the wretch took a few days to dry. Does it smell all right?” I did not trust myself to speak for a long moment. The image of Sefa on her knees in front of the water basin, scrubbing her hands raw against my cloak…“It’s perfect.” “You can skulk wickedly around corners again,” Marek said, with a grin of such fraternal fondness that I could hardly bear it. A dangerous torrent gathered strength inside me. My cuffs were burning vises around my wrists. I made an idle note of it. “Your kindness would be better spent on someone else.” “Impossible,” Marek said. “I’ve never met someone who needs it more.” This was far worse than I could have imagined. I had not earned this. Loyalty could be broken. These destructive fools loved me. Love. Hanim mocked me. A new name for an old insanity. When Arin threatened to expose Sefa and Marek, the tactic was only a piece of a much larger ploy. Without the offer of my freedom, without the threat of Felix’s armies, I would have walked away. I might have searched for methods to secure Sefa and Marek’s release, bartered and threatened to spare them from Nizahl’s tribunal. But I wouldn’t have exchanged myself. I stepped from the cover of trees, approaching Hirun with a stifled groan. Night had fallen, and the river’s silhouette frothed in the darkness. “We can hide you,” Sefa blurted, darting away from Marek. She spoke fast, as though anticipating an objection. “Marek and I, we know how to move undetected. We have mastered the art of disappearance.” “Sefa!” Marek demanded. “Don’t!” Sefa splashed into the river, out of Marek’s reach. “We’re Nizahlan, Sylvia. I am sure you’ve gathered as much. What you don’t know is after we fled Nizahl, we spent two years flitting between Orbanian and Lukubi villages, surviving on what we could get by cheating or stealing.” On my right, Marek sank to the ground, covering his head with his arms. A frog hopped onto his shoulder, its chest ballooning with a croak. A disbelieving chuckle slipped from my lips. “Do you mean to say you and Marek were vagrants?” Sefa nodded vigorously. “Worse. Your route is nothing compared to our deceptions. We stole everything—jewels, clothes, farm tools. Then we sold them in the next village. We cheated our way into homes, charmed merchants and healers. Over and over, for years.” I shifted the cloak to my other arm and scooped the frog from Marek’s arm. “What changed?” Marek finally animated, lurching to his feet. He pointed at Sefa. “Go on, tell her. Tell her what changed.” The frog wiggled in my grip, unsettled by the tension whipping between the two. I released him on a boulder and enviously watched him scurry away. Sloshing onto the river’s bank, Sefa worried her bottom lip. “There was an… incident… in one of the Orbanian villages.” Marek swung in my direction. “By ‘incident,’ she means we were caught in a scheme. While I was visiting a market, Sefa was beaten nearly to death. I stole a


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

done it!" Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class. "It's no wonder no one can stand her," he said to Harry as they pushed their way into the crowded corridor, "she's a nightmare, honestly." Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past him. It was Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her face -- and was startled to see that she was in tears. "I think she heard you." "So?" said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. "She must've noticed she's got no friends." Hermione didn't turn up for the next class and wasn't seen all afternoon. On their way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, Harry and Ron overheard Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that Hermione was crying in the girls' bathroom and wanted to be left alone. Ron looked still more awkward at this, but a moment later they had entered the Great Hall, where the Halloween decorations put Hermione out of their minds. A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on the golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term banquet. Harry was just helping himself to a baked potato when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore's chair, slumped against the table, and gasped, "Troll -- in the dungeons -- thought you ought to know." He then sank to the floor in a dead faint. There was an uproar. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor Dumbledore's wand to bring silence. "Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!" Percy was in his element. "Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear the troll if you follow my orders! Stay close behind me, now. Make way, first years coming through! Excuse me, I'm a prefect!" "How could a troll get in?" Harry asked as they climbed the stairs. "Don't ask me, they're supposed to be really stupid," said Ron. "Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloween joke." They passed different groups of people hurrying in different directions. As they jostled their way through a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Harry suddenly grabbed Ron's arm. "I've just thought -- Hermione." "What about her?" "She doesn't know about the troll." Ron bit his lip. "Oh, all right," he snapped. "But Percy'd better not see us." Ducking down, they joined the Hufflepuffs going the other way, slipped down a deserted side corridor, and hurried off toward the girls' bathroom. They had just turned the corner when they heard quick footsteps behind them. "Percy!" hissed Ron, pulling Harry behind a large stone griffin. Peering around it, however, they saw not Percy but Snape. He crossed the corridor and disappeared from view. "What's he doing?" Harry whispered. "Why isn't he down in the dungeons with the rest of the teachers?" "Search me."


soft, adolescent curves. Helen pushes the bowl of flatbreads in her direction and Penelope takes one slowly, as if she isn’t hungry. As she tears off a piece, she sets her mild eyes on Clytemnestra. “Congratulations. You are marrying a foreigner, I heard.” “I am. King Tantalus of Maeonia.” Something flickers in Penelope’s eyes, like the sudden sparkle of silver under the torchlight. “You are leaving then.” “Yes, but not soon.” Penelope nods, her face impassive. Clytemnestra knows that expression well. When they were children, Penelope was always following her around, trying to discourage her hasty choices. When she couldn’t, she made excuses for her cousin to the elders. She was a very good liar. “You disapprove?” Clytemnestra asks. Penelope smiles. “I never thought you’d be the first to marry, that’s all. But I am happy for you.” “You must be tired,” Helen tells Penelope. “A little,” Penelope says. “But I haven’t seen you in too long. We have a night’s worth of stories.” She stares at them, her face thoughtful. Then she takes Clytemnestra’s hand. “So tell me about Tantalus. I want to know everything.” * * * On the wedding day, dawn shines bright and golden. Outside the windows, trees are yellow and orange, and the banks of the Eurotas are muddy. In the megaron, tables are laid with bowls of geese and ducks, quail and wild boar, figs and cakes, onions, grapes and sweet apples. Vases of fresh flowers are everywhere, and the door and windows are wide open to make sure the light does justice to the frescoes. The room fills quickly with rich Spartan families. Tyndareus and Leda welcome them, offering wine. Most ask what Sparta gains with this new marriage, which economic propositions the king of Maeonia offers. Clytemnestra pays no attention to any of it. She lingers by the largest window, Helen and Penelope by her sides. Penelope looks pretty in her lapis-blue dress, while Helen wears a simple white tunic, her long hair glowing around her shoulders; she has tried her best not to outshine her sister. Clytemnestra is wearing the earrings she had on the first night she met Tantalus, and her own white dress is bound with a thin golden belt. “Our cousin Penelope has grown,” Castor says as he approaches the girls with Polydeuces and a few other Spartan youths. Smiling, Penelope accepts her cousin’s kiss. She lets her eyes linger on the other boys, her stare as bright as the moon in a starless night. “Soon you will marry too, I presume,” Castor says. “Not before I find a man who truly respects me,” replies Penelope. Castor opens his mouth, but Penelope is quicker. “And what about you, Cousin? Is marriage still far off for you?” Her voice is wise and mild. She doesn’t sound as though she is looking for an argument as Clytemnestra often does. Castor laughs. “Why settle down when there are so many Spartan women? Look at this room. It swarms with them.” “Haven’t you already slept with them all?” Polydeuces snorts. Castor narrows his eyes.


full in sight. But it was in sight of nothing now--my visitor had vanished. I stopped, I almost dropped, with the real relief of this; but I took in the whole scene--I gave him time to reappear. I call it time, but how long was it? I can't speak to the purpose today of the duration of these things. That kind of measure must have left me: they couldn't have lasted as they actually appeared to me to last. The terrace and the whole place, the lawn and the garden beyond it, all I could see of the park, were empty with a great emptiness. There were shrubberies and big trees, but I remember the clear assurance I felt that none of them concealed him. He was there or was not there: not there if I didn't see him. I got hold of this; then, instinctively, instead of returning as I had come, went to the window. It was confusedly present to me that I ought to place myself where he had stood. I did so; I applied my face to the pane and looked, as he had looked, into the room. As if, at this moment, to show me exactly what his range had been, Mrs. Grose, as I had done for himself just before, came in from the hall. With this I had the full image of a repetition of what had already occurred. She saw me as I had seen my own visitant; she pulled up short as I had done; I gave her something of the shock that I had received. She turned white, and this made me ask myself if I had blanched as much. She stared, in short, and retreated on just MY lines, and I knew she had then passed out and come round to me and that I should presently meet her. I remained where I was, and while I waited I thought of more things than one. But there's only one I take space to mention. I wondered why SHE should be scared. V Oh, she let me know as soon as, round the corner of the house, she loomed again into view. "What in the name of goodness is the matter--?" She was now flushed and out of breath. I said nothing till she came quite near. "With me?" I must have made a wonderful face. "Do I show it?" "You're as white as a sheet. You look awful." I considered; I could meet on this, without scruple, any innocence. My need to respect the bloom of Mrs. Grose's had dropped, without a rustle, from my shoulders, and if I wavered for the instant it was not with what I kept back. I put out my hand to her and she took it; I held her hard a little, liking to feel her close to me. There was a kind of support in the shy heave of her surprise. "You came for me for church, of course, but I can't go." "Has anything happened?" "Yes. You must know now. Did I look


