hands dropping to my hips. An “oh” falls from my mouth as he guides me against his jeans, the seam in mine creating an exquisite kind of friction. Torturous and decadent all at once. A sly smile. “Huh. Can’t say I’ve imagined this exact scenario.” I laugh, despite how frenzied all of this feels. Then all humor leaves me as the sensation starts to build. I move against him faster, hooking my leg around his hips while he grips my thigh, pressing deeper into me. The bulge in his jeans only makes me needier. I tighten my grip around the back of his neck, clutching at his hair, damp with exertion. His warm skin. His scent. He tilts me against him, fingers digging into my ass as we keep up this relentless rhythm. Determination is painted on his face, like not even an apocalypse could break his concentration. He must notice my breaths coming quicker because he hoists me higher on his thigh. “That’s it,” he says. “God, I’ve missed you.” He doesn’t actually mean he’s missed me—just that he’s missed this. I’d correct him, only I’m no longer able to form words. I forget that we’re in public. I forget that I’m working for him and that all of this is starting to get a little confusing. I forget everything except the rush of pleasure between my legs and the adrenaline racing through my veins. Then I’m coming apart, everything in me clenching and then bursting with a sudden flash of heat. I turn my face to the side, gasping into the night as he tugs me forward again, mouth working to capture my moan. A door opens with a loud creak, and Finn cages my body with his, as though we’ve been caught doing something we shouldn’t. I feel myself shake with silent laughter, grateful he’s holding me up. “Shhhh,” he says, right before he dissolves into giggles of his own. There’s a thud as someone tosses a bag into a dumpster across the alley, and once the door to the bar swings shut, Finn takes my hand, the two of us panting, laughing, running toward the car as fast as we can. I’m worried the drive back to his mom’s place will be full of awkward silence. But as soon as we get into the rental car, Finn rests his hand on my thigh, grinning, like he’s so damn proud of himself he just can’t contain it. “You live here,” I whisper as we tiptoe from the car to his front door. “Or lived here. You don’t have to sneak in.” “The dogs,” he explains. “Better than any security system.” Once we get inside, I brace for a symphony of barking. But it’s just Duchess, an affectionate Chihuahua with three tan paws and one white one, who trots up to us, allows herself to receive some love, and then disappears back down the hall. Finn tosses me a wicked, playful look. “Good night,” he says sweetly. I just shake my head, biting back a smile. “Good night,” I echo


house a wide berth, and took their way homeward through the woods that adorned the rearward side of Cardiff Hill. --------------------------------------------------------- -237- Chapter XXVI ABOUT noon the next day the boys arrived at the dead tree; they had come for their tools. Tom was impatient to go to the haunted house; Huck was measurably so, also -- but suddenly said: "Lookyhere, Tom, do you know what day it is?" Tom mentally ran over the days of the week, and then quickly lifted his eyes with a startled look in them -- "My! I never once thought of it, Huck!" "Well, I didn't neither, but all at once it popped onto me that it was Friday." "Blame it, a body can't be too careful, Huck. We might 'a' got into an awful scrape, tackling such a thing on a Friday." "Might ! Better say we would! There's some lucky days, maybe, but Friday ain't." "Any fool knows that. I don't reckon you was the first that found it out, Huck." "Well, I never said I was, did I? And Friday ain't all, neither. I had a rotten bad dream last night -- dreampt about rats." "No! Sure sign of trouble. Did they fight?" "No." --------------------------------------------------------- -238- "Well, that's good, Huck. When they don't fight it's only a sign that there's trouble around, you know. All we got to do is to look mighty sharp and keep out of it. We'll drop this thing for to-day, and play. Do you know Robin Hood, Huck?" "No. Who's Robin Hood?" "Why, he was one of the greatest men that was ever in England -- and the best. He was a robber." "Cracky, I wisht I was. Who did he rob?" "Only sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings, and such like. But he never bothered the poor. He loved 'em. He always divided up with 'em perfectly square." "Well, he must 'a' been a brick." "I bet you he was, Huck. Oh, he was the noblest man that ever was. They ain't any such men now, I can tell you. He could lick any man in England, with one hand tied behind him; and he could take his yew bow and plug a ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a half." "What's a yew bow?" "I don't know. It's some kind of a bow, of course. And if he hit that dime only on the edge he would set down and cry -- and curse. But we'll play Robin Hood -- it's nobby fun. I'll learn you." "I'm agreed." So they played Robin Hood all the afternoon, now and then casting a yearning eye down upon the haunted house and passing a remark about the --------------------------------------------------------- -239- morrow's prospects and possibilities there. As the sun began to sink into the west they took their way homeward athwart the long shadows of the trees and soon were buried from sight in the forests of Cardiff Hill. On Saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were at the dead tree again. They had a smoke and a


again to the papers, and she stopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence a miniature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she perceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother. St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily could scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till now that he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much less that he had one which he evidently valued so highly; but having looked repeatedly, to be certain that it was not the resemblance of Madame St. Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was designed for that of some other person. At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily, recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly withdrew from the chamber. CHAPTER III O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which nature to her vot'ry yields! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even; All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of heaven; O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven! . . . . . These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart. THE MINSTREL St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along the feet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the heights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of romantic scenery. He turned a little out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux, whom he found botanizing in the wood near his chateau, and who, when he was told the purpose of St. Aubert's visit, expressed a degree of concern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely possible for him to feel on any similar occasion. They parted with mutual regret. 'If any thing could have tempted me from my retirement,' said M. Barreaux, 'it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore, believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return with impatience.' The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights, St. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain below; tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggested that he should return no more; and though he checked this wandering thought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of distance blended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to Drag at each remove a lengthening chain. He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck with the grandeur of the


of a guitar through an amplifier in the studio. Dear Viv, This is a very kind offer! I have enjoyed TNO over the years, and I was aware that you were a cast member, although at your appointment I wanted to keep the focus on your eye :). In order for me to accept a social invitation from a patient, the patient would need to switch to a different practice (i.e., a different doctor at this clinic). Given that you are already a patient of Dr. Trumbull, a switch should not be onerous, but I want to be clear that I cannot continue to treat you medically if I attend the show. Many thanks, Theo “What’s bad about this?” I asked. “He’s being responsible.” “It’s so half-hearted. Many thanks is one degree away from Best regards.” “He’s saying he can’t fall in love with you while he’s still your doctor. Tell him you’ll go back to seeing Dr. Trumbull, and the lovefest can start.” “Excuse me, Viv,” said Trey, a production assistant in a headset. “Evelyn needs you in wardrobe for your Danny Horst Rule fitting.” Viv looked at me. “This is the one where it’s my talent and not the outfit that has to make me look cute in front of Mr. Many Thanks?” “I actually told Francesca not to give you a unibrow, so you’re welcome,” I said. “But it’s Dr. Many Thanks.” As Viv walked toward the wardrobe department, I called, “That’s a good email!” From the studio, I heard someone, probably a roadie, say, “One, two, mic check, one, two,” and it was then that I realized that the guitar tuning I’d heard before was for Noah Brewster’s song rehearsal. Thursday afternoon was the time that musical guests, who of course usually weren’t also hosts, showed up to rehearse. These casual, free quasi concerts were a huge perk of working at TNO, and the bigger the act, the more people “just happened” to be passing through the studio, including employees of other shows at the network. Several times, I’d stopped to watch a musician I was minimally familiar with and walked away forty minutes later a fan. I turned around and reentered the studio proper, walking toward the main stage, which was known as Home Base. The floor in front of Home Base was currently a mess of disorganized audience chairs; multiple cameras, including the iconic crane that for every episode swooped in for the guest host’s entrance; and random set walls. Crew members were wandering around, while about twenty people were actively watching Noah, including Autumn, two of her assistants, and a cast member named Lynette. I sat on a chair about fifteen feet from the stage’s lip. Noah, who stood with a guitar hanging from a strap over his left shoulder—he wore clothes similar to the ones he’d had on the previous day, a gray T-shirt, dark jeans, and black suede sneakers—was talking to the drummer and the sound engineers. A bass guitarist stood on one side of him and a rhythm guitar player on the


sled-dogs. The wild wave of famished beasts rolled back before them, and Buck shook himself free. But it was only for a moment. The two men were compelled to run back to save the grub, upon which the huskies returned to the attack on the team. Billee, terrified into bravery, sprang through the savage circle and fled away over the ice. Pike and Dub followed on his heels, with the rest of the team behind. As Buck drew himself together to spring after them, out of the tail of his eye he saw Spitz rush upon him with the evident intention of overthrowing him. Once off his feet and under that mass of huskies, there was no hope for him. But he braced himself to the shock of Spitz's charge, then joined the flight out on the lake. Later, the nine team-dogs gathered together and sought shelter in the forest. Though unpursued, they were in a sorry plight. There was not one who was not wounded in four or five places, while some were wounded grievously. Dub was badly injured in a hind leg; Dolly, the last husky added to the team at Dyea, had a badly torn throat; Joe had lost an eye; while Billee, the good-natured, with an ear chewed and rent to ribbons, cried and whimpered throughout the night. At daybreak they limped warily back to camp, to find the marauders gone and the two men in bad tempers. Fully half their grub supply was gone. The huskies had chewed through the sled lashings and canvas coverings. In fact, nothing, no matter how remotely eatable, had escaped them. They had eaten a pair of Perrault's moose-hide moccasins, chunks out of the leather traces, and even two feet of lash from the end of Francois's whip. He broke from a mournful contemplation of it to look over his wounded dogs. "Ah, my frien's," he said softly, "mebbe it mek you mad dog, dose many bites. Mebbe all mad dog, sacredam! Wot you t'ink, eh, Perrault?" The courier shook his head dubiously. With four hundred miles of trail still between him and Dawson, he could ill afford to have madness break out among his dogs. Two hours of cursing and exertion got the harnesses into shape, and the wound-stiffened team was under way, struggling painfully over the hardest part of the trail they had yet encountered, and for that matter, the hardest between them and Dawson. The Thirty Mile River was wide open. Its wild water defied the frost, and it was in the eddies only and in the quiet places that the ice held at all. Six days of exhausting toil were required to cover those thirty terrible miles. And terrible they were, for every foot of them was accomplished at the risk of life to dog and man. A dozen times, Perrault, nosing the way broke through the ice bridges, being saved by the long pole he carried, which he so held that it fell each time across the hole made by his body. But a cold snap was


