with me.” “But it does,” I say. “Because she knew you’ve been hiding the fact that your sister is alive and that you’re really Lenora. How long has it been going on?” “A long time,” she says, admitting at least one thing—Mrs. Baker, she of the unknown first name, is indeed the infamous Lenora Hope. “Almost all the way back to the murders.” Fifty-four years. A staggering amount of time. “Why did you do it?” I say. “And how?” “Which part?” Lenora says between giant swallows from her glass. Already, the wine is doing its job. She’s looser now, and far more forthcoming. “Faking my sister’s death or forcing her to assume my identity?” “Both,” I say, my head now spinning from literally all of it. “What really happened that night?” “I can only tell you what I experienced.” Lenora climbs onto a stool and sits across from me, elbows on the counter. As if we’re best friends out for a drink. As if any of this is normal. “I was upstairs in my room, sitting at my dressing table and listening to my record player while pretending I wasn’t hiding from everything going wrong in this house.” It’s easy to picture because I spied on her doing exactly that last night. “It had already been a long, terrible night,” she says. “Things happened. Awful things. And then it escalated. And then everything went quiet. Eventually, I decided to go downstairs and see if everything was okay.” “It wasn’t,” I say. When Lenora shakes her head, I spot a glint of moisture in her telltale blue eyes. Tears that she refuses to let fall. “I found my mother on the Grand Stairs. Dead, of course. I knew that right away. There was blood . . . everywhere.” Lenora pauses, shuddering at the memory. “I started screaming and running through the house like a chicken with its head cut off. My God, that’s a terrible saying. Still, it fits my reaction that night. Running and screaming. Screaming and running. Right into the billiard room, where I saw my father.” As she takes another sip of wine to fortify herself, I think about how it must have felt to walk into that room, to see her father slumped over the pool table, to notice the blood trickling into the table pockets. “I ran to the kitchen, phoned the police, and told them my parents had been murdered.” I nod, because it tracks with what Detective Vick told me about the police getting the call shortly after eleven. “I then went looking for Virginia. I found her hanging in there.” Lenora nods toward the kitchen doorway and the ballroom down the hall just beyond it. “She was hanging from one of the chandeliers. I should have tried to take her down. I realize that now. But I thought she was dead, just like my parents. Faced with such an irrational situation, I could only behave in an irrational manner—I went out to the terrace and screamed. Out of fear and grief and confusion. I screamed


pilfered from the village of Mbonga--or a boar, or leopard, and once a lion. Tarzan derived the greatest pleasure of his life in hunting meat for these strangers. It seemed to him that no pleasure on earth could compare with laboring for the welfare and protection of the beautiful white girl. Some day he would venture into the camp in daylight and talk with these people through the medium of the little bugs which were familiar to them and to Tarzan. But he found it difficult to overcome the timidity of the wild thing of the forest, and so day followed day without seeing a fulfillment of his good intentions. The party in the camp, emboldened by familiarity, wandered farther and yet farther into the jungle in search of nuts and fruit. Scarcely a day passed that did not find Professor Porter straying in his preoccupied indifference toward the jaws of death. Mr. Samuel T. Philander, never what one might call robust, was worn to the shadow of a shadow through the ceaseless worry and mental distraction resultant from his Herculean efforts to safeguard the professor. A month passed. Tarzan had finally determined to visit the camp by daylight. It was early afternoon. Clayton had wandered to the point at the harbor's mouth to look for passing vessels. Here he kept a great mass of wood, high piled, ready to be ignited as a signal should a steamer or a sail top the far horizon. Professor Porter was wandering along the beach south of the camp with Mr. Philander at his elbow, urging him to turn his steps back before the two became again the sport of some savage beast. The others gone, Jane and Esmeralda had wandered into the jungle to gather fruit, and in their search were led farther and farther from the cabin. Tarzan waited in silence before the door of the little house until they should return. His thoughts were of the beautiful white girl. They were always of her now. He wondered if she would fear him, and the thought all but caused him to relinquish his plan. He was rapidly becoming impatient for her return, that he might feast his eyes upon her and be near her, perhaps touch her. The ape-man knew no god, but he was as near to worshipping his divinity as mortal man ever comes to worship. While he waited he passed the time printing a message to her; whether he intended giving it to her he himself could not have told, but he took infinite pleasure in seeing his thoughts expressed in print--in which he was not so uncivilized after all. He wrote: I am Tarzan of the Apes. I want you. I am yours. You are mine. We live here together always in my house. I will bring you the best of fruits, the tenderest deer, the finest meats that roam the jungle. I will hunt for you. I Chapter 18 100 am the greatest of the jungle fighters. I will fight for you. I am the mightiest of the


I have is the hard-won spoils from spending the bulk of my childhood with braces and the haircut of an unfortunate poodle. “Sabrina,” I say, “tends to embellish.” Weirdly, though, her descriptions of him didn’t come close to capturing the man. Or maybe it was that because I knew she had a crush on him, I’d expected something different. Someone more polished, suave. Someone more like Parth, his best friend. The corners of his mouth twitch as he ambles forward. My heart whirs as he reaches out, as if planning to catch my chin and turn it side to side for his inspection to prove that I’ve been oversold. But he’s only taking my bag from my shoulder. “They said you were a brunette.” My own snort-laugh surprises me. “I’m glad they spoke so highly of me.” “They did,” he says, “but the only thing I can corroborate so far is whether you’re a brunette. Which you’re not.” “I am definitely a brunette.” He tosses my bag into the back seat, then faces me again, his hips sinking against the door. His head tilts thoughtfully. “Your hair’s almost black. In the moonlight it looks blue.” “Blue?” I say. “You think my hair is blue?” “Not, like, Smurf blue,” he says. “Blue black. You can’t tell in pictures. You look different.” “It’s true,” I say. “In real life, I’m three-dimensional.” “The painting,” he says thoughtfully. “That looks like you.” I instantly know which painting he must be referring to. The one of me and Sabrina strewn out like God and Adam: Cleo’s old figure drawing final. It hung in Mattingly’s art building for weeks, dozens of strangers passing it daily, and I never felt so naked then as I do now. “Very discreet way of letting me know you’ve seen my boobs,” I say. “Shit.” He glances away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I sort of forgot it was a nude.” “Words most women only ever dream of hearing,” I say. “I in no way forgot you were naked in the painting,” he clarifies. “I just forgot it might be weird to tell someone they look exactly the same as they do in a painting where they’re not wearing clothes.” “This is going really well,” I say. He groans and drags a hand down his face. “I swear I’m normally better at this.” And normally, I do my best to put people at ease, but there’s something rewarding about throwing him off-balance. Rewarding and charming. “Better at what?” I say through laughter. He rakes one hand through his hair. “First impressions.” “You should try sending a big-ass nude painting of yourself ahead when you’re going to meet someone new,” I say. “It’s always worked for me.” “I’ll take that into consideration,” he says. “You don’t look like a Wyndham Connor.” His brow arches. “How am I supposed to look?” “I don’t know,” I say. “Navy-blue jacket with gold buttons. Captain’s hat. A big white beard and a huge cigar?” “So Santa, on a yacht,” he says. “Mr. Monopoly, on vacation,” I say.


show mysef on de bank in de daytime." "Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. Did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?" "Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah -- watched um thoo de bushes." Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. Jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way when young birds done it. I was going to catch some of them, but Jim wouldn't let me. He said it was death. He said his father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did. And Jim said you mustn't count the things you are going to cook for dinner, because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook the table-cloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, be- cause I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me. I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he knowed most everything. I said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so I asked him if there warn't any good-luck signs. He says: "Mighty few -- an' DEY ain't no use to a body. What you want to know when good luck's a-comin' for? Want to keep it off?" And he said: "Ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's agwyne to be rich. Well, dey's some use in a sign like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. You see, maybe you's got to be po' a long time fust, en so you might git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn' know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby." "Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?" "What's de use to ax dat question? Don't you see I has?" "Well, are you rich?" "No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich agin. Wunst I had foteen dollars, but I tuck to specalat'n', en got busted out." "What did you speculate in, Jim?" "Well, fust I tackled stock." "What kind of stock?" "Why, live stock -- cattle, you know. I put ten dollars in a cow. But I ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. De cow up 'n' died on my han's." "So you lost the ten dollars." "No, I didn't lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of it. I sole de hide


