received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. -- If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. -- If it be so, if I have been misled by such error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert that the serenity of your sister's countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. -- That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain, -- but I will venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. -- I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; -- I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. -- My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. -- But there were other causes of repugnance; -- causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before me. -- These causes must be stated, though briefly. -- The situation of your mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly, betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. -- Pardon me. -- It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. -- I will only say farther that, from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me before to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. -- He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning. -- The part which I acted is now to be explained. -- His sisters' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. -- We accordingly went -- and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend, the certain evils of such a choice. --


that point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. TheFe was certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did -- some little distance off, but fresh and clear." "Footprints?" "Footprints. " "A man's or a woman's?" Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered: "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!" Chapter 3 The Problem I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill in the doctor's voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly interested. "You saw this?" "As clearly as I see you." "And you said nothing?" "What was the use?" "How was it that no one else saw it?" "The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them a thought. I don't suppose I should have done so had I not known this legend." "There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?" "No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog." "You say it was large?" "Enormous. " "But it had not approached the body?" "No." "What sort of night was it?' "Damp and raw." "But not actually raining?" "No." "What is the alley like?" "There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across." "Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?" "Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side." "I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?" "Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor." "Is there any other opening?" "None." "So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?" "There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end." "Had Sir Charles reached this?" "No; he lay about fifty yards from it." "Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer -- and this is important -- the marks which you saw were on the path and not on the grass?" "No marks could show on the grass." "Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?" "Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate." "You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the


appears. “No!” I scream. “Leave us alone! What do you want?” The two dudes cling to each other. Tears trail down Brandon’s face. The masked man stalks forward as I grip the metal entrance gate. I don’t move, even though my gut is telling me to run. He walks up and grabs the front of my shirt through the bars. I struggle in his grip, clawing at him, kicking against the bars. He glares down at me with eyes black as coal. I reach into the waistband of my jeans and pull out a butcher knife. I plunge it into the killer’s chest, and blood flows from the wound. He lets go of my shirt and staggers back. As he cries out, he drops his machete, falls flat on his back, and goes completely limp. It’s over. I slowly turn around and look the last two dudes directly in the eye. I smile. It’s never easy at the end. I’m trying so hard to hold in my laughter, I can’t help but chuckle a little as I make the announcement. “I am the final girl,” I say. The floodlights click on, washing the entrance in a bright white light. “And you two have survived a night at Camp Mirror Lake. You win!” The men stare slack-jawed at me as people descend on the scene. The other Camp Mirror Lake staff crowd around us, and the other guests who’d been eliminated earlier in the night reappear. Tasha resurrects herself and scrambles to her feet, the knife rig still attached to her body. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and the sickly sweet corn syrup sticks to my lips. Someone cues the music; the Halloween theme song blasts through the camp. Leslie, the chick who got snatched up by the Mason Lodge, pushes her way through the crowd, marches up to Brandon, and slaps him so hard that spit flies out of his mouth. The entire crowd goes silent. “You left me!” she screams. “You ran away!” Kyle, the masked killer who is actually a classmate of mine at Groton High School, reemerges sans mask holding a T-shirt that says, I Survived the Night at Camp Mirror Lake. It’s the prize for “winning” the game, but when he hands it to Brandon, Leslie snatches it away and throws it on the ground, stomping on it until it’s covered in mud. She breaks up with Brandon on the spot with the entire staff looking on. Kyle leans in close to me, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him. “Charity, we knocked this one out of the park.” I eye the dark-red stain on his chest. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? I saw you wince. I’m so sorry.” He shakes his head and hands me back my retractable butcher knife. “It didn’t collapse into the handle all the way. Thought you stabbed me for real for a minute.” He chuckles. “I’m good. I hope you never actually get mad at me, though.” He rubs his chest


a harsh cry that seemed to come out of the abyss of ages. Jack himself shrank at this cry with a hiss of indrawn breath, and for a minute became less a hunter than a furtive thing, ape-like among the tangle of trees. Then the trail, the frustration, claimed him again and he searched the ground avidly. By the trunk of a vast tree that grew pale flowers on its grey bark he checked, closed his eyes, and once more drew in the warm air; and this time his breath came short, there was even a passing pallor in his face, and then the surge of blood again. He passed like a shadow under the darkness of the tree and crouched, looking down at the trodden ground at his feet. The droppings were warm. They lay piled among turned earth. They were olive green, smooth, and they steamed a little. Jack lifted his head and stared at the inscrutable masses of creeper that lay across the trail. Then he raised his spear and sneaked forward. Beyond the creeper, the trail joined a pig-run that was wide enough and trodden enough to be a path. The ground was hardened by an accustomed tread and as Jack rose to his full height he heard something moving on it. He swung back his right arm and hurled the spear with all his strength. From the pig-run came the quick, hard patter of hoofs, a castanet sound, seductive, maddening--the promise of meat. He rushed out of the undergrowth and snatched up his spear. The pattering of pig's trotters died away in the distance. Jack stood there, streaming with sweat, streaked with brown earth, stained by all the vicissitudes of a day's hunting. Swearing, he turned off the trail and pushed his way through until the forest opened a little and instead of bald trunks supporting a dark roof there were light grey trunks and crowns of feathery palm. Beyond these was the glitter of the sea and he could hear voices. Ralph was standing by a contraption of palm trunks and leaves, a rude shelter that faced the lagoon and seemed very near to falling down. He did not notice when Jack spoke. "Got any water?" Ralph looked up, frowning, from the complication of leaves. He did not notice Jack even when he saw him. "I said have you got any water? I'm thirsty." Ralph withdrew his attention from the shelter and realized Jack with a start. "Oh, hullo. Water? There by the tree. Ought to be some left." Jack took up a coconut shell that brimmed with fresh water from among a group that was arranged in the shade, and drank. The water splashed over his chin and neck and chest. He breathed noisily when he had finished. "Needed that." Simon spoke from inside the shelter. "Up a bit." Ralph turned to the shelter and lifted a branch with a whole tiling of leaves. The leaves came apart and fluttered down. Simon's contrite face appeared in the hole. "Sorry." Ralph surveyed the wreck with distaste.


her lungs, letting instinct take over, drive her as it had before. She’d been born to this, to the magic and the dark, and every part of her but her mind was eager. One moment everything was bright and lurid, and the next she saw only the barest impression of her surroundings, the world cloaked in grayscale as her lungs began to burn, her body tipped toward death. The bloodcoats and Jean-Paul and the living bodies of the crowd were all surrounded in auras of white light. The outline around Horse’s corpse leaked slowly from white to black, life leaving as death took over. Threads of Mortem waved in the air like spider legs, the black corona of an inverted sun. Lore didn’t look down at herself as she slowly let her breath out, keeping her grip on Mortem strong, because she was in it now and the current of instinct had pulled her under. She knew what she looked like—her fingers cold and corpse-pale, her eyes shifting from hazel to opaque white. On her palm, the moon-shaped scar blazed like a beacon, a black glow that was the absence of light and yet so bright it hurt to look at. Over her heart, a knot of darkness swirled, a black star of emptiness hidden beneath her shirt. She knew what she looked like, and it was death walking. Her hands curled, pulling the dark matter that was the power of death inward, as if her Mortem-touched heart were a magnet. The threads waving over Horse’s body shuddered, then flowed toward her. They braided in the air and attached to her fingers, magic easily breaching the barrier of her skin. Horse’s death danced down her veins, swirled through her like tainted blood. Lore channeled the Mortem quickly through her system, pushing it through every vein like a half-frozen winter stream, fighting against her flagging heartbeat, her gone-shallow breath. Death magic circled her every organ, pausing them all, like frost on a bud at the edge of spring. This was the part that was supposed to make you live longer, freezing your insides so they moved slower in time, so the years touched you more gently. Those who took poison couldn’t channel the death it brought to them back out, couldn’t make it do anything but curdle them into twisted immortality as it awakened the dormant Mortem in their bodies. To channel Mortem, you had to embrace death like a lover and hope it let you go, and hardly anyone ever got that far, not on purpose. At least, that’s what Lore assumed. She’d been born with this. Born with death beside her like a shadow. Slowly, slowly, Lore pushed the Mortem she’d channeled through herself back to her hands, like gathering fistfuls of black thread. Then she thrust all the death she’d taken back out. Mortem arced from her fingers, death eager for a new home, and Lore had just enough presence of mind to direct it to a flower bed in the center of the road, already browned and limp from


know a lot about this place.” “I like history. But there isn’t any money in it.” “Not like the law?” Anselm lifted a shoulder. “Lethe makes a lot of promises, so does Yale, but none of them come true in New Haven. This is a place that will never repay your loyalty.” Maybe not much like Darlington after all. “And Lethe?” “Lethe was an extracurricular. It’s silly to think of it as anything else. Dangerous even.” “You’re warning me.” Just as Michelle Alameddine had. “I’m just talking. But I don’t think you came here to listen to me pontificate about Cromwell and the perils of growing old in Connecticut.” So this was it. “You said you read my file. My mom … my mom isn’t doing great.” “She’s ill?” Was chasing after any whiff of a miracle diagnosable? Was there a name for someone doomed to seek invisible patterns in gemstones and horoscopes? Who thought life’s mysteries might be revealed by eliminating dairy from your diet? Or gluten or trans fats? Could Los Angeles be called an illness? “She’s fine,” Alex said. “She’s just not a realist and she’s not good with money.” That was putting it mildly. “Does she embarrass you?” The question startled her, and Alex wasn’t ready for the rush of emotion that came with it. She didn’t want to feel small and naked, a child without protection, a girl alone. The semester had only just begun and she was already exhausted, worn down to nothing, the same girl who had arrived at Yale over a year ago, swinging at anyone and anything that might try to hurt her. She wanted a mother to keep her safe and give her good advice. She wanted a father who was something more than a ghost story her mother refused to tell. She wanted Darlington, who was here but who wasn’t, whom she needed to navigate all this madness. It all crashed in on her at once, and she felt the unwelcome ache of tears at the back of her throat. Alex took a sip of water, got herself under control. “I need to find a way to help her.” “I can get you a paid summer intern—” “No. Now. I need money.” That came out harsher than she’d meant it to, the real Alex jutting her chin out, tired of small talk and diplomacy. Anselm folded his hands as if bracing himself. “How much?” “Twenty thousand dollars.” Enough to get Mira out of her lease and settled somewhere new, enough to keep her going until she landed a new job. All of that was assuming Alex could convince her mother to leave Los Angeles. But Alex thought she could. She’d use compulsion if she had to, if it would save her mother’s life and hers. “That’s quite a loan.” “A gift,” she corrected. “I can’t pay something like that back.” “Alex, what you’re asking—” But it was time to be very clear. “You read my file. You know what I can do. I can see the dead. I can even speak