grave in the east. It was kilometers from Oath, in a remote valley. We’ll go one day, Little Flower, Forest had said to her only last year, even though they had never been a devout family. Perhaps we’ll be able to taste Enva’s magic in the air. Iris bent over the book, continuing to search for the answers she craved. How does one god draw another? Dacre had started the war by burning the village of Sparrow to the ground, killing the farmers and their families. And yet such devastation had failed to attract Enva to him, as he thought it would. Even after seven months of conflict, she remained hidden in Oath save for the moments when she strummed her harp, inspiring young people to enlist and fight against her nemesis. Why do you hate each other? Iris wondered. What was the history behind Dacre and Enva? She sifted through the book’s leaves, but page after page had been removed, torn away from the volume. There were a few myths about Enva and Alva, but no detailed records of Dacre. His name was mentioned only in passing from legend to legend, and never connected to Enva. There was also nothing about eithrals—where they came from, what controlled them. How dangerous they were to humans. Iris sat back in her chair, rubbing her shoulder. It was as if someone wanted to steal the knowledge of the past. All the myths about Dacre, his magic and power. Why he was furious with Enva. Why he was instigating a war with her, dragging mortal kind into the bloodshed. And it filled Iris with cold dismay. {4} Dustbin Revelations Her mother was asleep on the sofa when Iris got home that evening. A cigarette had burned through the threadbare cushion, and the candles on the sideboard had almost melted into stubs. Iris sighed but began to clean up the empty bottles and ashtrays. She removed her boots, wincing to see that the blisters had bled through her stockings. Barefoot, she stripped her mother’s wine-stained sheets off the bed and then gathered a few garments to launder, carrying everything down to the common area. She paid a few coppers for water and a cup of soap granules and then selected a washboard and bucket and began to scrub. The water was cold, pumped up from the city’s cistern, and the soap turned her hands raw. But she scrubbed away the stains, and she wrung out garment after garment, her anger fueling her long after her stomach ceased groaning its emptiness. By the time Iris had washed everything, she was ready to write the This isn’t Forest person back. She returned to the flat and hung everything up to dry in the kitchen. She should eat something before she wrote them, or who knew what might come out of her. She found a tin of green beans in one of the cupboards and ate it with a fork, sitting on her bedroom floor. Her hands ached, but she reached for Nan’s typewriter beneath the mattress. She’d kept


do you think uses the word oeuvre in a bar at three in the morning?” “Just guessing but maybe an asshole who went to Harvard?” “No, no,” I said. “I’m not one of TNO’s Harvard assholes.” “Where’d you go?” “Duke,” I said. This time, his smile was more sarcastic. “As in the world-famous university in North Carolina? Do you mean that Duke?” “I get that having gone to Duke might not sound that different from having gone to Harvard, but, trust me, the writers who went to Harvard think it is. Also didn’t you go to some fancy prep school in Washington, D.C.? Because I went to a gigantic, crappy public high school in suburban Kansas City.” “But I never went to college at all, so that negates my fancy prep school degree. I was supposed to go to Kenyon, but instead I started busking at Metro stations. When do I get to find out the two categories of songs you hate?” “Well, my disclaimer is that music isn’t my area of expertise.” “Noted.” “One category is the kind of song where it’s about a long relationship or marriage, and the lyrics are like ‘Sometimes it was so bad that we almost didn’t make it, but we’ve survived.’ I think those songs are unintentionally funny because they’re supposedly a celebration of the endurance of love or whatever, but the lyrics sound more like ‘Being married to you is hell, but let’s congratulate ourselves for gutting it out.’ ” “Hmm,” he said. “I guess I’ve never thought about that.” “There’s a ton of them,” I said. “ ‘We both were attracted to other people, you drove me crazy, I wanted to kill you. But, baby, after all these years, you’re still the one.’ That actually might be a good sketch. Even though you poisoned my cat, even though you puked on my needlepoint pillow. Have you ever been to a wedding reception where they make all the married couples stand up and then the DJ says, ‘Sit down if you’ve been married less than ten years, less than twenty years, less than thirty years?’ And the last ones standing are some ninety-year-old couple who’s been married since 1950?” “Did you meet my backup singer Jimmy? I’ve only seen that at his wedding. I think it’s not a WASP thing.” “I think you’re right. But there could be a freeze-frame on each couple as they’re applauded, and they do a confessional. So all the other guests are like, ‘This is so touching,’ and the ninety-year-old woman is thinking to herself, ‘For seven decades, the sound of his chewing has made me want to strangle him.’ ” “That would be funny,” Noah said. “Actually.” Our eyes met, and I said, “Thanks, actually.” “The thing is,” he said, “I’m pretty sure I’ve never written that kind of song, partly because I’ve never been married.” “Oh, sorry. ‘Making Love in July’ is the other kind of song I was referring to. It’s in the second category. That kind is always a man singing to a woman and


animal to add to the fun? Has a hovercraft inexplicably plucked her into the air? But when I push myself up on my numb arms, I see it’s none of the above. Clove is dangling a foot off the ground, im- prisoned in Thresh’s arms. I let out a gasp, seeing him like that, towering over me, holding Clove like a rag doll. I remem- ber him as big, but he seems more massive, more powerful than I even recall. If anything, he seems to have gained weight in the arena. He flips Clove around and flings her onto the ground. When he shouts, I jump, never having heard him speak above a mutter. “What’d you do to that little girl? You kill her?” 282 Clove is scrambling backward on all fours, like a frantic in- sect, too shocked to even call for Cato. “No! No, it wasn’t me!” “You said her name. I heard you. You kill her?” Another thought brings a fresh wave of rage to his features. “You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?” “No! No, I —” Clove sees the stone, about the size of a small loaf of bread in Thresh’s hand and loses it. “Cato!” she screeches. “Cato!” “Clove!” I hear Cato’s answer, but he’s too far away, I can tell that much, to do her any good. What was he doing? Trying to get Foxface or Peeta? Or had he been lying in wait for Thresh and just badly misjudged his location? Thresh brings the rock down hard against Clove’s temple. It’s not bleeding, but I can see the dent in her skull and I know that she’s a goner. There’s still life in her now though, in the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the low moan escaping her lips. When Thresh whirls around on me, the rock raised, I know it’s no good to run. And my bow is empty, the last loaded ar- row having gone in Clove’s direction. I’m trapped in the glare of his strange golden brown eyes. “What’d she mean? About Rue being your ally?” “I — I — we teamed up. Blew up the supplies. I tried to save her, I did. But he got there first. District One,” I say. May- be if he knows I helped Rue, he won’t choose some slow, sa- distic end for me. “And you killed him?” he demands. “Yes. I killed him. And buried her in flowers,” I say. “And I sang her to sleep.” 283 Tears spring in my eyes. The tension, the fight goes out of me at the memory. And I’m overwhelmed by Rue, and the pain in my head, and my fear of Thresh, and the moaning of the dy- ing girl a few feet away. “To sleep?” Thresh says gruffly. “To death. I sang until she died,” I say. “Your district. . . they sent me bread.” My hand reaches up but not for an arrow that I know I’ll never reach. Just to wipe my nose. “Do


said, the plan could be scaled to the entire southern border. Pompeo and others nodded in agreement. Kirstjen knew it was pointless to protest, though Trump seemed to anticipate an objection. “That’s it! No more excuses. Shut it down, okay? You heard me, noon tomorrow.” With that, a red-faced Trump stood up and walked out the door to the Rose Garden, stalking off in a huff to Marine One. Neither Kirstjen nor I said anything on the way out of the West Wing. We were slated to fly to Europe in a few days to meet with allies about cyber threats. Given the president’s blowup, I feared Kirstjen would scrap the entire trip and prove my point: that Trump’s insatiable border fetish was preventing us from doing our day jobs. As we exited the side door to the West Wing, dark purple clouds were pressed against a pink sky. Rush-hour traffic hummed in the distance beyond the compound walls. “Madam Secretary,” I implored her, “we’re losing here.” “I know,” she replied, getting into the waiting SUV. “Let’s talk this weekend.” An agent closed the door, and she was whisked through the White House gates and out of view. The situation was enough to drive anyone to drink. It certainly did that to me. I went out for a cocktail near the White House and ended up having a lot of them, which was becoming the norm. I browned out at the bar, so a colleague drove me home. I stumbled upstairs to put myself to bed in the guest room, where I was staying frequently. I didn’t want to disturb a sleeping Anabel down the hallway. In the morning, I would quietly slip out for work before sunrise—and do it all again. “April Fools” The firm knock at the door wasn’t housekeeping. I opened it, coming face-to-face with one of the secretary’s military aides, Nick. “Chief, I’m sorry to bother you. The president was trying to get in touch with the secretary last night. I thought you should know.” It was April 1, 8 a.m. in London and 2 a.m. in Washington. “Did you tell the switchboard we’re overseas?” I asked. “Yessir. I told them she was asleep and that we’d have the secretary call back when it was morning, D.C. time.” In the lobby, I updated Kirstjen. She was as anxious as I was to hear that Trump had called overnight. We piled into our car, flanked by British police officers on motorcycles. The armored convoy snaked through the streets of London toward the U.S. Embassy, lights and sirens clearing the way. The secretary’s decision to go forward with the trip had been a small act of defiance—a signal that DHS had other work to do besides monitoring the border—but the decision was about to be tested. By leaving the country, we were calling Trump’s bluff about sealing the border. To go forward, he needed us. And he knew it. After a morning of preparatory meetings before visits to the Home Office and UK Parliament, we broke for lunch, dining at


