him. I imagine, for a fleeting moment, the act of sleeping with Geoffrey Carlino, the messy industry of clothing removal and frantic stimulation of parts. Shared trauma brings people together, doesn’t it? Are we not both victims of the same narcissistic bitch? He’s attractive, of course, but I feel no real twinge of desire. If I fucked Geoff, I’d only be doing it for the shock value, for the narrative wrench it would throw in this whole mess. And, though I can’t quite articulate why, I know the only winner to come out of this would be Athena. “I guess I’ll see you, then,” I say. “Around. Maybe.” “Maybe.” Geoff glances down at me. “And June?” “Yeah?” “It’s going to be fine,” he says. “These things always feel like the end of the world when they’re happening. But they’re not. Social media is such a tiny, insular space. Once you close your screen, no one gives a fuck. And you shouldn’t, either, all right?” “I—all right, Geoff. Thanks.” He gives me a nod and walks off in the direction of the bus stop. Maybe I’ve been too harsh. Maybe Geoffrey Carlino isn’t such an asshole. Maybe he was just young, and insecure, and caught up in a relationship he wasn’t ready for. Maybe Athena really did hurt him quite badly, and maybe we all judged him too quickly because he was a wealthy, cishet white guy and Athena was Athena. What’s more, Geoff is one of the few people on earth who also understands the unique pain of trying to love Athena Liu. The futility of it all. Like Echo looking at Narcissus. Like Icarus, hurtling straight at the sun, just to feel its warmth on his skin. Twenty-Two ATHENA’S INSTAGRAM STARTS POSTING AT LEAST ONCE A DAY. They’re always impossible photos of Athena, alive and well, positioned near objects that are deliberately dated—newspapers, recent New Yorker issues, books released after her death. Sometimes she’s winking or waving, taunting me with her insouciance. Sometimes her face is contorted in grotesque expressions; eyes wide, tongue wagging. Sometimes she’s clutching her throat, eyes crossed in mockery of her death. She always tags me at the end of her captions. How ya doing, @JuniperSong? Miss me, @JuniperSong? I try to take Geoff’s advice. I mute the account, and then, since I still can’t stop myself from scrolling through the photos on writing breaks, I buy a timed safe in which to lock my phone during the day. I try to take refuge in my work. But I can’t lose myself in the words like I have before. All my happy memories with Athena are tinged now with niggling guilt, so all I can bear to dwell on are the bad ones—of awkward exchanges, of social snubbing, of constant stabs of jealousy in my gut. Of Athena, laughing obliviously as she asked about my floundering career. Of Athena, dying on the floor of her kitchen while I stood by, doing nothing. I dream of Athena every night. I see her in her last moments: her wide


him on English television as well, but the librarian's smile suggested otherwise. Langdon still had not gotten used to these moments of unexpected celebrity. Then again, if anyone on earth were going to recognize his face, it would be a librarian in a Religious Studies reference facility. "Pamela Gettum," the librarian said, offering her hand. She had a genial, erudite face and a pleasingly fluid voice. The horn-rimmed glasses hanging around her neck were thick. "A pleasure," Langdon said. "This is my friend Sophie Neveu." The two women greeted one another, and Gettum turned immediately back to Langdon. "I didn't know you were coming." "Neither did we. If it's not too much trouble, we could really use your help finding some information." Gettum shifted, looking uncertain. "Normally our services are by petition and appointment only, unless of course you're the guest of someone at the college?" Langdon shook his head. "I'm afraid we've come unannounced. A friend of mine speaks very highly of you. Sir Leigh Teabing?" Langdon felt a pang of gloom as he said the name. "The British Royal Historian." Gettum brightened now, laughing. "Heavens, yes. What a character. Fanatical! Every time he comes in, it's always the same search strings. Grail. Grail. Grail. I swear that man will die before he gives up on that quest." She winked. "Time and money afford one such lovely luxuries, wouldn't you say? A regular Don Quixote, that one." "Is there any chance you can help us?" Sophie asked. "It's quite important." Gettum glanced around the deserted library and then winked at them both. "Well, I can't very well claim I'm too busy, now can I? As long as you sign in, I can't imagine anyone being too upset. What did you have in mind?" "We're trying to find a tomb in London." Gettum looked dubious. "We've got about twenty thousand of them. Can you be a little more specific?" "It's the tomb of a knight. We don't have a name." "A knight. That tightens the net substantially. Much less common." 253 "We don't have much information about the knight we're looking for," Sophie said, "but this is what we know." She produced a slip of paper on which she had written only the first two lines of the poem. Hesitant to show the entire poem to an outsider, Langdon and Sophie had decided to share just the first two lines, those that identified the knight. Compartmentalized cryptography, Sophie had called it. When an intelligence agency intercepted a code containing sensitive data, cryptographers each worked on a discrete section of the code. This way, when they broke it, no single cryptographer possessed the entire deciphered message. In this case, the precaution was probably excessive; even if this librarian saw the entire poem, identified the knight's tomb, and knew what orb was missing, the information was useless without the cryptex. Gettum sensed an urgency in the eyes of this famed American scholar, almost as if his finding this tomb quickly were a matter of critical importance. The green-eyed woman accompanying him also seemed anxious.


gallows and the scaffold--and stopped to watch a man sprinkling the floor to cool it--and then went on to think again. At length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless look from all towards the door. The jury returned, and passed him close. He could glean nothing from their faces; they might as well have been of stone. Perfect stillness ensued--not a rustle--not a breath--Guilty. The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another, and then it echoed loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, like angry thunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace outside, greeting the news that he would die on Monday. The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his listening attitude, and looked intently at his questioner while the demand was made; but it was twice repeated before he seemed to hear it, and then he only muttered that he was an old man--an old man--and so, dropping into a whisper, was silent again. The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same air and gesture. A woman in the gallery, uttered some exclamation, called forth by this dread solemnity; he looked hastily up as if angry at the interruption, and bent forward yet more attentively. The address was solemn and impressive; the sentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrust forward, his under-jaw hanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about him for an instant, and obeyed. They led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners were waiting till their turns came, and others were talking to their friends, who crowded round a grate which looked into the open yard. There was nobody there to speak to HIM; but, as he passed, the prisoners fell back to render him more visible to the people who were clinging to the bars: and they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. He shook his fist, and would have spat upon them; but his conductors hurried him on, through a gloomy passage lighted by a few dim lamps, into the interior of the prison. Here, he was searched, that he might not have about him the means of anticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of the condemned cells, and left him there--alone. He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for seat and bedstead; and casting his blood-shot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his thoughts. After awhile, he began to remember a few disjointed fragments of what the judge had said: though it had seemed to him, at the time, that he could not hear a word. These gradually fell into their proper places, and by degrees suggested


course we use those forms already. but in the final version of Newspeak there'll be nothing else. In the end the whole notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words--in reality, only one word. Don't you see the beauty of that, Winston? It was B.B.'s idea originally, of course,' he added as an afterthought. A sort of vapid eagerness flitted across Winston's face at the mention of Big Brother. Nevertheless Syme immediately detected a certain lack of enthusiasm. 'You haven't a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston,' he said almost sadly. 'Even when you write it you're still thinking in Oldspeak. I've read some of those pieces that you write in "The Times" occasionally. They're good enough, but they're translations. In your heart you'd prefer to stick to Oldspeak, with all its vagueness and its useless shades of meaning. file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (30 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt You don't grasp the beauty of the destruction of words. Do you know that Newspeak is the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year?' Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympathetically he hoped, not trusting himself to speak. Syme bit off another fragment of the dark-coloured bread, chewed it briefly, and went on: 'Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed, will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. Already, in the Eleventh Edition, we're not far from that point. But the process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little smaller. Even now, of course, there's no reason or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It's merely a question of self-discipline, reality-control. But in the end there won't be any need even for that. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and Ingsoc is Newspeak,' he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction. 'Has it ever occurred to you, Winston, that by the year 2050, at the very latest, not a single human being will be alive who could understand such a conversation as we are having now?' 'Except----' began Winston doubtfully, and he stopped. It had been on the tip of his tongue to say 'Except the proles,' but he checked himself, not feeling fully certain that this remark was not in some way unorthodox. Syme, however, had divined what he was about to say. 'The proles are not human beings,' he said carelessly. 'By 2050--earlier, probably--all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have disappeared. The whole literature of the past will have been destroyed. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron--they'll exist only in Newspeak versions, not merely changed into something different, but actually changed into something contradictory of what they used to be. Even the literature of


