from happiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she advanced in youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness to her manner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very interesting object to persons of a congenial disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that this charm was too dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. He endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits of self- command; to teach her


father no reason to suspect that this might be a bad idea. My eyesight had improved save for the widened blind spots, and I was able to see myself in the mirror in my suit, tie my tie, comb my hair. How do you dress for an assassination? Orson had always said it was better to overdress than underdress, that the overdressed just looked like they’d made an honest mistake while the underdressed looked like they had nothing. I brushed my shoulders like he’d taught me to. A text from Elaine: there’s a shareholder meeting next week. I squinted at my phone. i didn’t forget. they’re going to want to hear good news about urmau. they will. i hope you’re being proactive? i’m being proactive. can you take a call? not on this phone. Percolating bubbles. get a burner for god’s sake. I told her I would and switched the phone to airplane mode. It was actually a fairly good idea; I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it sooner. Downstairs, the table had been set for five, and Genial was already seated at the head, flanked by Brianna and Dexter. Brianna wore a floral shift and Genial a button-down with a similar pattern. I was indeed overdressed. “Welcome, Ezra!” Genial shouted, as though we were in a stage play. “Take a seat, please.” Brianna was smiling at me encouragingly, the way a caretaker would at her disabled charge, and I resented it but there was nothing I could do. I sat down next to her and watched Dexter twirl his gold-plated salad fork. “This is the shit,” he said to no one in particular. “This is the life.” The doorbell rang orchestrally and the hall to the foyer bristled with staff. Then there was the sound of boots on marble. Genial Sr. emerged into the dining room in what looked like combat attire. Genial, with his thin face and delicate frame, hardly resembled him: Genial Sr., or what I could make out of him when he got close enough, had fat, clay-like cheeks, eyes so large their whites were visibly gelatinous, and a prominent mustache. His forehead under his army cap was heavily wrinkled, and as he surveyed the gilded china on the dinner table he sniffed deeply as though he were planning to discharge a wad of spit and phlegm. Next to him stood a birdlike bald man in a pair of Ray-Bans, arms folded across his chest in what appeared to be an insufficient imitation of the larger man in front of him. Genial stood, and the three of us followed suit. “Father,” he said. “It’s been long.” Genial Sr. said something in Urmanese, which he promptly translated for our benefit: “Very nice to see a full table.” “These are the people from NuLife.” Genial gestured to us. “Dexter Ellhorn, he is the inventor, and Brianna Voorhees, she is the assistant, and this is the CFO.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Mr. Ezra Green.” Genial Sr. shook hands with each of us, and the birdlike man followed


to have a baby. Wow. And that makes you—?” “A grandfather, I know.” “And Ginny?” “Don’t even go there.” He couldn’t think that his daughter, about to turn one, would be an aunt in the spring. It was mind boggling. “I was going to say they could be great friends, more like cousins.” There was a twinkle in her eyes that he usually found irresistible, but not tonight. No, this night he was bothered and he didn’t want to think how unconventional his family was, all the bloodlines tangled, nothing quite as it seemed. Kristi wasn’t even his biological daughter, not that it mattered. He’d raised her as if she was. And now she was pregnant with her dead husband’s child. “Wait. You’re not happy about this?” “Of course I am.” “But—?” She started to sit upright, but he grabbed her calf, massaging the muscle. “What do you mean, ‘but’? She’s a widow and will become a single mother, she was almost killed and her husband was, not that long ago. She’s getting disturbing notes and some douche bag has been in her house, terrorizing her. Of course I’m happy that she’s going to be a mother, I just wish . . . I just wish that for once she would catch a break and she’d have a normal life.” “A normal life?” Olivia said with a chuckle. “Is there such a thing? What do you call normal, the old fantasy about a house with a picket fence, fully employed father, mother at home with two point five kids and a family dog, maybe a cat for good measure?” “You know what I mean,” he grumbled. That was the thing with Olivia. She could see things others couldn’t. When he’d first met her, he’d thought she was a kook with a capital K. Turns out the insight he’d scoffed at had really existed and he’d fallen in love with her, head-over-damned-heels. As he rubbed her leg, he remembered that as twisted and messed up as their family was, it was theirs. Uniquely theirs. He only wished it didn’t have to be so rough. “Is there anything wrong with wanting the picket-fence thing for your daughter?” he asked, and she laughed again, a sound that still warmed his heart. “’Course not. But reality is—” “What it is, I know. I just wish I could make it better.” “Oh, you do.” Her eyebrows knitted in consternation. “You know that, right?” “I try.” “All you can do, Grandpa,” she said, teasing, her lips curving into a taunting smile. “Grandpa? I’ll show you Grandpa.” He captured her leg then and as she giggled, rolled over on her and caught her lips with his. “Promises, promises,” she breathed into his mouth, and then kissed him back. Hard. Wanting. Willing. And for the next few hours, he forgot about the evils of the world and lost himself in her. * * * Over the sound of crickets chirping and mosquitoes humming, he listened to his radio, hearing the familiar strains of an old song. “Midnight Confessions.” The original