fact, Marion’s time with the Rockettes had showed her the value of pulling back, figuratively as well as physically. When a number called for an arabesque, with one leg up in the air behind her, Marion knew that stepping into her natural, full extension would be too much. If she did that, it wouldn’t match the other dancers and she’d get an earful from Russell. Instead, she had to activate the muscles that countered the position in order to conform, even though it hurt. It was a small price to pay. The stage manager called places. Backstage, Marion licked her finger and touched the underside of the chin of the girl behind her and tried to settle her nerves. She was no stranger to the Radio City stage anymore and she knew the Christmas Spectacular routines cold, but today she was dancing for her sister and wanted to be perfect. The organists at the two Wurlitzers flanking the stage played Christmas carols as the audience settled into their seats. Once they finished, the orchestra appeared as if by magic, rising up from the pit for the overture, then slowly sinking back down as the audience applauded. First up for the Rockettes was a fierce tap number that required serious concentration. Then they ran into the wings to change into their Wooden Soldiers costumes. Assisted by her dresser, Marion slid on the starched pants and secured the clasp of the helmet tightly under her chin. In the last show, her helmet had slid off to the side during the fall. Luckily, the girl right behind her had quickly pushed it upright, but Russell, of course, had noticed. Nothing ever got past him. The most difficult section of that number, other than the fall, was when they formed a long line and rotated in a large circle. In order to keep the line straight, the tall dancers near the center had to take baby steps, legs stiff, arms down at their sides, as the shorter girls on the ends of the line trucked along as fast as they could, all while maintaining the illusion of soldierlike rigidity. Marion breathed a sigh of relief when all the dancers managed to keep their rotating line perfectly straight without any wobbles and her helmet stayed put during the long fall, which felt like it took ages. As they headed offstage Marion glanced over to the section where she knew her sister was seated. The expression on Judy’s face matched that of the young girl to her left—wide-eyed and smiling—and her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. She had fallen under the spell of the Christmas Spectacular just as Marion had hoped she would. The seat to Judy’s right was empty, and next to that was a man in a trench coat. Marion wouldn’t have noticed him except that he reached down and lifted something bulky into his lap that gave off a brief flash of reflected light. In the wings, Marion did a quick costume change for the nativity scene, pleased that Judy seemed to


Grose with emphasis declared. "It was Quint's own fancy. To play with him, I mean-- to spoil him." She paused a moment; then she added: "Quint was much too free." This gave me, straight from my vision of his face--SUCH a face!-- a sudden sickness of disgust. "Too free with MY boy?" "Too free with everyone!" I forbore, for the moment, to analyze this description further than by the reflection that a part of it applied to several of the members of the household, of the half-dozen maids and men who were still of our small colony. But there was everything, for our apprehension, in the lucky fact that no discomfortable legend, no perturbation of scullions, had ever, within anyone's memory attached to the kind old place. It had neither bad name nor ill fame, and Mrs. Grose, most apparently, only desired to cling to me and to quake in silence. I even put her, the very last thing of all, to the test. It was when, at midnight, she had her hand on the schoolroom door to take leave. "I have it from you then--for it's of great importance--that he was definitely and admittedly bad?" "Oh, not admittedly. _I_ knew it--but the master didn't." "And you never told him?" "Well, he didn't like tale-bearing--he hated complaints. He was terribly short with anything of that kind, and if people were all right to HIM--" "He wouldn't be bothered with more?" This squared well enough with my impressions of him: he was not a trouble-loving gentleman, nor so very particular perhaps about some of the company HE kept. All the same, I pressed my interlocutress. "I promise you _I_ would have told!" She felt my discrimination. "I daresay I was wrong. But, really, I was afraid." "Afraid of what?" "Of things that man could do. Quint was so clever--he was so deep." I took this in still more than, probably, I showed. "You weren't afraid of anything else? Not of his effect--?" "His effect?" she repeated with a face of anguish and waiting while I faltered. "On innocent little precious lives. They were in your charge." "No, they were not in mine!" she roundly and distressfully returned. "The master believed in him and placed him here because he was supposed not to be well and the country air so good for him. So he had everything to say. Yes"--she let me have it--"even about THEM." "Them--that creature?" I had to smother a kind of howl. "And you could bear it!" "No. I couldn't--and I can't now!" And the poor woman burst into tears. A rigid control, from the next day, was, as I have said, to follow them; yet how often and how passionately, for a week, we came back together to the subject! Much as we had discussed it that Sunday night, I was, in the immediate later hours in especial--for it may be imagined whether I slept--still haunted with the shadow of something she had not told me. I myself had kept back nothing, but there was a word Mrs. Grose


stairs. “Your place is beautiful,” Maud said. “Thanks. It was a dump when I bought it. Taken me years. And I’ll never be done.” They passed a barn with a bolt on the door and, oddly, windows that had been whitewashed. They skirted a compost trench that shivered with worms, then Alice hauled back the sliding door of another barn. “After you,” she said. The interior had been transformed into a library; every wall, up to the ceiling, supported books on metal shelves. A rolling ladder hung from a rail. As with the bench on the porch, the finish on the metal had been stripped away. The books, mostly used copies with tattered spines, were sorted by size and color: a block of leather-bound classics with gold lettering floated next to a square of paperbacks in Day-Glo tangerine and lime, a science fiction series, translations from German and French and Greek, poems by Audre Lorde and Emily Dickinson, The Arabian Nights, Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room next to Marx’s The Communist Manifesto. An overstuffed chair and a footrest sat in the middle of the room. “You’ve read all these books?” Maud said. “I read four hours a day. Adds up.” Alice waved at a wall. “You’ll find your girl Virginia scattered over there.” Normally Maud would now ask Alice about her favorite Woolf novel or tell an anecdote about Monk’s House. But she was pretty sure that such an aside wouldn’t be met with the expected engaged response. She didn’t want to stand here holding another door open, only to have Alice blink at her and not budge. “Ready to see the design?” she said. “Do you mind taking the footrest?” “I’ll take the floor so I can spread it out.” On her knees, she unrolled the plan from the tube. Alice sat in the chair, feet on the footrest, a hand on Clark’s head. This might be it, Maud thought, her only chance. She kept her eyes off Alice so her impassivity wouldn’t throw her. She stayed with the plants: trellised pumpkins winding up the adobe bricks, the yerba buena gushing past blackberry canes, the bed of native plants foraged by the people who had taught Juana Briones about herbology. As she talked, she almost forgot Alice was in the room. “I won’t use chemicals,” she said. “I’ve learned about traditional methods of fertilizing. If something dies, it dies.” She looked up. Alice was picking a scab on her arm. “This really doesn’t interest you, does it?” Maud said, feeling drained. “Sorry,” Alice said. “I find gardening incredibly boring.” “Gardening is all I’ve got,” Maud said. What was the point of this exercise? She should just leave now, climb the gate and head home. She rolled up the plan. The chair creaked as Alice adjusted her legs. “I do realize that this is a sickening dynamic,” she said. “Money does this. Every time.” “It’ll be more than a garden,” Maud said. “There’ll be the house and cultural programs. Enrichment activities for kids. Summer camps.” “The problem,” Alice said, “isn’t the garden or the


similar to himself, but covered, except for hands and face, with strange, colored fur, for such he thought the jacket and trousers to be. Beneath the picture were three little bugs-- BOY. And now he had discovered in the text upon the page that these three were repeated many times in the same sequence. Another fact he learned--that there were comparatively few individual bugs; but these were repeated many times, occasionally alone, but more often in company with others. Slowly he turned the pages, scanning the pictures and the text for a repetition of the combination B-O-Y. Presently he found it beneath a picture of another little ape and a strange animal which went upon four legs like the jackal and resembled him not a little. Beneath this picture the bugs appeared as: A BOY AND A DOG There they were, the three little bugs which always accompanied the little ape. And so he progressed very, very slowly, for it was a hard and laborious task which he had set himself without knowing it--a task which might seem to you or me impossible--learning to read without having the slightest knowledge of letters or written language, or the faintest idea that such things existed. He did not accomplish it in a day, or in a week, or in a month, or in a year; but slowly, very slowly, he learned after he had grasped the possibilities which lay in those little bugs, so that by the time he was fifteen he knew the various combinations of letters which stood for every pictured figure in the little primer and in one or two of the picture books. Of the meaning and use of the articles and conjunctions, verbs and adverbs and pronouns he had but the faintest conception. One day when he was about twelve he found a number of lead pencils in a hitherto undiscovered drawer beneath the table, and in scratching upon the table top with one of them he was delighted to discover the black Chapter 7 37 line it left behind it. He worked so assiduously with this new toy that the table top was soon a mass of scrawly loops and irregular lines and his pencil-point worn down to the wood. Then he took another pencil, but this time he had a definite object in view. He would attempt to reproduce some of the little bugs that scrambled over the pages of his books. It was a difficult task, for he held the pencil as one would grasp the hilt of a dagger, which does not add greatly to ease in writing or to the legibility of the results. But he persevered for months, at such times as he was able to come to the cabin, until at last by repeated experimenting he found a position in which to hold the pencil that best permitted him to guide and control it, so that at last he could roughly reproduce any of the little bugs. Thus he made a beginning of writing. Copying the bugs taught him another thing--their number;


