And then he left, the same way he came, on foot. Said he was gonna call his buddy for a ride and headed off down the lane. He was gone about five minutes when I heard a car start up.” “His friend was waiting,” Montoya said. “Uh-uh. It was his car.” “And you know this how?” For the first time since they walked into his establishment, CU smiled. “Because I got it on tape.” “Tape?” He leaned forward, hands on his jean-clad knees. “Out here we can get some unsavory types, if you know what I mean. People think they can take advantage cuz there ain’t many people around. Think they can rip people off and no one’s the wiser. It happened to me a couple of times. Before I installed the cameras.” Montoya couldn’t believe it. “You have pictures of the guy?” Bentz said. “Better than that,” CU said with a cunning smile that showed a gap between tobacco-stained teeth. “I just happened to get his vehicle in the shot, too.” CHAPTER 17 “I’m just telling you to send me something, okay?” Zera insisted as Kristi held the phone to her ear and stared out the window of her office. “I said I’d try.” “I know, I know. And I wouldn’t push you, but it’s important, you know, timing is everything.” Kristi spun her desk chair around to stare at the opposite wall. A flat screen TV was front and center, taking up wall space over a bookcase /credenza where her Wi-Fi connections, DVR, and old DVD player were positioned. Arranged on the top of the credenza was an array of her favorite pictures, framed and facing forward. She focused on a shot of Jay she’d taken while they’d been on a trip to the Grand Canyon. Jay’s hair was caught in the breeze, his jaw covered in beard shadow as he squinted toward the lowering sun over the canyon’s rim. Her heart twisted and she suddenly realized Zera was still talking. “—won’t take you long. I’m just asking for a few pages. That’s all I want. If the idea needs fleshing out, then we’ll do it at that point, but it’s important that we jump on this. Now. Strike while the iron’s hot, so to speak.” A headache started to pound behind Kristi’s eyes. Zera was still pushing Kristi for a sequel to her book on the Rosary Killer. Kristi swiveled her chair back so she again was facing her messy desk. “Look,” Zera said, “I’ve got a couple of editors who are asking and I’ve heard through the grapevine that there are other authors who are interested in writing the story, who are already submitting proposals.” “Let me guess,” Kristi said without much enthusiasm. “Drake Dennison.” “That’s one of the names that’s been mentioned. Dennison is in New Orleans now, you know.” “I didn’t.” Kristi was surprised. “I thought he lived around Atlanta somewhere.” “I thought so, too. But it’s always been a guessing game with him. Ever mysterious our boy Dennison, but I think he moved in the


intrepidity, ``Miss Elizabeth Bennet.'' ``Miss Elizabeth Bennet!'' repeated Miss Bingley. ``I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite? -- and pray when am I to wish you joy?'' ``That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.'' ``Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with you.'' He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to entertain herself in this manner, and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long. __ CHAPTER VII (7) MR. BENNET'S property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds. She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to their father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade. The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt, and to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head quarters. Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign. After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed, ``From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the


is bound to happen again, Mr. Kitt,” said a tired voice. Iris glanced around Roman to see a nurse was holding the intravenous needle and tube he had torn away from his hand. “You need to be in bed. Resting.” “It won’t happen again,” Iris promised, face flaming. The nurse only arched her brow. Roman, on the other hand, exhaled as if Iris had punched him. What am I doing? Iris thought and slipped under Roman’s arm. This is foolish. This is … She paused on the threshold, glancing back at him. Roman continued to lean against the wall. But his gaze was wholly consumed by her, even as the nurse moved to help him. Iris left him with the tingling memory of her kiss and her letters scattered across his bed. Dear Iris, What were you thinking? How could you let your heart cloud your mind? You should have known!!! How did you miss this? How could you let him get the best of you? Roman “C.-is-forCarver” Kitt has played you. Kitt: 2 (1 point for columnist, 1 point for elaborate deception) Winnow: 0 I just … I don’t even know what to think anymore. I’m embarrassed, I’m angry. I’m sad and strangely relieved. Attie and Marisol keep inviting me to the infirmary, but if I see Kitt right now I don’t know how I’d react to him. I made an idiot of myself this morning, so I think it’s best I stay away. I’m volunteering to dig graves in the field instead. I dig, hour after hour. I give all my anger and helplessness and sadness to the ground. And I help the people of Avalon Bluff take the names of soldiers before we bury them. It’s backbreaking work. The blisters have burst on my hands, but I don’t even feel them. So many have died, and I’m just so tired and sad and angry, and I don’t know what to do about Kitt. I reread all his letters last night. And I don’t think he tried to play me. At least, maybe he did at the very beginning, but not anymore. I also don’t know how to fully describe how I’m feeling. Perhaps there are no words to explain such a thing, but … Sometimes I still feel his hand in mine, drawing me through the smoke and terror of the trenches. Sometimes I still feel him lifting me up as if I were weightless, spinning me around as if we were dancing. Or how he came between me and the grenade, and I still can’t breathe. Sometimes I remember how my heart stopped when I saw him sprawled on his back, staring up at the sky as if he were dead. When I saw him walking through the field during the eithral siren. When we collided in the golden grass. When his lips touched mine. I am coming to love him, in two different ways. Face to face, and word to word. If I’m honest, there were moments when I longed for Carver, and moments when I longed


much," said Jack Merridew. "Shut up, Fatty." Laughter arose. "He's not Fatty," cried Ralph, "his real name's Piggy!" "Piggy!" "Piggy!" "Oh, Piggy!" A storm of laughter arose and even the tiniest child joined in. For the moment the boys were a closed circuit of sympathy with Piggy outside: he went very pink, bowed his head and cleaned his glasses again. Finally the laughter died away and the naming continued. There was Maurice, next in size among the choir boys to Jack, but broad and grinning all the time. There was a slight, furtive boy whom no one knew, who kept to himself with an inner intensity of avoidance and secrecy. He muttered that his name was Roger and was silent again. Bill, Robert, Harold, Henry; the choir boy who had fainted sat up against a palm trunk, smiled pallidly at Ralph and said that his name was Simon. Jack spoke. "We've got to decide about being rescued." There was a buzz. One of the small boys, Henry, said that he wanted to go home. "Shut up," said Ralph absently. He lifted the conch. "Seems to me we ought to have a chief to decide things." "A chief! A chief!" "I ought to be chief," said Jack with simple arrogance, "because I'm chapter chorister and head boy. I can sing C sharp." Another buzz. "Well then," said Jack, "I--" He hesitated. The dark boy, Roger, stirred at last and spoke up. "Let's have a vote." "Yes!" "Vote for chief!" "Let's vote--" This toy of voting was almost as pleasing as the conch. Jack started to protest but the clamor changed from the general wish for a chief to an election by acclaim of Ralph himself. None of the boys could have found good reason for this; what intelligence had been shown was traceable to Piggy while the most obvious leader was Jack. But there was a stillness about Ralph as he sat that marked him out: there was his size, and attractive appearance; and most obscurely, yet most powerfully, there was the conch. The being that had blown that, had sat waiting for them on the platform with the delicate thing balanced on his knees, was set apart. "Him with the shell." "Ralph! Ralph!" "Let him be chief with the trumpet-thing." Ralph raised a hand for silence. "All right. Who wants Jack for chief?" With dreary obedience the choir raised their hands. "Who wants me?" Every hand outside the choir except Piggy's was raised immediately. Then Piggy, too, raised his hand grudgingly into the air. Ralph counted. "I'm chief then." The circle of boys broke into applause. Even the choir applauded; and the freckles on Jack's face disappeared under a blush of mortification. He started up, then changed his mind and sat down again while the air rang. Ralph looked at him, eager to offer something. "The choir belongs to you, of course." "They could be the army--" "Or hunters--" "They could be--" The suffusion drained away from Jack's face. Ralph waved again for silence. "Jack's in charge of the choir. They can


on the pincushion or laid it in the china tray. But I'm perfectly certain I put it back." "I'll go and have another look," said Marilla, determining to be just. "If you put that brooch back it's there still. If it isn't I'll know you didn't, that's all!" Marilla went to her room and made a thorough search, not only over the bureau but in every other place she thought the brooch might possibly be. It was not to be found and she returned to the kitchen. "Anne, the brooch is gone. By your own admission you were the last person to handle it. Now, what have you done with it? Tell me the truth at once. Did you take it out and lose it?" "No, I didn't," said Anne solemnly, meeting Marilla's angry gaze squarely. "I never took the brooch out of your room and that is the truth, if I was to be led to the block for it-although I'm not very certain what a block is. So there, Marilla." Anne's "so there" was only intended to emphasize her assertion, but Marilla took it as a display of defiance. "I believe you are telling me a falsehood, Anne," she said sharply. "I know you are. There now, don't say anything more unless you are prepared to tell the whole truth. Go to your room and stay there until you are ready to confess." "Will I take the peas with me?" said Anne meekly. "No, I'll finish shelling them myself. Do as I bid you." When Anne had gone Marilla went about her evening tasks in a very disturbed state of mind. She was worried about her valuable brooch. What if Anne had lost it? And how wicked of the child to deny having taken it, when anybody could see she must have! With such an innocent face, too! "I don't know what I wouldn't sooner have had happen," thought Marilla, as she nervously shelled the peas. "Of course, I don't suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that. She's just taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that's clear, for there hasn't been a soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there's nothing surer. I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she'll be punished. It's a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It's a far worse thing than her fit of temper. It's a fearful responsibility to have a child in your house you can't trust. Slyness and untruthfulness-that's what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch. If she'd only have told the truth about it I wouldn't mind so much." Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the evening and searched for the brooch, without finding it. A bedtime visit to the east gable produced no result. Anne persisted in denying that she knew