`Once when I was givin' th' children a bit of a preach after they'd been fightin' I ses to 'em all, "When I was at school my jography told as th' world was shaped like a orange an' I found out before I was ten that th' whole orange doesn't belong to nobody. No one owns more than his bit of a quarter an' there's times it seems like there's not enow quarters to go round. But don't you--none o' you--think as you own th' whole orange or you'll find out you're mistaken, an' you won't find it out without hard knocks." `What children learns from children,' she says, 'is that there's no sense in grabbin' at th' whole orange--peel an' all. If you do you'll likely not get even th' pips, an' them's too bitter to eat.'" "She's a shrewd woman," said Dr. Craven, putting on his coat. "Well, she's got a way of saying things," ended Mrs. Medlock, much pleased. "Sometimes I've said to her, 'Eh! Susan, if you was a different woman an' didn't talk such broad Yorkshire I've seen the times when I should have said you was clever.'" That night Colin slept without once awakening and when he opened his eyes in the morning he lay still and smiled without knowing it--smiled because he felt so curiously comfortable. It was actually nice to be awake, and he turned over and stretched his limbs luxuriously. He felt as if tight strings which had held him had loosened themselves and let him go. He did not know that Dr. Craven would have said that his nerves had relaxed and rested themselves. Instead of lying and staring at the wall and wishing he had not awakened, his mind was full of the plans he and Mary had made yesterday, of pictures of the garden and of Dickon and his wild creatures. It was so nice to have things to think about. And he had not been awake more than ten minutes when he heard feet running along the corridor and Mary was at the door. The next minute she was in the room and had run across to his bed, bringing with her a waft of fresh air full of the scent of the morning. "You've been out! You've been out! There's that nice smell of leaves!" he cried. She had been running and her hair was loose and blown and she was bright with the air and pink-cheeked, though he could not see it. "It's so beautiful!" she said, a little breathless with her speed. "You never saw anything so beautiful! It has come! I thought it had come that other morning, but it was only coming. It is here now! It has come, the Spring! Dickon says so!" "Has it?" cried Colin, and though he really knew nothing about it he felt his heart beat. He actually sat up in bed. "Open the window!" he added, laughing half with joyful excitement and half at his own fancy. "Perhaps we may hear golden trumpets!" And though he laughed, Mary


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

when Ash’s hand absently paws at my collar in reaction to something on the screen. “What the— Ash.” “Get it… Get it!” he shouts. His expression crashes. “Noooo.” He slumps back into his chair. “I just lost five bucks.” He reaches into his pocket for his phone. “Five whole American dollars?” I ask, grinning. “You’d better watch that gambling habit.” “I don’t know how she does it, but Ella is a shark and never loses.” “You lost to your wife?” He looks up from where he’s typing her a message. “I’m considering taking her to Vegas.” “Definitely do it before the baby is born—pregnant ladies love smoky casinos.” He ignores this and slides his phone onto the table. “Let’s get back to your job crisis so I can go home. I know this will hurt your do-gooder soul, but I think you need to bite the bullet and do the reality show Blaine wants. Spend the rest of the year making candy, or whatever he called it, and if it’s successful, you’ll have leverage to make what you want after that.” I begin to protest, and he holds up a hand. “I know you hate this. I know your work matters to you. Thanks to you I haven’t thrown away a gum wrapper or used a plastic water bottle in two years. I’m going to be using cloth diapers, man.” “I must be a lot of fun at parties.” Ash steeples his fingers under his chin. “I say this because I know how much you want to stick to your principles here. You want to make stuff that matters. But I also know you can’t lose this job. You only missed a few hours with Stevie tonight. Imagine what you’d miss if you had to move back to LA.” I turn my gaze down to my beer. The thought alone makes my stomach twist. “Yeah.” “So do it and move on.” “I’m not sure it’s that easy.” “Come on. We’re smart guys. Bounce some sexy show ideas off me.” I press my fingers to my temples, trying to will a million-dollar idea into existence. “That’s the problem, I don’t have any. I’m certain the world doesn’t need another one of these things.” “Well, while the world may not need another, it certainly wants it: Ella watches every single one. What you need is a new angle.” He turns to glance around the bar, and when he does, I see the dry cleaning tag still attached to his collar. Has it been like this all day? With a sigh, I reach over and pluck it off. “Huh,” he says, examining it before placing it on the table and looking back to the TV. I follow his attention to where the game has finished and the nightly news is on. It’s too loud in the bar to hear the voiceover, but the captions inform me that GeneticAlly, the biggest dating app in the world right now, has been bought by Roche Pharmaceuticals. “Holy shit,” Ash murmurs, then narrows his eyes to read something on


as possible, purchasing semi-automatic rifles and ammunition to carry out the attack. The suspect had been ready to move forward. What he didn’t know was that he was under round-the-clock FBI surveillance. The Washington Field Office (WFO) where McCabe was chief would never have let him get close to the Capitol. “He didn’t stand a chance,” the seasoned FBI veteran explained. The suspect was arrested, convicted, and later sentenced to several decades in prison. McCabe was pulling near all-nighters to help disrupt attacks like this. But it was the plots that weren’t on his radar that kept him awake. He briefed us on a sweltering day in June 2015 at the WFO headquarters, near D.C.’s Chinatown neighborhood. I was working on Capitol Hill at the time, leading a bipartisan counterterrorism task force with a dozen members of Congress. We were reassured that McCabe was on the job. He was one of the most trusted officials in the Bureau and had handled sensitive cases—from massive organized crime to Chinese espionage on U.S. soil—under presidents of both parties. When the ISIS terror threat surged, FBI leaders put him in charge at WFO, where the best of the best investigate the worst of the worst. The members of Congress who were there with me that day thanked McCabe. His team’s work to protect the U.S. Capitol could have saved their lives, they said. He humbly deflected the praise. It was the only briefing I’ve ever been in where congressional representatives clapped at the end. He didn’t know it at the time, but some of these legislators would eventually turn against McCabe. After he left WFO, he became FBI deputy director, then acting director when Jim Comey was dismissed. (“You could have knocked me down with a finger,” he told me of his shock when he learned Comey was fired.) He had never imagined political interference at the Bureau—an institution regarded for its investigative autonomy—and certainly not from a president. Then he found himself on Trump’s enemies list. McCabe was instrumental in convincing DOJ leaders to appoint an independent special counsel to lead the Russia investigation so that the White House couldn’t interfere with efforts to get to the bottom of whether Moscow had somehow infiltrated Trump’s inner circle. The president was incensed. He accused Andy McCabe of being a Democratic mole inside DOJ and attacked the FBI leader on Twitter with regularity. Trump even singled out McCabe’s wife, drawing spurious connections between her personal political activities and her husband’s job. “We were under incredible pressure from the most powerful man in the country,” he reflected about his time in Trump’s DOJ. “He installed people who made it clear to us they were there to do what he wanted.” We reconnected before the 2020 election. McCabe was out of government and feared that if Trump won a second term, the White House would try to use DOJ, the FBI, and the justice system to prosecute the president’s rivals. “Could they succeed?” I asked. “Everyone at the Bureau—from deputy director down to the front desk—is there to


