she instinctively went after it, taking four or five running steps before pushing off as hard as she could. She rose high into the air, the result of years of training, and with her legs long and her arms and fingers fully outstretched she was just able to grasp the pipe bomb as it began its descent. She closed her fingers around it and landed, skidding to a stop. By then, the audience was in full panic mode, screaming and trying to scatter, falling over each other as they tried to get to the exits, their hands filled with coats and purses. The high-pitched wails of children rose into the air. “Go!” shouted Marion to the dancers onstage. The dancer playing Mary nodded and began directing everyone off stage left, away from the bomb. Marion was holding a bomb in her hand, the same kind that had killed Judy and injured dozens. She had no idea when Martinek had set the timer for, or if, having been manhandled, it was more likely to explode at any moment. She stifled the impulse to drop it and run. A hay bale, part of the nativity scene, sat on the stage a few feet away from where Marion had landed. She thrust the pipe bomb deep inside. She had no idea if that would make any difference if it went off, but right then she had to stop Martinek from leaving. That had been Peter’s job, but he was gone. It was up to her. She ran back to the edge of the stage, to the stairs. Martinek was heading up the aisle with the rest of the crowd. She shouted and pointed at him, hoping someone in the crowd would help, but the members of the audience were too busy fighting their way out of the theater and her voice was lost among their panicked cries. She might be able to catch up to him and cut him off if she took the aisle just to the right, one that ran parallel but was shorter. She edged out into the crowd, watching him the best she could. He was caught in the scrum as well, but she was gaining on him. Suddenly, he turned right, heading to the aisle that ran along the Fifty-First Street side of the theater, with the lobby at one end and the stairs to the mezzanine at the other. She did the same. There, the audience members were all heading left toward the lobby, to safety, but she didn’t see Martinek in that group. She looked to her right. He wasn’t climbing the stairs. But then a movement to the right of the stairway caught her eye. He was only five or six feet away from her, reaching for the knob of a narrow door wedged between the stairs and the wall. The door that led backstage. She took another leap and threw all her body weight onto him, hands on his shoulders, her torso slamming into his. He smashed face-first into the doorway, letting out a grunt. She


by the by, and then --still minus his trowsers -- he hunted up his boots. What under the heavens he did it for, I cannot tell, but his next movement was to crush himself --boots in hand, and hat on --under the bed; when, from sundry violent .. <p 28 > gaspings and strainings, I inferred he was hard at work booting himself; though by no law of propriety that I ever heard of, is any man required to be private when putting on his boots. But Queequeg, do you see, was a creature in the transition state -- neither caterpillar nor butterfly. He was just enough civilized to show off his outlandishness in the strangest possible manner. his education was not yet completed. He was an undergraduate. If he had not been a small degree civilized, he very probably would not have troubled himself with boots at all; but then, if he had not been still a savage, he never would have dreamt of getting under the bed to put them on. At last, he emerged with his hat very much dented and crushed down over his eyes, and began creaking and limping about the room, as if, not being much accustomed to boots, his pair of damp, wrinkled cowhide ones -- probably not made to order either --rather pinched and tormented him at the first go off of a bitter cold morning. Seeing, now, that there were no curtains to the window, and that the street being very narrow, the house opposite commanded a plain view into the room, and observing more and more the indecorous figure that Queequeg made, staving about with little else but his hat and boots on; I begged him as well as I could, to accelerate his toilet somewhat, and particularly to get into his pantaloons as soon as possible. He complied, and then proceeded to wash himself. At that time in the morning any Christian would have washed his face; but Queequeg, to my amazement, contented himself with restricting his ablutions to his chest, arms, and hands. He then donned his waistcoat, and taking up a piece of hard soap on the wash-stand centre-table, dipped it into water and commenced lathering his face. I was watching to see where he kept his razor, when lo and behold, he takes the harpoon from the bed corner, slips out the long wooden stock, unsheathes the head, whets it a little on his boot, and striding up to the bit of mirror against the wall, begins a vigorous scraping, or rather harpooning of his cheeks. Thinks I, Queequeg, this is using Rogers's best cutlery with a vengeance. Afterwards I wondered the less at this operation when I came to know of what fine steel the head of a harpoon is made, and how exceedingly sharp the long straight edges are always kept. .. <p 29 > the rest of his toilet was soon achieved, and he proudly marched out of the room, wrapped up in his great pilot monkey jacket, and sporting his harpoon like a marshal's


"I'll go to hell, body and soul, before I look sideways after you again. Side out o' t' gate now, this minute!" Catherine frowned and retreated to the window-seat chewing her lip, and endeavouring, by humming an eccentric tune, to conceal a growing tendency to sob. "You should be friends with your cousin, Mr. Hare- ton," I interrupted, "since she repents of her sauciness. It would do you a great deal of good; it would make you another man to have her for a companion." "A companion!" he cried, "when she hates me, and does not think me fit to wipe her shoon! Nay! if it made me a king, I'd not be scorned for seeking her good-will any more." "It is not I who hate you; it is you who hate me!" wept Cathy, no longer disguising her trouble. "You hate me as much as Mr. Heathcliff does, and more." "You're a damned liar," began Earnshaw. "Why have I made him angry by taking your part, then, a hundred times, and that when you sneered at and de- spised me, and----- Go on plaguing me, and I'll step in yonder and say you worried me out of the kitchen." "I didn't know you took my part," she answered, drying her eyes, "and I was miserable and bitter at everybody; but now I thank you, and beg you to forgive me. What can I do besides?" She returned to the hearth, and frankly extended her hand. He blackened and scowled like a thundercloud, and kept his fists resolutely clenched, and his gaze fixed on the ground. Catherine, by instinct, must have divined it was obdurate perversity, and not dislike, that prompted this dogged conduct, for, after remaining an instant undecided, she stooped and impressed on his cheek a gentle kiss. The little rogue thought I had not seen her, and drawing back, she took her former station by the window, quite demurely. I shook my head reprovingly, and then she blushed and whis- pered,--- "Well, what should I have done, Ellen? He wouldn't shake hands, and he wouldn't look; I must show him some way that I like him---that I want to be friends." Whether the kiss convinced Hareton I cannot tell. He was very careful, for some minutes, that his face should not be seen; and when he did raise it, he was sadly puzzled where to turn his eyes. Catherine employed herself in wrapping a handsome book neatly in white paper, and having tied it with a bit of ribbon, and addressed it to "Mr. Hareton Earn- shaw," she desired me to be her ambassadress, and con- vey the present to its destined recipient. "And tell him if he'll take it I'll come and teach him to read it right," she said; "and if he refuse it I'll go up- stairs and never tease him again." I carried it, and repeated the message, anxiously watched by my employer. Hareton would not open his fingers, so I laid it on his knee. He did not strike it off either. I returned


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

nickname,” I explain. “Yelling ‘Stefania Elena Garcia Prince’ around the house would be rather a mouthful, don’t you think?” The silence stretches. It’s not awkward exactly, but aware. I might have said no on Fizzy’s doorstep, but I suspect we both know I wanted to go inside. How do we move on from this? A breeze darts across the field, ruffling the trees and sending umbrellas and blankets tumbling along the grass. When I reach up to push my hair off my forehead, Fizzy’s eyes follow the movement. I’m reminded that she said I should wear it like this more often, that she likes it. I clear my throat, ready to steer us in a less dangerous direction. “I forgot to tell you: callbacks were great. I think we’ve found our Heroes.” Her entire face brightens. “Oh my God, tell me everything. Wait, first tell me they’re all insanely hot.” I mentally stumble at the shift in her enthusiasm, and just how much I dislike it. “Ratings-through-the-roof hot,” I say. “I don’t want to say too much because nothing’s finalized, but we narrowed it down to eight men. All approved archetypes.” She’s about to reply when there’s a blur of movement and two small tornados collide into our bodies. Stevie looks up from where her arms are wrapped around my waist. Juno is hugging Fizzy. “Can we have ice cream after the game?” Stevie asks. I bend to kiss the top of her head. “Sure. Can you say hello to Fizzy? She’s starring in the show I’ve been working on.” I turn her around and Stevie tilts her head back to look up at me. “I already know who Fizzy is,” Stevie says. “She’s walked us home a few times.” Fizzy reaches over to twirl the end of Stevie’s long hair. “Sometimes we stop for hot chocolates on the way. Sometimes for cocktails. Depends how the day went.” Both the girls giggle, but then something catches Stevie’s eye—a sticker on the back of Fizzy’s phone—and she steps forward to examine it. “You never said you liked Wonderland!” “She looooooves them,” Juno says. “How have we never talked about it?” Fizzy says. “They are my happy place!” I look closer at the small holographic logo, wondering how I missed it when there’s a similar one attached to fifty percent of Stevie’s belongings. Probably because when I’m with Fizzy, the last thing I’m looking at is her phone. “Have you seen them in concert?” Fizzy asks. Stevie shakes her head. “I’ve never been to a concert before.” “They’re coming in two weeks! You should go!” “It’s sold out,” I say. Fizzy swats this detail away. “I could get us tickets. I dated an executive over at the stadium, and let me tell you—” She stops, noting my apprehension over what might come out of her mouth, and settles on, “I know a guy.” “That’s a pretty late night.” I’m already imagining carrying a sleeping Juno and Stevie across a mile-long parking lot. “They’d be exhausted the next day.” She scoffs. “It’s summer! Besides, being


