square. Thalia laughed so confidently that she managed to own the joke, laughed so beautifully and so well that it was clear to anyone watching that these boys were her friends, whether or not they’d ever spoken to her. She laughed like someone who’d known them for years. An “Oh, Marco, that’s how you’ve always been” laugh, when—did she even know that was Marco Washington running up to stroke her hair? You might not remember Marco. He wasn’t exactly signing up for your opera seminar. Do you remember Peewee Walcott and Dorian Culler and Mike Stiles? Don’t worry about it. They were the foundational souls of my adolescence, but to you they were faces passing through. You’ve had a new crop every year since. Thalia meant enough to you that I’m sure you remember the kids right around her—Robbie Serenho, Rachel, Beth—the ones who orbited her like moons. On-screen, a house fell around Buster Keaton, and he stood there unharmed—bewildered, blessed. The rumors, in case you never heard them: That she’d been engaged to a boy back home and her parents sent her here to separate them. That she’d had an abortion and everyone at her old school found out. That she was anorexic, and her parents traveled too much to supervise her, so they sent her here where she was subjected to daily weigh-ins with the nurse. That she’d had a nose job, wanted to start over where no one knew her old face. It isn’t hard to guess how the rumors started—girls angry that their boyfriends and crushes trailed Thalia that first week, drooling after her curls in the August heat. She played tennis, and suddenly tennis practice had spectators. We weren’t roommates at first. My ninth and tenth grade roommate, a quiet girl named Diamond, dropped out just before the start of the year. My new assigned roommate, Ji-Hyun, spent preseason curled in bed with menstrual cramps that turned out to be appendicitis. She went from infirmary to hospital, and a week after her surgery I returned from class to find her things packed; she was flying home to Seoul. Thalia and her first roommate, a dour Ukrainian girl, never got along. One day in late September, after wondering for days what had happened to her purple bra, Thalia saw a purple strap peeking out at Khristina’s shoulder. Word got around in hours, and we all assumed Khristina would be expelled (a bra thief!), but the student discipline council forgave her. After all, maybe they didn’t have great underwear in Odesa. Thalia requested a room change, though, and after three weeks solo, I had a roommate. I was under no illusion that Thalia and I would become friends—she had already ascended into the social stratosphere—but I was secretly thrilled to see the other side of the room occupied again, despite my brief and unprecedented luck at having scored a single as a junior. The half-empty room had felt aseptic and haunted. Thalia brought actual decorations—a string of tiny white lights, an aloe plant, a fuzzy green bean bag chair—and


right now she thought she had walked into another world. Icicles dripped from the bare branches of the trees, and ice encased the grass. Sheaths of ice wrapped around the tree trunks, and sheets of ice turned the leaves on bushes into frozen green jewels. She and Mark carefully crunched across the frozen backyard, breaking off icicles and sucking their tips, which tasted like the metallic Mount Pleasant water that came out of everyone’s hoses. They explored the entire patch of frozen grass, and then Pupkin said: I want to see more ice. Louise knew where she could find more ice. Bring the baby, Pupkin said, and Louise reached out and took Mark’s hand, then she began to walk, aiming for the trees at the back of the property, and soon they were out of sight of the house. They navigated the frozen, uneven ground between the bare tree trunks until they were at the bottom of the little hollow full of long, yellow grass circling the Calvins’ frozen pond. Louise had never seen something this big frozen before. Cold came off its surface in waves and tightened the skin on her face. She and Mark and Pupkin stared at it in awe. The ice on its surface had frozen wavy and uneven and the center hadn’t frozen at all. It showed a jagged patch of heavy black water that looked as cold and dark as outer space. Dirty ice covered the pond in a cloudy layer with branches and leaves frozen into its edges. I’m an ice-skater, Pupkin said, and with no hesitation Louise stepped onto the ice. She felt the cold coming through the soles of her shoes. She heard its uneven surface give a high-pitched creak beneath her feet. “I’m an ice-skater,” she said and slid a little on her feet. Her center of gravity wobbled but she didn’t fall down. She flexed her knees and slid again. The ice pulled her across its surface, making her feel out of control even though she only went a few inches. Mark watched, squatting and standing up over and over again in excitement. Then he stepped onto the ice, too. The edge splintered beneath his feet and the heel of his navy blue hand-me-down sneaker dipped backward and turned dark in the water. Louise stepped off the ice into the long, brittle grass and held his hand. “Step up,” she told him, and helped him onto the ice. He slid a little but she kept him upright with one arm. He steadied. “You’re an Olympic skater,” she cheered and let go. He smiled so wide it seemed his cheeks would split open. “Go where it’s flat,” she encouraged him. Mark shuffle-walked in tiny slippery steps toward the black star at the center of the ice. He stopped and turned around to Louise. Go further, Pupkin said. “Go further, Mark.” Louise smiled. He went a few more steps, then turned again, uncertain, sensing he maybe shouldn’t be out this far. A little more, Pupkin said. “A little more,” Louise said. He took


is a constellation in the South! No more! Drive down your hat in presence of the Czar, and take it off to Queequeg! No more! I know a man that, in his lifetime, has taken three hundred and fifty whales. I account that man more honorable than that great captain of antiquity who boasted of taking as many walled towns. And, as for me, if, by any possibility, there be any as yet undiscovered prime thing in me; if I shall ever deserve any real repute in that small but high hushed world which I might not be unreasonably ambitious of; if hereafter I shall do anything that, upon the whole, a man might rather have done than to have left undone; if, at my death, my executors, or more properly my creditors, find any precious MSS. in my desk, then here I prospectively ascribe all the honor and the glory to whaling; for a whale-ship was my Yale College and my Harvard. .. <p 109n. > See subsequent chapters for something more on this head. .. <p 110n. > See subsequent chapters for something more on this head. .. <p 110 > .. < chapter xxv 27 POSTSCRIPT > In behalf of the dignity of whaling, I would fain advance naught but substantiated facts. But after embattling his facts, an advocate who should wholly suppress a not unreasonable .. <p 111 > surmise, which might tell eloquently upon his cause --such an advocate, would he not be blameworthy? It is well known that at the coronation of kings and queens, even modern ones, a certain curious process of seasoning them for their functions is gone through. There is a saltcellar of state, so called, and there may be a caster of state. How they use the salt, precisely --who knows? Certain I am, however, that a king's head is solemnly oiled at his coronation, even as a head of salad. Can it be, though, that they anoint it with a view of making its interior run well, as they anoint machinery? Much might be ruminated here, concerning the essential dignity of this regal process, because in common life we esteem but meanly and contemptibly a fellow who anoints his hair, and palpably smells of that anointing. In truth, a mature man who uses hair-oil, unless medicinally, that man has probably got a quoggy spot in him somewhere. As a general rule, he can't amount to much in his totality. But the only thing to be considered here, is this --what kind of oil is used at coronations? Certainly it cannot be olive oil, nor macassar oil, nor castor oil, nor bear's oil, nor train oil, nor cod-liver oil. What then can it possibly be, but sperm oil in its unmanufactured, unpolluted state, the sweetest of all oils? Think of that, ye loyal Britons! we whalemen supply your kings and queens with coronation stuff! .. <p 111 > .. < chapter xxvi 26 KNIGHTS AND SQUIRES > The chief mate of the Pequod was Starbuck, a native of Nantucket, and a Quaker


of despair—which is also very hard to do when you’ve been put on a sunshine-yellow-painted pediatric ward because you are still seventeen, but I manage anyway. “Feel up to eating yet?” Zion asks. He’s been asking every ten minutes for the last several hours. “No,” I mutter. I am too sad to eat. Also, I feel really nauseous. But it’s mostly the sadness. “There’s jelly,” he cajoles. “No.” I look him in the eye. “Thank you.” He sighs. His dreadlocks sway mournfully. First, Celine doesn’t want me, and now I won’t get a scholarship. The first part feels like my heart’s been ripped out and the second fills the hole left behind with burning but impotent rage. Why did I have to fall down the bloody hill? Running away from Celine, no less. I’m furious with myself. In fact, I’m so busy glaring at my crisp white hospital sheets, it takes me several seconds to notice my actual mother waltz into the ward. By the time I recognize her presence, Dad’s already followed her in. Then comes, horror of horrors, Mason. Just like that, three-quarters of my immediate family stride past the rest of the beds on the ward and surround mine in a cocoon of overloud questions and not entirely unwelcome concern. Someone draws the curtains all around us, and it begins. “My baby!” Mum wails. “What happened?” “Look at you!” Dad says, horrified. “Is someone seeing to my son?” He looks around like a nurse might crawl out from under the bed. “Hello?” He’s wearing a suit underneath his wool coat. Mum is wearing—oh God—scrubs underneath hers. “Did you come from work?” I demand. “Of course we did!” Mum says, outraged. “No child of mine will suffer alone in some foreign country!” “Mum,” Mason sighs, “it’s Scotland.” I notice, even with my blurrier-than-usual vision, that he’s wearing his Forest Academy uniform. “Did you leave practice for me?” “Obviously not.” Mason snorts, just as Dad says, “No, he skipped it. By the way, your sister wanted us to FaceTime you when we arrived, but—” “I told her it probably wasn’t a good idea,” Mum finishes. “You have a concussion.” She pauses, then repeats as if riding a fresh wave of horror: “A concussion!” Zion chooses this moment to stand up and intercede. “Mr. and Mrs. Graeme, hello, we spoke on the phone.” “Ah!” Dad has found someone to question. “What’s happened here, then? How did he fall? Bradley is not reckless. He is typically very careful. So I’m not entirely sure—” I zone out. It’s incredibly easy. I have a lot to think about, like worrying a loose tooth. When I start paying attention again, Zion has escaped and Mason is eating my jelly. “Hey,” I say. “That’s mine.” “Come and take it, then.” I would, but there’s a tiny kernel of worry in the back of my mind regarding the possibility of minute but potentially deadly spinal damage that the doctors missed but that I could make worse if I move too much and I don’t want to give that