gonna share? Did you get anything?” I’m about to say I’m only supposed to tell Gratton, but I can still feel his handshake. “Janitor collects hair. Like, he gathers it up and colour-matches it.” He stares at me. “The hell?” “He says it’s commercial. I don’t think it’s a thing.” “Oh, it’s a thing I’m gonna think about when I can’t sleep nights. Jesus, Sounder. Anything that isn’t freaky as shit and might be relevant?” “Not yet. You want me to call if I do?” He nods and we look at each other like we’re ten years old and trying to share a pushbike. I walk out before one of us fucks it up. * * * — Twenty minutes with a cup of bad street coffee in my hand gets me to Mick’s Guns on Highdown Road. Mick’s is a militia-aspected executive hipster venue catering to nervous senior vice presidents and Doc Holliday wannabes with deep pockets. They carry the Armani Armour range as a cheap option and head north into bespoke Dyneema, Dragonscale and monofilament. There’s impact cloth ballgowns in the ladies’ section: bulletproof so long as the shooter doesn’t aim for the décolletage, but they solve that with a shawl which’ll take a direct hit at ten feet and keep the contessa standing to return fire with a range of purse-carry accessories. The same pepperpot gun Roddy bought comes in a thigh holster and ships with a selection of replaceable grips in non-slip pearl or abalone. There are no cash registers, so you’d think these items change hands as a courtesy, but in the middle of the room there’s a tall woman—ordinary tall, not Titan tall—in what I’m guessing is about twenty grand’s worth of ballistic spidersilk formal wear. She says her name is Celine. The accent is French with a trace of somewhere else, maybe Bangkok but maybe not. “Hi Celine, I’m Cal.” “And what can I do for you, Cal?” “Suppose you had to guess?” She nods and looks me up and down, checking for cost. Feet, wrist, neck. My shoes say I walk; I don’t wear a watch because they’re unnecessary now and I don’t wear a necklace because men who wear necklaces look like mob lawyers in TV shows. Also because they can be used to strangle you in a tussle. No easy markers of wealth, yet here I am. Tech bro, maybe. Musician. Film asshole. Or: Celine’s eyes flick to the arms of my jacket, looking for a holster. Then she walks around back, looking at the lines of my clothes. “Federal,” she says at last, “I hope.” “I’m a consultant.” She sighs. “Couldn’t decide if the suit was really good or if you just weren’t carrying.” She hits a bell and a kid comes out of the back room. He’s wearing hayseed overalls and a Henley shirt. A stitched tag on the left cuff has a mock fire service badge and the words “no-burn.” Celine tells him to mind the store. “But call me, Aaron, if anything comes up.” Aaron ducks his head,


that he must wait, for we could see no one now. She went away with the message, and, engrossed with our work, I clean forgot all about him. I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such deadly earnest. I knew, as he knew, that it was a stand-up fight with death, and in a pause told him so. He answered me in a way that I did not understand, but with the sternest look that his face could wear. "If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and let her fade away into peace, for I see no light in life over her horizon." He went on with his work with, if possible, renewed and more frenzied vigour. Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was beginning to be of some effect. Lucy's heart beat a trifle more audibly to the stethoscope, and her lungs had a perceptible movement. Van Helsing's face almost beamed, and as we lifted her from the bath and rolled her in a hot sheet to dry her he said to me, "The first gain is ours! Check to the King!" We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared, and laid her in bed and forced a few drops of brandy down her throat. I noticed that Van Helsing tied a soft silk handkerchief round her throat. She was still unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not worse than, we had ever seen her. Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay with her and not to take her eyes off her till we returned, and then beckoned me out of the room. "We must consult as to what is to be done," he said as we descended the stairs. In the hall he opened the dining room door, and we passed in, he closing the door carefully behind him. The shutters had been opened, but the blinds were already down, with that obedience to the etiquette of death which the British woman of the lower classes always rigidly observes. The room was, therefore, dimly dark. It was, however, light enough for our purposes. Van Helsing's sternness was somewhat relieved by a look of perplexity. He was evidently torturing his mind about something, so I waited for an instant, and he spoke. "What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help? We must have another transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl's life won't be worth an hour's purchase. You are exhausted already. I am exhausted too. I fear to trust those women, even if they would have courage to submit. What are we to do for some one who will open his veins for her?" "What's the matter with me, anyhow?" The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought relief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris. Van Helsing started angrily at the first sound, but his face


sleeping, and the Professor seemingly had not moved from his seat at her side. From his putting his finger to his lips, I gathered that he expected her to wake before long and was afraid of fore-stalling nature. So I went down to Quincey and took him into the breakfast room, where the blinds were not drawn down, and which was a little more cheerful, or rather less cheerless, than the other rooms. When we were alone, he said to me, "Jack Seward, I don't want to shove myself in anywhere where I've no right to be, but this is no ordinary case. You know I loved that girl and wanted to marry her, but although that's all past and gone, I can't help feeling anxious about her all the same. What is it that's wrong with her? The Dutchman, and a fine old fellow is is, I can see that, said that time you two came into the room, that you must have another transfusion of blood, and that both you and he were exhausted. Now I know well that you medical men speak in camera, and that a man must not expect to know what they consult about in private. But this is no common matter, and whatever it is, I have done my part. Is not that so?" "That's so," I said, and he went on. "I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did today. Is not that so?" "That's so." "And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four days ago down at his own place he looked queer. I have not seen anything pulled down so quick since I was on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass all in a night. One of those big bats that they call vampires had got at her in the night, and what with his gorge and the vein left open, there wasn't enough blood in her to let her stand up, and I had to put a bullet through her as she lay. Jack, if you may tell me without betraying confidence, Arthur was the first, is not that so?" As he spoke the poor fellow looked terribly anxious. He was in a torture of suspense regarding the woman he loved, and his utter ignorance of the terrible mystery which seemed to surround her intensified his pain. His very heart was bleeding, and it took all the manhood of him, and there was a royal lot of it, too, to keep him from breaking down. I paused before answering, for I felt that I must not betray anything which the Professor wished kept secret, but already he knew so much, and guessed so much, that there could be no reason for not answering, so I answered in the same phrase. "That's so." "And how long has this been going on?" "About ten days." "Ten days! Then I guess, Jack Seward, that that poor pretty creature that we all love has had


seen in a hundred years, but not smart enough to survive it. Go on, Rory. Finish the tale.” “I do not think—” “Continue your tale, Rory.” My cuffs pulsed in warning. “You will not like my version of it.” Rory sighed, making nervous circles around the cane’s handle. “Supreme Rawain rallied the other four kingdoms against Jasad. They found a way through the fortress. Left without a Qayida or any Heirs, Jasad fell to the invading forces.” “I can finish for you.” I pushed off the counter, and the chemist’s expression tightened with unease. Good. “Nizahl’s armies reduced Jasad to rubble. They threw bodies into holes and burned the homes they left behind. Every Jasadi who survived is in hiding, their magic made a capital offense.” I trembled. My cuffs tightened around my wrists, warm with my vibrating magic. “No one asked, Rory! No one wondered. How does an unassailable fortress fall?” Once given voice, the question bloomed in my mind like blood in a clear pond. Hanim hadn’t cared about the deaths at the Blood Summit; she hadn’t really cared when the siege began, either. But when the tide of war turned in Nizahl’s favor, what reduced her to a frothing rage was Supreme Rawain’s victory. With my grandparents gone, she had truly believed Jasad would bring forth a new dawn of political freedom. She had imagined herself leaving Essam Woods when Jasad was at its weakest, welcomed with open arms to the kingdom that had exiled her with a convenient Heir to put on the empty throne and manipulate. But my magic didn’t work. And when the fortress fell, Supreme Rawain’s forces were joined by Omal’s, Lukub’s, Orban’s. Envy over Jasad’s prosperity, its magic, had hardened into a hate no one could have anticipated. No one except Supreme Rawain. And so Jasad’s Heir suffered in the woods while the throne of magic sat empty in the newly scorched kingdom. In her captured corner, the soft girl who had known a bird by its song and calmed at the touch of another was burned away. I am what remains. “The Jasadis’ story deserves to be told in whole,” I said. “They are not something distasteful to be split up into pieces you can swallow.” “I never said—” Rory stopped short, brows drawing together. “What do you mean, they?” A light knock sounded at the door. We both went silent, our argument falling to the wayside in favor of trepidation. Had the Nizahl Heir returned? Rory’s elbow caught my stomach, pushing me behind him. What did he think he would do against the Commander? He could turn you in, Hanim whispered. The chemist works with dangerous substances every day. Think of how easy it would be for him to accidentally ingest a lethal dose. No one would suspect you. Killing Rory would only cause more problems. Mahair might not second-guess the accidental death of a soldier, but two accidental deaths in the span of a week? Rory went five years without speaking my true name. He would not betray me to the


against the fence, Andy said as much. “If I only did what came naturally, I’d be knocking heads together outside a bar on Flatbush Avenue,” Nick said. “What does that mean?” “Just that I knew that if I wanted to get away from my family, if I wanted to be able to take care of myself, I’d need to work at it. There’s no use fighting the person who’s trying to teach you, whether it’s your boss at Woolworth telling you how to put things on shelves or some skinny WASP telling you how to serve a tennis ball.” That was one of a handful of times Nick mentioned his family. Andy, no stranger to mixed feelings about family, recognized it as an area closed off by police tape. Now Andy looks across the table at Nick, at his rumpled hair, at what he realizes is a vastly superfluous quantity of food. “You can’t possibly want to play tennis.” “What I want to do is keep you busy. It’s a beautiful day.” This is only true if you’re grading on a steep curve—the weather’s decent for New York in March, meaning it’s not raining and there isn’t any slush on the ground. “Linda probably has a tennis racket you can borrow.” “Linda?” “Linda Ackerman. Remember her from—” Nick sighs. “From Emily and Jeanne’s dinner party. She was the artist with the long black hair and the trousers. She was looking for a place, and I mentioned that there was a room for rent in my building. She’s right next door.” It’s odd to think of one of Emily’s circle living in Nick’s world, and something of Andy’s confusion must show on his face because Nick nudges him under the table with his bare foot. “Want me to go ask her if she has a racket?” “You ought to get dressed first,” Andy points out. Nick rolls his eyes. “Great idea. I’d never have thought of that myself. Good thing you came to stay with me.” He ruffles Andy’s hair on the way to his bedroom and Andy doesn’t even protest. Chapter Three “Let me get this straight,” Andy says as they walk approximately half a mile through a dark and damp tunnel, “the only way to get to Brooklyn on the subway is to switch trains and then pick our way through a maze of murderer-infested tunnels?” Something scurries across his foot, which is a shame because Andy is going to have to burn his shoes at Nick’s mother’s house. Not the best way to make a first impression. “No,” Nick says. “There are lots of ways to get to Brooklyn. But this is the fastest way to get to Bay Ridge on a single fare from my place.” When they finally get to the right platform, Nick lets three trains pass by, each bearing destination signs for places Andy has never heard of—Culver, Brighton, Sea Beach—before a train arrives with the correct sign: a brief 4th AVE. It’s been forty-five minutes since they got on the subway and he thinks they’re