She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried again. “You’re someone who loves. That’s it. That’s the only part that’s yours to give and yours to take.” This was one of those lessons you had to speak to hear, wasn’t it? “You asked me to trust you,” Edei said, massaging his palms. “I do trust you. For a minute back there, I forgot. I’m sorry.” Warmth suffused Io. She wanted to kneel before him and settle into his arms. Instead, she extended her hand. A smile flashed on his lips. His fingers slipped into hers. Io pulled him up. CHAPTER XXVIII BLACK WINGS WERE STITCHED THE GALE HAD picked up, bridges grinding, shutters banging against the walls, awnings groaning in resistance. Lilac Row was as busy as ever, soaking the passersby in its eerie purple light. On each side of the street, dream palaces advertised their wares in large window displays, where you could peek in on the action: clients sleeping on silk-covered beds while scantily clad workers danced intricate numbers around them. The dances were a performance to attract customers, because the actual thing was quite boring; to cast you in a dream, the oneiroi-born just hovered their fingers over your head. Io cleared her throat and advanced toward the dream palace Bianca frequented: a narrow brownstone with a sign in calligraphy that read MISTER HYPNOS. She held on to both railings to cross the hanging bridge, cursing the wind under her breath. A bouncer in a feathered crow mask held the door open for her at the rooftop entrance. Another man greeted her inside, this one with a dark gray lizard mask, and offered her a glass of champagne on a tray, which Io declined with a shake of her head. With a shrug, the man led her into a velvet-clad corridor that opened to a double staircase, where an intricate chandelier hung at eye level. As they came to the top of the stairs, six pairs of eyes looked up at Io. Two trios of oneiroi-born lay in the large foyer, draped on armchairs, sofas, and pillows. They would have presented themselves as siblings if a customer asked, but Io knew they likely weren’t. Oneiroi-born in dream palaces often pretended to be siblings, to enhance the illusion. The six in Mister Hypnos wore bat masks in various shades of gray, as well as immaculate two-piece suits. Black wings were stitched on their backs, faithful to the lore: their ancestors, the gods of dreams, Oneiroi, were winged spirits. Dream palaces had always made Io feel complicit, in some way. Some other-born, like the moira-born and keres-born, were demonized by the general public, and others, like the Agora of the horae-born or the Nine, were equated to deities. But oneiroi-born and grace-born were fetishized in the public media, always depicted as overtly sexual, or manipulative. In most dream palaces, oneiroi-born were obligated to work clad in nightdresses and robes. “Come, come,” said lizard face. “Meet Hypnos’s children.” “Morpheus,” a redhead said, feet propped on an armchair. “I use the pronouns they and


until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy. She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages of the house and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him and was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the execution of his menaces when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood trickling in my veins and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the room. Great God! Why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the destruction of the best hope and the purest creature on earth? She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Everywhere I turn I see the same figure-- her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this and live? Alas! Life is obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection; I fell senseless on the ground. When I recovered I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their countenances expressed a breathless terror, but the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her, and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her and embraced her with ardour, but the deadly languor and coldness of the limbs told me that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips. While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up. The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown back, and with a sensation of horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the


no longer believe in her more recent and severer regard of him; but would go and find her immediately. He asked his father if she had applied for any money during his absence. His father returned a negative, and then for the first time it occurred to Angel that her pride had stood in her way, and that she had suffered privation. From his remarks his parents now gathered the real reason of the separation; and their Christianity was such that, reprobates being their especial care, the tenderness towards Tess which her blood, her simplicity, even her poverty, had not engendered, was instantly excited by her sin. Whilst he was hastily packing together a few articles for his journey he glanced over a poor plain missive also lately come to hand--the one from Marian and Izz Huett, beginning---- "HONOUR'D SIR----Look to your Wife if you do love her as much as she do love you," and signed, "FROM TWO WELL-WISHERS." LIV In a quarter of an hour Clare was leaving the house, whence his mother watched his thin figure as it disappeared into the street. He had declined to borrow his father's old mare, well knowing of its necessity to the household. He went to the inn, where he hired a trap, and could hardly wait during the harnessing. In a very few minutes after he was driving up the hill out of the town which, three or four months earlier in the year, Tess had descended with such hopes and ascended with such shattered purposes. Benvill Lane soon stretched before him, its hedges and trees purple with buds; but he was looking at other things, and only recalled himself to the scene sufficiently to enable him to keep the way. In something less than an hour-and-a-half he had skirted the south of the King's Hintock estates and ascended to the untoward solitude of Cross-in-Hand, the unholy stone whereon Tess had been compelled by Alec d'Urberville, in his whim of reformation, to swear the strange oath that she would never wilfully tempt him again. The pale and blasted nettle-stems of the preceding year even now lingered nakedly in the banks, young green nettles of the present spring growing from their roots. Thence he went along the verge of the upland overhanging the other Hintocks, and, turning to the right, plunged into the bracing calcareous region of Flintcomb-Ash, the address from which she had written to him in one of the letters, and which he supposed to be the place of sojourn referred to by her mother. Here, of course, he did not find her; and what added to his depression was the discovery that no "Mrs Clare" had ever been heard of by the cottagers or by the farmer himself, though Tess was remembered well enough by her Christian name. His name she had obviously never used during their separation, and her dignified sense of their total severance was shown not much less by this abstention than by the hardships she had chosen to undergo (of which he now learnt for the


him lead her silently to the door. When she looked back, day had fully broken in the window behind Bastian, casting his features in shadow, limning their edges gold. It illuminated him like rays around a sun, like a halo. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Sometimes, you can see love coming. And when it takes a different path, you should be thankful. —Fragment from the work of Marya Addou, Malfouran poet The walk back to their apartments was silent. Gabe stayed behind her, a one-eyed shadow dogging her steps and making sure she went where she was supposed to. She no longer wore chains, but it was the first time Lore had truly felt like a prisoner in the Citadel. Their room was locked. Lore had the key half fitted in the door before Gabe stepped up beside her. “It won’t work.” His voice was low. “Anton had the lock changed.” She looked at him and said nothing. There was nothing to say. Gabe swallowed. He unlocked the door with a key he produced from his pocket, then stepped aside to let her in first. The apartments felt strange now—foreign and ill fitting, where before they’d been as close to comfortable as she could find here. Especially knowing Anton had changed the lock sometime after she left last night. Myriad hells, he’d probably had someone waiting in the halls, watching for her to leave so they could immediately set to work. Because Gabe told him. Gabe told him everything. Her wrists felt raw. The iron had made them itch. Lore rubbed and rubbed at them, trying to force the feeling out of her skin, trying to make it stop— Gentle pressure, Gabe’s fingers interposed where hers had been. “Lore, you’re going to hurt yourself—” It’d been the truth when she told Gabe and Bastian that she was no good at brawling, but instinct made do. Lore snatched her wrist from Gabe’s hand and struck out with the heel of her opposite palm, smacking him in the shoulder, pushing him off balance and away. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled. “Don’t fucking touch me.” He stared at her, one blue eye wide. His jaw clenched beneath the reddish stubble on his chin. “I was trying to keep you safe.” “By going to the very person we knew was lying?” “He’s on our side! You heard everything I just did, you know that Anton is working against August!” “But you didn’t.” Her fingers went back to her wrist again, itching, itching. “You had no idea what Anton was involved in, and it’s pure stupid luck you didn’t get all three of us murdered!” “It was either that or watch you go to a far more likely murder in the damn catacombs!” Gabe ran his hands over his close-shorn hair, turned away. “I wanted him to stop you from going down there at all. Both of you. That seemed like a much more pressing matter than playing politics—” “It’s more than playing politics! If we’d been right, if Anton and August were still on the same side, Bastian might’ve—”


with no comment, expressions bored. It made Lore think of the guards who’d seen her enter two weeks ago in a borrowed dress flanked by Presque Mort, made her think of what Gabe said about them being sent to the Burnt Isles. “The Church library is in the south wing?” she asked as they stepped out onto the green. “That’s unexpected. I thought it’d be near the North Sanctuary.” Gabe shrugged. “The nobles don’t have much use for a bunch of old manuscripts and Compendiums.” “But they’re extremely valuable, right? That seems like the kind of thing the Church would want to keep away from the common rabble.” “Malcolm gets far more requests to view manuscripts from commoners than from nobles, actually.” Surprise nearly made her foot get caught in her skirt. “That’s allowed?” “Honestly, I’m not sure what the protocol is,” Gabe answered. “But ever since Malcolm was promoted to head librarian, he’s tried to make sure everyone who wants to view a manuscript has the opportunity. At least, all the manuscripts that don’t need special dispensation. No one can waltz in and ask to look at prophecies without Anton’s permission.” Lore thought of Anton, of his scarred face and how he’d gotten it. She frowned. “Malcolm told me a story, once,” Gabe continued thoughtfully. “From when he was a kid, before he had the accident that scarred up his arms and led to him joining the Presque Mort. He was fascinated by books, but his family only had a few, and he heard there were more in the Church. He walked right up to a clergy member and asked to see the books. It didn’t even occur to him that it might not be possible. Books are for everyone, he thought.” “Did the clergyman think the same?” “He did, fortunately. He took Malcolm to the library, and the head librarian at the time let him look at whatever book he pleased.” Gabe’s voice was quiet, contemplative. “After, when Malcolm got the ability to channel Mortem and joined up with the Mort, he insisted on being able to work in the library. Eventually, he took over from the other clergyman.” “Seems like he stays busy.” Gabe huffed a brief laugh. She peered at him from the corner of her eye as they made their quiet way across the green, the walls of the Church looming up ahead to block the thin morning light. Gabe held his lips pursed, contemplative. Lore wondered if talking about his friend’s life before he joined the Presque Mort made Gabe think of his own, of the boy who had a father and a home and two working eyes. The Church door opened on soundless hinges, and they stepped into the quiet darkness inside. Gabe went in the opposite direction he’d taken on the day of the Mortem leak. The highly polished wooden rafters reflected the light of the stained-glass windows. Six such windows lined the hall they walked down. The first was Apollius, in shades of white and gold, dark hair flowing around His shoulders and