and nod. “Yes.” “To accept . . . the job?” “Yes.” “Yes?” “Yes.” “To be clear: you’re taking the job.” “Yes.” She screams. And hugs me tight. And after a startled moment, I hug her back. And about ten seconds into that, something breaks through the foggy haze of the past few days: I feel selfishly, beautifully happy. I just chose something on my own, for my own, without first building a sophisticated theoretical model of other people’s advice, preferences, needs. Without the nagging feeling that the only path I could take was the one pre-trodden for me. This decision is all mine. “I wanted to tell you in person,” I say when we let go. “And I wanted to thank you for the opportunity.” My smile wobbles a little. I could get emotional, but not yet. First, I have things to say. “And I’d love to set up a meeting, maybe for the next week. I don’t know if I mentioned it to you, but I’ve been working on several algorithms regarding the behaviors of bidimensional liquid crystals for . . . well, years now. Lots of incomplete projects I want to finish up. I’d love to tell you more about it. Get your input.” I bite my lower lip. “Maybe it could be part of our collaborative research, too?” “Yes. Absolutely, I’d love to hear all about it.” She grins. And then, almost abruptly, doesn’t. “I really didn’t think you were going to accept.” I nod. “I know.” My heart beats a little harder. “But in the end, it was an easy choice. Because I wanted to.” I leave with a promise to meet her for drinks next week when her friend Bee’s in town. The ride back home is still delicate, but a little less raw. When I tap through my phone in search of a good song, the old notifications of Jack’s unanswered calls stare back at me, unflinching. He hasn’t tried to contact me since the weekend, and I wonder if he’s angry at me. I wonder if he’s sad. I wonder if he’s disappointed. Then I remember: I’m angry. And sad. And disappointed. Yes, Jack was right about Laurendeau, but I’m still furious—at both of them. They lied, withheld information, presumed to know what was best for me, and a new, vengeful version of me revels in the way these two men who hate each other are now tangled up together in the expanse of my rage. Anger is not a new emotion per se, not for me, but for the first time in my life, I’m letting myself experience it. Desirable Elsies were never allowed to acknowledge negative feelings. But the Elsie I’m discovering I am is in the eye of several, and instead of trying to channel, disassemble, toss, forget, bury, transform, choke, erase, disappear those feelings—instead of doing any of that, she just lets them be. Breathes them in. Then out. Then in again. The therapist I once talked with but never went back to, because the copay was too steep even with


not treat it as a business transaction, and I did not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is nothing to me compared to her." "Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry,--"much more practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to say anything about marriage, and they always remind us." [35] Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don't, Harry. You have annoyed Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any one. His nature is too fine for that." Lord Henry looked across the table. "Dorian is never annoyed with me," he answered. "I asked the question for the best reason possible, for the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any question,--simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women, except, of course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not modern." Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite incorrigible, Harry; but I don't mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When you see Sibyl Vane you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any one can wish to shame what he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I wish to place her on a pedestal of gold, and to see the world worship the woman who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. And it is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her, I regret all that you have taught me. I become different from what you have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane's hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories." "You will always like me, Dorian," said Lord Henry. "Will you have some coffee, you fellows?--Waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne, and some cigarettes. No: don't mind the cigarettes; I have some.-- Basil, I can't allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can you want?-- Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit." "What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried Dorian Gray, lighting his cigarette from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. "Let us go down to the theatre. When you see Sibyl you will have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you have never known." "I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a sad look in his eyes, "but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid


Do they go to college? Does Edward ever see a dermatologist? Who wins the golden onion? His reply takes a long time to come, but I’m not surprised when it does. JACK: Good. • • • BY THE TIME G REG OPENS THE DOOR , I’ VE WORKED MYSELF UP TO a state of panic. “I thought coming empty-handed would be rude,” I blurt out, “so I grabbed this. Because it was cheap, but not the cheapest.” I hand him the bottle of red wine like it’s a hot potato. “I didn’t notice the name until I got on the bus, and . . .” Greg looks down at the label, which proclaims “Ménage à Trois” in a sexy, flirtatious font. He snorts out a laugh. “I swear, this is not a proposition.” “Noted.” He hugs me, at once new and comfortingly familiar. “I’ll put this orgy invite in the fridge and go finish the food. Make yourself comfortable.” I claw out of my anxiety pit, take off my coat, then make to follow him into the kitchen, when— Jack. For no reason whatsoever, my heart jolts and I cannot breathe. Maybe there’s something wrong with my cardiopulmonary health—is my entire body joining my pancreas and crapping out? Does nothing inside me work anymore? But really, it’s not important. I don’t care. Jack doesn’t care. He stands just a few feet from the entrance, arms crossed, chestnut eyes full of warmth and amusement as he murmurs, “Looks like you and Uncle Paul have something in common, after all.” “I . . . He . . . It’s a misunderstanding.” His mouth twitches. “When you said you wanted to spend the night, I didn’t think you meant here.” I groan, covering my eyes with my hand. And when I feel Jack’s heat, I know he has drifted closer, and I let myself sink into him. “Hey,” he says, lips against my temple, and suddenly everything feels a bit more right in the world. I want to kiss him, desperately, just as desperately as I don’t want his brother to walk in on us kissing in his living room. So I pull back and open my mouth to say the first thing I can think of. Then immediately close it. Am I going insane? Is my brain leaking out from my ears? I can’t say that. I’m not batshit— “Honesty,” he chides gently. Crap. “I . . .” I swallow. Buck up. Take a deep breath. “I missed you.” I rub my forehead. “God, I’m such a weirdo.” He nods slowly, as though mulling it over. Then offers, “I went to campus today to get work done. Instead I kept wondering how buck wild it would be if I asked you to move in.” I let out a surprised laugh. “You’re a weirdo, too.” “Yeah.” “Have you ever . . . ?” “Nope. Total first.” “What’s wrong with us?” His eyes hold mine, unyielding. “I think we both know what.” I laugh again. “What?” “Come on, Elsie. You know where we’re going, here.” I


passage, before my door, of a light footstep. But these fancies were not marked enough not to be thrown off, and it is only in the light, or the gloom, I should rather say, of other and subsequent matters that they now come back to me. To watch, teach, "form" little Flora would too evidently be the making of a happy and useful life. It had been agreed between us downstairs that after this first occasion I should have her as a matter of course at night, her small white bed being already arranged, to that end, in my room. What I had undertaken was the whole care of her, and she had remained, just this last time, with Mrs. Grose only as an effect of our consideration for my inevitable strangeness and her natural timidity. In spite of this timidity-- which the child herself, in the oddest way in the world, had been perfectly frank and brave about, allowing it, without a sign of uncomfortable consciousness, with the deep, sweet serenity indeed of one of Raphael's holy infants, to be discussed, to be imputed to her, and to determine us-- I feel quite sure she would presently like me. It was part of what I already liked Mrs. Grose herself for, the pleasure I could see her feel in my admiration and wonder as I sat at supper with four tall candles and with my pupil, in a high chair and a bib, brightly facing me, between them, over bread and milk. There were naturally things that in Flora's presence could pass between us only as prodigious and gratified looks, obscure and roundabout allusions. "And the little boy--does he look like her? Is he too so very remarkable?" One wouldn't flatter a child. "Oh, miss, MOST remarkable. If you think well of this one!"--and she stood there with a plate in her hand, beaming at our companion, who looked from one of us to the other with placid heavenly eyes that contained nothing to check us. "Yes; if I do--?" "You WILL be carried away by the little gentleman!" "Well, that, I think, is what I came for--to be carried away. I'm afraid, however," I remember feeling the impulse to add, "I'm rather easily carried away. I was carried away in London!" I can still see Mrs. Grose's broad face as she took this in. "In Harley Street?" "In Harley Street." "Well, miss, you're not the first--and you won't be the last." "Oh, I've no pretension," I could laugh, "to being the only one. My other pupil, at any rate, as I understand, comes back tomorrow?" "Not tomorrow--Friday, miss. He arrives, as you did, by the coach, under care of the guard, and is to be met by the same carriage." I forthwith expressed that the proper as well as the pleasant and friendly thing would be therefore that on the arrival of the public conveyance I should be in waiting for him with his little sister; an idea in which Mrs. Grose concurred so heartily that I somehow took her


cupboard door for leverage as I pushed into her over and over, harder and harder. Her breath catches and I watch as goose bumps erupt along her neck. I could kiss her now, and I think she’d kiss me back. If I asked her to stay after everyone left, I think she’d do that, too. In the other room, music cuts through the air, signaling the end of the commercial break. I follow her back just as the first confessional begins. The guys each have their turn solo, and each is charming and obviously interested in Fizzy. Frankly, the idea that any of these men wouldn’t fall all over themselves to be with her is unfathomable, but our editing team—myself included—has done a good job of creatively tempering Tex’s and Arjun’s enthusiasm so no one feels too bad for them when they are likely voted off over the next twenty-four hours. And then my confessional with Fizzy begins. I’d neglected to mention this part to any of my family, and as my face appears on-screen, the room explodes with their noisy surprise. Nat is fucking delighted, Stevie is dancing on the couch and shouting that that’s her dad, and Ash lets everyone know that he’s just been issued a free pass to give me shit for the foreseeable future. Next to me, Fizzy is as smug as I’ve ever seen her. “Do you see that charisma?” she calls to the room, glass held in front of her. “Hollywood, please hire me as your casting director.” When it quiets again during another commercial, she taps me and motions to the TV. “Is now when you tell me I was right?” “Let’s manage expectations.” Most of the room has emptied out during the break, everyone waiting for the loo or off to the kitchen to refill their drinks. “We’ll get numbers tomorrow. Your phone must be blowing up with messages. What’s everyone saying?” Fizzy drains her glass and leans back against the couch. “Not ready for that level of reality yet. Let me stay in this soft-launch enthusiasm bubble until at least nine tomorrow morning. Then I’ll tiptoe into opinions. But for now”—she motions to the TV—“I was right about you. Say it.” “You are occasionally clever.” “Always.” “An average amount.” “Tell me I’m the best.” I smile. “You, Fizzy, are the best.” “Thank you, wow, I never expected such a compliment, but it means so much.” She hands me her empty glass. “Now please, more wine.” twenty-nine FIZZY I get into my car, turn it on, and then sit idling at the curb, staring out at the dark street. This feeling I have right now—the jittery, hyper-adrenaline, restless feeling—most people would have this reaction to seeing themselves on a dating show, to witnessing how the masterful editing made the entire episode sing, and then, at the end of the night, getting the call that the show is on track to being the biggest reality show debut in a decade. But I know myself and know that the reason I get these kinds of