employer. Hareton would not open his fingers, so I laid it on his knee. He did not strike it off either. I returned to my work. Catherine leaned her head and arms on the table, till she heard the slight rustle of the covering being removed; then she stole away and quietly seated herself beside her cousin. He trembled, and his face glowed; all his rudeness and all his surly harshness had deserted him. He could not summon courage at first to utter a syllable in reply to her questioning look and her murmured petition,--- "Say you forgive me, Hareton, do. You can make me so happy by speaking that little word." He muttered something inaudible. "And you'll be my friend?" added Catherine inter- rogatively. "Nay, you'll be ashamed of me every day of your life," he answered, "and the more ashamed the more you know me; and I cannot bide it." "So you won't be my friend?" she said, smiling as sweet as honey, and creeping close up. I overheard no further distinguishable talk, but, on looking round again, I perceived two such radiant countenances bent over the page of the accepted book that I did not doubt the treaty had been ratified on both sides, and the enemies were thenceforth sworn allies. The work they studied was full of costly pictures, and those and their position had charm enough to keep them unmoved till Joseph came home. He, poor man, was perfectly aghast at the spectacle of Catherine seated on the same bench with Hareton Earnshaw, leaning her hand on his shoulder, and confounded at his favourite's endurance of her proximity; it affected him too deeply to allow an observation on the subject that night. His emotion was only revealed by the immense sighs he drew as he solemnly spread his large Bible on the table, and overlaid it with dirty bank-notes from his pocket- book, the produce of the day's transactions. At length he summoned Hareton from his seat. "Tak' these in to t' maister, lad," he said, "and bide there. I's gang up to my own rahm. This hoile's neither mensful nor seemly for us; we mun side out and seearch another." "Come, Catherine," I said, "we must 'side out' too. I've done my ironing. Are you ready to go?" "It is not eight o'clock," she answered, rising un- willingly---"Hareton, I'll leave this book upon the chimney-piece, and I'll bring some more to-morrow." "Ony books that yah leave I shall tak' into th' hahse," said Joseph, "and it'll be mitch if yah find 'em agean. Soa yah may plase yerseln." Cathy threatened that his library should pay for hers, and smiling as she passed Hareton, went singing up- stairs, lighter of heart, I venture to say, than ever she had been under that roof before, except, perhaps, dur- ing her earliest visits to Linton. The intimacy thus commenced grew rapidly, though it encountered temporary interruptions. Earnshaw was not to be civilized with a wish, and my young lady was no philosopher and no paragon of patience; but both


wipes it on her sleeve. “What I do doesn’t concern you,” Clytemnestra says. “And yet you can be concerned about me?” “As long as you parade Chrysanthe, yes.” “You are telling me I am not free to do as I please, to be with the woman I love?” The word love feels like a bucket of ice water poured over her face. “Listen to me.” Clytemnestra doesn’t know how to explain, how to make her sister understand. “You must do what you want, but do it in the shadows. Don’t let others see how happy you are.” Timandra is silent. Outside, an owl cries and the leaves rustle. “Do you know who Achilles is?” Timandra finally says. Clytemnestra nods. Achilles, son of Peleus, king of the tiny Phthia and blessed by the gods. He is said to be the greatest hero of his generation. Agamemnon often speaks of the man with unease, though he has never met him. “They say he lives with his companion, Patroclus,” Timandra says. “They eat together, play together, sleep together. Everyone knows about them. But this doesn’t taint Achilles’s reputation. He is still aristos Achaion.” She uses the words for “best of the Greeks.” But you are not aristos Achaion, Clytemnestra thinks. Instead she says, “They are men, and you are a woman.” “What difference does it make? It didn’t change anything in Sparta.” “We are not in Sparta anymore.” Timandra is pacing the room, raising her voice. “You want me to be a servant to my husband just because that is what the people expect me to be?” Clytemnestra waits to find the right words, as if pulling them out of deep darkness. “You were born free and you will always be free, no matter what others tell you. But you must see what is around you and learn to bend it to your will before you are the one who is bent.” Timandra stops pacing. Her dark eyes are inscrutable, but then Clytemnestra sees a flash in them, like a torch that is suddenly lit in the blackness. “I will not bring Chrysanthe, then,” Timandra says. * * * Clytemnestra sleeps dreamlessly. When she wakes at dawn, the air is rich with the scent of summer, and her mind is filled with memories. Her father talking to envoys in the megaron, offering her fruit and making sure she listened carefully. Afterward, when the men had left, he would say, “Clytemnestra, what would you have done?” Her father watching her first fight in the gymnasium. She was six and shy, but his presence gave her strength. “People aren’t always as strong as they look,” he had told her. “Strength comes from many different things, and one of those is purpose.” She had won the fight, and he had given her a brief smile. Tyndareus eating next to her brothers, laughing at their jokes, occasionally scolding Timandra for giving too much food to the dogs. Even when he was absorbed in someone else’s story, he would always look for Clytemnestra, just for the briefest moment. Sorrow falls


upon his lower jaw. Locks are to be put upon some of his trap-doors and shutters; and a footman will show round future visitors with a bunch of keys at his side. Sir Clifford thinks of charging twopence for a peep at the whispering gallery in the spinal column; threepence to hear the echo in the hollow of his cerebellum; and sixpence for the unrivalled view from his forehead. The skeleton dimensions I shall now proceed to set down are .. <p 449 > copied verbatim from my right arm, where I had them tattooed; as in my wild wanderings at that period, there was no other secure way of preserving such valuable statistics. But as I was crowded for space, and wished the other parts of my body to remain a blank page for a poem I was then composing --at least, what untattooed parts might remain --I did not trouble myself with the odd inches; nor, indeed, should inches at all enter into a congenial admeasurement of the whale. .. <p 449 > .. < chapter ciii 10 MEASUREMENT OF THE WHALE'S SKELETON > In the first place, I wish to lay before you a particular, plain statement, touching the living bulk of this leviathan, whose skeleton we are briefly to exhibit. Such a statement may prove useful here. According to a careful calculation I have made, and which I partly base upon Captain Scoresby's estimate, of seventy tons for the largest sized Greenland whale of sixty feet in length; according to my careful calculation, I say, a Sperm Whale of the largest magnitude, between eighty-five and ninety feet in length, and something less than forty feet in its fullest circumference, such a whale will weigh at least ninety tons; so that reckoning thirteen men to a ton, he would considerably outweigh the combined population of a whole village of one thousand one hundred inhabitants. Think you not then that brains, like yoked cattle, should be put to this leviathan, to make him at all budge to any landsman's imagination? Having already in various ways put before you his skull, spout-hole, jaw, teeth, tail, forehead, fins, and divers other parts, I shall now simply point out what is most interesting in the general bulk of his unobstructed bones. But as the colossal skull embraces so very large a proportion of the entire extent .. <p 450 > of the skeleton; as it is by far the most complicated part; and as nothing is to be repeated concerning it in this chapter, you must not fail to carry it in your mind, or under your arm, as we proceed, otherwise you will not gain a complete notion of the general structure we are about to view. In length, the Sperm Whale's skeleton at Tranque measured seventy-two feet; so that when fully invested and extended in life, he must have been ninety feet long; for in the whale, the skeleton loses about one fifth in length compared with the living body. Of this seventy-two feet, his skull and jaw comprised some twenty


Though he is only a simple linen-weaver, she feels his story is worth telling. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: GODFREY CASS Godfrey is in many ways the direct opposite of Silas. He's young, handsome, well-off, and charming. The villagers admire him, even when they suspect he isn't acting right. Unlike Silas, who's alone in the world, Godfrey has too much family--a gruff father, a troublesome brother, a wife and child he doesn't want, and a sweetheart anxiously waiting for him to propose. Silas works hard, but Godfrey has no particular work to do. While Silas endures his exile from society, Godfrey is impatient and a moral coward. Whereas Silas is unjustly punished, time and again Godfrey manages to escape punishment, even for sins he has committed. Some readers, therefore, see Godfrey as the villain of this novel. His weakness sets Dunstan on a path that ends with Dunstan robbing Silas. While Silas is grieving over his lost gold, Godfrey is relieved because Dunstan has disappeared. He is relieved, too, when his wife Molly is found dead in the snow, because it clears the way for him to marry Nancy Lammeter. At the end of the book, Godfrey selfishly tries to take Eppie away from Silas. But he's finally punished, by Eppie's rejection, for having lied to the world for so many years. Yet other readers look beyond this formal structure, in which Godfrey plays a villain's role, to judge whether he is really a villainous person. In his first scene, they point out, he appears with his callous brother Dunstan, who makes Godfrey look sensitive and conscientious by comparison. Godfrey seems to know what is right, though he's often too weak to do it. When you see his home environment, you can understand Godfrey's lack of moral fiber. When Eliot traces the tiny mental steps by which he talks himself out of doing the right thing, the process is somehow easy to understand--hasn't everyone rationalized like this at times? His love for Nancy is genuine, and her love for him testifies to something good in his nature. Once they're married, he makes a fine husband, except for his disappointment over their childlessness (which he tries to hide from her). He does have fatherly feelings for Eppie, and he watches her grow up with a constant sense of regret. To these readers, Godfrey is a good but weak man whose fate embodies the moral of the novel. As you read, for example, the scene on New Year's Eve when Silas appears with the infant Eppie, imagine how other characters judge Godfrey. Just as Eliot gives you special sympathy for Silas, she gives you a special insider's view of Godfrey's weakness. You know his worst impulses--the side that most of us never show to the world. As you read, decide for yourself whether Godfrey is the villain or the tragic hero of this novel. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: NANCY LAMMETER For several chapters, you don't actually meet Nancy--you just hear of her as the girl Godfrey wants to marry. She's presented as the proper, socially respectable partner


answer, but we have never known any thing but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three of us.-- besides dear Jane at present--and she really eats nothing--makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats--so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before-- I have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excellent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these ladies will oblige us." Emma would be "very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.," and they did at last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than, "How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before. I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane came back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well--only a little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in." "What was I talking of?" said she, beginning again when they were all in the street. Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix. "I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.--Oh! my mother's spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill! `Oh!' said he, `I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind excessively.'--Which you know shewed him to be so very. . . . Indeed I must say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected, he very far exceeds any thing. . . . I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could. . . . `Oh!' said he, `I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort excessively.' I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very obliging as to take some, `Oh!' said he directly, `there is nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.' That, you know, was so very. . . . And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice--only we do not have them baked more than twice, and