of the Silts, was a keres-born hiding in plain sight. She had ended the Riots with the help of Fyodorov’s borders, Minos’s tracking, Jarl’s thrall, and her own, dark violence. She had raised an army of teenagers to slaughter the rogue gang that was terrorizing the Silts. And when that army began to fail, she started making dying soldiers out of them. She started making wraiths. In horror, Io watched as the girl marched back into battle. Dying from the inside out. Like Emmeline Segal and Drina Savva and Raina. She gripped Edei’s sweater and pulled him back. The words tore from her lips like a blade through sinew: “Edei, Bianca is keres-born!” Bianca’s head snapped to where Io and Edei stood across the bridge. “Who are you?” Palms raised, Edei said, “We’re here to help. We joined you a few minutes ago.” The young mob queen removed her glasses—her eyes blazed scarlet. She had been wearing dark glasses that day to hide the keres-born powers mirrored in her irises. “No you didn’t. I know your faces.” Her red gaze traveled to the rooftops around them, the fight breaking out on the bridge. “You’re not supposed to be here.” It’s a dream, Io thought in terror. So wake up. Wake up, Io! But she 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.”


“I want to see her.” Peter took Louise’s hand, and they walked into the diner. Maud drove to the house. She took her suitcase out of the closet, where it had sat since the return from the Hudson Valley. She packed pajamas, a toothbrush, a couple of shirts and pants, underwear, only enough for the few days that Peter had mentioned, since more than that was unthinkable. Then she left, locking the door behind her. 20 She sat in her sister’s living room, cross-legged on the floor. Next to her, Annette was pressing her thumbs into Maud’s palm, having said something about acupressure points. Sage burned in a ceramic dish next to a geode. Annette kept telling her to breathe. “We need to calm you down,” she said. “I can’t calm down.” For the last two nights that she had been at her sister’s condo, Maud had been texting Ella every few hours—I’m so sorry. I love you—the messages piling on top of each other. She called Peter again, leaving voice mails that became increasingly frantic. Finally, last night, he’d called her back and agreed that she could pick up Louise from school today, in an hour. “I don’t think this is working,” she told Annette, starting to cry again. “Do you want some pot?” “I have to drive.” “Let’s try something else, then.” Annette stood up. “You can’t pick up Louise like this. Come on.” In the bathroom mirror, Maud’s eyes were so swollen, she could barely make out the pupils. Her nose was raw and chapped. I’m falling apart, she thought. I can’t handle this. Annette opened the makeup drawer. Closing her eyes, Maud surrendered her face to her sister, whose fingertips glided over her skin, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. Two days ago, when she had arrived at Annette’s door with her suitcase, she rang the doorbell and burst into tears. Annette took one look at her and pulled her inside. Maud blurted everything between sobs. “I never told you I slept with him because I thought you were right about him. And I messed everything up. I messed Ella up. She’ll never get over this. She’ll never forgive me. Peter’s so mad, he might do something crazy. Try to take custody. You know how he can be when he’s angry.” Annette had put her hands on Maud’s cheeks and held her face. “Listen to your big sister. You are not going to lose your girls. We are going to figure this out. I am here. Hold on to me.” Now Annette told her to look up. “You’ll need a lot of this,” she said, as she patted concealer under Maud’s eyes. Maud remembered that night with the policeman at Montgomery Place, how he’d said Ella was hyperventilating. Peter had stood right there with them, and Ella thought he’d been betrayed. “There,” Annette said. “You look less like a corpse. I’m going to say something again until you hear it. You didn’t cheat on Peter. Peter cheated on you.” “I can’t tell Ella that. The girls can’t know


though he were about to bring the wine back up. "All men must swallow the sour with the sweet. High lords and eunuchs alike. Your hour has come, my lord." "My daughters . . ." "The younger girl escaped Ser Meryn and fled," Varys told him. "I have not been able to find her. Nor have the Lannisters. A kindness, there. Our new king loves her not. Your older girl is still betrothed to Joffrey. Cersei keeps her close. She came to court a few days ago to plead that you be spared. A pity you couldn't have been there, you would have been touched." He leaned forward intently. "I trust you realize that you are a dead man, Lord Eddard?" "The queen will not kill me," Ned said. His head swam; the wine was strong, and it had been too long since he'd eaten. "Cat . . . Cat holds her brother . . ." "The wrong brother," Varys sighed. "And lost to her, in any case. She let the Imp slip through her fingers. I expect he is dead by now, somewhere in the Mountains of the Moon." "If that is true, slit my throat and have done with it." He was dizzy from the wine, tired and heartsick. "Your blood is the last thing I desire." Ned frowned. "When they slaughtered my guard, you stood beside the queen and watched, and said not a word." "And would again. I seem to recall that I was unarmed, unarmored, and surrounded by Lannister swords." The eunuch looked at him curiously, tilting his head. "When I was a young boy, before I was cut, I traveled with a troupe of mummers through the Free Cities. They taught me that each man has a role to play, in life as well as mummery. So it is at court. The King's Justice must be fearsome, the master of coin must be frugal, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard must be valiant . . . and the master of whisperers must be sly and obsequious and without scruple. A courageous informer would be as useless as a cowardly knight." He took the wineskin back and drank. Ned studied the eunuch's face, searching for truth beneath the A GAME OF THRONES 555 mummer's scars and false stubble. He tried some more wine. This time it went down easier. "Can you free me from this pit?" "I could . . . but will I? No. Questions would be asked, and the answers would lead back to me." Ned had expected no more. "You are blunt." "A eunuch has no honor, and a spider does not enjoy the luxury of scruples, my lord." "Would you at least consent to carry a message out for me?" "That would depend on the message. I will gladly provide you with paper and ink, if you like. And when you have written what you will, I will take the letter and read it, and deliver it or not, as best serves my own ends." "Your own ends. What ends are those, Lord


still pressed to the concrete. “Be right back then,” Joe said. A few minutes later, I heard a chunk noise—just as the music cut out and it seemed like my dark corner got darker. Then I heard the ambient sound of a puzzled crowd. Then I heard Joe’s voice. “Power outage, guys. Looks like the party’s over.” Oh god, he was my hero. Just knowing they were leaving drained the stress from my body. By the time Joe came back, I was sitting up, leaning against the brick wall, breathing. Like a pro. “Did you just flip the breaker and pretend there was a power outage?” I asked. “Yep,” Joe said. “And everybody went home?” I asked. “Yep.” “And then you came back to check on me?” Joe shrugged, like, Obviously. “Did you worry at all that the darkness might freak me out?” “Nah,” Joe said. “We’ve got the moon.” I looked up and saw it for the first time. It was brighter than I’d realized. “I guess we do.” It occurred to me then that I might have to start altering some of my opinions about Joe. Next I asked, “And once the coast is clear, are you going to take me out for that dinner you promised?” But Joe just shook his head. “No.” I felt a flash of disappointment. “You’re not?” “Nope,” Joe confirmed then, turning back to the moon. “Because I already ordered us a pizza.” Fifteen WE ATE PIZZA on the roof, cross-legged, watching the city skyline. I don’t know if it was the breeze playing with my hair, or the receding adrenaline from the panic attack, or the layer upon layer of compassion Joe had offered to me, but I found myself bizarrely relaxed. Scarfing down that pizza with gusto, talking with my mouth full, saying things I would never—ever—normally say. Like, for example: I told him it was my mother’s birthday. Did he need to know that information? Absolutely not. But I wanted to tell him. I wasn’t going to be able to do my usual thing—it was far too late to go get cake-baking ingredients now, and I was much too exhausted, anyway—but I guess I just wanted to mark the moment of it, even in a tiny way. “It’s my mother’s birthday today,” I said. “We should call her,” Joe said, checking his phone for the time. “Can’t,” I said. “She died.” Joe’s shoulders fell a little at that, and his pizza slice went askew in his hand. “It’s okay,” I said. “It was a long time ago.” “But you still miss her,” he said, reading my expression. “I do,” I said. Joe waited to see if I’d say more. But what was there to say, really? Finally I went with, “Every year, on her birthday, I bake her a cake. And light candles. And watch Cary Grant movies. I tell myself that’s the one day when she can hear me from heaven—and I don’t even care if it’s true. I talk to her, out loud, like she’s there. I just let myself