with and feed my anxiety; sometimes, I think, I lean too far into it, let my mind run away with worrying and planning, so that grief is not all that I feel. When my thoughts are churning, trying to find some way to avert catastrophe and wish us into a different, better world, I don’t have to focus on the fact that I live in this one, where my heart is still broken. * * * I wasn’t thinking about my anxiety when we decided to get a dog; I was thinking about my family and the fact that we had never been more in need of comfort and a limitless source of uncomplicated love. More than once, I thought of what my mother said when she got Buster: He’s good for me. He gets me out of the house. No matter how I feel or what I want, I have to take him for his walk. I’m never alone anymore. In the last weeks of her life, Buster was always with her, curled up beside her in the hospital bed. My aunt takes care of him now, in the house he used to share with my mom, and I like to think that he remembers her as well as he can—the rooms may yet hold traces of her that a dog’s sharp nose can sniff out. I’m thankful that he was with her until the end. Now full grown at one year old, Peggy remains a puppy—curious, affectionate, high-energy, ready to greet and be devoted to anyone who crosses her path. Her name is forever bouncing off the walls of our house: an excited greeting when we come home to find her waiting, tail wagging; a grumble of irritation when she does something naughty; a murmur of appreciation when she curls up next to us to offer comfort. She isn’t allowed in my office, because I don’t know that I could trust her exuberant bulk or wide-swinging tail around the breakables there, and suspect she might also try to nose some of my books down from the shelves. Now I write at the kitchen table, with Peggy napping at my feet. Though I’m highly allergic to most dogs, no one has spent more time cuddling with her, ruffling her silky-soft fur and scratching her ears, than I have. I end most days on the couch or the floor, her head in my lap, and these moments never fail to slow my anxious thoughts and soothe my heart. I think she immediately recognized that I was broken and needed her, which could be why the two of us have such a deep soul bond. (Or it could be because she has learned that I have the freest hand with the dog biscuits, who can say.) I don’t want to say that she saved us from our grief, because neither loss nor healing works that way. But with her, we’ve been able to access a kind of effortless happiness we hadn’t known for a long time. She has given our weary, grieving family


the gauges. They’re set to double.” “None of that means anything to me.” “It means you should get ready,” said Jane-one firmly. * * * Alice had slipped into Miss de Vries’s bedroom. She envisioned the other women looking for her, growing angry when they couldn’t find her. She pictured Mrs. King’s face, her disappointment, confusion. Alice’s nerves were skimming through her skin, fingers trembling. She moved like a mouse, zigzagging, touching Miss de Vries’s bureau—because it was something cool, something solid. Her crucifix felt hot, sweaty, the chain scratching her throat. She was tempted to throw it out of the window. What use was it now? She heard a soft tread from the passage. It made her start, swing around. The big bedroom doors rolled slowly back. Miss de Vries stood silhouetted in the lamplight. It made Alice squint, put a hand to her eyes. The movement must have alerted Miss de Vries to her presence. She heard her say, on an outward breath, “Ah.” Miss de Vries stayed standing on the other side of the bed. The sight of her, so familiar, made Alice’s heart start pelting. She knew every inch of Madam, every line: every nick and hollow. She’d watched her long enough. Good, she thought, mind racing. Keep her here. Keep her with you, away from everyone else. Just as Mrs. King would have wanted. But it wasn’t Mrs. King’s orders that made her cross the carpet. It wasn’t because of the plan. It was something different, circling deeper in her gut. For once Miss de Vries’s expression was easy to read. Anger. Alice felt it in her own body, too. It enraged her, that she should be so frightened, that she should be made to feel so. “Whatever are you doing up here?” said Miss de Vries. “I...felt unwell,” said Alice. “I didn’t want to cause a fuss.” Miss de Vries took a half step backward. “You should go to your own room, not mine.” Her headdress glittered; her shoulders were pale in the light. “Are you feeling faint?” Alice didn’t move. “Yes,” she said. “Then sit down, for heaven’s sake. I’ll send someone to help you.” “No,” said Alice, voice rising. “Don’t. Please.” Miss de Vries stared at her. Something was working in her mind, and it was hard to interpret. She raised a hand to her forehead. Her movements seemed fractious, edgy: there was something crackling in the atmosphere around her. “I hope you’re not going to be disagreeable. I’ve had a very long evening.” She was still close enough that Alice could smell her. A stinging scent, something bitter, something burned. It clung to the silvery white-blond sheen of her hair. “Madam,” said Alice, taking a breath. “Your costume.” A pause. Miss de Vries’s eyes darted to meet hers. “What of it?” Alice made sure her voice didn’t sound weak. “Are you pleased with it?” Miss de Vries looked startled. She regarded herself in the long looking glass. She was a column of black crepe and jet ornaments, her train pooling behind her like


braiding in and out of what Wyn told me earlier. I genuinely convinced myself that was the kind of guy you wanted to be with. And you kept pushing the wedding off. You never wanted to talk about it. You never wanted to talk about anything. You were never mad at me. You never fought with me. It felt like you didn’t even miss me. I kept so much of what I was feeling from him, thinking the weight of my emotions would only drive him further from me, push him back behind a door I couldn’t open. And even after he told me that tonight, I felt trapped inside myself, unable to get the words out. Now they wriggle in my gut, burrowing deeper, gaining ground. As soon as I make the decision, time accordions. The steep climb up the bluff, the length of the patio, the creaky stairs, the hallway—it all blurs past and I’m standing at his door. Knocking quietly. Maybe have been for a while, even, because the door’s already swinging open, as if he’s been waiting. That would explain why he’s fully dressed, but not why he looks so surprised. Not the way his lips part and his brow furrows as I seem to float into the room, inflated with helium-light purpose. And it definitely wouldn’t explain the packed luggage sitting by the door. At the sight of it, a hot coal slips down my throat, hits the deepest pit of my stomach and sizzles. “You’re leaving?” His steel-gray gaze flicks back toward his luggage. “I thought that might be easiest.” “Easiest,” I murmur. “How? Only like three flights leave the airport a day, and none of those departs in the dead of night.” He grabs the corner of the door and clicks it shut behind me. “I don’t know,” he admits. Finally, I manage, “No.” His brow lifts. “No, what?” “We’re not done fighting,” I say. “I thought we weren’t fighting,” he says. I step in close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. “We’re in an all-out brawl.” He looks away, the corners of his mouth twisting downward. “About what?” “For starters, about the fact that you packed your bags up in the night,” I say, pressing closer. He takes a half step back. My voice wobbles. “And I don’t want you to go.” His hands come to my hips, holding me but keeping me at a distance. “I shouldn’t have come in the first place,” he says. “This is all my fault.” “No, it’s not,” I say. “It is,” he says, insistent. I press closer. Our chests brush. “There,” I say. “There what?” “Something else we have to fight about,” I say. Faintly, grudgingly, he smiles. It doesn’t last. He glances away, his brow tightening. “I’m so fucking sorry, Harriet,” he says. “If I’d just stayed away this week like I said I would . . .” I set my hands on his shoulders, and his eyes snap to mine, a current flaring in them. I push down gently, and he sits at


of coils. Buck held on till he was on a line straight above Thornton; then he turned, and with the speed of an express train headed down upon him. Thornton saw him coming, and, as Buck struck him like a battering ram, with the whole force of the current behind him, he reached up and closed with both arms around the shaggy neck. Hans snubbed the rope around the tree, and Buck and Thornton were jerked under the water. Strangling, suffocating, sometimes one uppermost and sometimes the other, dragging over the jagged bottom, smashing against rocks and snags, they veered in to the bank. Thornton came to, belly downward and being violently propelled back and forth across a drift log by Hans and Pete. His first glance was for Buck, over whose limp and apparently lifeless body Nig was setting up a howl, while Skeet was licking the wet face and closed eyes. Thornton was himself bruised and battered, and he went carefully over Buck's body, when he had been brought around, finding three broken ribs. "That settles it," he announced. "We camp right here." And camp they did, till Buck's ribs knitted and he was able to travel. That winter, at Dawson, Buck performed another exploit, not so heroic, perhaps, but one that put his name many notches higher on the totem-pole of Alaskan fame. This exploit was particularly gratifying to the three men; for they stood in need of the outfit which it furnished, and were enabled to make a long-desired trip into the virgin East, where miners had not yet appeared. It was brought about by a conversation in the Eldorado Saloon, in which men waxed boastful of their favorite dogs. Buck, because of his record, was the target for these men, and Thornton was driven stoutly to defend him. At the end of half an hour one man stated that his dog could start a sled with five hundred pounds and walk off with it; a second bragged six hundred for his dog; and a third, seven hundred. "Pooh! pooh!" said John Thornton; "Buck can start a thousand pounds." "And break it out? and walk off with it for a hundred yards?" demanded Matthewson, a Bonanza King, he of the seven hundred vaunt. "And break it out, and walk off with it for a hundred yards," John Thornton said coolly. "Well," Matthewson said, slowly and deliberately, so that all could hear, "I've got a thousand dollars that says he can't. And there it is." So saying, he slammed a sack of gold dust of the size of a bologna sausage down upon the bar. Nobody spoke. Thornton's bluff, if bluff it was, had been called. He could feel a flush of warm blood creeping up his face. His tongue had tricked him. He did not know whether Buck could start a thousand pounds. Half a ton! The enormousness of it appalled him. He had great faith in Buck's strength and had often thought him capable of starting such a load; but never, as now, had he faced the