He followed irresolutely for a little distance, half a pace behind her. They did not speak again. She did not actually try to shake him off, but walked at just such a speed as to prevent his keeping abreast of her. He had made up his mind that he would accompany her as far as the Tube station, but suddenly this process of trailing along in the cold seemed pointless and unbearable. He was overwhelmed by a desire not so much to get away from Julia as to get back to the Chestnut Tree Cafe, which had never seemed so attractive as at this moment. He had a nostalgic vision of his corner table, with the newspaper and the chessboard and the ever-flowing gin. Above all, it would be warm in there. The next moment, file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (160 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt not altogether by accident, he allowed himself to become separated from her by a small knot of people. He made a halfhearted attempt to catch up, then slowed down, turned, and made off in the opposite direction. When he had gone fifty metres he looked back. The street was not crowded, but already he could not distinguish her. Any one of a dozen hurrying figures might have been hers. Perhaps her thickened, stiffened body was no longer recognizable from behind. 'At the time when it happens,' she had said, 'you do mean it.' He had meant it. He had not merely said it, he had wished it. He had wished that she and not he should be delivered over to the---- Something changed in the music that trickled from the telescreen. A cracked and jeering note, a yellow note, came into it. And then--perhaps it was not happening, perhaps it was only a memory taking on the semblance of sound--a voice was singing: 'Under the spreading chestnut tree I sold you and you sold me----' The tears welled up in his eyes. A passing waiter noticed that his glass was empty and came back with the gin bottle. He took up his glass and sniffed at it. The stuff grew not less but more horrible with every mouthful he drank. But it had become the element he swam in. It was his life, his death, and his resurrection. It was gin that sank him into stupor every night, and gin that revived him every morning. When he woke, seldom before eleven hundred, with gummed-up eyelids and fiery mouth and a back that seemed to be broken, it would have been impossible even to rise from the horizontal if it had not been for the bottle and teacup placed beside the bed overnight. Through the midday hours he sat with glazed face, the bottle handy, listening to the telescreen. From fifteen to closing-time he was a fixture in the Chestnut Tree. No one cared what he did any longer, no whistle woke him, no telescreen admonished him. Occasionally, perhaps twice a week, he went to a dusty, forgotten-looking office in the Ministry of Truth and did a little work, or


existence as he did so, added that there were two entries to the house, one of them through the back yard, which gave on an alley. Under the window somebody was singing. Winston peeped out, secure in the protection of the muslin curtain. The June sun was still high in the sky, and in the sun-filled court below, a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman pillar, with brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped about her middle, was stumping to and fro between a washtub and a clothes line, pegging out a series of square white things which Winston recognized as babies' diapers. Whenever her mouth was not corked with clothes pegs she was singing in a powerful contralto: It was only an 'opeless fancy. It passed like an Ipril dye, But a look an' a word an' the dreams they stirred! They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye! The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It was one of countless similar songs published for the benefit of the proles by a sub-section of the Music Department. The words of these songs were composed without any human intervention whatever on an instrument known as a versificator. But the woman sang so tunefully as to turn the dreadful rubbish into an almost pleasant sound. He could hear the woman singing and the scrape of her shoes on the flagstones, and the cries of the children in the street, and somewhere in the far distance a faint roar of traffic, and yet the room seemed curiously silent, thanks to the absence of a telescreen. Folly, folly, folly! he thought again. It was inconceivable that they could frequent this place for more than a few weeks without being caught. But the temptation of having a hiding-place that was truly their own, indoors and near at hand, had been too much for both of them. For some time after their visit to the church belfry it had been impossible to arrange meetings. Working hours had been drastically increased in anticipation of Hate Week. It was more than a month distant, but the enormous, complex preparations that it entailed were throwing extra work on to everybody. Finally both of them managed to secure a free afternoon on the same day. file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (76 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt They had agreed to go back to the clearing in the wood. On the evening beforehand they met briefly in the street. As usual, Winston hardly looked at Julia as they drifted towards one another in the crowd, but from the short glance he gave her it seemed to him that she was paler than usual. 'It's all off,' she murmured as soon as she judged it safe to speak. 'Tomorrow, I mean.' 'What?' 'Tomorrow afternoon. I can't come.' 'Why not?' 'Oh, the usual reason. It's started early this time.' For a moment he was violently angry. During the month that he had known her the nature of his desire for her had changed. At the beginning there had been little true sensuality in it. Their first


long sigh, kissed one of Bonny's leaves, and waved her hand to a blossoming fuchsia. "They might have been lonesome while I was away," she explained. "And now about the Sunday school. I behaved well, just as you told me. Mrs. Lynde was gone, but I went right on myself. I went into the church, with a lot of other little girls, and I sat in the corner of a pew by the window while the opening exercises went on. Mr. Bell made an awfully long prayer. I would have been dreadfully tired before he got through if I hadn't been sitting by that window. But it looked right out on the Lake of Shining Waters, so I just gazed at that and imagined all sorts of splendid things." "You shouldn't have done anything of the sort. You should have listened to Mr. Bell." "But he wasn't talking to me," protested Anne. "He was talking to God and he didn't seem to be very much interested in it, either. I think he thought God was too far off though. There was long row of white birches hanging over the lake and the sunshine fell down through them, 'way, 'way down, deep into the water. Oh, Marilla, it was like a beautiful dream! It game me a thrill and I just said, `Thank you for it, God,' two or three times." "Not out loud, I hope," said Marilla anxiously. "Oh, no, just under my breath. Well, Mr. Bell did get through at last and they told me to go into the classroom with Miss Rogerson's class. There were nine other girls in it. They all had puffed sleeves. I tried to imagine mine were puffed, too, but I couldn't. Why couldn't I? It was as easy as could be to imagine they were puffed when I was alone in the east gable, but it was awfully hard there among the others who had really truly puffs." "You shouldn't have been thinking about your sleeves in Sunday school. You should have been attending to the lesson. I hope you knew it." "Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don't think it was fair for her to do all the asking. There wee lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn't like to because I didn't think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn't, but I could recite, `The Dog at His Master's Grave' if she liked. That's in the Third Royal Reader. It isn't a really truly religious piece of poetry, but it's so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it wouldn't do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it's splendid. There are two lines in particular that just thrill me. "`Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell In Midian's evil day.' I don't know what `squadrons'


me all about the time he broke his ankle when he was a boy. It does seem so strange to think of Superintendent Bell ever being a boy. Even my imagination has its limits, for I can't imagine THAT. When I try to imagine him as a boy I see him with gray whiskers and spectacles, just as he looks in Sunday school, only small. Now, it's so easy to imagine Mrs. Allan as a little girl. Mrs. Allan has been to see me fourteen times. Isn't that something to be proud of, Marilla? When a minister's wife has so many claims on her time! She is such a cheerful person to have visit you, too. She never tells you it's your own fault and she hopes you'll be a better girl on account of it. Mrs. Lynde always told me that when she came to see me; and she said it in a kind of way that made me feel she might hope I'd be a better girl but didn't really believe I would. Even Josie Pye came to see me. I received her as politely as I could, because I think she was sorry she dared me to walk a ridgepole. If I had been killed she would had to carry a dark burden of remorse all her life. Diana has been a faithful friend. She's been over every day to cheer my lonely pillow. But oh, I shall be so glad when I can go to school for I've heard such exciting things about the new teacher. The girls all think she is perfectly sweet. Diana says she has the loveliest fair curly hair and such fascinating eyes. She dresses beautifully, and her sleeve puffs are bigger than anybody else's in Avonlea. Every other Friday afternoon she has recitations and everybody has to say a piece or take part in a dialogue. Oh, it's just glorious to think of it. Josie Pye says she hates it but that is just because Josie has so little imagination. Diana and Ruby Gillis and Jane Andrews are preparing a dialogue, called `A Morning Visit,' for next Friday. And the Friday afternoons they don't have recitations Miss Stacy takes them all to the woods for a `field' day and they study ferns and flowers and birds. And they have physical culture exercises every morning and evening. Mrs. Lynde says she never heard of such goings on and it all comes of having a lady teacher. But I think it must be splendid and I believe I shall find that Miss Stacy is a kindred spirit." "There's one thing plain to be seen, Anne," said Marilla, "and that is that your fall off the Barry roof hasn't injured your tongue at all." 24. Miss Stacy and Her Pupils Get Up a Concert It was October again when Anne was ready to go back to school-a glorious October, all red and gold, with mellow mornings when the valleys were filled with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had poured them in for the


after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily promised every assistance in his power. -- Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit, every thing relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. ``But what is to be done about Pemberley?'' cried Mrs. Gardiner. ``John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us; -- was it so?'' ``Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. _That_ is all settled.'' ``That is all settled!'' repeated the other, as she ran into her room to prepare. ``And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real truth! Oh, that I knew how it was!'' But wishes were vain; or at best could serve only to amuse her in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends in Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn. __ CHAPTER V (47) ``I HAVE been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,'' said her uncle as they drove from the town; ``and really, upon serious consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does of the matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is not adequate to the risk.'' ``Do you really think so?'' cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment. ``Upon my word,'' said Mrs. Gardiner, ``I begin to be of your uncle's opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of it. I cannot think so very ill of Wickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up as to believe him capable of it?'' ``Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every other neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland, if that had been the case?'' ``In