know it.” Immediately, he regrets his words—and the disdain behind them—seeing the look on her face. She narrows her eyes. “Excuse me? You think I wanted to go alone? Have my coworkers pity me, while I sat all night next to the empty seat meant for my cheating husband?” Her words sting. “I’m sorr—” “And don’t act like you haven’t put your career first, too,” she adds. “I’m home more than you are.” Ethan shakes his head. “Only because we are so short-staffed right now. But you put off having children so long, who knows if we even can, still? You knew I wanted a family. And you made me think you did too.” But Sloane was never interested in having children until her female colleagues started having them while balancing their careers, making Sloane feel they one-upped her. “All you care about is proving you don’t need anyone. Congratulations, you’ve succeeded.” He sucks in a breath, again hating his words but also feeling powerless to stop them coming out. Her face flushes with color. He’s seen that look before—she’s infuriated. “Are you seriously putting the fact we don’t have children on me? The only reason I’m not pregnant right now is because you cheated on me!” She yells the last part loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Ethan stares into his coffee. “I’ve never been good enough for you.” She scoffs. “Stop acting like I’m your father, Ethan. I’m your wife.” Her last word comes out a hiss. My wife who doesn’t even feel guilty after sleeping with someone else. Sloane takes a few steps toward him. “How dare you blame me for what you did.” She whips around. “You’re unbelievable,” she shouts before storming up the stairs. Ethan wants to go after her, but he can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make things worse. She hates him. Part of him hates himself too. He was wrong. He should’ve gone with her last night. He’s still leaning against the kitchen counter ten minutes later when Sloane comes back, dressed in scrubs. She snatches her purse off the counter without even a glance in his direction and slams the door to the garage behind her. Chapter 8 “I don’t understand—" The man’s voice breaks. “What happened?” Sloane gives the man she just introduced herself to a moment to collect himself in the small room off the ER waiting room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?” Sloane asks. “Daniel.” The woman seated beside him reaches for his hand. “This is my sister, Janae.” Janae grasps her brother’s hand as Daniel wipes his eyes with a tissue. Sloane had already pronounced Daniel’s forty-eight-year-old wife dead when he and his sister arrived at the ER. The siblings don’t look much older than Sloane. Daniel refocuses his attention on Sloane, shock and grief in his eyes. Sloane has seen this look countless times over in her career. But while it’s familiar, it still moves her every time. A reminder that, sometimes, our love for others comes at a cost. “She was fine


library?” I almost spit my ayran all over her. But it’s okay because she totally deserves it. 19 IMPEDANCE O N F RIDAY NIGHT , I WEAR A DRESS . Nothing fancy. It’s a cable-knit sweaterdress my cousin handed down to Mom because it was too long, and Mom handed down to me because it was too small. I pair it with my one lipstick, my one tube of mascara, my one eye pencil, my one pair of thigh highs. I curl my hair all on my own, cursing softly whenever I burn the side of my hand, so Cece won’t hear. Reader: she hears anyway. “This is such an M. Night Shyamalan plot twist,” she tells me from the kitchen, where she’s pouring milk into a bowl. “Do you see dead people? Oh my God—am I dead?” “Shut up. I dress up all the time.” She waves her spoon at me. “Not for dates.” “Actually—” “Not for real dates with your professional archnemesis and brother of the guy you used to fake-date, who you wished would incur a death by papercuts but now like enough to fix that cowlick on the back of your head.” I sigh. “Great synopsis of my life.” “Thank you. If you ever need a biographer . . .” She pours Cocoa Puffs into the milk, like the nonsensical creature she is. “Where are you guys going?” “Dinner with his friends. He has this really active social circle that makes me look back to that summer when my best friend was a watermelon with googly eyes and feel absolutely devastated.” “In third grade?” “High school.” “Ouch. Well, you have me now. Ready to call law enforcement if you’re not back by eight thirty. May I? I’ve always wanted to report a missing person.” She holds the spoon like a phone. “No, Officer, she didn’t have enemies, but she was part of a weird sectarian conflict that only someone with a doctorate in physics could fully grasp. Last seen cavorting with a big dude in a Saint Patrick’s Day Porta Potty. Yes, I’ll hold.” I laugh. “Do text me before you call Liam Neeson. And I might be later than that, but I’m not spending the night.” “Ever?” “Ever.” She gasps. The spoon clatters. “Are you not letting him smack the salmon because of the article he wrote? Is his seventeen-year-old self cockblocking him from the past?” I frown—at her usage of salmon and at the reminder that why, yes, the guy I’m going out with did do that. And it’s not that I ever forget. It’s just that I truly cannot reconcile it—the way Jack is when we’re together, kind and funny and even admiring of my work, and the fact that fifteen years ago — “Elsie? Is that it?” “No. No, he’s just . . . not planning on having sex with me.” Her eyes widen. “Are you planning on having sex with him?” Maybe. Probably. No. Should I? I want to. I’m scared. Maybe. “I have to go.” I chew on the inside of my


the caves again and the locusts came to Umuofia. They came in the cold harmattan season after the harvests had been gathered, and ate up all the wild grass in the fields. Okonkwo and the two boys were working on the red outer walls of the compound. This was one of the lighter tasks of the after-harvest season. A new cover of thick palm branches and palm leaves was set on the walls to protect them from the next rainy season. Okonkwo worked on the outside of the wall and the boys worked from within. There were little holes from one side to the other in the upper levels of the wall, and through these Okonkwo passed the rope, or tie-tie, to the boys and they passed it round the wooden stays and then back to him,- and in this way the cover was strengthened on the wall. The women had gone to the bush to collect firewood, and the little children to visit their playmates in the neighbouring compounds. The harmattan was in the air and seemed to distill a hazy feeling of sleep on the world. Okonkwo and the boys worked in complete silence, which was only broken when a new palm frond was lifted on to the wall or when a busy hen moved dry leaves about in her ceaseless search for food. And then quite suddenly a shadow fell on the world, and the sun seemed hidden behind a thick cloud. Okonkwo looked up from his work and wondered if it was going to rain at such an unlikely time of the year. But almost immediately a shout of joy broke out in all directions, and Umuofia, which had dozed in the noon-day haze, broke into life and activity. "Locusts are descending," was joyfully chanted everywhere, and men, women and children left their work or their play and ran into the open to see the unfamiliar sight. The locusts had not come for many, many years, and only the old people had seen them before. At first, a fairly small swarm came. They were the harbingers sent to survey the land. And then appeared on the horizon a slowly-moving mass like a boundless sheet of black cloud drifting towards Umuofia. Soon it covered half the sky, and the solid mass was now broken by tiny eyes of light like shining star dust. It was a tremendous sight, full of power and beauty. Everyone was now about, talking excitedly and praying that the locusts should camp in Umuofia for the night. For although locusts had not visited Umuofia for many years, everybody knew by instinct that they were very good to eat. And at last the locusts did descend. They settled on every tree and on every blade of grass, they settled on the roofs and covered the bare ground. Mighty tree branches broke away under them, and the whole country became the brown-earth colour of the vast, hungry swarm. Many people went out with baskets trying to catch them, but the elders counselled patience till nightfall. And they