I needed more time to decide and, while I did, I wanted to stay in the one place where I had felt safe since leaving Shane: in Ha'penny Lane. I took Madame Bowden her afternoon tea in the garden. She had been looking a bit pale of late and said the air would do her good. ‘Are you any good at card games?’ I groaned inwardly as she pulled a deck of cards from her pocket, as if by magic. ‘Other than snap?’ ‘Your generation has no idea how to pass the time other than staring at your blasted phones.’ She was right. I had been staring at my phone a lot. Ever since I’d told Henry that I couldn’t be with him, I’d taken to reading all of the old messages we’d sent each other. And when I wasn’t doing that, I was daydreaming about the day we’d kissed. I was glad just knowing that he was back. Life had been so dull without him. Dull was okay. I knew how to deal with dull. But when you’ve had a taste of magic, it’s hard to be satisfied with the ordinary again. ‘Twenty-fives, that one’s easy enough,’ she said, dealing out five cards to each of us and turning the top one on the pack right side up. ‘Now hearts are trumps.’ ‘Okay,’ I said. They sure are. As time passed and the sun slanted on different parts of the garden, highlighting plants I didn’t know the names of, I wasn’t much closer to figuring out the rules of the game. I just took her word for it and found that the physical act of shuffling and choosing cards to put down was sort of calming. My thoughts began to form around things I wouldn’t normally let myself think about. ‘God, I hated being back in that town,’ I said, thinking back to the funeral and placing an ace on the table.’ ‘Oh, you’ve won!’ ‘Have I?’ I looked down and felt a rare moment of joy for joy’s sake. She marked it down on a piece of paper. ‘I always felt like an outsider there,’ I continued, shuffling the deck. ‘I mean, people always thought I was a bit strange anyway. Me and my mother. The kids at school used to think we were witches – how we could communicate without words. And they definitely didn’t like when I started reading them.’ ‘Whatever do you mean, reading them?’ I silently cursed myself. How had I let that slip? I’d got distracted by the silly card game. I looked up at her face, her countenance alert. She’d done this on purpose, tricked me into saying more than I’d meant to. ‘Oh, you know, you just get a gut feeling about people.’ ‘Intuition, some might say,’ she said, motioning that I should deal the cards again. ‘Yes, something like that.’ ‘Hmm. Can you read me?’ I considered her for a moment. After our initial meeting, I thought I knew all I needed to know about Madame Bowden. All I wanted was safety


dark side of mankind --devilish dark at that. No offence. Daggoo ( grimly) None. St. Jago's Sailor That Spaniard's mad or drunk. But that can't be, or else in his one case our old Mogul's fire-waters are somewhat long in working. 5th Nantucket Sailor What's that I saw--lightning? Yes. .. <p 174 > Spanish Sailor No; Daggoo showing his teeth. Daggoo ( springing) Swallow thine, mannikin! White skin, white liver! Spanish Sailor ( meeting him) Knife thee heartily! big frame, small spirit! All A row! a row! a row! Tashtego ( with a whiff) A row a'low, and a row aloft --Gods and men --both brawlers! Humph! Belfast Sailor A row! arrah a row! The Virgin be blessed, a row! Plunge in with ye! English Sailor Fair play! Snatch the Spaniard's knife! A ring, a ring! Old Manx Sailor Ready formed. There! the ringed horizon. In that ring Cain struck Abel. Sweet work, right work! No? Why then, God, mad'st thou the ring? Mate's Voice from the Quarter Deck Hands by the halyards! in top-gallant sails! Stand by to reef topsails! All The squall! the squall! jump, my jollies! ( They scatter.) Pip ( shrinking under the windlass) Jollies? Lord help such jollies! Crish, crash! there goes the jib-stay! Blang-whang! God! Duck lower, Pip, here comes the royal yard! It's worse than being in the whirled woods, the last day of the year; Who'd go climbing after chestnuts now? But there they go, all cursing, and here I don't. Fine prospects to 'em; they're on the road to heaven. Hold on hard! Jimmini, what a squall! But those chaps there are worse yet --they are your white squalls, they. White squalls? white whale, shirr! .. <p 175 > shirr! Here have I heard all their chat just now, and the white whale --shirr! shirr! --but spoken of once! and only this evening -- it makes me jingle all over like my tambourine --that anaconda of an old man swore 'em in to hunt him! Oh, thou big white God aloft there somewhere in yon darkness, have mercy on this small black boy down here; preserve him from all men that have no bowels to feel fear! .. <p 175 > .. < chapter xli 9 MOBY DICK > I, Ishmael, was one of that crew; my shouts had gone up with the rest; my oath had been welded with theirs; and stronger I shouted, and more did I hammer and clinch my oath, because of the dread in my soul. A wild, mystical, sympathetical feeling was in me; Ahab's quenchless feud seemed mine. With greedy ears I learned the history of that murderous monster against whom I and all the others had taken our oaths of violence and revenge. For some time past, though at intervals only, the unaccompanied, secluded White Whale had haunted those uncivilized seas mostly frequented by the Sperm Whale fishermen. But not all of them knew of his existence; only a few of them, comparatively, had knowingly seen him; while the number who as yet had actually and


I get older,” Poppy said, “you and Daddy are going to die. I don’t want you to die.” Then she started to cry again. “Louise,” Ian said off camera, and he sounded weary. “Hey, Poppy, don’t cry,” Louise said, helplessly, from three thousand miles away. “We’re not going to die.” The screen lurched to one side, then lifted and showed her Ian’s face from way too close. “Lying just makes it worse,” he said. “I’m sorry,” Louise said, “but I just—” “You shouldn’t have told her about your parents in the first place,” he said. “She’s overtired. We’ll talk tomorrow.” “Wait,” Louise said. He turned off the call. I’m not a bad mother. Louise took a hot shower. She tried to think of anything but Poppy, alone and miserable and terrified of her parents dying, and how that was her fault. What does Mark want to do at the funeral? It popped into her head right before she fell asleep. What was so important that he wanted to plan? Playing “Stairway to Heaven” on the bagpipes? She remembered he’d said something about “FCP,” and that rang a bell, then it popped into her head like she’d never forgotten it: The Fellowship of Christian Puppeteers. How many dinners had she spent picking at a piece of Hawaiian pineapple quiche while ignoring her mom’s tale of the latest scandal in the good old FCP? There’d been her mom’s friend Judi, who giggled at her own jokes and introduced herself as the FCP’s “string-puller in chief.” Mark would probably invite her and a bunch of other puppet people to the funeral to speak. Before he dropped out of BU, Mark had always liked their mom’s puppets, and after that he didn’t like much of anything. He’d even liked Pupkin when they were kids, but she knew that Pupkin hated them. Especially her. And now she’d thrown him away and he was going to be so angry and— Dolls don’t have feelings, she told herself, cutting off that thought before it could get out of control. She needed to stay under control. Chapter 7 L ouise stood in front of Mount Pleasant Presbyterian Church and watched a pink-feathered ostrich walk up the front steps and go inside. The sun shone warm and bright for January, and the male ushers wore three-piece suits in Hawaiian prints while the female ushers wore pineapple-print dresses. Old men in suspenders and cartoon-character ties stood on the sidewalk chatting with middle-aged women in fairy wings. There were Panama hats and fascinators and almost every single person wore a puppet on one arm. “I didn’t think it would be like this,” Constance said, standing beside Louise. “He said it’d be like Jim Henson’s funeral,” Louise said. Constance shrugged. “If it was good enough for Jim Henson . . .” she said. “Exactly,” said Louise. She’d had second thoughts about letting Mark plan the service when she saw the email from the FCP about “gathering for a FUNeral not a funeral” and “celebrating Nancy and Eric Joyner’s ascent into GLORY,” but Mark had