time, rising so early?” Alice had asked Mrs. King. Mrs. King had considered this, deciding whether it was a relevant question or not. “She reads,” she’d said, at last, voice stiff. “Oh? What does she read?” Alice had detected a tiny note of doubt in her sister’s voice. “Improving texts.” “What sort of topics?” Mrs. King had frowned. “War. Philosophy. The art of diplomacy. Chronicles of great kings.” Alice had laughed. “Not really?” Mrs. King had been quite serious. “What else?” Miss de Vries opened the door to the dressing room. It was a miniature copy of the bedroom, mirrored and gilded and festooned in silk. But it was much darker, and without windows. It contained only wardrobes and painted screens. Alice was here all the time, carrying bolts of fabric back and forth from the closets. “Tell me,” said Miss de Vries, and her voice lightened, as if she could talk frankly now that they were alone. She marched to the wardrobe, threw open the doors, rummaged quickly for something—and drew out a stack of papers. “Are these yours?” Alice flushed. Madam was holding the sketches, the ones Alice had made. She raised an eyebrow when Alice didn’t reply. “Well?” Alice reached for them. “Beg pardon, Madam,” she said. “I shouldn’t have left those there.” Miss de Vries smiled, a cold line. She lifted the sketches into the air, out of reach. “They’re good,” she said shortly, spreading them out on the dressing-room table, expression unreadable. “You’re a remarkable draftsman,” she said. “Or draftswoman, I suppose.” Alice shook her head. “I wouldn’t say that, Madam.” Miss de Vries’s eyes narrowed. “Nonsense. I can’t abide false modesty.” She pressed a finger to one of the pages. “This one. What would it take to make it?” Alice felt a prickle of unease. “Make it?” “Yes.” Miss de Vries tapped it with her nail. Alice went to the table, examined her own design. A gown with a waist strapped and laced, a fanciful and cloud-like train, shoulders that were mere skeins of thread, slipping off the skin. Something that would ripple when it moved. Something entirely unsuitable for a lady in mourning. Alice reached for the paper, to hide it. “I really shouldn’t have, Madam.” Miss de Vries placed her fist on the table, holding the page in place. “Shouldn’t have what? Imagined something nice for me to wear?” Alice shook her head. “They’re just scribbles, Madam. Silly drawings.” “My dress is ghastly. It won’t do at all—I see that now.” Miss de Vries stepped back. Up close, at this angle, it was perfectly possible for Alice to inspect Madam’s skin, the tiny freckles and wisps of hair on the back of her neck. It made her gentler, more human. “I want something like this. Could you do it?” “Me?” said Alice, in disbelief. “They can help you down at Bond Street, I’m sure,” said Miss de Vries. “I suppose it’s simply a matter of stitching it all together.” She nodded at the sketch. “You’ve got your pattern, after all.” Alice’s mind started ticking,


to have together!" XX. Of course we must dine with Mrs. Carfry, dearest," Archer said; and his wife looked at him with an anxious frown across the monumental Britannia ware of their lodging house breakfast-table. In all the rainy desert of autumnal London there were only two people whom the Newland Archers knew; and these two they had sedulously avoided, in conformity with the old New York tradition that it was not "dignified" to force one's self on the notice of one's acquaintances in foreign countries. Mrs. Archer and Janey, in the course of their visits to Europe, had so unflinchingly lived up to this principle, and met the friendly advances of their fellow-travellers with an air of such impenetrable reserve, that they had almost achieved the record of never having exchanged a word with a "foreigner" other than those employed in hotels and railway-stations. Their own compatriots-- save those previously known or properly accredited-- they treated with an even more pronounced disdain; so that, unless they ran across a Chivers, a Dagonet or a Mingott, their months abroad were spent in an unbroken tete-a-tete. But the utmost precautions are sometimes unavailing; and one night at Botzen one of the two English ladies in the room across the passage (whose names, dress and social situation were already intimately known to Janey) had knocked on the door and asked if Mrs. Archer had a bottle of liniment. The other lady--the intruder's sister, Mrs. Carfry--had been seized with a sudden attack of bronchitis; and Mrs. Archer, who never travelled without a complete family pharmacy, was fortunately able to produce the required remedy. Mrs. Carfry was very ill, and as she and her sister Miss Harle were travelling alone they were profoundly grateful to the Archer ladies, who supplied them with ingenious comforts and whose efficient maid helped to nurse the invalid back to health. When the Archers left Botzen they had no idea of ever seeing Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle again. Nothing, to Mrs. Archer's mind, would have been more "undignified" than to force one's self on the notice of a "foreigner" to whom one had happened to render an accidental service. But Mrs. Carfry and her sister, to whom this point of view was unknown, and who would have found it utterly incomprehensible, felt themselves linked by an eternal gratitude to the "delightful Americans" who had been so kind at Botzen. With touching fidelity they seized every chance of meeting Mrs. Archer and Janey in the course of their continental travels, and displayed a supernatural acuteness in finding out when they were to pass through London on their way to or from the States. The intimacy became indissoluble, and Mrs. Archer and Janey, whenever they alighted at Brown's Hotel, found themselves awaited by two affectionate friends who, like themselves, cultivated ferns in Wardian cases, made macrame lace, read the memoirs of the Baroness Bunsen and had views about the occupants of the leading London pulpits. As Mrs. Archer said, it made "another thing of London" to know Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle;


things they do. I’m interested in the story of people, that’s why I became a director. How a person stands, how a person looks, how they touch each other. Let me tell you my observation. You’re in love.’ ‘I’m in love?’ ‘You are in love. Yes, you are, my friend, you’re in love. With that man, that new species, that Cold Person, that creation you call Eitan. I’ll go further. The soldier you were in love with? I’ll bet his name was Eitan.’ Yotam sat back in his chair, impressed with her brilliance. ‘That was his name, yes. Eitan.’ ‘Why did you call this new species Eitan?’ ‘Perhaps it is a kind of love. It’s admiration. They’re extraordinary. They’re our future.’ ‘I’m not talking about admiration or appreciation for the species. You are in love with the creature you’ve called Eitan. Not the whole colony. It’s not generalized. It’s individual. You’re in love with him. Why can’t you say it?’ ‘What if I was? In love with him?’ ‘There’s beauty in his body, for sure, that torso like armour. That face is like a work of art. The way he moves. The way he thinks. When he spoke to me in French, I felt something, a connection – it was intimate, like he wanted to know me, to understand me as deeply as I’ve been understood by anyone. In a few minutes, I felt close to him.’ ‘Does it matter what my feelings are?’ ‘You say that because you’ve spent your whole life believing your feelings don’t matter. But they do. Right now, you’re the bridge between that species and us. I’m looking at you, thinking, What kind of bridge is this man?’ ‘And what did you decide?’ ‘Honestly?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘That you are an unreliable one.’ ‘Unreliable in what way?’ ‘In the way that all people who are in love are unreliable. What do you imagine will happen when those creatures are released?’ ‘They’ll live alongside us.’ ‘No, my friend. Eitan was acting. When we watched the movie. I wasn’t sure at first. Because it has no facial expressions. But after a while I became sure. The way it moves its arms and hands. The way it holds its body. It’s seducing you so that you will release it. It is pretending. Playing a part, trying to convince us that it’s safe.’ ‘There’s no way you can know that.’ ‘Some part of you already knows this to be the truth. That you’re in love and no longer thinking clearly. That is why you broke the rules and brought me to see the creature. You wanted me to intervene, to save you from yourself. You’re going to be angry with me. It will feel like a betrayal, and I’m very sorry for that.’ ‘What have you done?’ The door to the bar opened and security officials entered. Their presence was such a rare occurrence that the entire bar fell silent as they surrounded Yotam’s table. It took a moment for him to comprehend that he was being arrested. Zariffa squeezed his hand.


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you. Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant, then, that you seek to count him as a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he does support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if I find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser. Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: “I find these chambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require your services. I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another place.” He made no reply, and nothing more was said. On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers, and having but little furniture, every thing was removed in a few hours. Throughout, the scrivener remained standing behind the screen, which I directed to be removed the last thing. It was withdrawn; and being folded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of a naked room. I stood in the entry watching him a moment, while something from within me upbraided me. I re-entered, with my hand in my pocket—and—and my heart in my mouth. “Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going—good-bye, and God some way bless you; and take that,” slipping something in his hand. But it dropped upon the floor, and then,—strange to say—I tore myself from him whom I had so longed to be rid of. Established in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door locked, and started at every footfall in the passages. When I returned to my rooms after any little absence, I would pause at the threshold for an instant, and attentively listen, ere applying my key. But these fears were needless. Bartleby never came nigh me. I thought all was going well, when a perturbed looking stranger visited me, inquiring whether I was the person who had recently occupied rooms at No.—Wall-street. Full of forebodings, I replied that I was. “Then sir,” said the


I took her ashtray and emptied it into the fireplace. ‘I’ll tell you a little story,’ she began, crossing her feet on a cushioned footstool in front of her. ‘When I was the grand dame of Ha'penny Lane in the eighties … ah, the parties we used to have. That was with my third husband, Vladimir. He was a Russian mathematician, which sounds boring, but, my girl, he was anything but! He served the best vodka and caviar. People came from every walk of life to our parties.’ I pulled a J-cloth from my pocket and began wiping some invisible dust from the mantlepiece. I’d hardly had any interest in listening to her stories when I first arrived, but now I was curious. It was possible that both of us were softening a little at the edges. We had nothing in common, but we were starting to realise that maybe we weren’t such bad company. ‘Anyway, there was one particular evening, midsummer, or was it midwinter? Well, either way … no, it was winter. I remember there was frost on the pavement. One of the guests arrived late and she was very shaken indeed. As she warmed her posterior by the fire, she told us of how she had got out of the taxi and walked into what she thought was our house. But when she got inside, she realised that it was a bookshop – a small, old-fashioned little place, full of charming old books and knick-knacks. Anyway, she came back out on to the street, turned around and poof! The shop was gone and there was my front door again. Of course, we all thought she was on something – so many people were in those days. But isn’t that funny how it happened again?’ I felt a chill run through me. I didn’t like ghost stories and this was starting to sound like one. ‘Well, not exactly. He just said he was looking for one.’ What had he said? This house must have been attached to it or something. I shook my head vigorously and got up to prepare her dinner. When Henry had asked for help, it reminded me of the person I used to be – open, giving. I should probably tell him this story; maybe it would help him in his search, or at least give him a clue. But helping people only seemed to lead to trouble and regret these days. So I decided I would keep it to myself and keep my blinds closed. It’s funny how people complain about boredom. God, how I ached for a boring day when I was living with Shane and his unpredictable moods. A day where the worst thing you could expect was that nothing much would happen. But now that I had it, I wasn’t sure what to do with it. My routine was taking up less and less time as I grew more accustomed to it and I found myself with some free time in the afternoons. Madame Bowden, not being one for tact, dropped as