doctor who pronounced Chelsea dead.” Sloane feels like a brick has landed in her stomach. She gapes at Ethan. There’s a hateful look in his eyes, and she feels a wave of fear travel through her. “Well, I suppose that makes sense that your work would overlap occasionally,” Kay says. If she picks up on Ethan’s accusatory tone, she doesn’t show it. “Isn’t Bayside the biggest trauma center in the region?” Sloane exhales. “It is.” A waitress approaches their table, and Ethan scoots back his chair. “I have to go. I’m sorry, Mom, that I don’t have more time.” He stands and moves around the table to plant another peck on his mother’s cheek. She smiles, patting his hand on her shoulder. “No problem. I understand.” “I’ll call you tomorrow and see if I have time to meet before you head back to the airport.” He shifts his attention to Sloane. “I don’t know what time I’ll be home.” Without waiting for her response, he turns and maneuvers through the crowded restaurant for the door. “What can I get for you two lovely ladies this evening?” their waitress asks. Sloane moves her spinach linguine around on her plate, too consumed with dread over Ethan’s earlier comments—and what they meant—to eat. Kay eyes Sloane’s full plate from across the table and sets down her fork, using her napkin in a most immaculate fashion. Sloane’s mind flashes back to the rickety dining room table at home with her mom. “You know, Roger and I went through some hard times in our marriage.” Sloane is tempted to smile, imagining what hard times she is referring to. Roger leaving his towel on the bathroom floor? A disagreement over which was the better private school to send their son to? Or where to go on vacation? “Roger cheated.” Sloane looks up from her pasta. Ethan always painted a picture of his parents having a happy union. To Sloane, they seemed to be one of the most genuinely happy couples that she had encountered. At Roger’s funeral, Kay seemed devastated. “With a young associate,” she continues. “It was right after I had Ethan.” “So how did you…?” “Move on?” Her eyes narrow, and she leans back in her chair. “I let the affair play out, knowing he’d get bored with her after a while. And he did. I saw them having an argument in Roger’s office not long after Christmas. We’d just returned from a family vacation in Aspen, where I’d made a point of reminding him of all that he would lose if we were to divorce. Soon after, she quit. Roger never knew that I knew.” This surprises Sloane. Not just Roger’s infidelity, but that a woman as strong as Kay could look past it. “But didn’t it bother you? I mean, how could you just look the other way?” Kay smiles. “It did. But I wasn’t going to let some young associate take away everything I had worked for. Everything that was mine. It took me a while to get over it, but once I


the few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the villagers almost as much as their master. "You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even as mine has." "Your sister is dead, then?" "She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady's house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion." Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and glanced across at his visitor. "Pray be precise as to details," said he. "It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott's, the second my sister's, and the third my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?" "Perfectly so." "The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o'clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back. "'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have


beating on his open mouth. Then he glanced behind him nervously. "Like that--" "--only louder, of course." "But I've done nothing," whispered Ralph, urgently. "I only wanted to keep up a fire!" He paused for a moment, thinking miserably of the morrow. A matter of overwhelming importance occurred to him. "What are you--?" He could not bring himself to be specific at first; but then fear and loneliness goaded him. "When they find me, what are they going to do?" The twins were silent. Beneath him, the death rock flowered again. "What are they--oh God! I'm hungry--" The towering rock seemed to sway under him. "Well--what--?" The twins answered his question indirectly. "You got to go now, Ralph." "For your own good." "Keep away. As far as you can." "Won't you come with me? Three of us--we'd stand a chance." After a moment's silence, Sam spoke in a strangled voice. "You don't know Roger. He's a terror." "And the chief--they're both--" "--terrors--" "--only Roger--" Both boys froze. Someone was climbing toward them from the tribe. "He's coming to see if we're keeping watch. Quick, Ralph!" As he prepared to let himself down the cliff, Ralph snatched at the last possible advantage to be wrung out of this meeting. "I'll lie up close; in that thicket down there," he whispered, "so keep them away from it. They'll never think to look so close--" The footsteps were still some distance away. "Sam--I'm going to be all right, aren't I?" The twins were silent again. "Here!" said Sam suddenly. "Take this--" Ralph felt a chunk of meat pushed against him and grabbed it. "But what are you going to do when you catch me?" Silence above. He sounded silly to himself. He lowered himself down the rock. "What are you going to do--?" From the top of the towering rock came the incomprehensible reply. "Roger sharpened a stick at both ends." Roger sharpened a stick at both ends. Ralph tried to attach a meaning to this but could not. He used all the bad words he could think of in a fit of temper that passed into yawning. How long could you go without sleep? He yearned for a bed and sheets--but the only whiteness here was the slow spilt milk, luminous round the rock forty feet below, where Piggy had fallen. Piggy was everywhere, was on this neck, was become terrible in darkness and death. If Piggy were to come back now out of the water, with his empty head--Ralph whimpered and yawned like a littlun. The stick in his hand became a crutch on which he reeled. Then he tensed again. There were voices raised on the top of the Castle Rock. Samneric were arguing with someone. But the ferns and the grass were near. That was the place to be in, hidden, and next to the thicket that would serve for tomorrow's hideout. Here--and his hands touched grass--was a place to be in for the night, not far from the tribe, so that if the horrors of the supernatural emerged one could


And the logistics of it. Had Benjamin and I been simultaneously plotting each other’s deaths? Or had he found out about Jesse’s and my plan to get rid of him and decided I needed to die? I almost saved him the trouble. If the police had arrived an hour later, I’d have been dead. The detective’s hand is steady on my arm. “Would you like to sit down?” I nod, let her lead me to the living room, where I sink into the sofa. Behind me, I hear Benjamin instructing Nate. “Call David Vega. Get him to meet me at the station.” And then he addresses the cops. “We’ll have this dismissed at arraignment, and you’ll have egg on your face.” I turn in my seat to watch the uniformed officer escorting my husband out the door. The whole scenario feels unbelievable, dreamlike. Moments ago, I had only one way out of my abusive marriage, and now my husband is being taken to jail. Something bubbles up inside me: optimism. Because if Benjamin is behind bars, he can no longer hurt me. I’ll be safe. And I’ll be free. As if he can read my mind, Benjamin calls back to me. “Don’t worry, Missy. I’ll be home soon.” Despite his pleasant tone, it is a warning. A threat. A visible shiver runs through me. French clocks it. “Don’t worry. He won’t be.” “Are you sure?” My voice is husky. “Is he going to jail?” “He’ll be processed and sent to holding,” she says. “He’ll likely be arraigned tomorrow. Given the seriousness of these charges, and his extensive resources, I’ll be surprised if he gets bail.” “You don’t know him,” I tell her. “He’s powerful. And connected. He’s a criminal defense lawyer!” My panic is building. Benjamin was planning to kill me. If he gets out, he will finish the job. I feel light-headed. Weak. Sick. The detective attempts to calm me. “You’ll be assigned a victim’s advocate to guide you through the legal process,” she says. “You’ll be kept informed of his release, if it happens.” If. It’s not good enough. “You might want to consider getting your own lawyer,” French says, her voice low and confidential. “This could get messy.” There’s no doubt about that. And I have no one else to lean on. No friends. No family. Benjamin has made sure of it. I can hardly reach out to my circle of acquaintances, the spouses of my husband’s colleagues. You may have heard Benjamin has been arrested for planning to murder me. Would you like to try that new wine bar on Pike? “Most people can’t afford it,” the cop adds, glancing around at our luxurious surroundings, “but it can make things a lot easier.” She thinks I am rich, for obvious reasons. But despite my fine home filled with expensive art and furnishings, I don’t have my own money. Benjamin gave me credit cards that I was allowed to use for clothes, groceries, and beauty treatments. I asked him for cash when I needed it, but he wouldn’t necessarily


