drawn onto the jumbo map, falsely projecting that the hurricane would continue onward into Alabama. The storm track had been doctored. It was widely suspected Trump had drawn the bubble, though it couldn’t be verified. I spoke to two people present in the White House that day and involved in the meeting. Both confirmed that Trump did, in fact, adjust the forecast himself. The president overruled the government’s extreme-weather experts with a Sharpie. As the White House got mocked, Trump got angrier. He directed NOAA to draft a press release saying that he’d been correct. The agency hastily issued an unsigned statement admitting there were earlier “probabilities” that Alabama might be affected by winds. Incredibly, the statement didn’t say anything to emphasize the fact that the state was no longer in danger. Television commentators thought the back-and-forth was comical. Trump’s appointee at NOAA, Tim Gallaudet, was furious. He hadn’t been consulted on the president’s statements or his agency’s press release. “The hurricane track influences emergency management responses to what can be multibillion-dollar damages,” he told me. “It was so reckless and so dangerous for him to politicize it.” Alabama was spared by the storm, while the weather service was roiled. A top NWS official emailed agency leaders in the aftermath: “Employees now fear for [their] jobs and are questioning whether they should post potentially life-saving info or check tweets first.” Gallaudet agreed, writing back to the NWS chief operating officer: “I’m having a hard time not departing the pattern right now”—military parlance for quitting. Some of his top scientists threatened to resign, too. “They were distraught,” he said. I asked the retired admiral what would happen if there was another MAGA presidency. “That shit will be commonplace,” he sighed. “There will be a mass exodus from science agencies.” People I spoke with predicted widespread career resignations under another MAGA presidency. The result will be a younger civil service without the knowledge, experience, or wherewithal to run government agencies. White House appointees will be forced to fill in the gaps as a result. In a hurricane, for instance, you might have inexperienced political operatives trying to handle the crisis instead of experts. Mass resignations will be made worse by mass recriminations. A future MAGA president will purge careerists who dare to dissent against the commander in chief. Trump put such a plan in place in October 2020, issuing an executive order that would have allowed him to fire tens of thousands of career officials using an authority called “Schedule F.” Through an obscure administrative power, the order would have enabled the president to strip large parts of the federal workforce of their employment protections. As a result, they could be fired without appeal. Top Republicans have praised Schedule F. Axios reporter Jonathan Swan expertly documented how the plan was concocted and the enthusiasm for it among MAGA figures. Former secretary of state Mike Pompeo told Axios that “Schedule F was a step in the right direction… [to] hold the D.C. bureaucracy accountable”; Texas senator Ted Cruz applauded the Trump team for “thinking creatively”


They just stared at the dark hulk of the old wreck, imagining what they might find. Then Julian clutched George's arm and pressed it tightly. "Isn't this wonderful?" he said. "Oh, George, isn't it an extraordinary thing to happen?" Still George said nothing, but stared at the wreck, all kinds of thoughts racing through her mind. Then she turned to Julian. "If only the wreck is still mine now it's thrown up like this!" she said. "I don't know if wrecks belong to the queen or anyone, like lost treasure does. But after all, the ship did belong to our family. Nobody bothered much about it when it was down under the sea- but do you suppose people will still let me have it for my own now it's thrown up?" "Well, don't let's tell anyone!" said Dick. "Don't be silly," said George. "One of the fishermen is sure to see it when his ship goes slipping out of the bay. The news will soon be out." "Well then, we'd better explore it thoroughly ourselves before anyone else does!" said Dick, eagerly. "No one knows about it yet. Only us. Can't we explore it as soon as the waves go down a bit?" "We can't wade out to the rocks, if that's what you mean," said George. "We might get there by boat- but we couldn't possibly risk it now, while the waves are so big. They won't go down today, that's certain. The wind is still too strong." "Well, what about tomorrow morning, early?" said Julian. "Before anyone has got to know about it? I bet if only we can get into the ship first, we can find anything there is to find!" "Yes, I expect we could," said George. "I told you divers had been down and explored the ship as thoroughly as they could- but of course it is difficult to do that properly under water. We might find something they've missed. Oh, this is like a dream. I can't believe it's true that my old wreck has come up from the bottom of the sea like that!" The sun was now properly out, and the children's wet clothes dried in its hot rays. They steamed in the sun, and even Tim's coat sent up a mist too. He didn't seem to like the wreck at all, but growled deeply at it. "You are funny, Tim," said George, patting him. "It won't hurt you! What do you think it is?" "He probably thinks it's a whale," said Anne with a laugh. "Oh, George- this is the most exciting day of my life! Oh, can't we possibly take the boat and see if we can get to the wreck?" "No, we can't," said George. "I only wish we could. But it's quite impossible, Anne. For one thing I don't think the wreck has quite settled down on the rocks yet, and maybe it won't till the tide has gone down. I can see it lifting a little still when an extra big wave comes. It would be dangerous to go


need promotional materials from me. There’s a short pause. Emily clicks and double-clicks her pen. “So then the other thing we wanted to ask you is, uh, positioning.” I realize I’m supposed to answer. “Right—sorry, what do you mean?” She and Jessica exchange a glance. “Well, the thing is, this novel is set in large part in China,” says Jessica. “And given the recent conversations about, you know—” “Cultural authenticity,” Emily jumps in. “I don’t know if you follow some of the conversations online. Book bloggers and book Twitter accounts can be pretty . . . picky about things these days . . .” “We just want to get ahead of any potential blowups,” says Jessica. “Or pile-ons, as it were.” “I did hours and hours of research,” I say. “It’s not like I, you know, wrote from stereotypes; this isn’t that kind of book—” “Of course,” Emily says smoothly. “But you’re . . . that is, you are not . . .” I see what she’s getting at. “I am not Chinese,” I say curtly. “If that’s what you’re asking. It’s not ‘own voices,’ or whatever you want to call it. Is that a problem?” “No, no, not at all, we’re just covering our bases. And you’re not . . . anything else?” Emily winces the moment those words leave her mouth, like she knows she shouldn’t have said that. “I am white,” I clarify. “Are you saying we’ll get in trouble because I wrote this story and I’m white?” I immediately regret phrasing it like that. I’m being too blunt, too defensive; wearing my insecurities on my sleeve. Both Emily and Jessica begin blinking very quickly, glancing at each other as if hoping the other will speak first. “Of course not,” Emily says finally. “Of course, anyone should be able to tell any kind of story. We’re just thinking about how to position you so that readers trust the work.” “Well, they can trust the work,” I say. “They can trust the words on the page. The blood and sweat that went into telling the story.” “No, of course,” says Emily. “And we don’t mean to invalidate that.” “Of course not,” says Jessica. “Again, we think anyone should be able to tell any kind of story.” “We’re not censors. That’s not our culture here at Eden.” “Right.” Emily then shifts the conversation to where I’m based, where I might be up to travel, etc. The meeting fizzles out pretty quickly after that, before I’ve gotten a chance to get my bearings back. Emily and Jessica tell me again how excited they are about the book, how wonderful it was to meet me, and how they can’t wait to keep working with me. Then they’re gone, and I’m staring at an empty screen. I feel awful. I shoot off an email to Brett, airing out all my anxieties. He responds an hour later, assuring me not to worry. They just want to be clear, he says. On how exactly they can position me. As it turns out, they want to position


was just so. Janie felt glad of the thought, for then it wouldn’t seem so destructive and mouldy. She wouldn’t be lonely anymore. Janie and Logan got married in Nanny’s parlor of a Sat- urday evening with three cakes and big platters of fried rab- bit and chicken. Everything to eat in abundance. Nanny and Mrs. Washburn had seen to that. But nobody put anything on 26 Zora Neale Hurston the seat of Logan’s wagon to make it ride glorious on the way to his house. It was a lonesome place like a stump in the middle of the woods where nobody had ever been. The house was absent of flavor, too. But anyhow Janie went on inside to wait for love to begin. The new moon had been up and down three times before she got worried in mind. Then she went to see Nanny in Mrs. Washburn’s kitchen on the day for beaten biscuits. Nanny beamed all out with gladness and made her come up to the bread board so she could kiss her. “Lawd a’mussy, honey, Ah sho is glad tuh see mah chile! G’wan inside and let Mis’ Washburn know youse heah. Umph! Umph! Umph! How is dat husband uh yourn?” Janie didn’t go in where Mrs. Washburn was. She didn’t say anything to match up with Nanny’s gladness either. She just fell on a chair with her hips and sat there. Between the biscuits and her beaming pride Nanny didn’t notice for a minute. But after a while she found the conversation getting lonesome so she looked up at Janie. “Whut’s de matter, sugar? You ain’t none too spry dis mornin’.” “Oh, nothin’ much, Ah reckon. Ah come to get a lil infor- mation from you.” The old woman looked amazed, then gave a big clatter of laughter. “Don’t tell me you done got knocked up already, less see—dis Saturday it’s two month and two weeks.” “No’m, Ah don’t think so anyhow.” Janie blushed a little. “You ain’t got nothin’ to be shamed of, honey, youse uh Their Eyes Were Watching God 27 married ’oman. You got yo’ lawful husband same as Mis’ Washburn or anybody else!” “Ah’m all right dat way. Ah know ’tain’t nothin’ dere.” “You and Logan been fussin’? Lawd, Ah know dat grassgut, liver-lipted nigger ain’t done took and beat mah baby already! Ah’ll take a stick and salivate ’im!” “No’m, he ain’t even talked ’bout hittin’ me. He says he never mean to lay de weight uh his hand on me in malice. He chops all de wood he think Ah wants and den he totes it inside de kitchen for me. Keeps both water buckets full.” “Humph! don’t ’spect all dat tuh keep up. He ain’t kissin’ yo’ mouf when he carry on over yuh lak dat. He’s kissin’ yo’ foot and ’tain’t in uh man tuh kiss foot long. Mouf kissin’ is on uh equal and dat’s natural but when dey got to bow down tuh love, dey soon straightens up.” “Yes’m.” “Well, if he do all dat whut you