lying down, relaxing, cuddling, being comfortable, warm blankets, snuggling, and resting, and her dislikes consisted of one thing: walking outside. Kirsten called me into the uninsulated sunroom, a corner of which she’d converted to an “office” that didn’t have a door or any privacy. I stood over her shoulder, squinting at the grimy little dog on her laptop as our cloudy breath hung in the frigid air between us, and said, “She’s perfect. Let’s get her.” Did I want a dog? Not really! But neither of us was particularly enjoying this preview of our retirement years, bumping into each other while shuffling our feet from room to room after having run out of interesting things to talk about months earlier, and at least if we got a dog we could talk to each other about every little thing the dog did? “Look, she blinked!” “Hey, did you see that big yawn?” “How many kibbles did she eat this afternoon?” “Wow! What a big poop!” All this would take the pressure off of us having to be interesting or finding something new to say, and thus it would save our relationship. Not that our relationship needed a rescue, but come on, what if we used up all possible conversational topics in year four because we were trapped together without a tiny chihuahua to otherwise keep us distracted from our shortcomings and entertained? It was a Saturday when we saw the listing for Granny online, so I spent the rest of the weekend fantasizing about all the places I would sneak a tiny dog into: picture me rolling up to your birthday party at the club and whipping eenie weenie Granny out of the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie like “SURPRISE!!! You’re forty-seven! Look at my little-ass dog!” That would rule. Also, these cats are emotionally withholding, and I’m sick of humiliating myself for a crumb of their affection. Granny was going to ride in the cupholder of my car, smooching my palm every time I reached for my Starbucks cup, nodding along to whatever musical selection was bumping from the speaker. Yes, she would be a gross and obnoxious dog, but she’d be the cat version: small, snuggly, and doing her business in a box in a corner of the bathroom! We called the SPCA Monday and were told that, unfortunately for us, Granny had already been scooped up. I mean, of course. I can’t be the only bored piece of shit in southwest Michigan who is allergic to being outdoors and looking for the company of a tiny immobile dog. The cats all screamed, “THANK GOD!!!!” in unison and were sure they’d won this round, but I remained undeterred. A couple of weeks later another chihuahua was featured on the SPCA personal ads, this time an eight-year-old named Felicity. “Damn, I loved that show,” I said, looking at her crooked little smile. We called to inquire about her and were told that she, too, had been adopted immediately. They just hadn’t had a chance to take down her picture. I’m never gonna


leaden weight, which had formed a part of some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible splash; and was gone. The three looking into each other's faces, seemed to breathe more freely. 'There!' said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into its former position. 'If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it. We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party.' 'By all means,' observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity. 'You'll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?' said Monks, with a threatening look. 'I am not afraid of your wife.' 'You may depend upon me, young man,' answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. 'On everybody's account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.' 'I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,' remarked Monks. 'Light your lantern! And get away from here as fast as you can.' It was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr. Bumble, who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would infallibly have pitched headlong into the room below. He lighted his lantern from that which Monks had detached from the rope, and now carried in his hand; and making no effort to prolong the discourse, descended in silence, followed by his wife. Monks brought up the rear, after pausing on the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other sounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without, and the rushing of the water. They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously light step for a gentleman of his figure: looking nervously about him for hidden trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered, was softly unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging a nod with their mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet and darkness outside. They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an invincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he returned to the chamber he had just quitted. CHAPTER XXXIX INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in the last chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as therein narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth an inquiry what time of night it was. The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey


thing like typing a letter can open a door you never saw. A transcendent connection. A divine threshold. But if there’s anything I can should say in this moment—when my heart is beating wildly in my chest and I would beg you to come and tame it—is this: your letters have been a light for me to follow. Your words? A sublime feast that fed me on days when I was starving. I love you, Iris. And I want you to see me. I want you to know me. Through the smoke and the firelight and kilometers that once dwelled between us. Do you see me? —C. She lowered the letter but continued to stare at Carver’s inked words. What is a synonym for sublime? Roman had once asked her from his second-story window. As if he were a prince, trapped in a castle. Divine, she had grumbled from below, where she had been watering the garden. Transcendent, Attie had offered, assuming he was writing about the gods. Iris’s heart pounded. She read through Carver’s letter again—I love you, Iris—until the words began to melt into each other, and her eyes were blinking back a sudden flood of tears. “No,” she whispered. “No, it can’t be. This is a mere coincidence.” But she had never been one to believe in such things. Her gaze snagged on Roman’s bag, lying in the center of the floor. He had been so insistent that she grab his bag after he had been injured. She could still hear his voice, vividly. Iris … my bag … I need you … need to get my bag. There’s something … I want you— The world stopped. The roaring in her ears returned, as if she had just crouched through an hour of artillery fire. Carver’s letter slipped from her fingers as she walked to Roman’s bag. She bent down and retrieved it, dried dirt cascading in clumps from the leather. It took her a minute to get the front untethered. Her fingers were icy, fumbling. But at last it was open and she turned it upside down. All his possessions began to spill out. A wool blanket, a few tins of vegetables and pickled fruits. His notepad, full of his handwriting. Pens. A spare set of socks. And then the paper. So many loose pages, fluttering like snow down to the floor. Page after page, crinkled and folded and marked by type. Iris stared at the paper that gathered at her feet. She knew what this was. She knew as she dropped Roman’s bag, as she knelt to retrieve the pages. They were her letters. Her words. First typed to Forest, and then to someone she had known as Carver. Her emotions were a tangled mess as she began to reread them. Her words stung as if she had never once typed them sitting on the floor of her old bedroom, lonely and worried and angry. I wish you would be a coward for me, for Mum. I wish you would set down your gun and rend your


the kitchen, but I distract him with a kiss; his mouth is syrupy sweet, and the smell of waffles thickens the early-morning fall air. The diversion works. It’s a plan that will require practice and organization, a touch of logistical troubleshooting. The best option would be to recruit someone else to help me, but I don’t know. I’d rather do this on my own. Except that Jack and I spend Sunday night the same way we do every Sunday—falling asleep on the sectional while catching up on articles. Monday’s spent at Millicent’s with the rest of the family, which involves the usual routine: Greg and I chatting about the YA books we’ve been buddy-reading, Jack playing against his grandma at the Go board, and the rest of the family, Caroline included, respectfully avoiding mentioning that I went from dating one brother to the other. I’m not sure what went down there, or what prompted the Smith Cinematic Universe to suddenly grow boundaries. I suspect that some overdue stern conversations were had, threats were made, and people were encouraged to either shut the hell up or never show up at Millicent’s again. It worked. Tuesday night is also a no-go, because I have therapy, which I now can miraculously afford. I’ve never been this healthy—mentally and physically. The wonders of having insurance. “. . . and most of the time I really, truly believe that he sees me for what I am, but sometimes there is this petrifying fear,” I explain to Jada, “that maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s making a mistake? Maybe he’ll change his mind? Maybe there’s a deal breaker, and he’s days, seconds away from discovering it?” “And what do we do when we feel like that?” “We buy five pounds of Whole Foods pecorino?” Jada blinks at me, unamused. I sigh. “We articulate our insecurities to our partner and listen to their answer.” But it’s not easy, articulating. Getting easier, yes, but a few hours later, when I’m lying on the couch on top of Jack, all that comes out is “You’re not going to suddenly realize that you don’t really like me, right?” He dips his chin to look at me. “If my feelings for you haven’t changed after reading that Bella and Alice alphaverse fan fiction, I’m pretty sure we’re golden.” “It’s called omegaverse—and you said it was good!” “I said it was hot,” he corrects me. The blue slice darkens. “Actually, you should read it to me again. Now.” I roll my eyes. “No, it’s just that . . . I promise I’m usually . . . But sometimes I feel like . . . I’m not sure that . . .” I fall silent. There are no right words to be found in me. “Rough session with Jada?” Jack asks. And I nod till he holds me tighter. We watch one of his white male rage movies in silence, and between a car chase and a weird CGI monster and his hands anchoring me to him, I think that maybe there is no something, no