No Arceneaux has ever actually channeled Spiritum. It’s all around us, just like Mortem is, but it’s not something that can be grasped.” “Neither was Mortem, until Nyxara died,” Lore said. Malcolm pointed at her. “Precisely.” Clearly, he didn’t get many opportunities to debate theories of magic; he seemed nearly giddy at the prospect, his dour manner from earlier forgotten as he finished his plant tending and retrieved his gloves. “So if you subscribe to the idea that Apollius isn’t dead, just waiting in the Shining Realm, it makes sense why no one can use Spiritum. There isn’t a body for it to leak from.” “If you subscribe to the idea?” Gabe looked up incredulously from the book he’d been reading through the glass. “You did say your research would be heretical.” Malcolm shrugged, pulling his gloves back on. “I’m just living up to your example.” He gestured with one hand, then the other, indicating one thing following another. “Whoever has the power has to die—or, for the sake of pious sensibilities, we’ll just say experience a change of state—in order for someone else to use it.” Even with the concession, Gabe didn’t seem terribly pleased by the direction the conversation had taken. With a furrow of his brow so deep it shifted his eye patch, he looked back at his book. “Now,” Malcolm said, still addressing Lore, “theoretically, you could pull Spiritum from a living thing, much like taking Mortem from a rock or deadwood. But living things cling fiercely to life; they don’t give it up easily.” Lore wandered over to one of the shelves of books Malcolm actually let her touch, bound copies of lecture notes from the university in Grantere, a smaller city farther north. “I would imagine taking Spiritum from a living thing would leave it dead.” “That does logically follow, yes,” Gabe said drily. She ignored him. “And you’d have to pull from something large, like a person or a big animal or a shit-ton of flowers to get enough Spiritum to do anything.” She hadn’t the foggiest what someone might attempt to do with Spiritum, but Mortem wasn’t exactly the most useful thing, either. “If we follow the theory that it works similarly to Mortem, yes.” Malcolm leaned back against the table, crossed his arms. “But note: No human has ever actually channeled Spiritum, so we don’t really know if it works the same way. This is all conjecture.” “Then why is it mentioned in the first place?” Lore moved on from the lecture notes and instead grabbed one of the non-rare copies of the Book of Holy Law. She flipped to the notation, memorized now. “The Book of Holy Law, Tract Two Hundred Fourteen. ‘To my chosen, I bequeath my power— Spiritum, the magic of life.’” Malcolm grinned. Lore eyed him over the edge of the book’s cover. “You have some fiddly little scholarly fact about this passage, don’t you?” “Not fiddly, thank you very much, just a translation dispute.” His grin widened. “Tell me; is chosen singular or plural?” Her mouth opened to


they sped by some outlying cottages that lay near the village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give wings to their feet. "If we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!" whispered Tom, in short catches between breaths. "I can't stand it much longer." Huckleberry's hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it. They gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered: "Huckleberry, what do you reckon'll come of this?" "If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon hanging'll come of it." "Do you though?" "Why, I know it, Tom." Tom thought a while, then he said: "Who'll tell? We?" "What are you talking about? S'pose something happened and Injun Joe didn't hang? Why, he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we're a laying here." "That's just what I was thinking to myself, Huck." "If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he's fool enough. He's generally drunk enough." Tom said nothing -- went on thinking. Presently he whispered: "Huck, Muff Potter don't know it. How can he tell?" "What's the reason he don't know it?" "Because he'd just got that whack when Injun Joe done it. D'you reckon he could see anything? D'you reckon he knowed anything?" "By hokey, that's so, Tom!" "And besides, look-a-here -- maybe that whack done for him!" "No, 'taint likely, Tom. He had liquor in him; I could see that; and besides, he always has. Well, when pap's full, you might take and belt him over the head with a church and you couldn't phase him. He says so, his own self. So it's the same with --------------------------------------------------------- -111- Muff Potter, of course. But if a man was dead sober, I reckon maybe that whack might fetch him; I dono." After another reflective silence, Tom said: "Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?" "Tom, we got to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn't make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him. Now, look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one another -- that's what we got to do -- swear to keep mum." "I'm agreed. It's the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear that we -- " "Oh no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little rubbishy common things -- specially with gals, cuz they go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff -- but there orter be writing 'bout a big thing like this. And blood." Tom's whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it. He picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in


for the lesson he had taught me." "Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy," said Jo, after a minute's silence. Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this little audience for many years, and knew how to please them. "Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented." (Here the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good and made many excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, `If only we had this,' or `If we could only do that,' quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said, `When you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'" (Here Jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.) "Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses, another that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady who couldn't enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman's advice." "Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!" cried Meg. "I like that kind of sermon. It's the sort Father used to tell us," said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo's cushion. "I don't complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more careful than ever now, for I've had warning from Susies's downfall," said Amy morally. "We needed that lesson, and we won't forget it. If we do so, you just say to us, as old Chloe did in UNCLE TOM, `Tink ob yer marcies, chillen! `Tink ob yer marcies!'" added Jo, who could not, for the life of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though she took it to heart as much as any of them. -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.5 Being Neighborly


goo into my skin. I kept scrolling: Let’s not forget that Jerome Wager’s work is terrible + derivative. His Obama mural was racist AF. He’s just one of the many scum men who run the planet. What @wilde_jazz has done is ferocious and brave. If you’ve been harmed by Jerome Wager, DM me. I will protect your anonymity. Can someone explain to me how Jerome Wager still has a platform? He’s still on Twitter, and @CGRgallery has made NO statement denouncing his actions. This doesn’t seem like abuse to me. It seems like a shitty relationship. Are we canceling people now for being bad at dating? How on earth was his Obama mural racist? It’s sad this has to be explained to you. Lording power over someone, even “soft power,” is structural imbalance. Abuse does not have to equal rape. Still no statement from @msbodiekane. Hello, @starletpod? Even if #JeromeWager faces repercussions, the damage is done. How many gallery shows should have gone to other people? How much money has he made wielding his power and keeping others down? if you need to ask how that mural was racist you’re the problem. We have ONE law in this country about the age of consent, and it’s the age of 18. Someone 18 can screw someone 100, and I’m sorry but it’s PERFECTLY LEGAL. Actually some places it’s younger but this is not about the age of consent, you absolute dingbat. I was angry—I was shaking—and I was certain now that my anger had less to do with loyalty to Jerome or concern over his reputation than with the stunning contrast between this easy online outrage and the outrage any one of us should have felt for years over people like you, people like Dorian. It was like seeing someone hanged for stealing gum when down the street someone else was robbing a bank. I shouldn’t have done anything. Sober, I wouldn’t have done anything. But I was not sober. I typed out a thread of messages with my pruning thumbs, posting each after a quick scan for drunken typos: Has Jasmine Wilde even asked for repercussions? This is a work of art, not, as far as I know, a call to action. 1/ I’m no longer with Jerome Wager, but as a survivor of ACTUAL sexual assault, this all sits wrong with me. Age is not the only form of power. You could argue that working for the gallery, Jasmine had as much career power over him as he had over her. 2/ Are we talking here about the feminism of empowerment, or the feminism of victimhood? Either a 21-year-old woman is an adult who can make her own decisions or a helpless waif who needs our protection against big scary men. Which is it? It can’t be both. 3/ Are we saying a 21-year-old woman lacks sexual agency? Lacks the ability to make decisions about her own body? Whose permission does she need to date someone older? Her father’s? This is infantilizing. 4/ What age range WOULD be acceptable to all


The decision was taken out of my hands when I saw her pulling the curtains at the front window. She looked out, disbelieving, and bent down to get a better look. Then her hand went to her mouth. I tried to wave with my good hand. She disappeared back into the shadows and reappeared at the front door. ‘What in God’s name has happened to you?’ ‘Um, I believe I had a disagreement of sorts.’ She gave me a look of pity, which, under these circumstances, I was willing to accept. She brought me inside and down the steps to the kitchen at the back of the house. She pulled out a chair for me at the kitchen table and then searched in a cupboard for some first-aid paraphernalia. ‘How did you end up here?’ ‘Honestly, I have no idea. I may have been slightly inebriated.’ She arrived back at the table with a bowl of warm water, cotton wool, a tub of some odd-smelling cream and plasters. Neither of us spoke while she went about her work. I let my eyes close and permitted myself, for these moments at least, to imagine that everything was okay. That she did still have feelings for me. That somehow, it would work out. ‘Will I live?’ I asked sheepishly as she began to clear the things away. It was torment to watch her lithe figure in simple leggings and a T-shirt, imagining how good it had felt when she was in my arms on the beach. I ached to hold her again. She looked back at me from the sink with a welcome grin. ‘I think so.’ ‘Thank you, for all of this,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve had … practice.’ I didn’t know what to say about her husband’s death. About any of it. So I did what we Field men did best. I changed the subject. ‘You know, before you came, I used to stand out there for hours,’ I said, gesturing up to the bare patch of land just visible from one of the kitchen windows. ‘I used to think that maybe I’d find some kind of clue, an imprint of the building. Like when there’s a drought in the summer and farmers find crop circles on the land. I dunno. I was just so sure.’ ‘I wonder if people are like that?’ she said, sitting back down at the table. I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘Like, if you can still see the outline of who they were, you know, before?’ ‘Wow. I don’t know. I hope so.’ I took her hand in mine and for a moment she let me hold it, before pulling it away. ‘I’m sorry, Henry, but I just can’t.’ ‘But if only you’d got my note, or if that idiot at the B&B had told you I was coming back—’ ‘It doesn’t matter now. Madame Bowden explained about the note, but it’s not even about that. I just, I can’t risk this.’ She pointed to the space between us. Whatever it was. ‘I have to