across her face from the breeze as she leaned against the railing on the upper deck of the Bainbridge-Seattle ferry. Ethan admired the way her black sundress highlighted her slight curves perfectly, even in the waning daylight. He followed her gaze over the side at the calm, dark waters. “What do your parents think of you being a detective? They must be so proud.” She was looking at him when he turned toward her. He chuckled. “No.” He shook his head. “My dad was livid when I told him I had applied to become a cop after he put me through law school. He said he was upset he wasted all that money, but that wasn’t it. As a criminal defense attorney, he despised cops. I think he’d rather I had flunked out of high school than gone into law enforcement.” Sloane gazed at the few cars parked on the deck below. The ferry was nearly empty heading back to Seattle at this time of night. “I don’t think my mom is pleased either, but she’s kind enough to at least keep it to herself.” “That must be tough.” Ethan suddenly felt guilty for complaining. At least he had parents. “You managed to get through college and med school without having parents to support you. That couldn’t have been easy.” She shrugged. “I didn’t know any different.” Ethan admired her profile in the twilight. “I just kept focused on my end goal. I got my pre-med degree in three years while working a couple of after-hours jobs. The fact that it was hard actually kept me motivated.” She turned to face him. “The sooner I got through it, the sooner I could be a doctor, and start being the person I wanted to be. “Wow. I must sound pretty pathetic to complain about my parents. You’re incredible, you know that?” He looked into her dark eyes. “Being around you is inspiring. You make me want to be better.” Her long hair lifted in the wind behind her head as the ferry approached the Seattle waterfront pier. She smiled before gazing toward the city skyline beyond the water. “It gives you a different perspective being out here. I’m in this city every day, but I never get to view it like this. To take a step back and actually enjoy it.” His eyes were on her when she tilted her face toward him. The city was beautiful from the water, its lights brightening with the setting sun. But for Ethan, it was nothing compared to what it felt like to be standing next to Sloane. Enjoying it with her. “What city?” She laughed. “Ethan Marks, do these lines really work for you?” “I’m serious.” He’d never met anyone so beautiful and so smart. “Do you even have any flaws, doctor? There is something almost…superhuman about you.” She giggled before feigning a pensive expression. “Hmm. Superhuman. Yes, I get that all the time.” “I’m serious.” He moved closer to her. She grinned playfully. “So am I, detective.” “I was drawn to you the first


make it a vow. She held me there a moment, then whisked up her apron again with her detached hand. "Would you mind, miss, if I used the freedom--" "To kiss me? No!" I took the good creature in my arms and, after we had embraced like sisters, felt still more fortified and indignant. This, at all events, was for the time: a time so full that, as I recall the way it went, it reminds me of all the art I now need to make it a little distinct. What I look back at with amazement is the situation I accepted. I had undertaken, with my companion, to see it out, and I was under a charm, apparently, that could smooth away the extent and the far and difficult connections of such an effort. I was lifted aloft on a great wave of infatuation and pity. I found it simple, in my ignorance, my confusion, and perhaps my conceit, to assume that I could deal with a boy whose education for the world was all on the point of beginning. I am unable even to remember at this day what proposal I framed for the end of his holidays and the resumption of his studies. Lessons with me, indeed, that charming summer, we all had a theory that he was to have; but I now feel that, for weeks, the lessons must have been rather my own. I learned something-- at first, certainly--that had not been one of the teachings of my small, smothered life; learned to be amused, and even amusing, and not to think for the morrow. It was the first time, in a manner, that I had known space and air and freedom, all the music of summer and all the mystery of nature. And then there was consideration--and consideration was sweet. Oh, it was a trap--not designed, but deep--to my imagination, to my delicacy, perhaps to my vanity; to whatever, in me, was most excitable. The best way to picture it all is to say that I was off my guard. They gave me so little trouble-- they were of a gentleness so extraordinary. I used to speculate-- but even this with a dim disconnectedness--as to how the rough future (for all futures are rough!) would handle them and might bruise them. They had the bloom of health and happiness; and yet, as if I had been in charge of a pair of little grandees, of princes of the blood, for whom everything, to be right, would have to be enclosed and protected, the only form that, in my fancy, the afteryears could take for them was that of a romantic, a really royal extension of the garden and the park. It may be, of course, above all, that what suddenly broke into this gives the previous time a charm of stillness-- that hush in which something gathers or crouches. The change was actually like the spring of a beast. In the first weeks the days were long; they often, at their finest, gave me what I


nose-- What made you so awfully clever?' `I have answered three questions, and that is enough,' Said his father; `don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!' `That is not said right,' said the Caterpillar. `Not QUITE right, I'm afraid,' said Alice, timidly; `some of the words have got altered.' `It is wrong from beginning to end,' said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. `What size do you want to be?' it asked. `Oh, I'm not particular as to size,' Alice hastily replied; `only one doesn't like changing so often, you know.' `I DON'T know,' said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. `Are you content now?' said the Caterpillar. `Well, I should like to be a LITTLE larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind,' said Alice: `three inches is such a wretched height to be.' `It is a very good height indeed!' said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). `But I'm not used to it!' pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, `I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!' `You'll get used to it in time,' said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, `One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.' `One side of WHAT? The other side of WHAT?' thought Alice to herself. `Of the mushroom,' said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. `And now which is which?' she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot! She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she


to flutter and dance in the pan and the sputter of it filled the morning air with its aroma. The men watched this ritual silently. Granger looked into the fire. "Phoenix." "What?" "There was a silly damn bird called a Phoenix back before Christ: every few hundred years he built a pyre and burned himself up. He must have been first cousin to Man. But every time he burnt himself up he sprang out of the ashes, he got himself born all over again. And it looks like we're doing the same thing, over and over, but we've got one damn thing the Phoenix never had. We know the damn silly thing we just did. We know all the damn silly things we've done for a thousand years, and as long as we know that and always have it around where we can see it, some day we'll stop making the goddam funeral pyres and jumping into the middle of them. We pick up a few more people that remember, every generation." He took the pan off the fire and let the bacon cool and they ate it, slowly, thoughtfully. "Now, let's get on upstream," said Granger. "And hold on to one thought: You're not important. You're not anything. Some day the load we're carrying with us may help someone. But even when we had the books on hand, a long time ago, we didn't use what we got out of them. We went right on insulting the dead. We went right on spitting in the graves of all the poor ones who died before us. We're going to meet a lot of lonely people in the next week and the next month and the next year. And when they ask us what we're doing, you can say, We're remembering. That's where we'll win out in the long run. And some day we'll remember so much that we'll build the biggest goddam steam-shovel in history and dig the biggest grave of all time and shove war in and cover it up. Come on now, we're going to go build a mirror-factory first and put out nothing but mirrors for the next year and take a long look in them." They finished eating and put out the fire. The day was brightening all about them as if a pink lamp had been given more wick. In the trees, the birds that had flown away now came back and settled down. Montag began walking and after a moment found that the others had fallen in behind him, going north. He was surprised, and moved aside to let Granger pass, but Granger looked at him and nodded him on. Montag went ahead. He looked at the river and the sky and the rusting track going back down to where the farms lay, where the barns stood full of hay, where a lot of people had walked by in the night on their way from the city. Later, in a month or six months, and certainly not more than a year, he would walk along here


about for the right word. She couldn’t afford to be overheard. She wasn’t used to this sort of business at all. “Charm someone?” “Yes! The way only you could do it.” The silence was dreadful. Hephzibah took another cherry, examined it. “Not all actresses are tarts, you know,” she said. Winnie felt herself grow cold. “That’s not at all what I mean.” Hephzibah’s eyes flashed upward. “I don’t need money that badly. I’ve got money.” “Hephzibah...” “I’ve got any number of jobs coming.” Winnie sat forward in her chair. “Let me explain myself,” she said. Hephzibah snatched the program, held it up to the lamplight. “It’s a bad night tonight. Rough acts, top to bottom. You should’ve come on a Saturday. Then you’d see some talent. Not this rubbish.” “Hephzibah...” “If I ran this place, it would go like a dream. I’d write the bloody plays myself. I’ve got a great talent.” “I know.” “A rare talent. It deserves proper cultivation.” She sent another cherry stone bouncing into the bowl. Perfect aim. “It’s pretty rich, you marching in here, out of the blue. I haven’t heard from you for months.” Winnie opened her mouth. Closed it again. “I always write,” she said uneasily. “And I reply!” “Well,” said Winnie, not able to help herself, “you send me pictures of yourself.” Hephzibah shot her a look. “Picture postcards.” Winnie wilted. “Yes.” “Very fetching ones.” Sometimes the moment was presented to you, the window opened just a crack. Winnie forced herself not to be a coward. “Hephzibah. I’m so—” The words came in a rush. “I’m so enormously—sorry.” That face! Immaculate, the expression smoothing out, like the tide sweeping the sands. Hephzibah said nothing. Winnie remembered the day Hephzibah had left. Upped and vanished in the night, they said. Yet another runaway. It had infuriated everybody, Winnie included, who’d been left with the task of clearing out Hephzibah’s rubbish and sad, much-mended uniforms. Dinah King had laughed. “You know how she is,” she’d said. “She’s got dreams. She wants to be onstage.” They hadn’t asked any questions. Hephzibah crumpled the program in her hands, tossed it aside. Grabbed her glass of sherry, spilling a little over the brim. “If you weren’t so bloody pious,” she said, “and po-faced, then I shouldn’t get so annoyed with you. Honestly, it’s too bad. Every time you come plodding down to see me you just make me feel beastly. It brings everything up again. You do understand that, don’t you?” Winnie nodded. “I don’t mean to.” Hephzibah handed Winnie her own glass. “Here. Put some color in your cheeks. I can’t sit here and watch you sweating all night.” Winnie grasped it. “Thanks.” “So, tell me.” Winnie took a swig. “There’s something delicate we want you to do,” she said, feeling the burn in her throat. “We?” “Me and Dinah King.” Hephzibah’s eyes widened. Winnie raised a palm. “She doesn’t know, Hephzibah. On my honor, she doesn’t know a thing.” Hephzibah leaned back in her chair. “Lucky her. Go on, then.” 6 Twenty-three days to go Alice Parker


