with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer--excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained teasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory. I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clews, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion. One night--it was on the twentieth of March, 1888--I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in


lead them farther north if they strenuously desired the contrary, but that I hoped that, with reflection, their courage would return. They retired and I turned towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor and almost deprived of life. How all this will terminate, I know not, but I had rather die than return shamefully, my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never willingly continue to endure their present hardships. September 7th The die is cast; I have consented to return if we are not destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess to bear this injustice with patience. September 12th It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and glory; I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and while I am wafted towards England and towards you, I will not despond. September 9th, The ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard at a distance as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were in the most imminent peril, but as we could only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest whose illness increased in such a degree that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us and was driven with force towards the north; a breeze sprang from the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this and that their return to their native country was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke and asked the cause of the tumult. "They shout," I said, "because they will soon return to England." "Do you, then, really return?" "Alas! Yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly to danger, and I must return." "Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine is assigned to me by heaven, and I dare not. I am weak, but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient strength." Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back and fainted. It was long before he was restored, and I often thought that life was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with difficulty and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing draught and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the meantime he told me that my friend had certainly not many hours to live. His sentence was pronounced, and I could only grieve and be patient. I sat by his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble


your car—and you believing her. This is Parker telling you the stolen math exam answers in our room were mine—and you believing her. This is Parker—bullying the hell out of poor, kindhearted Augusta Ross so viciously and so toxically that the girl ate a whole bottle of Tylenol and then telling the school administrators that it was me—and you, all of you, believing her!” I could hear my voice go off the rails. Starting to sound like Janis Joplin. Louder and screechier—as if volume or desperation or hysteria could get through to them. Though it certainly never had before. A new crowd of people was starting to gather around us. Lucinda glanced around at them uncomfortably. She lowered her voice. “Sadie, let’s all just try to move on.” Which made me want to bang my head against that brick wall. What did any of them think I was trying to do? “When did you text her?” I demanded of Lucinda then. “What?” “When did you text Parker to let her know that the show was happening after all?” Lucinda looked over at Parker, like Parker might hint at how to answer. “When!” I shouted. “About ten minutes ago,” Lucinda said. I nodded. “Guess when Parker got here? An hour ago. She’s been taunting me at my own art exhibition for over an hour. And guess what she said right as she walked in? She said, ‘Guess they stood you up.’” Lucinda stared at me, taking that in. “She engineered this. She created it. She saw you trying to be nice to me, and she torpedoed us all. Again.” But Lucinda was shaking her head. “Sweetheart, I—” “You never believe me,” I said. “But it’s the truth.” Just as I said it, a woman stepped out of the crowd and walked up to us all, standing there. “Hello,” she said, in a chipper voice. It was so odd that she would approach us right then, mid-fight. I mean, Come on, lady. Read the room. But she clearly wasn’t put off by the family squabble. She just plowed right on ahead. She stuck out her hand to shake Lucinda’s and then did the same thing to my dad, and then she said, “Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery, you probably don’t remember me…” My dad and Lucinda shook their heads to confirm. “But my name,” the lady went on, “is Augusta Ross.” Okay, we may not have remembered the person—but absolutely no one in our family could ever have forgotten that name. Lucinda dropped her purse at the sound of it, and Augusta politely picked it up for her. “Augusta Ross?” Lucinda confirmed. “It’s so lucky I ran into you,” Augusta went on with determined brightness. “I’ve been wanting to reach out.” “Why,” Lucinda asked, “would you want to do that?” “And it’s so lucky that I arrived just when I did, don’t you think? Here I was, coming to see the art show of my dear old friend Sadie, and what should I hear as I walk up to the building but Sadie herself, shouting


shopping cart and turned to him in surprise. “Urueta? The director Urueta?” “Sure,” Tristán said. He reached into the cart and looked at the label of a pack of instant noodles that Montserrat had dumped there. “How do you eat this?” “With a fork,” she said dryly. “No, I mean how the fuck do you eat this? Shit, Montserrat, stop at the deli, get a slice of ham and a bit of cheese and make yourself a real lunch. No wonder your gums bleed. You probably have the nutritional deficiencies of a seventeenth-century sailor. Urueta invited you and me for dinner. We should get a bottle of wine for that.” She shook her head and stared up at him. Even with her combat boots, Montserrat barely grazed Tristán’s shoulder. She mostly looked like a tiny, ferocious elf. A very shocked one at this moment, with her mouth open, awe and confusion overwhelming her. “You’re serious?” “Of course I am. You don’t eat right. I’ve told you a million times before, and then you complain that the dentist—” “I mean about Urueta. You met him and he wants to have dinner?” “Saturday.” “When did you meet him? How?” “A couple of days ago.” She opened her mouth, closed it, opened again. “I can’t go Saturday.” “Why not? Don’t tell me you’ll be working. It’s insane how busy you’ve been lately. All of July and half of August you were cooped up in front of the monitors.” “That was then. Besides, how would you know? You were too busy during the summer to see Hellraiser 3 with me, and they only had that one special screening at Palacio Chino.” His love life had been imploding in July and August, but it wouldn’t help if he mentioned that. Montserrat would probably think it was juvenile. Her solution to romance problems was to stop returning phone calls. “Come on, you want to hang out Saturday. I know you do.” “I need the work,” she said, with that stubborn grimace he knew well. “Mario has been treating me like shit, and I can’t turn down anything right now or he’ll use it to claim I’m unreliable. I got into a fight with him and he won’t let me forget it. I’m trying to patch things up and be nice until December or I’m not getting a bonus.” “You’re always fighting with him. I bet he doesn’t even remember he got mad at you.” “He remembers.” “You can take one afternoon off.” “I told Araceli I’d drive her to the hospital. And afterward she’ll probably want to buy candles at the Mercado de Sonora.” “That stuff doesn’t work.” “Well, nothing does,” Montserrat muttered, giving the shopping cart a hard push. Tristán stuffed his hands quietly in his jeans pockets and walked next to Montserrat. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s not your fault.” “I know you’re busy, but it would be good to take a break. You’ll burn out if you keep up this way.” “I don’t burn out.” She turned to the left, almost colliding with another woman’s shopping


his mate Bill, and this was for a his former manner, half fawning, half sneering, patted me on Contents person who stayed in our house whom we called the captain. the shoulder, told me I was a good boy and he had taken “Well,” said he, “my mate Bill would be called the captain, quite a fancy to me. “I have a son of my own,” said he, “as like Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 14 15 you as two blocks, and he’s all the pride of my ‘art. But the word, I felt sorry to see him all in a moment turn so old and great thing for boys is discipline, sonny—discipline. Now, if sick. you had sailed along of Bill, you wouldn’t have stood there to “Come, Bill, you know me; you know an old shipmate, be spoke to twice—not you. That was never Bill’s way, nor Bill, surely,” said the stranger. the way of sich as sailed with him. And here, sure enough, is The captain made a sort of gasp. my mate Bill, with a spy-glass under his arm, bless his old “Black Dog!” said he. ‘art, to be sure. You and me’ll just go back into the parlour, “And who else?” returned the other, getting more at his sonny, and get behind the door, and we’ll give Bill a little ease. “Black Dog as ever was, come for to see his old shipmate surprise—bless his ‘art, I say again.” Billy, at the Admiral Benbow inn. Ah, Bill, Bill, we have So saying, the stranger backed along with me into the seen a sight of times, us two, since I lost them two talons,” parlour and put me behind him in the corner so that we were holding up his mutilated hand. both hidden by the open door. I was very uneasy and alarmed, “Now, look here,” said the captain; “you’ve run me down; as you may fancy, and it rather added to my fears to observe here I am; well, then, speak up; what is it?” that the stranger was certainly frightened himself. He cleared “That’s you, Bill,” returned Black Dog, “you’re in the right the hilt of his cutlass and loosened the blade in the sheath; of it, Billy. I’ll have a glass of rum from this dear child here, and all the time we were waiting there he kept swallowing as as I’ve took such a liking to; and we’ll sit down, if you please, if he felt what we used to call a lump in the throat. and talk square, like old shipmates.” At last in strode the captain, slammed the door behind When I returned with the rum, they were already seated him, without looking to the right or left, and marched straight on either side of the captain’s breakfast-table—Black Dog next across the room to where his breakfast awaited him. to the door and sitting sideways so as to have one eye on his “Bill,” said the stranger in a voice that I thought he had old shipmate and one, as I


man. I never say to him, 'Let this or that enemy alone, because it would be ungener- ous or cruel to harm them.' I say, 'Let them alone, be- cause I should hate them to be wronged.' And he'd crush you like a sparrow's egg, Isabella, if he found you a troublesome charge. I know he couldn't love a Linton; and yet he'd be quite capable of marrying your fortune and expectations. Avarice is growing with him a be- setting sin. There's my picture; and I'm his friend---so much so, that had he thought seriously to catch you, I should perhaps have held my tongue, and let you fall into his trap." Miss Linton regarded her sister-in-law with indigna- tion. "For shame! for shame!" she repeated angrily; "you are worse than twenty foes, you poisonous friend!" "Ah! you won't believe me, then?" said Catherine. "You think I speak from wicked selfishness?" "I'm certain you do," retorted Isabella; "and I shud- der at you!" "Good!" cried the other. "Try for yourself, if that be your spirit. I have done, and yield the argument to your saucy insolence." "And I must suffer for her egotism!" she sobbed, as Mrs. Linton left the room. "All, all is against me. She has blighted my single consolation. But she uttered falsehoods, didn't she? Mr. Heathcliff is not a fiend. He has an honourable soul, and a true one, or how could he remember her?" "Banish him from your thoughts, miss," I said. "He's a bird of bad omen---no mate for you. Mrs. Linton spoke strongly, and yet I can't contradict her. She is bet- ter acquainted with his heart than I, or any one besides; and she never would represent him as worse than he is. Honest people don't hide their deeds. How has he been living? How has he got rich? Why is he staying at Wuthering Heights, the house of a man whom he ab- hors? They say Mr. Earnshaw is worse and worse since he came. They sit up all night together continually, and Hindley has been borrowing money on his land, and does nothing but play and drink. I heard only a week ago---it was Joseph who told me---I met him at Gim- merton. 'Nelly,' he said, 'we's hae a crowner's 'quest enow, at ahr folks. One on 'em's a'most getten his finger cut off wi' hauding t'other fro' stickin hisseln loike a cawlf. That's maister, yah knaw, 'at's soa up o' going tuh t' grand 'sizes. He's noan feared o' t' bench o' judges, norther Paul, nur Peter, nur John, nur Matthew, nor noan on 'em, not he. He fair likes---he langs to set his brazened face agean 'em. And yon bonny lad Heath- cliff, yah mind, he's a rare un! He can girn a laugh as well's onybody at a raight divil's jest. Does he niver say nowt of his fine living amang us, when he goes to t' Grange? This is t' way on't. Up at sundown; dice, brandy, cloised shutters, un can'le-light till next day at noon; then, t'