oversized jumper and bike shorts. Her eyelash extensions mean if I look close enough, they’re either resting on her cheeks or reaching for her eyebrows. I love Shu very much. Nia’s bought more food and lots of salad and fruit. We sit in the living room and eat on the floor. Shu kisses her teeth. “I never liked him, you know.” “You met?” Nia asks. “No, but I looked him up on Facebook and he was still active on it, so that was a red flag,” Shu explains. “Facebook is now solely for stalking purposes, distant foreign relatives excused. He’s not even good-looking,” she adds, popping a grape into her mouth. “Small eyes and stretched lips. I knew you’d end up having funky taste in men.” “Maybe Maddie’s more focused on personality?” Nia helps. “I doubt it,” Shu says. “His was clearly shit.” She turns to me. “Were you with him because he was rich?” I lift my head from Nia’s shoulder. “Thank you for essentially calling me a gold-digger, Shu.” She frowns. “I don’t know why you’re offended. Gold-diggers are our nation’s hardest workers; do you know how much effort goes into pretending to give a shit about some guy for his money? A lot. Hoes are Britain’s unsung heroes.” “Let’s not further that thread. How are you feeling?” Nia asks me. “All this Ben stuff isn’t great timing.” “I didn’t love him,” I admit, “not the way I was supposed to and I know that, but I loved feeling loved and … wanted. I just don’t understand why this happened.” “This isn’t your fault, Mads,” Shu says, looking closer at her phone. “I think I found her. This bitch?” She turns her phone to me and on it is a picture of Sophie with pouted lips in another figure-hugging dress. In the caption she thanks “babe” for the sparkling bracelet encircling her wrist. The picture was posted two days ago. “Yes, that’s her.” I stare at the photo and try to pick faults, but it doesn’t matter if I find any. He still chose her. Maybe if you’d worn tighter dresses … “How did you find her?” “She’s tagged on his Instagram,” Shu says, widening the image. “Oh, look at that. Big lips and wide hips.” Nia tuts. “Typical.” I look between the two of them. “What am I missing?” Nia continues to stroke my hair. “Ben may be a certain type of man,” she says gently. “He likes your features, just not on you,” Shu finishes bluntly. “Now that I look at him closely, he does give off that racist vibe.” I jerk back. “Racist? That’s a bit strong. Ben’s not … He doesn’t hate me.” “Maddie.” Nia looks at me with pity. “A white person can date a Black person and still be racist.” “Because there’s levels to that shit. Like a lasagna.” I frown but Shu says, “Stay with me. So, on the top, that cheesy layer, that’s what you can see clearly. Hate speech, mad looks, and violence. Obvious stuff you can’t ignore. But all them


to slap his hand away. “So, I have tickets to opening day at Yankee Stadium. They’re playing the Red Sox. And you’re coming.” “Oh no. Andy, no.” “Andy, yes,” he says, nodding. “You’re going to wear a Red Sox cap and we’re going to get murdered—literally murdered, Andy—on the way from the subway to the stadium.” “Ah!” Andy says triumphantly. “We can take a car.” “Oh, so we’re Rockefellers now, are we?” Nick narrows his eyes. “Where are these seats? Why do I have the feeling that they aren’t going to be up in the nosebleeds?” “They’re behind home plate.” Nick whistles. “Never tell me what they cost. Promise me that much.” “Think of how much I’m saving on rent!” Only the twitch in his lip gives the slightest clue that he’s joking. Andy’s apartment, the one with the bad plumbing, had been his mother’s. He owns it outright and occasionally mentions that he ought to sell it. “You’ve never paid rent in your life.” “You’ll come with me to the game, right?” Andy asks. Sometimes, for a smart person, Andy is incredibly dense. “Yes, I’m coming with you to the game,” Nick says patiently. “You’ll need someone to be your bodyguard.” For some reason, that makes Andy blush a little and shove his hands in his pockets and then make an excuse to go somewhere else. That’s been happening a lot in the week since what Nick is coming to think of as the Proposition. As best as Nick can guess, Andy’s embarrassed. He probably can’t believe how narrowly he avoided having regrettable gay charity sex. Approximately seven trillion times a day Nick remembers Andy’s words: I could take care of you. And he remembers Andy’s voice—low and shaky and a little terrified but fond. Nick doesn’t doubt, hasn’t once doubted, that Andy meant what he said. He’d have taken care of Nick. He’d have done his best. The trouble is Nick can picture it—Andy, fumbling a bit like he always does when faced with a new task, but catching on, maybe even a little eager— Christ. This is perverse, fantasizing about his friend. It’s a waste of energy, too, because Nick can’t have this. He can’t even have anything like it, not with anyone, so he shouldn’t let himself think about it. It’s just, when Andy blushes, Nick can almost imagine— The thing is that Andy has no poker face. His thoughts are right there on the surface for the world to see, and since his thoughts are usually perfectly respectable, it doesn’t do him any harm. Except—sometimes when Andy blushes, he bites his lip, he looks away and then back, he stares at Nick’s mouth. It’s almost enough to convince Nick that there was something behind Andy’s offer, some tiny spark— But he can’t let his thoughts drift down that path. He can already sense the easy equilibrium of their friendship tipping out of balance, something steady and fundamental slipping away. Andy’s probably just reacting to having his heart broken. He’s been living in the Village, queer people around


or, perhaps, more than all these, something in her own unique mind had roused her powers within her. They woke, they kindled: first, they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which till this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless; then they shone in the liquid luster of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that of Miss Temple's a beauty neither of fine color, nor long eyelash, nor penciled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance. Then her soul sat on her lips, and language flowed, from what source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough, vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen's discourse on that, to me, memorable evening; her spirit seemed hastening to live within a very brief span as much as many live during a protracted existence.     They conversed of things I had never heard of of nations and times past; of countries far away; of secrets of nature discovered or guessed at. The spoke of books: how many they had read! What stores of knowledge they possessed! Then they seemed so familiar with French names and French authors: but my amazement reached its climax when Miss Temple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched a moment to recall the Latin her father had taught her, and taking a book from a shelf, bade her read and construe a page ofVirgil ; and Helen obeyed, my organ of veneration expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely finished ere the bell announced bed-time; no delay could be admitted; Miss Temple embraced us both, saying, as she drew us to her heart: "God bless you, my children!"     Helen she held a little longer than me; she let her go more reluctantly; it was Helen her eye followed to the door; it was for her she a second time breathed a sad sigh; for her she wiped a tear from her cheek.     On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd. She was examining drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns', and when we entered, Helen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told that to-morrow she should have half a dozen of untidily-folded articles pinned to her shoulder.     "My things were indeed in a shameful disorder," murmured Helen to me, in a low voice; "I intended to have arranged them, but I forgot."     Next morning Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece of pasteboard the word "Slattern," and bound it like a phylactery round Helen's large, mild, intelligent, and benign-looking forehead. She wore it till evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved punishment. The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon-school, I ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into the fire; the fury of which she was incapable had been burning in my soul all day, and


night birds, the hiss and crackle of the torches, the gentle lapping of water from the lake. The Dothraki stared at her with eyes of night, waiting. Khal Drogo laid his hand on Dany's arm. She could feel the tension in his fingers. Even a khal as mighty as Drogo could know fear when the dosh khaleen peered into smoke of the future. At her back, her handmaids fluttered anxiously. Finally the crone opened her eye and lifted her arms. "I have seen his face, and heard the thunder of his hooves," she proclaimed in a thin, wavery voice. "The thunder of his hooves!" the others chorused. "As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name." The old woman trembled and looked at Dany almost as if she were afraid. "The prince is riding, and he shall be the stallion who mounts the world." "The stallion who mounts the world!" the onlookers cried in echo, until the night rang to the sound of their voices. The one-eyed crone peered at Dany. "What shall he be called, the stallion who mounts the world?" She stood to answer. "He shall be called Rhaego," she said, using the words that Jhiqui had taught her. Her hands touched the swell beneath her breasts protectively as a roar went up from the Dothraki. "Rhaego, " they screamed. "Rhaego, Rhaego, Rhaego!" The name was still ringing in her ears as Khal Drogo led her from the pit. His bloodriders fell in behind them. A procession followed them out onto the godsway, the broad grassy road that ran through the heart of Vaes Dothrak, from the horse gate to the Mother of Mountains. The crones of the dosh khaleen came first, with their eunuchs and slaves. Some supported themselves with tall carved staffs as they struggled along on ancient, shaking legs, while others walked as proud as any horselord. Each of the old women had been a khaleesi once. When their lord husbands died and a new khal took his place at the front of his riders, with a new khaleesi mounted beside him, they were sent here, to reign over the vast Dothraki nation. Even the mightiest of khals bowed to the wisdom and authority of the dosh khaleen. Still, it gave Dany the shivers to think that one day she might be sent to join them, whether she willed it or no. Behind the wise women came the others; Khal Ogo and his son, the A GAME OF THRONES 433 khalakka Fogo, Khal Jommo and his wives, the chief men of Drogo's khalasar, Dany's handmaids, the khal's servants and slaves, and more. Bells rang and drums beat a


hat and overcoat. It seemed he was wearing a disguise also. ‘I’m glad you think so.’ Such few words, yet they were imbued with so much meaning. It was as if I had passed some sort of invisible test for him. ‘Look, I know you came here to work for my father, but how would you feel about running the shop yourself?’ ‘Me?’ I squeaked. So much for trying to impress him. ‘You could rent it. On a trial period. I had considered the idea, but couldn’t find anyone suitable. Until today.’ I looked around the shop and felt a ripple of excitement. ‘I’m not sure I could afford it, on top of my lodgings,’ I said. ‘Well, as it happens, the flat is included in the rent. Here, let me show you,’ he said, leading the way down the stairs. I watched the back of his neck, where his blonde hair grew darker. He had to duck as we came to the last step to avoid a beam and he stood back to let me go first. His soft lilting accent as he pointed out the bed and the tiny kitchenette couldn’t conceal the myriad questions he must have had about my hasty arrival from Paris. He must have thought me strange; there was no doubting that. And yet, if anything, he seemed intrigued by my presence. It suddenly felt quite intimate, standing there with him, and so, as if in agreement, we both decided to cut the tour short. ‘It’s perfect. I’m sure I will find everything I need,’ I said with a competence I hoped would appear from somewhere in the very near future. ‘I don’t doubt it. I’ll have a tenancy agreement drawn up.’ As we ascended the narrow wooden staircase shining with a high varnish, I noticed that there was a word painted on the riser of each step. found are things strange lost called place a In ‘He built it himself, so you’ll have to forgive the slightly eccentric nature of the building,’ Matthew said, placing his hand on the newel post with a tender look of pride on his face. ‘Had the wood shipped over from an old library in Italy. A strange story actually – he took my mother on their honeymoon to a little village in the mountains and they found this abandoned library. It was going to be demolished and my father was the kind of man who couldn’t let something that held so much history go to waste. So he bought the building, had it dismantled and put it back together here.’ ‘Didn’t any of the locals wish to keep it?’ ‘Ah well, that was the thing; many of the villagers believed the library to be inhabited by spirits.’ ‘Good grief!’ ‘But of course, that was just superstition,’ he assured me. ‘I wish I could have met your father. He must have been such an interesting man,’ I said, looking with new eyes at the interiors that resembled a puzzle pieced together. Matthew smiled to himself. ‘Eccentric, that’s how most people