before sunset, and straightway the young folks of the village were thrown into a fever of preparation and pleasurable anticipation. Tom's excitement enabled him to keep awake until a pretty late hour, and he had good hopes of hearing Huck's "maow," and of having his treasure to astonish Becky and the picnickers with, next day; but he was disappointed. No signal came that night. --------------------------------------------------------- -260- Morning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven o'clock a giddy and rollicking company were gathered at Judge Thatcher's, and everything was ready for a start. It was not the custom for elderly people to mar the picnics with their presence. The children were considered safe enough under the wings of a few young ladies of eighteen and a few young gentlemen of twenty-three or thereabouts. The old steam ferry-boat was chartered for the occasion; presently the gay throng filed up the main street laden with provision-baskets. Sid was sick and had to miss the fun; Mary remained at home to entertain him. The last thing Mrs. Thatcher said to Becky, was: "You'll not get back till late. Perhaps you'd better stay all night with some of the girls that live near the ferry-landing, child." "Then I'll stay with Susy Harper, mamma." "Very well. And mind and behave yourself and don't be any trouble." Presently, as they tripped along, Tom said to Becky: "Say -- I'll tell you what we'll do. 'Stead of going to Joe Harper's we'll climb right up the hill and stop at the Widow Douglas'. She'll have ice-cream! She has it most every day -- dead loads of it. And she'll be awful glad to have us." "Oh, that will be fun!" Then Becky reflected a moment and said: "But what will mamma say?" --------------------------------------------------------- -261- "How'll she ever know?" The girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly: "I reckon it's wrong -- but -- " "But shucks! Your mother won't know, and so what's the harm? All she wants is that you'll be safe; and I bet you she'd 'a' said go there if she'd 'a' thought of it. I know she would!" The Widow Douglas' splendid hospitality was a tempting bait. It and Tom's persuasions presently carried the day. So it was decided to say nothing anybody about the night's programme. Presently it occurred to Tom that maybe Huck might come this very night and give the signal. The thought took a deal of the spirit out of his anticipations. Still he could not bear to give up the fun at Widow Douglas'. And why should he give it up, he reasoned -- the signal did not come the night before, so why should it be any more likely to come to-night? The sure fun of the evening outweighed the uncertain treasure; and, boy-like, he determined to yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself to think of the box of money another time that day. Three miles below town the ferryboat stopped at the mouth of a woody hollow and tied up. The crowd


you'd have all the cranks pestering. He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars: DON GIOVANNI, A CENAR TECO M'INVITASTI. Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some chap in the blues. Dutch courage. That KILKENNY PEOPLE in the national library now I must. Bare clean closestools waiting in the window of William Miller, plumber, turned back his thoughts. They could: and watch it all the way down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, tour round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes. But the poor buffer would have to stand all the time with his insides entrails on show. Science. --A CENAR TECO. What does that TECO mean? Tonight perhaps. DON GIOVANNI, THOU HAST ME INVITED TO COME TO SUPPER TONIGHT, THE RUM THE RUMDUM. Doesn't go properly. Keyes: two months if I get Nannetti to. That'll be two pounds ten about two pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Prescott's dyeworks van over there. If I get Billy Prescott's ad: two fifteen. Five guineas about. On the pig's back. Could buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new garters. Today. Today. Not think. Tour the south then. What about English wateringplaces? Brighton, Margate. Piers by moonlight. Her voice floating out. Those lovely seaside girls. Against John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Handy man wants job. Small wages. Will eat anything. Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. WHY I LEFT THE CHURCH OF ROME? BIRDS' NEST. Women run him. They say they used to give pauper children soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato blight. Society over the way papa went to for the conversion of poor jews. Same bait. Why we left the church of Rome. A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No tram in sight. Wants to cross. --Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked. The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He moved his head uncertainly. --You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite. Do you want to cross? There's nothing in the way. The cane moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. Where I saw his brillantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping. Driver in John Long's. Slaking his drouth. --There's a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it's not moving. I'll see you across. Do you want to go to Molesworth street? --Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street. --Come, Mr Bloom said. He touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to guide it forward. Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust what you tell them. Pass a common remark. --The rain kept off. No answer. Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I


it to a nigger name' Balum -- Balum's Ass dey call him for short; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky, dey say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for me. Well, Balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po' len' to de Lord, en boun' to git his money back a hund'd times. So Balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po', en laid low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it." "Well, what did come of it, Jim?" "Nuffn never come of it. I couldn' manage to k'leck dat money no way; en Balum he couldn'. I ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout I see de security. Boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher says! Ef I could git de ten CENTS back, I'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst." "Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're going to be rich again some time or other." "Yes; en I's rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I's wuth eight hund'd dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn' want no mo'." CHAPTER IX. I WANTED to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island that I'd found when I was exploring; so we started and soon got to it, because the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide. This place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot high. We had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it, and by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side towards Illinois. The cavern was as big as two or three rooms bunched together, and Jim could stand up straight in it. It was cool in there. Jim was for putting our traps in there right away, but I said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there all the time. Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island, and they would never find us without dogs. And, besides, he said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I want the things to get wet? So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there. Then we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took some fish off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner. The door of the cavern


to get in close enough to the ac- tual nest to cut it free. I’ll have to saw off the branch at the trunk and send the whole thing down. The serrated portion of my knife should be able to manage that. But can my hands? And will the vibration from the sawing raise the swarm? And what if the Careers figure out what I’m doing and move their camp? That would defeat the whole purpose. I realize that the best chance I’ll have to do the sawing without drawing notice will be during the anthem. That could begin any time. I drag myself out of my bag, make sure my 185 knife is secured in my belt, and begin to make my way up the tree. This in itself is dangerous since the branches are becom- ing precariously thin even for me, but I persevere. When I reach the limb that supports the nest, the humming becomes more distinctive. But it’s still oddly subdued if these are track- er jackers. It’s the smoke, I think. It’s sedated them. This was the one defense the rebels found to battle the wasps. The seal of the Capitol shines above me and the anthem blares out. It’s now or never, I think, and begin to saw. Blisters burst on my right hand as I awkwardly drag the knife back and forth. Once I’ve got a groove, the work requires less effort but is almost more than I can handle. I grit my teeth and saw away occasionally glancing at the sky to register that there were no deaths today. That’s all right. The audience will be sated seeing me injured and treed and the pack below me. But the anthem’s running out and I’m only three quarters of the way through the wood when the music ends, the sky goes dark, and I’m forced to stop. Now what? I could probably finish off the job by sense of feel but that may not be the smartest plan. If the wasps are too groggy, if the nest catches on its way down, if I try to escape, this could all be a deadly waste of time. Better, I think, to sneak up here at dawn and send the nest into my enemies. In the faint light of the Careers’ torches, I inch back down to my fork to find the best surprise I’ve ever had. Sitting on my sleeping bag is a small plastic pot attached to a silver para- chute. My first gift from a sponsor! Haymitch must have had it sent in during the anthem. The pot easily fits in the palm of my 186 hand. What can it be? Not food surely. I unscrew the lid and I know by the scent that it’s medicine. Cautiously, I probe the surface of the ointment. The throbbing in my fingertip vanish- es. “Oh, Haymitch,” I whisper. “Thank you.” He has not aban- doned me. Not left me to fend entirely for myself. The cost of this medicine must be astronomical. Probably not one but


the right one; for, since they had left Beaujeu, there had been no variety of tracks to perplex or mislead. The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer proceed with all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude of illness return upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of body and mind, and he longed for repose. His anxiety was not soothed by observing a numerous train, consisting of men, horses, and loaded mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing and disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could not be judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were in the van, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As these wound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the woods, and exhibited a band of soldiers. St. Aubert's apprehensions now subsided; he had no doubt that the train before him consisted of smugglers, who, in conveying prohibited goods over the Pyrenees, had been encountered, and conquered by a party of troops. The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of these mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their calculation that they could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as they wound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united two lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusing themselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and watching the stones plunge into the water, that threw up its white spray high in the air as it received them, and returned a sullen sound, which the echoes of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective of the valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottage on a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could not be far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and then called to the children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but the distance, and the roaring of the waters, would not suffer his voice to be heard; and the crags, adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendous height and steepness, that to have climbed either would have been scarcely practicable to a person unacquainted with the ascent. St. Aubert, therefore, did not waste more moments in delay. They continued to travel long after twilight had obscured the road, which was so broken, that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all alighted. The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to assist them. While they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell of a convent. The twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything like a building, but the sounds seemed to come from some woods, that overhung an acclivity to the right. Valancourt proposed to go in search of this convent. 'If they will not accommodate us with a night's lodging,' said he, 'they may certainly


all stood poised for flight. "Our timetable, will achieve the stature of a natural phenomenon," his father said. "A planet's life is a vast, tightly interwoven fabric. Vegetation and animal changes will be determined at first by the raw physical forces we manipulate. As they establish themselves, though, our changes will become controlling influences in their own right--and we will have to deal with them, too. Keep in mind, though, that we need control only three per cent of the energy surface--only three per cent--to tip the entire structure over into our self-sustaining system." Why aren't you helping we? Kynes wondered. Always the same: when I need you most, you fail me. He wanted to turn his head, to stare in the direction of his father's voice, stare the old man down. Muscles refused to answer his demand. Kynes saw the hawk move. It approached his hand, a cautious step at a time while its companions waited in mock indifference. The hawk stopped only a hop away from his hand. A profound clarity filled Kynes' mind. He saw quite suddenly a potential for Arrakis that his father had never seen. The possibilities along that different path flooded through him. "No more terrible disaster could befall your people than for them to fall into the hands of a Hero," his father said. Reading my mind! Kynes thought. Well . . . let him. The messages already have been sent to my sietch villages, he thought. Nothing can stop them. If the Duke's son is alive they'll find him and protect him as I have commanded. They may discard the woman, his mother, but they'll save the boy. The hawk took one hop that brought it within slashing distance of his hand. It tipped its head to examine the supine flesh. Abruptly, it straightened, stretched its head upward and with a single screech, leaped into the air and banked away overhead with its companions behind it. They've come! Kynes thought. My Fremen have found me! Then he heard the sand rumbling. Every Fremen knew the sound, could distinguish it immediately from the noises of worms or other desert life. Somewhere beneath him, the pre-spice mass had accumulated enough water and organic matter from the little makers, had reached the critical stage of wild growth. A gigantic bubble of carbon dioxide was forming deep in the sand, heaving upward in an enormous "blow" with a dust whirlpool at its center. It would exchange what had been formed deep in the sand for whatever lay on the surface. The hawks circled overhead screeching their frustration. They knew what was happening. Any desert creature would know. And I am a desert creature, Kynes thought. You see me, Father? I am a desert creature. He felt the bubble lift him, felt it break and the dust whirlpool engulf him, dragging him down into cool darkness. For a moment, the sensation of coolness and the moisture were blessed relief. Then, as his planet killed him, it occurred to Kynes that his father and all the other scientists were wrong,