made a commitment to me! And Poppy!” “I didn’t know our parents were still in the house!” he shouted at her from the other side of his truck. “They’re not!” “How do you know? There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” “Don’t you fucking quote Shakespeare at me,” she said. “There are true things and there are false things, and there are no in-betweens. There are facts, like houses and car accidents and cremation, and there’s bullshit like ghosts and vibes and exorcisms. And if you start getting the true things mixed up with the false things, you’re fucked!” “Mercy and I think this is true,” Mark said. “So does Aunt Gail, apparently. You’re outnumbered.” “Reality is not a consensus!” Louise said. “We don’t all get a vote! And Aunt Gail believes the vial of water she got from the river Jordan cures her headaches, so maybe she’s not the best example.” The setting sun threw a long slash of molten yellow along either side of the house, but the front yard was fuzzing out, the air turning a thick gray. “The second you showed up you started telling me what to do,” Mark said. “From the minute you arrived you’ve been bossing me around. But the fact is that I’m the executor and I’ve decided not to sell the house.” “This is where we grew up. It’s not The Shining.” “It’s Shining-adjacent,” Mark said in the gloom. “If you could admit that maybe you don’t know everything, you wouldn’t be raising Poppy alone.” “Look what you’re doing!” Louise said. “When you don’t like the way a conversation is going you deflect with personal attacks. You’re like some kind of emotionally abusive octopus entangling everyone in your word tentacles.” “You should talk to your therapist about your choices of imagery,” Mark said. “Pipe organs, octopuses—it’s very revealing.” “I don’t have a therapist,” Louise said. “That explains a lot.” “You’re doing it again! I don’t need relationship advice from a grown man who works in a bar and believes in ghosts.” “Says the woman with zero life,” Mark said. “The point is, you act like you know everything about everyone but you don’t listen to anybody. You just talk at people and tell them what to do.” Louise’s skull squeezed itself so tight she thought it would implode. “You promised me,” she said, bearing down on him. “You said we were going to sell this house, and I stayed because I needed the money for Poppy. You don’t get to change your mind in the middle.” The light had almost vanished completely from the street. Everything felt cold and indistinct. “You’ve got my key,” Mark said. “Don’t forget the back door.” He opened the driver’s-side door and his interior light came on, and for the first time Louise saw how bad he looked. His eyes were wet and his face was bloated. He was leaving because he couldn’t handle their parents being dead. He couldn’t let go of them. She needed to reach him. He


I shouldn’t have put that burden on you. I shouldn’t have let it get that far. I should have come forward and stopped the whole thing as soon as that article about you hit the newspaper.” Suddenly, I’m no longer at Hope’s End. The whole cursed place disappears from my vision as I flash back to home, my father at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand. He looks up at me with watery eyes and says, “What they’re saying’s not true, Kit-Kat.” He didn’t say that because he wanted it to be the truth. My father said it because it was true. He knew I hadn’t given my mother those pills. Because he’s the one who did it. FORTY-THREE Shock and despair. That’s all I feel. Not anger. Not grief. Just those two extremes of shock and despair, feeding off each other, turning into an emotion I can’t describe because I’ve never felt it before and I pray that no one else is forced to experience it. It feels like every part of me—brain, heart, lungs—has been ripped from my body, leaving me hollow. That I remain standing is a miracle. I can’t think. I can’t speak. I can’t move. My father, still blessed with all those qualities, steps toward me, arms outstretched, as if he wants to embrace me but knows I’ll shatter if he does. “I’m sorry, Kit-Kat,” he says. “I know you wanted more time with her. I did, too. But she was suffering so much. All that pain. I understood why you left those pills out for her. Because you couldn’t take any more of her suffering. None of us could. So I decided to end it.” I don’t want to listen. Yet despite all the functions currently failing me, hearing is the only one left. I have no choice but to take in every word he says. “I didn’t force the pills on your mother. She took them willingly. We both knew it was better that way. What I didn’t intend—what neither of us intended—was for you to be blamed for it. When that happened, I didn’t know what to do. But believe me when I say I wasn’t going to let Richard Vick arrest you, Kit-Kat. I vowed to turn myself in if it came to that. But it never did. So I stayed quiet, because I knew you’d hate me if you ever found out.” I do hate him. Finally, a third emotion, one that eclipses my shock and despair. Those fade to background noise as the hatred takes over. But it’s a wounded sort of hate. Raw and burning. Like I’m the one who’s just been stabbed. I can’t tell what hurts more—that he and my mother decided to end her life without telling me, thereby denying me a chance to say goodbye, or the fact that he stayed silent when the police came for me, when I was investigated by the state, when I was suspended from my job. “That’s why I couldn’t talk to you afterward,” my father says. “It was too


Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve yourself, or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against _him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is -- you must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.'' ``My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.'' ``Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.'' ``Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.'' ``Elizabeth, you are not serious now.'' ``I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw -- and if he becomes really attached to me -- I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence of it. -- Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! -- My father's opinion of me does me the greatest honor; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every day that where there is affection, young people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.'' ``Perhaps it will be as well, if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him.'' ``As I did the other day,'' said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile; ``very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now, I hope you are satisfied.'' Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth having thanked


a camera. “Oh shit, Charity, is that Paige’s camera?” Bezi asks. I turn it over in my hands and press the “On” button. The little LED screen flickers to life, and I press the left arrow to scroll back through the photos. There are pictures of Bezi and Paige in the car. They’re making faces and smiling wide. A knot crawls up my throat. I press the arrow over and over until I come to a series of photos taken in the dark without a flash. There’s a torch in the foreground, and a few hooded figures are gathered together. Trees crowd the frame. I press the button again, and the next photo shows the wooden platform in the grove. The hooded figures are standing atop it, and they have their hands raised in front of a man who is shirtless and bound at the wrists. I use the camera’s zoom feature to look closely at the shirtless man’s face. His eyes are wide, his mouth is slightly parted, and there is blood on his neck. “Who is that?” Bezi asks as she peers down at the screen. My mouth suddenly feels dry, and my hands begin to tremble. “I—I think it’s Felix.” Bezi looks at me. “Felix?” “He was supposed to run the office.” My mind runs in circles. “He missed his shift. I thought he quit.” Bezi puts her hand on my shoulder, and I press the button to look at the next picture even though I’m scared to death of what I might see. The photo’s a blur. The hooded figures are hazy, and Felix is lying on his back on the platform in the exact same spot where we’d found the bloody spot someone had tried to wash away. There’s nothing after that. I turn the camera off and set it back down. I have to grip the edge of the counter to steady myself as a terrible thought claws its way to the front of my mind. “Heather and Jordan were no-shows too.” Bezi blinks once, twice, and then three times before she makes the connection. “We need to keep moving,” I say, pushing all those other thoughts aside. “Let’s find Porter and Paige and get out of here.” Bezi nods, and we leave the kitchen, continuing down the hall. I find a narrow doorway near the rear of the lodge that is fitted with a series of dead bolts, but each of them is in the open position. I exchange glances with Bezi, then put my palm against the door, grasping the handle with my other hand. I ease it open, hoping it doesn’t protest too loudly. As I slowly pull it open, a faint orange light permeates the dark somewhere below. A narrow flight of stairs leads down into a hallway. I take the steps one at a time, easing myself onto each one, then pausing as Bezi follows behind me. When we emerge into the hallway below, there is only one door at the very end, and it is sitting open. A chorus of


about groups of people you socialize with--don't they interact in typical roles like this? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: SETTING The opening of Silas Marner suggests a world of legend and myth--a pastoral countryside untouched by the modern world, where figures are larger than life. But gradually Eliot establishes that this story occurs in the first years of the nineteenth century, during the Napoleonic wars, when George III was King of England. This is slightly before Eliot's own childhood. It's also before the Reform Act of 1832, which many Englishmen felt marked the end of an era (as Americans today may regard the bombing of Hiroshima or the Vietnam War). It represented for her an age of innocence. The landscape is the farming country of the English Midlands where George Eliot grew up. The villagers of Raveloe live in isolation only because of their old-fashioned customs--they really aren't that far from the rest of civilization. Upperclass characters, such as the Casses, frequently travel to neighboring towns. In general, the two classes in Raveloe inhabit different worlds. The Rainbow pub is the center of the common folks' world, and Squire Cass' Red House is the center of the gentry's world. The Raveloe gentry are representatives of an ancient British social class--the "squirearchy," well-off rural landowners who wielded local political power and stood independent of the aristocracy. By Eliot's own time, this class had nearly been obliterated. Raveloe's class system is smoothly integrated, however. Upperclass men drink at the Rainbow, too, and villagers are invited to the Red House parties. They all hear the same gossip. Everyone meets at church. Silas Marner, in contrast, comes from a large industrial town, though he stayed within a smaller community there, his religious sect. While his hometown is a portrait of the "new" industrialized city of the nineteenth century, his sect is a portrait of the fanatical Evangelical or Puritan denominations that had challenged the established Church of England since the sixteenth century. (Eliot herself had briefly been influenced by Evangelicals.) The customs of such a place are totally different from those of Raveloe, so Silas is branded an alien. Therefore, he lives outside the village, in a cottage beside a dangerous, desolate stone-pit. After Eppie enters his life, however, a garden blooms around its walls, signifying the roots he has put down at last. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: THEMES The following are major themes of Silas Marner. 1. LUCK AND FATE Are some people simply luckier than others? Or is there an overall justice ruling life? Different characters in this book answer these questions differently. Dunstan Cass trusts his native good luck, while Godfrey nervously waits to see if his luck will be good or bad. Neither believes in a system of just rewards and punishment, until years later when Godfrey accepts his childlessness as a divine punishment. Dolly Winthrop trusts blindly to the wisdom of "Them" above, but she does believe that good deeds on Earth are fairly rewarded. Silas, however, used to believe in just rewards in his Lantern-Yard days, and his faith was cruelly disappointed. He