Joe said he was agreeable, and would take me, if Mrs. Joe approved. We never should have got leave to go, I am sure, but for Mrs. Joe's curiosity to know all about it and how it ended. As it was, she merely stipulated, "If you bring the boy back with his head blown to bits by a musket, don't look to me to put it together again." The sergeant took a polite leave of the ladies, and parted from Mr. Pumblechook as from a comrade; though I doubt if he were quite as fully sensible of that gentleman's merits under arid conditions, as when something moist was going. His men resumed their muskets and fell in. Mr. Wopsle, Joe, and I, received strict charge to keep in the rear, and to speak no word after we reached the marshes. When we were all out in the raw air and were steadily moving towards our business, I treasonably whispered to Joe, "I hope, Joe, we shan't find them." and Joe whispered to me, "I'd give a shilling if they had cut and run, Pip." We were joined by no stragglers from the village, for the weather was cold and threatening, the way dreary, the footing bad, darkness coming on, and the people had good fires in-doors and were keeping the day. A few faces hurried to glowing windows and looked after us, but none came out. We passed the finger-post, and held straight on to the churchyard. There, we were stopped a few minutes by a signal from the sergeant's hand, while two or three of his men dispersed themselves among the graves, and also examined the porch. They came in again without finding anything, and then we struck out on the open marshes, through the gate at the side of the churchyard. A bitter sleet came rattling against us here on the east wind, and Joe took me on his back. Now that we were out upon the dismal wilderness where they little thought I had been within eight or nine hours and had seen both men hiding, I considered for the first time, with great dread, if we should come upon them, would my particular convict suppose that it was I who had brought the soldiers there? He had asked me if I was a deceiving imp, and he had said I should be a fierce young hound if I joined the hunt against him. Would he believe that I was both imp and hound in treacherous earnest, and had betrayed him? It was of no use asking myself this question now. There I was, on Joe's back, and there was Joe beneath me, charging at the ditches like a hunter, and stimulating Mr. Wopsle not to tumble on his Roman nose, and to keep up with us. The soldiers were in front of us, extending into a pretty wide line with an interval between man and man. We were taking the course I had begun with, and from which I had diverged in the mist. Either the mist was


They continued on through the forest. Before long, Vic felt what they’d heard. It started with the hairs on his arms standing on end, moving up to his shoulders and neck before settling in his head. His teeth felt loose in their sockets, his tongue like sandpaper. It was electricity, a powerful current. And then he heard the hum. Constant and irritating, it filled his head with static. His breath caught in his chest as he saw a flash of white light through the trees, blinking once, twice, three times. He stopped when Hap grabbed his arm. He looked back. “What?” Hap shook his head. “Just … be c-careful.” Hap’s forehead was scrunched up, his eyes narrowed. He didn’t let go of Vic’s arm as they moved toward the light and sound. His skin—strange, Vic thought to himself, how real it felt, how like his own even with the wood—was cool. They stopped at the tree line. Vic couldn’t understand what he was seeing, not in any real, clear way. Later, he’d blame the electricity, believing that it clouded his mind, making it nearly impossible for him to grasp the sight before them. He’d never seen such a thing before, though he’d known it existed. Seeing it was something else entirely, and he was at a loss for words. “What is it?” Rambo asked from off to his right. “The road,” Nurse Ratched said. “It is the road.” It stretched in either direction as far as Vic could see. The surface was flat, black, and bisected with white, glowing lines. On the other side of the road, towering at least ten feet above it, were black metal pylons, the tops of which curved inward, blue lights blinking in a row. The air between the pylons shimmered; the electrical current grew louder, causing Vic to stretch his jaw, the joints popping. His helmet slid down on his head. He pushed it back up, wincing at the static shock at the tips of his fingers. “Whoa,” Rambo said, sensors brighter than Vic had ever seen. “It’s so loud. It makes me feel like I could go as fast as I could forever.” He started toward it, but Hap let Vic go and scooped Rambo up, wheels still spinning, spindly arms reaching. “N-no,” Hap said. “D-don’t.” “What? Why? I want to touch it.” Hap shook his head. “It will h-hurt you.” Rambo stopped struggling. “It will? How do you know?” “Watch.” Hap set him down on the ground. He walked toward the road, each step careful. He stopped a few feet away from the nearest pylon. Vic watched as he crouched down and picked up a thin metal bar, the edges worn and cracked. It looked as if it’d broken off whatever it’d been attached to. He stood back up, tapping the bar against the wood of his other hand. The sound was muted under the hum of the current. He threw the bar at the road. It never touched the ground. Instead, electricity snapped and snarled, arcing blue and sending a shower of sparks


Bunny chuckled. “She can help us modernize the ‘Babes in Toyland’ number.” She jumped to her feet. “We can add some of her signature moves.” Bunny executed a series of Graham-esque upper body contractions and releases, while her feet tapped away at the familiar choreography. Beulah, who’d been watching, put her hands on the keyboard and layered in the music, which made it even more ridiculous. The other dancers laughed and clapped and demanded more. “Go on,” said Bunny, holding out a hand to Marion. “Your turn.” Marion needed to shake off the manic energy coursing through her veins before rehearsals began or she’d overdo it and further frustrate Russell. She rose and thought for a moment. She began with the stiff, regimented moves of the wooden soldiers, but then, without warning, broke into a loose, Gwen Verdon–style slink. Beulah picked up the melody right away, giving it an extra kick as Marion snapped back and forth between the steps they knew so well and an improvised movement that came out of nowhere. She allowed her body to go wherever it wanted instead of submitting to Russell’s strict choreography. She shimmied and let her hips shake as the other dancers cried out with glee. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the two strangers were watching her intently. Probably not what they expected when they arranged to see a Rockettes rehearsal, but Marion was tired of caring what everyone else thought. She finished up with a mash-up of movements, going from Fosse to Balanchine to Jerome Robbins, drawing on everything she’d learned during her years of training and the performances she’d seen in New York. By then, even the normally straight-faced Beulah was having a hard time keeping up, practically doubled over in laughter. For the grand finale, Bunny joined Marion and they broke out into the kick line from the opening number. “What’s going on in here?” With a crash, Bunny went down hard onto the floor. Russell and Emily stood in the doorway, Russell looking as angry as Marion had ever seen him, his eyes dark with fury. But she didn’t have time to answer. She knelt next to where Bunny sat cradling her ankle. “Well, that was silly of me,” said Bunny, grimacing with pain. “Oh, no,” Marion cried. “Are you all right?” Russell rushed over and leaned down to gently grasp Bunny’s ankle. After a quick examination, he motioned for Emily to help her up, then enlisted one of the assistants to take Bunny’s other side. “Take her to the infirmary. I think it’s just a sprain, but you’re not dancing today.” He glared at Marion. “You two should know better. I’m very disappointed.” The thought of disappointing the sweet man who’d given her the greatest chance in her life was almost worse than disappointing her father. “I’ll go with her to the infirmary,” offered Marion. “That’s not necessary. Step outside with me for a moment, Marion, please.” Marion followed him into the hallway like a schoolgirl who’d been caught cheating. Certainly, this was the


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

and drawers, but at last I managed to turn out what I sought; the box label called them lambswool pants, and lambswool vests. Then socks, a thick comforter, and then I went to the clothing place and got trousers, a lounge jacket, an overcoat and a slouch hat --a clerical sort of hat with the brim turned down. I began to feel a human being again, and my next thought was food. "Upstairs was a refreshment department, and there I got cold meat. There was coffee still in the urn, and I lit the gas and warmed it up again, and altogether I did not do badly. Afterwards, prowling through the place in search of blankets--I had to put up at last with a heap of down quilts--I came upon a grocery section with a lot of chocolate and candied fruits, more than was good for me indeed--and some white burgundy. And near that was a toy department, and I had a brilliant idea. I found some artificial noses--dummy noses, you know, and I thought of dark spectacles. But Omniums had no optical department. My nose had been a difficulty indeed--I had thought of paint. But the discovery set my mind running on wigs and masks and the like. Finally I went to sleep on a heap of down quilts, very warm and comfortable. "My last thoughts before sleeping were the most agreeable I had had since the change. I was in a state of physical serenity, and that was reflected in my mind. I thought that I should be able to slip out unobserved in the morning with my clothes upon me, muffling my face with a white wrapper I had taken, purchase, with the money I had taken, spectacles and so forth, and so complete my disguise. I lapsed into disorderly dreams of all the fantastic things that had happened during the last few days. I saw the ugly little Jew of a landlord vociferating in his rooms; I saw his two sons marvelling, and the wrinkled old woman's gnarled face as she asked for her cat. I experienced again the strange sensation of seeing the cloth disappear, and so I came round to the windy hillside and the sniffing old clergyman mumbling 'Dust to dust, earth to earth,' and my father's open grave. "'You also,' said a voice, and suddenly I was being forced towards the grave. I struggled, shouted, appealed to the mourners, but they continued stonily following the service; the old clergyman, too, never faltered droning and sniffing through the ritual. I realised I was invisible and inaudible, that overwhelming forces had their grip on me. I struggled in vain, I was forced over the brink, the coffin rang hollow as I fell upon it, and the gravel came flying after me in spadefuls. Nobody heeded me, nobody was aware of me. I made convulsive struggles and awoke. "The pale London dawn had come, the place was full of a chilly grey light that filtered round the edges of the window blinds. I sat up, and for