tender sorrows, rise; Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes, The sweet expression of her pensive face, The light'ning smile, the animated grace-- The portrait well the lover's voice supplies; Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say: Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel! How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal The drug that steals the vital spark away! And who that gazes on that angel-smile, Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile! These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these shades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintance without being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could be addressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an uncertainty which would have been more painful to an idle mind than it was to hers. She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling at first, to swell into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity it had excited (for the incertitude which forbade her to presume upon having inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away, and the incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, her studies, and the exercise of social charities. Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition of her father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought to be of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution. Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with unremitting care; but his recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced towards health, Madame seemed to decline. The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air, was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent thither, with books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use, for he never could find amusement in torturing or destroying. After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was served. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permitted to visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once more smiled beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusual cheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasure from the first view of nature, after the pain of illness, and the confinement of a sick-chamber, is above the conceptions, as well as the descriptions, of those in health. The green woods and pastures; the flowery turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air; the murmur of the limpid stream; and even the hum of every little insect of the shade, seem to revivify the soul, and make mere existence bliss. Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her husband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately oppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this romantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she often looked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that filled her eyes with tears. St.


the bed, face downward among the pillows. "Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?" "No," was the muffled reply. "Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed. Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself forever from mortal eyes. "No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in the depths of despair and I don't care who gets head in class or writes the best composition or sings in the Sundayschool choir any more. Little things like that are of no importance now because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me." "Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know. "Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now, what is it?" Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience. "Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered. Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly had a very strange appearance. "Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it's GREEN!" Green it might be called, if it were any earthly color-a queer, dull, bronzy green, with streaks here and there of the original red to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne's hair at that moment. "Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair. But now I know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am." "I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out," said Marilla. "Come right down to the kitchen-it's too cold up here-and tell me just what you've done. I've been expecting something queer for some time. You haven't got into any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was due. Now, then, what did you do to your hair?" "I dyed it." "Dyed it! Dyed your hair! Anne Shirley, didn't you know it was a wicked thing to do?" "Yes, I knew it was a little wicked," admitted Anne. "But I thought it was worth while to be a little wicked to get rid of red hair. I counted the cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant to be extra good in other ways to make up for it." "Well," said Marilla sarcastically, "if I'd decided it was worth while to dye my hair I'd have dyed it a decent color at least. I wouldn't have dyed it green." "But I didn't mean to dye it green, Marilla," protested Anne dejectedly. "If I was wicked I meant to be wicked to some purpose. He said it would turn my hair a beautiful raven black-he positively assured me that it would. How could I doubt


"Why, live stock -- cattle, you know. I put ten dollars in a cow. But I ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. De cow up 'n' died on my han's." "So you lost the ten dollars." "No, I didn't lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of it. I sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents." "You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you speculate any more?" "Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old Misto Bradish? Well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. Well, all de niggers went in, but dey didn't have much. I wuz de on'y one dat had much. So I stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars, en I said 'f I didn' git it I'd start a bank my- sef. Well, o' course dat nigger want' to keep me out er de business, bekase he says dey warn't business 'nough for two banks, so he say I could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de en' er de year. "So I done it. Den I reck'n'd I'd inves' de thirty-five dollars right off en keep things a-movin'. Dey wuz a nigger name' Bob, dat had ketched a wood- flat, en his marster didn' know it; en I bought it off'n him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars when de en' er de year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat dat night, en nex day de one-laigged nigger say de bank's busted. So dey didn' none uv us git no money." "What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?" "Well, I 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but I had a dream, en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name' Balum -- Balum's Ass dey call him for short; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky, dey say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for me. Well, Balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po' len' to de Lord, en boun' to git his money back a hund'd times. So Balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po', en laid low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it." "Well, what did come of it, Jim?" "Nuffn never come of it. I couldn' manage to k'leck dat money no way; en Balum he couldn'. I ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout I see de security. Boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher says! Ef I could git de ten CENTS back, I'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst." "Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're going to be rich again some time or other." "Yes; en I's rich now, come


talking about? Misapprehension struck her sister’s lovely face, a picture so perfect it seemed painted by a master’s hand. “You think . . . I did this?” Io wasn’t surprised. These were always the rules of the game: the Ora family toyed with the truth, twisting and turning it in unrecognizable shapes. It wasn’t just Thais, no matter how much Io wanted to believe that. It was Mama with her expectations, it was, Baba with his love of bending the rules, it was Ava with her diplomatic choices. It was Io herself, with her secrets. “Io, get yourself together,” Thais said urgently, which Io felt was pure irony. She was together, more herself than she ever was. “This does not look good. The Nine dead and a cutter involved? We need to get ahead of it. Whatever happened, Luc can protect you. But we must go now. Do you know what will happen if they catch us here?” Sure she did. She would lay out all her clues tying Thais to the wraiths, all her suspicions that Thais had orchestrated these murders. But it was Bianca’s hand that had slain the Nine—the mob queen would be hunted across Alante. It didn’t matter that they would have Edei’s deposition, or the surviving Muses’. There was no concrete evidence that Thais was behind the wraiths, and, more than that, her sister was the Mayor’s fiancée and the shining other-born spokeswoman for his ambitious Initiative. He would pull every string he had to pin this all on Bianca, on Io, on anyone else, because if he didn’t, his career would collapse. So Io had to play the game. She had to extract the truth, like a rotten fang from a hungry wolf’s mouth. She had to get a confession from Thais’s very lips that no court of law could ever ignore. But first she had to buy some time for Bianca to carry out the last of her commands. “Where did you go?” Io asked. “When you left?” Thais turned to the open panels. “There’s no time for this, Io—” “Sure there is.” Her sister squirmed, attempting to take a step away. “You need to let go of my threads.” Otherwise, Thais wouldn’t be able to move. Io was holding her life-thread in her fists; it was impossible to step away from it, like an invisible chain. “Answer my questions,” Io said, “and I’ll let them go.” Thais exhaled deeply and dropped into an empty armchair. “Is this what you want? To hear my lowest points? To feel superior? I can do that for you, sister mine, even if I find it a bit cruel. After I left Alante, I spent months on the road, traveling through the Wastelands. I was denied entrance to several cities before I was told I’d have better luck at Nanzy, because of their factory indentures. You can’t imagine the sight: a tall, impenetrable walled city and around it, floating slums stretching endlessly in every direction. There are thousands of people living in the slums, all working in the factories


she cried again; pap said he'd been a man that had always been misunderstood before, and the judge said he believed it. The old man said that what a man wanted that was down was sympathy, and the judge said it was so; so they cried again. And when it was bedtime the old man rose up and held out his hand, and says: "Look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold of it; shake it. There's a hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain't so no more; it's the hand of a man that's started in on a new life, and'll die before he'll go back. You mark them words -- don't forget I said them. It's a clean hand now; shake it -- don't be afeard." So they shook it, one after the other, all around, and cried. The judge's wife she kissed it. Then the old man he signed a pledge -- made his mark. The judge said it was the holiest time on record, or something like that. Then they tucked the old man into a beauti- ful room, which was the spare room, and in the night some time he got powerful thirsty and clumb out on to the porch-roof and slid down a stanchion and traded his new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb back again and had a good old time; and towards daylight he crawled out again, drunk as a fiddler, and rolled off the porch and broke his left arm in two places, and was most froze to death when somebody found him after sun-up. And when they come to look at that spare room they had to take soundings before they could navigate it. The judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reckoned a body could reform the old man with a shotgun, maybe, but he didn't know no other way. CHAPTER VI. WELL, pretty soon the old man was up and around again, and then he went for Judge Thatcher in the courts to make him give up that money, and he went for me, too, for not stopping school. He catched me a couple of times and thrashed me, but I went to school just the same, and dodged him or outrun him most of the time. I didn't want to go to school much before, but I reckoned I'd go now to spite pap. That law trial was a slow business -- appeared like they warn't ever going to get started on it; so every now and then I'd borrow two or three dollars off of the judge for him, to keep from getting a cowhiding. Every time he got money he got drunk; and every time he got drunk he raised Cain around town; and every time he raised Cain he got jailed. He was just suited -- this kind of thing was right in his line. He got to hanging around the widow's too much and so she told him at last that if he didn't quit using