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

she?” I shake my head. “Dunno.” “Have you texted her?” “I haven’t,” I say. And I haven’t, but not for any good reason. At least, not for any reason I can tell my assistant. I haven’t texted Fizzy because the longer she fails to appear, the more I grow worried something bad has happened to her, and the longer I put off knowing exactly what it is, the longer I can maintain my life as I know it, with sanity intact. I become aware that Brenna has leaned over to get a good look at me at the same time I register I’m staring at the stairs up to our party space like a sniper tracking a target. Inhaling sharply, I bring my pint glass to my lips. “You okay?” she asks. “Fine.” “You look a little tense.” “No.” “You sure?” “Yep.” “Okay, cool, because I think I just saw her walking through the restaurant.” I bolt forward, reaching the railing in two long strides, curling one hand around the wrought iron and staring down into the busy restaurant. Almost immediately, I spot her messy bun and her bright smile as she bobs through the crowd near the bar. Everything inside me unclenches; adrenaline washes through me, hot and frantic. As Fizzy weaves through the room, she’s stopped by a woman wanting to take a picture with her. “She’s safe,” Brenna says, again having materialized silently at my side. “What? Of course she is,” I mumble distractedly, frowning down at where two men approach, waiting for their turn. They stand far too close. “It’s just,” she says, tapping the back of my hand with the tip of her finger, “you’re gonna break that railing.” I loosen my grip but don’t take my eyes off what’s happening in the bar below. Not that I should worry; Fizzy is nothing if not self-sufficient. When they catch her attention, she lets them take a photo and then politely but firmly shakes her head at whatever they ask next, pointing to the stairs. I track her the entire time she jogs up to us. As she steps into view, everyone turns and a roaring cheer begins and then sort of… tapers off as we take in her appearance. It’s not a formal party—this isn’t the kind of event with fancy champagne flutes being carried on trays or the expectation of cocktail attire. Even so, casual Fizzy is usually more polished than most of us at our best. Today her hair isn’t just in a messy bun, it looks slept on and tangled. Her clothes look slept in, too. She looks tired and pale. Concerned murmurs shimmer across the group. That is, until a smile breaks across her face like the sun rising, and she shouts, “I am an auntie!” The cheers break out anew, a roar really, and everyone rushes forward to surround her. Fizzy disappears in the circle of bodies and I try to soak this moment in because I’ve been in the business long enough to know that not every crew is this tight,


me watching them. The Black Spot Again. “Well, let ‘em come, lad—let ‘em come,” said Silver cheer- ily. “I’ve still a shot in my locker.” THE council of buccaneers had lasted some time, when The door opened, and the five men, standing huddled to- one of them re-entered the house, and with a repetition of gether just inside, pushed one of their number forward. In the same salute, which had in my eyes an ironical air, begged any other circumstances it would have been comical to see his for a moment’s loan of the torch. Silver briefly agreed, and slow advance, hesitating as he set down each foot, but holding this emissary retired again, leaving us together in the dark. his closed right hand in front of him. “There’s a breeze coming, Jim,” said Silver, who had by “Step up, lad,” cried Silver. “I won’t eat you. Hand it over, this time adopted quite a friendly and familiar tone. lubber. I know the rules, I do; I won’t hurt a depytation.” I turned to the loophole nearest me and looked out. The Thus encouraged, the buccaneer stepped forth more briskly, embers of the great fire had so far burned themselves out and and having passed something to Silver, from hand to hand, now glowed so low and duskily that I understood why these slipped yet more smartly back again to his companions. The sea-cook looked at what had been given him. Contents conspirators desired a torch. About half-way down the slope to the stockade, they were collected in a group; one held the “The black spot! I thought so,” he observed. “Where light, another was on his knees in their midst, and I saw the might you have got the paper? Why, hillo! Look here, now; Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 240 241 this ain’t lucky! You’ve gone and cut this out of a Bible. What now, and you’ll maybe step down off that barrel and help fool’s cut a Bible?” vote.” “Ah, there!” said Morgan. “There! Wot did I say? No “I thought you said you knowed the rules,” returned Sil- good’ll come o’ that, I said.” ver contemptuously. “Leastways, if you don’t, I do; and I wait “Well, you’ve about fixed it now, among you,” continued here—and I’m still your cap’n, mind—till you outs with your Silver. “You’ll all swing now, I reckon. What soft- headed grievances and I reply; in the meantime, your black spot ain’t lubber had a Bible?” worth a biscuit. After that, we’ll see.” “It was Dick,” said one. “Oh,” replied George, “you don’t be under no kind of ap- “Dick, was it? Then Dick can get to prayers,” said Silver. prehension; WE’RE all square, we are. First, you’ve made a “He’s seen his slice of luck, has Dick, and you may lay to hash of this cruise—you’ll be a bold man to say no to that. that.” Second, you let the enemy out o’ this here trap for nothing. But here the long man with the yellow eyes struck in. Why did they want out?


I need to know what he was working on and with whom. I’ll have to talk to anyone he was close to. There’s a student, a group of them, who visited his place. I need them as well.” Bill shakes his head. “I can get you into his room, of course. You’ll be discreet about any confidential research?” “Sure. Figure the black market for synthetic algae patents is a little slow this winter anyway.” “You’d be surprised. Slime sells. As for the students…that’s a red line, as far as the university is concerned. They are the fragile minds of tomorrow’s great possibility blah blah blah. So unless you’re looking for something very specific—no, actually, especially if you’re looking for something very specific—” He stops because I’ve stopped walking, and when he turns around he has to squint because I’m standing between him and one of the lamps. I wait for him to look uncomfortable and lift a hand to shade his eyes. “Bill, I’m sorry, I’m sure you’ve got a terrific speech about why you can’t help me, and I’d love to hear it, but I’m really tired and you’ve got this upside down. The regular police are holding off for now. Giles Gratton wants this done quiet and I’m the soft option. If you give me everything, you might get away with a pro forma visit. Otherwise my case won’t hold water, and the cops’ll come through here like a plague of ants. They’ll be in everything. They’ll catch all kinds of shit they don’t care about, but once it’s there in front of them they’ll have to run with it. Maybe the football team is juicing, maybe someone’s printing MDMA in the chem lab. Maybe the head of the business school lied on her tax return. For sure there’s weed growing in a closet somewhere because there is always weed in a closet, and I guaran-fucking-tee some of your students are engaged in blameless but illegal sex work to pay tuition. The cops will find all of it, some of your kids will have to be expelled, the news people will have a field day.” Bill sours behind the hand. “Are you putting the screws into me, Cal?” “I’m throwing you a lifeline, Bill. I can help, and what I need is what you need me to do, but if you can’t go there, then you can’t. This is why you got me up here, remember? I was going to bed.” “I figured you’d help me calm it all down, not turn my school inside out.” “That is what I’m doing.” “Sure doesn’t feel like it.” But he lowers the hand and we go back to walking. “What the hell is going on? Tebbit, for Christ’s sake? What’s he into? Was he a serial killer? A spy? A drug trafficker?” “He was a Titan, Bill. It’s on his driver’s licence, he was ninety years old and change.” Another moment for him to put that together and then he drops his head into his hands. “Fucking private limited personal health disclosure.