and lagoon to make a raised jetty four feet high. The top of this was covered with a thin layer of soil and coarse grass and shaded with young palm trees. There was not enough soil for them to grow to any height and when they reached perhaps twenty feet they fell and dried, forming a criss-cross pattern of trunks, very convenient to sit on. The palms that still stood made a green roof, covered on the underside with a quivering tangle of reflections from the lagoon. Ralph hauled himself onto this platform, noted the coolness and shade, shut one eye, and decided that the shadows on his body were really green. He picked his way to the seaward edge of the platform and stood looking down into the water. It was clear to the bottom and bright with the efflorescence of tropical weed and coral. A school of tiny, glittering fish flicked hither and thither. Ralph spoke to himself, sounding the bass strings of delight. "Whizzoh!" Beyond the platform there was more enchantment. Some act of God--a typhoon perhaps, or the storm that had accompanied his own arrival--had banked sand inside the lagoon so that there was a long, deep pool in the beach with a high ledge of pink granite at the further end. Ralph had been deceived before now by the specious appearance of depth in a beach pool and he approached this one preparing to be disappointed. But the island ran true to form and the incredible pool, which clearly was only invaded by the sea at high tide, was so deep at one end as to be dark green. Ralph inspected the whole thirty yards carefully and then plunged in. The water was warmer than his blood and he might have been swimming in a huge bath. Piggy appeared again, sat on the rocky ledge, and watched Ralph's green and white body enviously. "You can't half swim." "Piggy." Piggy took off his shoes and socks, ranged them carefully on the ledge, and tested the water with one toe. "It's hot!" "What did you expect?" "I didn't expect nothing. My auntie--" "Sucks to your auntie!" Ralph did a surface dive and swam under water with his eyes open; the sandy edge of the pool loomed up like a hillside. He turned over, holding his nose, and a golden light danced and shattered just over his face. Piggy was looking determined and began to take off his shorts. Presently he was palely and fatly naked. He tiptoed down the sandy side of the pool, and sat there up to his neck in water smiling proudly at Ralph. "Aren't you going to swim?" Piggy shook his head. "I can't swim. I wasn't allowed. My asthma--" "Sucks to your ass-mar!" Piggy bore this with a sort of humble patience. "You can't half swim well." Ralph paddled backwards down the slope, immersed his mouth and blew a jet of water into the air. Then he lifted his chin and spoke. "I could swim when I was five. Daddy taught me. He's a


that he shuddered at the thought of having been connected with her. "It just shows how damned weak I am," he said to himself. The adventure was like a blunder that one had committed at a party so horrible that one felt nothing could be done to excuse it: the only remedy was to forget. His horror at the degradation he had suffered helped him. He was like a snake casting its skin and he looked upon the old covering with nausea. He exulted in the possession of himself once more; he realised how much of the delight of the world he had lost when he was absorbed in that madness which they called love; he had had enough of it; he did not want to be in love any more if love was that. Philip told Hayward something of what he had gone through. "Wasn't it Sophocles," he asked, "who prayed for the time when he would be delivered from the wild beast of passion that devoured his heart-strings?" Philip seemed really to be born again. He breathed the circumambient air as though he had never breathed it before, and he took a child's pleasure in all the facts of the world. He called his period of insanity six months' hard labour. Hayward had only been settled in London a few days when Philip received from Blackstable, where it had been sent, a card for a private view at some picture gallery. He took Hayward, and, on looking at the catalogue, saw that Lawson had a picture in it. "I suppose he sent the card," said Philip. "Let's go and find him, he's sure to be in front of his picture." This, a profile of Ruth Chalice, was tucked away in a corner, and Lawson was not far from it. He looked a little lost, in his large soft hat and loose, pale clothes, amongst the fashionable throng that had gathered for the private view. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm, and with his usual volubility told him that he had come to live in London, Ruth Chalice was a hussy, he had taken a studio, Paris was played out, he had a commission for a portrait, and they'd better dine together and have a good old talk. Philip reminded him of his acquaintance with Hayward, and was entertained to see that Lawson was slightly awed by Hayward's elegant clothes and grand manner. They sat upon him better than they had done in the shabby little studio which Lawson and Philip had shared. At dinner Lawson went on with his news. Flanagan had gone back to America. Clutton had disappeared. He had come to the conclusion that a man had no chance of doing anything so long as he was in contact with art and artists: the only thing was to get right away. To make the step easier he had quarrelled with all his friends in Paris. He developed a talent for telling them home truths, which made them bear with fortitude his declaration that he had done with that city


girl. "I do not know, Miss Porter," replied the young man, "unless we have discovered a runaway simian from the London Zoo who has brought back a European education to his jungle home. What do you make of it, Professor Porter?" he added, turning to the old man. Professor Archimedes Q. Porter adjusted his spectacles. "Ah, yes, indeed; yes indeed--most remarkable, most remarkable!" said the professor; "but I can add nothing further to what I have already remarked in elucidation of this truly momentous occurrence," and the professor turned slowly in the direction of the jungle. "But, papa," cried the girl, "you haven't said anything about it yet." "Tut, tut, child; tut, tut," responded Professor Porter, in a kindly and indulgent tone, "do not trouble your pretty head with such weighty and abstruse problems," and again he wandered slowly off in still another direction, his eyes bent upon the ground at his feet, his hands clasped behind him beneath the flowing tails of his coat. "I reckon the daffy old bounder don't know no more'n we do about it," growled the rat-faced sailor. "Keep a civil tongue in your head," cried the young man, his face paling in anger, at the insulting tone of the sailor. "You've murdered our officers and robbed us. We are absolutely in your power, but you'll treat Professor Porter and Miss Porter with respect or I'll break that vile neck of yours with my bare hands--guns or no guns," and the young fellow stepped so close to the rat-faced sailor that the latter, though he bore two revolvers and a villainous looking knife in his belt, slunk back abashed. "You damned coward," cried the young man. "You'd never dare shoot a man until his back was turned. You don't dare shoot me even then," and he deliberately turned his back full upon the sailor and walked nonchalantly away as if to put him to the test. The sailor's hand crept slyly to the butt of one of his revolvers; his wicked eyes glared vengefully at the retreating form of the young Englishman. The gaze of his fellows was upon him, but still he hesitated. At heart he was even a greater coward than Mr. William Cecil Clayton had imagined. Two keen eyes had watched every move of the party from the foliage of a nearby tree. Tarzan had seen the surprise caused by his notice, and while he could understand nothing of the spoken language of these strange people their gestures and facial expressions told him much. The act of the little rat-faced sailor in killing one of his comrades had aroused a strong dislike in Tarzan, and now that he saw him quarreling with the fine-looking young man his animosity was still further stirred. Tarzan had never seen the effects of a firearm before, though his books had taught him something of them, but when he saw the rat-faced one fingering the butt of his revolver he thought of the scene he had witnessed so short a time before, and naturally expected to see the young


who told me the lowborn have a choicer way to put it. The king eats, they say, and the Hand takes the shit." He threw back his head and roared his laughter. The echoes rang through the darkness, and all around them the dead of Winterfell seemed to watch with cold and disapproving eyes. Finally the laughter dwindled and stopped. Ned was still on one knee, his eyes upraised. "Damn it, Ned," the king complained. "You might at least humor me with a smile." "They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death," Ned said evenly. "Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor." "Come south with me, and I'll teach you how to laugh again," the 42 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN king promised. "You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done." This offer did surprise him. "Sansa is only eleven." Robert waved an impatient hand. "Old enough for betrothal. The marriage can wait a few years." The king smiled. "Now stand up and say yes, curse you." "Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Grace," Ned answered. He hesitated. "These honors are all so unexpected. May I have some time to consider? I need to tell my wife . . ." "Yes, yes, of course, tell Catelyn, sleep on it if you must." The king reached down, clasped Ned by the hand, and pulled him roughly to his feet. "Just don't keep me waiting too long. I am not the most patient of men." For a moment Eddard Stark was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. This was his place, here in the north. He looked at the stone figures all around them, breathed deep in the chill silence of the crypt. He could feel the eyes of the dead. They were all listening, he knew. And winter was coming. JON There were times-not many, but a few-when Jon Snow was glad he was a bastard. As he filled his wine cup once more from a passing flagon, it struck him that this might be one of them. He settled back in his place on the bench among the younger squires and drank. The sweet, fruity taste of surnmerwine filled his mouth and brought a smile to his lips. The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. White, gold, crimson: the direwolf of Stark, Baratheon's crowned stag, the lion of Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the