man was dead and he had seen the corpse. Rewards had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun Joe was found. One of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a detective, came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head, looked wise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of that craft usually achieve. That is to say, he "found a clew." But you can't hang a "clew" for murder, and so after that detective had got through and gone home, Tom felt just as insecure as he was before. The slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly lightened weight of apprehension. --------------------------------------------------------- -227- Chapter XXV THERE comes a time in every rightly-constructed boy's life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure. This desire suddenly came upon Tom one day. He sallied out to find Joe Harper, but failed of success. Next he sought Ben Rogers; he had gone fishing. Presently he stumbled upon Huck Finn the Red-Handed. Huck would answer. Tom took him to a private place and opened the matter to him confidentially. Huck was willing. Huck was always willing to take a hand in any enterprise that offered entertainment and required no capital, for he had a troublesome superabundance of that sort of time which is not money. "Where'll we dig?" said Huck. "Oh, most anywhere." "Why, is it hid all around?" "No, indeed it ain't. It's hid in mighty particular places, Huck -- sometimes on islands, sometimes in rotten chests under the end of a limb of an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at midnight; but mostly under the floor in ha'nted houses." "Who hides it?" --------------------------------------------------------- -228- "Why, robbers, of course -- who'd you reckon? Sunday-school sup'rintendents?" "I don't know. If 'twas mine I wouldn't hide it; I'd spend it and have a good time." "So would I. But robbers don't do that way. They always hide it and leave it there." "Don't they come after it any more?" "No, they think they will, but they generally forget the marks, or else they die. Anyway, it lays there a long time and gets rusty; and by and by somebody finds an old yellow paper that tells how to find the marks -- a paper that's got to be ciphered over about a week because it's mostly signs and hy'roglyphics." "HyroQwhich?" "Hy'roglyphics -- pictures and things, you know, that don't seem to mean anything." "Have you got one of them papers, Tom?" "No." "Well then, how you going to find the marks?" "I don't want any marks. They always bury it under a ha'nted house or on an island, or under a dead tree that's got one limb sticking out. Well, we've tried Jackson's Island a little, and we can try it again some time; and there's the old ha'nted house up the Still-House branch, and there's lots of deadlimb trees -- dead loads of 'em." "Is it under all of them?" "How you talk! No!" "Then how you


“Thanks.” “No worries.” Montoya hit the brakes as a bicycle rider cut in front of him. “Idiot!” he muttered under his breath as the bike angled into a side street. “I should cite him.” Then he took a deep breath and, for once, didn’t chase the offender down. Montoya was still a hothead and he ran on adrenaline and testosterone, but since he’d become a father, some of his sharp edges had smoothed a bit. Fingers tight over the wheel, he shot his partner another glance and got right back up on his soapbox. “I’m just sayin’ take care of yourself, okay? Then you can take care of the case.” Montoya had a point, Bentz grudgingly thought. It was all true that he hadn’t slept in days aside from a few catnaps here and there. At night his worries compounded, driving any chance at sleep away. Though he rationally knew the murderous attack wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t help but feel a needle of doubt prick deep into his soul, a sharp little reminder insisting that he was somehow responsible, that it was up to him to keep his family safe. Another sip of coffee. “Message received.” “Really? You’re going to take my advice?” Beneath his goatee, Montoya’s lips twisted and his dark eyes flashed as he switched lanes. “Maybe.” “And maybe not.” Montoya’s earring winked in the weak sunlight that managed to pierce through the windshield. “What is it you don’t understand about ‘random attack’?” “Don’t believe it,” Bentz said. “Not when one victim is the daughter of a cop and the other victim works with the force.” He shook his head. “Not random.” “Prove it then. And while you’re at it?” He shot another hard look Bentz’s way. “Get some fuc—effin’ sleep.” He scowled. “Shit.” Then let out a disgusted huff. “Abby’s trying to get me to clean up my language. Y’know, for the kid. Ben’s too young to understand but”—he shrugged—“who knows what he’s picking up?” “I hear ya.” “Do you? About takin’ care of yourself? I hope so.” “Working on it,” Bentz assured him as Montoya parked. “Well, for Christ’s sake, work a little harder, would ya?” * * * Montoya threw the tennis ball the length of the yard, a long, narrow piece of property that extended from the back of the shotgun house he shared with his wife and kid. Abby was talking about moving, getting a bigger place, maybe thinking about having another child. “I’d love a daughter,” she’d told him in bed this morning. “Or another son. Benjamin will need a sibling.” Montoya wasn’t convinced. At least not yet. The kid was way too young to deal with a brother or sister, even given another year, at least in Montoya’s opinion. And the world they lived in was tough. Climate change. Social unrest. A recent flu outbreak. Overpopulation. Wars around the world. Was it wise to bring another kid onto the planet? He was of the opinion that Ben was enough. At least for now. Their dog, Hershey, a chocolate lab that was beginning


she was done. "The real message is in what Sansa does not say. All this about how kindly and gently the Lannisters are treating her . . . I know the sound of a threat, even whispered. They have Sansa hostage, and they mean to keep her." "There's no mention of Arya," Robb pointed out, miserable. "No." Catelyn did not want to think what that might mean, not now, not here. "I had hoped . . . if you still held the Imp, a trade of hostages . . ." He took Sansa's letter and crumpled it in his fist, and she could tell from the way he did it that it was not the first time. "Is there word from the Eyrie? I wrote to Aunt Lysa, asking help. Has she called Lord Arryn's banners, do you know? Will the knights of the Vale come join us?" "Only one," she said, "the best of them, my uncle . . . but Brynden Blackfish was a Tully first. My sister is not about to stir beyond her Bloody Gate." Robb took it hard. "Mother, what are we going to do? I brought this whole army together, eighteen thousand men, but I don't . . . I'm not certain . . ." He looked to her, his eyes shining, the proud young lord melted away in an instant, and quick as that he was a child again, a fifteen-year-old boy looking to his mother for answers. It would not do. A GAME OF THRONES 529 "What are you so afraid of, Robb?" she asked gently. "I . . ." He turned his head away, to hide the first tear. "If we march ... even if we win ... the Lannisters hold Sansa, and Father. They'll kill them, won't they?" "They want us to think so." "You mean they're lying?" "I do not know, Robb. What I do know is that you have no choice. If you go to King's Landing and swear fealty, you will never be allowed to leave. If you turn your tail and retreat to Winterfell, your lords will lose all respect for you. Some may even go over to the Lannisters. Then the queen, with that much less to fear, can do as she likes with her prisoners. Our best hope, our only true hope, is that you can defeat the foe in the field. If you should chance to take Lord Tywin or the Kingslayer captive, why then a trade might very well be possible, but that is not the heart of it. So long as you have power enough that they must fear you, Ned and your sister should be safe. Cersei is wise enough to know that she may need them to make her peace, should the fighting go against her." "What if the fighting doesn't go against her?" Robb asked. "What if it goes against us?" Catelyn took his hand. "Robb, I will not soften the truth for you. If you lose, there is no hope for any of us. They say there is naught


would be--homeless again." "O no----no. I would guarantee you against such as that in writing, if necessary. Think it over. Tess shook her head. But d'Urberville persisted; she had seldom seen him so determined; he would not take a negative. "Please just tell your mother," he said, in emphatic tones. "It is her business to judge--not yours. I shall get the house swept out and whitened tomorrow morning, and fires lit; and it will be dry by the evening, so that you can come straight there. Now mind, I shall expect you." Tess again shook her head; her throat swelling with complicated emotion. She could not look up at d'Urberville. "I owe you something for the past, you know," he resumed. "And you cured me, too, of that craze; so I am glad----" "I would rather you had kept the craze, so that you had kept the practice which went with it!" "I am glad of this opportunity of repaying you a little. Tomorrow I shall expect to hear your mother's goods unloading.... Give me your hand on it now--dear, beautiful Tess!" With the last sentence he had dropped his voice to a murmur, and put his hand in at the half-open casement. With stormy eyes she pulled the stay-bar quickly, and, in doing so, caught his arm between the casement and the stone mullion. "Damnation--you are very cruel!" he said, snatching out his arm. "No, no!--I know you didn't do it on purpose. Well I shall expect you, or your mother and children at least." "I shall not come--I have plenty of money!" she cried. "Where?" "At my father-in-law's, if I ask for it." "IF you ask for it. But you won't, Tess; I know you; you'll never ask for it--you'll starve first!" With these words he rode off. Just at the corner of the street he met the man with the paint-pot, who asked him if he had deserted the brethren. "You go to the devil!" said d'Urberville. Tess remained where she was a long while, till a sudden rebellious sense of injustice caused the region of her eyes to swell with the rush of hot tears thither. Her husband, Angel Clare himself, had, like others, dealt out hard measure to her, surely he had! She had never before admitted such a thought; but he had surely! Never in her life--she could swear it from the bottom of her soul--had she ever intended to do wrong; yet these hard judgements had come. Whatever her sins, they were not sins of intention, but of inadvertence, and why should she have been punished so persistently? She passionately seized the first piece of paper that came to hand, and scribbled the following lines: O why have you treated me so monstrously, Angel! I do not deserve it. I have thought it all over carefully, and I can never, never forgive you! You know that I did not intend to wrong you--why have you so wronged me? You are cruel, cruel indeed! I will try to forget you. It is all injustice I have


sigh, of relief this time. Evidently she did not like talking about her experiences in a world that had not wanted her. "Did you ever go to school?" demanded Marilla, turning the sorrel mare down the shore road. "Not a great deal. I went a little the last year I stayed with Mrs. Thomas. When I went up river we were so far from a school that I couldn't walk it in winter and there was a vacation in summer, so I could only go in the spring and fall. But of course I went while I was at the asylum. I can read pretty well and I know ever so many pieces of poetry off by heart-`The Battle of Hohenlinden" and `Edinburgh after Flodden,' and `Bingen of the Rhine,' and lost of the `Lady of the Lake' and most of `The Seasons' by James Thompson. Don't you just love poetry that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back? There is a piece in the Fifth Reader-`The Downfall of Poland'-that is just full of thrills. Of course, I wasn't in the Fifth Reader-I was only in the Fourth-but the big girls used to lend me theirs to read." "Were those women-Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Hammond-good to you?" asked Marilla, looking at Anne out of the corner of her eye. "O-o-o-h," faltered Anne. Her sensitive little face suddenly flushed scarlet and embarrassment sat on her brow. "Oh, they MEANT to be-I know they meant to be just as good and kind as possible. And when people mean to be good to you, you don't mind very much when they're not quite-always. They had a good deal to worry them, you know. It's very trying to have a drunken husband, you see; and it must be very trying to have twins three times in succession, don't you think? But I feel sure they meant to be good to me." Marilla asked no more questions. Anne gave herself up to a silent rapture over the shore road and Marilla guided the sorrel abstractedly while she pondered deeply. Pity was suddenly stirring in her heart for the child. What a starved, unloved life she had had-a life of drudgery and poverty and neglect; for Marilla was shrewd enough to read between the lines of Anne's history and divine the truth. No wonder she had been so delighted at the prospect of a real home. It was a pity she had to be sent back. What if she, Marilla, should indulge Matthew's unaccountable whim and let her stay? He was set on it; and the child seemed a nice, teachable little thing. "She's got too much to say," thought Marilla, "but she might be trained out of that. And there's nothing rude or slangy in what she does say. She's ladylike. It's likely her people were nice folks." The shore road was "woodsy and wild and lonesome." On the right hand, scrub firs, their spirits quite unbroken by long years of tussle with the gulf winds, grew thickly. On the left were the steep