with Kirythean customs. Are you?” A leading question: Start easy, and see how hard they were going to make you work. “Not necessarily.” Harder than that, apparently. Bastian pulled her to the center of the floor, through courtiers that parted like a jewel-toned wave. He raised a hand and gestured to the band in the corner. Abruptly, the music changed, moving to something slow and measured. “But I’ve decided I’m over the katairos.” Bastian grinned, placing one hand on her waist. A beat, and he swept her into something Lore thought was a waltz. Hopefully, her guise as a country cousin would be ample cover for her lack of grace. “So the Kirythean music was just for Gabriel’s benefit, then?” Lore cocked her head, smile still in place, though there was a hint of venom behind the question. The Mort was stuffy and overimportant and built like he could take care of himself, but their odd circumstances made her feel almost protective of him. “It wasn’t for Gabe’s benefit at all.” Bastian spun her out, then pulled her back in, close to his black-clad chest. He was shorter than Gabriel, but only just, and Lore’s forehead would’ve knocked into his chin if he didn’t lean gracefully away, making it look like part of the dance. “The Kirythean music was because I like it.” “I’m sure that thrills your father.” His eyes sparked behind his mask, the slight smile on his mouth going sharp. “Nothing I do thrills my father. He’s decided I’m worthless, and I don’t particularly care enough to try and change his mind.” Another spin, under his arm this time, his hand staying on the small of her back to guide her through. “And just so we’re clear,” he murmured as she passed close again, “I wouldn’t taunt Gabe about his family. I know he thinks I’m awful, and he has his reasons, but even I’m not that heartless.” Lore hoped her laugh didn’t sound as false as it felt. “But you’d make sure he doesn’t have a mask, so that everyone here can see his face.” “I wanted the court to know he was here. To give him an opportunity to see what he’s missing, maybe decide to stay instead of slink back to the Presque Mort.” Bastian’s voice was pleasant, but the ridge of his jaw could carve stone. “My uncle has been half mad since his accident, even if everyone wants to pretend like it’s something holy, and he’s controlled Gabe’s life for fourteen years. I saw an opportunity to set him free, at least for a few weeks, and I took it. He should thank me.” Lore wondered what Bastian would think if he knew that Gabe was only in the court because of Anton. That his uncle’s control was still ironclad. “How exactly would making sure the court sees him here make him want to stay?” she asked. Bastian waved a hand at the party. “Stick a man in a den of iniquity after he’s been cloistered for over a decade, and it’s likely he’ll


and I demand an answer. If I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion; the love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall become a thing of whose existence everyone will be ignorant. My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor, and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being and became linked to the chain of existence and events from which I am now excluded." I paused some time to reflect on all he had related and the various arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the opening of his existence and the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had manifested towards him. His power and threats were not omitted in my calculations; a creature who could exist in the ice caves of the glaciers and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices was a being possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a long pause of reflection I concluded that the justice due both to him and my fellow creatures demanded of me that I should comply with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said, "I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe forever, and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile." "I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, and by the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home and commence your labours; I shall watch their progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall appear." Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations of the sea of ice. His tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the little paths of the mountain and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced. Night was far advanced when I came to the halfway resting-place and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the ground; it was


. . you’ll still do. He was brought here an hour ago for emergency dental surgery, and we need someone to come pick him up.” “Pick him . . . up?” “Yes. It means that you come here. Get him. Then take him where he lives.” She’s speaking very slowly. If I told her about my doctoral degree, she would not believe me. “With a vehicle such as a car. Or a wheelbarrow, for all I care.” “I—I don’t own a car. And I don’t know where he lives. Can’t you call him an Uber and—” “Honey, he’s drugged out of his mind. I cannot let him walk out of here alone—he just mumbled something about walking into the Charles River to hang out with Aquaman.” I close my eyes. Then I open them. I glance at the lecture I’ve been preparing, then at the time (6:42 p.m.), then at Hedgie glaring at me from the kitchen counter. I sigh and hear myself ask, “Where are you located?” 11 C E N T R I P E TA L F O R C E I F G REG WERE A DOG , HE ’ D BE PEEING ALL OVER THE WAITING room. In my twenty-seven years, no one has been happier to see me. He leaps (albeit sluggishly) out of his chair, tries (and fails) to spin me around, effusively compliments my stained “May the Mass Times Acceleration Be with You” shirt, and finally sandwiches my face in his palms and says, “I’m about to blow your mind, Elsie. Did you know that quinoa is not a grain? It’s like, a sprout. Oh my God, let’s do the Harlem Shake!” Behind the reception counter, the nurse shakes her head and mutters, “High like a hot-air balloon.” “I—thank you for calling me.” She looks less pissed than she sounded on the phone, but more exhausted. The place smells like mint, potpourri, and that air hygienists blow into the mouth during cleanings. “Sure. Get this idiot out of my waiting room, please. I gotta go home and feed my own brood of idiots.” “Of course.” I smile reassuringly at Greg, who’s petting a strand of hair that escaped my bun. “Like I said, I don’t know his home address. Do you have it in your paperwork? Or I could bring him to my place—” “I’ve got it.” I turn to the door even though I’m well familiar with the voice—from the past three days of interviewing, from my worst fears, from that weird, intrusive dream I had last night. Greg’s already running to his brother, giving him the same unabashed welcome he gave me. My first thought is a familiar one: I can’t believe they’re related. If they played siblings in an HBO Max miniseries, I’d call bullshit on the casting director. My second is, of course, Fuck. Fucking fuck. Why is he here? I look to the nurse. “Did you . . . did you call both of us to pick Greg up?” “Yup. Because the first person I called was his mom,


So when you see Silas sharing with William the job of nursing an ill deacon of the church, you may suspect trouble. Silas stays late at the old man's bedside, but William never shows up. Silas falls asleep--or probably has a fit--and when he comes to, the deacon is dead. Silas innocently goes off to work as usual. But that night he is summoned to a mysterious church meeting (it's William Dane who comes to fetch him). There, Silas is shown his own pocket-knife, which was found in the dead deacon's dresser drawer--where a bag of church money should have been. Silas, knowing he's innocent, stays calm. But when the brethren search his house, William finds the money (he probably hid it there). While William is accusing him, Silas remembers with a sickening jolt that William had borrowed his knife the day before, but loyally he says nothing. The congregation tries the case by praying and drawing lots. NOTE: LOTS This, Eliot says, was typical practice for some sects. They bypassed the legal process, believing that only God should judge and punish offenders. In this ritual, everyone in the group drew a slip of paper. Whoever drew a particular marked slip was judged guilty. William Dane probably fixed it so Silas would draw the damning piece of paper. Silas feels sure he'll be cleared, although he's already disturbed by William's treachery. Then comes the shocking decision--the lots show that Silas is guilty. What could he have done to prove his innocence? What would you have done in his place? He is asked to leave the sect, to return the money, and to confess his guilt. He protests, explaining that William had the knife. But in the heat of emotion, he speaks against God, causing the brethren to side with William. Silas leaves with his faith in God as shattered as his faith in his fellow man. Silas' reaction is extreme, for his world has been turned upside down. He seems helpless and passive. He doesn't try to regain Sarah's confidence, he doesn't question the church's decision--he just buries himself in his familiar, repetitive work. As you might expect, Sarah soon marries William Dane. Silas leaves town so quietly that the brethren don't know about it until he's gone. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 2 Imagine setting foot on another planet, with a moonlit rocky landscape and a green sky. Imagine trying to talk to the natives--purple blobs of flesh that emit high-pitched whines. You might feel the way Silas Marner does when he arrives in Raveloe. Its landscape is unfamiliar--woods instead of rolling hills--and its people are slow-moving and prosperous, totally unlike the urban artisans he's lived among. Eliot stresses that this shock would have fallen especially hard on a simple mind like Silas'. His thoughts fly back longingly to Lantern-Yard, picturing the chapel and hearing the familiar service again. Though he has broken with its doctrines, he's still tied in his heart to the physical place, from years of association. This is natural, Eliot tells you--and she compares him to a child,


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

and sat there in a deep study. My blind inveteracy returned. Was there any other thing in which I could procure myself to be ignominiously repulsed by this lean, penniless wight?—my hired clerk? What added thing is there, perfectly reasonable, that he will be sure to refuse to do? “Bartleby!” No answer. “Bartleby,” in a louder tone. No answer. “Bartleby,” I roared. Like a very ghost, agreeably to the laws of magical invocation, at the third summons, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage. “Go to the next room, and tell Nippers to come to me.” “I prefer not to,” he respectfully and slowly said, and mildly disappeared. “Very good, Bartleby,” said I, in a quiet sort of serenely severe self-possessed tone, intimating the unalterable purpose of some terrible retribution very close at hand. At the moment I half intended something of the kind. But upon the whole, as it was drawing towards my dinner-hour, I thought it best to put on my hat and walk home for the day, suffering much from perplexity and distress of mind. Shall I acknowledge it? The conclusion of this whole business was, that it soon became a fixed fact of my chambers, that a pale young scrivener, by the name of Bartleby, and a desk there; that he copied for me at the usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was permanently exempt from examining the work done by him, that duty being transferred to Turkey and Nippers, one of compliment doubtless to their superior acuteness; moreover, said Bartleby was never on any account to be dispatched on the most trivial errand of any sort; and that even if entreated to take upon him such a matter, it was generally understood that he would prefer not to—in other words, that he would refuse pointblank. As days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Bartleby. His steadiness, his freedom from all dissipation, his incessant industry (except when he chose to throw himself into a standing revery behind his screen), his great, stillness, his unalterableness of demeanor under all circumstances, made him a valuable acquisition. One prime thing was this,—he was always there;—first in the morning, continually through the day, and the last at night. I had a singular confidence in his honesty. I felt my most precious papers perfectly safe in his hands. Sometimes to be sure I could not, for the very soul of me, avoid falling into sudden spasmodic passions with him. For it was exceeding difficult to bear in mind all the time those strange peculiarities, privileges, and unheard of exemptions, forming the tacit stipulations on Bartleby’s part under which he remained in my office. Now and then, in the eagerness of dispatching pressing business, I would inadvertently summon Bartleby, in a short, rapid tone, to put his finger, say, on the incipient tie of a bit of red tape with which I was about compressing some papers. Of course, from behind the screen the usual answer, “I prefer not to,” was sure to come; and then,


