in the corner; I wonder if she regrets hiring me. “I can work from home.” “No, you heard the doctor,” she says gently. “You need to take today off. I’ll call you in the morning to see how you are. Kris gave your mother a call and she’s on her way.” I almost frown, wishing she’d called Nia or Shu, but fix my face in time. “Thank you.” Penny tuts at my sincerity. “Don’t be silly.” * * * Mum was very quiet when she came to pick me up. She asked if I was okay, felt my head, held on to my arm as we left the building, but said nothing else in the cab ride to the flat. I was planning on going straight to bed when we got back, but Mum steers me until she finds the kitchen and sits me at the table before filling a glass with water and placing it in front of me. “You didn’t have to come,” I tell her when it’s been quiet for too long. “Of course I came,” Mum says, incredulously. “I’m your mother.” She fidgets as we sit at the kitchen table and I slowly drink my water. “Not your boss Penelope, but your smaller boss—what’s her name? Krissy?” “Kris.” “Yes, her. She…” Mum sighs. “She gave me attitude over the phone. All I asked is why you fainted and she said ‘maybe because her dad died!’ As if I don’t know that! They made it sound as if you’ve been unwell and I’ve been ignoring it, but grief happens to everyone.” She shakes herself off. “Anyway. You’re my daughter. I know when you’re fine and she—” “I’m not fine.” “What?” “I said I’m not fine!” Thankfully, my glass is empty when it topples over, which Mum simply catches and refills. “Mum, for goodness’ sake, why would I be fine? My dad is dead.” “Maddie, I know that,” she says, “and I know it has been difficult for you, but you need to pray for the strength and rely on God for—” “Prayer doesn’t always work.” Mum slams the glass down. “Then you are not doing it right!” We stare at each other until she sits down. “I don’t know what else to tell you,” she says. “I don’t know how else to comfort you. I used to understand you when you were younger. You just loved your books and your school friends and—” “And then you left,” I finish quietly. “And you kept leaving.” “I’m here now and it’s more than some children have.” “It’s also less than other children have.” She sighs. “Maddie, just tell me what’s wrong, eh?” I look down at the table and I’m surprised when I say, “I feel like it’s my fault Dad’s dead.” “Maddie! How can this be your fault? Because you moved out of the house? What do you think you could have done to stop it?” “At least I should have seen him on his birthday.” “Yes, that part is a shame, Maddie, and I am sorry for that. But


with clean and some with dirty fingers. Montag squinted from one face to another as they walked. "Don't judge a book by its cover," someone said. And they all laughed quietly, moving downstream. There was a shriek and the jets from the city were gone overhead long before the men looked up. Montag stared back at the city, far down the river, only a faint glow now. "My wife's back there." "I'm sorry to hear that. The cities won't do well in the next few days," said Granger. "It's strange, I don't miss her, it's strange I don't feel much of anything," said Montag. "Even if she dies, I realized a moment ago, I don't think I'll feel sad. It isn't right. Something must be wrong with me." "Listen," said Granger, taking his arm, and walking with him, holding aside the bushes to let him pass. "When I was a boy my grandfather died, and he was a sculptor. He was also a very kind man who had a lot of love to give the world, and he helped clean up the slum in our town; and he made toys for us and he did a million things in his lifetime; he was always busy with his hands. And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or help us raise doves and pigeons in the back yard or play the violin the way he did, or tell us jokes the way he did. He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them just the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man. I've never gotten over his death. Often I think, what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he died. How many jokes are missing from the world, and how many homing pigeons untouched by his hands. He shaped the world. He did things to the world. The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on." Montag walked in silence. "Millie, Millie," he whispered. "Millie." "What?" "My wife, my wife. Poor Millie, poor Millie. I can't remember anything. I think of her hands but I don't see them doing anything at all. They just hang there at her sides or they lie there on her lap or there's a cigarette in them, but that's all." Montag turned and glanced back. What did you give to the city, Montag? Ashes. What did the others give to each other? Nothingness. Granger stood looking back with Montag. "Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at


of the panels, Sophie found a recessed fingerhold. It was discreetly crafted. A sliding door. Heart pounding, she placed her finger in the slot and pulled it. With noiseless precision, the heavy wall slid sideways. From out of the darkness beyond, the voices echoed up. Sophie slipped through the door and found herself on a rough-hewn stone staircase that spiraled downward. She'd been coming to this house since she was a child and yet had no idea this staircase even existed! As she descended, the air grew cooler. The voices clearer. She heard men and women now. Her line of sight was limited by the spiral of the staircase, but the last step was now rounding into view. Beyond it, she could see a small patch of the basement floor-stone, illuminated by the flickering orange blaze of firelight. Holding her breath, Sophie inched down another few steps and crouched down to look. It took her several seconds to process what she was seeing. The room was a grotto-a coarse chamber that appeared to have been hollowed from the granite of the hillside. The only light came from torches on the walls. In the glow of the flames, thirty or so people stood in a circle in the center of the room. I'm dreaming, Sophie told herself. A dream. What else could this be? Everyone in the room was wearing a mask. The women were dressed in white gossamer gowns and golden shoes. Their masks were white, and in their hands they carried golden orbs. The men wore long black tunics, and their masks were black. They looked like pieces in a giant chess set. Everyone in the circle rocked back and forth and chanted in reverence to something on the floor before them... something Sophie could not see. The chanting grew steady again. Accelerating. Thundering now. Faster. The participants took a step inward and knelt. In that instant, Sophie could finally see what they all were witnessing. Even as she staggered back in horror, she felt the image searing itself into her memory forever. Overtaken by nausea, Sophie spun, clutching at the stone walls as she clambered back up the stairs. Pulling the door closed, she fled the deserted house, and drove in a tearful stupor back to Paris. That night, with her life shattered by disillusionment and betrayal, she packed her belongings and left her home. On the dining room table, she left a note. 97 I WAS THERE. DON'T TRY TO FIND ME. Beside the note, she laid the old spare key from the chteau's woodshed. "Sophie! Langdon's voice intruded. "Stop! Stop!" Emerging from the memory, Sophie slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt. "What? What happened?!" Langdon pointed down the long street before them. When she saw it, Sophie's blood went cold. A hundred yards ahead, the intersection was blocked by a couple of DCPJ police cars, parked askew, their purpose obvious. They've sealed off Avenue Gabriel! Langdon gave a grim sigh. "I take it the embassy is off-limits this evening?" Down the street, the two DCPJ officers


boy his coward's eloquence. Catherine was near distraught; still she persisted that she must go home, and tried entreaty in her turn, persuading him to subdue his selfish agony. While they were thus occupied, our gaoler re-entered. "Your beasts have trotted off," he said, "and----- Now, Linton! snivelling again? What has she been doing to you? Come, come; have done, and get to bed. In a month or two, my lad, you'll be able to pay her back her present tyrannies with a vigorous hand. You're pining for pure love, are you not?---nothing else in the world; and she shall have you! There, to bed! Zillah won't be here to-night. You must undress yourself. Hush! hold your noise! Once in your own room, I'll not come near you. You needn't fear. By chance you've managed tolerably. I'll look to the rest." He spoke these words, holding the door open for his son to pass; and the latter achieved his exit exactly as a spaniel might which suspected the person who attended on it of designing a spiteful squeeze. The lock was re- secured. Heathcliff approached the fire, where my mis- tress and I stood silent. Catherine looked up, and in- stinctively raised her hand to her cheek. His neighbour- hood revived a painful sensation. Anybody else would have been incapable of regarding the childish act with sternness, but he scowled on her and muttered,--- "Oh! you are not afraid of me? Your courage is well disguised; you seem damnably afraid!" "I am afraid now," she replied, "because, if I stay, papa will be miserable; and how can I endure making him miserable when he---when he------ Mr. Heathcliff, let me go home! I promise to marry Linton; papa would like me to, and I love him. Why should you wish to force me to do what I'll willingly do of myself?" "Let him dare to force you!" I cried. "There's law in the land---thank God there is!---though we be in an out-of-the-way place. I'd inform if he were my own son. And it's felony, without benefit of clergy." "Silence!" said the ruffian. "To the devil with your clamour! I don't want you to speak.---Miss Linton, I shall enjoy myself remarkably in thinking your father will be miserable; I shall not sleep for satisfaction. You could have hit on no surer way of fixing your residence under my roof for the next twenty-four hours than in- forming me that such an event would follow. As to your promise to marry Linton, I'll take care you shall keep it, for you shall not quit this place till it is fulfilled." "Send Ellen, then, to let papa know I'm safe!" ex- claimed Catherine, weeping bitterly; "or marry me now. Poor papa!---Ellen, he'll think we're lost. What shall we do?" "Not he! He'll think you are tired of waiting on him, and run off for a little amusement," answered Heath- cliff. "You cannot deny that you entered my house of your own accord, in contempt of his injunctions to the contrary. And it is quite natural that