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

raising his binoculars and peering skyward at the speck that was Harry. Way up above them, Harry was gliding over the game, squinting about for some sign of the Snitch. This was part of his and Wood's game plan. "Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the Snitch," Wood had said. "We don't want you attacked before you have to be." When Angelina had scored, Harry had done a couple of loop-the-loops to let off his feelings. Now he was back to staring around for the Snitch. Once he caught sight of a flash of gold, but it was just a reflection from one of the Weasleys' wristwatches, and once a Bludger decided to come pelting his way, more like a cannonball than anything, but Harry dodged it and Fred Weasley came chasing after it. "All right there, Harry?" he had time to yell, as he beat the Bludger furiously toward Marcus Flint. "Slytherin in possession," Lee Jordan was saying, "Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the -- wait a moment -- was that the Snitch?" A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey dropped the Quaffle, too busy looking over his shoulder at the flash of gold that had passed his left ear. Harry saw it. In a great rush of excitement he dived downward after the streak of gold. Slytherin Seeker Terence Higgs had seen it, too. Neck and neck they hurtled toward the Snitch -- all the Chasers seemed to have forgotten what they were supposed to be doing as they hung in midair to watch. Harry was faster than Higgs -- he could see the little round ball, wings fluttering, darting up ahead -- he put on an extra spurt of speed -- WHAM! A roar of rage echoed from the Gryffindors below -- Marcus Flint had blocked Harry on purpose, and Harry's broom spun off course, Harry holding on for dear life. "Foul!" screamed the Gryffindors. Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then ordered a free shot at the goal posts for Gryffindor. But in all the confusion, of course, the Golden Snitch had disappeared from sight again. Down in the stands, Dean Thomas was yelling, "Send him off, ref! Red card!" "What are you talking about, Dean?" said Ron. "Red card!" said Dean furiously. "In soccer you get shown the red card and you're out of the game!" "But this isn't soccer, Dean," Ron reminded him. Hagrid, however, was on Dean's side. "They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked Harry outta the air." Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides. "So -- after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating..." "Jordan!" growled Professor McGonagall. "I mean, after that open and revolting foul..." "Jordan, I'm warning you -- " "All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinner, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession." It was as


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:—say so, Bartleby.” “At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable,” was his mildly cadaverous reply. Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed suffering from an unusually bad night’s rest, induced by severer indigestion then common. He overheard those final words of Bartleby. “Prefer not, eh?” gritted Nippers—”I’d prefer him, if I were you, sir,” addressing me—”I’d prefer him; I’d give him preferences, the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he prefers not to do now?” Bartleby moved not a limb. “Mr. Nippers,” said I, “I’d prefer that you would withdraw for the present.” Somehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntarily using this word “prefer” upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been without efficacy in determining me to summary means. As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly and deferentially approached. “With submission, sir,” said he, “yesterday I was thinking about Bartleby here, and I think that if he would but prefer to take a quart of good ale every day, it would do much towards mending him, and enabling him to assist in examining his papers.” “So you have got the word too,” said I, slightly excited. “With submission, what word, sir,” asked Turkey, respectfully crowding himself into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing, making me jostle the scrivener. “What word, sir?” “I would prefer to be left alone here,” said Bartleby, as if offended at being mobbed in his privacy. “That’s the word, Turkey,” said I—”that’s it.” “Oh, prefer? oh yes—queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as I was saying, if he would but prefer—” “Turkey,” interrupted I, “you will please withdraw.” “Oh certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should.” As he opened the folding-door to retire, Nippers at his desk caught a glimpse of me, and asked whether I would prefer to have a certain paper copied on blue paper or white. He did not in the least roguishly accent the word prefer. It was plain that it involuntarily rolled form his tongue. I thought to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man, who already has in some degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of myself and clerks. But I thought it prudent not to break the dismission at once. The next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at his window in his dead-wall revery. Upon asking him why he did not write, he said that he had decided upon doing no more writing. “Why, how now? what next?” exclaimed I, “do no more writing?” “No more.” “And what is the reason?” “Do you not see the reason for yourself,” he indifferently replied. I looked steadfastly