anything?” She looks away. “Taormina.” “Okay, then, Taormina. What are you doing in my apartment?” “I came to your office. I was leaving, but then you arrived. You weren’t…in great shape.” I do, I think, remember the stairs, the walk from the car. I made it to the first landing and there wasn’t anything left in my legs. Did I throw up? No idea. I sat there and leaned my back against the wall and—yeah. Someone came. “You saw the discharge sheet from St. Helen’s. You called and got Marcus.” “Yes. I hope that was okay.” “Lady, why don’t you just say what you came here to say. We did not get off to the best start and now you’re here in my apartment and I’m all kinds of fucked up. Just…get to it. Please.” “I wanted to make a deal.” “If it’s a plea deal, you’re talking to the wrong guy.” “It’s not a plea deal,” she snaps, but she looks brittle and maybe even scared. “If it’s a sex deal I’m not interested in that either.” “You made that clear, thank you.” “Well, sorry. Now I’m just being an asshole because I feel like hell. Come on, Ms. Denton. What’ve you got?” “I know something you probably want to hear. I want—I wanted something in exchange.” “What’s my end?” “I wanted you to train me.” She turns her head away. “To fight whom?” Zoegar the grammar freak would be pleased with himself. “An opponent bigger and stronger and heavier than I am. In a confined space.” “But now you look at me and you’re not sure.” “Someone messed you up pretty good, Mr. Sounder.” “I got shot.” “That was before. When you came to Victor’s.” “Marcus told you?” She stares at me. “Are you kidding? Everyone knows that. Victor ran the security footage over dessert. It was basically the first thing I saw after I got the lipstick out of my eyes.” “Gee, thanks, Vic.” “I guess you guys are friends or something. I feel kind of stupid for what happened.” “Yeah, you ought to. More than stupid. That was some coercive shit.” “I know.” “You’re fucking lucky Victor didn’t just cancel your subscription.” “She never has before.” That’s a surprise, sort of. Maybe they’ve been escalating. Maybe Victor’s getting a little bit less picky in her old age. I hope not. The club runs on a high wire between vice and horror, and she’s what keeps it up there. If she slips, it’ll get really bad. “How long have you been going?” “A few months. Mac got us in. Business thing.” “What you tried on me…If that’s your jam I’m not teaching you shit.” The brittle look again. “It’s not. Who did this to you?” I tell her the truth. “Stefan.” For a cold minute, I swear, she’s about to ask “Stefan who?” and then she gets it. “You fought Stefan Tonfamecasca?” “No.” “But you said—” “He laughed at me, Ms. Denton. He got right up in my face and he laughed hard enough to cause bruising. That’s the


in me, watching from 1995, was bewildered by it all. I whispered to her: “It’s not what you think.” 26 I have some questions for you. Did you know it was Robbie? Did you at least know it wasn’t Omar? Did you hear the rumors about some older guy and realize, when they arrested him, the bullet you’d dodged? Did Robbie see something? Did he walk in on you and Thalia? Did she tell you he was growing suspicious? Did she tell you he knew? Did she tell you that one night, early that spring, she’d confessed it all to Robbie—or at least confessed that she was seeing someone, even if he didn’t know it was you? Did she tell you he was angry? That she was scared of him? When they came around asking questions, did you refrain from implicating Robbie, from mentioning that he might have a motive, because if you fingered him, he could finger you? Did you work it out with him, even? Make meaningful eye contact across the dining hall, the kind that said We’d both do best to keep our mouths shut? Did you accept that job in Bulgaria before Thalia died? Did you take the job and tell her and she was mad that you were leaving the entire country, and let something slip to Robbie? Or did you conduct a frantic job search the week after her death, knowing if you stayed the rumors about you might accumulate, stick? Before they arrested Omar, did you worry they’d get you? Did you lie awake thinking about yourself, rather than what had happened to Thalia? Did you thank God for your alibi, for chatting with me as you rolled the timpani away? Did you make sure your wife remembered what time you came home? Have you thought what would have happened if you’d come forward? If you’d sacrificed everything to help Omar? To find justice for Thalia, whom I’m sure you believe you loved? It’s a big ask, I know. It would ruin your marriage, your career. (Careers and marriages have been ruined for less.) But you could have told your own version of the story. She wasn’t there to contradict you. Have you thought about the cavity searches that happen in prison? Have you thought about the way prison guards exact their own arbitrary justice, kicking a guy’s teeth in because he didn’t show enough respect? Have you considered how things might have turned out had the adult closest to Thalia at Granby been a voice of wisdom, someone she could confide in, someone who would notice that she was miserable with Robbie, that she wasn’t eating, that he was angry and controlling? If you had done the difficult work of adulthood and intervened—what then? Would she have lived? Do you sleep well? Do you dream? Is there forgiveness, in your dreams? 27 Monday morning, I gave up on a frustrating Google search and texted Yahav to ask what would happen if new evidence were discovered this late. What kind of evidence? he wrote. Well,


as a pitiful runty, dirty kitten when I was nine years old, and he’d been my joy and treasure, sleeping with me for part of the night before he got up to prowl. He wasn’t too proud to come when I called him at the back door, even after months away; when I visited, he would take up his old post in my room, though my parents said he ignored it when I was at school. Now a cat of advanced years, he peered down at my husband with what I imagined was a crotchety but curious mien: I know who she is, I remember her. Now who the hell are you? Dan, who would take much in stride that week, laughed and gave Sebastian’s ears a scratch, and my old cat immediately began to purr. * * * The day after meeting Dan, my parents had taken me to a furniture store near campus. Now a junior, I had recently moved out of the dorm and into a small apartment in a hundred-year-old building, and the only furniture I had was a twin bed and a cheap white laminate desk. As we walked through the aisles, looking at shelves and dressers, my mother said, “I think Dan has decided that he’s going to marry you.” “Stop,” I told her. “You always used to say that you’d only marry someone smarter than you.” Her voice had taken on the gleeful pitch it did whenever she was teasing me, or reminding me of what an absolute dork I’d been. I couldn’t remember saying that to her, but now it struck me as insufferable: What had I even meant by it? How had I imagined that I would judge such a thing? Why were we talking about marriage at all? “We’re smart in different ways,” I said feebly, which made her laugh. In truth, I thought Dan was probably smarter than me, though he was so good-natured—funny, quick to smile or let out a laugh louder than his natural speaking voice, kind and approachable in his glasses and rotating selection of T-shirts—that in the early weeks of our friendship I nearly overlooked how brilliant he was. He had a strong competitive streak, I soon learned—in classes filled with future doctors and engineers, he liked setting the curve; when we played games, he always wanted to win—but he was also far more interested in what he didn’t know than what he did, patient and unfailingly steady. What made me start to think that his was perhaps not the same run-of-the-mill intelligence nearly everyone we knew in college possessed was watching him explain an organic chemistry lesson to a group of friends. He was a natural teacher, able to break things down step-by-step in a way I was sure I’d never been able to do with any material, even material I knew quite well, but what impressed me most was how readily he offered assistance to anyone who needed help, without expecting anything in return. I have the better memory by far, but to this day


right when he scoffs at the mention of gods. They are alone. * * * They can’t avoid banquets forever, so the next day, they gather in the dining hall at the king’s request. The place has changed after all these years under Menelaus. There are more torches, more weapons on the walls, more cowhide on the floor, more dogs gnawing at the bones, and more women. They bring spiced meat and cheese to the table without the battered, downcast look of helots; they keep smiling, and they wear bright, clean tunics. Menelaus sits at the head of the table and, around him, Helen and the best of his warriors. Among them there is an ugly man with a thick beard and a broken nose—“Cynisca’s husband,” Castor says when Clytemnestra asks about him. “You remember her, I am sure?” She nods. “What happened to her?” Castor looks as the man laughs and cheers with Menelaus. “Her family is more and more powerful. They are among the few Spartans Menelaus trusts. Cynisca is often in the megaron, whispering in the king’s ear.” “Where is she now?” “Resting, I believe. She didn’t take Tyndareus’s death well.” “Do you know where she lives?” Castor frowns. “Near the dyers’ shops, I have heard. Why?” Clytemnestra shrugs. “I am just surprised that she isn’t here.” A servant pours some wine for Castor, smiling and pressing her body against him as she passes, but Castor ignores her. Clytemnestra remembers all the times she saw her brother sneak away from the servants’ quarters after spending the night with a girl there. “You used to spend a lot of time in bed with servants,” she says. “I took my fair share, yes.” Castor grins, and for a second, his face looks like it used to. Then he lowers his voice. “But these girls already have to entertain Menelaus.” Clytemnestra follows the servant with her eyes as she fills wine cups along the table. She leans back every time she passes one of Menelaus’s warriors, and when they call for her, she startles. It is true what Tyndareus used to say, Clytemnestra muses. No matter how much kindness you show her, a slave will never learn to love you, for she has known too much pain. Helen stands and walks away from her husband to sit next to her daughter. Little Hermione is eating figs with Polydeuces, and whenever her hands are sticky, he wipes them carefully with a piece of cloth, as if she were his own child. Menelaus seems not to notice. Hermione has her father’s hair, like fire-forged bronze, and Helen’s eyes, light as seawater. But where her mother’s face is delicate as a pearl, Hermione’s is sharp as a dagger. She is an odd beauty. Meat, cheese, and olives are served as the loud chatter echoes from the walls. Phoebe and Philonoe are discussing the man Phoebe is meant to marry, while Timandra and Castor gobble food and wine. Leda is chewing a piece of spiced lamb without talking to anyone, and Clytemnestra moves closer to her


Not a negative word was written.

It’s changed, we said. It’s changed at last.

But then it changed again. Oh, how it changed.

Stories rolled in, like breakers on a beach. First a rubbish hit piece by a

hack biographer of Pa, who said I’d thrown a tantrum before the wedding.

Then a work of fiction about Meg making her staff miserable, driving

them too hard, committing the unpardonable sin of emailing people early

in the morning. (She just happened to be up at that hour, trying to stay in

touch with night-owl friends back in America—she didn’t expect an

instant reply.) She was also said to have driven our assistant to quit; in fact

that assistant was asked to resign by Palace HR after we showed them

evidence she’d traded on her position with Meg to get freebies. But

because we couldn’t speak publicly about the reasons for the assistant’s

departure, rumors filled the void. In many ways that was the true start of

all the troubles. Shortly thereafter, the “Duchess Difficult” narrative began

appearing in all the papers.

Next came a novella in one of the tabloids about the tiara. The article

said Meg had demanded a certain tiara that had belonged to Mummy, and

when the Queen refused, I’d thrown a fit: What Meghan wants, Meghan

gets!