something.” Resnick made a face. “Did you not listen to anything I said before we arrived?” Chastised, Kline looked away, her cheeks flushed. “We are not here. We were never here. We cannot alter the known future timescape. I think blowing up the quantum flux generator would probably be noticed down the line, don’t you think?” “You’ve made your point; leave her alone,” Pristy said. LaSalle scratched his stubbled chin. “Why are we here? I mean, why bring all of us along on this mission?” Resnick’s lips constricted into a straight line. Pristy smirked. “You don’t know exactly how we’re going to do what we came here to do … Do you?” “I know what we have to do … just not how,” he said, indignant. “And that’s why we’re all here?” Aubrey asked. “To what … brainstorm?” Pristy said, “We each have our own expertise. We’ve all proven to be resourceful.” Derrota shook his head. “No.” Pristy looked from Derrota to Resnick, and perhaps for the first time, the man looked unsure of himself. Derrota continued, “We’re not supposed to be here.” “What?” Aubrey murmured. “That’s why you’re so obsessed with your stupid ChronoLink; you’re watching, like by the minute, to see if we’ve fucked up the timescape or not,” Pristy, not needing Resnick’s confirmation, knew she was right. “You’re tempting fate,” Aubrey said, looking bemused. “I like it.” “And the Grand Consortium?” Pristy asked. Resnick almost smiled. “Let’s just say they would not be happy we’re here. If we, if I, inadvertently change the timescape, there’ll be repercussions.” “What kind of repercussions?” Aubrey asked. He didn’t answer right away. “This was my decision. My mission. None of you will be held responsible.” “You didn’t answer her question,” Pristy said. “I’ll be executed,” Resnick said in so matter-of-fact a tone, he could have been talking about what he had for dinner last night. He blew a breath out from puffed cheeks. “You think I want to watch Quintos and his crew die? To let this be—” “Their final curtain call?” Aubrey interjected. Resnick shrugged, then nodded. “How definitive is it that Quintos and the others die?” Pristy asked. “Everybody dies at some point,” Resnick said with a wave of a hand. “But they’re supposed to die … here?” Kline queried. He looked at his ChronoLink. “Yes, here … and within the hour.” Pristy felt paralyzed, as if she’d been jolted by one of those lightning bolts. This can’t be happening. Derrota broke the pregnant silence. “Your time-traveling team, or maybe one of the others … Have they ever broken a Grand Consortium directive? Changed events, altered time itself?” “Sure. That’s sort of their purpose, right? It’s about overall best practices in the preservation of life, all life … You’d be surprised how simple it is to bring about cataclysmic destruction on an epic scale, far beyond a star system, or even a galaxy … Chaos runs rampant, the unexpected toppling of one domino causing a cascading effect that brings about the end of … well, everything. Intergalactic wars that spiral out


two solitary travellers riding along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe. The summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. And here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the vicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was July; August came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. Neither the Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during this period; for they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from London with aversion. The house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman who had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go and play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal. She was afraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys from London. He was going to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved from contamination. She liked to see in him an infant Samuel. CHAPTER X THE Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon, and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to aspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an honest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was attached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr. Carey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of September. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew little of school life but what he had read in the stories of _The Boy's Own Paper_. He had also read _Eric_, or _Little by Little_. When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy, untidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a forbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster. "What's Mr. Watson like?" asked Philip, after a while. "You'll see for yourself." There was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster did not come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again. "Tell him I've got a club-foot," he said. Before Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson swept into the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet


well as reimburse the palace for all expenses accrued during your visit to the capital—whether you are dead or alive.” He looks us over. “You are protected here, so your bodyguards will remain on your boat until I receive the order to send you back to Wuxi. Do you have any questions?” Miss Zhao and I shake our heads. “Tonight I will send food to your room,” he says. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll be taken to the Great Within—those rooms in the palace reserved exclusively for women. Please dress appropriately. Now follow me.” I’ve been told that eunuchs have a peculiar walk that makes them recognizable even from a great distance. This turns out to be true. Lin Ta leans slightly forward. He keeps his thighs close together as he takes short, choppy steps, with his toes turned outward. We women trail an aroma from our feet. Lin Ta smells of leaking urine. Once he sees us to our room and closes the door behind him, Miss Zhao whispers, “I’ve heard that the Great Within has the largest private gathering of women anywhere in the world. The empress, the ladies of the royal family, and thousands of concubines all serve the Imperial Presence. The spoutless teapots guarantee that any child born in the Great Within is the emperor’s alone.” “I’ll never be as informed as you, Miss Zhao, but please don’t repeat the words spoutless teapot again. Or tailless dog. Even I know these are the worst things you can call those creatures. Maoren says eunuchs are powerful—” “They are watchdogs and spies!” “So refrain from using either epithet while we’re here as we don’t know the punishment for insulting a eunuch.” “Your caution is well taken,” Miss Zhao says. The next morning, we wake to the quiet of snowflakes falling from the sky. Poppy helps us bathe and dress in our finest, most elegant clothes. Then Miss Zhao and I drape ermine-lined cloaks over our gowns and leave the room. Considering how many women must serve the thousands of ladies in the Forbidden City, the halls in the Lodge of Ritual and Ceremony are surprisingly silent. I peer at Miss Zhao out of the corner of my eye. She looks unsettled, telling me this is not what she expected either. We step into the courtyard. I hate the cold, but I can appreciate the brutal purity of it. Snowflakes dance in the air, carried by the wind. Icicles hang like ivory chopsticks from the eaves. “It’s rare for snow to come so early here in the north,” Lin Ta says in greeting. Crystalline flakes catch on his eyelashes as he looks upward. Then he returns his gaze to me. “I’ve had coal-heated foot and hand warmers placed in the carriage to make your ride more comfortable.” I appreciate the gesture, but the warmers do little to keep us from shivering. The windows in the carriage are covered by curtains, so we see nothing. We stop a couple of times. “Women for the Great Within,” the driver says to those I presume to


to gather her personal funds. The top drawer was empty. She reached into the compartment, as if the banknotes had magically shrunk, as if someone had kindly rolled them up for her. It wasn’t pain she felt. It was something different. She sat down on her vast and rumpled bed. Miss de Vries had been betrayed before, by Papa, but that had felt different altogether, a burning sensation in her heart, her skin, as if she’d been dipped in white spirit. Now she felt only short of breath, as if squeezed into an airless box. I consider this arrangement terminated, she thought, and went back downstairs. * * * She stayed indoors, sitting on the grand escalier, and waited for Lockwood to return. She heard Cook haranguing him on his way through the door. “Is Madam ruined, sir?” she cried. “Will we be paid?” Miss de Vries couldn’t catch his response. He slammed the door, the echo reverberating through the house. He looked ghastly. Gray, and drawn, and yet strangely wild-eyed. Vulture. He was loving this. Chaos meant more work for him, for his kind. “I need you to go to Lady Ashley,” she said, not bothering with greetings. He jumped. Perhaps he expected her to be upstairs, lying in a swoon. “Why?” he asked, eschewing pleasantries, too. “I want to ensure everything is proceeding as planned.” “Everything relating to...” She turned the full force of her stare onto him. “My marriage.” “I am not sure this is the best time for that.” “No day like today, Mr. Lockwood.” “You were very terse with Lord Ashley,” he said. “You denied him entry to this house.” “It’s my house. It’s my prerogative.” “You barred his way. In public. Everyone saw you do it.” “Can anyone possibly blame me? I have suffered the most enormous shock.” “You don’t seem shocked,” he said. “Go and see Lady Ashley,” she ordered. “Go and do it now.” He gave her a long, strange look, almost as if he were sizing her up, deciding where to hang her. He said, “A lady residing very near this house has certain papers in her possession. Papers documenting visitors to this house.” “Visitors?” He didn’t reply. At first she didn’t understand. And then she saw the way he pressed his lips together, taking the utmost care not to speak a word before she did. “Ah,” she said. She felt the world tilting, turning, getting ready to drag her under its wheels. He said, “You’ll need a lawyer, of course.” * * * Dawn arrived, sleepless, cloudy and unreal. By nine o’clock a stream of lawyers had crammed themselves into the empty, echoing winter garden. They’d come out of the drains like rats running toward a carcass. Miss de Vries hovered beside Lockwood. “I’m innocent,” she said. Lockwood said nothing. No one had accused her of anything. But she knew someone was drafting the story, drawing up the terms. A tale of girls, and gentlemen who enjoyed them, and those who aided and abetted it all... “I’m innocent,” she said again, and


her; she wasn’t entirely sure how to react to this measured, calm response to what he had just learned. Perhaps she didn’t know the man as well as she’d thought. “It was an accident,” she whispered, tears filling up her eyes again. He frowned a little at that, grabbing her arm again. “An accident that you became engaged?” Lucy could see no way she could win, but she would try. “Yes,” she whispered. “It all happened so fast.” If nothing else, perhaps she could keep the man at bay long enough for someone a bit stronger than Olivia to come rescue her. As if reading her thoughts, Mr. Granger glanced around them, then tugged her around the side of the building, bringing her down an alley away from the main street so they wouldn’t be seen. “You are not engaged, Miss Hayes.” “I—” “You can’t be. You wouldn’t be. Not when you and I have an understanding.” Was he absolutely mad? As he pressed her up against the wall, Lucy bit back tears. He was mad, and Rebecca had been right to be wary of the man. But what was she to do? She could scream for help, but she feared what he would do to her then. His grip was already tight enough on her wrist that she would likely bruise. “I saw you, you know,” he said. He spoke so calmly, as if he had no idea how frightened she was. “In the dress shop. I almost didn’t recognize you because you looked so . . . happy, even with those tears of yours. I’ve never seen you that way.” Then his eyes dropped to her arm he held between them. He released her slowly, taking a step back. “Forgive me, Miss Hayes. I merely . . . Do you have any idea what this nonsense will do to you?” Lucy had no idea how to react to the sudden shift in the man, and she stood frozen, staring at him, because it was like he was another person. He sounded like he actually cared about what happened to her. He took a careful breath. “I can’t imagine how you convinced the man to go along with this, but . . . with you and I having a previous understanding, when the truth gets out about the engagement you have concocted with Calloway, and you know it will, you will be ruined. Did you not stop to think about that?” Lucy had hardly thought about anything else, but she couldn’t tell him that he was the reason she had carried on the ruse this long. “We have no understanding, Mr. Granger.” He scoffed. “Of course we do. Half of London knows about it.” What on earth had he been telling people? “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice shaking. He frowned. “What am I going to do? Miss Hayes, I have never been shy about my intentions. The question is what are you going to do?” Then he leaned forward and kissed her. Lucy had never been