rights, which men of enlightened humanity and conscience should regard in so much the more liberal spirit, because the bulk of society is prone to controvert their existence. An almost spiritual medium, like the electric telegraph, should be consecrated to high, deep, joyful, and holy missions. Lovers, day by, day--hour by hour, if so often moved to do it,--might send their heart-throbs from Maine to Florida, with some such words as these `I love you forever!' --`My heart runs over with love!'--`I love you more than I can!' and, again, at the next message 'I have lived an hour longer, and love you twice as much!' Or, when a good man has departed, his distant friend should be conscious of an electric thrill, as from the world of happy spirits, telling him 'Your dear friend is in bliss!' Or, to an absent husband, should come tidings thus `An immortal being, of whom you are the father, has this moment come from God!' and immediately its little voice would seem to have reached so far, and to be echoing in his heart. But for these poor rogues, the bank-robbers,--who, after all, are about as honest as nine people in ten, except that they disregard certain formalities, and prefer to transact business at midnight rather than 'Change-hours, --and for these murderers, as you phrase it, who are often excusable in the motives of their deed, and deserve to be ranked among public benefactors, if we consider only its result,--for unfortunate individuals like these, I really cannot applaud the enlistment of an immaterial and miraculous power in the universal world-hunt at their heels!" "You can't, hey?" cried the old gentleman, with a hard look. "Positively, no!" answered Clifford. "It puts them too miserably at disadvantage. For example, sir, in a dark, low, cross-beamed, panelled room of an old house, let us suppose a dead man, sitting in an arm-chair, with a blood-stain on his shirt-bosom, --and let us add to our hypothesis another man, issuing from the house, which he feels to be over-filled with the dead man's presence,--and let us lastly imagine him fleeing, Heaven knows whither, at the speed of a hurricane, by railroad! Now, sir, if the fugutive alight in some distant town, and find all the people babbling about that self-same dead man, whom he has fled so far to avoid the sight and thought of, will you not allow that his natural rights have been infringed? He has been deprived of his city of refuge, and, in my humble opinion, has suffered infinite wrong!" "You are a strange man; sir" said the old gentleman, bringing his gimlet-eye to a point on Clifford, as if determined to bore right into him. "I can't see through you!" "No, I'll be bound you can't!" cried Clifford, laughing. "And yet, my dear sir, I am as transparent as the water of Maule's well! But come, Hepzibah! We have flown far enough for once. Let us alight, as the birds do, and perch ourselves on the nearest twig, and consult wither we shall fly next!"


trying to sleep with you. I have a lover. And other lovers. I don’t need to make a play for a straight woman who doesn’t wear a wedding ring.” “I don’t wear it when I work,” Maud said. “Uh-huh,” Alice said. They went back to eating in silence until Alice looked over at her contemplatively and said, “Have you ever slept with a woman?” “Not completely.” “What, just waist-up? Wearing a blindfold?” “A couple of make-out sessions,” Maud said. “Liberal arts college experimentation.” It was embarrassing to remember how liberated she’d felt at the time. She set her bowl on her lap. “How does it work? Having a lover and other lovers?” Alice was picking a piece of kale from her teeth. “My partner and I sleep with other people.” “I mean emotionally.” “It works well.” Alice looked at her as if she’d asked an unanswerable question. “It’s not a problem when it’s not a problem.” Back in the car, Maud looked at her phone and saw that Ella had texted: Threw up in science. Have a fever. Throat hurts. Nurse says pick me up. Below was a text from Peter. Can you get Ella? And another text, a half-hour later. I’ll do it. Sorry I missed your messages, she texted them both. Working. Peter replied. We’re home. I was in a meeting. Have to leave ASAP. You coming? Driving back, Maud thought about Alice’s romantic arrangement. A lover and other lovers. She’d never considered talking to Peter about an open marriage, even though each of them had opened the door on their own. An open marriage had worked well for Virginia and Leonard Woolf—she used to marvel at their partnership—but they hadn’t had children. And Peter was nothing like Leonard. When she arrived at the house, he came down the steps as she came up. “Hoping I’ll make it,” he said and yanked open his car door. Inside, Ella sat in bed with a popsicle. Maud put her hand on her forehead, which didn’t feel too hot. “My throat’s on fire and Dad’s pissed,” Ella said. Ignoring the comment, Maud plumped the pillows. “I thought I was going to sit in the nurse’s office all day,” Ella said. “It was only an hour,” Maud said. “It turned out okay, didn’t it?” Going back down the hall, she was annoyed with Peter, with both of them, really, for acting as if she’d done something wrong by being caught up in her work, as Peter always was. She measured out a capful of cold medicine and brought Ella a glass of orange juice. When Ella’s fever rose again, she took her to the doctor’s office for a strep test. The test positive, she ran to the pharmacy for antibiotics after dropping Louise at soccer practice. Standing in line for the bottle of pink medicine, she thought about Juana Briones losing three of her children in the same month, one after the other, from illnesses that Ella and Louise were vaccinated against. She let her ruminations about open marriage go. Gratitude, she thought, handing


in my eyes, overwhelmed to be at a show with hundreds of people who were likely on the same arthritis medication I am. 7. “I’ll Back You Up” most romantic lyric, to me: “Do as you please, I’ll back you up” This is all I want. Someone to tell me to do whatever I want no matter what and even if it’s reckless or horrible they’ll still be there to have my back. No one will ever tell me this because I am not to be trusted. I would try to commit some kind of low-stakes crime and immediately turn to Dave, like: “Did you really mean what you said in that song on 1993’s certified-platinum album Remember Two Things, or were you lying?” Me, brandishing the keys to the getaway car: “I dissected every single song on that mixtape you made me, get your ass up and help me rob this goddamn bank.” 8. “Say Goodbye” (might be too depressing to bone to, not for me though) most romantic lyric, to me: “Lovers for a night, lovers for tonight” THIS SONG IS SO HORNY, and that’s hilarious because dude is literally saying, over and over and over again, “Hey, friend, I would love to bone you, I’m feeling wild, sexy sex sex, but just for tonight because tomorrow we’re saying goodbye.” Tonight? Lovers. :) Tomorrow? FRIENDS. :( It’s so funny and honest and literally the way dirtbag men are in real life, which is as rare a thing to find in a pop song as it is when some dude is unbuckling his belt on your couch. He will have his tongue buried in your asshole up to your fucking pancreas saying, “We’re just friends, right?” He’ll be flipping you on the mattress like a pancake and pause with you in midair like, “I don’t want to be tied down in a relationship, this is just for fun, okay?” It’s infuriating in practice but hilarious in song form, a man crooning about smoking you down and loving you up in his sweetest coo and then at the end being like…tonight only, though. * * * — If I made music this is the kind of music I would make. I don’t mean jam-band-y saxophone solo music, I mean sensitive songs full of howling and begging. In my singer-songwriter phase in my teens (I’m still in that phase, quit playing), I daydreamed I was gonna get a guitar, somehow develop the patience to learn how to play it, then travel around singing my little plaintive songs in smoky coffeehouses as people sitting cross-legged on dusty fake Persian rugs wept into their cappuccinos, even though I had no idea what a cappuccino even was. I thought that I, a person who requires three different soaps in the shower and very specific bedsheets, was gonna stuff a backpack full of drugstore underwear and Salvation Army jeans into whatever kind of terrible used car I could afford and drive around the country playing open mics and sleeping, where, in a hostel? Little Miss Allergies and


confirmed. Stand by for contact fix." There was a pause, then: "Contact in twenty-six minutes minus. That was a sharp estimate. Who's on that unlisted flight? Over." Halleck had his harness off and surged forward between Kynes and the Duke. "Is this the regular working frequency, Kynes?" "Yes. Why?" "Who'd be listening?" "Just the work crews in this area. Cuts down interference." Again, the speaker crackled, then: "This is Delta Ajax niner. Who gets bonus credit for that spot? Over." Halleck glanced at the Duke. Kynes said: "There's a bonus based on spice load for whoever gives first worm warning. They want to know--" "Tell them who had first sight of that worm," Halleck said. The Duke nodded. Kynes hesitated, then lifted the microphone; "Spotter credit to the Duke Leto Atreides. The Duke Leto Atreides. Over." The voice from the speaker was flat and partly distorted by a burst of static: "We read and thank you." "Now, tell them to divide the bonus among themselves," Halleck ordered. "Tell them it's the Duke's wish." Kynes took a deep breath, then: "It's the Duke's wish that you divide the bonus among your crew. Do you read? Over." "Acknowledged and thank you," the speaker said. The Duke said: "I forgot to mention that Gurney is also very talented in public relations." Kynes turned a puzzled frown on Halleck. "This lets the men know their Duke is concerned for their safety," Halleck said. "Word will get around. It was on an area working frequency--not likely Harkonnen agents heard." He glanced out at their air cover. "And we're a pretty strong force. It was a good risk." The Duke banked their craft toward the sandcloud erupting from the factory crawler. "What happens now?" "There's a carryall wing somewhere close," Kynes said. "It'll come in and lift off the crawler." "What if the carryall's wrecked?" Halleck asked. "Some equipment is lost," Kynes said. "Get in close over the crawler, my Lord; you'll find this interesting." The Duke scowled, busied himself with the controls as they came into turbulent air over the crawler. Paul looked down, saw sand still spewing out of the metal and plastic monster beneath them. It looked like a great tan and blue beetle with many wide tracks extending on arms around it. He saw a giant inverted funnel snout poked into dark sand in front of it. "Rich spice bed by the color," Kynes said. "They'll continue working until the last minute." The Duke fed more power to the wings, stiffened them for a steeper descent as he settled lower in a circling glide above the crawler. A glance left and right showed his cover holding altitude and circling overhead. Paul studied the yellow cloud belching from the crawler's pipe vents, looked out over the desert at the approaching worm track. "Shouldn't we be hearing them call in the carryall?" Halleck asked. "They usually have the wing on a different frequency," Kynes said. "Shouldn't they have two carryalls standing by for every crawler?" the Duke asked. "There should be twenty-six men on that machine