general and of whatever, in especial, might survive, in memory, of the friends little children had lost. There were days when I could have sworn that one of them had, with a small invisible nudge, said to the other: "She thinks she'll do it this time--but she WON'T!" To "do it" would have been to indulge for instance--and for once in a way-- in some direct reference to the lady who had prepared them for my discipline. They had a delightful endless appetite for passages in my own history, to which I had again and again treated them; they were in possession of everything that had ever happened to me, had had, with every circumstance the story of my smallest adventures and of those of my brothers and sisters and of the cat and the dog at home, as well as many particulars of the eccentric nature of my father, of the furniture and arrangement of our house, and of the conversation of the old women of our village. There were things enough, taking one with another, to chatter about, if one went very fast and knew by instinct when to go round. They pulled with an art of their own the strings of my invention and my memory; and nothing else perhaps, when I thought of such occasions afterward, gave me so the suspicion of being watched from under cover. It was in any case over MY life, MY past, and MY friends alone that we could take anything like our ease--a state of affairs that led them sometimes without the least pertinence to break out into sociable reminders. I was invited--with no visible connection--to repeat afresh Goody Gosling's celebrated mot or to confirm the details already supplied as to the cleverness of the vicarage pony. It was partly at such junctures as these and partly at quite different ones that, with the turn my matters had now taken, my predicament, as I have called it, grew most sensible. The fact that the days passed for me without another encounter ought, it would have appeared, to have done something toward soothing my nerves. Since the light brush, that second night on the upper landing, of the presence of a woman at the foot of the stair, I had seen nothing, whether in or out of the house, that one had better not have seen. There was many a corner round which I expected to come upon Quint, and many a situation that, in a merely sinister way, would have favored the appearance of Miss Jessel. The summer had turned, the summer had gone; the autumn had dropped upon Bly and had blown out half our lights. The place, with its gray sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and scattered dead leaves, was like a theater after the performance-- all strewn with crumpled playbills. There were exactly states of the air, conditions of sound and of stillness, unspeakable impressions of the KIND of ministering moment, that brought back to me, long enough to catch it, the feeling of the medium in


one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian, who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of Dcadents. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids, and as evil in color. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odor of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of revery, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and the creeping shadows. Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and, going into the next room, placed the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his bedside, and began to dress for dinner. It was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very bored. "I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot what the time was." "I thought you would like it," replied his host, rising from his chair. "I didn't say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference." "Ah, if you have discovered that, you have discovered a great deal," murmured Lord Henry, with his curious smile. "Come, let us go in to dinner. It is dreadfully late, and I am afraid the champagne will be too much iced." CHAPTER IX [65] For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the memory of this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than five large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colors, so that they


what they are doing -- but for heaven's sake don't let them know that they are watched!" I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which surrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached a point whence I could look straight through the uncurtained window. There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton. They sat with their profiles towards me on either side of the round table. Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and wine were in front of them. Stapleton was talking with anima- tion, but the baronet looked pale and distrait. Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavily upon his mind. As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir Henry filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffing at his cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of boots upon gravel. The steps passed along the path on the other side of the wall under which I crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at the door of an out-house in the corner of the orchard. A key turned in a lock, and as he passed in there was a curious scuffling noise from within. He was only a minute or so inside, and then I heard the key turn once more and he passed me and reentered the house. I saw him rejoin his guest, and I crept quietly back to where my companions were waiting to tell them what I had seen. "You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" Holmes asked when I had finished my report. "No." "Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other room except the kitchen?" "I cannot think where she is." I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense, white fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction and banked itself up like a wall on that side of us, low but thick and well defined. The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great shimmering ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocks borne upon its surface. Holmes's face was turned towards it, and he muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift. "It's moving towards us, Watson." "Is that serious?" "Very serious, indeed -- the one thing upon earth which could have disarranged my plans. He can't be very long, now. It is already ten o'clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon his coming out before the fog is over the path." The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold and bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light. Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, its serrated roof and bristling chimneys hard outlined against the silver-spangled sky. Broad bars of golden light from the lower windows stretched across the orchard and the moor. One of them was suddenly shut


am so unhappy as to have led Miss Spenlow, had begun. Since I have been in that altered position, I have strained every nerve, I have exerted every energy, to improve it. I am sure I shall improve it in time. Will you grant me time - any length of time? We are both so young, sir, -' 'You are right,' interrupted Mr. Spenlow, nodding his head a great many times, and frowning very much, 'you are both very young. It's all nonsense. Let there be an end of the nonsense. Take away those letters, and throw them in the fire. Give me Miss Spenlow's letters to throw in the fire; and although our future intercourse must, you are aware, be restricted to the Commons here, we will agree to make no further mention of the past. Come, Mr. Copperfield, you don't want sense; and this is the sensible course.' No. I couldn't think of agreeing to it. I was very sorry, but there was a higher consideration than sense. Love was above all earthly considerations, and I loved Dora to idolatry, and Dora loved me. I didn't exactly say so; I softened it down as much as I could; but I implied it, and I was resolute upon it. I don't think I made myself very ridiculous, but I know I was resolute. 'Very well, Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow, 'I must try my influence with my daughter.' Miss Murdstone, by an expressive sound, a long drawn respiration, which was neither a sigh nor a moan, but was like both, gave it as her opinion that he should have done this at first. 'I must try,' said Mr. Spenlow, confirmed by this support, 'my influence with my daughter. Do you decline to take those letters, Mr. Copperfield?' For I had laid them on the table. Yes. I told him I hoped he would not think it wrong, but I couldn't possibly take them from Miss Murdstone. 'Nor from me?' said Mr. Spenlow. No, I replied with the profoundest respect; nor from him. 'Very well!' said Mr. Spenlow. A silence succeeding, I was undecided whether to go or stay. At length I was moving quietly towards the door, with the intention of saying that perhaps I should consult his feelings best by withdrawing: when he said, with his hands in his coat pockets, into which it was as much as he could do to get them; and with what I should call, upon the whole, a decidedly pious air: 'You are probably aware, Mr. Copperfield, that I am not altogether destitute of worldly possessions, and that my daughter is my nearest and dearest relative?' I hurriedly made him a reply to the effect, that I hoped the error into which I had been betrayed by the desperate nature of my love, did not induce him to think me mercenary too? 'I don't allude to the matter in that light,' said Mr. Spenlow. 'It would be better for yourself, and all of us, if you WERE mercenary, Mr. Copperfield - I mean, if


with every mission, no matter how big or small. Around ten yards away from August, she stubbed her toe on the road and the dinner they’d eventually gotten around to eating around midnight nearly came back up. “Natalie,” he growled, ready to admonish her for leaving the safety of the truck when he was damn well on his way to be with her, anyway. But the lecture died in his throat when she leapt into his arms with a sob, her body shaking like a washing machine during the spin cycle. “Hey.” He kept his voice as soft as possible, but it was thicker than pancake batter. “Everyone is okay, princess. Everything is fine.” “What the hell,” she strangle-whispered into his neck. “Like, what the hell?” August carried her over to the open passenger-side door of the truck, but he walked slowly, because there was nothing in the goddamn universe better than holding this woman, except for maybe holding her in a safe, dry location. “What’s the matter? You’ve never seen a flash flood before?” She clung harder. “No!” “Civilians.” He sighed, tickling her ribs a little. “Stay off this road during storms. The elevation puts it lower than the creek bed.” She said nothing, so he poked her. “Promise me, Natalie.” “Okay. I promise.” She leaned back a little and her puffy eyes and red-tipped nose nearly made him stumble. “Of course, if I ever got stuck out there, you’d just strap on a harness and come rescue me. Totally calm and casual, as if you’re heating up a microwave dinner.” He took stock of his body, cataloging the chaotic buzz at the base of his throat, the vibrations in his fingertips. The rippling of his heart, which whipped into breakneck speed at her words. “For the record, I’m not calm. I’ve got enough pent-up adrenaline to flip this truck and maybe run a half marathon. If you were the one I had to rescue, Natalie . . .” He shook his head, and kept right on shaking it until he probably looked insane. “I wouldn’t have been coolheaded enough to put on the harness. I’d have jumped in and swum.” The picture she’d painted in his head—of herself stranded on the island of her blue car in the middle of a swift current—made his arms and knees weak, so he set her down sideways on the passenger seat before he did something humiliating, like collapse in the middle of the road. He was attempting to rein in his stampeding adrenaline and it took him a moment to notice how she was looking at him. Softly, with teeth-marked lips and eyes heavy with moisture, her breasts shuddering up and down. Vulnerable in a way he’d never seen her before. Walls down. “I don’t think one month is going to be enough anymore,” she said haltingly, swiping at her eyes and hiccupping through a gulp of air. “We might need to renegotiate our terms.” Oh shit. There went his heart. Booming like a cannon. Did she mean what she was saying? Or