and it takes me a moment to realize Kyle must have cued up the sound effects. The hidden speakers cycle through screams and menacing footsteps. The sounds seem to be coming from every direction. Bezi takes my hand and pulls me toward the showers, and we’re mounting the front steps before the men give chase again. We slam the door shut and wedge a trash can under the handle. With a loud bang, the men collide with the door. The can scrapes across the ground, and the gray-haired man slips his arm through the crack in the door and attempts to move it. I reach in my pocket and pull out the half-empty can of bear spray. I angle it toward the opening in the door and empty the canister directly into the faces of the two men. They immediately start to cough and gag, and I scramble back as a residual cloud of the noxious gas wafts into the shower building. My throat burns and my eyes water uncontrollably. Bezi coughs so hard, she almost vomits. I run to the sink and turn on the water, flushing my eyes and mouth. There’s a loud bang, and I spin around to see the angry faces of both men as they shove the door open a little more. My mind runs in circles. The windows in the shower room are for venting only. They’re high and narrow and impossible to climb through. There’s no back door. “What—what do we do?” Bezi stammers, a trail of spittle hanging from her chin, the whites of her eyes bloodshot. I flush my eyes again, but my vision is blurry, my throat raw. “Push harder!” screams the gray-haired man. “I’ll kill her!” My face feels like it’s been exposed to an open flame, but in the wash of pain and fear, my nights of playing the final girl at Camp Mirror Lake give me a way out. “The trapdoor,” I say. Bezi wipes her face with her shirt. “Huh?” “Come on.” I grab her and duck into the last stall. There’s no toilet there, just a rusted metal wall locker with a sign that says Storage hanging on the front. “We’re gonna hide?” Bezi asks. “They already know we’re in here!” I pull open the door and stare down into the darkened hole below. I push Bezi toward it, and she quickly shimmies down the ladder that leads to the second hidden tunnel. This one goes from the showers to the arts-and-crafts lodge on the south side of the camp. The tunnel is twice as long and unlit, but it’s the only option we have. The sound of wood splintering splits the air, and the two men fall into the shower building, tripping over themselves and shouting. The gray-haired man rushes me before I can get down the ladder and into the tunnel. He grabs me by the front of my shirt and slams me back against the wall. Pain rockets through my shoulder as the man’s rancid breath blows into my nose and mouth. He smiles


mom’s weird dolls. They felt like old friends waiting for her to come home. Whenever Louise got anxious, her dad always said, You know, Louise, statistically, and there’s a lot of variance in these numbers, but in general, from a strictly scientific point of view, everything turns out okay an improbable number of times. Not this time, she thought. This time, nothing’s ever going to be okay again. She hugged Buffalo Jones tight and felt something break inside her chest and tears built behind her eyes, and she grabbed onto that feeling and let it carry her away as she realized that, finally, she was going to cry. In the living room, the TV turned itself on. Chapter 4 . . . five easy Flexpay installments,” a man said, his voice full of excitement. “Or a onetime payment of $136.95 gets you this beautiful, hand-crafted Scarlett O’Hara collectible doll, with her green velvet party gown, her hoop skirt, and this beautiful display case at no . . . added . . . cost.” Louise’s body went rigid. “That’s an amazing deal, Michael,” a woman cheered. “These dolls are moving fast, so if you want this incredible offer for this onetime price, you need to call now.” Louise made herself stand up. She forced herself to walk to the door. She realized she still had Buffalo Jones in her arms so she put him back on her bed, then peeked around the corner into the hall. Empty. It’s on a timer. The programming has a bug. Just go out there and turn it off. She drew her head up, pretending to be annoyed so she didn’t feel scared, and walked toward the living room fast, the TV getting louder with every step. She entered the room and saw the Home Shopping Network playing for the blank-faced Mark and Louise dolls in her dad’s easy chair. She snatched the remote off the chair and turned the TV off. The room full of dolls held its breath. She tossed the remote back onto the chair and stayed for a moment, making sure the TV didn’t come back on again. The Mark and Louise dolls looked snotty and bored, but of course she knew she was projecting that onto them. Dolls didn’t change their expressions. She should get going to Aunt Honey’s. She turned and headed back to her bedroom. She’d grab Buffalo Jones and bring him home for Poppy. She could show him to her when they FaceTimed and— “. . . want you to see this face, because it has the cool touch of porcelain but it’s actually crafted from high-quality vinyl . . .” Louise froze halfway down the hall, shoulders hunched. She felt herself flush with irritation and embraced it so she didn’t feel her fear wriggling underneath. She spun on the balls of her feet and marched back to the living room. The Mark and Louise dolls hadn’t moved. They stared straight ahead at the TV. Louise snapped it off with the remote, then knelt beside the television and yanked its


loveliness was an encouragement to admiration, her conversation was a chill to repartee. The Vicar soon abandoned the struggle; but the tutor, who spoke the most fluent and accomplished English, gallantly continued to pour it out to her until the ladies, to the manifest relief of all concerned, went up to the drawing-room. The Vicar, after a glass of port, was obliged to hurry away to a meeting, and the shy nephew, who appeared to be an invalid, was packed off to bed. But Archer and the tutor continued to sit over their wine, and suddenly Archer found himself talking as he had not done since his last symposium with Ned Winsett. The Carfry nephew, it turned out, had been threatened with consumption, and had had to leave Harrow for Switzerland, where he had spent two years in the milder air of Lake Leman. Being a bookish youth, he had been entrusted to M. Riviere, who had brought him back to England, and was to remain with him till he went up to Oxford the following spring; and M. Riviere added with simplicity that he should then have to look out for another job. It seemed impossible, Archer thought, that he should be long without one, so varied were his interests and so many his gifts. He was a man of about thirty, with a thin ugly face (May would certainly have called him common-looking) to which the play of his ideas gave an intense expressiveness; but there was nothing frivolous or cheap in his animation. His father, who had died young, had filled a small diplomatic post, and it had been intended that the son should follow the same career; but an insatiable taste for letters had thrown the young man into journalism, then into authorship (apparently unsuccessful), and at length--after other experiments and vicissitudes which he spared his listener--into tutoring English youths in Switzerland. Before that, however, he had lived much in Paris, frequented the Goncourt grenier, been advised by Maupassant not to attempt to write (even that seemed to Archer a dazzling honour!), and had often talked with Merimee in his mother's house. He had obviously always been desperately poor and anxious (having a mother and an unmarried sister to provide for), and it was apparent that his literary ambitions had failed. His situation, in fact, seemed, materially speaking, no more brilliant than Ned Winsett's; but he had lived in a world in which, as he said, no one who loved ideas need hunger mentally. As it was precisely of that love that poor Winsett was starving to death, Archer looked with a sort of vicarious envy at this eager impecunious young man who had fared so richly in his poverty. "You see, Monsieur, it's worth everything, isn't it, to keep one's intellectual liberty, not to enslave one's powers of appreciation, one's critical independence? It was because of that that I abandoned journalism, and took to so much duller work: tutoring and private secretaryship. There is a good deal of drudgery, of course; but one preserves one's moral freedom,


her she couldn’t see us, threatened her with full custody. All because she wanted to follow her dream.” “I shouldn’t have done that. But we had a perfect family, why did she have to abandon us? I tried my best, after she left. You were happy as a child, right?” He gestured with his right hand and then let it fall on his lap. His fingers began to tremble in a rolling motion, as if he were rubbing something between his index finger and his thumb. As Marion watched, the rest of the arm joined in, flapping slightly, like a chicken wing. “What’s going on?” Simon looked down at his arm with an odd detachment, as if it didn’t belong to him. “One of the reasons I wanted you to marry Nathaniel was that it was important you be settled down. I knew I wouldn’t be able to care for you.” “What are you talking about?” “I have Parkinson’s disease,” he said. “I’m stiff and sore all over, and it’s only going to get worse. My balance is off, I’ve fallen twice already. Some days I can’t think straight.” That explained the shaking she’d noticed at Tavern on the Green, when she’d thought he was hiding something. Her father was ill. Parkinson’s disease. She’d heard of it, but she thought it was something that old people got, and her father wasn’t old. “How long have you known?” “Since the summer.” In spite of everything, it made her heart ache that he’d felt the need to keep his diagnosis from her and Judy and lived with such terrible news in silence. “Are you sure? Maybe you should get a second opinion.” “I’ve done that. I’ve seen every specialist I can. They all say the same thing. There’s no cure.” That explained all his mysterious appointments and why he was so adamant that she and Nathaniel move in with him. His behavior of the past few months began to make some sense. He was desperate to know that Judy and Marion would be all right. “How fast will it progress?” “They can’t predict. Eventually I’ll need full-time care. If I hadn’t gotten fired, I would have received it as part of my benefits. Now I’m on my own. Another reason to be sorry. I’ve mucked up everything.” “Why didn’t you tell me or Judy? Why keep it a secret?” “Denial, I suppose. Seems to be a theme here, right?” He let out a raspy laugh. “Judy knew something was wrong, but I always told her I’d had too much coffee or that I had a touch of vertigo. If I told you both, if I came out with it, then it would be real. I didn’t want it to be real. I saw doctor after doctor, hoping they were wrong.” “Judy told me she thought you were having an affair, with all your mysterious appointments that weren’t in the calendar.” A weak smile crept onto his face. “Now, that’s grand. I couldn’t keep anything from that girl. And I shouldn’t have kept all this