Days later came the coup de grace: from a royal correspondent, a sci-fi

fantasy describing the “growing froideur” (good Lord) between Kate and

Meg, claiming that, according to “two sources,” Meg had reduced Kate to

tears about the bridesmaids’ dresses.

376

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

This particular royal correspondent had always made me ill. She’d

always, always got stuff wrong. But this felt more than wrong.

I read the story in disbelief. Meg didn’t. She still wasn’t reading

anything. She heard about it, however, since it was the only thing being

discussed in Britain for the next twenty-four hours, and as long as I live

I'll never forget the tone of her voice as she looked me in the eye and said:

 <p


different way when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds. But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame. Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around. 'What room is this? Where have I been brought to?' said Oliver. 'This is not the place I went to sleep in.' He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed's head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work. 'Hush, my dear,' said the old lady softly. 'You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad,--as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear!' With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck. 'Save us!' said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. 'What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!' 'Perhaps she does see me,' whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; 'perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.' 'That was the fever, my dear,' said the old lady mildly. 'I suppose it was,' replied Oliver, 'because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can't know anything about me though,' added Oliver after a moment's silence. 'If she had seen me hurt, it would have made here sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.' The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and


something akin to the Quilt, but instead of threads they saw pathways on the ground, alit in bronze. The eldest saw the paths taken in the past, the youngest the paths to be taken in the future. Io had heard of Bianca Rossi’s twins. The mob queen of the Silts had started in “acquisitions,” otherwise known as smuggling. She procured and sold the kinds of things you couldn’t get in an ordinary shop: medicine, machine parts, rare art, old-world remnants, even services. You wanted a pre-Collapse oak cabinet? Home remedies made from the bones of leviathans beached on the shores of coastal cities? For the right price, Bianca was your girl. Her slow, meticulous rise to her throne of shattered jaws was owed partly to her own wits and partly to the twins. If her runners strayed on their way back with the acquisition, Grizz knew. If a buyer was about to run off with both the money and the goods, Minos knew. Bianca took care of the rest. After the Riots, she began investing her earnings in the Fortuna Club, hiring new members, opening new parlors. By the end, the little smuggler girl had taken over the Silts. “What was the delivery you and Minos were overseeing?” asked Io. “Could the wraith have been involved?” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “The wraith?” Io shook herself at the memory of the flaky skin, the smell of decay. “I mean the woman last night.” He made a quiet grunt. “The shipment was spirits from our suppliers in Nanzy. None of it was harmed during the attack. She never so much as glanced at it. Her focus was solely on Minos.” “Did you get the impression he knew her? Or she him?” “No. Grizz—his twin—was there, too. He said they’d never seen her before.” They turned onto the North Walkway. No outliers were tolling passersby today, but it was still early. Io watched the tide consume the paved streets below, a tongue of dark blue licking back and forth at the stones. The first tide bells began ringing across the city, but storefronts and ground entrances had already been boarded up. As the southernmost district, the Silts were first hit by the tide, which then traveled up through the rest of Alante. In an hour, the water would reach five feet. During neo-monsoon season, it was known to rise to fifteen. “What of the victim last night?” Edei asked when the bells receded. Io told him: she had been hired by Isidora Magnussen, who had recently begun suspecting her husband wasn’t actually attending the grace-born support meetings he claimed to be at every week. His office specialized in investments—“cons” was the better word for it—Io had found out early in her investigation. She suspected Jarl influenced his clients to invest using his grace-born powers. Yesterday, Io had arrived at Isidora’s just as the officers were leaving. “I’m sorry,” Io had started saying, “I tried to save him—” She was silenced by the woman’s bosom, against which she had been


that this was fortunate. She would have had to explain her fingerprints if she touched the other one. She hears Ethan’s voice coming down the stairs. “Yes, my wife is doing compressions.” A pause. “No, there was no pulse.” Seconds later, Ethan appears in the living room dressed in a t-shirt and joggers, holding his phone at his side. “I thought you were going to start CPR?” On her knees beside Brody, Sloane sinks back onto her heels. “I said it would look better if we do. It’s not like you gave him a chance to survive. Shooting him in the head like that.” Ethan puts his hands on his head. Sloane notices his hair is starting to gray at the temples. He looks at Brody’s body lying beside her, before his eyes rest on hers. “What happened? Why did you let him in?” “He knocked on the door, and I couldn’t tell who it was. I asked, you know, who’s there?, before opening the door, and he said he was your partner, Jonah. As soon as I unlocked the door, he came rushing in with a gun.” She motions toward the pistol now sitting on the coffee table. Ethan’s eyes trail hers. “He started waving it around, saying crazy things,” she continues. “Just like he did in the garage yesterday. Demanding to know if I’d told you about our affair and why I hadn’t done something to end the investigation. As if I could do anything. I told him to leave, immediately, and then he took a wild shot at me.” She waves her hand in the air for emphasis. “That’s when I yelled for you.” Outside, the wail of sirens grows closer as the emergency responders turn onto their street. Ethan looks toward the flames flickering through the shattered glass panel of their fireplace. Sloane follows his gaze. “He said he’d kill me for not helping him look innocent.” The sirens fill their quiet street, no doubt drawing the attention of all their neighbors, before coming to a stop in front of their house. Red lights flicker outside their front window as Sloane presses the heel of her hand on Brody’s sternum. “We’ll stick to what we were going to tell your partner tomorrow. That you just found out about my affair with Brody tonight.” Ethan nods as he backs toward the door to let them in. The doorbell rings as Sloane starts compressions. She stares into Brody’s lifeless hazel eyes and the growing puddle of blood mixed with a splatter of brain matter beneath his head. Ethan leads two medics, one pushing a stretcher, into their living room. They are followed by four EMT firefighters. “My wife’s an ER doctor,” she hears Ethan say. She continues to compress Brody’s chest when the two medics reach her side. “He was shot once in the head,” Sloane tells them. “He immediately collapsed and went pulseless. I’ve been doing CPR for five minutes.” After allowing the emergency responders to take over the resuscitation efforts, Sloane moves away from Brody’s side. She can


few mint leaves around our old campfire. Since we gathered these some distance away, Rue will understand I’ve been here, while they’ll mean nothing to the Careers. 227 In less than an hour, I’m at the place where we agreed to have the third fire and I know something has gone amiss. The wood has been neatly arranged, expertly interspersed with tinder, but it has never been lit. Rue set up the fire but never made it back here. Somewhere between the second column of smoke I spied before I blew up the supplies and this point, she ran into trouble. I have to remind myself she’s still alive. Or is she? Could the cannon shot announcing her death have come in the wee hours of the morning when even my good ear was too broken to pick it up? Will she appear in the sky tonight? No, I refuse to believe it. There could be a hundred other explanations. She could have lost her way. Run into a pack of predators or another tribute, like Thresh, and had to hide. Whatever hap- pened, I’m almost certain she’s stuck out there, somewhere between the second fire and the unlit one at my feet. Some- thing is keeping her up a tree. I think I’ll go hunt it down. It’s a relief to be doing something after sitting around all af- ternoon. I creep silently through the shadows, letting them conceal me. But nothing seems suspicious. There’s no sign of any kind of struggle, no disruption of the needles on the ground. I’ve stopped for just a moment when I hear it. I have to cock my head around to the side to be sure, but there it is again. Rue’s four-note tune coming out of a mockingjay’s mouth. The one that means she’s all right. I grin and move in the direction of the bird. Another just a short distance ahead, picks up on the handful of notes. Rue 228 has been singing to them, and recently. Otherwise they’d have taken up some other song. My eyes lift up into the trees, searching for a sign of her. I swallow and sing softly back, hop- ing she’ll know it’s safe to join me. A mockingjay repeats the melody to me. And that’s when I hear the scream. It’s a child’s scream, a young girl’s scream, there’s no one in the arena capable of making that sound except Rue. And now I’m running, knowing this may be a trap, knowing the three Careers may be poised to attack me, but I can’t help myself. There’s another high-pitched cry, this time my name. “Katniss! Katniss!” “Rue!” I shout back, so she knows I’m near. So, they know I’m near, and hopefully the girl who has attacked them with tracker jackers and gotten an eleven they still can’t explain will be enough to pull their attention away from her. “Rue! I’m coming!” When I break into the clearing, she’s on the ground, hope- lessly entangled in a net. She just has time to reach her


imagined what it must feel like to be divinely beautiful?" "Well now, no, I haven't," confessed Matthew ingenuously. "I have, often. Which would you rather be if you had the choice-divinely beautiful or dazzlingly clever or angelically good?" "Well now, I-I don't know exactly." "Neither do I. I can never decide. But it doesn't make much real difference for it isn't likely I'll ever be either. It's certain I'll never be angelically good. Mrs. Spencer says-oh, Mr. Cuthbert! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!!!" That was not what Mrs. Spencer had said; neither had the child tumbled out of the buggy nor had Matthew done anything astonishing. They had simply rounded a curve in the road and found themselves in the "Avenue." The "Avenue," so called by the Newbridge people, was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with huge, wide-spreading apple-trees, planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer. Overhead was one long canopy of snowy fragrant bloom. Below the boughs the air was full of a purple twilight and far ahead a glimpse of painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end of a cathedral aisle. Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above. Even when they had passed out and were driving down the long slope to Newbridge she never moved or spoke. Still with rapt face she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that say visions trooping splendidly across that glowing background. Through Newbridge, a bustling little village where dogs barked at them and small boys hooted and curious faces peered from the windows, they drove, still in silence. When three more miles had dropped away behind them the child had not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as energetically as she could talk. "I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry," Matthew ventured to say at last, accounting for her long visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could think of. "But we haven't very far to go now-only another mile." She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and looked at him with the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wondering afar, star-led. "Oh, Mr. Cuthbert," she whispered, "that place we came through-that white place-what was it?" "Well now, you must mean the Avenue," said Matthew after a few moments' profound reflection. "It is a kind of pretty place." "Pretty? Oh, PRETTY doesn't seem the right word to use. Nor beautiful, either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful-wonderful. It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here"-she put one hand on her breast-"it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?" "Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had." "I have it lots of time-whenever I see