apprehends the drumming cataracts, a sound that fills her with dread, as if a grievous and unstoppable fate is rumbling toward them on tracks from which it can’t be derailed. Aleem says, “Do them priests teach you it’s righteous to pop your own father, a good way you get to Heaven, see Jesus?” John is fixated on the gun that he holds. “Only future matters, boy, is here in this one world. You seen your future, Johnny?” Aleem waits, and John doesn’t respond, and Aleem says, “What kind of altar boy don’t got the courtesy to answer his own daddy? Tell me now—you seen your future?” “No.” “Well, I seen it clear. You drink Jesus poison at school, get womanized here in this shithole house, then the rest of your life, you be jammed and jacked up by every guy with balls, till you can’t take it no more, till you go on the pipe, maybe one you’re freebasin’ coke with, maybe one comes at the business end of a fuckin’ twelve-gauge, suckin’ buckshot to get outta your nowhere life. You hear me?” “Yes.” “You believe me?” After a hesitation, John says, “I don’t know.” “You don’t know.” “I don’t.” “You better think about it. Think real hard. Better get down for yours like I got down for mine. I’m holdin’ down this whole county, boy, holdin’ it down tight. I got the power to smooth you into the set, get you up on it, make you a Vig. By the time you’re sixteen, you be rollin’ high, makin’ bank big-time.” John raises his head and looks at his mother. He’s embarrassed for himself, for her. “Look at me, boy.” John looks at him. “Don’t be no pussy. Don’t be no trick. Tell me you won’t.” “All right.” “Tell me. Say it. Come on, boy, let me hear it.” “I won’t be a pussy.” “Say it all.” “I won’t be a trick.” “You know what a trick is?” “I guess so.” “A trick is a phony and a sissy.” John chews on his lower lip. “No son of mine gonna sit down to piss or get on his knees for anyone.” “Enough,” Nina says. The face Aleem turns on her isn’t his, but instead the face of something that lies curled eternally at the bottom of the pit of the world, waiting for its hour to devour. Such fury, such malevolence, such thirst for power, such an appetite for violence have never before so keenly whetted his stare and clarified in his features. “You want to keep your teeth, then shut your damn mouth.” He means it. He will badly hurt her. John issues a thin sound of pure torment. Although the pistol is still pointed at the floor, it swings back and forth like the pendulum in a grandfather clock, as if counting seconds toward a moment never to be forgotten or redeemed. To the boy, Aleem says, “You my own blood. I can’t but love my own blood. You know how much I love you?” John continues to make that


his breath, but thankfully she didn’t hear him. She didn’t notice him at all, in fact, so focused was she on William. Simon’s eyes jumped around the room on instinct, and he relaxed somewhat when he found a maid dozing lightly in the corner. Though he wasn’t sure he approved of the familiarity between his brother and his intended, at least she had considered propriety and was not alone in the room with him. But at this early hour? Simon’s stomach twisted in his gut. So it was not to be a marriage of convenience, then, if she was so enamored of the man. There was one reason for the marriage disproved. Clearly it was a love match, and for some reason that made Simon’s uneasiness worse. Nothing about this made sense, and he hardly had control over his life to begin with. He did not need William making things even more difficult. At the moment, though, it didn’t matter why his brother and Miss Staley had gotten engaged. What mattered was Simon leaving before he was discovered; this was far from the sort of scene he should be witnessing. He took only one step back toward the door, however, when Miss Staley jumped and looked over at him. “Oh dear,” she whispered, as if she were the one in the wrong. “I thought no one else would be awake.” “You can be at your betrothed’s side if you choose,” Simon replied, which sounded ridiculous. Surely there was some sort of rule about being in a man’s room, particularly with a sleeping chaperone. To be honest, he had no idea, and though he was glad Miss Staley wasn’t alone, he hated that Society cared so much about following rules. He hated more that this was the sort of thing he should know and didn’t. “Forgive me,” he said. “I hoped to find William in better health this morning. How is he?” Even more ridiculous. She was no doctor, unless she had many talents hidden underneath that timid smile of hers. Glancing at William, Miss Staley gently put his hand back at his side and rubbed sleep from her eyes. “He hasn’t woken, but he does not seem to be in as much pain as yesterday,” she said softly. “Perhaps his fever is ebbing.” Simon hoped so, because he would not rest easy until he learned the full truth of this relationship in front of him. “That’s good to hear,” he said, and suddenly he had no idea how to stand. Where did he put his hands? He clasped them behind his back and felt absolutely ridiculous, like a schoolboy awaiting punishment. Miss Staley rose slowly to her feet, taking a moment to smooth the hair off William’s forehead, though she didn’t seem to realize she was doing it—as if she had done it many times before. How long had they been engaged, anyway? Mother hadn’t known, which was as suspect as the engagement itself. Had none of them asked Miss Staley, with William clearly unable to offer any clarity? “I must beg


“The point is—just get it done.” To be honest, I wasn’t going to fight him. My dad might be a complicated, difficult, overly formal, pathologically reserved, not-particularly-fond-of-me person … but he wasn’t stupid. He was, as Lucinda could verify, a “very prominent cardiothoracic surgeon.” He knew his shit. He understood—if nothing else—the workings of the human body. The point is: When Dr. Richard Montgomery, MD, FACS, FAHA, and chief of cardiothoracic surgery for UTMB, drags you down to a coffee shop in your mother’s bathrobe and tells you to go have brain surgery, you don’t argue. You just go have brain surgery. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do the surgery. After you tell me why Mom didn’t have hers.” “And I’ll tell you about Mom,” my dad shot back, “after you do the surgery.” Four THE BEST THING—and possibly the only good thing—about the day of the surgery was meeting my new Trinidadian neuropsychologist, Dr. Nicole Thomas-Ramparsad. When she first arrived, a nurse was beginning her third attempt at starting my IV. “The problem,” the nurse was saying, “is that you’re so tense.” She tapped my arm some more with the pads of her fingers as if to say, See? Nothing. “You’ve shrunk your blood vessels.” I peered at my arm like I might be able to help her find one. “You need to relax,” she told me. “I agree,” I said, trying to slow my breathing down from hummingbird rate. She added a second tourniquet. “When we get scared, our bodies pull all our blood into our core to protect the vital organs.” Relax, I commanded myself. Relax. “Look at these veins,” she called to another nurse, tapping around some more. Nurse Two came over for a peek, giving a little headshake at the sight. “They’re like quilting threads.” That did not sound like a compliment. “She can’t get this over with until you relax,” Nurse Two said to me, a little scoldy. “But I can’t relax until it’s over with,” I said, aware of the Catch-22. “Are you always a difficult stick?” Nurse One asked. I wasn’t loving that terminology. It made me sound uncooperative at best. But there was only one answer to that question. “Yes.” Nurses One and Two exchanged a look. I tried to defend myself. “This is just how needle situations usually end for me—with tears. Or dry heaving. Or fainting.” At the words dry heaving, I could feel my veins shrinking a little smaller. Relax, damn it. Relax! But that’s when my future new favorite person walked in. And let’s just say she brought a totally different energy to the room. Dr. Nicole Thomas-Ramparsad didn’t just walk in, she strode—greeting me loudly as she did, her voice warm and rich. “Hello,” she practically sang. “You’re Sadie Montgomery, and I’m so delighted to be working with you today.” And with that, she put a firm, comforting, totally-in-charge-of-the-moment hand on my shoulder, and said, “Please just call me Dr. Nicole”—pronouncing her name like Ni-call. Let’s just say her doctor voice sounded nothing like my dad’s. Which was a


She throws it back. Misses me. “Yes! I’m aware!” “Don’t throw my hat!” I shout, and pick it up from the mud, and then accidentally throw it again. “Fine!” Before I know it, she’s crouched down, scooped up a handful of wet mud and rotting leaves and God knows what else, and launched it my way. There’s a visceral splat as it hits my chest, and I see satisfaction on her face for about 0.2 seconds before the expression vanishes like a snuffed-out candle. Her jaw drops. Her eyes are wide. She’s a bit like that painting, the one with the scream. I look very, very slowly down at my filthy clothes. “Brad!” she says, like she doesn’t know what else to say. This outfit is pretty fucked now. From head to toe. It’s not as if I’ve never been muddy before—you should see me at Sunday matches—but this isn’t a wide-open, manicured field and I am not in uniform. God knows what’s hiding in this forest. I’ve seen mushrooms in here. Mushrooms are fungus. I am fully contaminated. “Oh my God,” Celine breathes. Accept the thought, my common sense reminds me. Right. Yes. On it. I officially accept that I am tragically doomed to contract rabies from the poop-infected unidentified forest mud Celine just threw, and promptly die. “I’m so sorry!” Check for distortions. Okay, fine: it’s entirely possible that my imminent death is not a reasonable conclusion to this story. It’s also possible that the rabies thing is inaccurate. Technically. I suppose. “Brad?” Refocus. I tip my head back and count all the branches above me. I must not fear. “Brad, please say something. I’m sorry.” I breathe out once, deliberately, through my mouth. Only I will remain. Okay. Okay. I’m fine. But Celine looks a bit like she’s going to cry. Or maybe that’s just the rain. “What?” I demand. Her eyes widen. “I…Do you need…Is it…” I bend down, scoop up my own handful of mud, and throw it right back. Splat. Now her coat is a mess too. She stares at me in astonishment for one second, two, three, before her shock fades and the mud fight officially starts. We abandon the compass and the photo of the map as we chase each other—I don’t know who’s doing the chasing so don’t ask—through the woods. Her aim is better than mine, probably because she played netball for so long. I’m faster than her. She’s sneakier, but she has asthma and I’m worried she might run out of oxygen and die in the woods and I’ll have to break the news to Neneh. By the time I bring myself to call a truce, we’re both caked in mud and I’m really hoping there’s a washing machine back at the cabin, or else we are absolutely screwed. Maybe Celine’s thinking the same thing because she leans against a tree and starts to laugh. A small colony of giggles is rushing to escape her chest; hiccups tumble over one another. It’s so ridiculous, I laugh, too, and next thing I