mutual mudslinging. And the identical same with murderers. You had to come back. That haunting sense kind of drew you. To show the understudy in the title ROLE how to. He saw him once on the auspicious occasion when they broke up the type in the INSUPPRESSIBLE or was it UNITED IRELAND, a privilege he keenly appreciated, and, in point of fact, handed him his silk hat when it was knocked off and he said THANK YOU, excited as he undoubtedly was under his frigid exterior notwithstanding the little misadventure mentioned between the cup and the lip: what's bred in the bone. Still as regards return. You were a lucky dog if they didn't set the terrier at you directly you got back. Then a lot of shillyshally usually followed, Tom for and Dick and Harry against. And then, number one, you came up against the man in possession and had to produce your credentials like the claimant in the Tichborne case, Roger Charles Tichborne, BELLA was the boat's name to the best of his recollection he, the heir, went down in as the evidence went to show and there was a tattoo mark too in Indian ink, lord Bellew was it, as he might very easily have picked up the details from some pal on board ship and then, when got up to tally with the description given, introduce himself with: EXCUSE ME, MY NAME IS SO AND SO or some such commonplace remark. A more prudent course, as Bloom said to the not over effusive, in fact like the distinguished personage under discussion beside him, would have been to sound the lie of the land first. --That bitch, that English whore, did for him, the shebeen proprietor commented. She put the first nail in his coffin. --Fine lump of a woman all the same, the SOI-DISANT townclerk Henry Campbell remarked, and plenty of her. She loosened many a man's thighs. I seen her picture in a barber's. The husband was a captain or an officer. --Ay, Skin-the-Goat amusingly added, he was and a cottonball one. This gratuitous contribution of a humorous character occasioned a fair amount of laughter among his ENTOURAGE. As regards Bloom he, without the faintest suspicion of a smile, merely gazed in the direction of the door and reflected upon the historic story which had aroused extraordinary interest at the time when the facts, to make matters worse, were made public with the usual affectionate letters that passed between them full of sweet nothings. First it was strictly Platonic till nature intervened and an attachment sprang up between them till bit by bit matters came to a climax and the matter became the talk of the town till the staggering blow came as a welcome intelligence to not a few evildisposed, however, who were resolved upon encompassing his downfall though the thing was public property all along though not to anything like the sensational extent that it subsequently blossomed into. Since their names were coupled, though, since he was her declared favourite, where was the particular necessity


down the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance. The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened. 'Why, how's this?' muttered the Jew: changing countenance; 'only two of 'em? Where's the third? They can't have got into trouble. Hark!' The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind them. CHAPTER XIII SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY 'Where's Oliver?' said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. 'Where's the boy?' The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence; and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply. 'What's become of the boy?' said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. 'Speak out, or I'll throttle you!' Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar--something between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet. 'Will you speak?' thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous. 'Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it,' said the Dodger, sullenly. 'Come, let go o' me, will you!' And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out, than could have been easily replaced. The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman. 'Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!' growled a deep voice. 'Who pitched that 'ere at me? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I'd have settled somebody. I might have know'd, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but water--and not that, unless


sale. It was by Romeo Donderis, and you said it could be authenticated by the writer himself because it was pricey.” “Sure, but that was a while back. It’s long gone.” “I’m not interested in the script. I want to know about Donderis. Do you have his phone number or home address?” “You’re going to go see him? Are you trying to cut out the middleman in these transactions? I won’t have that. How am I supposed to make a living?” Nando asked, spilling a little of his beer as he set the bottle down. “What? No. I’m doing research on something.” “Oh? What are you working on?” Nothing. The plan for a documentary piece was over. Maybe Tristán was correct, maybe they ought to cease their inquiries and pretend they had never heard of Ewers or his movie. But she couldn’t look away and must find out who had killed Abel. That she knew, like she knew when a musical cue was about to play on screen. She didn’t want to attribute any supernatural qualities to this feeling, but perhaps there was something of that to it. Abel had said once a spell is in motion, it must conclude. It could also be a run-of-the-mill obsession, simple boredom. The tiresome echoes of her humdrum life that now pushed her to find that frisson of excitement. She felt alert and eager, like she hadn’t in a long time. “It’s none of your business,” she told Nando. “When you ask for someone’s help you should at least pretend to be polite. I thought you were going to buy something, but you’re wasting my time,” Nando said, scratching at the skin right above the elastic waist of his sweatpants. Montserrat took a couple of bills from her wallet and slammed them on the table, next to the beer bottle. She didn’t have money to be throwing around, but she also didn’t want to spend an hour chatting up Nando. “There. Now give me his contact information.” Nando took both bills and stuffed them in his sweatpants’ pocket and shrugged. “Beats me.” “You don’t know.” “I have no idea,” Nando said, shaking his head and taking another swig of beer. “You fucker. How were you going to get the script authenticated, then?” “I met the guy when I was selling at El Chopo. He stopped by my stall, I gave him my info. I’ve bought a few things from him. Lobby cards, other scripts, that kind of stuff. But he’s the one who contacts me.” “Give me back my money, you bastard,” she said, stretching out a hand and glaring at him. “You’re cute when you’re pissed off. If you want to play detective, maybe you should seduce me to get your answer.” “You touch me, I’ll kick you in the balls,” she said matter-of-factly. He rolled his eyes. “Fine. If you need him, you could try the coffee shop where I normally meet him. It’s always the same place. The Maupassant. They sell crepes, about two blocks from Metro Chilpancingo. I think he’s friends


acting." "Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered, bitterly. She rose from her knees, and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm, and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don't touch me!" he cried. A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet, and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I didn't act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try,--indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me,--if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don't go away from me. I couldn't bear it. Can't you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard, and try to [41] improve. Don't be cruel to me because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me; and yet I couldn't help it. Oh, don't leave me, don't leave me." A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the passions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him. "I am going," he said at last, in his calm, clear voice. "I don't wish to be unkind, but I can't see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer to him. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel, and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre. Where he went to, he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly-lit streets with gaunt black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by cursing, and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and had heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. When the dawn was just breaking he found himself at Covent Garden. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market, and watched the men unloading their wagons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had


garden fence. It was funny they hadn't come in, after standing around so. I couldn't make it out. It was very curious, somehow. I was going to follow around, but I stooped down to look at the tracks first. I didn't notice anything at first, but next I did. There was a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil. I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked over my shoulder every now and then, but I didn't see nobody. I was at Judge Thatcher's as quick as I could get there. He said: "Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your interest?" "No, sir," I says; "is there some for me?" "Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night -- over a hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you. You had better let me invest it along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it." "No, sir," I says, "I don't want to spend it. I don't want it at all -- nor the six thousand, nuther. I want you to take it; I want to give it to you -- the six thousand and all." He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make it out. He says: "Why, what can you mean, my boy?" I says, "Don't you ask me no questions about it, please. You'll take it -- won't you?" He says: "Well, I'm puzzled. Is something the matter?" "Please take it," says I, "and don't ask me noth- ing -- then I won't have to tell no lies." He studied a while, and then he says: "Oho-o! I think I see. You want to SELL all your property to me -- not give it. That's the correct idea." Then he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says: "There; you see it says 'for a consideration.' That means I have bought it of you and paid you for it. Here's a dollar for you. Now you sign it." So I signed it, and left. Miss Watson's nigger, Jim, had a hair-ball as big as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth stomach of an ox, and he used to do magic with it. He said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed everything. So I went to him that night and told him pap was here again, for I found his tracks in the snow. What I wanted to know was, what he was going to do, and was he going to stay? Jim got out his hair-ball and said something over it, and then he held it up and dropped it on the floor. It fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an inch. Jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the same. Jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and listened. But it warn't no use; he said it wouldn't talk. He said sometimes


assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for safety's sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many, many, happy years for you both." DR. SEWARD'S DIARY 19 Agust.--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the attendant and at times servile, but tonight, the man tells me, he was quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he would say was, "I don't want to talk to you. You don't count now. The master is at hand." The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The combination is a dreadful one. At Nine o'clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant. In his sublime self-feeling the difference between myself and the attendant seemed to him as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall. But the God created from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh, if men only knew! For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-luster eyes. I thought I would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed to excite his attention. At first he made no reply, but at length said testily, "Bother them all! I don't care a pin about them." "What" I said. "You don't mean to tell me you don't care about spiders?" (Spiders at present are his hobby and the notebook is filling up with columns of small figures.) To this he answered enigmatically, "The Bride maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride. But when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the