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

the virgin's chamber. An afterglow deepened within his spirit, whence the white flame had passed, deepening to a rose and ardent light. That rose and ardent light was her strange wilful heart, strange that no man had known or would know, wilful from before the beginning of the world; and lured by that ardent rose-like glow the choirs of the seraphim were falling from heaven. Are you not weary of ardent ways, Lure of the fallen seraphim? Tell no more of enchanted days. The verses passed from his mind to his lips and, murmuring them over, he felt the rhythmic movement of a villanelle pass through them. The rose-like glow sent forth its rays of rhyme; ways, days, blaze, praise, raise. Its rays burned up the world, consumed the hearts of men and angels: the rays from the rose that was her wilful heart. Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze And you have had your will of him. Are you not weary of ardent ways? And then? The rhythm died away, ceased, began again to move and beat. And then? Smoke, incense ascending from the altar of the world. Above the flame the smoke of praise Goes up from ocean rim to rim Tell no more of enchanted days. Smoke went up from the whole earth, from the vapoury oceans, smoke of her praise. The earth was like a swinging swaying censer, a ball of incense, an ellipsoidal fall. The rhythm died out at once; the cry of his heart was broken. His lips began to murmur the first verses over and over; then went on stumbling through half verses, stammering and baffled; then stopped. The heart's cry was broken. The veiled windless hour had passed and behind the panes of the naked window the morning light was gathering. A bell beat faintly very far away. A bird twittered; two birds, three. The bell and the bird ceased; and the dull white light spread itself east and west, covering the world, covering the roselight in his heart. Fearing to lose all, he raised himself suddenly on his elbow to look for paper and pencil. There was neither on the table; only the soup plate he had eaten the rice from for supper and the candlestick with its tendrils of tallow and its paper socket, singed by the last flame. He stretched his arm wearily towards the foot of the bed, groping with his hand in the pockets of the coat that hung there. His fingers found a pencil and then a cigarette packet. He lay back and, tearing open the packet, placed the last cigarette on the window ledge and began to write out the stanzas of the villanelle in small neat letters on the rough cardboard surface. Having written them out he lay back on the lumpy pillow, murmuring them again. The lumps of knotted flock under his head reminded him of the lumps of knotted horsehair in the sofa of her parlour on which he used to sit, smiling or serious, asking himself why he had come, displeased with


should have known that they were going to become parents by the following summer. But she’d kept the secret to herself. What had she been waiting for? The “right” moment? A big surprise? How foolish she’d been. She touched her stomach, still flat as a board, the tiny bit of life within her undetectable at about eight weeks from conception. To be fair, she thought, she’d barely found out herself and then . . . oh, God. The fight. The horrible screaming match that had occurred before she’d left the house on the night of the attack. She’d been leaving for her yoga class and what had started out as the same old argument about her working had escalated. She’d considered telling him about the baby that night, but had held her tongue because she’d known that her pregnancy would only amplify his reasons for not wanting her to work. She wrote true-crime books. He considered it dangerous and had warned her on various occasions that a convicted killer could be paroled or escape or have friends and Kristi was painting an ever-larger target on her back. “These people aren’t rational,” he’d said, his eyes blazing, his lips tight with concern. “You can’t trust them, no matter how ‘good’ they’ve been while serving time,” he’d pointed out, while pouring himself a drink, a double scotch. Neat. His favorite. “And they have friends,” he’d continued, taking a sip from his short glass and pointing at her with a long finger. “Family members. People who would like nothing more than revenge against anyone they think exploits them. You make money from their mistakes, the pain of their loved ones. They’re crazed. And they have weapons.” “Exploits them? Killers?” “In their eyes, you’re abusing them.” “Oh, Jay, stop it.” That—his remark about abusing killers? Seriously? That had particularly stung and she’d longed for a drink of her own. Red wine. Her go-to when stressed, but that last night, because of her recently discovered secret, that they would be parents, she’d eyed the bottle but left it be. “This is my job, Jay,” she said. “It’s not dangerous.” “You don’t know that.” “And you don’t know that it is. You’re just paranoid.” “Am I?” He was getting angrier. Downed his drink. “What about Roy Calhoun, the author who wrote about that Chicago strangler? He ended up at the end of a rope, a noose hung from his own ceiling, dangling over a copy of his book, the pages all ripped out.” “One case?” “How about Anne DeVille?” “That was an accident,” Kristi argued, really wanting that glass of wine. “She went canoeing alone and was found drowned, her boat capsized. Her life vest missing.” “She was careless.” “Like you?” he’d said. “You’ve already published enough books. You don’t need to write any more. Face it, Kristi, with every book you write, you’re taunting someone in the shadows, profiting off their pain, throwing them and their families into the spotlight.” “I thought killers loved the limelight. I thought they got off on mentally reviewing their kills, that


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

request—a request made according to common usage and common sense?” He briefly gave me to understand that on that point my judgment was sound. Yes: his decision was irreversible. It is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some unprecedented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the other side. Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement for his own faltering mind. “Turkey,” said I, “what do you think of this? Am I not right?” “With submission, sir,” said Turkey, with his blandest tone, “I think that you are.” “Nippers,” said I, “what do you think of it?” “I think I should kick him out of the office.” (The reader of nice perceptions will here perceive that, it being morning, Turkey’s answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but Nippers replies in ill-tempered ones. Or, to repeat a previous sentence, Nippers’ ugly mood was on duty and Turkey’s off.) “Ginger Nut,” said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrage in my behalf, “what do you think of it?” “I think, sir, he’s a little luny,” replied Ginger Nut with a grin. “You hear what they say,” said I, turning towards the screen, “come forth and do your duty.” But he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But once more business hurried me. I determined again to postpone the consideration of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little trouble we made out to examine the papers without Bartleby, though at every page or two, Turkey deferentially dropped his opinion that this proceeding was quite out of the common; while Nippers, twitching in his chair with a dyspeptic nervousness, ground out between his set teeth occasional hissing maledictions against the stubborn oaf behind the screen. And for his (Nippers’) part, this was the first and the last time he would do another man’s business without pay. Meanwhile Bartleby sat in his hermitage, oblivious to every thing but his own peculiar business there. Some days passed, the scrivener being employed upon another lengthy work. His late remarkable conduct led me to regard his ways narrowly. I observed that he never went to dinner; indeed that he never went any where. As yet I had never of my personal knowledge known him to be outside of my office. He was a perpetual sentry in the corner. At about eleven o’clock though, in the morning, I noticed that Ginger Nut would advance toward the opening in Bartleby’s screen, as if silently beckoned thither by a gesture invisible to me where I sat. The boy would then leave the office jingling a few pence, and reappear with a handful of ginger-nuts which he delivered in the hermitage, receiving two of the cakes for his trouble. He lives, then, on ginger-nuts, thought I; never eats a dinner, properly speaking; he must be


through the weeping willow’s leaves and slams between us. “Pack in the gossip, ladies,” Donno calls, jogging after it. “Hey.” Jordan scowls. “Don’t call us that. You’re supposed to be the team captain.” “Yeah, and I’m using motivational language to get you off your arse.” Donno holds out a hand to help me up. Being friends with him is like having a poisonous pet snake who loves you so much they only bite you once a year. When I was thirteen, he saved me from feeling like I was completely alone. Now I’m seventeen and he gets on my damn nerves, but he’s got my back, so I’ve got his. Even if he occasionally makes it difficult. “You in Taylor’s philosophy class?” Donno asks as he hauls me to my feet. “Yeah, why?” “Me too.” He claps me on the back and jogs off to the rest of our group. “I thought you were in different classes?” Jordan asks. “We were last year.” Apparently, the schedule’s changed. Even knowing that, I don’t put two and two together until I’ve trekked across campus and reached Mr. Taylor’s room. If Donno’s tiny Philosophy class has merged with mine, guess who I’ll be discussing Voltaire with this year? Celine Bangura. I stand in the doorway and stare at her like a creep. She doesn’t notice me because she’s talking to Sonam Lamba, so for once, I’m watching her smile instead of scowl. There’s some kind of rose-colored makeup on her chubby cheeks which stands out against her dark brown skin. Her braids are long and fine and pool on the table, almost black with a few neon-green strands that frame her face. Basically, she looks the way she always does—like a terrible, horrible person who I absolutely can’t stand. “Sorry,” she’s saying to Sonam, “I can’t. I’m busy Thursday night. Actually, you might want to look at this.” She riffles through her bag. “It’s for an enrichment program run by Katharine Breakspeare. Do you know her? You should come.” Now, Sonam is a very cool girl, so I’ve never been able to figure out why she and Celine are friends. Celine’s judgmental; Sonam’s infinitely chill. Celine wants to be superior to everyone; Sonam is a violin genius with epic purple glasses who stomps around in these incredible goth boots, which makes her superior to Celine (who just stomps around). And finally, Celine thinks she’s the queen of the universe, which is why it’s pretty funny to hear Sonam tell her, “Nah.” “But it’s going to be great,” Celine insists. “The BEP has an excellent reputation. If you get in, you could add it to your uni applications—” Trust Celine to bring up university applications on the first day of school. I bet she’s only applying to Oxford or Cambridge or, like, Harvard, and she’s convinced she’s going to get in because she’s so smart and so special and— “Ah, Bradley!” Mr. Taylor notices me, his apple cheeks flushed pink by the heat. “I do believe you’re the last passenger on our most noble voyage of