pulling my heart southward. It was all too much to bear. I froze to the spot while the others shuffled around me. ‘Get in line!’ I ignored the order. I was too weak to move. ‘Carlisle, get a companion and walk.’ I wasn’t used to being given orders and refused to obey. ‘How many times must I tell you!’ To my utter shock, this order was administered with a slap on the ear. Suddenly, my life force came flooding back with rage. I was about to hit back, when I felt an arm slip through mine and almost drag me forward. ‘Best to do as they say,’ a voice whispered softly. I looked to my left and saw Mary, the young woman who had spoken up for me at the table. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ I said. ‘Do you think any poor creature should end up here?’ I shook my head, but, honestly, I didn’t care about anyone else in that moment. The other women frightened me, their naked faces, devoid of any normalcy. I pulled the shawl around me tightly. I was shivering so badly with cold that my teeth were chattering wildly. I could see the other women’s lips turning purple with cold. It was inhumane. ‘Carlisle, come here.’ It had been so long since I had used my real name that it took me a moment to realise that the nurse, Patricia, was speaking to me. Thank God, I thought to myself. They’ve realised that this is all a big mistake and will release me. I pulled my arm from Mary and thanked her for her kindness, feeling sure I would never see her again. I followed the nurse apace and once back inside, she led me to a room where I was weighed, measured and then approached by another nurse with scissors who cut my nails to the quick. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked. ‘You are to see Dr Hughes,’ she answered. I told myself that this made perfect sense – a final examination before letting me go. For administrative purposes. Surely that was all it was. After this perfunctory physical exam, I was led to another room. There, in a white coat, sat a man who introduced himself as Dr Hughes. Now was my chance to speak up for myself, but I found I did not know where to start. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, opening a cream-coloured folder and taking the lid off his pen. ‘I … my name is Opaline Gr—. I mean …’ ‘Oh, well, that’s hardly an auspicious start, is it?’ His ability to find humour in such desperate circumstances set me on edge. ‘My name is Opaline Carlisle, but I have been living under the pseudonym of Opaline Gray in order to protect my identity from my brother, who is a violent maniac.’ There. I was clear, coherent and concise. Surely this man would see that I was sane. ‘Where do you live?’ ‘Ha'penny Lane, Dublin. I run a small bookshop.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And you are pregnant?’ ‘Yes.’


loose around her face, and stepped into four-inch clear stilettos. Finally, she eyed her array of jewelry—most of it cheap costume stuff, but a few pieces much more expensive. She decided on a silver ankle bracelet and a slave-girl bracelet for her upper arm. Of course she’d wear her Apple Watch with its blingy band for the opposite wrist, add oversized hoop earrings, and just to spice things up a bit, a silver necklace with a bejeweled cross that settled seductively between her breasts. After the finishing touches, she checked the mirror again and smiled. Perfect! “Hello, Helen of Joy,” she said in a low whisper, and smiled, reveling in becoming her alter ego. This was her act, not just as if she were on stage, but a form of her own personal rebellion, and it felt good. So good. She was careful, of course she was. She had to be. She had too much to lose if her true identity was ever revealed. She eyed her reflection and liked what she saw. After all, she wasn’t in it for the money. As for the sex? It was okay—even exciting at times. But usually not. And secondary. Because all of this was for the thrill of getting away with this, her alter ego. She loved the little edge of danger that fueled an adrenaline rush, the heart-pumping excitement that was lost in her “real” life. Tap! Tap! She heard the knock on the door and pasted a sultry smile on her face, double-checking the mirror once more to see that every detail was just right, then pulled the curtain across her staging area and whispered under her breath, “showtime.” At the door she paused, took in a deep breath, and slid the dead bolt to peer into the darkened hallway. A tall man in a poncho stood waiting. “I’m here for Helen,” he said in a low voice that caused a little spark that started in her tailbone and sizzled up her spine. “You found her.” She let the door fall open and stepped back as he came inside. In that second she sensed something was wrong. He wasn’t what she’d expected from a john. This tall man in dark glasses was wearing a clerical collar beneath a poncho, a slash of white as if he were with the clergy. It was a little more than theatrical and she thought he was wearing thick face makeup—concealer of a sort—as if he were hiding acne, or some other facial imperfection, maybe even a tattoo? But why? For vanity’s sake? Or because he could be recognized? Warning bells clanged in her head. She’d read about some freak who’d dressed as a man of the cloth and had strangled women with a rosary. Surely this wasn’t the guy. No way. She couldn’t be that unlucky. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said, covering her case of nerves, which only increased as she watched him slowly slide the dead bolt into place. “I was expecting someone. Is there—” Was his hand in a pocket? Did he have a


‘Nadine?’ ‘George Ledbury’s pig.’ Josie shook her head. ‘We were warned about her by Lin’s neighbour, Janice. Apparently, she likes to go on the rampage through the village – Nadine that is, not Janice.’ ‘Well, George Ledbury will pay for my plants…’ Gerald was furious. ‘This garden is my pride and joy.’ Josie nodded sympathetically. ‘We’re off to Odile’s. You could come with us.’ Gerald waved his arms again. ‘But just look at the mess. It’s like a… a pigsty.’ ‘Indeed,’ Lin said sadly. ‘I’ve no time for drinking tea.’ ‘I’ll have a word with the Toomey boys, if you like,’ Josie soothed. ‘I’m sure they’ll come over and help you sort it all out.’ She took Lin’s arm. ‘And if you need a cuppa to cheer you up, we’ll be at Odile’s.’ The following Sunday morning, Florence walked down to the river Cherwell to meet her friends. It was almost lunchtime – Florence could see The Sun Inn car park: Jack Lovejoy had taken up position not far from the entrance, wearing a colourful cap, playing his guitar. The chords were light on the wind. She thought about going over to him, holding her arms out for a hug: she could do with one. Then she saw Neil and Lin Timms arrive for Sunday lunch, pausing to put money in Jack’s baked beans collection tin. Her father would be there soon for his regular pint. Florence felt the breeze lift the hem of her dress and she smoothed it flat. In the distance, two figures were approaching from Orchard Way. They waved to her and Florence waved back. It was Malia, with Natalie Ledbury. In minutes, they were beside her. Malia threw an arm around Florence’s neck. ‘What are you up to?’ ‘Watching Jack busking.’ Florence sighed, gazing towards the pub. Natalie played with her hair. ‘I used to think he was gorgeous when we were at school, but not as gorgeous as Finn Toomey.’ Malia agreed. ‘Everyone had the hots for Finn Toomey.’ Florence shook her head sadly. It wasn’t a conversation she wanted to join in; talking about boys would eventually lead to secrets she didn’t really want Natalie to know, not yet. She cupped her hands over her belly. ‘You liked Finn, didn’t you, Florence?’ Malia smiled. ‘You liked Adam once too, and I’m sure he still likes you.’ ‘Apparently lots of girls like Bobby.’ Natalie wrinkled her nose. ‘Why anyone would like my moody brother I don’t know, but they do.’ Florence stared at her fingers folded in her lap. Malia asked, ‘What’s Bobby up to nowadays?’ ‘Apart from working? He’s always out late on his bike, goodness knows where. Grandad wants him to start taking more responsibility on the farm. He’s getting on a bit and Dad’s more interested in managing the accounts.’ Natalie waved her left hand, lifting a finger to show a sparkling diamond. ‘Brandon wants to work on the admin side. Grandad will let us have one of the little cottages when we’re married. Of course, the farmhouse is big enough for Grandad


handkerchief--anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you. Good-night, good-night!' The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the gentleman to leave her, as she requested. The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased. The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs. 'Hark!' cried the young lady, listening. 'Did she call! I thought I heard her voice.' 'No, my love,' replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. 'She has not moved, and will not till we are gone.' Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and led her, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears. After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had descended. Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the Jew's house as fast as his legs would carry him. CHAPTER XLVII FATAL CONSEQUENCES It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn of the year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit. He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's. Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had


and I love him for it. “Don’t spend it all at once.” I look down at the coin and suddenly remember myself back in my primary-school uniform. There was a day when I stole ten pounds out of my dad’s wallet whilst he was in the shower. I’d bought myself and my friends so much chocolate from the corner shop—it was cheap back then. The cashier gave me only a single pound change in exchange for a heavy blue and white striped bag. I remember being impressed that, in the days of thirty-nine-pence chocolate bars and forty-five-pence drink cans, I’d managed to reach a whole number. Somehow Dad knew it was me who had taken the money, and when he got home from work that evening, he didn’t say anything, just … looked around me when I was there. Things were back to normal the next morning and neither of us brought it up, but every now and again, I think about it. I realize only now that I never asked Dad for money after that, but rather waited for him to offer some instead. In the hallway, Mum greets me with a hug. The procession is leading into the living room, but I pause before the doorway, letting Mum walk into me. “Maddie?” she questions. I don’t answer and just carry on into the living room. Dad’s special chair is already gone. The dining table in the corner, previously used to house papers, stray carrier bags, and Dad’s medication, has been cleared. On top lie an assortment of snacks; Mum’s made rock buns and bofrot and tied them in individual bags: to-go. There are canned drinks, bottled water, and a crate of Carlsberg beer. I remember that beer from our first house, in Battersea. I was eleven, maybe twelve, and I opened the fridge for something to drink. I noticed Dad’s opened beer beside the milk and lifted it out. Dad, standing at the stove, looked over his shoulder, as I took a sip. He was going to tell me off, but before he could, I was spitting it out into the sink. Dad chuckled. “Now you know. Don’t waste my beer again, eh?” I rub my eyes hard because I’d never recalled that memory until today. * * * Once we’re all gathered in the living room we go around the circle retelling the story of how we found out Dad had died. James and Auntie Mabel (who’s joining us via video call) had both called Dad in the morning to wish him happy birthday, knowing they wouldn’t be visiting. They bond over that and my own jealousy is tinged with anger. Auntie Mabel I can understand, but why was James given the opportunity to speak to Dad before he died and I wasn’t? “He sounded fine,” Auntie Mabel says, her lips turned down. “A little off, just a little slow and tired, but sometimes that is how he would sound. How were we to know? How did he sound to you, Baaba?” My heart sinks and I open my