dukes, I figure I’m okay.” “You think we’re just going to skate over you being well versed in Regency customs?” “Harriet, I don’t get the feeling you skate over anything,” he says. I give another involuntary snort of laughter, and his dimples deepen. “Speaking of highborn ladies,” he says, “they teach you how to laugh like that at etiquette school?” “No,” I say, “that has to be bred into you across centuries.” “I’m sure,” he says. “I’m not like that, by the way.” “Gently bred to laugh through your nose?” His chin tips, his gaze knowing. “The impression you have of me. I don’t play with people’s feelings. I have rules.” “Rules?” I say. “Such as?” “Such as, never tell the rules to someone you’ve just met.” “Oh, come on,” I say. “We’re stepfriends now. You might as well tell me.” “Well, for one thing, Parth and I made a pact to never date our friends. Or each other’s friends.” He casts me a sidelong glance. “As for stepfriends, I’m not sure what the policy is.” “Wait, wait, wait,” I say. “You don’t date your friends? Who do you date, Wyn? Enemies? Strangers? Malevolent spirits who died in your apartment building?” “It’s a good policy,” he says. “It keeps things from getting messy.” “It’s dating, Wyn, not an all-you-can-eat barbecue buffet,” I say. “Although, from what I’ve heard, maybe for you they’re the same thing.” He looks at me through his lashes and tuts. “Are you slut-shaming me, Harriet?” “Not at all,” I say. “I love sluts! Some of my best friends are sluts. I’ve dabbled in sluttery myself.” Another bar of moonlight briefly lights his eyes, paling them to smoky silver. “Didn’t suit you?” he guesses. “Never got the chance to find out,” I say. “Because you fell in love,” he says. “Because men never really picked me up.” He laughs. “Okay.” “I’m not being self-deprecating,” I say. “Once men get to know me, they’re sometimes interested, but I’m not the one their eyes go to first. I’ve made peace with it.” His gaze slides down me and back up. “So you’re saying you’re slow- release hot.” I nod. “That’s right. I’m slow-release hot.” He considers me for a moment. “You’re not what I expected.” “Three-dimensional and blue-haired,” I say. “Among other things,” he says. “I expected you to be Parth 2.0,” I admit. His eyes narrow. “You thought I’d be better dressed.” “Than a torn sweatshirt and jeans?” I say. “No such thing.” He doesn’t seem to hear me, instead studying me with a furrowed brow. “You’re not slow-release hot.” I look away, fumble the radio on as heat scintillates across my chest. “Yeah, well,” I say, “most people don’t start by seeing me naked before we’ve spoken.” “It’s not about that,” he says. I feel the moment his gaze lifts off me and returns to the windshield, but he’s left a mark: from now on, dark cliffs, wind racing through hair, cinnamon paired with clove and pine—all of it will only mean Wyn Connor to me. A door has


gaze. She’s looking at something or someone specific. She opens the freezer door. Seconds later, Carr comes into view. Ethan pauses the footage. It was Carr she was fixed on before opening the freezer door. He presses play and zooms in on Sloane after she tosses the ice cream into her basket. He enlarges the video more until he can tell what Sloane is staring at as she appears to be looking at ice cream. It’s Carr’s reflection. She waits until he is right behind her before backing straight into him, pivoting into his torso at the last second. Ethan’s thoughts whirl as the video continues to play, capturing their conversation in silence. Sloane ran into Carr. Ethan stares at the two of them as Sloane hands her phone to Carr. He closes out of the footage. Sloane planned to bump into her college lab partner. There was no question. No accident about it. Ethan wishes he had access to the FIT case file from their investigation into Brody Carr’s death so he could make sure the story Sloane told them was the same she’d told Ethan. He lifts his desk phone and dials the gang unit detective he went to the police academy with, as he continues to scroll through the report, pausing when he finds the case file number from the ballistic match to Carr’s gun. “Gang unit, Detective Pierce.” “Hey, it’s Ethan. From homicide.” “You’re working late.” “I could say the same for you.” “Yeah, well around here it isn’t late until after midnight. What’s up?” “I was wondering if you could email me a case file from 2018. I’ve got the number right here.” “Sure.” Ethan is met with silence after he reads off the number. He holds his breath, wondering if his old friend recognizes the case from its connection to Carr’s killing in Ethan’s home. “I’ll send it right over.” Ethan exhales. “Thanks.” It takes less than a minute for the case file to appear in his inbox. Ethan opens the attachment and scrolls through the list of suspects from the unsolved shooting. He knew from the FIT detective who investigated Carr’s shooting that she tried to interview the suspects she was able to track down to see if Carr bought the gun off one of them. But none of them were talking. He pulls up his Accurint database and types in the name of the first suspect, along with his date of birth listed in the case file. A red D pops on his screen beside the suspect’s name, indicating he is deceased. The date of the death is listed as September 6, 2020. Ethan searches the database for the second suspect, Samuel David Lucas, and another red D appears on his screen beside the result. The date of his death was October 27 of this year. Only two days after Ethan shot Brody Carr in his home. His cause of death is listed as sepsis. Ethan pulls out his phone and dials the office for the investigators who work for the medical examiner. He


the pavement to her, and said something. She seemed embarrassed and desirous of getting away; to prevent it, he laid his hand on her arm. She averted her face. He apparently put some question which she had no mind to answer. There was another rapid glance at the house; and supposing himself unseen, the scoun- drel had the impudence to embrace her. "Judas! traitor!" I ejaculated. "You are a hypocrite, too, are you---a deliberate deceiver?" "Who is, Nelly?" said Catherine's voice at my elbow. I had been over-intent on watching the pair outside to mark her entrance. "Your worthless friend!" I answered warmly--"the sneaking rascal yonder. Ah, he has caught a glimpse of us; he is coming in! I wonder will he have the heart to find a plausible excuse for making love to miss, when he told you he hated her?" Mrs. Linton saw Isabella tear herself free, and run into the garden; and a minute after Heathcliff opened the door. I couldn't withhold giving some loose to my indignation; but Catherine angrily insisted on silence, and threatened to order me out of the kitchen, if I dared to be so presumptuous as to put in my insolent tongue. "To hear you, people might think you were the mis- tress!" she cried. "You want setting down in your right place!---Heathcliff, what are you about, raising this stir? I said you must let Isabella alone! I beg you will, unless you are tired of being received here, and wish Linton to draw the bolts against you!" "God forbid that he should try!" answered the black villain. I detested him just then. "God keep him meek and patient! Every day I grow madder after sending him to heaven!" "Hush!" said Catherine, shutting the inner door. "Don't vex me. Why have you disregarded my request? Did she come across you on purpose?" "What is it to you?" he growled. "I have a right to kiss her, if she chooses; and you have no right to object. I am not your husband; you needn't be jealous of me." "I'm not jealous of you," replied the mistress---"I'm jealous for you. Clear your face; you shan't scowl at me! If you like Isabella, you shall marry her. But do you like her? Tell the truth, Heathcliff. There, you won't answer. I'm certain you don't." "And would Mr. Linton approve of his sister marry- ing that man?" I inquired. "Mr. Linton should approve," returned my lady de- cisively. "He might spare himself the trouble," said Heathcliff; "I could do as well without his approbation. And as to you, Catherine, I have a mind to speak a few words now, while we are at it. I want you to be aware that I know you have treated me infernally---infernally! Do you hear? And if you flatter yourself that I don't per- ceive it, you are a fool; and if you think I can be con- soled by sweet words, you are an idiot; and if you fancy I'll suffer unrevenged, I'll convince you of the contrary in a very