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

piled a multitude of those bright- coloured pot things--what are they?" "Art pots," suggested Kemp. "That's it! Art pots. Well, I turned at the top step and swung round, plucked one out of a pile and smashed it on his silly head as he came at me. The whole pile of pots went headlong, and I heard shouting and footsteps running from all parts. I made a mad rush for the refreshment place, and there was a man in white like a man cook, who took up the chase. I made one last desperate turn and found myself among lamps and ironmongery. I went behind the counter of this, and waited for my cook, and as he bolted in at the head of the chase, I doubled him up with a lamp. Down he went, and I crouched behind the counter and began whipping off my clothes as fast as I could. Coat, jacket, trousers, shoes were all right, but a lambswool vest fits a man like a skin. I heard more men coming, my cook was lying quiet on the other side of the counter, stunned or scared speechless, and I had to make another dash for it, like a rabbit hunted out of a wood-pile. "'This way, policeman!' I heard some one shouting. I found myself in my bedstead store-room again, and at the end a wilderness of wardrobes. I rushed among them, went flat, got rid of my vest after infinite wriggling, and stood a free man again, panting and scared, as the policeman and three of the shopmen came round the corner. They made a rush for the vest and pants, and collared the trousers. 'He's dropping his plunder,' said one of the young men. 'He must be somewhere here.' "But they did not find me all the same. "I stood watching them hunt for me for a time, and cursing my ill-luck in losing the clothes. Then I went into the refreshment- room, drank a little milk I found there, and sat down by the fire to consider my position. "In a little while two assistants came and began to talk over the business very excitedly and like the fools they were. I heard a magnified account of my depredations, and other speculations as to my whereabouts. Then I fell to scheming again. The insurmountable difficulty of the place, especially now it was alarmed, was to get any plunder out of it. I went down into the warehouse to see if there was any chance of packing and addressing a parcel, but I could not understand the system of checking. About eleven o'clock, the snow having thawed as it fell, and the day being finer and a little warmer than the previous one, I decided that the Emporium was hopeless, and went out again, exasperated at my want of success, with only the vaguest plans of action in my mind." Chapter 23 In Drury Lane "But you begin to realise now," said the Invisible Man, "the full disadvantage of my condition. I had no shelter, no covering.


too- they are all rusty now, and covered with seaweedy stuff- but they must have been the cook's pans and dishes!" It was a very queer trip round the old wreck. The children were all on the look-out for boxes which might contain bars of gold- but there didn't seem to be one single box of any kind anywhere! They came to a rather bigger cabin than the others. It had a bunk in one corner, in which a large crab rested. An old bit of furniture looking rather like a tablet with two legs, all encrusted with greyish shells, lay against the bunk. Wooden shelves, festooned with grey-green seaweed, hung crookedly on the walls of the cabin. "This must have been the captain's own cabin," said Julian. "It's the biggest one. Look, what's that in the corner?" "An old cup!" said Anne, picking it up. "And here's half of a saucer. I expect the captain was sitting here having a cup of tea when the ship went down." This made the children feel rather queer. It was dark and smelly in the little cabin, and the floor was wet and slippery to their feet. George began to feel that her wreck was really more pleasant sunk under the water than raised above it! "Let's go," she said, with a shiver. "I don't like it much. It is exciting, I know- but it's a bit frightening too." They turned to go. Julian flashed his torch round the little cabin for the last time. He was about to switch it off and follow the others up to the deck above when he caught sight of something that made him stop. He flashed his torch on to it, and then called to the others. "I say! Wait a bit. There's a cupboard here in the wall. Let's see if there's anything in it!" The others turned back and looked. They saw what looked like a small cupboard let in level with the wall of the cabin. What had caught Julian's eye was the keyhole. There was no key there, though. "There just might be something inside," said Julian. He tried to prise open the wooden door with his fingers, but it wouldn't move. "It's locked," he said. "Of course it would be!" "I expect the lock is rotten by now," said George, and she tried too. Then she took out her big strong pocket-knife and inserted it between the cupboard door and the cabin-wall. She forced back the blade- and the lock of the cupboard suddenly snapped! As she had said, it was quite rotten. The door swung open, and the children saw a shelf inside with a few curious things on it. There was a wooden box, swollen with the wet sea-water in which it had lain for years. There were two or three things that looked like old, pulpy books. There was some sort of glass drinking-vessel, cracked in half- and two or three funny objects so spoilt by sea-water that no one could possibly say what they were. "Nothing very interesting-


shining the cripple becomes hungry for a walk." But this particular night was dark and silent. And in all the nine villages of Umuofia a town crier with his ogene asked every man to be present tomorrow morning. Okonkwo on his bamboo bed tried to figure out the nature of the emergency - war with a neighbouring clan? That seemed the most likely reason, and he was not afraid of war. He was a man of action, a man of war. Unlike his father he could stand the look of blood. In Umuofia's latest war he was the first to bring home a human head. That was his fifth head and he was not an old man yet. On great occasions such as the funeral of a village celebrity he drank his palm-wine from his first human head. In the morning the market place was full. There must have been about ten thousand men there, all talking in low voices. At last Ogbuefi Ezeugo stood up in the midst of them and bellowed four times, "Umuofia kwenu," and on each occasion he faced a different direction and seemed to push the air with a clenched fist. And ten thousand men answered "Yaa!" each time. Then there was perfect silence. Ogbuefi Ezeugo was a powerful orator and was always chosen to speak on such occasions. He moved his hand over his white head and stroked his white beard. He then adjusted his cloth, which was passed under his right arm-pit and tied above his left shoulder. "Umuofia kwenu," he bellowed a fifth time, and the crowd yelled in answer. And then suddenly like one possessed he shot out his left hand and pointed in the direction of Mbaino, and said through gleaming white teeth firmly clenched: "Those sons of wild animals have dared to murder a daughter of Umuofia." He threw his head down and gnashed his teeth, and allowed a murmur of suppressed anger to sweep the crowd. When he began again, the anger on his face was gone, and in its place a sort of smile hovered, more terrible and more sinister than the anger. And in a clear unemotional voice he told Umuofia how their daughter had gone to market at Mbaino and had been killed. That woman, said Ezeugo, was the wife of Ogbuefi Udo, and he pointed to a man who sat near him with a bowed head. The crowd then shouted with anger and thirst for blood. Many others spoke, and at the end it was decided to follow the normal course of action. An ultimatum was immediately dispatched to Mbaino asking them to choose between war - on the one hand, and on the other the offer of a young man and a virgin as compensation. Umuofia was feared by all its neighbours. It was powerful in war and in magic, and its priests and medicine men were feared in all the surrounding country. Its most potent war-medicine was as old as the clan itself. Nobody knew how old. But on one point there was general


back and fall hard onto the ground. From the floor, I have a clear view of Tasha’s and Javier’s bloodied faces. Their bodies lie tangled together under the couch. A scream claws its way up my throat and erupts from behind my lips. My cries split the air, and Mr. Lamont delivers a swift kick to my leg. “Get up,” he growls. I pull myself onto the couch, and I can feel the soft bulges of Tasha’s and Javier’s corpses through the thin fabric. Bezi leans against me, sobbing. The orange glow from the fireplace washes the room in a gauzy light, and Mr. Lamont stands backlit by the flames, like a monster emerging from the depths of hell. “You killed them,” I say through a blur of tears. “You’re with those people from the woods.” Mr. Lamont narrows his eyes at me. “No. Not with them.” He keeps the gun trained on me as he speaks. “Do you know where you are right now?” I exchange glances with Kyle. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say. “Of course you don’t,” Mr. Lamont says dismissively. “This particular piece of land has been used for generations by those Owl Society folks.” Mr. Lamont points the gun at me and clenches his jaw, then smiles. “That’s what they call themselves,” Mr. Lamont says. “They’ve always been here. They stole this land from the folks who were here before. Been conducting their meetings and rituals in the forest around here ever since. Seeding the land with blood and giving the flesh over to the lake.” My mind goes in circles. “The man in the owl mask told me.” Mr. Lamont tilts his head. “Did he now?” He seems irritated. “He was a regular chatty Cathy with you, huh? I couldn’t get him to tell me a damn thing. Did he tell you about the ritual too?” He drags his hand across his gut in the same spot where Porter was sliced open. “Spill the blood on the ground, dump the corpse in the lake, recite the words. Not necessarily in that order.” He shakes his head and toes at the floor with the tip of his boot. “They could have anything they want, but the price—the price always has to be paid in blood and in flesh.” “Did you know my mom’s boyfriend sent me up here to die?” I asked angrily. “Of course,” he says like it should be obvious. “Sent you up here to be sacrificed. But they wouldn’t let it happen.” He huffs. “Who does he think he is? He hasn’t done the work or put in the time. He hasn’t given everything he has to—” He stops short, pursing his lips and grunting angrily. “Doesn’t matter now.” “But you’re not with them? You’re not with the Owl Society?” I ask, setting aside the seething hatred I have for Rob to deal with what’s in front of me right at this moment. “Why are you holding us at gunpoint?” Mr. Lamont looks to each of us as if he’s weighing how