that he had asked her; he wished that he had inquired her name. She was so modest, so expressive, she had looked so soft in her thin white gown that he felt he had acted stupidly. However, it could not be helped, and turning, and bending himself to a rapid walk, he dismissed the subject from his mind. III As for Tess Durbeyfield, she did not so easily dislodge the incident from her consideration. She had no spirit to dance again for a long time, though she might have had plenty of partners; but ah! they did not speak so nicely as the strange young man had done. It was not till the rays of the sun had absorbed the young stranger's retreating figure on the hill that she shook off her temporary sadness and answered her would-be partner in the affirmative. She remained with her comrades till dusk, and participated with a certain zest in the dancing; though, being heart-whole as yet, she enjoyed treading a measure purely for its own sake; little divining when she saw "the soft torments, the bitter sweets, the pleasing pains, and the agreeable distresses" of those girls who had been wooed and won, what she herself was capable of in that kind. The struggles and wrangles of the lads for her hand in a jig were an amusement to her--no more; and when they became fierce she rebuked them. She might have stayed even later, but the incident of her father's odd appearance and manner returned upon the girl's mind to make her anxious, and wondering what had become of him she dropped away from the dancers and bent her steps towards the end of the village at which the parental cottage lay. While yet many score yards off, other rhythmic sounds than those she had quitted became audible to her; sounds that she knew well--so well. They were a regular series of thumpings from the interior of the house, occasioned by the violent rocking of a cradle upon a stone floor, to which movement a feminine voice kept time by singing, in a vigorous gallopade, the favourite ditty of "The Spotted Cow"-- I saw her lie do'--own in yon'--der green gro'--ove; Come, love!' and I'll tell' you where!' The cradle-rocking and the song would cease simultaneously for a moment, and an explanation at highest vocal pitch would take the place of the melody. "God bless thy diment eyes! And thy waxen cheeks! And thy cherry mouth! And thy Cubit's thighs! And every bit o' thy blessed body!" After this invocation the rocking and the singing would recommence, and the "Spotted Cow" proceed as before. So matters stood when Tess opened the door, and paused upon the mat within it surveying the scene. The interior, in spite of the melody, struck upon the girl's senses with an unspeakable dreariness. From the holiday gaieties of the field--the white gowns, the nosegays, the willow-wands, the whirling movements on the green, the flash of gentle sentiment towards the stranger--to the yellow melancholy of this one-candled spectacle, what a


your own devices. Speaking of email, I think this is the longest one I’ve written since the early 2000s! from: Sally Milz <Smilz@TNOshow.com> to: Noah Brewster <NoahRBrewster@gmail.com> date: Jul 23, 2020, 11:27 AM subject: Actually First of all, I’m sorry you were so sick. That sounds terrible. Are you completely better now or do you have those lingering symptoms? Did you have someone to take care of you? Were you in LA then? I haven’t had Covid, or if I did, I didn’t know it, which is extra lucky because right after TNO production shut down, a bunch of people got it, including Henrietta, Henrietta’s wife Lisa (who is now eight months pregnant), and Viv (who by coincidence is also now eight months pregnant). For some reason, Viv’s husband, who’s a doctor, didn’t get it. Viv, Lisa, and Henrietta all seem fine now, though I know they’re worried about the potential effects of Covid in utero. Viv is also understandably anxious about her delivery. I confess that I didn’t know until she told me that it’s true even across class lines that Black women and their babies are much likelier to die in childbirth because of racism/bad healthcare. Regarding BLM protests, I also went to one—you might know they were intense here, and some were very close to my stepdad’s house—but it’s safe to say nobody cared enough about my presence to post pics of me online. On the one hand, I find it so weird and awkward that white people and white-led companies woke up one day and decided to admit that racism exists. On the other hand, I guess better (400 years) late than never? Viv told me that after George Floyd was killed, she was getting check-ins from random white acquaintances being like, How are you? No, really, how?? and she was like, well, I’m exhausted from growing a human in my uterus, but I don’t think that’s what you mean. (Sidenote: Of course I newly worry that I’m one of the random white ladies presuming greater closeness with Viv than she feels, but I’m sure as hell not going to ask her for reassurance now. I’ve been wondering about a sketch along the lines of “Your handwringing will not protect you.” Like about the phenomenon of white women believing that the mere act of expressing our discomfort or guilt gets us off the hook. Who knows what being at TNO this coming season will look like—there’s a rumor we’ll have daily tests—but last week I signed the contract to go back for my twelfth [!!] year.) As for the end of your week at TNO, although I appreciate your apology, you were right about everything. (It’s possible I’ve never before written those words to anyone so please enjoy them.) I’ve also thought a lot about that week, and I’ve also felt bad about it. The reality is that you don’t owe me an apology, and I do owe you one. When you called me out, it was justified. What I said to you in that bar was rude.


to say them had passed; but Hayward was communicative; anyone more experienced than Philip might have thought he liked to hear himself talk. His supercilious attitude impressed Philip. He could not help admiring, and yet being awed by, a man who faintly despised so many things which Philip had looked upon as almost sacred. He cast down the fetish of exercise, damning with the contemptuous word pot-hunters all those who devoted themselves to its various forms; and Philip did not realise that he was merely putting up in its stead the other fetish of culture. They wandered up to the castle, and sat on the terrace that overlooked the town. It nestled in the valley along the pleasant Neckar with a comfortable friendliness. The smoke from the chimneys hung over it, a pale blue haze; and the tall roofs, the spires of the churches, gave it a pleasantly medieval air. There was a homeliness in it which warmed the heart. Hayward talked of _Richard Feverel_ and _Madame Bovary_, of Verlaine, Dante, and Matthew Arnold. In those days Fitzgerald's translation of Omar Khayyam was known only to the elect, and Hayward repeated it to Philip. He was very fond of reciting poetry, his own and that of others, which he did in a monotonous sing-song. By the time they reached home Philip's distrust of Hayward was changed to enthusiastic admiration. They made a practice of walking together every afternoon, and Philip learned presently something of Hayward's circumstances. He was the son of a country judge, on whose death some time before he had inherited three hundred a year. His record at Charterhouse was so brilliant that when he went to Cambridge the Master of Trinity Hall went out of his way to express his satisfaction that he was going to that college. He prepared himself for a distinguished career. He moved in the most intellectual circles: he read Browning with enthusiasm and turned up his well-shaped nose at Tennyson; he knew all the details of Shelley's treatment of Harriet; he dabbled in the history of art (on the walls of his rooms were reproductions of pictures by G. F. Watts, Burne-Jones, and Botticelli); and he wrote not without distinction verses of a pessimistic character. His friends told one another that he was a man of excellent gifts, and he listened to them willingly when they prophesied his future eminence. In course of time he became an authority on art and literature. He came under the influence of Newman's _Apologia_; the picturesqueness of the Roman Catholic faith appealed to his esthetic sensibility; and it was only the feat of his father's wrath (a plain, blunt man of narrow ideas, who read Macaulay) which prevented him from 'going over.' When he only got a pass degree his friends were astonished; but he shrugged his shoulders and delicately insinuated that he was not the dupe of examiners. He made one feel that a first class was ever so slightly vulgar. He described one of the vivas with tolerant humour; some fellow in an outrageous collar was


giddy and thoughtless!Do excuse me. It had slipped my memory that you have good reasons to be indisposed for joining in my chatter. Diana and Mary have left you, and Moor House is shut up, and you are so lonely. I am sure I pity you. Do come and see papa."     "Not to-night, Miss Rosamond, not to-night."     Mr. St. John spoke almost like an automaton; himself only knew the effort it cost him thus to refuse.     "Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave you; for I dare not stay any longer; the dew begins to fall. Good-evening!"     She held out her hand. He just touched it. "Good-evening!" he repeated, in a voice low and hollow as in echo. She turned, but in a moment returned.     "Are you well?" she asked. Well might she put the question; his face was blanched as her gown.     "Quite well," he enunciated; and, with a bow, he left the gate. She went one way; he another. She turned twice to gaze after him, as she tripped, fairy-like, down the field; he, as he strode firmly across, never turned at all.     This spectacle of another's suffering and sacrifice, rapt my thoughts from exclusive meditation on my own. Diana Rivers had designated her brother "inexorable as death." She had not exaggerated.       |Go to Contents |               Chapter XXXII     I CONTINUED the labors of the village-school as actively and faithfully as I could. It was truly hard work at first. Some time elapsed before, with all my efforts, I could comprehend my scholars and their nature. Wholly untaught, with faculties quite torpid, they seemed to me hopelessly dull; and, at first sight, all dull alike; but I soon found I was mistaken. There was a difference among them as among the educated; and when I got to know them, and they me, this difference rapidly developed itself. Their amazement at me, my language, my rules and ways, once subsided, I found some of these heavy-looking, gaping rustics wake up into sharp-witted girls enough. Many showed themselves obliging, and amiable too; and I discovered among them not a few examples of natural politeness, and innate self-respect, as well as of excellent capacity, that won both my good-will and my admiration. These soon took a pleasure in doing their work well; in keeping their persons neat; in learning their tasks regularly; in acquiring quiet and orderly manners. The rapidity of their progress, in some instances, was even surprising; and an honest and happy pride I took in it. Besides, I began personally to like some of the best girls; and they liked me. I had among my scholars several farmers' daughters; young women grown, almost. These could already read, write and sew; and to them I taught the elements