gone altogether. The heart-sinking misery of it! Tom whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. He talked hopefully to Becky; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again. The children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time dragged on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom believed it must be Tuesday by this time. Now an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at hand. It would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the heavy time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to a projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the line as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the corridor ended in a "jumping-off place." Tom got down on his knees and felt below, and then as far around the corner as he could reach with his hands conveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a little farther to the right, and at that moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand, holding a candle, appeared from behind a rock! Tom lifted up a --------------------------------------------------------- -294- glorious shout, and instantly that hand was followed by the body it belonged to -- Injun Joe's! Tom was paralyzed; he could not move. He was vastly gratified the next moment, to see the "Spaniard" take to his heels and get himself out of sight. Tom wondered that Joe had not recognized his voice and come over and killed him for testifying in court. But the echoes must have disguised the voice. Without doubt, that was it, he reasoned. Tom's fright weakened every muscle in his body. He said to himself that if he had strength enough to get back to the spring he would stay there, and nothing should tempt him to run the risk of meeting Injun Joe again. He was careful to keep from Becky what it was he had seen. He told her he had only shouted "for luck." But hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long run. Another tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought changes. The children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom believed that it must be Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday or Saturday, now, and that the search had been given over. He proposed to explore another passage. He felt willing to risk Injun Joe and all other terrors. But Becky was very weak. She had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be roused. She said she would wait, now, where she was, and die -- it would not be long. She told Tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he chose; but she implored him to come back every --------------------------------------------------------- -295- little while and speak to her; and she made him promise that when the awful time came, he would stay by her and hold her hand until all was over. Tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in


house, and the colonel fumbled about looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head, pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand. "'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. 'I shall not keep you waiting an instant,' said he, and vanished into the darkness. "I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window, hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these German people, and what were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that radius, so the place might not be so secluded, after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room, humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling that I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee. "Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face. I could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight sent a chill to my own heart.


a deep breath and repeated the same words she’d said half an hour ago. ‘It’s me, Florence – I need to talk to you. Please, ring me. I…’ She wasn’t sure what to say next, so she finished the call. He wouldn’t reply: he hadn’t replied to the last five messages she’d left. Since that evening she’d spent with him, he’d deliberately avoided her. Florence chewed a broken nail and her hand shook. Her father was out with the boys, drinking beer at The Sun. Sunday was his day off and he wouldn’t be back for an hour or so. She wouldn’t tell him today. Perhaps she wouldn’t tell him at all. Perhaps she’d run away. She wished she could. Florence swallowed air and it shuddered in her lungs She needed to talk to Malia Johnson. Malia would come straight away; she’d know immediately that something was wrong. She’d hug her and say something kind. But nothing could change the situation. Florence’s hand shook: she was completely alone. She picked up the pregnancy test kit from the bed and stared at the double lines again. Positive. There was no escaping the truth. It was hard to imagine a new life growing before she could see or feel it. She’d suspected for weeks, but now she knew for sure. This moment led to an inevitable chain of events that she couldn’t avoid. She’d have to explain it to her dad, and he’d cry. Then he’d promise to help her and he’d ask the question that everyone would want to know, the one she didn’t want to answer. He’d ask who the father was. She couldn’t tell anyone his name. 8 On Saturday lunchtime, Odile’s café was bustling. Josie, Lin and Minnie – wearing a beret and black raincoat – huddled around the table, chatter bubbling as they spoke over each other, catching up with each other’s news. Florence brought them a tray of food, squeezing between the other tables. Dangerous Dave, Kenny Hooper and Jimmy Baker were tucking into enormous fry-ups and talking about cars. Linval and Rita Johnson ate pumpkin soup while comparing their two children: Malia had been no trouble as a youngster, whereas Adam had never been anything but. Linval had tears of laughter in his eyes as he recalled how Adam had got himself lost in Old Scratch’s woods, not far from Ledbury’s farm, when he was ten years old. He’d been found the next day hiding up a tree, terrified because he’d believed that the devil lived in the woods and came out at night to eat children. Rita flashed her eyes and told Linval it hadn’t been funny at the time; she’d been worried witless. Rita was proud of Adam; he was a fine accountant, a sweet-natured young man. It was Malia who concerned her now, because she was undecided about her future. As Florence passed the table, Rita reached out a hand. ‘Florence – Malia’s home. Come round tonight? I’m cooking fish. Adam will be there. I know he’d be glad to see you.’ Florence blushed


the scale with me, for may not I too be of an exceptional brain, congenitally? How well the man reasoned. Lunatics always do within their own scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has closed the account most accurately, and today begun a new record. How many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives? To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it shall be until the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance to profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my friend whose happiness is yours, but I must only wait on hopeless and work. Work! Work! If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a good, unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness. MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL 26 July.--I am anxious,and it soothes me to express myself here. It is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time. And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned, but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan. I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too, Lucy , although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every night. Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place. Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that her husband, Lucy's father, had the same habit, that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming, is coming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave town, for his


reach out from behind the trees and grab me." "Did ever anyone hear the like!" ejaculated Marilla, who had listened in dumb amazement. "Anne Shirley, do you mean to tell me you believe all that wicked nonsense of your own imagination?" "Not believe EXACTLY," faltered Anne. "At least, I don't believe it in daylight. But after dark, Marilla, it's different. That is when ghosts walk." "There are no such things as ghosts, Anne." "Oh, but there are, Marilla," cried Anne eagerly. "I know people who have seen them. And they are respectable people. Charlie Sloane says that his grandmother saw his grandfather driving home the cows one night after he'd been buried for a year. You know Charlie Sloane's grandmother wouldn't tell a story for anything. She's a very religious woman. And Mrs. Thomas's father was pursued home one night by a lamb of fire with its head cut off hanging by a strip of skin. He said he knew it was the spirit of his brother and that it was a warning he would die within nine days. He didn't, but he died two years after, so you see it was really true. And Ruby Gillis says-" "Anne Shirley," interrupted Marilla firmly, "I never want to hear you talking in this fashion again. I've had my doubts about that imagination of yours right along, and if this is going to be the outcome of it, I won't countenance any such doings. You'll go right over to Barry's, and you'll go through that spruce grove, just for a lesson and a warning to you. And never let me hear a word out of your head about haunted woods again." Anne might plead and cry as she liked-and did, for her terror was very real. Her imagination had run away with her and she held the spruce grove in mortal dread after nightfall. But Marilla was inexorable. She marched the shrinking ghostseer down to the spring and ordered her to proceed straightaway over the bridge and into the dusky retreats of wailing ladies and headless specters beyond. "Oh, Marilla, how can you be so cruel?" sobbed Anne. "What would you feel like if a white thing did snatch me up and carry me off?" "I'll risk it," said Marilla unfeelingly. "You know I always mean what I say. I'll cure you of imagining ghosts into places. March, now." Anne marched. That is, she stumbled over the bridge and went shuddering up the horrible dim path beyond. Anne never forgot that walk. Bitterly did she repent the license she had given to her imagination. The goblins of her fancy lurked in every shadow about her, reaching out their cold, fleshless hands to grasp the terrified small girl who had called them into being. A white strip of birch bark blowing up from the hollow over the brown floor of the grove made her heart stand still. The long-drawn wail of two old boughs rubbing against each other brought out the perspiration in beads on her forehead. The swoop of bats in the darkness over