with one nation meant losing space for your own. Each country had the exact same ambition – to transport as many of their citizens and as much of their resources to the continent as they could manage before the deadline. Countries without a base on Antarctica would have to improvise their own runways. Mossad intelligence officers claimed the Chinese military had developed the means to transport artificial runways that could be unspooled like a giant yoga mat at any adverse location. For countries without such resources, the ice plateaus behind the Transantarctic Mountains, which crossed the continent, were the only option. True, it was the coldest part of the continent and it was winter on Antarctica; there’d be no landing lights, no guiding beacons, no air-traffic control and katabatic winds of up to two hundred miles per hour. They’d be attempting the most dangerous landings in the history of aviation. The nation’s finest pilots selected for the mission paced back and forth, surveying the fleet. Yotam listened to them debate how best to cope with such hostile conditions. Even if they survived the storms and managed to touch down, the wheels might jam into deep crevasses, causing the plane to flip or tear apart. For this reason, it had been decided that they’d use newly crafted steel skis, trying to land like a giant sled – racing across the ice at several hundred miles per hour. With luck, the outer shell of the plane would remain intact, providing a temporary shelter for the passengers against the cold. The question of who to save had been decided by the military and Knesset representatives, conferring in the airport terminal, in the King David Lounge, normally used by business travellers with refrigerators full of lime-flavoured Perrier water and jars of Oreo cookies, organizing as best they could their nation’s exodus. The population of Israel stood at nine million. The state had calculated that it could transport, across its entire fleet of ships and planes, only four hundred thousand, roughly four per cent of the population, in addition to the food and supplies needed to keep them all alive for at least a year. The selection process had been based on two criteria: their ability to survive in some of the harshest conditions on the planet and their ability to help build a new society. Among those chosen were scientists, engineers, chemists, farmers, geneticists and soldiers: the smartest and strongest. Yotam hadn’t been selected. After being informed the news, he’d been calm; he hadn’t even felt particularly sad. Unlike the millions of civilians told the same news, he wasn’t free to attempt the journey by his own means. He’d been ordered to remain at his post, at the airport, protecting those chosen as they gathered from across the country in the terminal buildings. Once the planes were safely in the air, he’d be free to leave. By that point he wouldn’t have enough time to attempt the five-thousand-mile journey south to Antarctica. Coming to terms with his fate, he wondered what he’d do with those last


might be a husband. Her young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough scenes and under strange conditions. So far I had got before I ever heard Lord St. Simon's narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew, of the change in the bride's manner, of so transparent a device for obtaining a note as the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her confidential maid, and of her very significant allusion to claim-jumping--which in miners' parlance means taking possession of that which another person has a prior claim to--the whole situation became absolutely clear. She had gone off with a man, and the man was either a lover or was a previous husband--the chances being in favor of the latter." "And how in the world did you find them?" "It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held information in his hands the value of which he did not himself know. The initials were, of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable still was it to know that within a week he had settled his bill at one of the most select London hotels." "How did you deduce the select?" "By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eight-pence for a glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There are not many in London which charge at that rate. In the second one which I visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left only the day before, and on looking over the entries against him, I came upon the very items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His letters were to be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being fortunate enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to give them some paternal advice and to point out to them that it would be better in every way that they should make their position a little clearer both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in particular. I invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I made him keep the appointment." "But with no very good result," I remarked. "His conduct was certainly not very gracious." "Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps you would not be very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings." ADVENTURE XI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET "Holmes," said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking down the street, "here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad that his relatives should allow him


if to share them-- came to the other side of the hearth and sank into a chair. We sat there in absolute stillness; yet he wanted, I felt, to be with me. XXI Before a new day, in my room, had fully broken, my eyes opened to Mrs. Grose, who had come to my bedside with worse news. Flora was so markedly feverish that an illness was perhaps at hand; she had passed a night of extreme unrest, a night agitated above all by fears that had for their subject not in the least her former, but wholly her present, governess. It was not against the possible re-entrance of Miss Jessel on the scene that she protested-- it was conspicuously and passionately against mine. I was promptly on my feet of course, and with an immense deal to ask; the more that my friend had discernibly now girded her loins to meet me once more. This I felt as soon as I had put to her the question of her sense of the child's sincerity as against my own. "She persists in denying to you that she saw, or has ever seen, anything?" My visitor's trouble, truly, was great. "Ah, miss, it isn't a matter on which I can push her! Yet it isn't either, I must say, as if I much needed to. It has made her, every inch of her, quite old." "Oh, I see her perfectly from here. She resents, for all the world like some high little personage, the imputation on her truthfulness and, as it were, her respectability. `Miss Jessel indeed--SHE!' Ah, she's `respectable,' the chit! The impression she gave me there yesterday was, I assure you, the very strangest of all; it was quite beyond any of the others. I DID put my foot in it! She'll never speak to me again." Hideous and obscure as it all was, it held Mrs. Grose briefly silent; then she granted my point with a frankness which, I made sure, had more behind it. "I think indeed, miss, she never will. She do have a grand manner about it!" "And that manner"--I summed it up--"is practically what's the matter with her now!" Oh, that manner, I could see in my visitor's face, and not a little else besides! "She asks me every three minutes if I think you're coming in." "I see--I see." I, too, on my side, had so much more than worked it out. "Has she said to you since yesterday--except to repudiate her familiarity with anything so dreadful--a single other word about Miss Jessel?" "Not one, miss. And of course you know," my friend added, "I took it from her, by the lake, that, just then and there at least, there WAS nobody." "Rather! and, naturally, you take it from her still." "I don't contradict her. What else can I do?" "Nothing in the world! You've the cleverest little person to deal with. They've made them--their two friends, I mean--still cleverer even than nature did; for it was wondrous material to play on! Flora has now


hardly of you," I said; "and I'll tell you why not so much because you refused to give me shelter, or regarded me as an imposter, as because you just now made it a species of reproach that I had no 'brass' and no house. Some of the best people that ever lived have been as destitute as I am; and if you are a Christian, you ought not to consider poverty a crime."     "No more I ought," said she; "Mr. St. John tells me so too; and I see I wor wrong but I've clear a different notion on you now to what I had. You look a raight down decent little crater."     "That will do I forgive you now. Shake hands."     She put her floury and horny hand into mine; another and heartier smile illumined her rough face; and from that moment we were friends.     Hannah was evidently fond of talking. While I picked the fruit, and she made the paste for the pies, she proceeded to give me sundry details about her deceased master and mistress, and "the childer," as she called the young people.     Old Mr. Rivers, she said, was a plain man enough; but a gentleman, and of as ancient a family as could be found. Marsh End had belonged to the Rivers' ever since it was a house; and it was, she affirmed, "aboon two hundred years old for all it looked but a small, humble place, naught to compare wi' Mr. Oliver's grand hall down i' Morton Vale. But she could remember Bill Oliver's father, a journeyman needle-maker; and th' Rivers' wor gentry i' thi' owd days o' th' Henrys, as onybody might see by looking into th' register i' Morton Church vestry." Still, she allowed, "the owd master was like other folk naught mich out o' the common way; stark mad o' shooting, and farming, and sich like." The mistress was different. She was a great reader, and studied a deal; and the "bairns" had taken after her. There was nothing like them in these parts, nor ever had been; they had liked learning, all three, almost from the time they could speak; and they had always been "of a mak' of their own." Mr. St. John, when he grew up, would go to college and be a parson; and the girls, as soon as they left school, would seek places as governesses; for they had told her their father had some years ago lost a great deal of money, by a man he had trusted turning bankrupt; and as he was now not rich enough to give them fortunes, they must provide for themselves. They had lived very little at home for a long while, and were only come now to stay a few weeks on account of their father's death; but they did so like Marsh End and Morton, and all these moors and hills about. They had been in London, and


discovery. Aware of his own vanity, when confronted with the expectations of his Patagonia he might lie, concealing his failure by inventing stories of strange lands populated with strange creatures. Most of the people back home would believe him no matter what fanciful stories he told, listening with hushed reverence, but his father would know since he’d never been able to lie to his father. It would mean that this magnificent vessel, carved from the oldest tree on the island, had brought back only dishonour and deceit. His father’s heart would break with shame. Better not to return, better to die, than to lie. Sitting on deck, he lowered his hand to the water, pressing his palm against the surface. Reading waves was a gift many considered a kind of magic, possessed only by those touched with the spirit of the sea. Deep ocean waves had a powerful voice, a backwards and forwards motion unlike waves reflected from land, which spoke in a softer, upward-downward movement, a voice that became inaudible the further they travelled from the shore. His body shivering with the cold, he implored the ocean to speak to him and guide him. To his relief, this time the ocean answered – whispering that land was near. Ui scampered across the bamboo lattice, rooting through the supplies where he found a timber cage containing a frigatebird, her chest puffed out in distress at her confinement. This breed of bird wouldn’t land on water since her feathers easily became waterlogged and she’d lose her ability to fly. By necessity she’d return to the vessel unless she found dry land. He fed her some scraps of dried fish skin and set her free. After so many days of being trapped, she didn’t understand her freedom, remaining motionless until he nudged her, and she flew into the sky. He stood at the bow, studying her direction of flight. She slowly circled the boat and then set off. She must have seen land. She must have seen Iraro. After many hours following the bird he entered a strange ocean consisting of countless small islands, smooth and white as the clouds. The air was so cold his breath turned to mist. He dropped the sail and, using the steering paddle, brought himself to the nearest island. There were no plants or trees, no creatures of any kind. Scraping the surface with the edge of his paddle produced a fine white dust which turned to water between his fingers. Ui dabbed the dust on his tongue. It wasn’t salty ocean water; it was fresh like rain, as though these islands were clouds that had crashed into the sea. Perhaps this was the place where clouds crashed after they’d finished flying, or perhaps this was where clouds were born and if he stayed here long enough, he’d see these islands puff up and rise into the sky. Ui climbed the mast and perched at the top, perfectly balanced, assessing the view. Far away he saw white cliffs, high and smooth, stretching from one side of the horizon