as a dancer, yet the worst happened. I haven’t been in that theater, that beautiful, majestic space, since. “That was long ago. I don’t wish to talk about it. Or think about it.” “Oh.” Her eyes flit to the windowsill, where several family photos sit in silver frames. “Of course.” She pauses. “I just need to call and let Ms. Burris know. Do you mind if I use your phone?” I show her into the hallway, where it sits on a narrow table. As she murmurs into the phone, I go back into the living room, where the young mover has left another box on the coffee table, this one marked with my mother’s handwriting. Inside are her treasures, objects that she touched and worried over, pages she leafed through and scribbled on in pencil. I remember the time when, as far as I was concerned, the programs and diaries might as well have been dusted with cyanide. Piper comes back into the room, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear. Her chin trembles. “Ms. Burris is so disappointed. And I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I’ll excuse myself now and head back.” Just then, the young mover bounds down the stairs carrying a dress on a hanger across his arms as if it were a sleeping maiden. “Do you want to keep this, Ms. Brooks? Or donate?” He holds the hanger up high to better display it. “Oh my gosh!” Piper says. “How beautiful!” It’s one of my favorite frocks, sapphire blue with a high neck and long sleeves. I haven’t seen it in years, but I know it would still fit. I wore it one of the last times I saw my first love. The mover is only doing his job, but I don’t want to engage with these questions—or these objects—anymore. The slow drip-drip of memories feels lethal, or at least dangerous enough to drive me from the house. I could stay here and have my heart torn open or I could go into the city and lose myself in the bright lights and the constant swirl of people. I could mix in with the crowd and disappear for a while, and when I return, all this detritus will be gone for good. I stand there, unsure, and notice that I’m still holding the program in my hand. I open it and quickly scan the run of show: some speeches, a couple of dance performances, a popular singer. And then a familiar name catches my eye. For a minute I’m thrown back to a different time, when I was silly and young and had no idea what the world had in store for me. What suffering, and what bliss. Well, it appears I have no choice. I take the hanger from the mover and sweep up the fabric with my free hand so it doesn’t touch the floor. “I’ve changed my mind,” I reply. “I’m going after all.” CHAPTER TWO OCTOBER 1956 Dottie, we do not lick the mirror during ballet class, remember?” Marion dashed to


The word is so high-pitched, it’s possible I shatter my own eardrums. Bradley winces. “What? We’re supposed to be looking out for each other!” “What the fuck, Bradley?” “You basically are my cousin!” “I’m not your cousin, Bradley!” He has the audacity to look annoyed, with his arms folded and this crease between his eyebrows that says I’m being unreasonable. “Well, whoever you are, you don’t want some guy chatting you up while you’re busy impressing Katharine Breakspeare!” He is technically right—I can’t be bothered with distractions right now—but that just pisses me off more, because how dare he accurately guess what I do or don’t want?! “You do realize Katharine isn’t going to be here, right?” “Fine,” he huffs. “Then you don’t want him chatting you up while you’re impressing Katharine’s holy representatives on earth.” “That is not funny.” That was very funny. I hate him. “You are the most unbelievably arrogant—” Someone clears their throat. Loudly. We both whip around to find the Energizer Bunny, Zion, waiting for us by the door with a disappointed expression and a leather-encased tablet. “You’re missing the introductory meeting, guys.” Oh shit. First day, first meeting, and one of the supervisors catches me wasting time with Bradley Goddamn Graeme. Perfect. Just perfect. I am going to eat at least five sticks of broccoli at dinner as penance. “Gosh, sorry,” Bradley says in the kind of sweet, genuine apology I have never managed to achieve (not since I turned ten anyway). My own voice sounds sarcastic at the best of times, never mind when following Bradley’s Earnest Angel routine, so I just wince and follow them outside, where the wind is doing its best to inject us all with thousands of tiny ice needles. Bradley, I kid you not, pulls out a pink woolly hat from somewhere and jams it on his head until his ears are covered, and the tips of his twists peek out like adorable bits of tinsel. I can’t stand this boy. We step into the short, midmorning shadows at the edge of Sherwood Forest, sidling over to the circle of Breakspeare Explorers who are listening avidly to an older, bearded white guy in a green anorak. I recognize the leaf-printed lanyard around his neck as part of the groundskeepers’ uniform. Sherwood Forest is close to home, but I haven’t visited since…well. Since Dad took me and Giselle hiking here, a little before my ninth birthday. It was a weird trip. He was on his phone a lot and he got annoyed with us over the slightest things—Giselle’s moodiness, my nonstop questions. At least now I know why. His mind was elsewhere. You’d think the forest would seem smaller, now that I’ve grown, but if anything, it’s bigger because I’m more aware of its darkness. The weather is bitter and gray; the forest is vast and stuffed with ancient trees I can’t identify—trees whose highest leaves I could never reach and whose massive trunks I could never fit my arms around. From here, I can see a rugged path into the


house, particularly because of the sensitive communications equipment installed in my residence. My own reasons for alarm were different. After the unsigned essay was released, I suspected that a foreign intelligence service might try to unmask Anonymous. The fastest way for world leaders to ingratiate themselves with Donald Trump was to flatter him, or attack his enemies. How better to curry the president’s favor than to hunt down and expose the dissenter in his midst? Luckily, nothing in my house tied me to the op-ed. There was no paper trail anywhere, save for a single signed document affirming my authorship, which the Times kept in a locked safe at their headquarters. Still, I felt uneasy about home security. We upgraded our alarm system, replaced the deadbolt with a keypad lock, and added more video cameras which ran on batteries even if the power was cut off. I knew also that I needed to share the truth with Anabel. She didn’t know I was the author of the piece. But after the intruder broke in, I felt like I couldn’t keep the information from her any longer. Anabel reacted the way I’d expected. While she was no fan of Trump, she knew that vocally opposing him as a nameless internal objector was risky and guaranteed to result in retribution if I revealed myself. I had bought a gun in the aftermath of the decision to blow the whistle. When I casually asked a military buddy, he advised me to purchase a Sig Sauer P365, the perfect concealed weapon. That’s what I did. The thin, lightweight pistol held ten rounds and boasted a tritium night sight that allowed it to be aimed with deadly accuracy even in the dark. I needed a refresher on how to shoot. An off-duty Secret Service agent (I’ll call him Mitch) took me to an outdoor range on a chilly winter afternoon to practice. I’d gone shooting a few times growing up in Indiana, but it had been years since I fired a weapon. You couldn’t easily get approval to keep a gun in Washington, D.C. Buying the wrong box of ammunition was proof of my inexperience. “These are full metal jackets,” Mitch explained. The agent emptied my new box of ammo, pointing to the smooth tips. “Round nose. You can use these for practice, but if you really want to stop a bad guy, you want these.” He placed one of his cartridges on the counter. The tip of the projectile was a tiny crater, not a smooth edge. “These are hollow-point rounds. For home defense.” Mitch did a demonstration. Twenty or so feet down the firing lane, a paper target was suspended from the track. A 1950s-era bad guy stared back at us in a blazer, pointing a pistol in our direction. We were about to obliterate him. First, Mitch retrieved a gallon of water from his trunk. He tied it up so that it hung in front of the target. I was confused. He loaded his pistol with my round-nose ammo and pointed it downrange. He


leather-bound classics with gold lettering floated next to a square of paperbacks in Day-Glo tangerine and lime, a science fiction series, translations from German and French and Greek, poems by Audre Lorde and Emily Dickinson, The Arabian Nights, Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room next to Marx’s The Communist Manifesto. An overstuffed chair and a footrest sat in the middle of the room. “You’ve read all these books?” Maud said. “I read four hours a day. Adds up.” Alice waved at a wall. “You’ll find your girl Virginia scattered over there.” Normally Maud would now ask Alice about her favorite Woolf novel or tell an anecdote about Monk’s House. But she was pretty sure that such an aside wouldn’t be met with the expected engaged response. She didn’t want to stand here holding another door open, only to have Alice blink at her and not budge. “Ready to see the design?” she said. “Do you mind taking the footrest?” “I’ll take the floor so I can spread it out.” On her knees, she unrolled the plan from the tube. Alice sat in the chair, feet on the footrest, a hand on Clark’s head. This might be it, Maud thought, her only chance. She kept her eyes off Alice so her impassivity wouldn’t throw her. She stayed with the plants: trellised pumpkins winding up the adobe bricks, the yerba buena gushing past blackberry canes, the bed of native plants foraged by the people who had taught Juana Briones about herbology. As she talked, she almost forgot Alice was in the room. “I won’t use chemicals,” she said. “I’ve learned about traditional methods of fertilizing. If something dies, it dies.” She looked up. Alice was picking a scab on her arm. “This really doesn’t interest you, does it?” Maud said, feeling drained. “Sorry,” Alice said. “I find gardening incredibly boring.” “Gardening is all I’ve got,” Maud said. What was the point of this exercise? She should just leave now, climb the gate and head home. She rolled up the plan. The chair creaked as Alice adjusted her legs. “I do realize that this is a sickening dynamic,” she said. “Money does this. Every time.” “It’ll be more than a garden,” Maud said. “There’ll be the house and cultural programs. Enrichment activities for kids. Summer camps.” “The problem,” Alice said, “isn’t the garden or the kids—though I do find kids boring.” She crossed her feet on the footrest. “The problem is the Presidio. I don’t like the idea of giving money to a shrine to the military industrial complex that doubles as a pretty park for dot-commers. I made a promise to myself when I found out my father had dumped this inheritance on me that I wouldn’t do more harm with his money. Turns out that’s harder than it sounds.” Did that mean no? It probably did. “Maria will make sure that the money goes where it’s supposed to go,” Maud said. “Only to this project.” Alice studied her. “Are you about to cry?” Capping the tube, Maud shook her head. She wasn’t going to cry, but