with far fewer casualties. He swiped at more salivary secretions. And replenishing of meat ration stores … That could be just the thing to hand him that promotion to sector chief. What was left within that cargo hold, after so many years, was inedible. He sat back, belched, allowing himself a few moments of self-congratulation. Lu-puk returned his attention to the squirming Bliddit, mouth agape, silently whimpering upon the table before him. Silently, because he’d instructed the nanomachines to shut off the Bliddit’s vocal functions. Bliddits were highly, he’d go so far as to say, remarkably, intelligent. You could see it in their beady little eyes. They had proven themselves to be. So watchful. So calculating. Still, sometimes when Lu-puk wasn’t actually eating, the sounds of the slippery little creatures would give him a throbbing headache. He glared at his meal for a moment, calculating if he should finish the work he’d begun on the Bliddit’s five-fingered left hand. Small, but so similar to those of a human. But humans were far tastier. Sentient creatures hated losing their fingers almost as much as their eyes. Probably because fingers and opposable thumbs were a hallmark of advanced civilizations. Lu-puk always began with the smallest, least useful of the digits. It gave them hope that perhaps if they could escape, they might just maintain some, even minimal, functionality. But inevitably, growing despair would fall upon them like a dark and heavy cloak as the creatures watched firsthand as digit after digit disappeared into their captor’s mouth. How delightful. He snickered at his phrasing. Firsthand … that and lasthand. Lu-puk, sated for the moment, stood, stretched, and approached the display. The humans were up to something … Causing trouble, huh? He glowered, seeing they’d recently deployed a small, rickety craft. Then he saw the addition of three fighters. Well, obviously they were exploring. No! He gasped; they’d found the other human vessel, the other dreadnought … USS Lincoln, another stupid human name. And with that, they’d soon discover their preserved, albeit ripening, food stores. Lu-puk slithered back to his dining table. He caught the Bliddit’s bleeding hand and, with a quick snip of his claws, cut off the second finger. The Bliddit silently shrieked. The small creature’s eyes begged for mercy. Like that would happen. After what you did our race. Lu-puk tossed the finger into his mouth, crunching hard. He wiped his claws on a blood cloth and returned to his post. So easily his ship’s sensors visually penetrated human vessels. The beings—three human pilots, a ginormous BattleBot, and a squad of heavily armed humans in body armor—were now stepping out of their craft there on USS Lincoln’s flight bay. Lu-puk continued to watch. Leaving the flight bay, they moved deeper into the ship. Then, after a quick discussion, the pilots seemed to decide to separate—taking a lift up to a higher deck, perhaps the ship’s bridge, while the robot and heavily armed group stuck together, moving forward within the lower corridors. It made sense. The robot was more dangerous than the rest of


somewhere. Romance is joyful. What brings you joy?” “My daughter. My work, historically speaking.” I dig around for something that makes me sound more dimensional, but sitting here with this bestselling author talking about joy and connection makes my life feel like a lather, rinse, repeat of arid routine. “Watching footie. Mountain biking. Exercise.” As I speak, I see her point: none of this really qualifies me to speak specifically to this audience. It’s true that, other than my time with Stevie, nothing in my life brings me outright joy anymore. Most of it, I realize, is a way to pass time when I’m alone, and none of it is about seeking connection. I think about the chapter in her book I read last night. It was a love scene where, afterward, the heroine admitted that she was afraid of how fast things were moving. It wasn’t that this type of conflict felt groundbreaking, but the way it was written with such vulnerability and self-awareness after the most scorching sex scene I’d ever read left me feeling pensive all night. Fizzy is the playful, wisecracking alter ego, but I’m beginning to see that Felicity Chen is smart—brilliant, clearly—and I must give her more than just a confident smile and measured responses. She reads people expertly, and right now she needs to be convinced she won’t be stuck with a two-dimensional Hollywood stereotype. “I sound like a boring git.” I laugh. “There’s something about reading your book that has made me hyperaware of the sterile banality of my current life. I am,” I admit, sifting through words because I rarely get personal with relative strangers, and never with colleagues, “a bit of a workaholic. But I am not an egomaniac. I brought you on because I know you are connected—literally and figuratively—to this audience. I want this to be a success.” “I want that, too.” Fizzy’s posture eases and she leans back. “Listen, Hot DILF. I need to confess something. I’m good friends with someone involved in the DNADuo technology. He’s not thrilled about this show happening, but because of the way the deal was structured, he doesn’t get a veto on media use.” “Will that be a problem?” I ask, ignoring for the time being that I think she’s just called me a Hot DILF, or the fact that I wouldn’t have understood that phrase a few weeks ago. “No. But this show needs to be smart. It needs to be delightful. It needs to be irreverent. It needs to be sexy, and real, and relatable.” “I agree.” An edge of vulnerability appears in her next words: “The problem is, even though I’ve just interrogated you, I must admit I am a little worried about whether I’m even the right person to do this.” Oh. The power in her posture, the shine in her eyes—both of those things have dimmed without me noticing. I sort through the words in my head. “I completely understand that you’d want to do right by this technology, given your personal connection to it, and I wouldn’t


looked up again and sniffed the air. ‘But I can smell meat cooking.’ ‘I told you she’d end up on a hog roast,’ Penny gasped. ‘Oh, I hope not.’ She was concerned now and George’s face was distraught. ‘I can smell it too…’ George pointed towards the riverbank. ‘Over by the Cherwell.’ The party scurried forward as one before Lin stopped suddenly. ‘It’s coming from the Toomeys’ barge, and it’s definitely roasting pork.’ ‘Surely they wouldn’t hurt Nadine,’ Josie said. Jimmy chuckled. ‘The Toomeys kill rabbits and pheasants and fish to eat on their barge. Why not a pig?’ ‘That pig’s a lot of bacon…’ Kenny protested. ‘You’re all being silly. They’d never turn a pig into rashers so quickly – I don’t know what the fuss is all about…’ Josie and Minnie led the way, Cecily on Lin’s arm, Charlotte next to George and Penny. She surged forward and clutched her husband’s arm, feeling suddenly troubled; losing the pig would break George’s heart and she was filled with an unspoken fondness for the animal that she hadn’t realised she had before. Nadine gave her something to grumble about and she enjoyed the banter that ensued between them. George gazed down towards her anxiously, looking for support. ‘Penny, you don’t think…’ ‘No, George, surely not…’ She took his hand. As they approached the Toomeys’ barge, smoke funnelled from the deck, and the smell of searing meat and fat. George gazed around, troubled. ‘They wouldn’t do that to Nadine.’ Devlin Toomey was sitting on the deck watching Finn splashing his feet in the river, forking a rasher into his mouth. Fergal held a large frying pan over the stove. He called out cheerily. ‘Anyone fancy a bacon roll?’ Everyone stared for a moment, then Josie called, ‘Fergal – have you seen Nadine?’ ‘Ah, yes…’ He waved his fork. ‘Come aboard.’ Penny squeezed her husband’s hand: George looked as if he would cry. Devlin was on his feet. ‘Are you looking for the pig? We’ve got her here. She came down an hour ago.’ Finn licked his lips. ‘Come and join us. There’s nothing like bacon, the way my da cooks it, with plenty of fat and a bit of ketchup.’ ‘Nadine!’ George groaned, putting his hand to his face. Penny wrapped an arm around him to comfort him. ‘Fergal…’ Josie put her hands on her hips. ‘Where is Nadine exactly?’ ‘Follow me…’ Fergal winked. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, though…’ ‘Oh, George,’ Penny moaned. Fergal led Josie down the steps as George and Penny followed, their faces nervous, searching for a glimpse of the pig, or what was left of her. Below, the accommodation was divided into sections, two bedrooms, three beds, a galley kitchen, a table, chairs. Fergal pointed to the smaller bedroom, where a double bed was pushed against a wall, wooden panels below, yellow paintwork above. On the bed was a grey duvet and lying on the duvet, snorting softly through a pink snout, was Nadine, her eyes closed, pointed ears and pale lashes, trotters sticking out and a smile