and kisses me briefly. “Clean,” he emphasizes. “Not dirty.” “I like dirty.” “Me, too, Mrs. Grey. But not now, not here.” He grabs the shampoo, and be- fore I can persuade him otherwise, he’s washing my hair. I love clean, too. I feel refreshed and reinvigorated, and I don’t know if it’s from the shower, the crying, or my decision to stop hassling Christian about everything. He wraps me in a large towel and drapes one around his hips while I gingerly dry my hair. My head aches, but it’s a dull persistent pain that is more than manage- able. I have some painkillers from Dr. Singh, but she’s asked me not to use them unless I have to. As I dry my hair, I think about Elizabeth. “I still don’t understand why Elizabeth was involved with Jack.” “I do,” Christian mutters darkly. This is news. I frown up at him, but I’m distracted. He’s drying his hair with a towel, his chest and shoulders still wet with beads of water that glint beneath the halogens. He pauses and smirks. “Enjoying the view?” “How do you know?” I ask, trying to ignore that I’ve been caught staring at my own husband. “That you’re enjoying the view?” he teases. “No,” I scold. “About Elizabeth.” “Detective Clark hinted at it.” I give him my tell-me-more expression, and another nagging memory from when I was unconscious resurfaces. Clark was in my room. I wish I could remem- ber what he said. “Hyde had videos. Videos of all of them. On several USB flash drives.” What? I frown, my skin tightening across my forehead. “Videos of him fucking her and fucking all his PAs.” Oh! 468/551 “Exactly. Blackmail material. He likes it rough.” Christian frowns, and I watch confusion followed by disgust cross his face. He pales as his disgust turns to self-loathing. Of course—Christian likes it rough, too. “Don’t.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it. His frown deepens. “Don’t what?” He stills and regards me with apprehension. “You aren’t anything like him.” Christian’s eyes harden, but he says nothing, confirming that’s exactly what he’s thinking. “You’re not.” My voice is adamant. “We’re cut from the same cloth.” “No, you’re not,” I snap, though I understand why he might think so. “His dad died in a brawl in a bar. His mother drank herself into oblivion. He was in and out of foster homes as a kid, in and out of trouble, too—mainly boosting cars. Spent time in juvie.” I recall the information Christian revealed on the plane to Aspen. “You both have troubled pasts, and you were both born in Detroit. That’s it, Christian.” I fist my hands on my hips. “Ana, your faith in me is touching, especially in light of the last few days. We’ll know more when Welch is here.” He’s dismissing the subject. “Christian—” He stops me with a kiss. “Enough,” he breathes, and I remember the promise I made to myself not to hound him for information. “And don’t pout,” he adds. “Come. Let


them unless they looked upon him, so it was ordered by Mbonga that in addition to the food offering there should also be laid out an offering of arrows for this Munan- go-Keewati, and this was done from then on. If you ever chance to pass that far off African village you will still see before a tiny thatched hut, built just without the village, a little iron pot in which is a quantity of food, and beside it a quiver of well-daubed arrows. When Tarzan came in sight of the beach where stood his cabin, a strange and unusual spectacle met his vision. On the placid waters of the landlocked harbor floated a great ship, and on the beach a small boat was drawn up. But, most wonderful of all, a number of white men like himself were moving about between the beach and his cabin. Tarzan saw that in many ways they were like the men of his picture books. He crept closer through the trees until he was quite close above them. There were ten men, swarthy, sun-tanned, villainous looking fellows. Now they had congregated by the boat and were talking in loud, angry tones, with much gesticulating and shaking of fists. Presently one of them, a little, mean-faced, black-bearded fellow with a countenance which reminded Tarzan of Pamba, the rat, laid his hand upon the shoulder of a giant who stood next him, and with whom all the others had been arguing and quarreling. The little man pointed inland, so that the giant was forced to turn away from the others to look in the direction indicated. As he turned, the little, mean-faced man drew a revolver from his belt and shot the giant in the back. The big fellow threw his hands above his head, his knees bent beneath him, and without a sound he tumbled forward upon the beach, dead. The report of the weapon, the first that Tarzan had ever heard, filled him with wonderment, but even this unaccustomed sound could not startle his healthy nerves into even a semblance of panic. Chapter 13 The conduct of the white strangers it was that caused him the greatest perturbation. He puckered his brows into a frown of deep thought. It was well, thought he, that he had not given way to his first impulse to rush forward and greet these white men as brothers. They were evidently no different from the black men--no more civilized than the apes--no less cruel than Sabor. For a moment the others stood looking at the little, mean- faced man and the giant lying dead upon the beach. Then one of them laughed and slapped the little man upon the back. There was much more talk and gesticulating, but less quarreling. Presently they launched the boat and all jumped into it and rowed away toward the great ship, where Tarzan could see other figures moving about upon the deck. When they had clambered aboard, Tarzan dropped to earth behind a great tree and crept to his cabin, keeping it always between


yo’ kind welcome and for extendin’ tuh me de right hand uh fellowship. Ah kin see dat dis town is full uh union and love. Ah means tuh put mah hands tuh de plow heah, and strain every nerve tuh make dis our town de metropolis uh de state. So maybe Ah better tell yuh in case you don’t know dat if we expect tuh move on, us got tuh incorpo- rate lak every other town. Us got tuh incorporate, and us got tuh have uh mayor, if things is tuh be done and done right. Ah welcome you all on behalf uh me and mah wife tuh dis store and tuh de other things tuh come. Amen.” Tony led the loud hand-clapping and was out in the cen- ter of the floor when it stopped. “Brothers and sisters, since us can’t never expect tuh bet- Their Eyes Were Watching God 51 ter our choice, Ah move dat we make Brother Starks our Mayor until we kin see further.” “Second dat motion!!!” It was everybody talking at once, so it was no need of putting it to a vote. “And now we’ll listen tuh uh few words uh encourage- ment from Mrs. Mayor Starks.” The burst of applause was cut short by Joe taking the floor himself. “Thank yuh fuh yo’ compliments, but mah wife don’t know nothin’ ’bout no speech-makin’. Ah never married her for nothin’ lak dat. She’s uh woman and her place is in de home.” Janie made her face laugh after a short pause, but it wasn’t too easy. She had never thought of making a speech, and did- n’t know if she cared to make one at all. It must have been the way Joe spoke out without giving her a chance to say any- thing one way or another that took the bloom off of things. But anyway, she went down the road behind him that night feeling cold. He strode along invested with his new dignity, thought and planned out loud, unconscious of her thoughts. “De mayor of uh town lak dis can’t lay round home too much. De place needs buildin’ up. Janie, Ah’ll git hold uh somebody tuh help out in de store and you kin look after things whilst Ah drum up things otherwise.” “Oh Jody, Ah can’t do nothin’ wid no store lessen youse there. Ah could maybe come in and help you when things git rushed, but—” “I god, Ah don’t see how come yuh can’t. ’Tain’t nothin’ atall tuh hinder yuh if yuh got uh thimble full uh sense. You 52 Zora Neale Hurston got tuh. Ah got too much else on mah hands as Mayor. Dis town needs some light right now.” “Unh hunh, it is uh little dark right long heah.” “’Course it is. ’Tain’t no use in scufflin’ over all dese stumps and roots in de dark. Ah’ll call uh meetin’ bout de dark and de roots right away. Ah’ll sit on dis case first thing.” The very next day with money out of his own