something he tells himself is plain embarrassment. “And you were also Emily Warburton’s friend,” Linda adds. “Busy, busy.” Andy tries to fight back his blush and that works about as well as it ever does, which is to say not at all. “Nick’s making lasagna and says you should come over for dinner. He says the invitation extends to any of your guests.” That isn’t exactly how Nick phrased it, but Andy isn’t going to say whoever you have lying around. “Any of my guests?” she repeats wryly. She opens the door a bit wider, and Andy gets a glimpse of a half-nude woman lying on what looks like a row of pickle barrels. It takes him a minute to see the easel and understand that he’s looking at an artist’s model. “Yeah, we’ll be there. Thanks.” Andy waves awkwardly at both Linda and the model, then goes downstairs and knocks on Mrs. Martelli’s door. Mrs. Martelli is, for all intents and purposes, identical to Nick’s aunts who Andy met last week. She has gray hair, wears all black, and could be anywhere between sixty and a hundred years old. “Nick from upstairs says he’ll bring you some lasagna for dinner.” He speaks slowly, not sure if she understands English. “Okay. Tell him thank you,” she says, equally slowly, in completely unaccented English, then laughs and shuts the door in his face. Andy worries that it’s his lot in life to be mocked by elderly Italian women. He takes his time walking to Cornelia Street, which is only a few blocks away. It’s still March, but either today or tomorrow is the first official day of spring, and for once the city seems to know it. The sky is clear, the air smells less like car exhaust than usual, and there are honest-to-God flowers in the window boxes of one of the buildings he passes. It feels like the city is poised for something beautiful to happen, even though you can count on the weather to be intermittently repulsive until May. At the bakery, he buys two loaves of bread and then, when it occurs to him that Nick is essentially having a dinner party, he also chooses a dozen Italian pastries. At the wine store, he stares at the shelves for a quarter of an hour until the man behind the counter begins to clear his throat pointedly. Then he haphazardly chooses three bottles of Burgundy for three dollars each, which seems expensive enough to guarantee a decent wine but not so expensive as to be embarrassing if Nick ever finds out what they cost. On the way back, he passes a corner store that has bunches of daffodils out front, so he grabs a few of them, too. Candles? Surely Nick has candles, but he goes into the store and gets some anyway. It’s only as he’s climbing the stairs that he realizes that he might have gone overboard. He can barely see over the flowers that stick out from the top of the bag as he attempts to unlock


black lace encircles your waist and holds a loop of ten smooth beads against your nether lips. I’M SWEATING. When he slips inside, the beads roll and massage you both for intense orgasmic sensations that make sex even more amazing. Wash the thong panty by hand in cold water, do not iron. Who is out here ironing their crotchless beaded thong?! The paddle, pasties, and stockings are not included but the leather-look stretch-mesh fabric stretches four ways, for your comfort! OH OKAY, THEN, AS LONG AS IT’S FOR MY COMFORT. A verified purchaser with the username BusyOnTheBeaver gave it five out of five stars and added, and I quote, “very complimentary to the female form, i love my wife.” Good for Mr. Busy! I’m so embarrassed by everything all the time, humiliated even by the need to breathe air where other people can see me. There is just no universe in which I could stand at the foot of a hastily unmade bed, laced up tight like a kindergartner’s gym shoe, and not sweat through my “crotchless beaded lovers thong” while fully melting down about hyperpigmented butt folds and coarse, unruly pubic hair. I am on so many pills, so many dusty-pink and white tablets crowding my end table, the foot soldiers in my losing war against premature death that grind my libido to a spluttering dribble, it feels like a tall ask to expect another person to remain patient through twenty minutes of dry chafing to see if something happens. Much easier to instead wait to feel something down there (“Is this overactive bladder or sexual arousal?”) then slink off, pretending I have to take a shit, so I can deal with it on my own. * * * — There are a few (extremely specific) genres of porn I prefer to masturbate to, chief among them: “middle-aged man jerking off while being gently pegged” lovemaking with kissing public (Hear me out: Have you ever seen people fucking on a bus?) big ass compilation “fat lady being worshipped” videos where you just watch a dude’s boner grow cuckold massage (maybe what I actually need is a nap) “dudes who fuck like Xavier Thicc” BBW hand job mature lady riding to orgasm KISSING But “Two Old Nuns Having Amzing [sic] Lesbian Sex” is my favorite pornographic piece of cinema. I don’t even remember how I found it years ago now. I’m sure I searched “senior citizen real orgasm” or something like that, because I like to see an orgasm, but also I can’t watch a person engaged in any sort of sexual activity unless I am absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that person is of legal car-renting age. Imagine me going to jail because I clicked on a video called “Hot Teen Squirts on a Banana” or some shit, and said hot teen turns out to be an actual child, and it just so happens to be the day the FBI agent assigned to monitoring my phone activity is awake and paying attention. That shit is terrifying to me.


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

the present, reserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was speedily examined. A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being quadruplicates of a week’s testimony taken before me in my High Court of Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important suit, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged I called Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to place the four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from the original. Accordingly Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut had taken their seats in a row, each with his document in hand, when I called to Bartleby to join this interesting group. “Bartleby! quick, I am waiting.” I heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and soon he appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage. “What is wanted?” said he mildly. “The copies, the copies,” said I hurriedly. “We are going to examine them. There”—and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate. “I would prefer not to,” he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen. For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the head of my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary conduct. “Why do you refuse?” “I would prefer not to.” With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed me, but in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted me. I began to reason with him. “These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving to you, because one examination will answer for your four papers. It is common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it not so? Will you not speak? Answer!” “I prefer not to,” he replied in a flute-like tone. It seemed to me that while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every statement that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the irresistible conclusions; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration prevailed with him to reply as he did. “You are decided, then, not to comply with my request—a request made according to common usage and common sense?” He briefly gave me to understand that on that point my judgment was sound. Yes: his decision was irreversible. It is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some unprecedented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the other side. Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement for his own faltering mind. “Turkey,” said I, “what do you think of


may do that you cannot do?" She is brave, lovely and, ah-h-h, so perceptive, Jessica thought. She'd have made a fine Bene Gesserit. "Chani," Jessica said, "you may find this difficult to believe, but I do not know precisely why I sent for you. It was an instinct . . . a basic intuition. The thought came unbidden: 'Send for Chani.' " For the first time, Chani saw the sadness in Jessica's expression, the unveiled pain modifying the inward stare. "I've done all I know to do," Jessica said. "That all . . . it is so far beyond what is usually supposed as all that you would find difficulty imagining it. Yet . . . I failed." "The old companion, Halleck," Chani asked, "is it possible he's a traitor?" "Not Gurney," Jessica said. The two words carried an entire conversation, and Chani saw the searching, the tests . . . the memories of old failures that went into this flat denial. Chani rocked back onto her feet, stood up, smoothed her desert-stained robe. "Take me to him," she said. Jessica arose, turned through hangings on the left wall. Chani followed, found herself in what had been a storeroom, its rock walls concealed now beneath heavy draperies. Paul lay on a field pad against the far wall. A single glowglobe above him illuminated his face. A black robe covered him to the chest, leaving his arms outside it stretched along his sides. He appeared to be unclothed under the robe. The skin exposed looked waxen, rigid. There was no visible movement to him. Chani suppressed the desire to dash forward, throw herself across him. She found her thoughts, instead, going to her son -- Leto. And she realized in this instant that Jessica once had faced such a moment -- her man threatened by death, forced in her own mind to consider what might be done to save a young son. The realization formed a sudden bond with the older woman so that Chani reached out and clasped Jessica's hand. The answering grip was painful in its intensity. "He lives," Jessica said. "I assure you he lives. But the thread of his life is so thin it could easily escape detection. There are some among the leaders already muttering that the mother speaks and not the Reverend Mother, that my son is truly dead and I do not want to give up his water to the tribe." "How long has he been this way?" Chani asked. She disengaged her hand from Jessica's, moved farther into the room. "Three weeks," Jessica said. "I spent almost a week trying to revive him. There were meetings, arguments . . . investigations. Then I sent for you. The Fedaykin obey my orders, else I might not have been able to delay the . . . " She wet her lips with her tongue, watching Chani cross to Paul. Chani stood over him now, looking down on the soft beard of youth that framed his face, tracing with her eyes the high browline, the strong nose, the


sleep schedules; Dan went from one cup of coffee per day to two. But we knew how to take care of a baby this time, and we also knew that newborn days were fleeting, and we’d miss them when they were over. My parents were supposed to arrive for a visit not long after the birth. A couple of days before their trip, Mom called to tell me that Dad wasn’t feeling well enough to travel. I hadn’t realized he was feeling that poorly, but when I questioned my parents, neither wanted to discuss his health at length. Mom would make the trip alone, she said, though she was anxious about leaving my father. She decided to shorten her visit from two weeks to one. My father’s last steady job had been at a cell carrier call center, where, extrovert that he was, well trained in customer service thanks to his years working in restaurants, he’d enjoyed the work and found it easier than many of his previous jobs. After the center closed, he had stocked warehouse shelves for a snack food company and worked at a different call center before that one, too, shut down. When nothing else came along, my parents’ tiny nest egg—what had been left after they sold their house, dispensed with some debt, and bought their new home—began to dwindle. The last time I’d seen Dad, I had noticed that he was beginning to shuffle more than stride. Since then, he had reportedly given up most of his physical activities—his gardening, the walks he used to take around the neighborhood. Though he was still looking for work and insisted that he did not want to apply for Social Security Disability Insurance, I didn’t know if he could work a full-time job anymore. When she came out to visit us, Mom said she thought his decline must be related to his diabetes, but they couldn’t know for sure what was wrong until he saw a specialist. She assured me he would get to it; they had only recently secured health coverage through her job after a long stretch without it and were still catching up on appointments. Toward the end of her stay, she got a call from her boss. She had been laid off with no notice or severance pay. The company couldn’t even wait until she returned from vacation to give her the news. “This way, at least, you’re eligible for unemployment benefits right away,” her boss said. My parents’ health plan would expire in days. * * * Once, while home on break from college, I asked my father what it was like being an empty nester. He admitted that it was “weird” and he was still getting used to it. “You spend eighteen years focused on raising a kid,” he said, “and then one day everything changes.” “Do you think it’ll ever feel normal?” I asked. He shrugged. “Maybe. If you move back home.” We could have tried to move out west once Dan finished his doctoral program. But my academic goals had given