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

until I arch into his touch, coaxing his fingers up my hip, along my ribs, over my breast. I could be satisfied with kissing, but I want everything else. Being with Connor feels like a devastating inevitability. I have this pit-deep need for something not just fast and satisfying but slow and whole. I sense the same surrender in him, too. It’s in the way he kisses me so slow and deep, the patient mapping of his hands across my body, over my clothes, before he drags one item of clothing at a time up over my head or down my legs with deliberate, patient purpose. “You’re so beautiful,” he says into the sensitive skin below my ear, and then repeats it quietly into my neck, my shoulder, my breasts. This isn’t rushed foreplay. This is like someone put the whole world on pause. He’s solid and strong above me, and I become a pliable, languid tangle of limbs and skin under his attention. His lips linger on my breasts, tongue and teeth teasing me expertly, mouth sucking. It hits me like a thunderbolt: only someone who knows me from the inside out can satisfy and torture me like this in equal measure. I’ve never felt such a longing to be someone’s the way I do with Connor. I want to eat his possessive, open-mouthed kisses for every meal. I want him to have a memory of kissing every place on my body. I want my hands to instinctively mold to the shape of him. I want him to know by the heat of my skin and the pitch of my sounds how close I am. Connor tells me he can’t stop thinking about me, that all he wants to do is touch me. He kisses down my body to settle between my open legs and reaches up, running his thumb over my lips, feeling the shape of my sounds as he works me over with his mouth, giving me something to suck and bite while pleasure pours out of me. I want to let my head fall back and lose myself in the wide swirls of his tongue, when he sucks, tight and determined, but I’m afraid to miss any of it. When I look down, I see the top of his head, his eyes closed in bliss. I tangle his soft hair in my hands, and when his name escapes on an exhale, he looks up, mouth still on me, fingers inside, his own sounds vibrating up my spine. I say his name, wanting to imprint on my memory that it’s Connor making me feel this way, should only ever be him taking me to the edge, closer, closer, and then making me fall. Once I’m wrecked and boneless, he rolls me over, sinking fingers and teeth into all my curves, biting gently down my legs, his teeth grazing the swell of my ass, up my back to send shivers down my spine. A slow thrust against my thigh, and I feel how hard he is, his breath shaking against


feasible as it was, Collet was having trouble believing Sophie Neveu could be involved in anything like that. From the kitchen, another agent yelled to Fache. "Captain? I'm going through Mr. Teabing's speed dial numbers, and I'm on the phone with Le Bourget Airfield. I've got some bad news." Thirty seconds later, Fache was packing up and preparing to leave Chteau Villette. He had just learned that Teabing kept a private jet nearby at Le Bourget Airfield and that the plane had taken off about a half hour ago. The Bourget representative on the phone had claimed not to know who was on the plane or where it was headed. The takeoff had been unscheduled, and no flight plan had been logged. Highly illegal, even for a small airfield. Fache was certain that by applying the right pressure, he could get the answers he was looking for. 200 "Lieutenant Collet," Fache barked, heading for the door. "I have no choice but to leave you in charge of the PTS investigation here. Try to do something right for a change." 201 CHAPTER 71 As the Hawker leveled off, with its nose aimed for England, Langdon carefully lifted the rosewood box from his lap, where he had been protecting it during takeoff. Now, as he set the box on the table, he could sense Sophie and Teabing leaning forward with anticipation. Unlatching the lid and opening the box, Langdon turned his attention not to the lettered dials of the cryptex, but rather to the tiny hole on the underside of the box lid. Using the tip of a pen, he carefully removed the inlaid Rose on top and revealed the text beneath it. Sub Rosa, he mused, hoping a fresh look at the text would bring clarity. Focusing all his energies, Langdon studied the strange text. After several seconds, he began to feel the initial frustration resurfacing. "Leigh, I just can't seem to place it." From where Sophie was seated across the table, she could not yet see the text, but Langdon's inability to immediately identify the language surprised her. My grandfather spoke a language so obscure that even a symbologist can't identify it? She quickly realized she should not find this surprising. This would not be the first secret Jacques Saunire had kept from his granddaughter. Opposite Sophie, Leigh Teabing felt ready to burst. Eager for his chance to see the text, he quivered with excitement, leaning in, trying to see around Langdon, who was still hunched over the box. "I don't know," Langdon whispered intently. "My first guess is a Semitic, but now I'm not so sure. Most primary Semitics include nekkudot. This has none." "Probably ancient," Teabing offered. "Nekkudot?" Sophie inquired. Teabing never took his eyes from the box. "Most modern Semitic alphabets have no vowels and use nekkudot-tiny dots and dashes written either below or within the consonants-to indicate what vowel sound accompanies them. Historically speaking, nekkudot are a relatively modern addition to language." Langdon was still hovering over the script. "A Sephardic transliteration, perhaps...?" Teabing could bear it no


hence be had of the enormousness of that animated mass, a mere part of whose mere .. <p 305 > integument yields such a lake of liquid as that. Reckoning ten barrels to the ton, you have ten tons for the net weight of only three quarters of the stuff of the whale's skin. In life, the visible surface of the Sperm Whale is not the least among the many marvels he presents. Almost invariably it is all over obliquely crossed and re-crossed with numberless straight marks in thick array, something like those in the finest Italian line engravings. But these marks do not seem to be impressed upon the isinglass substance above mentioned, but seem to be seen through it, as if they were engraved upon the body itself. Nor is this all. In some instances, to the quick, observant eye, those linear marks, as in a veritable engraving, but afford the ground for far other delineations. These are hieroglyphical; that is, if you call those mysterious cyphers on the walls of pyramids hieroglyphics, then that is the proper word to use in the present connexion. By my retentive memory of the hieroglyphics upon one Sperm Whale in particular, I was much struck with a plate representing the old Indian characters chiselled on the famous hieroglyphic palisades on the banks of the Upper Mississippi. Like those mystic rocks, too, the mystic-marked whale remains undecipherable. This allusion to the Indian rocks reminds me of another thing. Besides all the other phenomena which the exterior of the Sperm Whale presents, he not seldom displays the back, and more especially his flanks, effaced in great part of the regular linear appearance, by reason of numerous rude scratches, altogether of an irregular, random aspect. I should say that those New England rocks on the sea-coast, which Agassiz imagines to bear the marks of violent scraping contact with vast floating icebergs --I should say, that those rocks must not a little resemble the Sperm Whale in this particular. It also seems to me that such scratches in the whale are probably made by hostile contact with other whales; for I have most remarked them in the large, full-grown bulls of the species. A word or two more concerning this matter of the skin or blubber of the whale. It has already been said, that it is stript from him in long pieces, called blanket-pieces. Like most sea-terms, this one is very happy and significant. For the whale is .. <p 306 > indeed wrapt up in his blubber as in a real blanket or counterpane; or, still better, an Indian poncho slipt over his head, and skirting his extremity. It is by reason of this cosy blanketing of his body, that the whale is enabled to keep himself comfortable in all weathers, in all seas, times, and tides. What would become of a Greenland whale, say, in those shuddering, icy seas of the north, if unsupplied with his cosy surtout? True, other fish are found exceedingly brisk in those Hyperborean waters; but these, be it observed,


people. The frame protests—loudly. I just hope it can hang on till morning. As we lay in the quiet dark, Paige sighs. “You know, if this was a horror movie, Tasha would be sealing our fate by getting it on with Javier. You really think she would do that to us if the stakes were life-and-death?” Me and Bezi exchange glances, and then all three of us laugh until tears run out of our eyes. “We’d be doomed,” I say through wheezing laughter. I’m suddenly lying wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. The cabin is dark aside from the glow of the porch light filtering through the tattered curtains. Bezi is nuzzled up to me. Her rhythmic breaths blow warm and sweet across my neck. At the foot of the bed, Paige is sprawled out, arms and legs spread wide, her foot dangerously close to my face. I nudge her, and she curls into a little ball. I pull Bezi close to me, and she readjusts herself. In the rustle of clothes and bedsheets, there is a noise. Bezi settles and I hold still, listening. From somewhere outside, in the direction of the lake, there are footsteps. I wonder if maybe Tasha is coming over to apologize to Paige, but I glance at my phone—it’s almost three in the morning. Slipping my arm from under Bezi’s head, I roll up and perch myself on the edge of the bed, letting my bare feet rest against the wood floor. The footsteps fade, and after a moment of silence, there is a splash. I’m at the window before I can think, drawing back the curtain just enough to get a look outside. The porch light leaves spots in my vision, and I quickly flip the switch, turning it off. My eyes adjust to the dark and there, at the far edge of the lake, I think I see something move. I hold my breath and crane my neck, checking to see if the lights are on in any of the other staff cabins. From my vantage point, it’s hard to tell. I return my attention to the far side of the lake. There is something, or someone, moving around out there. The figure is hunched over, staggering their steps, pulling something along the ground. “Bezi,” I whisper. “Paige. Get up.” Paige grumbles something to herself as Bezi sits up and readjusts her bonnet. “What is it?” she asks. “What’s wrong?” “There’s somebody out there,” I say. There’s another loud splash, and I whip my head around, straining to see in the dark. Bezi stumbles out of bed and joins me at the window. We press our faces close to the glass, fogging it with our breath. “Where?” Bezi asks. “Across the lake. Right there.” I scan the shoreline until I spot the figure again. This time they’re closer to the camp side of the lake, and whatever they were dragging is now gone. Bezi sighs. “I still don’t—” A hand clamps down on my shoulder, and my heart leaps into my throat as