spend so much money on Mildred; but he knew that if it were to come again he would act in the same way. It amused him sometimes to consider that his friends, because he had a face which did not express his feelings very vividly and a rather slow way of moving, looked upon him as strong-minded, deliberate, and cool. They thought him reasonable and praised his common sense; but he knew that his placid expression was no more than a mask, assumed unconsciously, which acted like the protective colouring of butterflies; and himself was astonished at the weakness of his will. It seemed to him that he was swayed by every light emotion, as though he were a leaf in the wind, and when passion seized him he was powerless. He had no self-control. He merely seemed to possess it because he was indifferent to many of the things which moved other people. He considered with some irony the philosophy which he had developed for himself, for it had not been of much use to him in the conjuncture he had passed through; and he wondered whether thought really helped a man in any of the critical affairs of life: it seemed to him rather that he was swayed by some power alien to and yet within himself, which urged him like that great wind of Hell which drove Paolo and Francesca ceaselessly on. He thought of what he was going to do and, when the time came to act, he was powerless in the grasp of instincts, emotions, he knew not what. He acted as though he were a machine driven by the two forces of his environment and his personality; his reason was someone looking on, observing the facts but powerless to interfere: it was like those gods of Epicurus, who saw the doings of men from their empyrean heights and had no might to alter one smallest particle of what occurred. CHAPTER LXXIX PHILIP went up to London a couple of days before the session began in order to find himself rooms. He hunted about the streets that led out of the Westminster Bridge Road, but their dinginess was distasteful to him; and at last he found one in Kennington which had a quiet and old-world air. It reminded one a little of the London which Thackeray knew on that side of the river, and in the Kennington Road, through which the great barouche of the Newcomes must have passed as it drove the family to the West of London, the plane-trees were bursting into leaf. The houses in the street which Philip fixed upon were two-storied, and in most of the windows was a notice to state that lodgings were to let. He knocked at one which announced that the lodgings were unfurnished, and was shown by an austere, silent woman four very small rooms, in one of which there was a kitchen range and a sink. The rent was nine shillings a week. Philip did not want so many rooms, but the rent was low and


surface of my skin. “How are you today, Maddie?” Her voice is very gentle, perhaps because she’s concentrating on the task at hand, but I actually stop to think about her question. The truthful answer is: not great. My back still hurts and my four nights a week aren’t helping; I hope I never see my dad hallucinate again; I don’t want to work another day for my boss; my mum’s returning from Ghana soon; I’m still crying at night and that might be the only thing that puts me to sleep. However, I can’t say any of this because sometimes asking how someone is serves solely as a passing pleasantry and the only acceptable answer is some variation of “Fine, thanks. You?” But maybe—what if she really does want to know how I am? “Well, I’m—” “I’m just going to press a little harder,” Dr. Rana says. I blink and nod. “Yes, okay. Thank you.” Probably for the best. “Well, there’s nothing that gives me cause for concern, which is good,” Dr. Rana says, returning to her desk. “You say you hurt your back lifting heavy boxes at work?” I lift my head and lie, “Yes.” “But it says on your file you’re a personal assistant.” “Oh, erm, I was just helping the stage crew out. They were short staffed.” “But it’s not part of your role?” Role. “Not exactly.” “Best to avoid then.” She turns back to her computer screen and says, “I’ll write you a prescription and combined with avoiding any further strenuous activity, you should be fine.” I press my lips together and nod. “Right.” * * * Tonight’s play, the one I missed watching with Avi, is loosely based on the Salem witch trials; an accused witch must prove she’s pregnant to avoid being burnt alive. I’m here because staff often get complimentary tickets and Katherine wants us all to attend when we can so we’re always up to date with CGT’s plays. Since we’re given the time and date, I can rarely make it because performances don’t always land on Dawoud’s nights. I try to focus on reading the play’s outline, but I’m still thinking about my afternoon—Katherine’s meltdown and how I really don’t want to return to work tomorrow, and Dr. Rana. (What if you had said more? Why did you lie about how you injured yourself?) Sitting alone in a foyer swarming with people waiting to enter the theater doesn’t help. With my Tuesday dress still in the wash, I’m reasonably dressed in gray pinstripe trousers, a white jumper, and a large cardigan, but to give you a sense of the remaining audience, CGT is located within walking proximity of a coffee shop brazenly charging six pounds for a small latte and a restaurant masquerading as a pub called Gentri-Pied. So patrons and audience members—primarily of a certain age and demographic—tend to dress in suits, ties, dresses, and heels. To explain away my lack of the aforementioned dress code, I keep my work lanyard around my neck. I’m glad to find my seat just


pulls me down until I’m heavy and tired from doing nothing other than attempting to avoid how I feel.” We cross when it’s clear, instead of waiting for the walk symbol. “I get that,” Nia says. “Couple days before my dad died he sent me and my sister this soppy message. Talking about how much he loved his girls. It was so random, I remember just rolling my eyes and not even replying. I still don’t know why I did that. I guess I thought I’d see him soon or whatever. There’s always going to be something we regret or feel guilty about because no one is the perfect child.” “And perfection is subjective.” “Exactly. So you might not think you were perfect, but maybe your dad did.” Nia hooks her arm through mine. “And I know for sure you loved him and did all you could for him when you were at home. That’s not going to make you instantly feel better obviously, but you’ll start to believe it, over time. Basket or trolley?” “What?” I look up and we’ve reached the supermarket. “Trolley,” I choose and search for a pound coin. “Let’s get some orange juice, too,” I say. “Oh, don’t forget the Twisters.” Chapter Twenty-one Eliza So sorry to hear about your dad dying, Maddie. I lost my mum a while back so I know what you’re going through. Talking about it with someone really helps. It will get better soon. X Late afternoon, I wave goodbye to Nia at the door. “You know I’m—” “Only a phone call away,” I finish. “I know. I’ll be fine.” I wave and watch her walk down the path and turn the corner. When I close the door behind me, I take a deep breath. The hallway, narrow to begin with, seems to stretch forever. The weighted pressure of silence builds in my ears. I put on the TV and select a slapstick comedy with a laugh track. I turn the volume up. I pick up my phone and scroll. When I check the time, only an hour has gone by when I’d hoped for at least several. The afternoon feels endless and I can only fill it with TV. When my eyes can’t stand the screen any longer, I pick up my book, but despite trying, and I swear to God I am trying, either I can’t focus or this page is made up of first lines. The evening eventually approaches and my heart twitches in anticipation. My phone flashes with a birthday reminder for Ben’s CEO. Ben. My finger hovers over the delete button. But you could go. No one there, except for Ben, will know what happened. It’ll be like going to a different city where the only impression anyone has of you is the one you choose to give them. I can be fun and free tonight. I call Ben, but he doesn’t answer. That’s fine because he saved the address in the calendar invite. I get off the floor. * * * The celebration is being held


the path he’d taken. Maybe she should find out. Just in case anyone asked. She should probably know at least the basics about her fake fiancé. “Psst,” came a hiss from the darkness. Natalie lurched for the knife block, pausing only when Hallie stepped into the dim kitchen wearing a Stanford shirt that went well past her knees. “Jesus,” Natalie breathed, slapping a hand to the middle of her chest, positive her heart was about to explode straight out of her rib cage. “What are you doing sneaking up on me like an old Victorian ghost or something? I almost hurled a butcher knife at you.” Hallie pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh.” Natalie tilted her head. “Now you’re really freaking me out.” “Sorry,” Hallie whispered, creeping forward barefoot, each of her toes painted a different color, an ankle bracelet jangling softly. “I don’t want to wake up Julian.” “Really? You seem to love waking him up. Along with the dead.” Her brother’s girlfriend pinkened slightly, but she wasn’t thwarted by the innuendo. No, she appeared to be extremely focused for six A.M. “Can we chat?” “Um . . .” What was going on here? Natalie picked up her freshly brewed coffee and sipped it black for an initial kick before heading to the fridge for milk. “Sure. What’s on your mind?” Whatever the reason for this predawn rendezvous, Hallie was deadly serious about it. “I’m here to offer my services.” Natalie did a double take while adding a splash of milk to her coffee. “In what way?” Hallie frowned as if the answer should be obvious. “Why, for your fake wedding, of course. I’m here to help.” “Don’t get comfortable calling it that. There are eyes and ears everywhere in St. Helena, you know.” Natalie mock shivered. “We’re just going to exchange vows at the courthouse, but I suppose if you want to make me a bouquet—?” Hallie’s giggle stopped her short. “The courthouse. That’s adorable. Didn’t you hear your mother demand a proper wedding?” Natalie’s smile vanished, dread curling in her stomach. “Yes, but there’s no way she could plan a wedding within the time frame we need. Right? What do you know?” “Your mother told Julian to have a tuxedo rented by this Saturday.” Hallie took her time continuing. “And then she had to get off the phone because the caterer was calling on the other line.” “Caterer?” Natalie choked out. She should have seen this coming. No way Corinne could get down with a courthouse ceremony. Not with the pageantry and tradition of the Vos name to uphold. What was August going to say about this? And why did his very name transport her back to the wine train, where he’d wrapped her in warmth and slowed the rate of her heart down to a normal pace with soft words in her ear, his strong arms giving her the sensation of weightlessness? He’d made her feel almost . . . peaceful. Protected. How could the same man who made her want to screech like a banshee get