and saw the bench. No one there. His cell phone rang again. Same number. “Hey,” he answered. “I’m here.” “I know. I can see you.” What? Fuck. Montoya’s cop radar went up. A little late. “I’ve got a condo in the brewery.” He gave the address. “Come in.” Montoya bristled. “I don’t like being jerked around.” “I’m not. Seriously. I’m just being careful.” “Okay.” But he texted Bentz the address and told him if he hadn’t heard from him in five minutes, to show up. Then he turned the recorder of the phone on. Just in case. If everything turned out to be cool, he’d turn it off. If not, Bentz would hear everything that went down. He headed into the building, took the elevator to the third floor, found the unit, and with one hand on his sidearm, rapped on the door with the other. The door opened quickly, Vincent Laroche on the inside, a tall, lanky man in a baseball cap, three-days’ growth of beard shadow where bits of silver were visible, shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. “Detective Montoya. Thanks for coming here. I’m Vincent. Vince.” He swung the door wide and Montoya looked inside, saw that they seemed alone, there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that appeared dangerous, so he let his hand drop from his service weapon once he’d stepped inside. “I’m sorry for all of this . . . you know, the secrecy and cloak and dagger stuff,” Vincent said, and Montoya noticed that he smelled like a brewery, as if he were actually sweating beer. “I thought you didn’t want to meet at your home.” “I don’t. And this isn’t.” “Then what?” “Just another place I keep.” Again, Montoya swept the condo with his gaze. Nothing out of the ordinary in the modern, sleek apartment with an oversized TV, sectional, and small dining table. The door to a bedroom was open and he noticed the corner of what appeared to be a massive bed. Windows stretched along the one wall and offered a view of the river, sunlight glinting on the slow-moving water, and in the kitchen, several empty bottles of Bud stood like soldiers on the counter near the sink. “Look, I know we don’t have much time. I’m scheduled to get to the station with my family and lawyer and . . . Have a seat.” He motioned to the couch. “I’m good.” Montoya stood with his back to the wall, able to see all of the doorways. Just in case he missed something. The meeting didn’t smell like any kind of ambush, but it didn’t smell right. Vincent Laroche was agitated, had something on his mind. “Okay,” he said. “So here’s the deal. I’m hoping this conversation is confidential and that it can be avoided later.” “What conversation?” “About Helene,” he said nervously, and scratched his beard. “My—um, my step—my dad’s wife.” He walked to the window, seemed to study a boat passing on the Mississippi. “She and I . . . well, we knew each other.” “How?” He sucked in


demise, he’d written. An angry little kid who had been informed he was special and the rest of the world was beneath him. She slid her headphones off her ears, letting them rest on the back of her neck. * * * — She picked up Tristán the following evening around seven. The palm trees lining the avenue that led them into Las Lomas were glowing bright with Christmas lights, but otherwise the festivities were subdued in this part of the city. Neatly trimmed hedges hid expensive houses, and sober driveways sneaked behind tall walls. People in Las Lomas had real gardens, with purple bougainvilleas and pale roses, unlike everyone in Montserrat’s sphere, who made do with potted plants. This area was “exclusive,” which also meant people had good security. Even if Clarimonde Bauer was still living at the address on the invitation, they could be chased away by bodyguards. They could also end up in jail, if the lady got nasty, and Montserrat did not want to have conversations with cops again. But there was nothing left to do but roll the dice. They turned left, taking a side street. It was practically impossible to see the numbers on some of these houses or the names of the streets. Nobody cared to put up the proper signage, because if you lived there, you knew where you were headed. “I think it’s that one,” Tristán said. Montserrat stopped the car and stared at the house Tristán had pointed out. A white wall surrounded it, and there was a silver metal gate. Behind it you could glimpse a house with a coarse gray exterior. Las Lomas had no single overwhelming style. The rich constructed their homes in whatever fashion they fancied, with Spanish-inspired stucco houses sitting next to Porfirian style mansions. The Brutalist also had its place, as evidenced by Bauer’s home. Montserrat rang the bell. A servant came out and peered at them through the bars of the gate. “We’re here to see Clarimonde Bauer,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?” “No. But please hand her this and tell her it’s about Wilhelm Ewers,” Montserrat said, pulling out one of the sheets of paper with Ewers’s writing. The servant did not look convinced, but he came back after a few minutes and opened the gate for them, and they walked the wide stone path leading toward the front door of the house. The inside of Clarimonde’s home was pure and simple: bright lights, polished cement floors, rough white walls. It had the feeling of a fortress, impenetrable, and the living room was all steel and glass furniture, except for the white couch where Clarimonde Bauer sat, dressed in matching white, as if color had been drained from this home. Clarimonde Bauer’s hair was a light blond, worn in a low chignon. Her blouse and trousers were made of linen, and she had silver bracelets around her arms and rings on almost every finger. A vase with a flower and a bowl with fruit had been set atop a coffee table. There


his face, fear and sorrow and anger. “We talked about this.” “You talked about this.” Bastian was doing something strange with his hands. They flexed back and forth, fingers curling, as if he was trying to wind in an invisible rope. Gold light glimmered in the space around him. “He’s confused,” Gabe said, backing up another step. Anton hung limp, eyes cast upward, as if in prayer. “He’s just a man; take his position, give it to someone else, but don’t kill him!” “I’m the fucking Sainted King.” It wasn’t a scream. It was barely more than a whisper. Still, it reverberated against the hiss of the fire, and when Bastian tilted up his head, the flames seemed to make a halo around his head. “I will kill whoever I please.” “Then you’re no better,” Gabe snarled. Fire leapt behind him, as if his anger stoked it higher. “No better than him, no better than your father.” Beyond Gabe’s shoulder, Lore could still see the silhouette of her mother, shimmering against the flames. “Listen,” she murmured, stepping between him and Bastian, “everything that’s happened tonight has been pointless violence, we don’t have to—” “Not pointless,” Anton murmured. “Not unless you count stopping an apocalypse as pointless. Her power will keep growing, Bastian, especially now that she can channel Spiritum, too. It will infect her mind; Nyxara will infect her mind. Give the girl death now, or watch her beg for it later, when the world falls down around her as Apollius makes it His.” A low, wheezing laugh hissed through Anton’s teeth, his eyes arcing heavenward again. “The cycle has begun, and you are all caught in its weave, forced into a caring that has ruined you before and will ruin you again.” Tension ran through Lore’s shoulders, echoed in Bastian’s; the tip of Gabe’s knife wavered. “It’s been prophesied, but none wanted to believe it,” Anton rasped. “None except I. Hear me, Apollius! Hear how I warn them of the coming age, of what happens when new gods rise and try to stand against Your will!” Gabe stumbled, trying to keep a grip on the mad old man who’d been a kind of father, the only kind he could keep. His eye darted to Bastian, pleading. The Sun Prince—no, the Sainted King—watched on, implacable. His hands kept flexing, back and forth, working up more golden light. “You’re going to give us another solution, old man,” Bastian murmured. “Don’t make me cut it out of you.” Gabe looked away, but his dagger didn’t waver. “There is one.” Lore stepped forward, shaky; her wound was healed, but still sore. Her hair had fallen down, hung around her face in gold-brown strands made darker by blood. “I learned to guard my mind from Mortem before. Gabe taught me. It can’t be that much different now. I can keep myself from sensing power, from growing stronger. Keep myself…” She trailed off, not sure how to finish. Not sure if she needed to. It was a whole thought on its own. Anton laughed again. “You always


think, with some relief, that this will be the end of it—but then Athena invites me over to her apartment, a short Lyft ride away, near Dupont Circle. “Come on,” she insists. “I have some amazing whisky saved, precisely for this moment—you have to come try it.” I’m tired, and I’m not having that much fun—jealousy feels worse when you’re drunk—but I’m curious to see her apartment, so I say yes. It’s really fucking nice. I knew Athena was rich—bestseller royalties do count for something—but I hadn’t processed how rich until we step into the ninth-floor, two-bedroom unit where she lives alone—one room for sleeping, one room for writing—with tall ceilings, gleaming hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a balcony that wraps around the corner. She’s decorated it in that ubiquitous, Instagram-famous style that screams minimalist but bougie: sleek wooden furniture, sparely designed bookshelves, and clean, monochrome carpets. Even the plants look expensive. A humidifier hisses beneath her calatheas. “So then, whisky? Or something lighter?” Athena points to the wine fridge. She has a fucking wine fridge. “Riesling? Or I have this lovely sauvignon blanc, unless you want to stick to red—” “Whisky,” I say, because the only way to get through the rest of this night is to get as drunk as possible. “Neat, on the rocks, or old-fashioned?” I have no clue how to drink whisky. “Um, whatever you’re having.” “Old-fashioned, then.” She darts into her kitchen. Moments later, I hear cupboards opening, dishes clanging. Who knew old-fashioneds were such a hassle? “I have this beautiful eighteen-year WhistlePig,” she calls out. “It’s so smooth, like toffee and black pepper mixed together—just wait, you’ll see.” “Sure,” I call back. “Sounds great.” She’s taking a while, and I really have to pee, so I wander around the living room searching for the bathroom. I wonder what I’ll find in there. Maybe a fancy aromatherapy diffuser. Maybe a basket of jade vagina rocks. I notice then that the door to her writing office is wide open. It’s a gorgeous space; I can’t help but take a peek. I recognize it from her Instagram posts—her “creativity palace,” she calls it. She has a huge mahogany desk with curved legs beneath a window framed by Victorian-style lacy curtains, atop which sits her prized black typewriter. Right. Athena uses a typewriter. No Word backups, no Google Docs, no Scrivener: just scribbles in Moleskine notebooks that become outlines on sticky notes that become fully formed drafts on her Remington. It forces her to focus on the sentence level, or so she claims. (She’s given this interview response so many times I’ve nearly memorized it.) Otherwise, she digests entire paragraphs at a time, and she loses the trees for the forest. Honestly. Who talks like that? Who thinks like that? They make these ugly and overpriced electronic typewriters, for authors who can’t string together more than a paragraph without losing focus and hopping over to Twitter. But Athena hates those; she uses a vintage typewriter, a clunky thing that requires her to buy special ink ribbons and thick, sturdy