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

see how many decided to leave their houses and fight traffic, maybe find child care, just to come here?” I gesture to the now-empty bookstore. “You had everyone here tonight. Homemakers, attorneys, hourly employees, scientists, retirees, students.” He whistles, looking back at the checkout counter as if remembering. “I saw someone with two copies of every one of your books.” “And I’ve signed those three times before, but she still shows up for every local event to say hi and get them signed again.” “She didn’t buy a book?” “She bought one tonight, but not one of mine.” Off his surprised expression, I add, “Fangirls show up, Connor. Those are my people.” He nods, studying me. “I’m seeing that.” With a smile, I say, “I’m glad you took a break from flirting with my dad to study your show’s demographic.” Connor’s energy dials up a few notches. “I did, but it was hard. Your dad is great.” “He’s literally the cutest human to ever exist.” “By the way, I didn’t realize you hadn’t told him about the show yet. Hope I didn’t make that weird for you with your parents.” “No, I was completely using you as a shield.” He gives me a mock-stern look that I like more than I should. “He was into it,” Connor says. “But he said he’s not telling your mum.” “Shit.” Connor laughs. “We need to find a way to get him on.” A cold flush spreads down my arms. “On—on the dating show? My dad?” He nods, thinking it over. “Family visits with the final contestants, maybe.” My stomach tilts. “Whew, that’s…” I’m about to say that’s terrifying, because just the idea of bringing multiple men over to my mother’s house for her to inspect makes me want to roll into traffic. But for the first time since we started talking about this, there’s a light in Connor’s eyes that looks genuine, and if hanging with Papa Chen did that for him, who am I to pour water on the fire? “That’s a great idea,” I say with a limp smile. Connor laughs. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it all out. Right now, we’re just suggesting loads of things to see what sounds right.” Adrenaline seems to dissipate all at once from my bloodstream and I lean against a shelf, exhaling slowly. Signings are the strangest paradox: the most energizing, fulfilling experience, but also the most exhausting. I want everyone who comes to the table to feel like the most important person in my life, because for those handfuls of minutes, they are. But keeping that energy up can be draining. Add to that the stress about not knowing whether I’ll ever release another book and I’m absolutely wiped. And starving. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes and feel him lean in. “You okay?” Taking a deep, steadying breath, I—Shit. I really, really like the smell of his Ice Zone Sports Hero Silver Blade deodorant. “I’m great.” When I drop my hands, light pops into the periphery of my vision. The only


de Vries residence. “Can she afford it?” Mrs. King murmured when they first inspected their new lodgings. “Why couldn’t she afford it?” said Winnie. Mrs. King’s expression smoothed out. “No reason.” Now Winnie sat in the parlor with a mountain of fabric, sewing tunics. She frowned, struggling with the machine, which whirred and rattled and threatened to destroy her faith in herself. She wasn’t making nearly enough progress. They needed to dress at least sixty men. She was barely a third of the way through. She called through to the bedroom. “How are you getting on in there, Hephzibah?” Hephzibah’s voice came back, rich and imperious. “Call me Lady Montagu!” Mrs. Bone had sent one of her own gigantic-looking mirrors to Tilney Street, and they’d propped it up at the end of the bed. Winnie peeked around the door. Hephzibah was examining herself, ruffled and rippling, awash with pink silks. A hat triple-barreled with roses floated merrily on her head. “I’m radiant,” she said. “You look like a regular Venus,” said Winnie, with care. Hephzibah eyed her beadily. “Because of the pink?” She sniffed. “Yes, I like that.” Winnie approached carefully. She touched Hephzibah’s neck, checked the buttons on the back of the dress. Studied the photograph they’d pinned to the glass. The real Duchess of Montagu stared back at her. Strong oval face. Fine, long nose. She looked at Hephzibah. The resemblance was remarkable. “Have you been learning your lines?” she said, trying to be cheerful. Hephzibah’s hands seemed jumpy. “There’s more to this job than learning lines.” Winnie made herself smile. “You’re every inch the duchess.” Hephzibah let out a breath, flexed her hands. “I’m a terrible ham, aren’t I?” “You’re magnificent,” whispered Winnie, and squeezed her arm. Hephzibah picked her way slowly across the room and Winnie reminded herself, she won’t spoil things; she won’t mess it up. She kept smiling, to be encouraging, to hide her doubts. * * * Mrs. Bone had hired a Daimler for them at further eye-watering expense. It had a bright blue body and button-leather seats, slick and black as tar. Hephzibah held her parasol over her head and tried to stay cool. Winnie passed her a box of visiting cards, marked the top one with a PPC. “Keep the rest. But don’t you dare pay any other calls.” Hephzibah felt hot and clammy, sweat running down her back. She prayed it wouldn’t stain the satin. The motor ground to a halt and Winnie flashed a nervous smile as she slipped out. “Good luck.” Hephzibah concealed her expression, and her trepidation, with her parasol. “Talent does not require luck,” she said, in as frosty a tone as she could manage. They’d hired the chauffeur with the car. He didn’t know Hephzibah from Eve. “Here, m’lady?” he said. Hephzibah peered out. She hadn’t planned for this moment. The house was still so extraordinarily big, so white—like a wedding cake, many tiers high. The park was a desert, all baked earth and scrub grass. Dust came in great billowing clouds from Rotten Row. It was


for Granny when she married,

and for Princess Margaret, but it was nearly exhausted now, I’d heard. By

the time I got married, if I ever got married, there might be none left.

I don’t recall leaving the Crypt. I don’t recall walking out to the altar. I

have no memory of the readings, or removing the ring, or handing it to my

brother. The ceremony is mostly a blank in my mind. I recall Kate walking

down the aisle, looking incredible, and I recall Willy walking her back up

the aisle, and as they disappeared through the door, into the carriage that

would convey them to Buckingham Palace, into the eternal partnership

they’d pledged, I recall thinking: Goodbye.

I loved my new sister-in-law, I felt she was more sister than in-law, the

sister I’d never had and always wanted, and I was pleased that she’d forever

be standing by Willy’s side. She was a good match for my older brother.

They made each other visibly happy, and therefore I was happy too. But in

my gut I couldn’t help feeling that this was yet another farewell under this

horrid roof. Another sundering. The brother I’d escorted into Westminster

Abbey that morning was gone—forever. Who could deny it? He’d never

again be first and foremost Willy. We’d never again ride together across the

Lesotho countryside with capes blowing behind us. We’d never again share

a horsey-smelling cottage while learning to fly. Who shall separate us?

Life, that’s who.

I’d had the same feeling when Pa got married, the same presentiment,

and hadn’t it come true? In the Camilla era, as I’d predicted, I saw him less

and less. Weddings were joyous occasions, sure, but they were also low-key

funerals, because after saying their vows people tended to disappear.

It occurred to me then that identity is a hierarchy. We are primarily one

thing, and then we’re primarily another, and then another, and so on, until

death—in succession. Each new identity assumes the throne of Self, but

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takes us further from our original self, perhaps our core self—the child. Yes,

evolution, maturation,


Luke, the craftsman who had built my parents’ ramps, was working on my father’s casket and refused to accept payment for it. A number of items went into my father’s casket to be buried with him: an Orthodox cross, also made of wood and small enough to fit in one of his hands, its three crossbeams lined in thin gold foil; a white cloth draped across his forehead, representing the crown of victory he had earned for running his earthly race, adorned with the prayer Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us; an icon of Saint Canice, or Cainnech, his patron saint, a sixth-century Irish abbot who established monasteries and hermitages throughout Ireland and Scotland, for which he is venerated by the Catholic, Orthodox, and Anglican Churches; and an icon of the Ladder of Divine Ascent, a twelfth-century monk’s rendering of Saint John Climacus’s famous treatise on the thirty steps monastics might progress along in order to reach Christ, who awaits the faithful at the summit, his once-pierced hands outstretched. * * * When I was young, a scholarship kid at a Catholic elementary school who sat through two Masses a week and knew every rite and prayer, it would have been impossible to imagine my parents as anything other than the devout Roman Catholics they’d been ever since a dry, spirited little nun brought them back to the church during their years in Seattle. Yet by the time they left it, in what was less a dramatic sundering than a long, drawn-out farewell, I couldn’t be surprised. They had stopped attending our church—the smallest Catholic parish in the area, one that had taken over what used to be a covered farmers’ market—around the time I turned sixteen, after years of flirting with Orthodoxy. My mother converted when I was a freshman in college; my father took his time, following her a decade or so later. At the small Orthodox parish where they landed, no one noticed or commented on how often people tithed, as our former priest had; the day he did so was the day my parents, who never had much money to give but faithfully volunteered to run church fundraisers, teach catechism classes, lead Bible studies, began their slow but steady retreat from the church. In their new community, I believe they were seen and known, nurtured and valued, in a way they hadn’t been anywhere else. They found communion. There was no question that my father would have the full Orthodox funeral. My mother told me it was a beautiful liturgy. We like to joke that it’s a reason to convert. With his siblings unable to travel due to their own health issues, it was his parish family that drew together to mourn and pray for and bury him. I understood why my parents had given their hearts, their prayers, their labor to the little mission church, its altars and rich iconostasis hidden treasures in a rural strip mall, because I could see the joy everyone there took in caring for one another. Witnessing proof