flush of his cheeks, the mirth in his eyes. He was quite distracting, and she panted, “Are you trying … to tempt me to … press onward, like you’re some … metaphorical carrot?” He laughed. The sound went through her like static, down to her toes. “If only I were. Do we need to stop?” Yes. “No.” “Good. You have twenty more seconds. Deep breaths through your belly, Winnow. Not your chest.” She bared her teeth against the discomfort and strove to breathe as he had instructed. It was difficult when her lungs were heaving beyond her control. I am not doing this torture tomorrow, she thought over and over. A chant to carry her up the rest of the hill. I am not— “Tell me what you think of this place,” he said, not two seconds later. “Do you like Avalon Bluff?” “I can’t run and chat, Kitt!” “When I’m done training you, you’ll be able to.” “Who says … I’m doing this … tomorrow?” Gods, she felt like she was about to die. “This does,” he said, at last turning around to lead her the rest of the way up the hill. “Your backside?” she growled, helplessly studying it. “No, Winnow,” he tossed over his shoulder. “This view.” He came to a stop on the crest of the hill. Iris watched the sun gild his body. The light hit her two breaths later, when she reached the top at his side. Hands on her knees, she fought to calm her heart, sweat dripping down her back. But when she could stand upright, she reveled in the view. The fog was melting in the valleys. A river meandered through a field. The dew glittered like gemstones on the grass. The land seemed to roll on and on forever, idyllic as a dream, and Iris shielded her eyes, wondering where the road would take them if they kept running. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. And how strange to know this view had been here all along, and she had failed to see it. Roman was quiet at her side, and they stood like that for a few moments. Soon, her heart was steady and her lungs calm. Her legs felt a bit shaky, and she knew she’d be sore tomorrow. “Winnow?” he said, glancing at his watch with a frown. “What’s wrong, Kitt?” “We have exactly five minutes to get back to Marisol’s.” “What?” “We’ll have to run the whole way to make it by eight, but it’s mostly downhill.” “Kitt!” He began to jog the route they had come, and Iris had no choice but to chase after him, ankles sore as her boots hit the cobblestones. Oh, she was going to kill him. They were late by seven minutes. {28} A Divine Rival Dear Iris, Last night, I had a dream. I was standing in the middle of Broad Street in Oath, and it was raining. You walked past me; I knew it was you the moment your shoulder brushed mine. But when I tried to call your name, no sound


I was struck again by the beauty of it all. As in the state room, I felt as if

I’d never seen a palace before. These gardens, I thought, they’re paradise.

Why can’t we just enjoy them?

I was braced for a lecture. It didn’t come. Willy was subdued. He

wanted to listen. For the first time in a long time my brother heard me out,

and I was so grateful.

I told him about one past staff member sabotaging Meg. Plotting against

her. I told him about one current staff member, whose close friend was

taking payments for leaking private stuff to the press about Meg and me.

413

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

My sources on this were above reproach, including several journalists and

barristers. Plus, I’d made a visit to New Scotland Yard.

Willy frowned. He and Kate had their own suspicions. He’d look into it.

We agreed to keep talking.

76.

| ese INTO THE car and was immediately told that a strongly worded

denial had been put out by the Palace, squashing that morning’s

bullying story. The denial was signed by none other than...me. And Willy.

My name attached by faceless others to words I’d never even seen—let

alone approved? I was stunned.

I went back to Frogmore. From there, remotely, over the next few days,

I took part in the drafting of a final statement, which went out January 18,

2020.

The Palace announced that The Duke and Duchess of Sussex had

agreed to “step back,” that we’d no longer “formally” represent the Queen,

that our HRH titles would be in “abeyance” during this transitional year—

and that we’d offered to re1mburse the Sovereign Grant for refurbishments

to Frogmore Cottage.

A firm “no comment” on the status of our security.

I flew back to Vancouver. Delicious reunion with Meg, Archie and the

dogs. And yet, for a few days, I didn’t feel fully back. Part of me was still

in Britain. Still at Sandringham. I spent hours


sore as her boots hit the cobblestones. Oh, she was going to kill him. They were late by seven minutes. {28} A Divine Rival Dear Iris, Last night, I had a dream. I was standing in the middle of Broad Street in Oath, and it was raining. You walked past me; I knew it was you the moment your shoulder brushed mine. But when I tried to call your name, no sound emerged. When I hurried to follow you, you quickened your steps. Soon, the rain fell harder, and you slipped away from me. I never saw your face, but I knew it was you. It was only a dream, but it has unquieted me. Write to me and tell me how you are. Yours, —C. P.S. Yes, hello. I’m able to write again, so expect my letters to flood your floor. Dear Carver, I can’t even begin to describe how happy I was to discover your letter had arrived. I hope everything is well with you in Oath, as well as whatever required your attention the past week. Dare I say I missed you? An odd dream, indeed. But there’s no need to worry. I’m quite well. I think I would like to see you in a dream, although I still try to imagine your appearance by day and often fail. Perhaps you can grant me a few more hints? Oh, I have news to share with you! My rival from a previous employment has shown up as a fellow correspondent, just like a weed. I’m not sure why he’s here, although I think it’s to try and prove that his writing is far superior to mine. All of this to say … his arrival has caused a stir, and I’m not sure what to do with him being next door. Also, I have more letters transcribed for soldiers. I’m sending them to you—there are more than usual, given that we just recently had an influx of wounded brought into the infirmary— and I’m hoping you can drop them in the post. Thank you in advance for doing this for me! In the meantime, tell me how you are. How is your nan? I just realized that I have no inkling what you do for a living, or even for fun. Are you a student at university? Are you working somewhere? Tell me something about you. Love, Iris They had planted the garden but had completely forgotten to water it. Marisol grimaced when she realized this. “I don’t even want to know what Keegan will think of me,” she said, hand on her forehead as she stared at the crooked rows Iris and Attie had made. “My wife is fighting on the front lines and I can’t even do something as simple as water a garden.” “Keegan will be impressed that you instructed two city girls who have never tilled or planted or tended a garden to help you. And the seeds will be fine,” Attie said, but then quietly added, “won’t they?” “Yes, but they won’t germinate without water. The


antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the same useful diamond shaped bits left inn sheets when the lids of preserve pots were cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels. No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart's content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were Jo's chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society. On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the OPERATIC TRAGEDY began. "A gloomy wood," according to the one playbill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus for walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black pot on it and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred to Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo's voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding, "What ho, minion! I need thee!" Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and


brave as you, Minnie,’ Josie said, linking her arm through Minnie Moore’s. ‘Or as clever.’ Lindy linked the other arm. ‘You’ll go off to the grammar next year and leave us behind at the secondary modern.’ ‘My dad says I can’t go.’ Minnie spat on the ground and rubbed it into the tarmac with her plimsoll. ‘He says it’s a waste of money for a girl.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t care. I’ll go anyway.’ ‘Even Terrible Thomas said you’re exceptionally bright.’ Josie said. ‘I am. But I’m not singing “Shenandoah” again, whether old Thomas is our teacher or not.’ Minnie frowned. ‘He can cane me all he likes. And I’m going to tell him to stop caning Kenny Hooper and making him cry. It’s not fair.’ ‘Ugh, Kenny…’ Lindy pulled a face. ‘He’s weird.’ ‘He’s not weird, he just sees things differently,’ Minnie said, picking at the threads on her second-hand pinafore dress. ‘One day, people will say he’s a genius.’ She sighed. ‘I hope they have some new books on the library shelf. I read all the Famous Five books three times last year. Can’t they get some Greek myths or some Shakespeare?’ An infants’ teacher came out into the playground, a woman in a long skirt, her hair in a roll, to clang a hand bell loudly. ‘We’d better go in,’ Josie murmured. ‘Then we’ll find out who our teacher is…’ ‘I hope it’s someone who can teach,’ Minnie grumbled. ‘Someone who won’t keep making us bloody sing – or dance with silly boys. I tell everyone Fergal Toomey’s my country dancing partner because he doesn’t come to school half the time and I get to sit out and read.’ ‘I hope we get someone who can keep Dickie Edwards under control…’ Lindy cringed at the thought. ‘He scares me a bit, to be honest.’ ‘He doesn’t scare me. We stick together.’ Minnie pulled a face. ‘That’s how it’s going to be. I don’t care about old Thomas and Dickie Edwards and smelly Jimmy Baker. We’ll make this the best year yet.’ The three friends walked through the door marked ‘Girls’. They crossed the hall that always stank of stewed cabbage, sweet pink custard and sweaty plimsolls. It smelled different today, a sharp whiff of too much polish and disinfectant. They made their way towards the classroom, taking their seats one behind the other. Most children were already there. Minnie went to sit at the front. She twisted round and winked as Lindy and Josie took the desks behind. Kenny Hooper sat down with a thump, looking around nervously. Dickie Edwards flopped behind him and flicked Kenny’s ears, causing him to yelp. Then they heard the clack of heels, and a new teacher walked into the room. The class was quiet, studying the calm woman who stood before them. She wore a fitted blue dress with a swirling skirt and blue shoes with pointed toes. Her hair fell in blonde waves to her shoulders. Her fingernails and lips were painted red. She looked like a film star. She smiled, and