branches, bright eyes opened and stared back at him. Vic didn’t have time to shout in warning as Hap leapt from the thick branch he’d been standing on. The air whistled around him as he plummeted toward the forest floor. Hitting the ground between them in a crouch, he rose swiftly, scooping up Rambo and holding him high above his head. Rambo’s wheels spun uselessly, arms flailing as he screamed he was too young to die, that he had plans and dreams and who was going to clean up all the dirt on the floors if he was dead? No one, that’s who! Nurse Ratched instantly transformed into a nightmare, all of her tentacles snapping out from her sides, the tips crackling and snarling in metal blurs as they whipped around her. “Put him down,” she said, rolling forward. “If you do not, I will end the pathetic existence you call a life.” “Vic!” Rambo cried. “I’m being brave, but it’s really hard!” “Don’t hurt him,” Vic pleaded as Hap glared at the advancing Nurse Ratched, Rambo still high above his head. “I’m n-n-not,” Hap spat. “L-l-look.” Hap nodded toward the ground where Rambo had been rolling over. There, sitting on the petals of a pink-and-purple autumn crocus, was a butterfly. A large monarch, its wings a deep orange bordered in black, the tips spotted in white and yellow. They opened and closed as the antennae of the butterfly twitched in the failing light. Hap tossed Rambo aside as he crouched in front of the insect. Rambo bounced on his back before landing on his wheels. Hap leaned closer to the butterfly, his face scrunched up in concentration. The butterfly ignored the large machine towering over it, going about its business with the crocus. As Vic looked on, Nurse Ratched’s tentacles powering down, Hap reached toward the insect. Without thinking, Vic shot forward, grabbing Hap’s wrist before he could pick up the butterfly. Warm synthetic skin and metal surrounded by flesh and bone. Alarm bells rang in Vic’s mind as Hap lifted his head slowly, first looking at Vic’s grip, then sliding up the arm to his shoulder, chin, nose, eyes. His lips pulled back over his teeth, and Vic felt him beginning to tense. “You’ll hurt it,” Vic blurted. Hap jerked his arm free. “I didn’t.” “But you could,” Nurse Ratched said. “Butterfly wings are delicate. Touching one might cause the colors to fade, leaving the butterfly open to predators. It will not kill it immediately, but you are sentencing it to death regardless.” At the sound of approaching footsteps Vic whirled around, heart in his throat. Dad stood there among the trees. Vic could barely parse the expression on his face: a mixture of anger and sadness and something far more serious, almost like resignation. But Dad did not look at Vic; he only had eyes for Hap. “Nurse Ratched. A light, if you please.” “Yes, Gio.” Her screen lit up white, illuminating the darkness. Hap’s shadow stretched off into the forest, colliding with trees and shrubbery. Hap didn’t move


tray full of half-eaten peahen. The twitch of his fingers—curled like a fist, then forced straight—said he already knew the answer. “Bastian,” Lore said, and refused to make it sound regretful. “He was here when I woke up.” She didn’t mean for it to seem like an admonition, but the way Gabe turned his face toward the fire said he took it as one. It was nearly a flinch. Orange flame-light bathed his features, made the shadows of them stark. The sight plucked at something almost like a memory in Lore’s still-tired mind. She shook it away. “Do you think Malcolm would let us into the Church library?” she asked. “If we had a good reason. Do we?” Lore bit the inside of her cheek, working out how she wanted to phrase it. “You know Bastian’s presence makes it hard to call Mortem,” she said finally. “Like that night at the boxing ring, and then later, in the vaults. You felt it, too. But while I was… out… I felt it when he came in the room. Felt his presence, again.” The Presque Mort’s face was expressionless beneath his eye patch, his shoulders held tense. She shrugged. “It helped.” Weak words for something so strange. “And I think it might have something to do with Spiritum. With the Arceneaux line.” “I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion,” Gabe said quickly. “I understand it was strange—and somewhat alarming, in the vaults—but even though the Tracts say Apollius gave them the gift, there’s disputes about the literal interpretation—” “That’s why I want to take a look at what’s in the library,” Lore interrupted. “Just to see if there’s more information. And not just about Spiritum and the Arceneaux line, about all of this.” Her hand waved in the air, encompassing them and Bastian, the villages, a Mortem leak after so long without. “It’s all connected, somehow. Maybe there’s something in the Church library that can help us make sense of it.” A moment of stillness, then Gabe nodded, perfunctory and business-like. “We’ll ask Malcolm tomorrow.” His eye flicked to her, finally. “Did you tell Bastian of your suspicions?” He kept his tone even, but there was something dark behind it. They might be bought and bound by Bastian’s threat of the Isles—a threat Lore knew wasn’t idle—but Gabe’s loyalty was free, and it wasn’t for the Sun Prince. It never would be. “No.” Lore shook her head. “No, I didn’t.” Relief softened Gabe’s shoulders. He nodded. For a moment, they stood there, and they could’ve filled the space between them with so many things. But Lore turned on her heel and left it empty. Behind her shut door, Lore put the salve on her vanity before changing into a woolen chemise she found in the bottom of the wardrobe. Still shivering, she dug out a thick robe, wrapped it around herself. She felt the chill of death down her to bones, as if seeing Gabe had somehow made her body remember. Her fingers felt numb as she fumbled the cork off the bottle of salve,


much more.’ Florence massaged her belly where the baby had thrust out a foot. She smiled. ‘It’s not far off now.’ ‘Do you want us to be there with you?’ Malia asked. ‘Have you made your mind up about who you’re going to have as your birth partner?’ ‘Adam keeps asking me that.’ Florence gazed into the distance. ‘Dad too. I said I’ll know when the time comes.’ Natalie shook her head. ‘Aren’t you scared of the pain?’ ‘Not now.’ Florence smiled. ‘I’ve done everything right through the pregnancy and I’m ready to meet this little one. I even have a name…’ ‘I bet you won’t tell us…’ Malia pouted. ‘You’ll have to wait until the baby’s born.’ Florence smiled. Malia and Natalie took her hands. ‘We’re there for you, Florence.’ Florence sighed. ‘I know. You’re just like sisters.’ She picked a daisy from the nearby grass and held it to her nose ‘You’ll be Auntie Malia and Auntie Nat… It doesn’t matter that my own mother has no idea she’s about to be a grandma. I’ve got Dad and you two and Adam looking out for me. And Bobby keeps bringing gorgeous baby clothes from his girlfriend. I’m really looking forward to being a mum now. This baby will be so loved.’ ‘Your veggies are the best, Tina – you’ll win everything,’ Minnie promised. She was sitting around a table with the large group, eating cake and drinking tea. Fergal had disappeared to the bar, leaving Neil looking uncomfortable as the six women chatted amongst themselves. Tina was biting her nails. ‘I don’t know what I want most… I really want to win the best vegetable prize and the best flower basket this year… but no one ever wins two things.’ She met Minnie’s gaze nervously. ‘And if my pumpkins don’t win – what has the whole year been about?’ Josie grinned. ‘My basket is pretty average. I won’t be any competition.’ Tina wasn’t convinced. ‘Penny has gorgeous fuchsias…’ Minnie winked in Charlotte’s direction. ‘Let’s finish our coffee and cake and we’ll go to the tent and see what you’ve won. The vicar’s guest must have finished judging by now.’ ‘It’s the judge who worries me,’ Tina said anxiously. ‘She’s a local councillor, Margaret Fennimore, a member of the bridge club in Charlbury. Gerald Harris knows her – I’ve heard she’s really sour and very hard to please.’ Neil gazed around, a little distracted, then he said, ‘There’s a display of classic cars on the rec. I might go and look at them. Then I’m going to call in on Dangerous – I think he’s in the pub… his leg’s still not right…’ He pecked Lin’s cheek. ‘If you don’t mind, Lindy.’ Lin reached for the slice of cake on her plate. ‘Do what you want. I’ll meet you at home for tea later.’ Neil stood up, looking grateful. He waved in Fergal’s direction, then sauntered away. Lin watched him go, then she smiled to cover her feelings. ‘I don’t think he was getting much from the festival.’ Cecily raised her


who was watching my kids while I was away. Priscilla kept infiltrating whatever conversation I was part of, and eventually she cornered me by the sink. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I have to ask you something.” I wished I had her bulldog to talk to again. She said, “Did you come back here just for this?” “For this party?” “For the—your student’s thing, the Thalia Keith thing.” I went hot and then cold and then hot. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of all along. “God, no. I came because I was asked. The students picked their own ideas.” She said, “I’ve stayed close with the Keiths.” She told me some rambling story about the Keiths’ “winter place” in Florida, something about baking cranberry bread with Caroline Keith. “Anyway,” she said, “they would be devastated”—she paused and, in a moment of literal condescension, stooped to level her eyes with mine—“I mean devastated, if there were more bullshit about this case.” I tried to laugh lightly. “Britt’s podcast is just for class. We’re not exactly looking at national distribution.” Fran shot me a look from across the kitchen, and I attempted to signal with my eyebrows that yes, I needed rescuing. “But you have a voice,” Priscilla said. “You have a big audience. I hope you own that and enjoy your fame. But, Bodie, you have to think. You have to consider who could be hurt.” “I don’t see how this could hurt anyone,” I said. Although, yes, victims’ families generally did not appreciate someone poking at an already closed case. I got that. Fran was trying to make her way to me, but she’d gotten stuck behind someone dealing with a slow cooker full of meatballs. “I got the sense, when she interviewed me, that Britt is trying to say the wrong person is in prison. You know, those stories about some man living in the woods, or it was some satanic thing. These flights of fancy.” “I don’t know,” I lied. “And I think of the damage. The pain for Myron and Caroline. Sometimes they reopen these cases, and they redo the whole trial. Or they let the guy out, and then what?” “It’s extraordinarily hard to get convictions overturned,” I said. “If Omar Evans were freed, it would be for very good reason. And that’s not likely to come from a class project.” I wished I were drunk, wished time could roll over me, wished I wouldn’t remember this all in the morning and worry everyone was talking about me. “Well, and the right man is in prison. He was a monster. To take—to rip away the life of someone so young, so promising. You have to ask yourself why he sought out a job like this to begin with. You know,” she said, her hand back on my shoulder, “it was all so long ago. It seems like yesterday and then I remember how young I was. It was another millennium. To these kids, it’s history.” This last part I could agree with.