whole body ablaze with cold. A thread of green light crossed the sky, then another. Leaning back into the water, Glorian closed her eyes and laughed – for she was awake, and her soul was alive, and her body was hers, it was fully hers now. **** Einlek was breaking his fast on his balcony. Food remained scarce, but here in the wilds, there was game to be hunted, and fish to be hooked from the rivers. Glorian joined him, hair dripping. ‘How was the water today?’ Einlek asked her. ‘More bracing than your balmy Inysh lakes?’ Glorian nodded. ‘I have felt well for the first time in months here, Einlek. Thank you.’ ‘You needed to stop for a time, to collect yourself. We both did, after so much tragedy.’ He passed her a bear pelt, which she wrapped around her shoulders. ‘It has been good to have you here, Glorian. I’m only sorry that I have to send you back so soon.’ ‘Inys needs me. So does Sabran.’ His jaw tightened at the mention of her. Glorian laid a hand on his iron arm. ‘Prince Guma never touched me, Einlek. He never will,’ she said. ‘Sabran is not his.’ He narrowed his grey eyes. ‘Whose, then?’ ‘I will not tell you, for his sake. Or hers.’ She looked away. ‘I know I shamed the Saint.’ Einlek snorted. ‘You gave Inys an heir, and spared us all from the Nameless One. I would not call that shaming the Saint.’ His warmer hand came to cover her fingers. ‘I am glad you told me. These last years were a trial from Halgalant. We did what was necessary.’ He served her a cup of hot wine, and she drank, letting it warm her all the way to her middle. ‘Aunt Ólrun mentioned something,’ she said, after a long moment. ‘The Vildavintra.’ ‘A foolish tale from the heathen days. A time when the spirits will break free of the ice and kill the world.’ He swallowed his venison. ‘Pay her no heed. Her war days still wilder her mind.’ ‘It does feel colder than usual, Einlek.’ ‘Hróth has been on fire, like everywhere else. Anything would feel cold in comparison.’ Einlek glanced at her. ‘Before you leave, I have to ask you something, Glorian.’ ‘Yes?’ For a time, her cousin looked out at the sunrise on the mountains, his face hard to decipher. ‘The House of Hraustr is young,’ he said. ‘At present, there are only three of us in the family, not including you. My queen wants many children, but I have no siblings, in the meantime.’ Einlek had married not even a month after the wyrms fell. Surviving his second war must have driven his mortality home. Instead of a foreign consort, he had chosen the iron-willed Chieftain of Vakróss, who was almost as wealthy and admired as Skiri Longstride. ‘It is a small family to rule after such a tragedy as the Grief of Ages,’ he said. ‘If Hróth is to remain at peace, and in Virtudom – which we know it


sight, they were getting so far off). `Oh, my poor little feet, I wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I'm sure _I_ shan't be able! I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble myself about you: you must manage the best way you can; --but I must be kind to them,' thought Alice, `or perhaps they won't walk the way I want to go! Let me see: I'll give them a new pair of boots every Christmas.' And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. `They must go by the carrier,' she thought; `and how funny it'll seem, sending presents to one's own feet! And how odd the directions will look! ALICE'S RIGHT FOOT, ESQ. HEARTHRUG, NEAR THE FENDER, (WITH ALICE'S LOVE). Oh dear, what nonsense I'm talking!' Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall: in fact she was now more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the little golden key and hurried off to the garden door. Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to look through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more hopeless than ever: she sat down and began to cry again. `You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' said Alice, `a great girl like you,' (she might well say this), `to go on crying in this way! Stop this moment, I tell you!' But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall. After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, `Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!' Alice felt so desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, `If you please, sir--' The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan, and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go. Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: `Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I? Ah, THAT'S the great puzzle!' And she


did. Like the time when the stage lift they were supposed to sit on in the middle of the cowboy number didn’t rise in time, and they all fell on their bottoms on the floor. Russell said he was quite impressed at how quickly they all popped back up without missing a beat, a testament to their collective strength. A test of their collective stamina occurred regularly at the last show of the day, when the conductor had a habit of speeding up the orchestra’s tempo in order to catch an earlier train home, leaving both the musicians and the dancers breathless. During dinner at Moriarty’s, they laughed about an earlier rehearsal where the new girls had been introduced to the choreography for the Christmas Spectacular’s Wooden Soldiers number, which involved a precarious and technically challenging cascading slow fall, set off by a fake cannon shot that came from stage left. They first practiced in tight groups of six, facing the cannon with their arms bent at a ninety-degree angle, with only inches in between each dancer. The first girl slowly rocked back on her heels, allowing her full body weight to lean on the girl behind her, and one by one each of the dancers would do the same, arms tucked tightly under the armpits of the girl in front of them for leverage. This was repeated, girl after girl, until the entire line was seated, legs outstretched on either side, like a line of human dominos. If anyone moved too quickly, the line fell apart. Having one leg out of position could result in a serious injury. It took a huge leap of faith, or lean of faith, as Bunny put it over dinner, to let someone else support all your weight and not chicken out at the last minute. Marion dreaded the day they would have to do it in full costume, wearing stiffly starched white pants and a helmet that had to stay upright, which no doubt would distract from a move that was hard enough in rehearsal clothes. Listening to the dancers talk and laugh, Marion considered herself lucky. She’d landed in a warm sisterhood where her ambition and drive were celebrated, not questioned. Still, she missed her real family terribly. Every time she returned to the Rehearsal Club she hoped to see a message on the bulletin board beside the pay phone letting her know that her father had called. He knew where she was staying, where she worked. Was he really so angry at her that he would cut off all communication and not be the slightest bit interested in how she was holding up? She’d spoken with Mrs. Hornsby a couple of times, checking in, but she didn’t want to put their housekeeper in a difficult position, acting as the middleman between her and Simon, and kept their conversations short and light. Still, Marion detected the slightest edge of disappointment in Mrs. Hornsby’s voice, a quiet weariness that left Marion feeling guilty and sad. Nathaniel had reached out a couple of times since their


then drop to my lap, slick with blood. The last thing I remember is an exquisitely beautiful green- and-silver moth landing on the curve of my wrist. 285 The sound of rain drumming on the roof of our house gent- ly pulls me toward consciousness. I fight to return to sleep though, wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets, safe at home. I’m vaguely aware that my head aches. Possibly I have the flu and this is why I’m allowed to stay in bed, even though I can tell I’ve been asleep a long time. My mother’s hand strokes my cheek and I don’t push it away as I would in wakefulness, nev- er wanting her to know how much I crave that gentle touch. How much I miss her even though I still don’t trust her. Then there’s a voice, the wrong voice, not my mother’s, and I’m scared. “Katniss,” it says. “Katniss, can you hear me?” My eyes open and the sense of security vanishes. I’m not home, not with my mother. I’m in a dim, chilly cave, my bare feet freezing despite the cover, the air tainted with the unmis- takable smell of blood. The haggard, pale face of a boy slides into view, and after an initial jolt of alarm, I feel better. “Pee- ta.” “Hey,” he says. “Good to see your eyes again.” “How long have I been out?” I ask. 286 “Not sure. I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood,” he says. “I think it’s stopped finally, but I wouldn’t sit up or anything.” I gingerly lift my hand to my head and find it bandaged. This simple gesture leaves me weak and dizzy. Peeta holds a bottle to my lips and I drink thirstily. “You’re better,” I say. “Much better. Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick,” he says. “By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone.” He doesn’t seem angry about my tricking him, drugging him, and running off to the feast. Maybe I’m just too beat-up and I’ll hear about it later when I’m stronger. But for the mo- ment, he’s all gentleness. “Did you eat?” I ask. “I’m sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groos- ling before I realized it might have to last a while. Don’t worry, I’m back on a strict diet,” he says. “No, it’s good. You need to eat. I’ll go hunting soon,” I say. “Not too soon, all right?” he says. “You just let me take care of you for a while.” I don’t really seem to have much choice. Peeta feeds me bi- tes of groosling and raisins and makes me drink plenty of wa- ter. He rubs some warmth back into my feet and wraps them in his jacket before tucking the sleeping bag back up around my chin. “Your boots and socks are still damp and the weather’s not helping much,” he says. There’s a clap of thunder, and I see 287


chose it." When Philip entered, the people in the studio had looked at him curiously, and the model gave him an indifferent glance, but now they ceased to pay attention to him. Philip, with his beautiful sheet of paper in front of him, stared awkwardly at the model. He did not know how to begin. He had never seen a naked woman before. She was not young and her breasts were shrivelled. She had colourless, fair hair that fell over her forehead untidily, and her face was covered with large freckles. He glanced at Miss Price's work. She had only been working on it two days, and it looked as though she had had trouble; her paper was in a mess from constant rubbing out, and to Philip's eyes the figure looked strangely distorted. "I should have thought I could do as well as that," he said to himself. He began on the head, thinking that he would work slowly downwards, but, he could not understand why, he found it infinitely more difficult to draw a head from the model than to draw one from his imagination. He got into difficulties. He glanced at Miss Price. She was working with vehement gravity. Her brow was wrinkled with eagerness, and there was an anxious look in her eyes. It was hot in the studio, and drops of sweat stood on her forehead. She was a girl of twenty-six, with a great deal of dull gold hair; it was handsome hair, but it was carelessly done, dragged back from her forehead and tied in a hurried knot. She had a large face, with broad, flat features and small eyes; her skin was pasty, with a singular unhealthiness of tone, and there was no colour in the cheeks. She had an unwashed air and you could not help wondering if she slept in her clothes. She was serious and silent. When the next pause came, she stepped back to look at her work. "I don't know why I'm having so much bother," she said. "But I mean to get it right." She turned to Philip. "How are you getting on?" "Not at all," he answered, with a rueful smile. She looked at what he had done. "You can't expect to do anything that way. You must take measurements. And you must square out your paper." She showed him rapidly how to set about the business. Philip was impressed by her earnestness, but repelled by her want of charm. He was grateful for the hints she gave him and set to work again. Meanwhile other people had come in, mostly men, for the women always arrived first, and the studio for the time of year (it was early yet) was fairly full. Presently there came in a young man with thin, black hair, an enormous nose, and a face so long that it reminded you of a horse. He sat down next to Philip and nodded across him to Miss Price. "You're very late," she said. "Are you only just up?" "It was such a splendid