po' one fust en de rich one by en by. You wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin, en don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to git hung." When I lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap -- his own self! CHAPTER V. I HAD shut the door to. Then I turned around. and there he was. I used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. I reckoned I was scared now, too; but in a minute I see I was mistaken -- that is, after the first jolt, as you may say, when my breath sort of hitched, he being so unexpected; but right away after I see I warn't scared of him worth bothring about. He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was long and tangled and greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes shining through like he was behind vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his long, mixed-up whiskers. There warn't no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like another man's white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl -- a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. As for his clothes -- just rags, that was all. He had one ankle resting on t'other knee; the boot on that foot was busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them now and then. His hat was laying on the floor -- an old black slouch with the top caved in, like a lid. I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his chair tilted back a little. I set the candle down. I noticed the window was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. He kept a-looking me all over. By and by he says: "Starchy clothes -- very. You think you're a good deal of a big-bug, DON'T you?" "Maybe I am, maybe I ain't," I says. "Don't you give me none o' your lip," says he. "You've put on considerable many frills since I been away. I'll take you down a peg before I get done with you. You're educated, too, they say -- can read and write. You think you're better'n your father, now, don't you, because he can't? I'LL take it out of you. Who told you you might meddle with such hifalut'n foolishness, hey? -- who told you you could?" "The widow. She told me." "The widow, hey? -- and who told the widow she could put in her shovel about a thing that ain't none of her business?" "Nobody never told her." "Well, I'll learn her how to meddle. And looky here -- you drop that school, you hear? I'll learn people to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own father and let on to be better'n what HE is. You lemme


of concubines all serve the Imperial Presence. The spoutless teapots guarantee that any child born in the Great Within is the emperor’s alone.” “I’ll never be as informed as you, Miss Zhao, but please don’t repeat the words spoutless teapot again. Or tailless dog. Even I know these are the worst things you can call those creatures. Maoren says eunuchs are powerful—” “They are watchdogs and spies!” “So refrain from using either epithet while we’re here as we don’t know the punishment for insulting a eunuch.” “Your caution is well taken,” Miss Zhao says. The next morning, we wake to the quiet of snowflakes falling from the sky. Poppy helps us bathe and dress in our finest, most elegant clothes. Then Miss Zhao and I drape ermine-lined cloaks over our gowns and leave the room. Considering how many women must serve the thousands of ladies in the Forbidden City, the halls in the Lodge of Ritual and Ceremony are surprisingly silent. I peer at Miss Zhao out of the corner of my eye. She looks unsettled, telling me this is not what she expected either. We step into the courtyard. I hate the cold, but I can appreciate the brutal purity of it. Snowflakes dance in the air, carried by the wind. Icicles hang like ivory chopsticks from the eaves. “It’s rare for snow to come so early here in the north,” Lin Ta says in greeting. Crystalline flakes catch on his eyelashes as he looks upward. Then he returns his gaze to me. “I’ve had coal-heated foot and hand warmers placed in the carriage to make your ride more comfortable.” I appreciate the gesture, but the warmers do little to keep us from shivering. The windows in the carriage are covered by curtains, so we see nothing. We stop a couple of times. “Women for the Great Within,” the driver says to those I presume to be guards. “Let us pass.” We arrive at our destination, and a eunuch opens the door to the carriage. We’re already inside the Forbidden City, surrounded by protective walls four stories high and painted the color of dried blood. Miss Zhao and I are escorted through gate after gate—each one guarded by a pair of elephants. Live elephants. We reach the Eastern Palace, where the women of the imperial household live. I see the usual marble terraces, except they are many times the size of those in the Garden of Fragrant Delights. Every beam and rafter is carved and painted. The courtyards don’t have the lushness with which I’m familiar. Instead, they’re paved and stretch wide and empty under clean white blankets of snow. Eunuchs are everywhere, many of them little boys. What surprises me most is that we see no women. Where are the ten thousand beauties we’ve heard rumored live here? “Wait,” the eunuch orders. He steps through a door. Miss Zhao and I seek each other’s eyes. I reach out and touch her sleeve, trying to send the message that I’m glad she’s with me. The door swings open, and the eunuch