I have only a father; and he is lately married, and will not miss me. By dying young I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world; I should have been continually at fault."     "But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know?"     "I believe I have faith I am going to God."     "Where is God? What is God?"     "My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I rely implicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness; I count the hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore me to Him, reveal Him to me."     "You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven; and that our souls can get to it when we die?"     "I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I can resign my immortal part to Him without any misgiving. God is my father; God is my friend; I love Him; I believe He loves me."     "And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?"     "You will come to the same region of happiness; be received by the same mighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane."     Again I questioned; but this time only in thought. "Where is that region? Does it exist?" And I clasped my arms closer round Helen; she seemed dearer to me than ever; I felt as if I could not let her go; I lay with my face hidden on her neck. Presently she said in the sweetest tone: "How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a little; I feel as if I could sleep; but don't leave me, Jane; I like to have you near me."     "I'll stay with you,dear Helen; no one shall take me away."     "Are you warm, darling?"     "Yes."     "Good-night, Jane."     "Good-night, Helen."     She kissed me, and I her: and we both soon slumbered.     When I awoke it was day; an unusual movement roused me; I looked up; I was in somebody's arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying me through the passage back to the dormitory. I was not reprimanded for leaving my bed; people had something else to think about; no explanation was afforded then to my many questions; but a day or two afterward I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had found me laid in a little crib, my face against Helen Burns' shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was dead.     Her grave is in Brocklebridge church-yard; for fifteen years


emblem on the knife he held. "When I am Duke in Arrakeen with Chani by my side, do you think I'll have time to concern myself with every detail of governing Tabr sietch?" Paul asked. "Do you concern yourself with the internal problems of every family?" Stilgar continued staring at the knife. "Do you think I wish to cut off my right arm?" Paul demanded. Slowly, Stilgar looked up at him. "You!" Paul said. "Do you think I wish to deprive myself or the tribe of your wisdom and strength?" In a low voice, Stilgar said: "The young man of my tribe whose name is known to me, this young man I could kill on the challenge floor, Shai-hulud willing. The Lisan al-Gaib, him I could not harm. You knew this when you handed me this knife." "I knew it," Paul agreed. Stilgar opened his hand. The knife clattered against the stone of the floor. "Ways change," he said. "Chani," Paul said, "go to my mother, send her here that her counsel will be available in --" "But you said we would go to the south!" she protested. "I was wrong," he said. "The Harkonnens are not there. The war is not there." She took a deep breath, accepting this as a desert woman accepted all necessities in the midst of a life involved with death. "You will give my mother a message for her ears alone," Paul said. "Tell her that Stilgar acknowledges me Duke of Arrakis, but a way must be found to make the young men accept this without combat." Chani glanced at Stilgar. "Do as he says," Stilgar growled. "We both know he could overcome me . . . and I could not raise my hand against him . . . for the good of the tribe." "I shall return with your mother," Chani said. "Send her," Paul said. "Stilgar's instinct was right. I am stronger when you are safe. You will remain in the sietch." She started to protest, swallowed it. "Sihaya," Paul said, using his intimate name for her. He whirled away to the right, met Gurney's glaring eyes. The interchange between Paul and the older Fremen had passed as though in a cloud around Gurney since Paul's reference to his mother. "Your mother," Gurney said. "Idaho saved us the night of the raid," Paul said, distracted by the parting with Chani. "Right now we've --" "What of Duncan Idaho, m'Lord?" Gurney asked. "He's dead -- buying us a bit of time to escape." The she-witch alive! Gurney thought. The one I swore vengeance against, alive! And it's obvious Duke Paul doesn't know what manner of creature gave him birth. The evil one! Betrayed his own father to the Harkonnens! Paul pressed past him, jumped up to the ledge. He glanced back, noted that the wounded and dead had been removed, and he thought bitterly that here was another chapter in the legend of Paul Muad'Dib. I didn't even draw my knife, but it'll be said of this day that I slew twenty Sardaukar by my


tins of beans, and other nonperishable items packed inside. Enough to hopefully last you to the next town. “Now, I know this is more than you signed up for, and your heads must be swimming, but do you have any questions for me?” Attie and Iris were silent for a full ten seconds. But then Attie cleared her throat and asked, “The sirens … where do they come from?” “A town a few kilometers west of here, called Clover Hill. They have a great vantage point and a siren that once rang for foul weather and they agreed to alert us the moment they perceived any hounds or eithrals or enemy soldiers.” Marisol began to gather up their empty plates. Iris noticed a slim golden band was on her left ring finger. She was married, then, although she had made no mention of a spouse. It seemed as if she lived alone here. “And it’s late. Nearly midnight. Let me take you both upstairs. You can choose your rooms and then get a good night’s sleep.” As long as a siren doesn’t sound, Iris thought, and a spark of dread arced through her. She hoped it wouldn’t happen, and then that it would, so she could go ahead and get the fright of experiencing one out of the way. “Can we help you clean, Marisol?” Attie asked, rising from her chair. “Not tonight,” she replied. “I have a policy. Guests on their first night aren’t expected to do anything but enjoy themselves. But tomorrow will be different. Breakfast will be at eight sharp, and then you both can help me prepare a meal to take to the infirmary, to feed the wounded soldiers. I thought it would be a good way for you to begin your research. Some of the soldiers won’t want to talk about what they’ve seen and experienced, but others will.” “We’ll be ready,” Attie said, gathering her bags. Iris reached for her leather bag, thoughts of Dacre running wild in her mind as she followed Marisol and Attie down the hall and up the stairs. Marisol carried a rushlight with her, the flame burning across multiple mirrors on the wall. She explained how most residents in Avalon Bluff had decided to forgo electricity—which was unapologetically bright and could be spotted from a distance—in the night and appoint themselves with candles that could be easily blown out in case of a hound or intermittent siren. “Now,” Marisol said when they reached the second floor, “this is the door to my room. There are four others, all empty and very charming. Choose whichever one speaks to you.” Attie stepped into one, Iris another. It felt like a crime to flip on the light switch after learning about the sirens. The room Iris chose was decorated in shades of green. It had two windows that overlooked the back of the house, with a bed in one corner, a wardrobe carved into the wall that was similar to Iris’s closet back home, and a desk, perfect for writing at. “This room is


out until the wedding.” My eyes widened. “How could he just walk away from in-progress builds without any legal counsel? And why wouldn’t you have told me after you found out? Is there something else going on?” She took a deep breath. “Lanier, you know this is hard. There’s so much I can’t say.” I crossed my arms. I knew I was deflecting. I should have been directing my anger at Bryce. But instead, it came spewing out at the one person who always had my back. “I know you know something. You’re supposed to be my best friend!” I expected her to apologize. Instead, she came back at me. “Do you think it’s easy for me? Do you think it’s fun knowing that I have to hide stuff from you? But I do!” She raised her voice. “I have a four-year-old who depends on me for everything! I can’t risk my life and livelihood because you can’t have an adult conversation with the asshole you aren’t even sure you want to marry!” I turned to Mary Stuart for sympathy, but she was looking at Daphne in shock. Daphne was frank and she said what she thought. But she was usually steady. She wasn’t steady now. “Y’all, don’t fight,” Mary Stuart said. “This is a hard situation for both of you.” “She acts so high and mighty,” I said. “It’s not like she has some epic love story.” “You know what, let’s drop all this and focus on having fun,” Mary Stuart said, trying to make her tone light. But we were in too deep now. There was no turning back. That was when my stomach began to roll. “I never said I didn’t want to marry him.” I looked down at my hands. “I’ve maybe thought it, just a teeny bit. But what I said was he didn’t tell me about quitting his job. You think I shouldn’t marry him because of that?” That’s when I definitely knew Daphne was keeping something from me. And it was big enough that my best friend thought I shouldn’t marry my fiancé. “I just want you to be happy. I don’t want you to have any misgivings going into your marriage. And, well, I’ve worried that I pushed Bryce on you, that you were still pining for Rich and—” “You didn’t just say that.” I was furious now. “You could just apologize, you know,” Mary Stuart said. “Rich would forgive you. I know he would.” “What is wrong with you two? Rich? I wasn’t even twenty-one! That was ages ago!” “Not ages, Lanier,” Daphne said. “No matter how long it has been, I want the best for you. Sue me.” Mary Stuart laughed, and I glared at her. “I’m sorry. It was a funny lawyer joke. I couldn’t help it.” “So I suppose you’re on her team, too?” I asked. “I plead the Fifth,” Mary Stuart said. Mary Stuart and Daphne were in stitches, but I was still fuming. This was why it was hard to be three best friends. Someone was always a


much the devil was paying me to advocate for him. “What did your mum say?” I ask. “Mum asked if she was an agent of darkness.” I fight a laugh. “Sorry things didn’t work out,” I tell him. “It’s all right,” he says. “It was a year ago, now. We were arguing a lot and I would just think, if you don’t get it now, after everything, will you ever?” He shakes his head. “Sometimes relationships are tricky and things happen.” “Very well said.” He laughs and stubs out his cigarette. “How’s life at OTP?” I breathe out. “I’m going to confront my boss tomorrow.” He smiles. “Did you just decide that now?” “I did.” “Good for you. What atrocities have they been up to?” I tell Sam everything, from Flavor Pairings, to the incident with the milk jug, ending with Love Stories from the Middle East. “You should definitely say something.” “Easy for you to say.” “I know, but I mean it,” he says seriously. “I think when working in white spaces we can feel programmed to not rock the boat; like, we got a foot in the door and we should try to keep that door closed behind us. Which means you begin assigning any and all problematic issues to just being a part of the job. If someone’s not treating you right, you should say so. The milk jug might be difficult to explain—understanding why that shouldn’t have happened requires nuance—but the use of your creative ideas whilst excluding you is an issue that needs to be dealt with. Again, easier said than done, but so worth it in the long run.” I wonder how things would have gone at CGT if I had given Katherine a piece of my mind. Instead I kept quiet, took her abuse, and got fired anyway. “You don’t deserve to have other people’s comments and actions eat away at you five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. My dad always says: ‘Regardless of how you behave, a lot of things are going to be out of your control because this world was made to test you. Protect your peace in whatever and every way that you can.”’ “Hey, Sam!” Kenny leans over the gate. “Our car’s here—ready to go?” Sam gets to his feet, and I’m reminded of how tall he is. “Coming in?” “No, I might stay here a while longer,” I say. “Thanks for talking to me.” “It was a good talk.” He stops at the gate and calls, “Hey, Maddie?” “Yes?” “Good luck tomorrow,” he says, smiling yet again. “I’m rooting for you.” Chapter Forty When I walk into the office, rough samples of Love Stories sit on my desk with a note: Make sure Kris approves these today. I pull the note aside to read the proposed cover: Love Stories from the Middle East Afra Yazden-Blake & Co & Co? They took my et al. suggestion seriously? I leave the samples there and knock on Penny’s door. When she says “Come in,” I close the door behind me.