to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise-- but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever." He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone, "Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?--I am sure I should like any body fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at his father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate her." "And make her like myself." "By all means, if you can." "Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife." "She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else. I shall go abroad for a couple of years--and when I return, I shall come to you for my wife. Remember." Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described? Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished. He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it. "Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?" "If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else. That's one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.-- Well, I declare--" They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have her carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again. While waiting for


pier, all these people had broken apart into fragments of light. For a moment it was as if the whole sky was full of campfire embers that swirled among seagulls distressed at the commotion but otherwise unharmed. And then the beaches were empty, the parks were empty, the freeway and pier were empty, the seagulls were calm again and the only people left alive on the planet were those who’d reached Antarctica. Since there were no prisons in McMurdo City, Yotam was being held inside the museum, locked inside the exhibition hall, sleeping under the case containing the diaries with only the company of his dog Copper. He’d been confined to this space while the Senate decided how to handle his case. If he was honest, maybe he’d deliberately provoked this reaction, forcing the issue, unable to keep Eitan trapped under the ice any longer. The Senate had been prevaricating, always demanding more evidence that these radically advanced Cold People were safe. Their safety could never be proved unless they were released. The door opened and the guard entered, with a set of fresh clothes. ‘They’re ready for you.’ The trial of Yotam Penzak was about to begin. MCMURDO CITY MCMURDO SENATE BUILDING CHAPEL OF THE SNOWS SAME DAY THE TRIAL OF YOTAM PENZAK was the first trial in McMurdo City’s twenty-year history. During the creation of this new society, the decision had been taken not to replicate the justice systems of the old world. There weren’t the resources to build courtrooms and prison cells, nor could they afford for a large portion of the workforce to be imprisoned when there were so few people left. Instead, the justice system had been replaced with a blend of libertarianism and authoritarianism. There were no written laws and no human rights. There was, instead, an imprecise and nebulous sense of fairness. Infractions were handled on a local level by a neighbourhood committee. Only the most egregious and contentious incidents reached the Senate. Composed of thirteen of the most senior academics, nine with Nobel prizes – the last surviving winners – these thirteen were the McMurdo Supreme Court. Bound by no precedent or convention, they were told the names and cases of people failing to contribute, stealing food or displaying violent tendencies. With a majority ruling the Senate made the decision whether to expel the citizen from the city or give them a second chance. Almost everyone was given a second chance and almost no one was given a third. In practice very few people broke the unwritten social code – to look after each other, to work as hard as you could and to take no more than you were entitled to. Expulsion from McMurdo involved the evicted citizens being transported past the Transantarctic mountain range, abandoning them to the centre of the continent where some eked out an existence in the wreckage of the Exodus before succumbing to the cold. On trial today wasn’t the fate of one man, but the future of the species. The case was being heard in the Chapel


it wasn’t about Holly, Rebecca, and Zion. That furrow between her eyebrows is only acceptable if she’s scheming. Otherwise, it means she’s worried, and I don’t want Celine worried. “What’s up?” I ask. “Nothing,” she says, the word landing too deliberately to be true. “Cel…” “Nothing, really.” Her fingertips brush against my wrist, finding the gap between my gloves and my coat with heat-seeking precision. My stomach flips around like a carnival roller coaster. “Not fair.” “You’re so easy.” “Are you slut-shaming me?” She grins. Slides her fingers into mine, leans into me, and just like that we’re officially holding hands in public. Like a couple. Like she doesn’t care. “Maaaybe. What are you gonna do about it?” So much. “Hey, look!” Raj calls. “They have a park!” He rushes ahead of us toward the little wooden play area, and Celine slips from my grasp—supposedly to follow Raj, but I feel a bit deflated. Sometimes I think she wants what I want, feels what I feel. Other times, it’s like watching her close her eyes and turn away. Patience, I remind myself. Patience. It’s just that waiting is starting to feel a bit like lying. And I don’t lie to Celine. “Guys,” Sophie is saying, “we’re supposed to be responsible and super-mature explorers here.” “Who wants to play on the swings?” Raj asks. Aurora squeals and runs to join him. “Oh, for God’s sake.” Sophie gives me a look. “Do something.” Celine seems to find this hilarious. I sigh and look around until my eyes land on the park’s little green-and-gold sign. “It’s only for children up to twelve years,” I call. “I could pass for twelve!” “Raj. You have a mustache.” “Says you”—Celine grins over her shoulder—“Mr. Five O’clock Shadow.” “Get him, Celine!” Raj is gleeful. I arch an unimpressed eyebrow at her. “Are you undermining my authority?” “And what authority is that?” she asks with syrupy sweetness. Sophie groans. “Jesus H. Christ. It’s like drowning in a bath of hormones.” Then she stomps into the park, picks Aurora up, and bodily carries her away from the swings. Celine bites her lip and follows. And I make a decision. Since I’m not going to sleep in my grotesque condensation-dripping tent tonight, maybe there’s something else I can do with that time instead. CELINE Aurora, Sophie, and I are packed like sausages in our tent, huddling for warmth and discussing campsite snoring etiquette. “It’s not his fault,” Aurora says mournfully. “He could have some kind of condition.” It’s pitch dark, countryside dark, but I can imagine her expression of wide-eyed sympathy. Then our mystery neighbor’s earthquake-level snore reverberates through the campsite, loud enough you’d think the perpetrator was in here with us, and I imagine a little smile sneaking onto her face. “Fair enough,” Sophie allows, “but I didn’t notice anyone on this campsite sleeping alone. So whoever’s next to him better roll him onto his side sharpish.” “They must be used to it,” I muse. “Maybe they’re asleep right now.” “With that racket?!” “Maybe they find it soothing after decades of


her voice was just as quiet as before. 'When he was waiting to be the object of your munificence, so freely bestowed for my sake, and when I was unhappy in the mercenary shape I was made to wear, I thought it would have become him better to have worked his own way on. I thought that if I had been he, I would have tried to do it, at the cost of almost any hardship. But I thought no worse of him, until the night of his departure for India. That night I knew he had a false and thankless heart. I saw a double meaning, then, in Mr. Wickfield's scrutiny of me. I perceived, for the first time, the dark suspicion that shadowed my life.' 'Suspicion, Annie!' said the Doctor. 'No, no, no!' 'In your mind there was none, I know, my husband!' she returned. 'And when I came to you, that night, to lay down all my load of shame and grief, and knew that I had to tell that, underneath your roof, one of my own kindred, to whom you had been a benefactor, for the love of me, had spoken to me words that should have found no utterance, even if I had been the weak and mercenary wretch he thought me - my mind revolted from the taint the very tale conveyed. It died upon my lips, and from that hour till now has never passed them.' Mrs. Markleham, with a short groan, leaned back in her easy-chair; and retired behind her fan, as if she were never coming out any more. 'I have never, but in your presence, interchanged a word with him from that time; then, only when it has been necessary for the avoidance of this explanation. Years have passed since he knew, from me, what his situation here was. The kindnesses you have secretly done for his advancement, and then disclosed to me, for my surprise and pleasure, have been, you will believe, but aggravations of the unhappiness and burden of my secret.' She sunk down gently at the Doctor's feet, though he did his utmost to prevent her; and said, looking up, tearfully, into his face: 'Do not speak to me yet! Let me say a little more! Right or wrong, if this were to be done again, I think I should do just the same. You never can know what it was to be devoted to you, with those old associations; to find that anyone could be so hard as to suppose that the truth of my heart was bartered away, and to be surrounded by appearances confirming that belief. I was very young, and had no adviser. Between mama and me, in all relating to you, there was a wide division. If I shrunk into myself, hiding the disrespect I had undergone, it was because I honoured you so much, and so much wished that you should honour me!' 'Annie, my pure heart!' said the Doctor, 'my dear girl!' 'A little more! a very few words more! I used