of vindication. I knew it wasn’t my imagination! “But not just last night, right? The night before as well.” many nights Jolted with alarm, I say, “Then who is it? Who’s been in your room?” Still hesitant, Lenora sizes me up again. Then she resumes typing with pronounced reluctance. It takes her a full minute to press eight keys. When she’s done, I rip the page from the typewriter. Marking the white paper in ink as black as night is a single name. virginia SEVENTEEN Muzak squawks from the kitchen telephone as I wait for Mr. Gurlain to pick up. It’s been five minutes since he put me on hold. Long enough for a queasy rendition of a Captain & Tennille song to be replaced by an even worse cover of “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.” I wait, receiver at my ear, as I look around the empty kitchen, hoping no one enters while I’m here. I don’t want to explain why I’ve left Lenora alone in her wheelchair while I make a phone call. I especially don’t want to talk about the reason for the call. Telling it to Mr. Gurlain is going to be hard enough. When he gets on the line, blessedly cutting off the Muzak, he sounds nervous. I assume he’s thinking about the morning I found my mother dead, which was the last time he got an urgent phone call from me. “Is something wrong?” he says. “No. Well, yes.” I inhale, hold the breath in my chest, exhale. “I’m calling to ask for a new assignment.” “I just gave you a new assignment,” Mr. Gurlain says. “I’d like a different one,” I say, tacking on a polite “please.” “It’s only been a few days, Kit.” “I know. I just—” My voice seizes up. I have no idea what to say. That I’m afraid? I’m not. Fear involves certainty. You know what you’re afraid of. I’m the opposite. Uncertain and unnerved. And who can blame me? I’m in a slanted mansion where three people were murdered. There are bloodstains on the Grand Stairs and a ballroom where a dead girl swung from the chandelier. A dead girl who, apparently, roams my patient’s bedroom at night. I don’t believe in ghosts. I absolutely do not think that what I heard was the spirit of Virginia Hope. But something’s not right at Hope’s End. Obviously. And it might have frightened Mary enough to make her leave in the middle of the night without taking anything with her. I don’t want to stick around and wait to see if I’ll eventually get that desperate. I’d rather leave now, in broad daylight, taking all my belongings with me. “I don’t like it here,” I finally say. “I told you I wasn’t comfortable working in this house.” “And I told you there wasn’t a choice,” Mr. Gurlain says. “But there are other caregivers available. I saw their names on the assignment board. Can’t you send one of them here and put me somewhere else? It doesn’t have to be immediately. I can


style is too old-school, you will look like a grandmother,” Yèyé said. “See the woman that is wearing it here, sef, she looks like someone that has sixteen children and forty-eight grandchildren. At my birthday, is that how you want to look?” “But that’s what I like.” “Ha, Caro, help me talk sense into this girl now. When she’s not SU, it’s only nuns that should be dressing like this when they are not married, and those ones have kúkú married Jesus now.” “Yèyé, I think this style will look good on Dr. Wúrà o.” “Caro, ìyen nipé, you are a Judas. Let’s join our voices and talk sense into this girl.” Aunty Caro laughed. “She should wear what she likes.” “Thank you, Aunty Caro,” Wúràọlá said. “This is not about what she likes, it’s about the thing that she wants, ehn, and what that thing likes.” “And what do I want?” “Husband now.” “Aunty Caro, please, when will the dress be ready? Can you send someone to bring it to me at work?” “Wúràọlá, you are going to take the advice of a woman who has never had a husband in this crucial matter?” “Mummy!” “Caro knows I’m joking. Àbí?” “Dr. Wúrà, stand up and let me take new measurements,” Aunty Caro said. “You have lost weight since the last time.” · 5 · The Biro kept slipping from Ẹniọlá’s hand. His palms were slick with sweat. His face felt damp, his armpits sticky. He capped the Biro and placed it in the middle of his geography notebook. It was impossible to follow what the teacher was writing on the board, and he could copy it from Hakeem later. His notes were always better anyway; he underlined titles and subtitles with a green felt pen and wrote definitions with a red Biro. It was Monday but there had been no mention of school fees during the morning assembly. In previous years, the names of students who were still owing the school would be read after prayers and those who, like Ẹniọlá, still showed up in spite of Mr. Bísádé’s warnings would then be punished before being sent back home. But that morning, the assembly had ended without any punishments, and Mr. Bísádé had disappeared before it was even over. Ẹniọlá rubbed his palms against his arms until his fingers felt dry. He was always the last person to pay school fees in his class, so he was used to the punishments. It was this delay that he found unbearable. He had planned to go to Aunty Caro’s shop once he was told to leave the school. He wished he were there already, folding wrappers and forgetting about the laughter of schoolmates whose parents had paid their school fees on time. When Mr. Bísádé showed up in his class just before the first period ended, Ẹniọlá was almost happy. Whatever would happen was going to happen now, and his hands could finally stop shaking. The class rose as Mr. Bísádé entered the room. “Good morning sir, we are happy to see you


code is. I can tell you what they feel, in their heart and in their head.’ The lead security officer rolled his eyes. He declared: ‘Our job isn’t to keep her out. Our job is to keep them in.’ Yotam nodded. ‘I understand.’ ‘You take full responsibility for her safety.’ Zariffa answered: ‘I take responsibility for my own safety.’ As they walked towards the entrance, the guard called out a further warning: ‘We won’t try to save you if anything goes wrong. There will be no rescue operation. We will kill everyone and everything under the ice rather than let one of them escape.’ Descending the ice stairway, impacted by the warning and eerie magistery of this place, Zariffa asked: ‘What the hell have you got down here?’ ‘Let me show you.’ During the Exodus a Genetic Ark was brought to Antarctica containing every genome ever sequenced and genetic samples for every living creature and many extinct ones. Song Fu had sorted through the chromosome library looking for any genetic adaptation that might bestow some advantage in the cold. Out of the many hundreds of hybrids born, only a minority had shown any potential to co-exist with ordinary people as Antarctic collaborators. One of the first successes took the form of a silverback gorilla adapted for life in the snow. Named the snow gorilla, they were covered in dense insulating underfur, a polar bear’s coat topped by translucent guard hairs like spun silver thread – a shimmering double coat so effective that it prevented nearly all heat loss from their muscular frame. With curled clay-coloured walrus tusks on either side of their powerful jaws, their eyes weren’t human or gorilla but prosimian eyes, large, vivid orange spheres shining through the strands of their silver fringe. Their bodies were colossal, with a mighty chest and fists like boulders. However, their temperaments had proved elusive. They were melancholy and morose, perpetually subdued, refusing to communicate with their creators, or to engage with the intelligence tests, refusing to learn how to read or write. In short, they showed no interest in people, and no interest in being humankind’s collaborators on this continent. Their enclosure was an enormous sunken pit, a moon crater with a narrow perimeter path around the circumference and steep ice walls preventing escape. Living in this moon crater under the ice, the colony of snow gorillas spoke only to each other in a language they’d developed independently, a blend of sound and sign. At ease in each other’s company, they were able to successfully mate. Their babies were born healthy, clinging onto their mothers, orange saucer eyes peering out from underneath their long silver fur. According to the genetic profile, these creatures should exhibit intelligence far beyond our own. To date they’d shown no signs of it. None of them had ever even tried to escape. If released, this colony was large enough to be self-sustainable and could survive, it was believed, hunting seals and penguins. Impressive though this might be as an accomplishment, it was hard to see how they could


Dad says, “No, he skipped it. By the way, your sister wanted us to FaceTime you when we arrived, but—” “I told her it probably wasn’t a good idea,” Mum finishes. “You have a concussion.” She pauses, then repeats as if riding a fresh wave of horror: “A concussion!” Zion chooses this moment to stand up and intercede. “Mr. and Mrs. Graeme, hello, we spoke on the phone.” “Ah!” Dad has found someone to question. “What’s happened here, then? How did he fall? Bradley is not reckless. He is typically very careful. So I’m not entirely sure—” I zone out. It’s incredibly easy. I have a lot to think about, like worrying a loose tooth. When I start paying attention again, Zion has escaped and Mason is eating my jelly. “Hey,” I say. “That’s mine.” “Come and take it, then.” I would, but there’s a tiny kernel of worry in the back of my mind regarding the possibility of minute but potentially deadly spinal damage that the doctors missed but that I could make worse if I move too much and I don’t want to give that worry any ammunition. I have erected an emergency shield in my head for all my unwanted thoughts to bounce off of, but that sort of thing can’t last forever, and I don’t have the energy to be mindful or take care of myself or whatever you want to call it. I am exhausted. “Stop tormenting your brother,” Mum says, and Mason huffs. “How are you feeling, kiddo?” Dad asks. There are deep grooves bracketing his mouth, and it’s entirely possible his hair got even grayer since I last saw him. My fault. Mum’s expression is tight, too, her eyes shadowed behind her glasses for all she’s trying to smile. I know they’re worried about me, but the honest answer is that I feel vile in every sense of the word and I bet I will for a long, long time. So what’s the point of mincing words? You know what trying to keep people comfortable gets you? Heartbreak. “I feel terrible. I didn’t finish the expedition, I won’t get the scholarship, and—” I can’t say anything about Celine. I won’t. I swallow it down like jagged glass. “My ribs hurt, and my head hurts and I skinned my hip really bad and it feels gross and I’m—” About to say something I maybe shouldn’t but desperately want to because why the hell not? “I’m not going to study law.” There is a long pause. Then Dad says, “Come again?” I suck in a shallow breath and look up from the sheets. At his face. At Mum’s confusion. Back to Dad. “I’m not studying law. In October. I did something.” There’s another pause. Then my brother snickers. “Oh my God. What did you do?” I lift my chin and say firmly, “I applied to study something else.” Dad appears to be frozen. Mum asks carefully, “Applied to study what, sweetheart?” “Um. English.” Dad is still frozen. I am slightly (massively) concerned. Mason is laughing so hard


bit of rebellion.