Gordon, and my endlessly helpful and encouraging mom, Deborah Detering, are always tied for Most Helpful Superstars when it comes to getting my books written and out there. Thanks to my fun kids, Anna and Thomas, for just being such delightful humans. Much gratitude to my two sisters, Shelley Stein and Lizzie Fletcher, for their support, and to my dad, Bill Pannill, for memorizing “The Walrus and the Carpenter” with me when I was a kid. And last—but never least: Thank you. If you’re reading this, thank you! This is my tenth novel, and I’m willing to bet there’s no writer on earth more grateful than me for every tiny butterfly-wing flap of help, word spreading, and recommendation that readers—and bookstores and other writers—do. My career has been the definition of a long, slow burn and there’s nothing about it that I take for granted. Writers can only write stories if there are people out there who want to read them—and I’m so grateful to you for being one of those people. And for helping find more of them. And for allowing me to spend my life obsessing over stories and practicing their soul-nourishing, page-turning, life-changing magic. ALSO BY KATHERINE CENTER The Bodyguard What You Wish For Things You Save in a Fire How to Walk Away Happiness for Beginners The Lost Husband Get Lucky Everyone Is Beautiful The Bright Side of Disaster About the Author KATHERINE CENTER is the New York Times bestselling author of ten novels, including The Bodyguard, Things You Save in a Fire, and How to Walk Away. Katherine writes laugh-and-cry books about how life knocks us down—and how we get back up. The movie adaptation of Katherine’s novel The Lost Husband hit #1 on Netflix, and Happiness for Beginners is soon to be a Netflix original movie starring Ellie Kemper. Katherine lives in her hometown of Houston, Texas, with her husband, two kids, and their fluffy-but-fierce dog. Join her mailing list at KatherineCenter.com!, or sign up for email updates here. Thank you for buying this St. Martin’s Publishing Group ebook. To receive special offers, bonus content, and info on new releases and other great reads, sign up for our newsletters. Or visit us online at us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup For email updates on the author, click here. Contents Title Page Copyright Notice Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Epilogue A Note About Prosopagnosia Author’s Note Acknowledgments Also by Katherine Center About the Author Copyright This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group HELLO STRANGER. Copyright ©


an enormous box arrived from a gourmet grocery store in New York: dried fruit and fancy coffee and cheeses wrapped in gel packs and many kinds of crackers and cookies. I was moved, and almost certain Noah would eat none of it. That night, he made us pan-seared salmon for dinner, and as we were cleaning up in the kitchen, I said, “So I have a question.” Noah raised his eyebrows. “Do you still want to be my boyfriend—or whatever—now that you’ve given my stepdad a shower?” He laughed. “I’d love to be your boyfriend or whatever. I do have a condition, though.” Nervousness surged through me. “If something upsets you,” he said, “it’s fine if you need to pause the conversation or go in the other room, but I don’t want you to blow everything up, because it’s too stressful to live like that.” “Blow everything up meaning what?” “Meaning check into a hotel. Or throw a bomb about me dating models so we don’t talk for two years.” I swallowed. “I think that’s fair,” I said. “Do you know the movie term lampshading?” “I don’t.” “It’s when something in the plot or the logic of a film doesn’t quite make sense and the screenplay has the characters acknowledge it without resolving it. It’s a trick to reassure the audience that you’re not trying to trick them.” “Okay.” He looked puzzled. “I want us to stay together,” I said. “I want to be your girlfriend. And I know that if I am, your professional identity will overshadow my professional identity and Internet trolls will criticize how I look and say they can’t believe you’re with me. I can work on not caring about those things or not paying attention to them, but I can’t keep them from happening.” “If this helps, I can remind you that Internet trolls are Internet trolls.” “I’m going to lampshade it because I don’t know how to resolve it. But you’re worth the risk. Even I know that giving up would be a huge mistake.” “Oh, yeah?” He was grinning. “Even you?” “This might come out wrong, but I haven’t been sure until now if you know how to be a normal person. For a celebrity, you’re amazing. But I didn’t know if you knew how to pick up takeout or live without assistants or stay in a crappy little house with wall-to-wall carpet. And I don’t think you’ve been trying to prove yourself, but if you had, it’s clear that you’re actually a lot better at being a normal person than I am.” “I’m always trying to prove myself to you.” He made a wry face. “But maybe I’m lucky that you underestimate me so it’s not that hard.” “I’ve been meaning to ask—do people recognize you at Target?” “I don’t think so. I’m a middle-aged bald dude wearing a baseball cap and a mask.” “I think it’s only a matter of time before the mom next door realizes you’re here, if she hasn’t already. Apparently, she’s a superfan.” I pointed toward the window facing


"Jean Louise," she said, "you are a fortunate girl. You live in a Christian home with Christian folks in a Christian town. Out there in J. Grimes Everett's land there's nothing but sin and squalor." "Yes ma'am." "Sin and squalor- what was that, Gertrude?" Mrs. Merriweather turned on her chimes for the lady sitting beside her. "Oh that. Well, I always say forgive and forget, forgive and forget. Thing that church ought to do is help her lead a Christian life for those children from here on out. Some of the men ought to go out there and tell that preacher to encourage her." "Excuse me, Mrs. Merriweather," I interrupted, "are you all talking about Mayella Ewell?" "May-? No, child. That darky's wife. Tom's wife, Tom-" "Robinson, ma'am." Mrs. Merriweather turned back to her neighbor. "There's one thing I truly believe, Gertrude," she continued, "but some people just don't see it my way. If we just let them know we forgive 'em, that we've forgotten it, then this whole thing'll blow over." "Ah- Mrs. Merriweather," I interrupted once more, "what'll blow over?" Again, she turned to me. Mrs. Merriweather was one of those childless adults who find it necessary to assume a different tone of voice when speaking to children. "Nothing, Jean Louise," she said, in stately largo, "the cooks and field hands are just dissatisfied, but they're settling down now- they grumbled all next day after that trial." Mrs. Merriweather faced Mrs. Farrow: "Gertrude, I tell you there's nothing more distracting than a sulky darky. Their mouths go down to here. Just ruins your day to have one of 'em in the kitchen. You know what I said to my Sophy, Gertrude? I said, 'Sophy,' I said, 'you simply are not being a Christian today. Jesus Christ never went around grumbling and complaining,' and you know, it did her good. She took her eyes off that floor and said, 'Nome, Miz Merriweather, Jesus never went around grumblin'.' I tell you, Gertrude, you never ought to let an opportunity go by to witness for the Lord." I was reminded of the ancient little organ in the chapel at Finch's Landing. When I was very small, and if I had been very good during the day, Atticus would let me pump its bellows while he picked out a tune with one finger. The last note would linger as long as there was air to sustain it. Mrs. Merriweather had run out of air, I judged, and was replenishing her supply while Mrs. Farrow composed herself to speak. Mrs. Farrow was a splendidly built woman with pale eyes and narrow feet. She had a fresh permanent wave, and her hair was a mass of tight gray ringlets. She was the second most devout lady in Maycomb. She had a curious habit of prefacing everything she said with a soft sibilant sound. "S-s-s Grace," she said, "it's just like I was telling Brother Hutson the other day. 'S-s-s Brother Hutson,' I said, 'looks like we're fighting a losing battle, a losing battle.' I said, 'S-s-s