seek confirmation; she’d done it herself, but this was something different. People were grasping for the comfort of denial, talking about it being a hoax, a conspiracy. As representatives of the State, the police officers were expected to have answers. Atto shook his head. ‘They’re not going to know anything.’ ‘How can you be sure?’ ‘Our government would never have allowed the world to continue as normal if they’d known an invasion was coming – they would never have allowed tourists to fly, supermarkets to sell food.’ ‘We shouldn’t stay here.’ With each passing minute the crowd’s mood was spiralling out of control. The first fights were breaking out, scuffles and punches, violence spreading like an airborne virus. Unable to pass through the crowd, Liza and Atto turned into a side street next to a Louis Vuitton store where ten-thousand-dollar handbags were artfully arranged like raindrops. Somewhere in the city there was an explosion, the first they’d heard, the sounds of war, the shockwave shattering windows and setting off car alarms. Atto and Liza ducked down behind a car, waiting to see if it would be followed by a second or third, wondering if it was manmade or alien. When no more explosions followed, Atto looked at her. ‘Let’s run.’ AVENIDA ENGENHEIRO DUARTE PACHECO SAME DAY THE RITZ WAS A MODERNIST concrete building at the top of a hill, entirely unlike the historic glamour of their hotels in Paris or Budapest, and Liza remembered being disappointed that their last hotel in Europe was also the least attractive. How trivial that disappointment now seemed as she and Atto hurried through the lobby, past an exquisite arrangement of flowers, perhaps the last flowers to be arranged in this way, for surely no one would bother again. They made their way through hundreds of well-heeled guests in Brooks Brothers blazers and Gucci espadrilles quizzing the hotel staff, who were either remarkably dedicated to their job or in complete denial about the events that were taking place, addressing concerns as best they could, dressed in pristine black uniforms with gold lapel badges, as though an alien occupation were a matter for the concierge, a scene so surreal Liza wanted to call out that it was over – the age of spas and room service, luxury hotels and fresh pressed cotton bedsheets, this way of life was in the past. Emma, her little sister, spotted Liza first, crying out her name and running towards her, with her mother just behind, the three of them hugging. Liza fought back tears at being reunited with her family. There’d been moments crossing the city where she wasn’t sure if she’d see them again. Finally separating, although holding hands, Liza asked: ‘Where’s Dad?’ ‘He’s looking for you.’ Her mother was too smart to have allowed him to leave the hotel without a plan. ‘He’s going to return at midnight regardless of whether he found you or not.’ It was only at this point that her mother turned to Atto, paying him serious attention for the first time. Liza explained: ‘This is