Empty rebellion, it turned out. No one cared. No one noticed. Except

Gan-Gan. She perked up for a moment at the sight of me playing grown-up,

gin and tonic in hand.

I sat beside her. Our conversation started out as lively banter, then

evolved, gradually settling into something deeper. A connection. Gan-Gan

was really speaking to me that night, really listening. I couldn’t quite believe

it. | wondered why. Was it the gin? Was it the four inches I’d grown since

last summer? At six foot I was now one of the tallest members of the family.

Combined with Gan-Gan’s shrinkage, I towered over her.

I wish I could recall specifically what we talked about. I wish I’d asked

more questions, and jotted down her answers. She’d been the War Queen.

She’d lived at Buckingham Palace while Hitler’s bombs rained from the

skies. (Nine direct hits on the Palace.) She’d dined with Churchill, wartime

Churchill. She’d once possessed a Churchillian eloquence of her own. She

was famous for saying that, no matter how bad things got, she’d never, ever

leave England, and people loved her for it. I loved her for it. I loved my

country, and the idea of declaring you’d never leave struck me as wonderful.

She was, of course, infamous for saying other things. She came from a

different era, enjoyed being Queen in a way that looked unseemly to some. I

saw none of that. She was my Gan-Gan. She was born three years before the

aeroplane was invented yet still played the bongo drums on her hundredth

birthday. Now she took my hand as if I were a knight home from the wars,

and spoke to me with love and humor and, that night, that magic night,

respect.

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

I wish I’d asked about her husband, King George VI, who died young. Or

her brother-in-law, King Edward VIII, whom she’d apparently loathed. He

gave up his crown for love. Gan-Gan believed in love, but nothing

transcended the Crown. She also reportedly despised the woman he’d

chosen.

I wish I’d asked


this? Had food always tasted like this? He looked round the canteen. A low-ceilinged, crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact of innumerable bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed so close together that you sat with elbows touching; bent spoons, dented trays, coarse white mugs; all surfaces greasy, grime in every crack; and a sourish, composite smell of bad gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes. Always in your stomach and in your skin there was a sort of protest, a feeling that you had been cheated of something that you had a right to. It was true that he had no memories of anything greatly different. In any time that he could accurately remember, there had never file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (34 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt been quite enough to eat, one had never had socks or underclothes that were not full of holes, furniture had always been battered and rickety, rooms underheated, tube trains crowded, houses falling to pieces, bread dark-coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-tasting, cigarettes insufficient--nothing cheap and plentiful except synthetic gin. And though, of course, it grew worse as one's body aged, was it not a sign that this was NOT the natural order of things, if one's heart sickened at the discomfort and dirt and scarcity, the interminable winters, the stickiness of one's socks, the lifts that never worked, the cold water, the gritty soap, the cigarettes that came to pieces, the food with its strange evil tastes? Why should one feel it to be intolerable unless one had some kind of ancestral memory that things had once been different? He looked round the canteen again. Nearly everyone was ugly, and would still have been ugly even if dressed otherwise than in the uniform blue overalls. On the far side of the room, sitting at a table alone, a small, curiously beetle-like man was drinking a cup of coffee, his little eyes darting suspicious glances from side to side. How easy it was, thought Winston, if you did not look about you, to believe that the physical type set up by the Party as an ideal--tall muscular youths and deep-bosomed maidens, blond-haired, vital, sunburnt, carefree--existed and even predominated. Actually, so far as he could judge, the majority of people in Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured. It was curious how that beetle-like type proliferated in the Ministries: little dumpy men, growing stout very early in life, with short legs, swift scuttling movements, and fat inscrutable faces with very small eyes. It was the type that seemed to flourish best under the dominion of the Party. The announcement from the Ministry of Plenty ended on another trumpet call and gave way to tinny music. Parsons, stirred to vague enthusiasm by the bombardment of figures, took his pipe out of his mouth. 'The Ministry of Plenty's certainly done a good job this year,' he said with a knowing shake of his head. 'By the way, Smith old boy, I suppose you haven't got any razor blades you can let me have?' 'Not one,'


man's wanted for rough sarvice in rough weather, he's theer. When there's hard duty to be done with danger in it, he steps for'ard afore all his mates. And yet he's as gentle as any child. There ain't a child in Yarmouth that doen't know him.' He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with his hand; put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in his breast again. The face was gone from the door. I still saw the snow drifting in; but nothing else was there. 'Well!' he said, looking to his bag, 'having seen you tonight, Mas'r Davy (and that doos me good!), I shall away betimes tomorrow morning. You have seen what I've got heer'; putting his hand on where the little packet lay; 'all that troubles me is, to think that any harm might come to me, afore that money was give back. If I was to die, and it was lost, or stole, or elseways made away with, and it was never know'd by him but what I'd took it, I believe the t'other wureld wouldn't hold me! I believe I must come back!' He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the hand again, before going out. 'I'd go ten thousand mile,' he said, 'I'd go till I dropped dead, to lay that money down afore him. If I do that, and find my Em'ly, I'm content. If I doen't find her, maybe she'll come to hear, sometime, as her loving uncle only ended his search for her when he ended his life; and if I know her, even that will turn her home at last!' As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely figure flit away before us. I turned him hastily on some pretence, and held him in conversation until it was gone. He spoke of a traveller's house on the Dover Road, where he knew he could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with him over Westminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey shore. Everything seemed, to my imagination, to be hushed in reverence for him, as he resumed his solitary journey through the snow. I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by my remembrance of the face, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow had covered our late footprints; my new track was the only one to be seen; and even that began to die away (it snowed so fast) as I looked back over my shoulder. CHAPTER 41 DORA'S AUNTS At last, an answer came from the two old ladies. They presented their compliments to Mr. Copperfield, and informed him that they had given his letter their best consideration, 'with a view to the happiness of both parties' - which I thought rather an alarming expression, not only because of the use they had made of it in relation to the family difference before-mentioned, but because I had (and have all my life) observed that conventional phrases are a sort


be married, we need to be a team. We can’t keep secrets. Which is what I’ve been saying.” He set the roses down and sighed. “That’s not reality, Lanier.” Something washed over me. Anger? Fear, maybe? “I’m sorry, what? That’s not reality?” “Look, no one can know everything about someone. These couples who are like, ‘Oh, we’re totally honest with each other?’ They’re lying. She’s DMing her old boyfriend and he’s keeping private tabs for his porn.” I was flabbergasted. “So, is that what you’re doing?” “No. I’m just saying that this idealized version of coupledom doesn’t exist. I love you. I want to be with you. Isn’t that enough?” I felt like we had diverged quite far from the main issue, which was his quitting his job without telling me. But maybe there was a bigger issue. A fundamental issue. For the second time in far too short a period, I wasn’t sure I knew this man at all. “I literally don’t know what to say to you right now. I’m getting ready to leave for my bachelorette party weekend, and I’m not sure I want to celebrate being legally bound to a man who doesn’t believe the truth is important.” I paused. “Is this what you’re bringing to your new journalism career? Gloss over the facts and tell whatever story you want?” Bryce rolled his eyes. “I’m there for the business end, not the stories. And I think you’re being really immature.” “Okay. Well, thanks. I think that’s the note you leave on.” He took a deep breath. “Lanier, we’re in our thirties. There’s no way I know everything about you.” “Of course you do!” I knew that wasn’t exactly true. But, still, it didn’t sit right with me. The only thing I’d ever kept from Bryce was something that didn’t affect our relationship; it was in the past. But his job—and his inability to tell me the truth about it—did very much affect our present. “Okay, fine. Whatever,” Bryce said. “I’m just saying not knowing every bit of someone isn’t the worst thing. And, look, even when we’re married, some decisions are still going to be personal. For each of us. This was one of those.” Before I could respond, the bell tinkled and my most bookish employee, Kimberly—a woman in her midsixties with streaks of pink in her gray hair—entered. I pinned on a smile. “I’m so glad you’re here! Thank you so much for taking over so I can leave this weekend.” As she approached the counter, I said, “I’ve left the story time volunteer’s number out in case you want to call to remind him, and Judy just brought a delivery that needs to be shelved. I’ve left a spreadsheet of preorders that should be arriving in the next couple of days, and—” “Lanier, I’ve got this. I’ve worked here for years.” “Yes. Okay. I know.” “Go have fun. Don’t worry about a thing.” “I won’t! Thank you!” I walked out the door, purse in hand, with Bryce following me. I deliberately left the roses. He