that I don’t care to have, like playing nice and caring about people’s feelings and wiping the corners of my mouth with a napkin.” A 1989 feature in an arts journal discussed Alice’s unique blend of conceptualism and crafting, her subtle critique of gender roles, her connection to and refutation of Louise Bourgeois’s own sculptures. There were photographs of her at Studio 54 with Andy Warhol, arm draped around her shaggy-haired girlfriend. In interviews she called her father a Nazi and said that money had crucified the art world. She spoke freely of doing cocaine and heroin. She made broad metaphorical statements about her sculptures: I’m interested in the way metal dissolves in fire, in the heaviness of steel submitting to the lightness of a flame. In 1992, when Basket 3 was purchased by the de Young, an article in the San Francisco Chronicle described Alice on the stage in sunglasses, smoking a pipe. “The artist declined to answer any questions.” Following that article, news about Alice stopped, as if she had vanished from the earth. Now Maud drove along Highway One, the printed design for the garden in a cardboard tube on the passenger seat. Ahead, the road rolled hypnotically, teasing the ocean as if it would dive into its waters, before once again cleaving to the brindled hills. The Pacific disappeared from view behind a cloak of mountains. When the GPS announced that she’d arrived at her destination, Maud pulled the car onto the shoulder. A battered metal sign read “Esperanza,” and another read “Keep Out.” With the cardboard tube tucked under her arm, she climbed the gate that closed off a drive and dropped to the other side. Fields of native buckeye and yarrow rambled to a two-story gabled farmhouse that looked as if it dated from the mid-nineteenth century. Beyond were two barns. Solar panels glittered on all the tin roofs. No one answered when Maud knocked on the front door. After she knocked again, Alice appeared from around the side of the porch, as Clark lumbered behind. At the sight of Maud, he moved in front of Alice. “You don’t have to take her out, Clarkie,” Alice said, stroking his back. Barefoot despite the brisk weather, she wore a black T-shirt and loose overalls smudged with paint and grease. “You made it.” “You were right about the gate being low.” “It’s symbolic. I have a gun,” Alice said. “You mind waiting? I’m finishing a coat of paint.” “Sure,” Maud said. Alice had already made her climb a gate that she could have left open. And now she was going to make her sit and wait. She followed her and Clark around to the side of the house. She’d thought that Alice had given up art, but apparently she now painted. Porches, it turned out. A drop cloth covered the floorboards and a paintbrush balanced on a rusty coffee tin depicting a 1950s housewife with a tray of doughnuts. Inside was gooey white paint that looked homemade and let off the smell of linseed. Alice pointed at an


music!” “Would you s-s-stop?” Hap snapped. “We d-don’t know who they are. You could g-get ow.” “But they can’t be bad guys,” Rambo said. “They’re playing music! No one bad likes music.” “What are you talking about?” Vic asked, his breaths short and quick. “What music? I don’t … hear…” He lost his words when he saw what lay ahead. The road continued on. The pylons—as uniform as they’d been when they first saw them—blinked, the air still filled with the humming current. But there, sitting off the other side of the road, was a house. It was unlike any house Vic had ever seen in Dad’s books. For one, it was floating a few feet above the ground, the air underneath shimmering just like the spaces between the pylons. The house itself was enormous, at least four stories tall, made of wood and brick painted a furious shade of red. White trim surrounded windows—some large and square, others small and circular, like portholes on a ship. Three smokestacks rose off the roof of the house, each belching thick, black clouds, creating a dirty haze against the blue of the sky. The smokestacks were surrounded by four turrets. On top of the turrets were billowing red and white flags, though Vic was too far away to make out the design on them. The house creaked and groaned as it floated, listing slowly from side to side. It took Vic a moment to hear what Rambo had heard above the hum of the road. Music. Music coming from the house. It was loud, brash. It wasn’t like Dad’s records. No sweet horns, no voices singing about love and dancing cheek to cheek. It sounded as if someone was punching the keys of a wheezy organ, the tune as whimsical as a technicolor nightmare. “What is it?” he heard himself ask. “N-nothing g-good,” Hap muttered, still struggling with Rambo. “How gaudy,” Nurse Ratched said as she pulled up beside them. “I like it.” Vic didn’t see anyone moving in or around the house. The symbol on the flags didn’t appear to be the same one he’d seen on the uniforms of those who’d come to the forest in the flying whale. Of course, that meant little. Whoever lived inside the house was a stranger. Vic didn’t trust strangers, not after all he’d seen. Hap seemed to be of the same mind. “We should f-find a w-way around it. Don’t let them know we’re h-here.” “Why?” Rambo demanded. “I want to go inside. I want to see what it looks like!” “Even if the inhabitants eat vacuums?” Nurse Ratched asked. Rambo stopped moving. “But … but I’m a vacuum.” “Exactly,” Nurse Ratched said. “You would be eaten. We should listen to Hap. It would be best if we were to avoid the house. We should go back into the forest and go around. It is safer that way.” Vic watched as the smoke curled into the sky above the house like a wayward storm cloud. And though he was wary, he too felt the strange


in a kind of forced suspension. I stay home with my family, and we continue to mourn in our own time, our own space, our own ways. Much as I want the pandemic to end, I find that I’m almost thankful to avoid any semblance of a normal life. I suspect I’m not the only person in mourning who finds even the possibility of “normal” to be an utterly foreign concept; who wonders how it will feel to face not just one place, but every place, without the person I’ve lost. Perhaps this is the opposite of that searching phase of grief I’ve heard about, when you imagine that you can somehow find and recover your loved one who died—I know that no matter where I go now, she won’t be found. Here at home, the territory of loss does not change: I begin to understand how my grief fills this space; I know its height and its breadth. Every room holds memories of it. This is where I had my last conversation with my mother. This is where I got the call telling me that she was gone. This is where I livestreamed her funeral. This is where I lost her, but it is also the last place I had her, had a living parent at all. Try as I might, I’m unable to shake the feeling that as long as I am here, I am still with her, keeping my vigil in the only way I can. Grief is a chasm, one I can lose myself in without trying. And yet it’s not quite the unyielding abyss I feared it would be. I thought they would feel farther away—that they would both be lost to me, and that it was what I deserved. But now, sometimes, I feel they are so close, as if they were only in the next room, as if one of them might hear me if I called. It’s not a presence, exactly. But not an absence, either. I don’t know where my mother is, if she is. I don’t know the shape or form, weight or depth of her existence now. I know that some part of her isn’t gone, because I feel her love and experience her care like a living thing. I hear her voice speaking to me. And though my father felt so far from me after he died, he no longer feels so distant, lost beyond my reach—it’s as if she has given a part of him back to me now that they are wherever they are, together, my ancestors by love and choice if not by blood. * * * In October, on what would have been my mother’s sixty-ninth birthday, I write her a letter and buy a nice meal to eat at home with my family—nothing fancy, nothing my mom had ever made for me, just something I know she would have enjoyed. (She always, until her final days, ate quickly and with much gusto, a trait I’m sure I got from her.) I can’t visit her grave,


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

not remove this. This header should be the first thing seen when anyone starts to view the etext. Do not change or edit it without written permission. The words are carefully chosen to provide users with the information they need to understand what they may and may not do with the etext. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These Etexts Are Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get etexts, and further information, is included below. We need your donations. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541 Title: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man Author: James Joyce Release Date: July, 2003 [Etext# 4217] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on December 8, 2001] [This file was updated on November 13, 2003] Edition: 11 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII Project Gutenberg's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce ***********This file should be named prtrt11.txt or prtrt11.zip************ Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, prtrt12.txt VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, prtrt11a.txt This etext was prepared by Col Choat colchoat@gutenberg.net.au Project Gutenberg Etexts are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not keep etexts in compliance with any particular paper edition. We are now trying to release all our etexts one year in advance of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, even years after the official publication date. Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment and editing by those who wish to do so. Most people start at our sites at: http://gutenberg.net or http://promo.net/pg These Web sites include award-winning information about Project Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new etexts, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). Those of you who want to download any Etext before announcement can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03 Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90 Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, as it appears in our Newsletters. Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The time