we do," I returned with some spirit, "you may be sure it will be to take you quite away." "Well, don't you understand that that's exactly what I'm working for? You'll have to tell him--about the way you've let it all drop: you'll have to tell him a tremendous lot!" The exultation with which he uttered this helped me somehow, for the instant, to meet him rather more. "And how much will YOU, Miles, have to tell him? There are things he'll ask you!" He turned it over. "Very likely. But what things?" "The things you've never told me. To make up his mind what to do with you. He can't send you back--" "Oh, I don't want to go back!" he broke in. "I want a new field." He said it with admirable serenity, with positive unimpeachable gaiety; and doubtless it was that very note that most evoked for me the poignancy, the unnatural childish tragedy, of his probable reappearance at the end of three months with all this bravado and still more dishonor. It overwhelmed me now that I should never be able to bear that, and it made me let myself go. I threw myself upon him and in the tenderness of my pity I embraced him. "Dear little Miles, dear little Miles--!" My face was close to his, and he let me kiss him, simply taking it with indulgent good humor. "Well, old lady?" "Is there nothing--nothing at all that you want to tell me?" He turned off a little, facing round toward the wall and holding up his hand to look at as one had seen sick children look. "I've told you--I told you this morning." Oh, I was sorry for him! "That you just want me not to worry you?" He looked round at me now, as if in recognition of my understanding him; then ever so gently, "To let me alone," he replied. There was even a singular little dignity in it, something that made me release him, yet, when I had slowly risen, linger beside him. God knows I never wished to harass him, but I felt that merely, at this, to turn my back on him was to abandon or, to put it more truly, to lose him. "I've just begun a letter to your uncle," I said. "Well, then, finish it!" I waited a minute. "What happened before?" He gazed up at me again. "Before what?" "Before you came back. And before you went away." For some time he was silent, but he continued to meet my eyes. "What happened?" It made me, the sound of the words, in which it seemed to me that I caught for the very first time a small faint quaver of consenting consciousness--it made me drop on my knees beside the bed and seize once more the chance of possessing him. "Dear little Miles, dear little Miles, if you KNEW how I want to help you! It's only that, it's nothing but that, and I'd rather die than give you a pain or do you a


“It’s kind of overwhelming,” Ethan said. There were numbers under each photograph. 1292DFWA. 2546DFVA. “What do these mean?” I asked, my heart pounding. I’d seen those numbers before. “Case numbers,” Ethan said. “The DF means ‘disappeared female’ and then there’s a state code, if I remember correctly. I’m not sure about the numbering system.” There had been three numbers on the sticky note in Liv’s room. She’d been looking at these same photographs. Persephone was one of these faces. “You know,” Ethan said carefully, “there’s another piece to the missing-summer theory.” I looked up from the sea of photographs. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on my face. “Stahl dumped the first couple bodies in places where they were found quickly, but after that he started hiding them,” he said. “That’s part of why the six-victim number is almost certainly incomplete. Part of the evidence against him was that he was seen in the woods half a mile from the third victim’s body, a few days before she was found. Months after her death. Which suggests that he was going back to visit the bodies. Probably a way of reliving the kills.” I shuddered. “As if he wasn’t awful enough already.” “The thing is, nothing about your attack makes sense as part of his pattern. Unless—” My skin prickled as I realized what he was talking about. “Unless I wasn’t a target,” I said. “I was a witness. He wasn’t there for me at all.” “He was there to visit a body,” Ethan said. Not just a body. Persephone. From the moment I saw the numbers on Ethan’s screen, I knew I had to go back to Liv’s room. And from that moment, I constructed reasons I couldn’t. The police were there. Marcus and Kimiko wouldn’t want to be disturbed. The cops had probably cleared out everything anyway. Liv had found her. I could do the same. I didn’t need to go back to that place—go back to where Liv wasn’t anymore. Face her parents. Lie to them. Keeping secrets from the police was one thing. But the idea of looking Kimiko in the eye and keeping silent about the thing that might explain what had happened to Liv … I couldn’t hurt them like that, I told myself, and what I really meant was that I couldn’t bear the guilt. For the next several days, I dug through missing-persons reports, checking for anything that might connect them to Chester or Stahl. I watched endless hours of TV as I skimmed the surface of a hundred tragedies, surfacing only to steal a few minutes of restless sleep, to shower. And to eat, which I only remembered to do because Ethan kept turning up at my door. Sometimes I shut the door on him. A few times I let him in, and we sat together while we ate. We didn’t really talk—he managed to restrain himself from asking questions, somehow, and when he did speak it was to update me about what he knew. They’d searched the lake but


admitted. “I put it on and took it off like five times before I decided not to wear it.” He laughed and took another step closer to me. “Do you think this could finally be our summer?” he whispered. I nodded, feeling his strong, sure hand on the small of my back. I tilted my head up, smiling, as his lips met mine for the very first time, in a kiss that felt nothing short of inevitable. How many summers had we flirted and exchanged furtive glances, spent every free moment together? And now, finally, I was kissing Rich McNabb. I was aware of his hand on my neck as I felt the muscles of his back, made tight and strong from years of sports and outdoor activity. I felt breathless and light-headed as he pulled away, resting his forehead on mine. He gently kissed my lips again. “I’ve wanted to do that for like, five summers.” Feeling overwhelmed, I said something that now, twelve years later, back in the sailing hut after Rich towed us to the dock, I heard myself saying again: “You saved me, Rich. You saved my life.” The words meant more now than they had when I was eighteen. They meant more because they were laced with history, with meaning, with feeling. With regret. Rich laughed, but I knew him well enough to know that it wasn’t sincere. He had been a cute teenager, but he was an unutterably handsome man. The lines around his eyes and mouth from sun and salt made him more distinguished. But his blue eyes didn’t twinkle when he laughed like they once had. And I knew instinctively it wasn’t because they had changed. It was because they didn’t twinkle for me anymore. “I wouldn’t say I saved your life, necessarily. You guys probably would have survived. You would have been cold, wet, and dehydrated, but you would have lived through the night.” I leaned back against the wooden counter of the Camp Holly Springs sailing hut. “I’m not as tough as I once was.” Mary Stuart and Daphne made themselves scarce as soon as we arrived, claiming they had to go find June. Boats were stacked and sails hung from the rafters, and Rich was returning our borrowed equipment to its rightful place. He secured the sail and then turned, leaning against the counter too. “So, you’re getting married, huh?” Suddenly I felt embarrassed, like maybe I didn’t deserve to be married or to find happiness after what I did to him. I nodded, my throat constricting. Was I going to cry? “He’s a lucky man.” I searched his face for a hint of sarcasm that must be there. But I couldn’t find any. Maybe only I knew there should be sarcasm there, as that lucky man—the one who had changed his entire life without mentioning it to me—hadn’t so much as sent a text my way since I left. I was always the one to back down, always the one to apologize. Not this time. Rich shifted to face me.


been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he'd had the same dream before. His aunt was back outside the door. "Are you up yet?" she demanded. "Nearly," said Harry. "Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday." Harry groaned. "What did you say?" his aunt snapped through the door. "Nothing, nothing..." Dudley's birthday -- how could he have forgotten? Harry got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept. When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated exercise -- unless of course it involved punching somebody. Dudley's favorite punching bag was Harry, but he couldn't often catch him. Harry didn't look it, but he was very fast. Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes of Dudley's, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about his own appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it. "In the car crash when your parents died," she had said. "And don't ask questions." Don't ask questions -- that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon. "Comb your hair!" he barked, by way of a morning greeting. About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew that way -- all over the place. Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not


and I came down." "You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten all the windows?" "Yes." "Were they all fastened this morning?" "Yes." "You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked to your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?" "Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room. and who may have heard uncle's remarks about the coronet." "I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart, and that the two may have planned the robbery." "But what is the good of all these vague theories," cried the banker impatiently, "when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet in his hands?" "Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I presume?" "Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom." "Do you know him?" "Oh, yes! he is the green-grocer who brings our vegetables round. His name is Francis Prosper." "He stood," said Holmes, "to the left of the door--that is to say, farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?" "Yes, he did." "And he is a man with a wooden leg?" Something like fear sprang up in the young lady's expressive black eyes. "Why, you are like a magician," said she. "How do you know that?" She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes's thin, eager face. "I should be very glad now to go upstairs," said he. "I shall probably wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I had better take a look at the lower windows before I go up." He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he opened and made a very careful examination of the sill with his powerful magnifying lens. "Now we shall go upstairs," said he at last. The banker's dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber, with a gray carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to the bureau first and looked hard at the lock. "Which key was used to open it?" he asked. "That which my son himself indicated--that of the cupboard of the lumber-room." "Have you it here?" "That is it on the dressing-table." Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau. "It is a noiseless lock," said he. "It is no wonder that it did not wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a look at it." He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller's art, and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At one side of the coronet was a cracked edge,