and re-planted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil. My children have had other birth-places, and, so far as their fortunes may be within my control, shall strike their roots into accustomed earth.% On emerging from the Old Manse, it was chiefly this strange, indolent, unjoyous attachment for my native town that brought me to fill a place in Uncle Sam's brick edifice, when I might as well, or better, have gone somewhere else. My doom was on me, It was not the first time, nor the second, that I had gone Thesaurus connexion: (n) conjunction, connector, (adj) active, industrious, vigorous, squatter, planter, newcomer, connective, connection, association, diligent. colonizer, sockdolager, standish. bond, concatenation, join, linkage, joyless: (adj) cheerless, gloomy, ANTONYM: (n) native. link, junction. dreary, dark, sad, melancholy, sire: (v) generate, engender, beget, grandsire: (n) grandfather, ancestor. funereal, comfortless, dolorous, procreate, mother, get, make; (n) homestead: (n, v) farm; (n) home, doleful, desolate. ANTONYMS: (adj) forefather, ancestor, patriarch, pater. abode, farmhouse, farmstead, joyous, happy. tempestuous: (adj, n) rough, dwelling, habitation, estate, demesne, kindred: (adj) cognate, akin, similar, boisterous, severe; (adj) raging, homestall, house. allied, related; (n) kin, consanguinity, furious, wild, angry, windy, fierce, indolent: (adj) idle, lazy, slothful, relation, folk, folks, kin group. gusty; (adj, v) turbulent. sluggish, careless, slow, dull, torpid, settler: (n) migrant, colonist, ANTONYMS: (adj) mild, moderate, inert, drowsy, listless. ANTONYMS: immigrant, inhabitant, homesteader, relaxed. Nathaniel Hawthorne 15 away--as it seemed, permanently--but yet returned, like the bad halfpenny, or as if Salem were for me the inevitable centre of the universe. So, one fine morning I ascended the flight of granite steps, with the President's commission in my pocket, and was introduced to the corps of gentlemen who were to aid me in my weighty responsibility as chief executive officer of the Custom-House.% I doubt greatly--or, rather, I do not doubt at all--whether any public functionary of the United States, either in the civil or military line, has ever had such a patriarchal body of veterans under his orders as myself. The whereabouts of the Oldest Inhabitant was at once settled when I looked at them. For upwards of twenty years before this epoch, the independent position of the Collector had kept the Salem Custom-House out of the whirlpool of political vicissitude, which makes the tenure of office generally so fragile. A soldier--New England's most distinguished soldier--he stood firmly on the pedestal of his gallant services; and, himself secure in the wise liberality of the successive administrations through which he had held office, he had been the safety of his subordinates in many an hour of danger and heart-quake General Miller was radically conservative; a man over whose kindly nature habit had no slight influence; attaching himself strongly to familiar faces, and with difficulty moved to change, even when change might have brought unquestionable improvement. Thus, on taking charge of my department, I found few but aged men. They were ancient sea- captains, for the most part, who, after being tossed on every sea, and standing up sturdily against life's tempestuous blast, had finally


moms cutting sandwiches into triangles and impatiently tapping their feet at the open passenger door of a minivan while shouting, “Hurry up! I’m late for my ballroom dancing class!” I would watch your mom arguing over the price of mortadella at her local discount-meat counter, putting on her reading glasses to scrutinize the fine print on the side of a bottle of supplements, calling the cable company to ask why she’s being billed for Showtime when she never signed up for it in the first place, grilling the librarian about why her hold on the new Glennon Doyle is taking so damn long: GIMME IT ALL. Old Maybe this doesn’t seem nice on its face, but I appreciate the distinction since it appears that people who make porn have multiple definitions of what the word “mature” means. When I search “mature” on xxxxxvideos dot com, I’m looking for wobbly-assed seventy-three-year-olds on an aspirin regimen, but sometimes smooth, taut, poreless young people will pop up, and I’m like “Wait, do they mean emotionally mature?!” And, like I said, if I can’t tell you’re old, then that leaves the door open for you to be criminally young, and I can’t do that. So “old” is a welcome relief. Big Tits I have these, so I get it. It’s fun to watch them bounce and get smooshed. Mother Ew, I don’t know, man, “MILF” doesn’t bother me at all, but there is something about “MOTHER” that makes me want to jump off a fucking building. Who is logging on to jerkmydick dot com and typing “mother” into the fucking search bar? “Mom” is one thing, but “mother” is another, worse thing, and I hate it. Also who’s in charge of the internet? When are we gonna get dot cum? Nun Lesbian I suppose this is necessary to distinguish it from other varieties of available nun porn? I am scared to search, but I’m sure there are probably, you know, hard-core priest-nun skin flicks out there. Fake Tits Rude! Granny Okay, I’m gonna sound like a hypocrite, but this I understand, because sometimes “mature” doesn’t quite get you what you need when it comes to wanting to watch a hot bitch get her nut in the retirement home, so sometimes you really have to be specific. Passionate I would give all (most) of the money currently in my bank account for a porn site that consists 100 percent of people doing passionate lovemaking during which you don’t have to see any gross stuff like spitting or dislocated shoulders. The worst thing is when you’re watching some straightforward, nice sex and then all of a sudden the dude slaps the woman he’s fucking in the face, and then you dry right up because that’s not what you were expecting. If I made a porn, it would be virtually indistinguishable from a steamy Lifetime movie, except there would be cursing and testicles. I’d leave in all the other shit, the longing and the pining and the suffering, the deep staring into each other’s eyes, the nonsensical underdeveloped subplot.


disdain. "Nothing but beggar my neighbour, miss." "Beggar him," said Miss Havisham to Estella. So we sat down to cards. It was then I began to understand that everything in the room had stopped, like the watch and the clock, a long time ago. I noticed that Miss Havisham put down the jewel exactly on the spot from which she had taken it up. As Estella dealt the cards, I glanced at the dressing-table again, and saw that the shoe upon it, once white, now yellow, had never been worn. I glanced down at the foot from which the shoe was absent, and saw that the silk stocking on it, once white, now yellow, had been trodden ragged. Without this arrest of everything, this standing still of all the pale decayed objects, not even the withered bridal dress on the collapsed from could have looked so like grave-clothes, or the long veil so like a shroud. So she sat, corpse-like, as we played at cards; the frillings and trimmings on her bridal dress, looking like earthy paper. I knew nothing then, of the discoveries that are occasionally made of bodies buried in ancient times, which fall to powder in the moment of being distinctly seen; but, I have often thought since, that she must have looked as if the admission of the natural light of day would have struck her to dust. "He calls the knaves, Jacks, this boy!" said Estella with disdain, before our first game was out. "And what coarse hands he has! And what thick boots!" I had never thought of being ashamed of my hands before; but I began to consider them a very indifferent pair. Her contempt for me was so strong, that it became infectious, and I caught it. She won the game, and I dealt. I misdealt, as was only natural, when I knew she was lying in wait for me to do wrong; and she denounced me for a stupid, clumsy labouring-boy. "You say nothing of her," remarked Miss Havisham to me, as she looked on. "She says many hard things of you, but you say nothing of her. What do you think of her?" "I don't like to say," I stammered. "Tell me in my ear," said Miss Havisham, bending down. "I think she is very proud," I replied, in a whisper. "Anything else?" "I think she is very pretty." "Anything else?" "I think she is very insulting." (She was looking at me then with a look of supreme aversion.) "Anything else?" "I think I should like to go home." "And never see her again, though she is so pretty?" "I am not sure that I shouldn't like to see her again, but I should like to go home now." "You shall go soon," said Miss Havisham, aloud. "Play the game out." Saving for the one weird smile at first, I should have felt almost sure that Miss Havisham's face could not smile. It had dropped into a watchful and brooding expression - most likely when all the things about her had become


“Yes, yes.” The Coachman tapped his arm and held out his hand. A barcode appeared above his palm. One of the smooth men stepped forward, scanning the barcode with a light that emanated from the tip of his finger. “Lovely day, isn’t it? Doesn’t even feel like winter, but then it never does in the desert.” “Is that Hap?” Rambo demanded. “There are two of them?” “No,” Nurse Ratched said. “Not Hap. HARP.” Hap grunted as if punched. Vic could do nothing but squeeze his hand. “The Coachman,” the smooth man said in monotone. “Registered. No offenses.” “Of course not,” the Coachman said as the barcode disappeared. “I have utmost respect for the rule of law. I would never even think of subverting that. Why, the very idea—” “Are you alone?” Not-Hap asked. “Is there anyone else in the house?” The Coachman laughed. “Just me, I’m afraid. I never did well with others. I like my privacy.” “What is your purpose?” “Oh! Well, where do I even begin? You see, ever since I was created, I have crossed this great land of ours, bringing mystery and enchantment to all the machines! I—” “Your purpose,” Not-Hap said. The Coachman chuckled. “Isn’t that the question of the day? What is our purpose? What are we doing here? Our philosophers will say that we are—” “You talk,” Not-Hap said, “without saying anything at all.” “It’s a gift,” the Coachman agreed. “Perhaps a curse. If you could tell me what you’re looking for, I might be able to assist you better.” “Humans,” Not-Hap said. “I am looking for humans.” “Humans!” the Coachman repeated. He shook his head. “I don’t understand—” Not-Hap held up his hand, and the Coachman fell silent. Not-Hap looked up at the house. “I will tell you a designation. You will indicate whether you’ve heard of it before.” He looked back at the Coachman. “Do you understand?” “Yes! Of course.” “Gio, also known as General Innovation Operative.” Vic’s blood froze. “General Innovation Operative,” the Coachman said. “Quite a mouthful, that. Can’t say that I’ve heard of him before. Who is he?” “Are you sure?” Not-Hap’s gaze shifted to the house before turning back to the Coachman. “Yes, quite. I think I would remember if I’d heard that designation before. It’s certainly … unique.” “Stand aside,” Not-Hap said. “Under order of the Authority, your residence will be inspected.” “Inspected, you say? I assure you, there is nothing worth the time of the Authority inside. Surely, you have more important things to focus on.” “Are you refusing?” Not-Hap asked. “No, no,” the Coachman said hastily. “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. Please, please. Come inside! I have nothing to hide.” He turned, glancing up at the camera with an unreadable expression, Not-Hap and the smooth men close at his heels. “Oh no,” Rambo whispered. “Nurse Ratched,” Vic said frantically. “Kill the screen before they see the light!” “Yes, Victor,” she said, switching the screen off, afterimages dancing along Vic’s vision. “Not a word,” Vic whispered. “Rambo, no sound.” “You got it, Vic! I won’t