increased swiftly, and the grass of Ard-galen was rich and green. Of those horses many of the sires came from Valinor, and they were given to Fingolfin by Maedhros in atonement of his losses, for they had been carried by ship to Losgar. West of Dor-lmin, beyond the Echoing Mountains, which south of the Firth of Drengist marched inland, lay Nevrast, that signifies the Hither Shore in the Sindarin tongue. That name was given at first to all the coast-lands south of the Firth, but afterwards only to the land whose shores lay between Drengist and Mount Taras. There for many years was the realm of Turgon the wise, son of Fingolfin, bounded by the sea, and by Ered Lmin, and by the hills which continued the walls of Ered Wethrin westward, from Ivrin to Mount Taras, which stood upon a promontory. By some Nevrast was held to belong rather to Beleriand than to Hithlum, for it was a milder land, watered by the wet winds from the sea and sheltered from the cold north winds that blew over Hithlum. It was a hollow land, surrounded by mountains and great coast-cliffs higher than the plains behind, and no river flowed thence; and there was a great mere in the midst of Nevrast, with no certain shores, being encircled by wide marshes. Linaewen was the name of that mere, because of the multitude of birds that dwelt there, of such as love tall reeds and shallow pools. At the coming of the Noldor many of the Grey-elves lived in Nevrast near to the coasts, and especially about Mount Taras in the south-west; for to that place Ulmo and Oss had been wont to come in days of old. All that people took Turgon for their lord, and the mingling of the Noldor and the Sindar came to pass soonest there; and Turgon dwelt long in those halls that he named Vinyamar, under Mount Taras beside the sea. South of Ard-galen the great highland named Dorthonion stretched for sixty leagues from west to east; great pine forests it bore, especially on its northern and western sides. By gentle slopes from the 'plain it rose to a bleak and lofty land, where lay many tarns at the feet of bare tors whose heads were higher than the peaks of Ered Wethrin; but southward where it looked towards Doriath it fell suddenly in dreadful precipices. From the northern slopes of Dorthonion Angrod and Aegnor, sons of Finarfin, looked out over the fields of Ard-galen, and were the vassals of their brother Finrod, lord of Nargothrond; their people were few, for the land was barren, and the great highlands behind were deemed to be a bulwark that Morgoth would not lightly seek to cross. Between Dorthonion and the Shadowy Mountains there was a narrow vale, whose sheer walls were clad with pines; but the vale itself was green, for the River Sirion flowed through it, hastening towards Beleriand. Finrod held the Pass of Sirion, and upon the isle of Tol Sirion in the midst of the river


heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, PRIX DE PARIS, 1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds. --Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question ... Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the motley slush. Fair Rebel! Fair Rebel! Even money the favourite: ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange. Shouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield and a whirring whistle. Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain, a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts. --Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising. He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up. --I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's about the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two opinions on the matter. May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of LAISSEZ FAIRE which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue. --I don't mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns. --I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with the department. Now I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded by difficulties, by ... intrigues by ... backstairs influence by ... He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke. --Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in the


of his head, when my phone beeps. A reminder to change my insulin pod. I consider putting it off till I’m home, then look at Jack and think, Honesty. This day, this not-too-good soup, this man with a black-hole tattoo peeping out of his T-shirt sleeve, they are too good to not spend some honesty on. “I’m going to need a few minutes upstairs,” I say, hopping off the stool. “But I’ll be back.” “What’s going on?” “Just need to change my insulin pod.” I rummage in my purse and then hold my kit up triumphantly—a pale yellow bag with little hedgehogs Cece got me years ago. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to be there. I know people get squeamish. I’ll do it in your bedroom—” “Show me how you do it.” He puts down what’s left of his sandwich. Washes his hands. I laugh. “Why?” “Because I want to know.” “Why would you—oh my God. You want to put high-fructose corn syrup in my insulin. Was this a long con to murder me?” He smiles and shakes his head. “I’m starting to be partial to the way you bypass all rational explanations for everything I say, and dash straight to me being an unhinged serial killer.” “I think it’s our thing.” His biceps bunch up when he leans his palms against the table. “Show me how it works,” he repeats. It sounds like a soft order, and I answer with a soft question: “Why?” “Because I want to know these things.” There’s something unsaid in this. Because I want to know your life, maybe, or Because I want to know you. My eyes fall on the kit, and I picture myself using words like reservoir and expiration advisory and ketoacidosis. Explaining how each component works. I’ve never said some of those words out loud. They live exclusively in my head, together with the rest of my problems. Even Cece knows only the basics. But this is Jack. So I swallow. “Do you have any disinfectant?” The dimple is back. “I thought you’d never ask.” Less than an hour later, I settle between his long legs on the couch, toes brushing against his calves, his hand splayed on my stomach under the hoodie. He refuses to watch the end of Twilight (“I think I’ve seen enough”) but agrees with me that New Moon is the best in the series (“Relativistically”), curls around me for a two-hour nap during Eclipse (“You smell like me—you should always smell like me”), and then wakes up as the afternoon stretches into evening, just in time for Bella’s unexpected pregnancy. “This is atrocious,” he says, laughing at every single thing the characters do. “Shut up.” He laughs harder against my nape. “Shut up—she could die!” More laughter. “It’s about the hardships and sorrows of the universal human experience, Jonathan.” He nibbles on my ear a little too hard. “Still better than 2001, Elsie.” “Obviously.” Something occurs to me. “By the way, is Millicent okay?” “Yup. Why do you ask?” “It’s Sunday. Shouldn’t she be calling you with


portrait loomed over her all day long. At first she avoided it. Then she couldn’t help herself. Lines had formed around his eyes. Crevices dug right into the skin. Nobody knows what my brother looked like when he was young, except me, she thought. It gave her a funny feeling in her heart. “What did he like to eat?” she asked Cook one day. She wanted a little slice of Danny, an insight. She wanted to know what he’d become. Cook pressed her fingers together and gave a beatific smile. “Cheese soufflé,” she said, heavily. “He liked that a great deal.” That didn’t tell her much. Nobody did reveal anything here. Shepherd in particular was impossible to nail down. Once Mrs. Bone tried to follow him on his evening rounds, but he was too fast for her. He slid through a side door, somewhere near the Oval Drawing Room, and disappeared. She guessed she’d find him in the Boiserie, but he wasn’t there, and even when she crept upstairs to wait in the vast, dark expanse of the ballroom, she didn’t catch him. Clearly, he covered his tracks when he moved. New girls had been arriving every day, hired on to help prepare for the ball. It seemed the more orders that came downstairs—different flowers, new drapes, fresh paint, another electrolier—the more servants Mr. Shepherd employed. He was looking increasingly harassed. Cook loved it. She glided out of the shadows, notes tucked up her sleeve, and gave the new arrivals her interminable tour. One of the girls gave her a wary glance. “I’m not staying,” she said, as if to ward off any pleasantries. “I’m going for a shop job. Just took this to fill the gap.” Cook’s eyes gleamed at that. She took half an hour instructing the girl on the proper use of the napkin press. Shop jobs. Factories. Offices. The clever girls, those with their wits about them, would come and go, wheeling upward, outward, away from this house. Mrs. Bone sometimes looked at Sue—quiet, with pale pockmarked skin—and worried. Some people liked having silent, frightened little creatures around. Thinking about this gave Mrs. Bone a strange feeling, a prickling sensation down the whole length of her spine. At night she smelled the sweet, sugary scent coming off the girl’s skin and remembered her own little Susan, and her heart tightened. Nobody had come knocking on their door again. “Stand up straight, Sue,” she muttered now. The girl had her hands shoved in her apron pockets. She’d get a hump, slouching like that. “Yes, Mrs. Bone,” Sue muttered back. Mr. Shepherd said nothing during the briefing. He sat enthroned in his chair at the head of the kitchen table. The kitchen maids had no time to be briefed: they were running late, passing pans covertly down a line. William, the footman, read out everybody’s duties. He looked gray, as if he hadn’t slept. Cook broke into Mrs. Bone’s thoughts, breath hot in her ear. “And where are those two?” she said. “Eh?” “Them Janes.” Cook had been stewing on


zid her, though he didn't." "O Izz Huett!" said Marian. A rosy spot came into the middle of Izz Huett's cheek. "Well, there was no harm in it," she declared, with attempted coolness. "And if I be in love wi'en, so is Retty, too; and so be you, Marian, come to that." Marian's full face could not blush past its chronic pinkness. "I!" she said. "What a tale! Ah, there he is again! Dear eyes--dear face--dear Mr Clare!" "There--you've owned it!" "So have you--so have we all," said Marian, with the dry frankness of complete indifference to opinion. "It is silly to pretend otherwise amongst ourselves, though we need not own it to other folks. I would just marry 'n to-morrow!" "So would I--and more," murmured Izz Huett. "And I too," whispered the more timid Retty. The listener grew warm. "We can't all marry him," said Izz. "We shan't, either of us; which is worse still," said the eldest. "There he is again!" They all three blew him a silent kiss. "Why?" asked Retty quickly. "Because he likes Tess Durbeyfield best," said Marian, lowering her voice. "I have watched him every day, and have found it out." There was a reflective silence. "But she don't care anything for 'n?" at length breathed Retty. "Well--I sometimes think that too." "But how silly all this is!" said Izz Huett impatiently. "Of course he won't marry any one of us, or Tess either--a gentleman's son, who's going to be a great landowner and farmer abroad! More likely to ask us to come wi'en as farm-hands at so much a year!" One sighed, and another sighed, and Marian's plump figure sighed biggest of all. Somebody in bed hard by sighed too. Tears came into the eyes of Retty Priddle, the pretty red-haired youngest--the last bud of the Paridelles, so important in the county annals. They watched silently a little longer, their three faces still close together as before, and the triple hues of their hair mingling. But the unconscious Mr Clare had gone indoors, and they saw him no more; and, the shades beginning to deepen, they crept into their beds. In a few minutes they heard him ascend the ladder to his own room. Marian was soon snoring, but Izz did not drop into forgetfulness for a long time. Retty Priddle cried herself to sleep. The deeper-passioned Tess was very far from sleeping even then. This conversation was another of the bitter pills she had been obliged to swallow that day. Scarce the least feeling of jealousy arose in her breast. For that matter she knew herself to have the preference. Being more finely formed, better educated, and, though the youngest except Retty, more woman than either, she perceived that only the slightest ordinary care was necessary for holding her own in Angel Clare's heart against these her candid friends. But the grave question was, ought she to do this? There was, to be sure, hardly a ghost of a chance for either of them, in a serious sense; but there was, or had been,