faultily, unseemly, fuzzy. ANTONYMS: (adj) articulate, normality, agreement incongruously, illicitly, eloquent, fluent, distinct, talkative inconsistency: (n) disagreement, illegitimately. ANTONYMS: (adv) inasmuch: (adv) gradually, pro tanto, contradiction, incompatibility, suitably, morally, fittingly, correctly, so, since, as, that, because, inasmuch incoherence, incongruity, justifiably, perfectly, well, lawfully, as, seeing that, for discordance, disparity, variance, honestly, acceptably, decently inauspicious: (adj) unlucky, sinister, repugnance, contradictoriness; (adj, impropriety: (n) barbarism, adverse, untoward, ill, unfortunate, n) frivolity. ANTONYMS: (n) obscenity, indecorum, error, unfavorable, ill-omened, evil, bad, steadiness, equality, constancy, rudeness, indelicacy, incorrectness, threatening. ANTONYMS: (adj) concord, parity, predictability, solecism, wrongness; (adj) favorable, promising, lucky reliability immorality, inaptitude. incapable: (adj) impotent, inconvenient: (adj) inopportune, ANTONYMS: (n) decency, inadequate, unable, helpless, awkward, disadvantageous, correctness powerless, unqualified, inept, bothersome, improper, unfavorable, impulse: (n) pulse, urge, impulsion, insufficient, inapt, ineffectual, unfit. troublesome, hard, inapt, untoward, force, motive, whim, drive, goad, ANTONYMS: (adj) able, competent, unfortunate. ANTONYMS: (adj) motivation, momentum, incentive. strong, powerful, effective convenient, suitable, opportune, ANTONYMS: (n) aversion, incited: (adj) encouraged, impelled, timely, advantageous disincentive, disinclination driven incredulity: (n) doubt, unbelief, impulsive: (adj) capricious, hasty, inclement: (adj, n) harsh, rugged, skepticism, incredulousness, driving, rash, instinctive, boisterous; (n) austere; (adj) distrust, wonder, surprise, changeable, hotheaded, quick- turbulent, grim, bleak, rigorous, suspicion, suspiciousness, mistrust, tempered, impellent, headlong, bitter, rough, rigid. ANTONYMS: scepticism. ANTONYMS: (n) faith, passionate. ANTONYMS: (adj) (adj) mild, fine, nice, calm, pleasant understanding, belief cautious, considered, predictable, incoherent: (adj) disjointed, incumbency: (n) administration, unflappable, prepared, sensible, disconnected, delirious, rambling, benefice, office, duty, post, place, gradual, overdue, patient, placid, confused, disordered, incompatible, responsibility, chargeship, liability, premeditated wandering, muddled, inconsistent, living, situation impunity: (n) impune, come off, contradictory. ANTONYMS: (adj) incumbent: (adj, v) superimposed; freedom, immunity, permission, clear, articulate, eloquent, (n) functionary, official, forgiveness. ANTONYM: (n) intelligible, lucid, sound, concise, householder, occupant, parson, liability consistent locum tenens, sojourner; (adj) impute: (v) charge, attribute, ascribe, incomplete: (adj) faulty, deficient, compulsory; (v) supernatant, assign, accuse, blame, attach, credit, inadequate, imperfect, short, overlying lay, accredit, impeach lacking, unfinished, half, incurious: (adj) uninquisitive, inactive: (adj) dead, dull, inert, insufficient, sketchy; (adj, adv) uninterested, negligent, dormant, sluggish, slow, passive, halfway. ANTONYMS: (adj) unconcerned, casual, detached, still, stagnant, slack, torpid. finished, whole, entire, nonchalant, aloof, lackadaisical, ANTONYMS: (adj) active, lively, comprehensive, boundless, apathetic, vacant moving, dormant, extinct, working, adequate indefatigable: (adj) tireless, energetic, live, diligent, proactive, incomprehensible: (adj) assiduous, unflagging, untiring, creative inapprehensible, inscrutable, inexhaustible, energetic, inactivity: (n) lethargy, inaction, inarticulate, abstruse, cryptic, unremitting, indomitable, laborious, laziness, abeyance, indolence, unfathomable, puzzling, obscure, unwearying, unwearied. languor, passivity, phlegm, inexplicable, inconceivable, ANTONYMS: (adj) idle, feeble, sluggishness, doldrums; (adj, n) unaccountable. ANTONYMS: (adj) unrelenting, weary inertia. ANTONYMS: (n) action, comprehensible, explicable, indefeasible: (v) intransmutable, activeness, liveliness, energy, bustle understandable, intelligible, legible, reverseless, irretrievable, irresoluble, inalienable: (adj) untransferable, obvious, straightforward irreducible, inextinguishable; (adj) unassailable, absolute, inviolable, inconceivable: (adj, v) unbelievable, inalienable, irreversible, irrevocable, indefeasible, inseparable, inherent, hard to believe; (adj) impossible, undefeasible, incommutable. unassignable, unforfeitable; (v) implausible, incomprehensible, ANTONYM: (adj) defeasible incommunicable unimaginable, unthinkable, indescribable: (adj) indefinable, inanimate: (adj) defunct, dull, improbable, unintelligible, ineffable, unutterable, vague, breathless, inorganic, inactive, inscrutable, fabulous. ANTONYMS: beyond expression, nameless, lifeless, exanimate, deceased, (adj) conceivable, believable, likely, inexpressible, nondescript, terrible,


dumpster at the end of the street, just because I was terrified of my parents finding out.” “Jesus,” I say softly, because I hate the idea of a young Finn so scared, so uncertain. His brain working against him. “That can’t have been easy. I’m so sorry.” “I got good at it.” A rueful smile. “Of course, sometimes I’d have to wear gloves and shower immediately afterward. And of course, my parents eventually found out what I was doing. My dad was furious, and I think my mom was too scared of him to say anything otherwise. And he—he just told me to suck it up, that I was ‘acting fucking insane.’ And ‘don’t you dare let anyone see you doing that.’ ” Finn is breathing a little faster now, a fist clenching on top of the table. “So that’s what I did. My compulsions morphed, and most of my free time was dedicated to figuring out how to make myself feel safe and comfortable without anyone finding out. If there was a speck of something strange on a plate, I’d say I wasn’t hungry. I’d dispose of old sheets, old blankets at school and buy replacements with my Hanukkah money. I wanted to make my dad happy so badly, and that meant not being the fucked-up son he thought I was.” “Finn. You are absolutely not,” I say firmly, wishing I could do more to reassure him. He shakes his head. “It certainly felt that way, a lot of the time. I didn’t even have much of a relationship with my mom until after he left—and good riddance. The worst of it, though, was actually the last season of The Nocturnals, when we knew we weren’t getting renewed. I was so anxious about booking the next job because everyone else had things lined up and I didn’t. I was putting so much pressure on myself, and I’d just bought a house I didn’t know whether I’d be able to keep paying for, and the only thing it felt like I could control was how clean it was. I’d get stuck in these horrible cycles, scrubbing down the house, returning sets of dishes I’d just bought because I swore the box smelled weird when I opened it up, constantly running laundry because nothing ever seemed clean enough. And then my energy bill went way up and that only added to the stress. I knew I needed to do something, but I didn’t know where to start. It wasn’t until after the finale aired that I started getting help. Hallie was the one who suggested it, actually.” “That’s great,” I say, meaning it. “I’ve been in therapy, too. For generalized anxiety disorder. I think I’ve probably had it most of my life, but I didn’t start seeing someone until my midtwenties. I haven’t gone in a few months—though maybe I should?—but I fucking love therapy.” He nods. “So you get it.” “Not all of it—but some of it.” Then something occurs to me. “What about sex? If that’s okay to ask—since there’s obviously,


pinned to his arm forever. But he didn’t seem distracted. He lowered his chin, and for an extraordinary second she thought he was going to kiss her on the head. But he was only bowing to the Princess Victoria. “Forgive me,” said Lord Ashley with a smile, and slipped into his seat. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask her permission to join, didn’t thank her for the food. He grabbed his fork as if seated at his own table. The princess retreated into her own head, eyes down. The ladies all made a graceful turn left, and commenced conversation with their neighbors. Of course they all knew each other; it was effortless for them. Miss de Vries found herself seated beside a spindly and decrepit colonel, who was fussing with his handkerchief and inspecting the forks, saying not a word. Someone had altered the table plan without seeking her authority: someone from the royal household, perhaps. Or Lord Ashley. Miss de Vries stared at the wall in enforced silence, feeling a flush rising up her neck, suddenly out of her depth. The crowd stood panting at the door to the supper room. This is my triumph, she reminded herself firmly, feeling ravenous, eating nothing. * * * Meanwhile, the Janes were consulting the instruction labels ironed into their petticoats. This was the most delicate part of the operation: sweeping the rooms in the public parts of the house. They got to work on the library, with Hephzibah’s decoy guests stationed right outside, guarding the door. Mrs. Bone’s men, still dressed in their tunics, stood on extendable ladders, handing books down the line and stacking them in towers. It was taking longer than Winnie had calculated. “Come on,” muttered Jane-one, her eyes fixed on the clock. “What time is it?” said Jane-two. “Don’t ask.” The men heard. Fear, the first true prickle of it, shimmered across the room. Someone dropped a book. Jane-one saw it happen. It simply slipped from a man’s hand, toppling into a tower of leather-bound volumes already on the floor. She knew what would follow. Her mind unspooled it, several seconds ahead. The first tower fell into the next. Dominoes. The men looked on, aghast, as the towers crumbled. Jane-one felt the tremor as hundreds upon hundreds of books hit the bare floor. It was a rumble she could feel in all directions, passing through the walls. “Lock that door,” she said. “Right now.” A fist hammered on the library door. “Open up!” One of the footmen, thought Jane-one. They’d heard a commotion in the library and come running, pushing past Hephzibah’s actresses. She pressed her finger to her lips. The men all stared at her, pale and sweating. They were trapped. Books lay scattered on the floor around them. Silence outside. “Hello?” the footman said, uncertain. “Everything all right?” Jane-one pressed her finger to the keyhole so he couldn’t peer in. She used her other hand to point to the window. Mouthed to Jane-two. Perch act. Jane-two frowned. You’re not serious. Got another