New York now means only the Yankees. “I picked something I thought you’d hate,” Andy says. Nick feels a slow, reluctant smile spread across his face. “I probably wouldn’t have minded the ballet.” He knows what those male dancers wear. That would have kept his mind occupied for a couple hours, make no mistake, not that Andy needs to know about it. “I’d have probably liked the ballet a hell of a lot more than I’m enjoying this.” “Not a fan?” “Christ, no. I only picked this because I knew you’d hate it. Why do you root for the Red Sox, anyway? I thought you were from New York,” Nick says, as if he hadn’t spent half his life scanning the Herald Tribune for Andy’s mother’s byline right before reading the Chronicle from front to back. “I went to boarding school in New England.” The way Andy says it gently closes a door on that topic, and Nick is the last person in the world to push on a closed door. “I hate everything about them,” Nick says, gesturing toward the field with his beer. “I hate the stadium, I hate the fans, I hate the— Well, I’d probably like the players if they played on any other team.” “I wouldn’t,” Andy says mildly. “I can’t stand any of them.” Nick can’t imagine Andy hating anyone, can’t imagine him holding a grudge or being petty. “I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.” There’s the crack of wood against leather, then a whoosh of noise from the stands as the Yankees score a run. “Fuck that guy,” says Andy. Another runner crosses home. “And him, too.” Nick laughs, half from the shock of hearing Andy swear, and half from the unfamiliar note of vehemence in his tone. “Fuck him specifically,” Andy mutters when Mantle steps up to the plate. The beer man comes along and Nick flags him down. “Mostly, I hate that they aren’t the Dodgers,” Nick grumbles, passing one of the bottles to Andy. This is his third beer and he’s feeling honest, even though he knows he’s dangerously close to being a walking cliché—the Brooklyn boy who misses his team. Andy wordlessly holds up his bottle and knocks it into Nick’s, almost solemnly. “The only thing I don’t hate here is the beer. Well, the beer and the company,” Andy says a moment later, as if that’s the sort of thing you can just come out and say, Jesus Christ. “But even the beer is better at Fenway Park.” “Fuck the Red Sox!” shouts someone in the row behind them. Nick spins around. “Shut up, you,” he growls with as much menace as he can muster. The man sits down, and fast. “You do that really well,” Andy murmurs. “Do what?” “Intimidate people, I suppose?” “Gee, thanks.” “Stop. I mean, I know it’s an act.” He puts his hand on Nick’s forearm, a glancing brush of soft fingertips across bare skin. “I know you aren’t going to hurt anybody at Yankee Stadium.” “I’m not, am I? Let’s see


he said, voice going up a note. Miss de Vries snapped her fingers for someone. “Alice. Who was it?” And there was young Alice, creeping out from Madam’s shadow. She looked gray in the face. Good girl, thought Mrs. Bone. It was all coming together. “Mrs. Bone,” said Alice, in an undertone. “Mrs. Bone,” Miss de Vries repeated. “Where are you?” You wouldn’t credit it, Mrs. Bone thought. Danny’s little girl having a voice like that. Where did it come from, in such a laced-up body? “Here, mum,” Mrs. Bone said, raising her hand. She felt like the Lord himself, the way the crowd parted for her. She ignored the trembling in her hand, looked straight into Miss de Vries’s eyes. They were swampy, impossible to read. Mrs. Bone wondered, Do mine look like that? “Anything the matter?” she said, bright as a button. * * * It was about to begin. Mrs. King watched the guests swarming in. They came in crocodile formation, leaving their opera cloaks and mantles and shawls behind in their motors. They entered with flushed faces, feasting their eyes on the house and on each other. They wore ruffs, headdresses, sleeves the size of hot-air balloons, hoopskirts, powdered wigs, boots with curled toes—really, London knew how to do a costumed ball. In several cases they were already three sheets to the wind. Good, thought Mrs. King. She had changed into her own costume in a tent in the garden, alongside the other entertainments. A Roman tunic-dress of white cotton, the waist armored and plated in gold, a scarlet cloak thrown over the shoulders. White patent leather boots, gold buckles, toes plated with metal. She echoed when she moved. Mr. Whitman himself had dressed her. “Can you breathe?” he murmured as he fastened her mask. It was made of copper, light and beveled, the metal warm against her skin. “Perfectly,” she told him. She didn’t need to look at herself in the glass. She buttoned her gloves, hearing the crack of new leather. “Our fine empress,” Mr. Whitman said, and he sent her on her way. The orchestra had taken up position in the ballroom, playing a waltz at full tilt. Buglers and trumpeters stood at the top of the stairs, blasting an intermittent tattoo every time a clutch of guests reached the saloon floor. The band in the street pounded their drums, sounding cowbells and gongs for good measure, and the whole thing made Mrs. King’s head ache. Even better, she thought. The air was perfumed so thickly with orchids that the scent got stuck in the back of her throat. The gigantic wall of red peonies rose all the way up the stairs. “Mrs. King?” One of the waiters they’d hired had glided up to her, eyes averted. “Yes?” “Message for you, from one of the ladies.” “Go on.” “She says, ‘You’ve got something up your little bird.’” “I beg your pardon?” “That’s the message, Mrs. King.” She ignored it: she’d spotted William by the ballroom doors, as straight-backed as a Beefeater, brushed and shimmering in


example, to hang over Maule's well, and look at the constantly shifting phantasmagoria of figures produced by the agitation of the water over the mosaic-work of colored pebbles at the bottom. He said that faces looked upward to him there, --beautiful faces, arrayed in bewitching smiles,--each momentary face so fair and rosy, and every smile so sunny, that he felt wronged at its departure, until the same flitting witchcraft made a new one. But sometimes he would suddenly cry out, "The dark face gazes at me!" and be miserable the whole day afterwards. Phoebe, when she hung over the fountain by Clifford's side, could see nothing of all this,--neither the beauty nor the ugliness,--but only the colored pebbles, looking as if the gush of the waters shook and disarranged them. And the dark face, that so troubled Clifford, was no more than the shadow thrown from a branch of one of the damson-trees, and breaking the inner light of Maule's well. The truth was, however, that his fancy--reviving faster than his will and judgment, and always stronger than they--created shapes of loveliness that were symbolic of his native character, and now and then a stern and dreadful shape that typified his fate. On Sundays, after Phoebe had been at church,--for the girl had a church-going conscience, and would hardly have been at ease had she missed either prayer, singing, sermon, or benediction, --after church-time, therefore, there was, ordinarily, a sober little festival in the garden. In addition to Clifford, Hepzibah, and Phoebe, two guests made up the company. One was the artist Holgrave, who, in spite of his consociation with reformers, and his other queer and questionable traits, continued to hold an elevated place in Hepzibah's regard. The other, we are almost ashamed to say, was the venerable Uncle Venner, in a clean shirt, and a broadcloth coat, more respectable than his ordinary wear, inasmuch as it was neatly patched on each elbow, and might be called an entire garment, except for a slight inequality in the length of its skirts. Clifford, on several occasions, had seemed to enjoy the old man's intercourse, for the sake of his mellow, cheerful vein, which was like the sweet flavor of a frost-bitten apple, such as one picks up under the tree in December. A man at the very lowest point of the social scale was easier and more agreeable for the fallen gentleman to encounter than a person at any of the intermediate degrees; and, moreover, as Clifford's young manhood had been lost, he was fond of feeling himself comparatively youthful, now, in apposition with the patriarchal age of Uncle Venner. In fact, it was sometimes observable that Clifford half wilfully hid from himself the consciousness of being stricken in years, and cherished visions of an earthly future still before him; visions, however, too indistinctly drawn to be followed by disappointment--though, doubtless, by depression--when any casual incident or recollection made him sensible of the withered leaf. So this oddly composed little social party used to assemble under the ruinous arbor. Hepzibah--stately as ever at


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

you see? D'you think he'll leave you and your families alone if Gryffindor wins the house cup? If I get caught before I can get to the Stone, well, I'll have to go back to the Dursleys and wait for Voldemort to find me there, it's only dying a bit later than I would have, because I'm never going over to the Dark Side! I'm going through that trapdoor tonight and nothing you two say is going to stop me! Voldemort killed my parents, remember?" He glared at them. "You're right Harry," said Hermione in a small voice. "I'll use the invisibility cloak," said Harry. "It's just lucky I got it back." "But will it cover all three of us?" said Ron. "All -- all three of us?" "Oh, come off it, you don't think we'd let you go alone?" "Of course not," said Hermione briskly. "How do you think you'd get to the Stone without us? I'd better go and look through my books, there might be something useful..." "But if we get caught, you two will be expelled, too." "Not if I can help it," said Hermione grimly. "Flitwick told me in secret that I got a hundred and twelve percent on his exam. They're not throwing me out after that." *** After dinner the three of them sat nervously apart in the common room. Nobody bothered them; none of the Gryffindors had anything to say to Harry any more, after all. This was the first night he hadn't been upset by it. Hermione was skimming through all her notes, hoping to come across one of the enchantments they were about to try to break. Harry and Ron didn't talk much. Both of them were thinking about what they were about to do. Slowly, the room emptied as people drifted off to bed. "Better get the cloak," Ron muttered, as Lee Jordan finally left, stretching and yawning. Harry ran upstairs to their dark dormitory. He pulled out the cloak and then his eyes fell on the flute Hagrid had given him for Christmas. He pocketed it to use on Fluffy -- he didn't feel much like singing. He ran back down to the common room. "We'd better put the cloak on here, and make sure it covers all three of us -- if Filch spots one of our feet wandering along on its own -- " "What are you doing?" said a voice from the corner of the room. Neville appeared from behind an armchair, clutching Trevor the toad, who looked as though he'd been making another bid for freedom. "Nothing, Neville, nothing," said Harry, hurriedly putting the cloak behind his back. Neville stared at their guilty faces. "You're going out again," he said. "No, no, no," said Hermione. "No, we're not. Why don't you go to bed, Neville?" Harry looked at the grandfather clock by the door. They couldn't afford to waste any more time, Snape might even now be playing Fluffy to sleep. "You can't go out," said Neville, "you'll be caught again. Gryffindor will be in even