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

Gabe. Flicked his hand. “The old man will live, Gabe.” Shoulders slumped in relief, Gabe finally took his dagger from Anton’s throat. He stepped back, letting the Priest Exalted stand on his own. Bastian’s hand moved, twisting in a graceful motion that looked near impossible. Golden swirls carved through the air, coalescing around his fingers, threads spun from the sun itself. Then Bastian thrust his handful of gold toward Anton. The strands attached to the ground around the Priest Exalted, and it erupted. Thick green vines grew rapidly through the stone, thorn-studded, the ends opening in blood-red rose blooms identical to the ones burning near the path. They wound around his legs, his middle. They entered his mouth before he could so much as scream. His eye rolled as the empty socket of the other was filled with green, then red, a rose unfurling in the scarred orbital, petals brushing his flame-ravaged brow. It was over in an instant. Anton Arceneaux was encased in roses and blood, one more statue in the garden. And Bastian had done it so easily, as if it was second nature. Gabe made a small, hoarse noise, stumbling back. “You said you wouldn’t kill him.” His voice went ragged at the end. “You said you wouldn’t!” “I said he would live.” Bastian stepped forward to the remains of his uncle and wrenched the bloody crown from his hand. The Priest had held on to it all this time. “And he does.” The smallest rise and fall of Anton’s chest. The thinnest whistle of breath. Bastian was right; in all those roses, Anton was still alive. Gods, it was worse. Gabe’s eyes went from his Priest to his King, shock curdling to hatred, hot and vitriolic. “You’re no better,” he said again, an echo. The flames of the burning roses in the garden seemed to bend toward him, as if drawn to his rage. “Is this how it’s going to be, then? You as a magic tyrant, worse than August could ever be?” Bastian didn’t answer. Instead, he placed the crown on his head. It crossed the bloodied line on his brow. “Long live the Sainted King.” EPILOGUE Her chair was uncomfortable. It wasn’t just the chair itself—being here at all was uncomfortable, up on the dais in the throne room, seated next to Bastian. Her chair was silver, taken from one of the countless storage rooms in the Citadel when Bastian went through them for things to sell off, give away, or melt down. It was a haphazard way of trying to help those living outside the wall, but it was something. Centuries of hoarded wealth were hard to liquidate all at once. But this chair he’d taken to put on the throne’s dais. For her. So she could sit next to him in a show of equality. Almost like a Queen. Some of them called her that. She’d heard it whispered—the poison queen, the hemlock queen, the deathwitch queen. The court loved a nickname, apparently. Lore didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be


thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse: "This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow." Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight." Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body, calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house. "What is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?" was Mr. Woodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends about them, revived him a little. His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her


takes. The call comes through to let me up. He wants to scan the doc box, but I flat palm his chest and walk right on by. I get into the elevator and don’t push a button. It moves anyway. Stefan is sitting at the enormous desk. He doesn’t get up. I walk across the room and put the doc box down beside him. “You’re an idiot,” I say, and Stefan nods. “You would feel that way. I’m sure you think I should have told you the whole story at the beginning.” “No.” He raises his eyebrows. “No?” “No. It’s private business. You could have saved me some time, but…whatever. Time doesn’t mean that much to you, does it? You’re an idiot because you saved him.” Dr. Lillian Antonin, a researcher at the Tonfamecasca company, was first treated with T7 at Demeter Mercy on September 9th. But on the same day, according to the company files, Dr. Peter Jens Antonin was admitted to a private room at Asclepius General and treated by an external team. He also received T7, which healed his broken bones, increased his physical mass, and left him screaming for day upon day until the regular staff broke in and anaesthetised him. Stefan shrugs. “He was a resource, Cal. He really did understand the drug in some special instinctive way. Had a knack for it. I wanted to keep the scientist and lose the man. I failed, of course. I got Roddy instead. We’ve done a lot of work on T7 amnesia since then; perhaps today he wouldn’t be such a patchwork of lost pieces and inventions. Although after she hit him with that steel, the bleed probably did a lot of the damage. And I rather enjoyed Roddy, over the years. He was so achingly persistent, so honest and determined. It was like my very own serial television show: the wronged drifter moving from town to town in search of evidence he will never find, doing good along the way. Falling in love, even, from time to time. And all that, with a delicious wash of irony that only I could see: compulsive viewing. Well, I suppose all things must end. Except me, of course. Is that his liver?” “No, I brought you steaks.” “Ah. Bathos. Very good, Cal. Well done.” “Did you kill him?” Stefan rumbles in his chest, and I realise it’s a chuckle. He’s keeping it in, because he’s in a good mood. “Don’t be absurd. Think of the algal perfusion or whatever it was, and the benefit to the lake ecosystem. Not to mention the entertainment value. No, no. I told you, Roddy was no problem for me.” “He was for Lillian.” “Peter was. He really did die that night. She really did kill him, and it really was self-defence. And Roddy wouldn’t have recognised her if he saw her, even if he could remember. That weird little doll Peter wanted so much, that he turned her into…she doesn’t exist now. Not for decades.” “And you’re not together any more.” “No. By our mutual


him, looking at him; and still, with a heavy brow, he was lost in his meditations. He gave such a start when I put my hand upon his shoulder, that he made me start too. 'You come upon me,' he said, almost angrily, 'like a reproachful ghost!' 'I was obliged to announce myself, somehow,' I replied. 'Have I called you down from the stars?' 'No,' he answered. 'No.' 'Up from anywhere, then?' said I, taking my seat near him. 'I was looking at the pictures in the fire,' he returned. 'But you are spoiling them for me,' said I, as he stirred it quickly with a piece of burning wood, striking out of it a train of red-hot sparks that went careering up the little chimney, and roaring out into the air. 'You would not have seen them,' he returned. 'I detest this mongrel time, neither day nor night. How late you are! Where have you been?' 'I have been taking leave of my usual walk,' said I. 'And I have been sitting here,' said Steerforth, glancing round the room, 'thinking that all the people we found so glad on the night of our coming down, might - to judge from the present wasted air of the place - be dispersed, or dead, or come to I don't know what harm. David, I wish to God I had had a judicious father these last twenty years!' 'My dear Steerforth, what is the matter?' 'I wish with all my soul I had been better guided!' he exclaimed. 'I wish with all my soul I could guide myself better!' There was a passionate dejection in his manner that quite amazed me. He was more unlike himself than I could have supposed possible. 'It would be better to be this poor Peggotty, or his lout of a nephew,' he said, getting up and leaning moodily against the chimney-piece, with his face towards the fire, 'than to be myself, twenty times richer and twenty times wiser, and be the torment to myself that I have been, in this Devil's bark of a boat, within the last half-hour!' I was so confounded by the alteration in him, that at first I could only observe him in silence, as he stood leaning his head upon his hand, and looking gloomily down at the fire. At length I begged him, with all the earnestness I felt, to tell me what had occurred to cross him so unusually, and to let me sympathize with him, if I could not hope to advise him. Before I had well concluded, he began to laugh - fretfully at first, but soon with returning gaiety. 'Tut, it's nothing, Daisy! nothing!' he replied. 'I told you at the inn in London, I am heavy company for myself, sometimes. I have been a nightmare to myself, just now - must have had one, I think. At odd dull times, nursery tales come up into the memory, unrecognized for what they are. I believe I have been confounding myself with the bad boy who "didn't care", and


him, very quietly. "What is it?" he said, almost in a whisper, and he passed his hand over his forehead. "I almost feel as if--I were alive!" I do not know enough about the wonderfulness of undiscovered things to be able to explain how this had happened to him. Neither does any one else yet. He did not understand at all himself--but he remembered this strange hour months afterward when he was at Misselthwaite again and he found out quite by accident that on this very day Colin had cried out as he went into the secret garden: "I am going to live forever and ever and ever!" The singular calmness remained with him the rest of the evening and he slept a new reposeful sleep; but it was not with him very long. He did not know that it could be kept. By the next night he had opened the doors wide to his dark thoughts and they had come trooping and rushing back. He left the valley and went on his wandering way again. But, strange as it seemed to him, there were minutes--sometimes half-hours--when, without his knowing why, the black burden seemed to lift itself again and he knew he was a living man and not a dead one. Slowly--slowly--for no reason that he knew of--he was "coming alive" with the garden. As the golden summer changed into the deep golden autumn he went to the Lake of Como. There he found the loveliness of a dream. He spent his days upon the crystal blueness of the lake or he walked back into the soft thick verdure of the hills and tramped until he was tired so that he might sleep. But by this time he had begun to sleep better, he knew, and his dreams had ceased to be a terror to him. "Perhaps," he thought, "my body is growing stronger." It was growing stronger but--because of the rare peaceful hours when his thoughts were changed--his soul was slowly growing stronger, too. He began to think of Misselthwaite and wonder if he should not go home. Now and then he wondered vaguely about his boy and asked himself what he should feel when he went and stood by the carved four-posted bed again and looked down at the sharply chiseled ivory-white face while it slept and, the black lashes rimmed so startlingly the close-shut eyes. He shrank from it. One marvel of a day he had walked so far that when he returned the moon was high and full and all the world was purple shadow and silver. The stillness of lake and shore and wood was so wonderful that he did not go into the villa he lived in. He walked down to a little bowered terrace at the water's edge and sat upon a seat and breathed in all the heavenly scents of the night. He felt the strange calmness stealing over him and it grew deeper and deeper until he fell asleep. He did not know when he fell asleep and when he began to