and answering with a fixed look, "Her." "And I an't a master-mind," Joe resumed, when he had unfixed his look, and got back to his whisker. "And last of all, Pip - and this I want to say very serious to you, old chap - I see so much in my poor mother, of a woman drudging and slaving and breaking her honest hart and never getting no peace in her mortal days, that I'm dead afeerd of going wrong in the way of not doing what's right by a woman, and I'd fur rather of the two go wrong the t'other way, and be a little ill-conwenienced myself. I wish it was only me that got put out, Pip; I wish there warn't no Tickler for you, old chap; I wish I could take it all on myself; but this is the up-and-down-and-straight on it, Pip, and I hope you'll overlook shortcomings." Young as I was, I believe that I dated a new admiration of Joe from that night. We were equals afterwards, as we had been before; but, afterwards at quiet times when I sat looking at Joe and thinking about him, I had a new sensation of feeling conscious that I was looking up to Joe in my heart. "However," said Joe, rising to replenish the fire; "here's the Dutch-clock a working himself up to being equal to strike Eight of 'em, and she's not come home yet! I hope Uncle Pumblechook's mare mayn't have set a fore-foot on a piece o' ice, and gone down." Mrs. Joe made occasional trips with Uncle Pumblechook on market-days, to assist him in buying such household stuffs and goods as required a woman's judgment; Uncle Pumblechook being a bachelor and reposing no confidences in his domestic servant. This was market-day, and Mrs. Joe was out on one of these expeditions. Joe made the fire and swept the hearth, and then we went to the door to listen for the chaise-cart. It was a dry cold night, and the wind blew keenly, and the frost was white and hard. A man would die to-night of lying out on the marshes, I thought. And then I looked at the stars, and considered how awful if would be for a man to turn his face up to them as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in all the glittering multitude. "Here comes the mare," said Joe, "ringing like a peal of bells!" The sound of her iron shoes upon the hard road was quite musical, as she came along at a much brisker trot than usual. We got a chair out, ready for Mrs. Joe's alighting, and stirred up the fire that they might see a bright window, and took a final survey of the kitchen that nothing might be out of its place. When we had completed these preparations, they drove up, wrapped to the eyes. Mrs. Joe was soon landed, and Uncle Pumblechook was soon down too, covering the mare with a cloth, and we were soon all in


starlight. The weather was still favourable, the ground ringing under her feet like an anvil. Marian and Izz were much interested in her excursion, knowing that the journey concerned her husband. Their lodgings were in a cottage a little further along the lane, but they came and assisted Tess in her departure, and argued that she should dress up in her very prettiest guise to captivate the hearts of her parents-in-law; though she, knowing of the austere and Calvinistic tenets of old Mr Clare, was indifferent, and even doubtful. A year had now elapsed since her sad marriage, but she had preserved sufficient draperies from the wreck of her then full wardrobe to clothe her very charmingly as a simple country girl with no pretensions to recent fashion; a soft gray woollen gown, with white crape quilling against the pink skin of her face and neck, and a black velvet jacket and hat. "'Tis a thousand pities your husband can't see 'ee now--you do look a real beauty!" said Izz Huett, regarding Tess as she stood on the threshold between the steely starlight without the yellow candlelight within. Izz spoke with a magnanimous abandonment of herself to the situation; she could not be--no woman with a heart bigger than a hazel-nut could be--antagonistic to Tess in her presence, the influence which she exercised over those of her own sex being of a warmth and strength quite unusual, curiously overpowering the less worthy feminine feelings of spite and rivalry. With a final tug and touch here, and a slight brush there, they let her go; and she was absorbed into the pearly air of the fore-dawn. They heard her footsteps tap along the hard road as she stepped out to her full pace. Even Izz hoped she would win, and, though without any particular respect for her own virtue, felt glad that she had been prevented wronging her friend when momentarily tempted by Clare. It was a year ago, all but a day, that Clare had married Tess, and only a few days less than a year that he had been absent from her. Still, to start on a brisk walk, and on such an errand as hers, on a dry clear wintry morning, through the rarefied air of these chalky hogs'-backs, was not depressing; and there is no doubt that her dream at starting was to win the heart of her mother-in-law, tell her whole history to that lady, enlist her on her side, and so gain back the truant. In time she reached the edge of the vast escarpment below which stretched the loamy Vale of Blackmoor, now lying misty and still in the dawn. Instead of the colourless air of the uplands the atmosphere down there was a deep blue. Instead of the great enclosures of a hundred acres in which she was now accustomed to toil there were little fields below her of less than half-a-dozen acres, so numerous that they looked from this height like the meshes of a net. Here the landscape was whitey-brown; down there, as


terrace. They giggled, humoring him, pretending to be amazed by the entertainments. Only pretending, though. They were beyond exhausted. You could see it in their shoulders. Fatigue in the soul, something chronic. A few pounds a year and a scrag of mutton at Christmas—that’s all they had to look forward to. She felt her chest tightening. Miss de Vries checked a tiny wristwatch affixed to her costume. It caught the light, a sparkling flash. She said something briefly to Lord Ashley, catching his attention. He turned sharply, treading on her gown. Nobody else noticed, but Winnie saw. He pinned Miss de Vries to the spot and she looked down, a flash of annoyance. The dress had torn. Lord Ashley moved on, not caring. They don’t look much like lovebirds to me, thought Winnie. Miss de Vries stayed motionless for a moment, inspecting her train. Then she gathered herself, rearranged the crepe folds and moved toward the house. She did it so subtly that the crowd barely parted for her: she was simply there one moment and then gone the next. Winnie thought, Someone needs to follow her. And then she thought, Why isn’t Alice here? * * * The Janes were sweating now, wrapping delicate furniture with dust sheets, binding everything together with string. Glossy wood, a lot of walnut, Queen Anne cabinets with a hundred gleaming brass latches. “What would you go as?” Jane-two said. “Eh?” said Jane-one. “To a fancy-dress ball.” “Like this one?” Jane-two nodded. Jane-one thought about it. “I wouldn’t.” “I would.” “As what?” Jane-two considered it. “Helen of Troy.” Jane-one snorted. “Oh, very good. Here’s your wooden horse.” She rolled the next box, filled to the brim with treasures, along the tracks they’d laid down the corridor, and ran a quick hand through her hair. Don’t stop, she told herself. Not even for a minute. She didn’t need to look at the clock. She knew what it would say. Midnight was fast approaching. “We need to speed up,” she muttered. * * * Alice had recognized the man in the mews lane the second she saw him. He had come without his usual companion. For some reason this made her more afraid, not less. One man, alone, without constraints, with his shirt collar loosened. Even debt collectors felt the heat, she thought, smothering a desperate bubble of laughter. Usually he showed perfect courtesy, and tipped his hat. But tonight he wasn’t wearing a hat at all. He looked bigger than before, and the lamp shone on his bald head. She searched for his hands, but they were shoved into his pockets. He let out a breath when he saw her. This, too, made her feel weak. It was a tiny gesture, a little huff of...what? Anger? He was impatient to get this job done, sorted, over with. She could see he had something concealed in his pocket. A lead pipe or a rope or a knife: her imagination unraveled all the possibilities, fear rattling through her chest. “You’re late on your payment,” he said. Alice ran her


false tooth stood out in his mind like a steeple in a flat landscape. The nerve-shaped capsule within that tooth--the poison gas--he remembered who had put the deadly weapon in his mouth. Yueh. Drug-fogged memory of seeing a limp corpse dragged past him in this room hung like a vapor in Leto's mind. He knew it had been Yueh. "Do you hear that noise, Duke Leto?" the Baron asked. Leto grew conscious of a frog sound, the burred mewling of someone's agony. "We caught one of your men disguised as a Fremen, " the Baron said. "We penetrated the disguise quite easily: the eyes, you know. He insists he was sent among the Fremen to spy on them. I've lived for a time on this planet, cher cousin. One does not spy on those ragged scum of the desert. Tell me, did you buy their help? Did you send your woman and son to them?" Leto felt fear tighten his chest. If Yueh sent them to the desert fold . . . the search won't stop until they 're found. "Come, come," the Baron said. "We don't have much time and pain is quick. Please don't bring it to this, my dear Duke." The Baron looked up at Piter who stood at Leto's shoulder. "Piter doesn't have all his tools here, but I'm sure he could improvise." "Improvisation is sometimes the best, Baron." That silky, insinuating voice! Leto heard it at his ear. "You had an emergency plan," the Baron said. "Where have your woman and the boy been sent?" He looked at Leto's hand. "Your ring is missing. Does the boy have it?" The Baron looked up, stared into Leto's eyes. "You don't answer," he said. "Will you force me to do a thing I do not want to do? Piter will use simple, direct methods. I agree they're sometimes the best, but it's not good that you should be subjected to such things." "Hot tallow on the back, perhaps, or on the eyelids," Piter said. "Perhaps on other portions of the body. It's especially effective when the subject doesn't know where the tallow will fall next. It's a good method and there's a sort of beauty in the pattern of pus-white blisters on naked skin, eh, Baron?" "Exquisite," the Baron said, and his voice sounded sour. Those touching fingers! Leto watched the fat hands, the glittering jewels on baby-fat hands--their compulsive wandering. The sounds of agony coming through the door behind him gnawed at the Duke's nerves. Who is it they caught? he wondered. Could it have been Idaho? "Believe me, cher cousin," the Baron said. "I do not want it to come to this." "You think of nerve couriers racing to summon help that cannot come," Piter said. "There's an artistry in this, you know." "You're a superb artist," the Baron growled. "Now, have the decency to be silent." Leto suddenly recalled a thing Gurney Halleck had said once, seeing a picture of the Baron: " 'And I stood upon the sand of the sea and saw a beast