town knows me from a child!' As Em'ly held out her hand to Ham, I saw him put in it a little canvas bag. She took it, as if she thought it were her purse, and made a step or two forward; but finding her mistake, came back to where he had retired near me, and showed it to him. 'It's all yourn, Em'ly,' I could hear him say. 'I haven't nowt in all the wureld that ain't yourn, my dear. It ain't of no delight to me, except for you!' The tears rose freshly in her eyes, but she turned away and went to Martha. What she gave her, I don't know. I saw her stooping over her, and putting money in her bosom. She whispered something, as she asked was that enough? 'More than enough,' the other said, and took her hand and kissed it. Then Martha arose, and gathering her shawl about her, covering her face with it, and weeping aloud, went slowly to the door. She stopped a moment before going out, as if she would have uttered something or turned back; but no word passed her lips. Making the same low, dreary, wretched moaning in her shawl, she went away. As the door closed, little Em'ly looked at us three in a hurried manner and then hid her face in her hands, and fell to sobbing. 'Doen't, Em'ly!' said Ham, tapping her gently on the shoulder. 'Doen't, my dear! You doen't ought to cry so, pretty!' 'Oh, Ham!' she exclaimed, still weeping pitifully, 'I am not so good a girl as I ought to be! I know I have not the thankful heart, sometimes, I ought to have!' 'Yes, yes, you have, I'm sure,' said Ham. 'No! no! no!' cried little Em'ly, sobbing, and shaking her head. 'I am not as good a girl as I ought to be. Not near! not near!' And still she cried, as if her heart would break. 'I try your love too much. I know I do!' she sobbed. 'I'm often cross to you, and changeable with you, when I ought to be far different. You are never so to me. Why am I ever so to you, when I should think of nothing but how to be grateful, and to make you happy!' 'You always make me so,' said Ham, 'my dear! I am happy in the sight of you. I am happy, all day long, in the thoughts of you.' 'Ah! that's not enough!' she cried. 'That is because you are good; not because I am! Oh, my dear, it might have been a better fortune for you, if you had been fond of someone else - of someone steadier and much worthier than me, who was all bound up in you, and never vain and changeable like me!' 'Poor little tender-heart,' said Ham, in a low voice. 'Martha has overset her, altogether.' 'Please, aunt,' sobbed Em'ly, 'come here, and let me lay my head upon you. Oh, I am very miserable tonight, aunt! Oh, I am not as


he flew among the birds, and he was soon chosen as the man to speak for the party because he was a great orator. "There is one important thing which we must not forget,' he said as they flew on their way. 'When people are invited to a great feast like this, they take new names for the occasion. Our hosts in the sky will expect us to honour this age-old custom.' "None of the birds had heard of this custom but they knew that Tortoise, in spite of his failings in other directions, was a widely-travelled man who knew the customs of different peoples. And so they each took a new name. When they had all taken, Tortoise also took one. He was to be called 'All of you'. "At last the party arrived in the sky and their hosts were very happy to see them. Tortoise stood up in his many-coloured plumage and thanked them for their invitation. His speech was so eloquent that all the birds were glad they had brought him, and nodded their heads in approval of all he said. Their hosts took him as the king of the birds, especially as he looked somewhat different from the others. "After kola nuts had been presented and eaten, the people of the sky set before their guests the most delectable dishes Tortoise had even seen or dreamed of. The soup was brought out hot from the fire and in the very pot in which it had been cooked. It was full of meat and fish. Tortoise began to sniff aloud. There was pounded yam and also yam pottage cooked with palm-oil and fresh fish. There were also pots of palm-wine. When everything had been set before the guests, one of the people of the sky came forward and tasted a little from each pot. He then invited the birds to eat. But Tortoise jumped to his feet and asked: Tor whom have you prepared this feast?' "'For all of you,' replied the man. "Tortoise turned to the birds and said: 'You remember that my name is All of you. The custom here is to serve the spokesman first and the others later. They will serve you when I have eaten.' "He began to eat and the birds grumbled angrily. The people of the sky thought it must be their custom to leave all the food for their king. And so Tortoise ate the best part of the food and then drank two pots of palm-wine, so that he was full of food and drink and his body filled out in his shell. "The birds gathered round to eat what was left and to peck at the bones he had thrown all about the floor. Some of them were too angry to eat. They chose to fly home on an empty stomach. But before they left each took back the feather he had lent to Tortoise. And there he stood in his hard shell full of food and wine but without any wings to fly home. He asked the