nineteenth century.” I’d have preferred a package of bagels. Or a latte. “Thanks.” “It’s quite valuable. I’m not sure what it’s worth but it’s signed.” Turning it over, I see the artist’s name in Japanese characters. “Sell it if you want. Or keep it. Put it somewhere in your new place, once you’re back on your feet.” What is it worth? I wonder. It would be rude to ask. But if I can get even a hundred bucks for it, I’m selling it. I appreciate the sentiment, but money is more important than a trinket right now. “And…,” she says, digging deeper into the pack, removing a brown paper sack, “breakfast.” That’s more like it. My stomach churns with the promise of food. Free food. “Shall we eat on the beach? Watch the sunrise?” Before I can answer, she’s moving toward the path. She calls over her shoulder, “Your car is safe. I jog here every morning. No one ever comes by.” I trail her down to the ocean. * * * We settle on a driftwood log, bleached soft and gray, and the woman unpacks the paper sack. “I’m Hazel,” she says as she passes me a roll covered in seeds. “I baked these a couple of days ago. I couldn’t make anything fresh without Benjamin noticing.” Benjamin. The husband. The sadist. “So, what’s your story?” she asks, setting a shiny red apple on my lap. “Why do you live in your car?” Do I tell her that I was a successful restauranteur? That I’d finally manifested my dream when COVID hit? That I’d done everything in my power—legitimate and then illegal and finally immoral—to keep my business going? But I can’t. “Pandemic,” I mutter, biting into the bun. It’s light and moist and filled with peanut butter and honey. It’s the taste of my childhood and my throat clogs with longing for a simpler time. “It hit a lot of people hard,” she says, eyes on the horizon. “But Benjamin made even more money.” “What’s your story?” I ask. “What do you do?” She turns to face me then. “I do what I’m told.” “By Benjamin?” Her eyes return to the sea. “Yep.” “Surely you have your own life.” Her response is a question. “What’s your name?” For some reason, I hesitate, consider giving her a fake. But finally I say, “I’m Lee.” “Well, Lee, my relationship doesn’t allow me to have my own life.” “I don’t get it.” She looks at the Apple Watch on her wrist. “Shit.” She scrambles to her feet. “I have to be home by six-thirty.” “Why?” “I’ll be punished.” “That doesn’t sound like a marriage, Hazel. It sounds like a master and a slave.” “That’s exactly what it is.” She is already scrambling over the rocks toward the path before I can ask her if she means it. 8 THE NEXT DAY IS PAYDAY. It’s also my day off, but I go into the diner early to collect my money. I’d hoped that Hazel would come by again with a pilfered breakfast and a


these to distract me. He halts in 227/551 front of me, and I’m seared by his intensity. He gazes down, wide unreadable eyes burning into mine. I swallow. “I understand you have issues, Mrs. Grey,” he says silkily, and he pulls something from the back pocket of his jeans. I can’t tear my gaze from his, but hear him unfold a piece of paper. He holds it up, and glancing briefly in its direc- tion, I recognize my e-mail. My gaze returns to his, as his eyes blaze bright with anger. “Yes, I have issues,” I whisper, feeling breathless. I need distance if we’re going to discuss this. But before I can step back, he leans down and runs his nose along mine. My eyes flutter to a close as I welcome his unexpected, gentle touch. “So do I,” he whispers against my skin, and I open my eyes at his words. He straightens and gazes intently at me once more. “I think I’m familiar with your issues, Christian.” My voice is wry, and he narrows his eyes, suppressing the amusement that sparks there momentarily. Are we going to fight? I take a precautionary step back. I must physically distance my- self from him—from his smell, his look, his distracting body in those hot jeans. He frowns as I move away. “Why did you fly back from New York?” I whisper. Let’s get this over and done with. “You know why.” His tone carries a warning ring. “Because I went out with Kate?” “Because you went back on your word, and you defied me, putting yourself at unnecessary risk.” “Went back on my word? Is that how you see it?” I gasp, ignoring the rest of his sentence. “Yes.” Holy crap. Talk about overreaction! I start to roll my eyes but stop when he scowls at me. “Christian, I changed my mind,” I explain slowly, patiently as if he’s a child. “I’m a woman. We’re renowned for it. That’s what we do.” He blinks at me as if he doesn’t comprehend this. “If I had thought for one minute that you would cancel your business trip . . .” Words fail me. I realize I don’t know what to say. I am momentarily catapulted back to the argument over our vows. I never promised to obey you, Christian. But I hold my tongue, because deep down I’m glad he came back. In spite of his fury, I’m glad he’s here in one piece, angry and smoldering in front of me. 228/551 “You changed your mind?” He can’t hide his contemptuous disbelief. “Yes.” “And you didn’t think to call me?” He glares at me, incredulous, before con- tinuing. “What’s more, you left the security detail short here and put Ryan at risk.” Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. “I should have called, but I didn’t want to worry you. If I had, I’m sure you would have forbidden me to go and I’ve missed Kate. I wanted to see her. Besides, it kept me out of the way when Jack was here. Ryan


Kynes told himself. The ducal party was only a few paces away now, their feet in desert boots crunching the sand. Kynes bowed. "My Lord, Duke." As he had approached the solitary figure standing near the ornithopter, Leto had studied him: tall, thin, dressed for the desert in loose robe, stillsuit, and low boots. The man's hood was thrown back, its veil hanging to one side, revealing long sandy hair, a sparse beard. The eyes were that fathomless blue-within-blue under thick brows. Remains of dark stains smudged his eye sockets. "You're the ecologist," the Duke said. "We prefer the old title here, my Lord," Kynes said. "Planetologist." "As you wish," the Duke said. He glanced down at Paul. "Son, this is the Judge of the Change, the arbiter of dispute, the man set here to see that the forms are obeyed in our assumption of power over this fief." He glanced at Kynes. "And this is my son." "My Lord," Kynes said. "Are you a Fremen?" Paul asked. Kynes smiled. "I am accepted in both sietch and village, young Master. But I am in His Majesty's service, the Imperial Planetologist." Paul nodded, impressed by the man's air of strength. Halleck had pointed Kynes out to Paul from an upper window of the administration building: "The man standing there with the Fremen escort--the one moving now toward the ornithopter." Paul had inspected Kynes briefly with binoculars, noting the prim, straight mouth, the high forehead. Halleck had spoken in Paul's ear: "Odd sort of fellow. Has a precise way of speaking--clipped off, no fuzzy edges--razor-apt." And the Duke, behind them, had said: "Scientist type." Now, only a few feet from the man, Paul sensed the power in Kynes, the impact of personality, as though he were blood royal, born to command. "I understand we have you to thank for our stillsuits and these cloaks," the Duke said. "I hope they fit well, my Lord," Kynes said. "They're of Fremen make and as near as possible the dimensions given me by your man Halleck here." "I was concerned that you said you couldn't take us into the desert unless we wore these garments," the Duke said. "We can carry plenty of water. We don't intend to be out long and we'll have air cover--the escort you see overhead right now. It isn't likely we'd be forced down." Kynes stared at him, seeing the water-fat flesh. He spoke coldly: "You never talk of likelihoods on Arrakis. You speak only of possibilities." Halleck stiffened. "The Duke is to be addressed as my Lord or Sire!" Leto gave Halleck their private handsignal to desist, said: "Our ways are new here, Gurney. We must make allowances." "As you wish, Sire." "We are indebted to you, Dr. Kynes," Leto said. "These suits and the consideration for our welfare will be remembered." On impulse, Paul called to mind a quotation from the O.C. Bible, said: " 'The gift is the blessing of the river.' " The words rang out overloud in the still air. The Fremen escort Kynes had left in


humiliating meet-cute, overpriced dinners by candlelight that you can’t even really eat because your shapewear is too tight and cinchy, bubble baths during which you almost drown, desserts crammed into your private parts, tacky jewelry that doesn’t fit right, a lacy, strappy piece of lingerie that chokes you to death, a bottle of wine you try not to vomit all over his erection. This movie doesn’t have any of that, just discomfiting religious imagery and a soundtrack better served in an “oh no, she’s dying” montage in a movie of the week, which maybe qualifies as “romance” to a different kind of person than I am. Story Line This does not matter to me. At all. Scissoring in Lesbian Judging by a quick poll of most of the lesbians in my phone, no human lesbians without a director and camera crew are doing what people who make porn call “scissoring.” Scissoring is a position requiring you and your partner to lie on your sides and intertwine your legs like two pairs of opened scissors and awkwardly grind your genitals together until either you have an orgasm or you ignite a flame. Grinding atop a thigh like it’s a fleshy pommel horse is a thing I’d maybe be into, but there aren’t enough, umm, firm parts around the vulva to provide the level of friction I require. What, am I supposed to get some kind of traction from a urethra hole? Quit playing! Not to yuck anyone’s yum if you can derive sexual pleasure from grazing your uncomfortably tilted labia majora against someone else’s while trying not to fall off the bed, but all I can think while watching it is: “This screeching is fake, there’s no way she’s gonna come from that.” Theoretically I understand why watching people ram two aux cords with the same import port (hire me, RadioShack) together can be fun, but in practice I have found it to be very weird! British No one in this film (LMAO) speaks with a discernible British accent. Mom Hmm, I don’t love this. Or maybe I would love it if the “mom” tag guaranteed a stream of videos featuring very nice ladies bringing hot soup to other ladies in bed or giving them an allowance or something. This is probably the orphan in me talking, but I would happily watch any number of short clips of short-tempered, tired moms cutting sandwiches into triangles and impatiently tapping their feet at the open passenger door of a minivan while shouting, “Hurry up! I’m late for my ballroom dancing class!” I would watch your mom arguing over the price of mortadella at her local discount-meat counter, putting on her reading glasses to scrutinize the fine print on the side of a bottle of supplements, calling the cable company to ask why she’s being billed for Showtime when she never signed up for it in the first place, grilling the librarian about why her hold on the new Glennon Doyle is taking so damn long: GIMME IT ALL. Old Maybe this doesn’t seem nice on