and they tottered to their feet and staggered on. There came a day when Billee, the good-natured, fell and could not rise. Hal had traded off his revolver, so he took the axe and knocked Billee on the head as he lay in the traces, then cut the carcass out of the harness and dragged it to one side. Buck saw, and his mates saw, and they knew that this thing was very close to them. On the next day Koona went, and but five of them remained: Joe, too far gone to be malignant; Pike, crippled and limping, only half conscious and not conscious enough longer to malinger; Sol-leks, the one-eyed, still faithful to the toil of trace and trail, and mournful in that he had so little strength with which to pull; Teek, who had not travelled so far that winter and who was now beaten more than the others because he was fresher; and Buck, still at the head of the team, but no longer enforcing discipline or striving to enforce it, blind with weakness half the time and keeping the trail by the loom of it and by the dim feel of his feet. It was beautiful spring weather, but neither dogs nor humans were aware of it. Each day the sun rose earlier and set later. It was dawn by three in the morning, and twilight lingered till nine at night. The whole long day was a blaze of sunshine. The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life. This murmur arose from all the land, fraught with the joy of living. It came from the things that lived and moved again, things which had been as dead and which had not moved during the long months of frost. The sap was rising in the pines. The willows and aspens were bursting out in young buds. Shrubs and vines were putting on fresh garbs of green. Crickets sang in the nights, and in the days all manner of creeping, crawling things rustled forth into the sun. Partridges and woodpeckers were booming and knocking in the forest. Squirrels were chattering, birds singing, and overhead honked the wild-fowl driving up from the south in cunning wedges that split the air. From every hill slope came the trickle of running water, the music of unseen fountains. All things were thawing, bending, snapping. The Yukon was straining to break loose the ice that bound it down. It ate away from beneath; the sun ate from above. Air-holes formed, fissures sprang and spread apart, while thin sections of ice fell through bodily into the river. And amid all this bursting, rending, throbbing of awakening life, under the blazing sun and through the soft-sighing breezes, like wayfarers to death, staggered the two men, the woman, and the huskies. With the dogs falling, Mercedes weeping and riding, Hal swearing innocuously, and Charles's eyes wistfully watering, they staggered into John Thornton's camp at the mouth of White River. When they halted, the dogs dropped down as though they had


be thinking of marriage. Yet he is eager to see Eppie's future settled, and he's learned to be philosophical about change, so he decides to ask Dolly for her advice. How do you feel about this marriage? Do you think that's how Eliot wants you to feel? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 17 As the story moves back to Godfrey's world, you see that the Red House has changed, too. The parlor is still dark, but now it's clean and neat. Like Silas, Nancy has preserved the past--the dead Squire's belongings--but no one touches them. In contrast to the big party you last saw here, it seems empty with only four people here today. Yet there were only two people in the scene before--what does Eliot feel is missing here? The interchange between Mr. Lammeter and Priscilla shows the shift in generations--Priscilla now manages the farm, and Mr. Lammeter has lost his firm control. Priscilla refuses to stay to tea, saying she needs to get home to watch over the dairymaid. Priscilla blames the girl's approaching marriage for her incompetence. Notice her outburst, a few paragraphs later, about men. Why is she so sour? As Priscilla and Nancy go for a walk, Eliot uses their conversation to help you catch up on their lives. Priscilla, who enjoys her own work, says running a dairy would keep Nancy's mind off her worries. But Nancy says that a dairy wouldn't lift Godfrey's spirits. After praising her husband, Nancy claims she understands why he frets about not having children. This, then, is their marital problem. After the Lammeters leave, Godfrey goes to look at the draining fields. Nancy sits alone with her Bible. Unlike Dolly, she can read the Bible. But like Dolly, she isn't a scholar, and the words on the page soon fade away as she meditates on her own life. Anxiously, she muses on her childlessness. She knows Godfrey feels deprived. She wanted children, too, but she can deal with her own sense of loss. She humbly accepted the death of their one baby, fourteen years ago. Since then, she's devoted herself to Godfrey to make up for it. But there's one thing she won't do--adopt a child. Eliot points out that adoption wasn't very common then (as it became in her own time and in ours). NOTE: Nancy tends to form rigid opinions and cling to them. These are essential to her personality--they grow in her mind like grass, Eliot says (more plant imagery). Nancy formed her code early in life, and formed it out of superstition as well as rational thought. How does Eliot seem to feel about Nancy's principles? Nancy is convinced that adopting a child would be going against the will of God. You can hear her recalling Godfrey's arguments against this. Interestingly, he talks about adopting a specific child--Eppie. Nancy is talking about a principle, however, and she won't budge. She says it was all right for Silas to adopt Eppie because the child came to him unsought--like Dolly, she accepts the mysterious workings of God. But this


searched the ground avidly. By the trunk of a vast tree that grew pale flowers on its grey bark he checked, closed his eyes, and once more drew in the warm air; and this time his breath came short, there was even a passing pallor in his face, and then the surge of blood again. He passed like a shadow under the darkness of the tree and crouched, looking down at the trodden ground at his feet. The droppings were warm. They lay piled among turned earth. They were olive green, smooth, and they steamed a little. Jack lifted his head and stared at the inscrutable masses of creeper that lay across the trail. Then he raised his spear and sneaked forward. Beyond the creeper, the trail joined a pig-run that was wide enough and trodden enough to be a path. The ground was hardened by an accustomed tread and as Jack rose to his full height he heard something moving on it. He swung back his right arm and hurled the spear with all his strength. From the pig-run came the quick, hard patter of hoofs, a castanet sound, seductive, maddening--the promise of meat. He rushed out of the undergrowth and snatched up his spear. The pattering of pig's trotters died away in the distance. Jack stood there, streaming with sweat, streaked with brown earth, stained by all the vicissitudes of a day's hunting. Swearing, he turned off the trail and pushed his way through until the forest opened a little and instead of bald trunks supporting a dark roof there were light grey trunks and crowns of feathery palm. Beyond these was the glitter of the sea and he could hear voices. Ralph was standing by a contraption of palm trunks and leaves, a rude shelter that faced the lagoon and seemed very near to falling down. He did not notice when Jack spoke. "Got any water?" Ralph looked up, frowning, from the complication of leaves. He did not notice Jack even when he saw him. "I said have you got any water? I'm thirsty." Ralph withdrew his attention from the shelter and realized Jack with a start. "Oh, hullo. Water? There by the tree. Ought to be some left." Jack took up a coconut shell that brimmed with fresh water from among a group that was arranged in the shade, and drank. The water splashed over his chin and neck and chest. He breathed noisily when he had finished. "Needed that." Simon spoke from inside the shelter. "Up a bit." Ralph turned to the shelter and lifted a branch with a whole tiling of leaves. The leaves came apart and fluttered down. Simon's contrite face appeared in the hole. "Sorry." Ralph surveyed the wreck with distaste. "Never get it done." He flung himself down at Jack's feet. Simon remained, looking out of the hole in the shelter. Once down, Ralph explained. "Been working for days now. And look!" Two shelters were in position, but shaky. This one was a ruin. "And they keep running off. You remember the meeting?


Luydens were morbidly sensitive to any criticism of their secluded existence. They were the arbiters of fashion, the Court of last Appeal, and they knew it, and bowed to their fate. But being shy and retiring persons, with no natural inclination for their part, they lived as much as possible in the sylvan solitude of Skuytercliff, and when they came to town, declined all invitations on the plea of Mrs. van der Luyden's health. Newland Archer came to his mother's rescue. "Everybody in New York knows what you and cousin Louisa represent. That's why Mrs. Mingott felt she ought not to allow this slight on Countess Olenska to pass without consulting you." Mrs. van der Luyden glanced at her husband, who glanced back at her. "It is the principle that I dislike," said Mr. van der Luyden. "As long as a member of a well-known family is backed up by that family it should be considered-- final." "It seems so to me," said his wife, as if she were producing a new thought. "I had no idea," Mr. van der Luyden continued, "that things had come to such a pass." He paused, and looked at his wife again. "It occurs to me, my dear, that the Countess Olenska is already a sort of relation-- through Medora Manson's first husband. At any rate, she will be when Newland marries." He turned toward the young man. "Have you read this morning's Times, Newland?" "Why, yes, sir," said Archer, who usually tossed off half a dozen papers with his morning coffee. Husband and wife looked at each other again. Their pale eyes clung together in prolonged and serious consultation; then a faint smile fluttered over Mrs. van der Luyden's face. She had evidently guessed and approved. Mr. van der Luyden turned to Mrs. Archer. "If Louisa's health allowed her to dine out--I wish you would say to Mrs. Lovell Mingott--she and I would have been happy to--er--fill the places of the Lawrence Leffertses at her dinner." He paused to let the irony of this sink in. "As you know, this is impossible." Mrs. Archer sounded a sympathetic assent. "But Newland tells me he has read this morning's Times; therefore he has probably seen that Louisa's relative, the Duke of St. Austrey, arrives next week on the Russia. He is coming to enter his new sloop, the Guinevere, in next summer's International Cup Race; and also to have a little canvasback shooting at Trevenna." Mr. van der Luyden paused again, and continued with increasing benevolence: "Before taking him down to Maryland we are inviting a few friends to meet him here--only a little dinner--with a reception afterward. I am sure Louisa will be as glad as I am if Countess Olenska will let us include her among our guests." He got up, bent his long body with a stiff friendliness toward his cousin, and added: "I think I have Louisa's authority for saying that she will herself leave the invitation to dine when she drives out presently: with our cards--of course with our cards." Mrs. Archer,