error, aberration, falsehood. disdainfully, mordantly, defrauding: (n) defraudment, theft ANTONYMS: (n) comprehension, sardonically, contemptuously defunct: (adj) deceased, inanimate, fact, truth deriving: (n) etymologizing, ancestry, late, extinct, departed, lifeless; (n) delusions: (n) delusion, mental account, thought reliquiae, dust, earth, mortal illness descend: (v) settle, condescend, remains, relics. ANTONYMS: (adj) delusive: (adj) deceptive, false, down, drop, deign, subside, go existing, thriving, surviving, misleading, fallacious, untrue, down, dismount, derive, get off, operating, alive, current unreal, imaginary, fictitious, come down. ANTONYMS: (v) degenerate: (adj) corrupt, debauched, delusory, vain, illusory. ascend, climb, float, scale, increase, depraved, dissolute; (v) decay, ANTONYMS: (adj) truthful, real, level, mount degrade, relapse, decline, drop, rot; honest, genuine, actual, authentic descendants: (n) children, progeny, (adj, n) profligate. ANTONYMS: delving: (n) inquest, probe, quest, descent, offspring, issue, seed, (adj) upright, honorable, moral, research, inquiry, investigation lineage, family, brood, race, young healthy, virtuous, regenerate; (v) demeanour: (n) behavior, behaviour, descended: (v) extraught develop, flourish, recuperate, uplift, conduct, demeanor, comportment, descending: (v) descend; (adj) upgrade deportment, manner, citizenship, downhill, down, descendent, deity: (n) God, godhead, godhood, correctitude, carriage, attitude decreasing, dropping, falling, godship, idol, immortal, goddess, demon: (n) ghost, fiend, incubus, sloping, degressive, occasive; (adv) Jupiter; (adj, n) divinity, the Deity, monster, daemon, ogre, daimon, downward. ANTONYM: (adj) theology. ANTONYMS: (n) human, goblin, deuce, genie, elf. upward mortal, person ANTONYM: (n) saint deserts: (n) desert, just deserts, due, deleterious: (adj) harmful, damaging, denote: (adj, n, v) declare; (adj, v) compensation, comeupance bad, hurtful, detrimental, express; (v) indicate, imply, mean, deservedly: (adv) justly, condignly, pernicious, deadly, poisonous, point, demonstrate, stand for, spell; worthily, rightfully, rightly, right, baneful, mephitic, mischievous. (n, v) betoken, signify. ANTONYM: justifiably, by merit, correctly, fairly, ANTONYMS: (adj) aiding, assisting, (v) connote becomingly beneficial, helpful denying: (v) deny; (adv) denyingly; deserving: (adj) meritorious, deliberations: (n) deliberation, (adj) opposed, recusative, unselfish, admirable, creditable, thought, consideration abnegative commendable, laudable, fit, good, delicacy: (adj, n) weakness, fragility, depart: (v) go, deviate, decease, deserved, condign; (v) deserve, tidbit; (n) finesse, daintiness, diverge, start, stray, wander, leave, worthy of. ANTONYMS: (adj) delicate, elegance, sensitivity, die, vary, part. ANTONYMS: (v) unworthy, undeserving, luxury, treat, airiness. ANTONYMS: stay, arrive, enter, come, abide, unimpressive (n) sturdiness, toughness, durability, conform, continue, remain, appear, desirous: (adj) wistful, avid, frankness, inelegance, ruggedness, converge, return ambitious, greedy, longing, eager, vulgarity, tactlessness, insensitivity, departed: (adj) dead, bygone, late, hungry, covetous, envious, agog; inaccuracy, clumsiness former, bypast, defunct, past, left; (adj, v) willing. ANTONYMS: (adj) delicately: (adv) exquisitely, softly, (adj, v) gone, extinct; (n) decedent. undesirous, reluctant, undesiring, tenderly, gracefully, subtlely, ANTONYMS: (adj) remaining, alive unconcerned sensitively, daintily, precisely, deportment: (n, v) bearing, desolate: (adj, v) desert, forlorn; (adj) elegantly, ticklishly, weakly. demeanor, conduct, carriage; (n) bare, barren, alone, bleak, deserted, ANTONYMS: (adv) inelegantly, manner, attitude, demeanour, cheerless, disconsolate; (v) tactlessly, thickly, imprecisely, behaviour, comportment, dealing, devastate, destroy. ANTONYMS: clumsily, ungracefully, unsubtly, air (adj) cheerful, inhabited, happy, heavily, carelessly, roughly, severely depravity: (n) corruption, evil, sheltered, mobbed, overcrowded, delights: (n) delices degeneracy, depravation, ecstatic, hopeful; (v) create, delinquent: (n) culprit, criminal, debauchery, degeneration, construct, build juvenile delinquent, trespasser, degradation, wickedness, vice, despondency: (n) despair, defaulter, crook; (adj) neglectful,


eyes, she let out a disgusted breath. To the detectives, she said succinctly: “Now, please, leave.” Bentz pulled out a card, handed it to her. “We want to talk to all of Helene’s family and—” “We are not her family. Not related to her. I wouldn’t even call her stepmom, okay. She’s over a decade younger than I am.” She threw her father a weary look. “Oh, Dad. How could you have—?” And then Marianne caught herself. She focused on Bentz. “We’ll come down to the station,” she finally said. “We’ll set it up through Alan Thayer, our attorney.” “Okay. Good. We have more questions for your father and your brother and you, Ms. Laroche.” “It’s Mrs. Petrocci now. And I’ll gladly give a statement, but only with my attorney present.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do we get to see the body? You know, like ID it?” Her father’s head swiveled. “What do you mean?” “How do we know it’s even Helene?” she demanded. “It isn’t like she hasn’t run off before and we think something horrible happened to her only to discover that oops, it was all a mistake. She was just off doing some weird thing, ‘taking me time’ or going to the mountains in fucking Kentucky to ‘clear my head,’” Marianne pointed out, making air quotes. “And she was always coming up with some weird disguise, altering her looks so she couldn’t be seen or recognized, like she was some big movie star or something. Give me a break.” She let out a breath and when her father was about to say something, added, “Or . . . or what about that time she chartered a private yacht off Miami because she wanted to experience the Bermuda Triangle? Huh? When there was worry about a damned hurricane! What about that? Every time she left without a word. To do something weird or bizarre, something to get herself noticed! Holy shit, none of us ever knew if she was alive or dead when she took off on one of her head-game trips. That’s what it was, you know. She was always playing head games!” Hugo had the decency to look sad if not grief-stricken. “Helene is a . . . well, she was . . . an independent spirit.” Marianne let out a loud, disgusted breath. “A whacko, that’s what she was!” To the police, she demanded, “I want to see the body! I want to know that she is really and truly dead. It wouldn’t surprise me if the poor dead girl is some kind of body double or something, and in two or three days once the press has sensationalized the story, she waltzes back in here and swears she was just gone on some kind of life-changing journey, a walk-about in Australia or met with some great shaman in India and learned about the true meaning of life or some such bullshit.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And I’ll want to see the body!” “We’ll arrange it,” Bentz said. “Good. And if it is Helene,” Marianne