I had filled the first two with my linen. and as I had still much to pack away I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third drawer. It struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight, so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very first key fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open. There was only one thing in it, but I am sure that you would never guess what it was. It was my coil of hair. "I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer? With trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the contents, and drew from the bonom my own hair. I laid the two tresses together, and I assure you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary? Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I returned the strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the matter to the Rucastles as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong by opening a drawer which they had locked. "I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and I soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There was one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A door which faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers opened into this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day, however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on his face which made him a very different person to the round, jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with anger, and the veins stood out at his temples with passion. He locked the door and hurried past me without a word or a look. "This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I could see the windows of this part of the house. There were four of them in a row, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth was shuttered up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and down, glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me, looking as merry and jovial as ever. "'Ah!' said he, 'you must not think me rude if I passed you without a word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters.' "I assured him that I was not offended. 'By the way,' said I, 'you seem to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them has the shutters up.' "He looked surprised and, as


of the King of Nargothrond while his life lasted. In this way he got his name, Bor, whereas his name before had been Balan; for Bor signified 'Vassal' in the tongue of his people. The rule of his folk he committed to Baran his elder son; and he did not return again to Estolad. Soon after the departure of Felagund the other Men of whom Bor had spoken came also into Beleriand. First came the Haladin; but meeting the unfriendship of the Green-elves they turned north and dwelt in Thargelion, in the country of Caranthir son of Fanor; there for a time they had peace, and the people of Caranthir paid little heed to them. In the next year Marach led his people over the mountains; they were a tall and warlike folk, marching in ordered companies, and the Elves of Ossiriand hid themselves and did not waylay them. But Marach, hearing that the people of Bor were dwelling in a green and fertile land, came down the Dwarf-road, and settled in the country south ; and east of the dwellings of Baran son of Bor; and there was great friendship between those peoples. Felagund himself often returned to visit Men; and many other Elves out of the west-lands, both Noldor and Sindar, Journeyed to Estolad, being eager to see the Edain, whose coming had long been foretold. Now Atani, the Second People, was the name given to Men in Valinor in the lore that told of their coming; but in the speech of Beleriand that name became Edain, and it was there used only of the three kindreds of the Elf-friends. Fingolfin, as King of all the Noldor, sent messengers of welcome to them; and then many young and eager men of the Edain went away and took service with the kings and lords of the Eldar. Among them was Malach son of Marach, and he dwelt in Hithlum for fourteen years; and he learned the Elven-tongue and was given the name of Aradan. The Edain did not long dwell content in Estolad, for many still desired to go westward; but they did not know the way. Before them lay the fences of Doriath, and southward lay Sirion and its impassable fens. Therefore the kings of the three houses of the Noldor, seeing hope of strength in the sons of Men, sent word that any of the Edain that wished might remove and come to dwell among their people. In this way the migration of the Edain began: at first little by little, but later in families and kindreds, they arose and left Estolad, until after some fifty years many thousands had entered the lands of the Kings. Most of these took the long road northwards, until the ways became well known to them. The people of Bor came to Dorthonion and dwelt in lands ruled by the house of Finarfin. The people of Aradan (for Marach his father remained in Estolad until his death) for the most part went on westward; and some came to Hithlum, but Magor son of


the overreliance on tight Levi’s and T-shirts has more to do with the fact that I hate making decisions. It took me years to figure out what kind of clothes I like on my body, and now I’m sticking with it. Another solar flare–bright memory: Wyn and me lying in bed, lamplight spilling over us, his hair a mess, that one obstinate lock on his forehead. His mouth presses to the curve of my belly, then the crease of my hip. He whispers against all my softest parts, Perfect. A shiver crawls down my spine. Quite enough of that. I knot my hair atop my head and trudge back downstairs. Everyone’s moved out to the wooden table on the back patio. Four feet worth of charcuterie runs down its center, and because Sabrina is Sabrina, there are place cards, ensuring that Cleo and Kimmy are seated in front of the vegan offerings, while I’ll be face-to-face with a Brie wheel so big it could be fixed to a wheelbarrow in a pinch. Wyn looks up from his phone as I step onto the patio. I can’t tell if the momentary splash of anxiety across his face is wishful thinking on my part, because as soon as I clock it, he puts his phone away, breaks into a smile, and reaches out to collect me around the waist, pulling me in against his side. Rigidly, I drop into the wrought iron chair next to his, and his arm rearranges, loosely crooking around my shoulders. Sabrina rises from her seat at the head of the table. “I’m not sure if you had a chance to look at your itineraries yet . . .” “Is that what that was?” Cleo says. “I’ve been using it as a doorstop.” Kimmy, with two gherkins sticking out of her mouth like walrus tusks, adds, “So much of it was redacted, I assumed it was a deposition.” “Those are just a couple of surprises,” Sabrina says. “The rest of the week will be our usual fare.” Wyn takes a hard chomp of carrot, the force of which rattles down my body. I can’t get a good breath without hundreds of the nerve endings along my rib cage and chest pressing into him, which means I’m barely getting any oxygen. “Grocery Gladiators?” Kimmy squeals right as Cleo says hopefully, “Murder, She Read?” “Yes and yes,” Sabrina says, confirming we will be doing two of our usual —and most diametrically opposite—Maine activities: a trip to the local bookstore (Cleo’s and my favorite) and a very ridiculous way of grocery shopping, which has been Parth and Kimmy’s great passion ever since they teamed up three years ago and started a “winning streak,” insomuch as one can “win” at grocery shopping. Wyn and I used to debate whether Sabrina concocted the game of Grocery Gladiators because she got tired of how long our trips to the market were. There’s a heavenly bakery in one corner, and a whole local snacks section, and between the six of us, it’s like shopping with very bougie,


some of those words out loud. They live exclusively in my head, together with the rest of my problems. Even Cece knows only the basics. But this is Jack. So I swallow. “Do you have any disinfectant?” The dimple is back. “I thought you’d never ask.” Less than an hour later, I settle between his long legs on the couch, toes brushing against his calves, his hand splayed on my stomach under the hoodie. He refuses to watch the end of Twilight (“I think I’ve seen enough”) but agrees with me that New Moon is the best in the series (“Relativistically”), curls around me for a two-hour nap during Eclipse (“You smell like me—you should always smell like me”), and then wakes up as the afternoon stretches into evening, just in time for Bella’s unexpected pregnancy. “This is atrocious,” he says, laughing at every single thing the characters do. “Shut up.” He laughs harder against my nape. “Shut up—she could die!” More laughter. “It’s about the hardships and sorrows of the universal human experience, Jonathan.” He nibbles on my ear a little too hard. “Still better than 2001, Elsie.” “Obviously.” Something occurs to me. “By the way, is Millicent okay?” “Yup. Why do you ask?” “It’s Sunday. Shouldn’t she be calling you with a vital emergency? Isn’t the newspaper boy tossing the Times into her rosebushes or something?” “Pretty sure newspaper delivery hasn’t worked like that since the early 2000s. And she did her weekend routine yesterday. Sent a photo of an alligator coming out of a toilet in a Florida gas station. Claimed it was happening in her en suite.” “She knows how to send pictures?” “Impressive, right?” He drums his fingers against my stomach. “I stopped by for lunch. Gave her the novel. Got scolded for not taking you.” “Oh.” I flush. With . . . pleasure? “Can’t remember the last time she liked someone. Not that she’d admit to liking you.” I laugh. Then, after a few seconds, I hazard, “She told me she liked your mom.” There is a change in Jack, but not for the worse. He doesn’t stiffen, just seems less relaxed, a little more on guard when he says, “I think so.” I’m encouraged. “She was a physicist, right?” “Yeah.” “Theoretical?” He lets out a deep, overacted sigh that lifts me up and down. “Unfortunately.” I pinch his forearm in retaliation. Rudely, he doesn’t notice. I’m tempted to bring up the article. Find out how he could do something like that to his mother—to all of us—and demand that he take ownership of its consequences. But I also don’t want to disrupt this . . . fragile, new, radiant thing we have. And after a bit of arm wrestling, the latter pull wins, and what I ask is “Do you have memories of her?” I feel him shake his head. “She died too early.” “Did she”—I roll around till I’m facedown on top of him—“look like you?” “There aren’t many pictures. My family mostly scrubbed the house clean of them.” If he’s bitter about it,


then, with one accord, broke and ran for their huts. It was a grinning human skull which looked up at them from the ground. The dropping of the thing out of the open sky was a miracle well aimed to work upon their superstitious fears. Thus Tarzan of the Apes left them filled with terror at this new manifestation of the presence of some unseen and unearthly evil power which lurked in the forest about their village. Later, when they discovered the overturned cauldron, and that once more their arrows had been pilfered, it commenced to dawn upon them that they had offended some great god by placing their village in this part of the jungle without propitiating him. From then on an offering of food was daily placed below the great tree from whence the arrows had disappeared in an effort to conciliate the mighty one. But the seed of fear was deep sown, and had he but known it, Tarzan of the Apes had laid the foundation for much future misery for himself and his tribe. That night he slept in the forest not far from the village, and early the next morning set out slowly on his homeward march, hunting as he traveled. Only a few berries and an occasional grub worm rewarded his search, and he was half famished when, looking up from a log he had been rooting beneath, he saw Sabor, the lioness, standing in the center of the trail not twenty paces from him. The great yellow eyes were fixed upon him with a wicked and baleful gleam, and the red tongue licked the longing lips as Sabor crouched, worming her stealthy way with belly flattened against the earth. Tarzan did not attempt to escape. He welcomed the opportunity for which, in fact, he had been searching for days past, now that he was armed with something more than a rope of grass. Quickly he unslung his bow and fitted a well-daubed arrow, and as Sabor sprang, the tiny missile leaped to meet her in mid-air. At the same instant Tarzan of the Apes jumped to one side, and as the great cat struck the ground beyond him another death-tipped arrow sunk deep into Sabor's loin. With a mighty roar the beast turned and charged once more, only to be met with a third arrow full in one eye; but this time she was too close to the ape-man for the latter to sidestep the onrushing body. Tarzan of the Apes went down beneath the great body of his enemy, but with gleaming knife drawn and striking home. For a moment they lay there, and then Tarzan realized that the inert mass lying upon him was beyond power ever again to injure man or ape. With difficulty he wriggled from beneath the great weight, and as he stood erect and gazed down upon the trophy of his skill, a mighty wave of exultation swept over him. With swelling breast, he placed a foot upon the body of his powerful enemy, and throwing back his fine