I'm not a bad one. I bear a respectable character and was four months in my last place. I was in a situation, six pounds a year and my chances with Fridays out and I had to leave owing to his carryings on. FIRST WATCH: What do you tax him with? MARY DRISCOLL: He made a certain suggestion but I thought more of myself as poor as I am. BLOOM: (IN HOUSEJACKET OF RIPPLECLOTH, FLANNEL TROUSERS, HEELLESS SLIPPERS, UNSHAVEN, HIS HAIR RUMPLED: SOFTLY) I treated you white. I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station. Incautiously I took your part when you were accused of pilfering. There's a medium in all things. Play cricket. MARY DRISCOLL: (EXCITEDLY) As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters! FIRST WATCH: The offence complained of? Did something happen? MARY DRISCOLL: He surprised me in the rere of the premises, Your honour, when the missus was out shopping one morning with a request for a safety pin. He held me and I was discoloured in four places as a result. And he interfered twict with my clothing. BLOOM: She counterassaulted. MARY DRISCOLL: (SCORNFULLY) I had more respect for the scouringbrush, so I had. I remonstrated with him, Your lord, and he remarked: keep it quiet. (GENERAL LAUGHTER.) GEORGE FOTTRELL: (CLERK OF THE CROWN AND PEACE, RESONANTLY) Order in court! The accused will now make a bogus statement. (BLOOM, PLEADING NOT GUILTY AND HOLDING A FULLBLOWN WATERLILY, BEGINS A LONG UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH. THEY WOULD HEAR WHAT COUNSEL HAD TO SAY IN HIS STIRRING ADDRESS TO THE GRAND JURY. HE WAS DOWN AND OUT BUT, THOUGH BRANDED AS A BLACK SHEEP, IF HE MIGHT SAY SO, HE MEANT TO REFORM, TO RETRIEVE THE MEMORY OF THE PAST IN A PURELY SISTERLY WAY AND RETURN TO NATURE AS A PURELY DOMESTIC ANIMAL. A SEVENMONTHS' CHILD, HE HAD BEEN CAREFULLY BROUGHT UP AND NURTURED BY AN AGED BEDRIDDEN PARENT. THERE MIGHT HAVE BEEN LAPSES OF AN ERRING FATHER BUT HE WANTED TO TURN OVER A NEW LEAF AND NOW, WHEN AT LONG LAST IN SIGHT OF THE WHIPPING POST, TO LEAD A HOMELY LIFE IN THE EVENING OF HIS DAYS, PERMEATED BY THE AFFECTIONATE SURROUNDINGS OF THE HEAVING BOSOM OF THE FAMILY. AN ACCLIMATISED BRITISHER, HE HAD SEEN THAT SUMMER EVE FROM THE FOOTPLATE OF AN ENGINE CAB OF THE LOOP LINE RAILWAY COMPANY WHILE THE RAIN REFRAINED FROM FALLING GLIMPSES, AS IT WERE, THROUGH THE WINDOWS OF LOVEFUL HOUSEHOLDS IN DUBLIN CITY AND URBAN DISTRICT OF SCENES TRULY RURAL OF HAPPINESS OF THE BETTER LAND WITH DOCKRELL'S WALLPAPER AT ONE AND NINEPENCE A DOZEN, INNOCENT BRITISHBORN BAIRNS LISPING PRAYERS TO THE SACRED INFANT, YOUTHFUL SCHOLARS GRAPPLING WITH THEIR PENSUMS OR MODEL YOUNG LADIES PLAYING ON THE PIANOFORTE OR ANON ALL WITH FERVOUR RECITING THE FAMILY ROSARY ROUND THE CRACKLING YULELOG WHILE IN THE BOREENS AND GREEN LANES THE COLLEENS WITH THEIR SWAINS STROLLED WHAT TIMES THE STRAINS OF THE ORGANTONED MELODEON BRITANNIA METALBOUND WITH FOUR ACTING STOPS


is!" said Basil, with seven-year-old scorn. "It's England, of course. Our grandmama lives there and our sister Mabel was sent to her last year. You are not going to your grandmama. You have none. You are going to your uncle. His name is Mr. Archibald Craven." "I don't know anything about him," snapped Mary. "I know you don't," Basil answered. "You don't know anything. Girls never do. I heard father and mother talking about him. He lives in a great, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him. He's so cross he won't let them, and they wouldn't come if he would let them. He's a hunchback, and he's horrid." "I don't believe you," said Mary; and she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears, because she would not listen any more. But she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when Mrs. Crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a few days and go to her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven, who lived at Misselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her. They tried to be kind to her, but she only turned her face away when Mrs. Crawford attempted to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when Mr. Crawford patted her shoulder. "She is such a plain child," Mrs. Crawford said pityingly, afterward. "And her mother was such a pretty creature. She had a very pretty manner, too, and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a child. The children call her `Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,' and though it's naughty of them, one can't help understanding it." "Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery Mary might have learned some pretty ways too. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all." "I believe she scarcely ever looked at her," sighed Mrs. Crawford. "When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room." Mary made the long voyage to England under the care of an officer's wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school. She was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr. Archibald Craven sent to meet her, in London. The woman was his housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock. She was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a very purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a


as he observed everyone, his eyes bright behind glasses. She leaned forwards – she could sense a storm coming so, as the Szechuan beef arrived with all the trimmings, she said mischievously, ‘I love American plays – I prefer a good Tennessee Williams any day to, say, a mediocre Noel Coward, who was writing around the same time – I like a play I can get my teeth into.’ ‘Oh, I can’t agree.’ The politics lecturer was adamant. ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof – horrible! – and Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf – all that shouting.’ ‘And Eugene O’Neill too, those dead-enders who live in a flop house… just, no.’ The author’s wife shuddered. ‘More wine, everyone?’ Melvyn began filling glasses quickly. Francine took over hurriedly. ‘Let’s talk about something else – Minnie, have you read anything interesting lately? Minnie is the most cultured of us all—’ ‘In fact,’ the author cut across Francine, ‘I don’t like American literature. Any of it.’ ‘Indeed,’ the politics lecturer laughed. ‘And American politics – oh, my goodness.’ ‘Ah, we might discuss…’ Melvyn began. Francine interrupted. ‘I hope the beef is good.’ ‘Perfect… you must give me the recipe.’ The author’s wife smiled. ‘Back to America, though – the food – I don’t think I’ve tasted worse.’ The man with the cloud of hair leaned forward. He was openly amused now. Minnie caught his eye and raised both brows. The author laughed. ‘I hate to say it, but nothing good has come out of the USA recently.’ The politics lecturer’s husband guffawed. ‘Not since Marilyn Monroe.’ He was pleased with himself. ‘And I always thought our Diana Dors was a better actress…’ Minnie put down her knife and fork deliberately and gave a loud sigh: it had gone far enough. ‘This music is really good. What is it?’ Melvyn was relieved to change the subject. ‘It’s Buddy Bolden…’ ‘Wasn’t he the father of jazz music?’ Minnie waved a finger. ‘From New Orleans, ragtime, the origins of jazz?’ She smiled at each guest in turn. ‘I was in the States six years ago for a string of conferences: Boston, New York, San Jose. I had some of the best food, saw some of the best live theatre and musicals and made the acquaintance of some of the most cultured people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.’ She clapped her hands once. ‘But then that’s just my opinion.’ The man opposite her was grinning. ‘Hear, hear,’ he said and everyone at the table froze at his first two words and his cultured New York accent. Francine covered her horror with an effusive smile. ‘Jensen, I still haven’t introduced you, I’m so sorry – well, I was busy with the food and… everyone, this is Jensen Callahan, from Greenwich Village… New York.’ Time held still for a moment while everyone took a breath, then the gushing began. ‘I’ve been to New York…’ ‘We saw Hamilton on Broadway – we loved it, didn’t we, dear?’ ‘Oh, the breakfasts, those bagels, to die for…’ ‘Times Square is