had become a delight to him; yet it was a greater delight slyly to precipitate a fight amongst his mates and tangle the traces. At the mouth of the Tahkeena, one night after supper, Dub turned up a snowshoe rabbit, blundered it, and missed. In a second the whole team was in full cry. A hundred yards away was a camp of the Northwest Police, with fifty dogs, huskies all, who joined the chase. The rabbit sped down the river, turned off into a small creek, up the frozen bed of which it held steadily. It ran lightly on the surface of the snow, while the dogs ploughed through by main strength. Buck led the pack, sixty strong, around bend after bend, but he could not gain. He lay down low to the race, whining eagerly, his splendid body flashing forward, leap by leap, in the wan white moonlight. And leap by leap, like some pale frost wraith, the snowshoe rabbit flashed on ahead. All that stirring of old instincts which at stated periods drives men out from the sounding cities to forest and plain to kill things by chemically propelled leaden pellets, the blood lust, the joy to kill--all this was Buck's, only it was infinitely more intimate. He was ranging at the head of the pack, running the wild thing down, the living meat, to kill with his own teeth and wash his muzzle to the eyes in warm blood. There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad on a stricken field and refusing quarter; and it came to Buck, leading the pack, sounding the old wolf-cry, straining after the food that was alive and that fled swiftly before him through the moonlight. He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time. He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not move. But Spitz, cold and calculating even in his supreme moods, left the pack and cut across a narrow neck of land where the creek made a long bend around. Buck did not know of this, and as he rounded the bend, the frost wraith of a rabbit still flitting before him, he saw another and larger frost wraith leap from the overhanging bank into the immediate path of the rabbit. It was Spitz. The rabbit could not turn, and as


“I am not letting you risk your position for me, Rebecca. You need to go back, and I will find my own way.” “I don’t want to go back.” “Why wouldn’t you—” “You need to get dressed, miss.” “I am not wearing that gown!” The next thing she knew, Lucy was standing in the corridor in the loveliest dress she had ever worn and wishing she was better at wrestling. But Rebecca had put up quite a fight, and Lucy had stopped struggling only for fear of tearing the gown that didn’t belong to her. This was as far as she would go, however. Rebecca could force her to dress, but she could not force her down to luncheon. “Oh, my dear, that color is lovely on you.” Lucy spun around with a gasp, dipping into a curtsy out of reflex at the sight of the family matron. Without knowing more about the family or how highly they were ranked, she wasn’t sure how to address Mr. Calloway’s mother, and she hated that, but she had to say something. “Mrs. Calloway, I—” “Oh, come now.” The elegant woman waved her hand at Lucy before she’d even gotten halfway through her curtsy. “None of that. We are to be family.” Now was as good a time as any to explain the truth. “Um, actually, I’m not—” “You forgot this, miss!” Rebecca dashed out of the room behind Lucy and stuffed a pin of some sort into Lucy’s dark hair. “Oh, beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t see you.” She sank into a curtsy of her own, but there wasn’t even a hint of surprise in her expression. Mrs. Calloway, or whatever she was called, smiled at the maid before reaching out and taking Lucy’s hand. “That’s quite all right,” she said warmly. Then she turned back to Lucy and smiled even wider, though she looked as weary as Lucy felt. “Now, would you like to see William before we go down for luncheon?” No, she did not want to see the man she hardly knew. “I am not sure that would be appropriate,” she said, “seeing as I’m not—” “Nonsense. You’ll be his wife soon enough, so there could hardly be anything untoward in visiting his sickbed. If we can get him to wake, I am sure he would be most eager to see you.” Eager? Hardly. Confused? Most certainly. Mrs. Calloway talked almost nonstop as she led Lucy down the corridor, leaving her no room to speak the truth. The woman spoke of her son’s long absences, how he was so often traveling and rarely at home. But when they entered the room where a doctor still attended to an unconscious Mr. Calloway, Lucy could feel the woman’s energy dim until it was almost entirely gone. Perhaps the one-sided conversation had been to distract herself more than anything else. “Has there been any change?” Mrs. Calloway asked the physician. Lucy retreated to the corner, resting a hand on a bureau and wondering when she would get a chance to tell the family


trousers and has her hair down and Nick is massively intimidated. The other two women work at the museum with Jeanne, but Nick hardly gets a chance to say a word to either of them because they sit very close on the couch, their heads bent together, their voices inaudible to anyone else. Of the three men, one is a friend of Andy’s from prep school who is currently going to law school at Columbia and hating every minute of it; he is, therefore, sauced. Another of the men is a banker who spends the evening doting on Jeanne. And the third man. Well. “Nick, right? Emily told me I’d particularly enjoy meeting you.” His voice goes all singsongy on particularly. His name is Ted and he’s a few years older than the rest of them, a bit over thirty, and apparently he works at an art gallery where Emily’s boss did a photo shoot. “Did she?” Nick raises an eyebrow. “She said we might have some friends in common.” Nick would put the odds at zero that they know a single soul in common. Which means only one thing. “I suppose we go to a lot of the same places,” he suggests blandly. “I bet we do,” Ted says, a grin spreading across his handsome face. Nick is going to kill Emily. Or thank her, possibly. This guy doesn’t look like an undercover cop, at least. There’s no way Emily Warburton knows anyone so lowly as a cop, so that’s some comfort. How, though, did Emily figure it out? Andy doesn’t even know. When Ted talks to Nick, he’s flirty and camp and not making any secret of who or what he is. But when they sit down at the enormous linen-draped table and eat honest-to-God pheasant, he reins in his whole demeanor and becomes only a little bit camp. Nick has always counted himself lucky for being able to blend in with everyone else. He can pretend to be like any other man, and he’s fortunate that it’s even an option for him. But he’s twenty-five and he’s already tired. He’s so careful, all the time, about everything, from not letting himself look too long at other men to being almost paranoid about who he picks up. But the stakes are too high for anything else. He’ll lose his job if he gets arrested or if the Chronicle finds out he’s queer. He’ll never get another job at another newspaper. The situation with his family will be unbearable. He’ll wind up waiting tables on Mott Street or knocking heads together outside a bar. He knows things are different for artists and maybe they’re different for people who work in art galleries, too. He tries not to think too hard about it, because otherwise he starts to feel penned in. After dinner, everybody goes back out to the living room and drinks disgusting things out of little glasses. “You’re scowling,” Andy says, coming over to sit on the arm of the sofa nearest to Nick. “It’s the crème de menthe,” Nick


to attract Enva to him, as he thought it would. Even after seven months of conflict, she remained hidden in Oath save for the moments when she strummed her harp, inspiring young people to enlist and fight against her nemesis. Why do you hate each other? Iris wondered. What was the history behind Dacre and Enva? She sifted through the book’s leaves, but page after page had been removed, torn away from the volume. There were a few myths about Enva and Alva, but no detailed records of Dacre. His name was mentioned only in passing from legend to legend, and never connected to Enva. There was also nothing about eithrals—where they came from, what controlled them. How dangerous they were to humans. Iris sat back in her chair, rubbing her shoulder. It was as if someone wanted to steal the knowledge of the past. All the myths about Dacre, his magic and power. Why he was furious with Enva. Why he was instigating a war with her, dragging mortal kind into the bloodshed. And it filled Iris with cold dismay. {4} Dustbin Revelations Her mother was asleep on the sofa when Iris got home that evening. A cigarette had burned through the threadbare cushion, and the candles on the sideboard had almost melted into stubs. Iris sighed but began to clean up the empty bottles and ashtrays. She removed her boots, wincing to see that the blisters had bled through her stockings. Barefoot, she stripped her mother’s wine-stained sheets off the bed and then gathered a few garments to launder, carrying everything down to the common area. She paid a few coppers for water and a cup of soap granules and then selected a washboard and bucket and began to scrub. The water was cold, pumped up from the city’s cistern, and the soap turned her hands raw. But she scrubbed away the stains, and she wrung out garment after garment, her anger fueling her long after her stomach ceased groaning its emptiness. By the time Iris had washed everything, she was ready to write the This isn’t Forest person back. She returned to the flat and hung everything up to dry in the kitchen. She should eat something before she wrote them, or who knew what might come out of her. She found a tin of green beans in one of the cupboards and ate it with a fork, sitting on her bedroom floor. Her hands ached, but she reached for Nan’s typewriter beneath the mattress. She’d kept the note she’d received last night, and it sat open by her knee as she furiously began to type a reply: You claim who you are not, but without further introducing yourself. How many of my letters have you received? Do you make it a habit to read other people’s post? Iris folded the paper and slid it beneath the wardrobe door. Roman was reading in bed when the paper arrived. He had come to know the sound of Iris’s letters well, how they slipped like a whisper into his room. He