my agent, Alice Lutyens. Dream-maker, straight-talker, story guru, you have given so much of your formidable skill and care to this book and to me, and I’m so grateful. Sincere thanks to Shanika Hyslop for amazing support at the start of this mad and joyful ride, and to the whole superstar team at Curtis Brown—with special appreciation to Luke Speed, Anna Weguelin, and Theo Roberts for taking Mrs. King to L.A. and beyond. Enormous thanks to my phenomenal editors, Frankie Edwards at Headline and Melanie Fried at Graydon House. Your tireless reading, ingenious suggestions, and unfailing good humor made the editorial process such a collaborative and creative joy. Frankie, thank you for piloting everyone on “Team Housekeepers” with such vision, imagination, and skill; you simply got this book, and me, from day one, and have made this such a special experience. Melanie, enormous thanks for your incredible guidance and discerning eye, which strengthened this book immeasurably; it’s been such a pleasure! Singular thanks to Jessie Goetzinger-Hall for your amazing input and the most excellent (and motivating) correspondence. Thanks to Samantha Stewart and Greg Stephenson for meticulous copyediting, and to Shan Morley Jones, Nikki Sinclair, Leigh Teetzel, Sasha Regehr, and Erin Moore for amazing proofreading. At Headline, epic thanks must be given to: Rebecca Folland, Flora McMichael, Grace McCrum, and everyone in Rights; Becky Bader, Chris Keith-Wright, and everyone in Sales; Caitlin Raynor for publicity; Lucy Hall for marketing; Hannah Cawse for audio; Louise Rothwell for production. Thank you to Mari Evans, Jennifer Doyle, and Sherise Hobbs for the warmest of welcomes and for your support. At Graydon House, special thanks to Diane Lavoie and Ambur Hostyn for marketing, Heather Connor, Sophie James, and Leah Morse for publicity, and all those in the sales, production, and subrights departments who worked behind the scenes to support The Housekeepers so brilliantly. Thank you to Andrew Smither and Quinn Banting for designing the most beautiful covers. So much creativity, energy, and talent has gone into launching The Housekeepers from publishers in territories around the world, and I’m so grateful to everyone involved. To the matchless community of authors, book bloggers, reviewers, and early readers who have shown early support for The Housekeepers—thank you so very much! To Wendy Bough and the Caledonia Novel Award—being longlisted for the 2022 prize boosted The Housekeepers in ways I couldn’t have imagined, and made all the difference; thank you. To everyone at Curtis Brown Creative: thank you. Heartfelt and fondest thanks to Anna Davis for astute and generous advice over the years; to Norah Perkins for early encouragement; to the incomparable Erin Kelly for such kindness and inspiration; to Katie Smart; and to my beloved CBC classmates for great dinners, wonderful friendship, and for reading multiple books/ideas/emails/urgent Whatsapp queries about how to use Track Changes over the years. To my cherished Apple Owls/Dancing Toads—Amy, Anneka, Fran, Sacha—I love you beyond the telling of it, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for cheering me along on this journey. Special thanks to Richard, fellow resident of the Towers, for


my little lord? Is that a silver pin I see there on your cloak?" "Pretty," said a woman's voice. She scarcely looked like a woman; tall and lean, with the same hard face as the others, her hair hidden beneath a bowl-shaped halfhelm. The spear she held was eight feet of black oak, tipped in rusted steel. "Let's have a look," said the big bald man. Bran watched him anxiously. The man's clothes were filthy, fallen almost to pieces, patched here with brown and here with blue and there with a dark green, and faded everywhere to grey, but once that cloak might have been black. The grey stubbly man wore black rags too, he saw with a sudden start. Suddenly Bran remembered the oathbreaker his father had beheaded, the day they had found the wolf pups; that man had worn black as well, and Father said he had been a deserter from the Night's Watch. No man is more dangerous, he remembered Lord Eddard saying. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will notflinch from any crime, no matter how vile or crueL "The pin, lad," the big man said. He held out his hand. "We'll take the horse too," said another of them, a woman shorter than Robb, with a broad fiat face and lank yellow hair. "Get down, and be quick about it." A knife slid from her sleeve into her hand, its edge jagged as a saw. "No," Bran blurted. "I can't The big man grabbed his reins before Bran could think to wheel Dancer around and gallop off. "You can, lordling . . . and will, if you know what's good for you." "Stiv, look how he's strapped on." The tall woman pointed with her spear. "Might be it's the truth he's telling." "Straps, is it?" Stiv said. He drew a dagger from a sheath at his belt. "There's ways to deal with straps." "You some kind of cripple?" asked the short woman. Bran flared. "I'm Brandon Stark of Winterfell, and you better let go of my horse, or I'll see you all dead." The gaunt man with the grey stubbled face laughed. "The boy's a Stark, true enough. Only a Stark would be fool enough to threaten where smarter men would beg." "Cut his little cock off and stuff it in his mouth," suggested the short woman. "That should shut him up." A GAME OF THRONES 355 "You're as stupid as you are ugly, Hali," said the tall woman. "The boy's worth nothing dead, but alive . . . gods be damned, think what Mance would give to have Benjen Stark's own blood to hostage!" "Mance be damned," the big man cursed. "You want to go back there, Osha? More fool you. Think the white walkers will care if you have a hostage?" He turned back to Bran and slashed at the strap around his thigh. The leather parted with a sigh. The stroke had been quick and careless, biting deep. Looking down, Bran glimpsed pale flesh where the wool


senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creature. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know." Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic olive-colored face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low, languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between then had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life's mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a school-boy, or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened. "Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not let yourself become sunburnt. It would be very unbecoming to you." "What does it matter?" cried Dorian, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have now the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don't feel that, Lord Henry." "No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? "You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don't frown. You have. And Beauty is a form of Genius,--is higher, indeed, than Genius, as it needs no explanation. It is one of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won't smile. "People say sometimes that Beauty is only superficial. That may be so. But at least it is not so superficial as Thought. To me, Beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible. "Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which really to live. When your youth


could understand what he was smiling at them for. A man sitting next to Ford at the bar looked at the two men, looked at the six pints, did a swift burst of mental arithmetic, arrived at an answer he liked and grinned a stupid hopeful grin at them. "Get off," said Ford, "They're ours," giving him a look that would have an Algolian Suntiger get on with what it was doing. Ford slapped a five-pound note on the bar. He said, "Keep the change." "What, from a fiver? Thank you sir." "You've got ten minutes left to spend it." The barman simply decided to walk away for a bit. "Ford," said Arthur, "would you please tell me what the hell is going on?" "Drink up," said Ford, "you've got three pints to get through." "Three pints?" said Arthur. "At lunchtime?" The man next to ford grinned and nodded happily. Ford ignored him. He said, "Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so." "Very deep," said Arthur, "you should send that in to the Reader's Digest. They've got a page for people like you." "Drink up." "Why three pints all of a sudden?" "Muscle relaxant, you'll need it." "Muscle relaxant?" "Muscle relaxant." Arthur stared into his beer. "Did I do anything wrong today," he said, "or has the world always been like this and I've been too wrapped up in myself to notice?" "Alright," said Ford, "I'll try to explain. How long have we known each other?" "How long?" Arthur thought. "Er, about five years, maybe six," he said. "Most of it seemed to make some sense at the time." "Alright," said Ford. "How would you react if I said that I'm not from Guildford after all, but from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse?" Arthur shrugged in a so-so sort of way. "I don't know," he said, taking a pull of beer. "Why - do you think it's the sort of thing you're likely to say?" Ford gave up. It really wasn't worth bothering at the moment, what with the world being about to end. He just said: "Drink up." He added, perfectly factually: "The world's about to end." Arthur gave the rest of the pub another wan smile. The rest of the pub frowned at him. A man waved at him to stop smiling at them and mind his own business. "This must be Thursday," said Arthur musing to himself, sinking low over his beer, "I never could get the hang of Thursdays." ================================================================= Chapter 3 On this particular Thursday, something was moving quietly through the ionosphere many miles above the surface of the planet; several somethings in fact, several dozen huge yellow chunky slablike somethings, huge as office buildings, silent as birds. They soared with ease, basking in electromagnetic rays from the star Sol, biding their time, grouping, preparing. The planet beneath them was almost perfectly oblivious of their presence, which was just how they wanted it for the moment. The huge yellow somethings went unnoticed at Goonhilly, they passed over Cape Canaveral without a blip, Woomera