I say. “There’s nothing to mess up.” His lips part. I wish I could roll the words back into my mouth and down my throat. “If that’s what you were getting at.” “Okay,” he says. Okay? What kind of response is that? After a beat of awkward silence, he says, “I’m not either.” I suppress a smile. “You’re not in a long-distance relationship with my coworker you’ve met once?” An irresistible blush hits the tops of his cheekbones. He knocks his foot against the leg of the air hockey table. “I can hardly believe it myself. The chemistry was undeniable, but it wasn’t enough.” I swallow the second half of a laugh, and he looks up at me from under that one lock of his. “There’s no one else,” he says. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. It can’t matter. He wasn’t happy with you. He broke your heart. He was never yours to keep, and deep down you knew that. I watched him fade from me, bit by bit, day by day, a mirage receding into nothingness. But the way he’s looking at me threatens to obliterate logic, to erase history. If he’s a black hole, I’ve reached his event horizon. My chest aches, but I don’t want it to stop. I want to lean into the feeling, this wholeness. My heart and body and mind are all finally in the same time and place. Here, with him. I don’t want to go back into the theater, but something has to give. We can’t keep walking out along this tightrope, or someone’s going to get hurt. I’m going to get hurt. I clear my throat. “How’s the furniture repair business?” His Cupid’s bow twitches. “Still a furniture repair business.” “Oh?” I say. “Not using it to run drugs and host illegal gambling nights yet?” His lips split into a smile. “Still in the same apartment?” Our apartment. It still manages to hold traces of him. Or maybe that’s me, carrying his ghost around wherever I go. “Mhm.” “How’s your sister?” he asks. “Good, I think,” I say. “She and her hairdresser friend went into business together. They mostly do weddings and dances. Still FaceTimes me twice a month, makes about five minutes of small talk, then says goodbye.” His teeth skate over his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.” He’s the only person who knows how much it bothers me that I barely know Eloise, that despite having a sister, I always felt acutely alone in our childhood home. Between our six-year age gap and her constant disagreements with our parents, we didn’t have much time to bond. I shrug. “Some things never change, and the best thing is to stop hoping they will.” “Other things do, though,” he says. I break eye contact. “What about your sisters? How are they?” “Good,” he replies, half smiling. “Lou’s with my mom this week. Said to tell you hi.” I smile despite the twinge in my chest. “And Michael? Still in Colorado?” He nods. “She’s dating another aerospace engineer, who works for a competing company.


was a base menial, one of the things Miles said to you, I find myself guessing, was that you were another." Again her admission was so adequate that I continued: "And you forgave him that?" "Wouldn't YOU?" "Oh, yes!" And we exchanged there, in the stillness, a sound of the oddest amusement. Then I went on: "At all events, while he was with the man--" "Miss Flora was with the woman. It suited them all!" It suited me, too, I felt, only too well; by which I mean that it suited exactly the particularly deadly view I was in the very act of forbidding myself to entertain. But I so far succeeded in checking the expression of this view that I will throw, just here, no further light on it than may be offered by the mention of my final observation to Mrs. Grose. "His having lied and been impudent are, I confess, less engaging specimens than I had hoped to have from you of the outbreak in him of the little natural man. Still," I mused, "They must do, for they make me feel more than ever that I must watch." It made me blush, the next minute, to see in my friend's face how much more unreservedly she had forgiven him than her anecdote struck me as presenting to my own tenderness an occasion for doing. This came out when, at the schoolroom door, she quitted me. "Surely you don't accuse HIM--" "Of carrying on an intercourse that he conceals from me? Ah, remember that, until further evidence, I now accuse nobody." Then, before shutting her out to go, by another passage, to her own place, "I must just wait," I wound up. IX I waited and waited, and the days, as they elapsed, took something from my consternation. A very few of them, in fact, passing, in constant sight of my pupils, without a fresh incident, sufficed to give to grievous fancies and even to odious memories a kind of brush of the sponge. I have spoken of the surrender to their extraordinary childish grace as a thing I could actively cultivate, and it may be imagined if I neglected now to address myself to this source for whatever it would yield. Stranger than I can express, certainly, was the effort to struggle against my new lights; it would doubtless have been, however, a greater tension still had it not been so frequently successful. I used to wonder how my little charges could help guessing that I thought strange things about them; and the circumstances that these things only made them more interesting was not by itself a direct aid to keeping them in the dark. I trembled lest they should see that they WERE so immensely more interesting. Putting things at the worst, at all events, as in meditation I so often did, any clouding of their innocence could only be-- blameless and foredoomed as they were--a reason the more for taking risks. There were moments when, by an irresistible impulse, I found myself catching them up and


with the political fallout from Opus Dei's more controversial practices." Aringarosa felt himself bristle instantly. He already had been through this on numerous occasions with the new pontiff, who, to Aringarosa's great dismay, had turned out to be a distressingly fervent voice for liberal change in the Church. "I want to assure you," the secretariat added quickly, "that His Holiness does not seek to change anything about the way you run your ministry." I should hope not! "Then why am I here?" 278 The enormous man sighed. "Bishop, I am not sure how to say this delicately, so I will state it directly. Two days ago, the Secretariat Council voted unanimously to revoke the Vatican's sanction of Opus Dei." Aringarosa was certain he had heard incorrectly. "I beg your pardon?" "Plainly stated, six months from today, Opus Dei will no longer be considered a prelature of the Vatican. You will be a church unto yourself. The Holy See will be disassociating itself from you. His Holiness agrees and we are already drawing up the legal papers." "But... that is impossible!" "On the contrary, it is quite possible. And necessary. His Holiness has become uneasy with your aggressive recruiting policies and your practices of corporal mortification." He paused. "Also your policies regarding women. Quite frankly, Opus Dei has become a liability and an embarrassment." Bishop Aringarosa was stupefied. "An embarrassment?" "Certainly you cannot be surprised it has come to this." "Opus Dei is the only Catholic organization whose numbers are growing! We now have over eleven hundred priests!" "True. A troubling issue for us all." Aringarosa shot to his feet. "Ask His Holiness if Opus Dei was an embarrassment in 1982 when we helped the Vatican Bank!" "The Vatican will always be grateful for that," the secretariat said, his tone appeasing, "and yet there are those who still believe your financial munificence in 1982 is the only reason you were granted prelature status in the first place." "That is not true!" The insinuation offended Aringarosa deeply. "Whatever the case, we plan to act in good faith. We are drawing up severance terms that will include a reimbursement of those monies. It will be paid in five installments." "You are buying me off?" Aringarosa demanded. "Paying me to go quietly? When Opus Dei is the only remaining voice of reason!" One of the cardinals glanced up. "I'm sorry, did you say reason?" Aringarosa leaned across the table, sharpening his tone to a point. "Do you really wonder why Catholics are leaving the Church? Look around you, Cardinal. People have lost respect. The rigors of faith are gone. The doctrine has become a buffet line. Abstinence, confession, communion, baptism, mass-take your pick-choose whatever combination pleases you and ignore the rest. What kind of spiritual guidance is the Church offering?" "Third-century laws," the second cardinal said, "cannot be applied to the modern followers of Christ. The rules are not workable in today's society." "Well, they seem to be working for Opus Dei!" "Bishop Aringarosa," the secretariat said, his voice conclusive. "Out of respect for your organization's