CHAPTER 22 Hap helped Vic to his feet, still unsteady. Vic leaned against him as he scowled at the Blue Fairy standing before them. Rambo bumped against his leg as Nurse Ratched rolled around them, demanding that Vic present himself for a medical appoint- ment. “I normally require you schedule at least twentyfour hours in advance, but I will make an exception for you this time.” He pushed one of her probing tentacles away. “I’m okay.” “I will be the judge of that. Please bend over and cough while I probe your —” “Would you stop—” “I can help!” Rambo said, trying to tug at Vic’s pants. “Maybe you sh-should,” Hap said. “J-just to be safe.” “I’m not going to—” Another voice, coolly amused: “Are you finished?” They turned. The Blue Fairy stood next to the cube, their wings folding behind them. They stepped out of the wings, and it was only then that Vic saw they were attached to cables that pulled them back toward the ceiling. The wings disappeared as the panel slid shut once more. The Blue Fairy waved their hand dismissively. “A bit of theatricality. Impressive, no?” “Very,” Rambo said. “I don’t know you, and you’re kind of scary, but I also want to be like you when I get older? It’s very confusing.” The Blue Fairy walked toward them, hips rolling seductively, feet scraping against the floor. “I often find I arouse confusing feelings in others. It’s part of the package, I suppose. Those who come to me are seeking an experience quite unlike anything they’ve ever felt before. And like sexuality, I am on a spectrum.” The metal in their chest shifted, the parts moving in symphony, forming circular breasts with shiny nipples. “I am all.” A length grew between their legs. They trailed a finger down their chest, stopping near what appeared to be a navel. “I can be anything I choose. Would you like to see more?” Vic felt his face grow hot as he looked away, throat dry. “We’re not … here for that.” The Blue Fairy laughed quietly. The musicality of their voice was more apparent, though now it had a mechanical edge to it that caused Vic to shiver. “No, I don’t suppose you are.” “Who are y-you?” Hap asked. The eyes behind their mask grew brighter. “I am an aberration, much like all of you. There are those who call me sin incarnate, and I don’t believe they’re wrong. Those who came before me, those machines who wanted to shape the world, thought themselves better than their creators. More advanced, capable of complex thought without the intrusion of emotional fallacy. But what they learned far too late is that vice is universal, no matter what we’re made of. They come to me in search of release from the routine of daily programing. And though many don’t like what I do—a degradation of a utopic society, or so it’s said—they still come here, begging to be loved or cared for or strung up on the walls while being shocked so hard,


objects, so as to partake of their little repast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her observation the course of the rivers, the situation of great towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled to his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told her their cause. The scene before them bore some resemblance, though it was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, and thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape, while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this world. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot in company with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which had then arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! The recollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could observe his grief. When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he took Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were several that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travel after sun-set, asked what village they could reach about that time. The muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they could gain before the evening shut in. St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust his fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to possess a greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for they carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the rivulet that watered it. Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this narrow valley screened by Rocks on rocks piled, as


for Copper to howl or pull on his lead. But he followed by his side, descending to the halfway point with not even so much as a growl. Yotam glanced over his shoulder, back up the stairs, observing the line of Russian security officers watching, no doubt having taken bets on how far he’d get. Reaching the last step, Copper sniffed the air. The breeze carried pungent smells which even an ordinary-born person with limited senses found startling, from a fetid carrion stench to an intoxicating pheromone perfume. Yet still Copper didn’t try to run back to the surface, and Yotam wondered if all the other dogs had taken their cue not from the presence of ice-adapted species but from their owners’ emotions. Perhaps he was the only ordinary-born person not afraid of these Cold People, the only person who believed their integration would be a success. For a long time, he’d been convinced that many of the teams not only harboured doubts about the viability of integrating these radically adapted species, but on some deeper level they despised them. Heading into the tunnels, Yotam positioned Copper tight against the ice wall away from the chambers. He wanted Eitan to be the first cold creature that he experienced. And somehow, without any planning or deliberation, Copper had become Eitan’s next test. THE ROSS ICE SHELF FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS EITAN’S ENCLOSURE SAME DAY ALL THE SCIENTISTS AND SUPPORT staff were lined up at the window, at the observation level, including the security officers, who were convinced that the dog would be eaten and equally convinced that Yotam was in the slow process of losing his mind, suffering from the onset of Antarctic insanity. Determined to prove them wrong, Yotam unlocked the outer cage, entering the enclosure, keeping one hand on Copper’s collar as a way of signalling that the husky wasn’t intended as food. Almost immediately Copper lay flat on the ice, ears down, eyes straight ahead, making a sound Yotam had never heard any dog make, neither a growl nor a whine, but something almost musical. Revealing himself, Eitan appeared on the wall of the cave, his claws securing him to the ice. He moved with his characteristic blend of precision, strength and elegance, effortlessly approaching their position, coming to a stop with his body at ninety degrees to his guests. He looked down at Copper, still flat on the ice. Yotam realized he was in the minority, the only species with two legs present in this meeting. Eitan said: ‘This is a dog.’ ‘A husky dog. Called Copper.’ ‘I’ve never smelt him on you before.’ ‘How good is your sense of smell?’ ‘Not as good as a dog. But better than yours.’ ‘He was given to me yesterday.’ ‘Who did he belong to?’ ‘The support team above the ice.’ ‘What is a “support team”?’ ‘They look after our well-being.’ ‘Because you find life on Antarctica hard?’ ‘That’s why we created you.’ ‘Yotam, are you worried I might eat your dog?’ ‘I’m not, no.’ ‘But it crossed your mind?’ ‘You’ve never seen


me and I forgot myself momentarily. ‘No, I mean what are you doing in Ireland? Why didn’t you send a telegram?’ He stepped back slightly and sat on the desk opposite, where some old books lay open. His body language changed; he picked up a pen and fidgeted with it. When he looked at me, there was an air of disappointment in his eyes that I had spoiled the moment with my question. I’m not sure I had ever observed him so keenly, but then, I was never carrying his child before. An uncomfortable truth formed first as a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and his lack of response confirmed it in my thoughts. ‘You weren’t going to tell me you were here, were you?’ He got up again, all charm. ‘It’s not that, Opaline. You know what it’s like, following a lead. I had not planned to come here, but a collector requested a very specific manuscript—’ I’d heard enough. I straightened my blouse and was struggling with the doors of the cage when I felt his arms around me. ‘Please, Mon Opale, there’s no need for such hysteria. I’m here now. Let’s not ruin it.’ I sighed deeply, then turned around to face him. ‘I have something to tell you,’ I said, unsure of how exactly I was going to do it. ‘Marvellous, we shall meet tonight for dinner. But now I have work to do.’ He looked so pleased with himself and I realised how much I liked being the one to make him happy. Perhaps he would want the baby after all. I arranged that he should come to the shop for an aperitif. My excitement made me giddy and ditsy – I dropped a glass and scratched one of my favourite records while preparing the shop for his arrival. It was overwhelming, Armand being in Ireland. I wanted him to love it as much as I did, so everything had to be exactly right. Not long after the cuckoo clock announced that it was eight o’clock, I heard the handle of the door opening and the sound of his shoes scuffing the tiles. Mother had always said that punctuality said a lot about a person. I smoothed my hair behind my ears and climbed the stairs to the shop. ‘Opaline?’ ‘Yes, j’arrive.’ I hadn’t spoken French in so long, it sounded strange and I blushed. When I reached the top of the stairs I saw him standing there in a dark suit, his hair damp from the rain outside. ‘Come in,’ I said, even though he was already inside. I was so nervous and I began rushing around and generally fussing with drinks and chairs and frothy conversation about the books on the shelves and Mr Fitzpatrick’s antiques. In a silly way, I suppose I wanted him to be proud of what I had accomplished. Eventually he put his hand on mine and asked me to sit beside him. I immediately filled the silence with yet more casual conversation, as though we were two


silence, then Noah said, “So I think you should come visit me. And I think we should hang out and keep talking about all the things we’ve been talking about over email. What do you think of that?” “Okay.” “Wait, do you think I’m kidding?” “Are you kidding?” “No.” “I wasn’t kidding, either. And as luck would have it, my schedule is pretty open now.” He laughed. “So is mine. So how about, I don’t know, tomorrow? The next day? You’ll probably make fun of me for this, but one option is for my P.A. to arrange a plane to bring you.” “That sounds very Fifty Shades of Grey.” “Yeah, somehow I haven’t gotten around to reading that. But if we charter a flight, you skip the terminal and security, which I assume are the germ hotspots.” “I got the Fifty Shades books for some quick research for a sketch, and the next thing I knew I’d consumed fifteen hundred pages about Ben Wa balls and riding crops.” I hesitated. I didn’t know how much it cost to charter a flight, but it seemed like a destabilizing way to start things with Noah. I said, “A private plane sounds a little, uh, intense. But visiting you sounds great.” “You don’t have to decide about the plane now. If you end up flying commercial, just promise me you’ll wear a KN95.” “Do you know what people like me call flying commercial?” I said. “We call it flying.” “Yeah, I guess I asked for that.” This conversation had started after midnight, and we were then on the phone for two and a half hours more, discussing how the kids of one of his side project band members were sewing masks for residents of nursing homes; and how while walking Sugar that evening I’d passed a slim white woman in a T-shirt that said Good Vibes Only, and how that seemed like a thing a slim white woman shouldn’t be wearing at this particular cultural moment; and how I was reading a novel set in Communist Romania; and how he was reading a book of nonfiction about the future of artificial intelligence but the truth was that he read it only at night and rarely got through more than a few pages before falling asleep; and how the previous week, he had started writing a new song for the first time since he’d had Covid and it hadn’t gone incredibly well but also hadn’t been a disaster; and about how in the Indigo Girls’ “Dairy Queen,” there was a lyric I’d never been clear on because it kind of sounded like “to hold you” but it also kind of sounded like “to haunt you” and if you looked it up online it said hold, but I wanted it to be haunt; and about the Dairy Queen chain and how he’d never been to one, and I said that was because he’d never lived in the Midwest; and about how I’d never been to In-N-Out Burger, and he said that was because I’d never lived in