Adémọ́lá Àrẹ̀mú Mákinwá.” Professor Coker leaned forward. “Include your middle name, since that was also your father’s name. People still pray with his name, you know, so they can have that kind of money.” “I’m going to need that drink.” Ọ̀túnba went to the mini fridge that sat next to his desk. He took his time fishing out a bottle of beer. He wasn’t surprised that Coker had come to him. Everyone talked about how much money Ọ̀túnba’s father had in his lifetime, but few considered how diminished the assets were once they were split thirty-something ways. Not that Ọ̀túnba was destitute. He had inherited enough cash to last him decades of no work, and on top of that, he had worked hard. Switching from legal practise within two years of being called to the bar, he’d set up a company to import sundry supplies for government offices. The military was still in power when he started the company, and his brother had connected him to all the right people who could approve his proposals. Business slowed for a while when the military left power. He even ran the company in the red for over a year before understanding how the new power brokers in Abuja operated. “Think of it as an investment,” Professor Coker said as Ọ̀túnba returned to his seat. “Is Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé not running for this same governorship seat?” “Look, I have the party chairman’s backing. He told me this personally, that’s why I went to pick up the form. This is my moment, and I’m not going to miss it or back down because of Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé. These are just rumours anyway, it’s not as if he has declared publicly that he’s running. I promise you, it will be a good investment.” Ọ̀túnba gulped some beer. Investment. That was what Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé’s people had called it too. Invest in the campaign, reap returns in contract allocations. A phone call, a signed note or a text from Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé would more often than not smooth Ọ̀túnba’s path to approval whenever he was bidding for a contract in the ministries that Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé’s committee had supervision over. His monthly contributions towards Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé’s next campaign weren’t bribes. They were investments. “And for all we know, Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé might want to retain his seat in the House of Representatives.” “The thing is that I’ve also invested in Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé. His people approached me during the last elections, and I donated to the campaign. I’ve also been donating monthly to a future campaign since then, so I’m almost sure the man is planning to run for governor.” “Oh, oh, I see.” Professor Coker drummed his fingers against his knee. “This is how your business picked up?” “Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé has been helpful, yes.” Ọ̀túnba took another gulp while Professor Coker stood and began pacing the floor. “Your support would really be valuable to us, Démọ́lá.” “It’s two things. One, this is a business decision, okay. I have to consider what is most viable. The other thing is, I’ve only been in the same room with Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé maybe twice. I don’t even have


you say, on the run and wanted.” In the visitor’s chair, Calaphas amuses himself by mimicking Freeman’s posture, as a subtle way of disrespecting the man while presenting himself as an earnest fellow member of the establishment. “I’d like nothing better than to assist you, Marshal Freeman, but I can only say that Mace is a terrorist wanted in the deaths of more than fifty patriotic Americans. Everything else is classified, a matter of national security.” When Calaphas mentions fifty victims, the fleshy features of the marshal’s broad, dark face tighten in indignation. No doubt he sees himself as one whose anger is always righteous, the impersonal and unselfish displeasure at unworthy acts, which never needs to be regretted and for which no repentance is required. Gifford, Durand’s late brother, had been likewise certain that he lacked the capacity for resentment and vindictiveness. “The fuel load of that house,” Freeman says, “should have made for a slower-spreading fire than what happened.” “Fuel load?” “That’s the weight of all burnable matter in the structure plus burnable contents, multiplied by the BTUs that each type of material can produce. A pound of wood, depending on the species of the tree it’s from, gives you eight thousand to nine thousand BTUs per pound, oily pine more than oak. Plastic puts out twice as much as wood. Then there’s the heat-release rate, how fast a particular material burns, measured in BTUs per second. The faster and hotter the fuel burns, the quicker a fire spreads. This one didn’t have a phase in which it smoldered. It stormed through that house from ignition—the free-burning phase—to the flashover phase in record time.” “Gasoline, kerosene?” Calaphas asks. “We couldn’t find a trace of any liquid accelerant. The burn was nearly as complete as it gets, but even so there would still be evidence of an accelerant if one was used. There’s always evidence. One of the strange things here was the extreme conductivity.” “Conductivity?” “Conductivity. When they burn, some things retain a lot of their heat, while other substances spread the heat fast to nearby materials. Paper, most of your fabrics, carpets, mattress stuffing—they’re highly conductive. Air itself is highly conductive. Most fires spread by convection, superheated air circulating through the structure.” This is more detail than Calaphas thinks he needs. Freeman is showing off, relishing this opportunity to prove that someone like him can rise from nothing to this expertise. Nevertheless, Calaphas leans forward as if fascinated. “Air? But air doesn’t burn.” “Ohhhh, but it does, Agent Calaphas. You must understand, air is rich with oxygen. All flame is burning gases. When any material combusts, it oxidizes, producing flammable gas. The more air that is circulating in a house, the faster the place burns. Fire seeks air. That’s why flames burn upward.” Freeman is smug about his superior education, as though the nature of fire is by far the most important knowledge in the world. Calaphas is in particular offended by the word “ohhhh,” which seems to have been drawn out and delivered with a note of mockery,


I felt as I struck that match, as I held it to the end of the cigarette and inhaled. I’d only smoked a few times, mostly to look cool, but this time I didn’t sputter or cough. “Call nine-one-one,” I said. “And then call my mom.” The cigarette slid perfectly into Ray’s fingers. His hand was relaxed with dreaming but cupped to have just enough tension to hold the cigarette. I held the gleaming match above the liquor-soaked pile and said, “I mean it, Daphne. Now.” She was wide-eyed, mystified, probably because in our relationship Daphne was the doer. She was the one who enacted the plans. She scrambled to her feet, ran toward the kitchen where the phone was, and as I dropped that match, I realized I was calling the shots now. I saved Daphne then, just like she had tried to save me now. I knew I had a long way to go toward earning her forgiveness. But I also had hope. And, just like that day when we were sixteen, I had a plan. We were experts at getting through hard things together. As she didn’t turn around, didn’t look back, I hoped against hope that we could make it through just one more. Daphne A HAPPY FAMILY EXHAUSTION SEEPS INTO MY BONES as I walk up the stairs to my office. I nearly jump out of my skin when I see Finn sitting behind his desk in the reception area. When he sees my face, he says, “Oh, Daphne, you didn’t.” I shake my head as I sit in the chair across from his desk. I feel like I’ve narrowly avoided a car crash: rattled and shaken but so, so grateful. “I didn’t have to. Wendy had Bryce arrested. At a super-convenient time, as you well know.” Finn smiled conspiratorially. “I mean, I might have happened to mention the date, time, and place of the wedding invitation send-off. I do have access to your calendar, you know. But I kind of can’t believe she followed through. Damn, Wendy. Good for you, girl!” “You saved my ass, Finn. For real. I can’t ever thank you enough.” He shakes his head. “Nah. It would have worked itself out. Things have a way of doing that. I just helped it along a little.” He gasps. “I did your hard thing! Am I an honorary Songbird now?” As if with a magic wand, I tap each shoulder. “I anoint you!” We both laugh. “Is it weird that I kind of hate to think Bryce is sitting in jail right now?” I ask. “I mean, Paula called his mom, so I’m sure she’ll pay his bail, and he’ll be out by morning. But I still like Bryce, you know? Despite all of it. I think he just got in over his head.” Finn nods. “I like him too. He’s funny. But he messed up pretty bad, and he didn’t even need to. You know?” “I know. Why do you blow up your whole life for no reason?” “Huh. There’s someone in this


lost, but easy to find your way back. No, it was the fear in Dad’s voice that got to me. Over the course of my life, Dad had shown himself to be many things, but afraid was never one of them. I made him pass the phone to a nearby woman, who explained that he was only ten minutes down the road. “Are you sure?” I asked her. “We’re definitely on Spar Lane,” she said. “I live here.” I knew then Dad hadn’t simply fallen asleep on the bus or mistaken an unfamiliar street for a shortcut, but that he genuinely didn’t know how to find his way home using the route he’d been taking for six years. I jogged to Spar Lane and there he stood, in front of the gate of someone’s house, looking left and right, left and right. Trying. I reached him and jokingly threw my hands in the air. “You walk down here every day!” He nodded but didn’t smile, and as we walked home, the frown stuck between his brows deepened until we passed where he bought newspapers on Sundays and his shoulders sank with relief. I now mark that day as The Beginning. Google: Is Parkinson’s disease genetic? Scientific studies have shown that genetic factors can play a part in developing Parkinson’s disease as a result of faulty genes. Most cases of Parkinson’s aren’t hereditary, however a medical study recently revealed that patients suffering from early-onset Parkinson’s disease are more likely to have inherited it. Parkinson’s disease can be triggered through a complex combination of genetic susceptibility and exposure to environmental factors such as toxins and trauma. Genetics cause up to 15% of all Parkinson’s. Hereditary Parkinson’s continues to be rare. The majority of Parkinson’s cases are “idiopathic.” Idiopathic means there is no known cause. I suppose now is as good a time as any to let you know that I have an older brother, James. He lives in Putney, so it’s just Dad and me here in Croydon. My mum spends most of her time in Ghana, running a hostel that my grandfather left to her and my uncle when he died. She’ll come back home for a year, then return to Ghana for a year, rinse and repeat. It wasn’t always a yearlong thing, she used to only go for a couple of months at a time, but excuses would sprout up like inconspicuous mushrooms: “It’s so expensive and long a flight, it doesn’t make economic sense to stay here for such a short time” or “British weather doesn’t agree with my arthritis” or “My brother is no good; he’s not business-minded like me.” A year after Grandad passed, I overheard talk of upheaving us all to Accra, but Mum said no. “My degree from Ghana helped me not one bit here and Maddie is an A-plus student. That cannot go to waste. She will do better than us if here, and so you, their father, must stay.” Thus her yo-yo traveling began. My brother James pretty much left when Mum did. She