it he wouldn't be able to read it. I was looking down the street when the dinner-bell rang. Shoulder up, I reeled around to face Boo Radley and his bloody fangs; instead, I saw Dill ringing the bell with all his might in Atticus's face. Jem looked so awful I didn't have the heart to tell him I told him so. He trudged along, dragging the pole behind him on the sidewalk. Atticus said, "Stop ringing that bell." Dill grabbed the clapper; in the silence that followed, I wished he'd start ringing it again. Atticus pushed his hat to the back of his head and put his hands on his hips. "Jem," he said, "what were you doing?" "Nothin', sir." "I don't want any of that. Tell me." "I was- we were just tryin' to give somethin' to Mr. Radley." "What were you trying to give him?" "Just a letter." "Let me see it." Jem held out a filthy piece of paper. Atticus took it and tried to read it. "Why do you want Mr. Radley to come out?" Dill said, "We thought he might enjoy us..." and dried up when Atticus looked at him. "Son," he said to Jem, "I'm going to tell you something and tell you one time: stop tormenting that man. That goes for the other two of you." What Mr. Radley did was his own business. If he wanted to come out, he would. If he wanted to stay inside his own house he had the right to stay inside free from the attentions of inquisitive children, which was a mild term for the likes of us. How would we like it if Atticus barged in on us without knocking, when we were in our rooms at night? We were, in effect, doing the same thing to Mr. Radley. What Mr. Radley did might seem peculiar to us, but it did not seem peculiar to him. Furthermore, had it never occurred to us that the civil way to communicate with another being was by the front door instead of a side window? Lastly, we were to stay away from that house until we were invited there, we were not to play an asinine game he had seen us playing or make fun of anybody on this street or in this town- "We weren't makin' fun of him, we weren't laughin' at him," said Jem, "we were just-" "So that was what you were doing, wasn't it?" "Makin' fun of him?" "No," said Atticus, "putting his life's history on display for the edification of the neighborhood." Jem seemed to swell a little. "I didn't say we were doin' that, I didn't say it!" Atticus grinned dryly. "You just told me," he said. "You stop this nonsense right now, every one of you." Jem gaped at him. "You want to be a lawyer, don't you?" Our father's mouth was suspiciously firm, as if he were trying to hold it in line. Jem decided there was no point in quibbling, and was silent. When Atticus went inside the house to


The figure is hunched over, staggering their steps, pulling something along the ground. “Bezi,” I whisper. “Paige. Get up.” Paige grumbles something to herself as Bezi sits up and readjusts her bonnet. “What is it?” she asks. “What’s wrong?” “There’s somebody out there,” I say. There’s another loud splash, and I whip my head around, straining to see in the dark. Bezi stumbles out of bed and joins me at the window. We press our faces close to the glass, fogging it with our breath. “Where?” Bezi asks. “Across the lake. Right there.” I scan the shoreline until I spot the figure again. This time they’re closer to the camp side of the lake, and whatever they were dragging is now gone. Bezi sighs. “I still don’t—” A hand clamps down on my shoulder, and my heart leaps into my throat as I spin around to find Paige standing directly behind me. A strangled yelp escapes me. “You almost gave me a heart attack!” Bezi leans forward and puts her hands on her knees. “Damn, Paige! You just glided over here! No noise or nothing!” Paige furrows her brow and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “You didn’t hear me get up?” “No!” I say. “Sorry,” Paige says. “What’s going on?” I press my hand against my chest like my heart might jump out if I don’t. “Look.” I pull her toward the window and point to the last place I saw the shadowy figure, only to find nothing but the dark. “Am I missing something?” Paige asks. “There was somebody out there,” I say. “We saw them.” “Maybe it was Tasha or Porter or somebody else?” Bezi offers. “Should we go check on everybody?” She reaches for the door. Paige steps in front of her. “Um, no. Text them. We’re not going outside at three in the morning because y’all saw some stranger by the lake. Do you know how dumb that sounds?” She shakes her head like she’s disappointed in us. I text Tasha, asking if she’s okay. I have to hold my phone over my head to get one funky-ass bar. She responds a few moments later. TASHA: I’m sleep. So is Javier. Lights are on in P&K’s cabin. I breathe a little easier knowing everyone seems to be all right. “See?” Paige asks. “Everybody’s good, and we didn’t even have to go out in the dark and be the first group of people to get horribly murdered.” Bezi waves her off. I nod. She’s being overdramatic but I’m glad we didn’t go. I can’t stop thinking about the stooped figure by the lake. We climb back into bed, and while Bezi and Paige eventually fall asleep, I lie awake listening for the sound of footsteps. CHAPTER 6 The next morning, I hit the shower, rinsing off the fake blood that has dried in my hair and under my fingernails. I wash my hair, deep condition, then detangle it. I’m sans hair dryer in the summer months, so I pack on a bunch of leave-in and let it


man being asked to appraise a woman’s looks, or because he was offended on my teenage behalf. He reached for his beer like it would save him, and raised it. “To the present,” he said. 8 In late 2020, just as we got the news that Omar’s hearing would be further delayed, I got a call from Fran and assumed it was related. She had mostly forgiven my meddling once the blood was discovered. Or rather, she was still upset, on behalf of Granby, but more at the world than at me personally. But she wasn’t calling about the case; she was calling to tell me Carlotta had stage 3C breast cancer. “Inoperable is apparently not the same as untreatable, though,” Fran said. I understood that Carlotta only had energy for one Granby phone call, but it still stung that she would call Fran and not me. I swallowed my selfish hurt and said, “Which breast?” “What?” “Which breast?” “God, I don’t know. Probably both at this point. Does it matter?” It did, it mattered to me, because I could still feel Peewee Walcott’s fingers digging into my right breast. Which meant he’d grabbed Carlotta’s left breast. And although it made no sense at all, I knew he had damaged her, had planted something in her that would, twenty-five years later, mutate her cells, turn her body against itself. It was impossible, but it was true. Her kids were eleven and eight and six. The treatments were going to be brutal, an aggressive poisoning of every cell in her body. It worked, somewhat. Her hair even grew back afterward. But now, a year later, she was sick again. The cancer had metastasized, and Fran had set up a second crowdfunding page. The kids were now thirteen and nine and seven. There had been a shift, a few years back: For a long time, when any classmates from high school or college passed away, it was a sudden accident, something fast that left no space for suffering, just for the shock of the survivors. But then a college friend had died a year back from leukemia, and then another from a brain tumor, and another from drawn-out COVID complications and a weak heart. And here was Carlotta, her skin waxen in photos, her life stretched thin like the last impossible pull of Silly Putty before it finally turns to air. I knew that in thirty years, there’d be a steady stream of regular obituaries describing lives well lived. But this middle phase, these deaths of people in their early forties, felt the cruelest. Maybe because there were always kids involved, ones far too young to leave behind. Carlotta wasn’t going to make it. I’d known it for weeks now, I’d felt it as a dull ache, but then Sakina confirmed it as we walked back to the inn that night. And Sakina knew what she was talking about. I’d been right: I’d found out eventually from Carlotta herself, it was her left breast. Well, now it was everywhere, in her bones and liver


I do think it's nice of you." She looked at Julian out of her blue eyes and the boy frowned as he tried to think of a way to make the obstinate little girl take the ice. Then he smiled. "Listen," he said, "you've got something we badly want to share- in fact you've got a lot of things we'd like to share, if only you'd let us. You share those with us, and let us share things like ices with you. See?" "What things have I got that you want to share?" asked George, in surprise. "You've got a dog," said Julian, patting the big brown mongrel. "We'd love to share him with you, he's such a darling. And you've got a lovely island. We'd be simply thrilled if you'd share it sometimes. And you've got a wreck. We'd like to look at it and share it too. Ices and sweets aren't so good as those things- but it would be nice to make a bargain and share with each other." George looked at the brown eyes that gazed steadily into hers. She couldn't help liking Julian. It wasn't her nature to share anything. She had always been an only child, a lonely, rather misunderstood little girl, fierce and hot-tempered. She had never had any friends of her own. Timothy looked up at Julian and saw that he was offering something nice and chocolately to George. He jumped up and licked the boy with his friendly tongue. "There you are, you see- Tim wants to be shared," said Julian, with a laugh. "It would be nice for him to have three new friends." "Yes- it would," said George, giving in suddenly, and taking the chocolate bar. "Thank you, Julian. I will share with you. But promise you'll never tell anyone at home that I'm still keeping Timothy?" "Of course we'll promise," said Julian. "But I can't imagine that your father or mother would mind, so long as Tim doesn't live in their house. How's the ice? Is it nice?" "Ooooh- the loveliest one I've ever tasted!" said George nibbling at it. "It's so cold. I haven't had one this year. It's simply DELICIOUS!" Timothy tried to nibble it too. George gave him a few crumbs at the end. Then she turned and smiled at the three children. "You're nice," she said. "I'm glad you've come after all. Let's take a boat out this afternoon and row round the island to have a look at the wreck, shall we?" "Rather!" said all three at once- and even Timothy wagged his tail as if he understood! Chapter Four AN EXCITING AFTERNOON Contents- Prev/Next They all had a bathe that morning, and the boys found that George was a much better swimmer than they were. She was very strong and very fast, and she could swim under water, too, holding her breath for ages. "You're jolly good," said Julian, admiringly. "It's a pity Anne isn't a bit better. Anne, you'll have to practise your swimming strokes hard, or you'll never be able to swim