… Lu-puk scrutinized the Bliddit before him. As a species, Bliddits were far from imposing. They stood merely a meter tall, with rounded, bulbous bodies, short legs, and thin arms. In contrast, Liquilids, his own kind, grew six times longer, boasting powerful muscles capable of crushing any prey. Not that they had resorted to such primitive methods of obtaining food in over a thousand years, but the strength remained ingrained in their biology. Their heads formed a triangular shape, with wide mouths filled with two rows of sawblade teeth, towering two meters above the ground. The remaining four meters extended behind them in a long, red-scaled tail, offering substantial protection against most weapons. Their wiry arms terminated in four fingers, each tipped with a sharp claw. Lu-puk emitted a hiss of amusement. Compared to the Liquilids, it seemed inconceivable that the Bliddits had survived evolution, ventured into space, and colonized hundreds of solar systems. Yet, they had built an empire. And they had proven to be worthy adversaries, cruel, even, when pushed into battle. They had gone beyond the norms of battle and captured hundreds—no, thousands—of Liquilid warriors. Placing their prisoners in a deep hole, the Bliddits poured an acid-like compound on the captured warriors. Their screams could be heard from miles away. This vicious cycle of war lasted until the Liquilids discovered them, conquered them, and uncovered two intriguing revelations. First, the dozen jewel-like formations embedded in a Bliddit’s skin shimmered in rainbow hues when exposed to bright light, much like the one illuminating Lu-puk’s dinner table. He reached down with his long-fingered, clawed hand. The Bliddit stared back at him defiantly, its swirling orange eyes fixed in a determined gaze. However, its body remained immobile, manipulated by the nanomachines lining its spine, trembling and quivering. Lu-puk plunged his claws into the Bliddit’s flesh, delicately carving around one of the jewels. Purple blood flowed, and the Bliddit let out a screech, but the controlling nanomachines muffled the sound to a more pleasing volume for the Liquilid’s sensitive ears. Delving deeper, Lu-puk continued until his claws met, and with a wrenching twist, he tore the flesh free. Because the second thing the Liquilids had learned was that, like many species that had ventured beyond their home planets into space, Bliddits had an exceptionally delectable taste. He held the chunk of meat in front of the Bliddit’s eyes as it screamed, licking the dripping blood from his claws. The Bliddit was unable to look away or blink, thanks to the nanomachines. Yet Lu-puk could sense its fear, detecting it in the Bliddit’s perspiration and observing the emanating energy. He smiled, raised the jeweled skin, and tore the meat away, akin to extracting an oyster from its shell. He relished the slow chewing, savoring the sweetness while the Bliddit continued to scream and curse. “Just wait,” Lu-puk uttered, the nanomachines in the Bliddit’s brain translating his words, “until I sink my teeth into your entrails.” Importing the Bliddit had cost him a week’s worth of wages. He had brought it along during his six-day


Tyndareus,” the priestess was saying. “It would be an honor for any girl to lie with Theseus. Helen is ripe for marriage, and she is still a virgin.” She had flowers in her hair and a long thin dress that showed her sharp-edged body. “I want Helen back,” Tyndareus said. Then he turned, feeling watched, and saw Clytemnestra. He walked to her, leaving the priestess, and said, “Let us pray together for your sister’s return.” Her brothers came back at nightfall. Helen was slumped over Polydeuces’s horse, her head resting against her brother’s back, her arms scratched. Clytemnestra was still in the temple with her father when she saw them coming. She had never prayed so much in her life. She sprang up and ran to the palace. Two servants left Helen in the gynaeceum, while Castor and Polydeuces spoke with Tyndareus and Leda. “Theseus was already gone when we got there,” Castor said, “but we found her. Two farmers told us where she was hidden.” “What did he do to her?” Leda asked. “She needs to rest. And I am going to ask the women in the kitchen to bring the goose fat to her room.” Leda covered her face with her hands. Clytemnestra didn’t know what it meant then, but goose fat mixed with crushed herbs was helpful for women who were in pain after lying with a man. “We’ll go back tomorrow,” Polydeuces said, “now that Helen is safe. I’ll take ten of our best men and we’ll sack Aphidnae.” He looked wild, distraught. Tyndareus shook his head. “Theseus is now king of Athens. Athens is powerful, and we can’t go to war against it, not for such a reason.” Such a reason. Clytemnestra wanted to tear out her hair, but Polydeuces preceded her. “Your daughter was raped by this man for his entertainment. He didn’t even ask for her hand in marriage!” “That is good for Helen,” Castor intervened. “Something tells me she wouldn’t want to marry him.” Tyndareus waved a hand. “Theseus is a hero, and he does what heroes do. Do you know how many other girls like Helen there are? Do you think their brothers went to war over it? They didn’t, because they aren’t fools.” That was the end of it. Back in their room, the air was stinging, suffocating, but Clytemnestra endured it. It was her fault Helen had been taken: if only she had woken, if only she had seen Theseus . . . When she sat on the bed, Helen seemed already asleep, so she lay down in the dark and pulled the covers over her. “They played dice,” Helen said suddenly, her voice so low that Clytemnestra barely heard her. “They played dice and Theseus won. So he had me for himself.” Clytemnestra stayed silent. She rolled over to Helen’s side and put an arm around her. She forced herself to stay awake all night. When dawn came, she collapsed, her arm numb but still wrapped around her sister. * * * The day after their fight, Clytemnestra doesn’t know


In silence, Eitan retreated backwards, climbing the wall behind him while keeping his eyes forward, as his back legs bolted to the ice. It was clear that moving backwards was as natural to Eitan as moving forwards. In the same way, he was as elegant and composed upside down, on the ceiling, as he was on the ground. Once in position, he nestled into the roof of the chamber, his diamond claws bolted into the ice, whereupon he camouflaged himself, his entire surface becoming the colours of ice. He’d moved so quietly and quickly that Zariffa briefly lost a sense of where he was, discerning his outline against the ceiling as his skin matched the blues and whites. The ground shook as the support staff rolled the drugged leopard seal off the pulley and hastily retreated, closing the outer gate behind them as they climbed the ladder. Yotam hurried to Zariffa’s side, grabbing her arm. ‘We need to get out the way.’ ‘I can’t leave the projector.’ ‘There’s no time.’ ‘I’m almost done.’ The drugs used to sedate the seal were wearing off, the seal was waking up, snapping its powerful jaws, confused, angry and unsure where he was. Zariffa wrapped the projector case in the thick blanket, more concerned for its safety than her own. Clasping the projector as though it were a helpless infant, she looked up at Eitan as he detached his claws from the ceiling. He dropped, coiling into a ball, rotating in the air, before landing nimbly on all fours. Missing her by the slimmest of margins, he bounded towards the seal, pulling an arm back and, with a horizontal slash of his hand, decapitating the beast with the edge of his razor-sharp fingers, passing through muscle and bone as easily as if it were snow. The seal’s headless torso fell to the floor and Eitan, unable to eat anything warm, allowed the blood to flow out of the corpse. The three of them stood together in silence, watching the seal blood crystalize on the chamber floor. MCMURDO CITY THE EX-PRESIDENTS BAR & SOCIAL CLUB SAME DAY THE EX-PRESIDENTS BAR AND SOCIAL Club was staffed by former world leaders, presidents and prime ministers who’d been stripped of their powers and now served cocktails and told stories. After the Exodus almost every nation joined the Antarctic coalition, but a few fought for control over the most habitable stretches of land, citing historic claims dating back to colonial-era explorers. By the end of the first year, it was apparent that humankind wouldn’t survive unless it unified. Old notions of sovereignty were a luxury it could no longer afford. At the top of Observation Hill in McMurdo City a peace accord was drawn up and the decision taken to dissolve all the old-world nation states, to strip the former politicians and military leaders of their powers and create a single society of survivors. It would be a meritocracy, a new system of authority based on academic and professional seniority, an unelected senate founded on rational thinking and scholarly thought with


town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to look at. A body would a thought he was Adam -- he was just all mud. Whenever his liquor begun to work he most always went for the govment. his time he says: "Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like. Here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from him -- a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense of raising. Yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin' for HIM and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call THAT govment! That ain't all, nuther. The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property. Here's what the law does: The law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. They call that govment! A man can't get his rights in a govment like this. Sometimes I've a mighty notion to just leave the country for good and all. Yes, and I TOLD 'em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I, for two cents I'd leave the blamed country and never come a-near it agin. Them's the very words. I says look at my hat -- if you call it a hat -- but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's below my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o' stove- pipe. Look at it, says I -- such a hat for me to wear -- one of the wealthiest men in this town if I could git my rights. "Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. Why, looky here. There was a free nigger there from Ohio -- a mulatter, most as white as a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane -- the awful- est old gray-headed nabob in the State. And what do you think? They said he was a p'fessor in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And that ain't the wust. They said he could VOTE when he was at home. Well, that let me out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming to? It was 'lection day, and I was just about to go and vote myself if I warn't too drunk to get


involved a dozen people at most. This time, there’s blood in the water. Silence isn’t an option. Everyone has to declare a side, or they’re accused of complicity. (SMH at so many supposed allies staying silent now that their friend’s been exposed, tweet anonymous accounts happily stirring the pot.) A lot of high-profile writers straddle the line, trying to cover their asses but also establish loyalties at the same time. Plagiarism is terrible, writes one author. If Hayward really did plagiarize—and we don’t know yet if she did—then she owes her royalties back to Athena Liu’s family. It’s awful if it’s true, writes another. But until there’s substantiated proof, I hesitate to join this lynch mob. There’s then a heated debate over whether it’s appropriate to use the words “lynch mob” when describing a white woman, and it ends with dozens of people calling the above referenced author a racist. Said author’s account is locked within hours. It’s the Twitter accounts that are non-notable public figures, who have nothing to lose and everything to gain by digging their claws into me, that are most vicious. She used to write as June Hayward, tweets a user named reyl089. But she published her book about China as June Song. Fucked up, right? The literal definition of yellowface, writes one reply. I don’t think they know what “literal” means. So pathetic, crows another. And without fail, the evergreen Will white people ever stop whiting? Someone else tweets a photo of me taken off my Instagram paired with a photo of Scarlett Johansson, captioned: Corporate wants you to find the differences between these two images LMAO. The replies involve every mean-spirited observation about my appearance you can imagine: I swear to God why do all white women look the same. Ok aside from the fact that ScarJo could actually get it LOLLL Is she squinting because she wants to look more Asian or cuz she’s not used to being out in the sun? I should have stopped looking once I’d glimpsed what I thought was the bottom of the pit of internet stupidity. But reading discourse about myself is like prodding at a sore tooth. I’m compelled to keep digging, just to see how far the rot goes. I search Twitter, Reddit, YouTube (already three book bloggers have put up videos titled variations of “Spilling the tea on Juniper ‘Song’!”), Google News, and even TikTok (yes, this has reached the infants on TikTok) by the hour. It’s debilitating. I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t even leave my apartment; all I do is lie curled up in my bed, scrolling alternately on my laptop or my phone, reading and rereading the same updates across the same five websites. People make up absurd rumors about me. Someone says my past reviews on Goodreads are racist. (All I did was write once that I couldn’t relate to an Indian writer’s romance novel, because all the characters were unlikable and way too obsessed with their family duties to the point of disbelief.) Someone says that I regularly harass