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

bogwater on which apple-trees have cast down their delicate flowers. Eyes of girls among the leaves. Girls demure and romping. All fair or auburn: no dark ones. They blush better. Houpla! APRIL 6. Certainly she remembers the past. Lynch says all women do. Then she remembers the time of her childhood--and mine, if I was ever a child. The past is consumed in the present and the present is living only because it brings forth the future. Statues of women, if Lynch be right, should always be fully draped, one hand of the woman feeling regretfully her own hinder parts. APRIL 6, LATER. Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world. APRIL 10. Faintly, under the heavy night, through the silence of the city which has turned from dreams to dreamless sleep as a weary lover whom no caresses move, the sound of hoofs upon the road. Not so faintly now as they come near the bridge; and in a moment, as they pass the darkened windows, the silence is cloven by alarm as by an arrow. They are heard now far away, hoofs that shine amid the heavy night as gems, hurrying beyond the sleeping fields to what journey's end--what heart? --bearing what tidings? APRIL 11. Read what I wrote last night. Vague words for a vague emotion. Would she like it? I think so. Then I should have to like it also. APRIL 13. That tundish has been on my mind for a long time. I looked it up and find it English and good old blunt English too. Damn the dean of studies and his funnel! What did he come here for to teach us his own language or to learn it from us. Damn him one way or the other! APRIL 14. John Alphonsus Mulrennan has just returned from the west of Ireland. European and Asiatic papers please copy. He told us he met an old man there in a mountain cabin. Old man had red eyes and short pipe. Old man spoke Irish. Mulrennan spoke Irish. Then old man and Mulrennan spoke English. Mulrennan spoke to him about universe and stars. Old man sat, listened, smoked, spat. Then said: --Ah, there must be terrible queer creatures at the latter end of the world. I fear him. I fear his red-rimmed horny eyes. It is with him I must struggle all through this night till day come, till he or I lie dead, gripping him by the sinewy throat till... Till what? Till he yield to me? No. I mean no harm. APRIL 15. Met her today point blank in Grafton Street. The crowd brought us together. We both stopped. She asked me why I never came, said she had heard all sorts of stories about me. This was only to gain time. Asked me was I writing


that I thought you might want to sift through, maybe give a last look.” I wave my hand. “No one’s been up there in decades—whatever it is, I don’t need it.” He turns to the large box sitting on the coffee table and opens it. “Well, this almost split open when I was upstairs. I’ll have to take everything out and tape up the bottom anyway.” He lifts out a pair of pointe shoes from when I took ballet class as a teenager, the ribbons fluttering loose like silk ringlets. “You were a dancer?” I wish I had taken a moment, just one moment, back when I was dancing, to stop and appreciate what it felt like to lift my leg effortlessly high, what it was like when my limbs and mind were rich with music and my body snapped into place. When my arms and legs did exactly what I told them to do. In my dreams, I stretch like a rubber band and my body is nineteen again. And then I wake up stiff and sore and realize it’s only getting worse. He places the shoes carefully on the coffee table, as if they were made of glass. Reaching back into the box, he pulls out a program for the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular of 1956. Then a pair of worn Capezio character shoes. I remember exactly what it felt like to buckle them up and dash out of the dressing room, how they eventually molded to my feet after hours dancing onstage. When I see those shoes, the voices of the other dancers fill my ears, along with the strains of the orchestra warming up. But some memories are not as welcome. Screams of fear, the smell of smoke. Bloodstains on my dance tights, a lone red ribbon. A combination of terror and regret wraps around me like a straitjacket. The boy is about to dig deeper, but I stop him. “Enough.” The doorbell rings and I leave him so I can answer it. He can decide what to do with that box. I don’t want it. A young girl with raindrops in her hair stands on my porch. “Yes?” I ask. “Ms. Brooks? I’m Piper Grace Cole. You can call me Piper. I’m here to pick you up.” “For what?” She blinks. “Um. The Radio City Music Hall anniversary? It starts at seven P.M. Sorry I’m early, I didn’t want us to run into rush hour traffic.” Behind her, a black sedan with a driver sits idling at the curb. The Rockette alumni group is always sending me newsletters with chipper reports of grandchildren and moves to Florida. I usually give it a quick scan for any familiar names and then toss it in the bin. I don’t remember ever saying that I’d attend the anniversary celebration. “Do you mind if I come in?” Piper asks. The wind has picked up and the rain is getting both of us wet now. I let her inside and she follows me to the kitchen. There, on the refrigerator,