came out feral. “Pussycat’s got claws,” he said with a chuckle. He ambled toward me, hands in his pockets. “You want to bite and scratch, is that it? Grrr.” He swiped at me with a lopsided grin. I danced away. “Leave me alone.” Still trying to sound fierce. Still failing. “Come on,” he said again. He grabbed my wrist, spun me around like we were dancing. Like we were playing. “You know when a guy is mean to you, it just means he likes you.” “You don’t like me,” I told him, knocked off-balance in more ways than one. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Want to find out?” He tugged me in closer. I could smell the booze on his breath. It was eleven in the morning and he smelled like liquor. I knew the smell, and I knew the way it made my dad, maudlin but harmless. I didn’t think Oscar was the same kind of drunk. “Just let me go,” I said, barely a squeak. It only made him laugh again. He swung me around, one hand on my waist, and then my back was up against the wall of the convenience store. The scents of malt liquor and tobacco and gasoline mixed together. I felt sick. “We are destined to be together, did you know that?” Oscar asked. His head tilted, a sly smile playing over his lips. I looked at him in mute incomprehension. “Oscar the Grouch loves trash, see? I’m Oscar, you’re trash. You and me were meant to be.” He said the last sentence in a crooning song, a leer on his lips. “You wish,” I bit out. Stupid thing to say. He just grinned wider. “You mean you wish, don’t you?” he said. His hand snaked up under my sweatshirt, scrunched up the fabric of my T-shirt. “Do you even really have anything under there?” His questing fingers dug into my ribs. I didn’t move. Didn’t fight back, didn’t scream. I’d tried to be Artemis, the fearsome huntress, since the summer began, but there was none of her in me now. Only the quailing fawn before the hunting dog’s snapping teeth. I froze, not fear but numb surrender washing through me. And then Oscar was hauled backward. “What the fuck are you doing?” Cody demanded, yanking Oscar off me. “Just kidding around,” Oscar said, laughing, hands held up in surrender. “She’s eleven years old!” Cody shouted. His face was red with anger. He shoved Oscar hard in the chest, knocking him back a step, and moved up to match. “What are you, a fucking pedophile?” “I wasn’t going to do anything. Fuck! Relax, Benham,” Oscar said. “Not like she has enough under there to actually cop a feel.” Cody swung. Oscar didn’t even put up his hands, like he couldn’t believe Cody was going to do it. Cody’s fist connected with his jaw, and Oscar reeled, blood bursting from his split lip. He gave Cody a level look, one hand up. A look like Cody had made his point. But he wasn’t done. “Do


cards and not ask for another, it was clear that the Greek had a five, or a six, or a seven. To be certain of winning, the banker had to reveal an eight or a nine. If the banker failed to show either figure, he also had the right to take another card which might or might not improve his count. Le Chiffre's hands were clasped in front of him, his two cards three or four inches away. With his right hand he picked up the two cards and turned them face upwards on the table with a faint snap. They were a four and a five, an undefeatable natural nine. He had won. 'Neuf la banque,' quietly said the croupier. With his spatula he faced the Greek's two cards, 'Et le sept,' he said unemotionally, lifting up gently the corpses of the seven and queen and slipping them through the wide slot in the table near his chair which leads into the gib metal canister to which all dead cards are consigned. Le Chiffre's two cards followed them with a faint rattle which comes from the canister at the beginning of each session before the discards have made a cushion over the metal floor of their oubliette. The Greek pushed forward five plaques of one hundred thousand and the croupier added these to Le Chiffre's half million plaque which lay in the centre of the table. From each bet the Casino takes a tiny percentage, the cagnotte, but it is usual at a big game for the banker to subscribe this himself either in a prearranged lump or by contributions at the end of each hand, so that the amount of the bank's stake can always be a round figure. Le Chiffre had chosen the second course. The croupier slipped some counters through the slot in the table which receives the cagnotte and announced quietly: 'Un banco d'un million.' 'Suivi,' murmured the Greek, meaning that he exercised his right to follow up his lost bet. Bond lit a cigarette and settled himself in his chair. The long game was launched and the sequence of these gestures and the reiteration of this subdued litany would continue until the end came and the players dispersed. Then the enigmatic cards would be burnt or defaced, a shroud would be draped over the table and the grass-green baize battlefield would soak up the blood of its victims and refresh itself. The Greek, after taking a third card, could achieve no better than a four to the bank's seven. 'Un banco de deux millions,' said the croupier. The players on Bond's left remained silent. 'Banco,' said Bond. CHAPTER 11 - MOMENT OF TRUTH Le Chiffre looked incuriously at him, the whites of his eyes, which showed all round the irises, lending something impassive and doll-like to his gaze. He slowly removed one thick hand from the table and slipped it into the pocket of his dinner-jacket. The hand came out holding a small metal cylinder with a cap which Le Chiffre unscrewed. He inserted the nozzle


out of the driveway to pick up a few last things from the grocery store for Jerry before we left the next morning, the neighbor on the other side of the house waved at me to stop. When I rolled down the window, she said, “Is Jerry learning to play guitar? Because he sounds wonderful.” EPILOGUE April 2023 Because TNO airs live, it comes on at 8:30 p.m. on the West Coast, around the time Noah and I are finishing dinner during a night at home. The first time we watched it together after I left the show, I felt tense and territorial, and I was pretty sure I could guess who’d written which sketches, and I had strong opinions about how they could have been improved. Viv was still on maternity leave for the 2020 season premiere, but Henrietta was back, and I wanted to text both of them right after the ceremonial goodnights and also wanted to leave them alone—to let Viv sleep, or breastfeed, or whatever else she was doing, and to let Henrietta head to the after-party and not feel her phone vibrating. I suppose I was trying to protect myself from feeling ignored. My heart swelled when, as the credits were still rolling, a text arrived from Viv to Henrietta and me: I miss you bitches Simultaneously, Henrietta and I replied, Same! As the weeks and months passed, my feelings of tension, territoriality, and homesickness while watching dissipated. I can’t claim to be impartial these days, but the impulse to critique has mostly been replaced by a more relaxed nostalgia. Danny, who now shares an office with his News Desk co-writer, Roy, sometimes texts me threatening to write a sketch called The Sally Milz Rule. In the summer of 2021, Noah returned to touring in a modified way, and I’ve gone with him for some shows, including when he performed in Kansas City and also in D.C., where I met his parents. He had described them accurately—palpably affluent, not especially nice—though the good news was that he had also described his sister accurately, and Vicky and I have become close. But usually when Noah travels, I stay put in Topanga. The first feature for which I wrote the script is now in preproduction and scheduled to be filmed in L.A. in the summer. It isn’t, after all my talk, a romantic comedy. Instead, it’s a buddy movie starring Viv and Henrietta as the ex-wives of two Silicon Valley billionaires. Though their characters were both heavily involved with the founding of the start-up that made their ex-husbands rich, they’ve received little money or credit, and they team up to correct the record and seek justice. The working title is Tech Sis, though already I’ve had several multi-hour discussions with the studio executives about why they think, and why I don’t agree, that it should be Tech Sisters, or even more preposterously, Tech Sises. Nigel is one of the producers. After Noah and I left Kansas City in 2020, I returned two weeks later (on Delta Air Lines, not


Marion didn’t care that she could hear. “We’re so close. This is insane.” Together, they walked back outside. “If Martinek is set on planting another bomb tomorrow, there’s no time to waste,” said Marion. “We have to figure out another plan, try to catch him in the act.” “The two of us?” Peter looked ill. If they had the right guy, and she was certain they did, it meant that her father shared the blame in Judy’s death, for not turning over the documents to the police right away. She couldn’t bear the thought. Turning in the bomber meant turning in her father. But if they waited for the police to come to their senses and listen to what she and Peter had to say, it would give the bomber a chance to set yet another bomb and possibly kill or injure more people. “I have a plan,” said Marion finally. “I know what we should do.” * * * Marion couldn’t go back to Bronxville and look Simon in the eye, knowing what he and his fellow employees at Met Power had done. After she and Peter got back to the loft, she called the house and was relieved when Mrs. Hornsby answered. “Can you tell Dad I’ll be staying in the city one more night?” she said. “Oh, my dear, I was planning on making your favorite dish tonight, chicken and dumplings.” A muffled noise in the background pulled away her attention. “Oh, hold on, your father just walked in the door. Here he is.” Marion grimaced. Her father was not the man she’d thought he was, and she didn’t want to have to face that truth just yet. “Marion?” Simon said. “Are you ready to get picked up? I’ll come myself if Nathaniel isn’t available.” “I’m not ready,” she said. Peter had moved to the other side of the loft, where a desk sat near the window, trying to give her some privacy, but he could still hear everything. “I need another night,” she said. Her father let out a disappointed sigh. “Marion. That’s not what we agreed on.” “I can’t explain why, but I have to stay.” “I’m driving to the Rehearsal Club right now, then. I’ll drag you out if I have to.” “You won’t find me there.” “Is this some kind of riddle? Please, Marion, I have to know that you’re safe. How can you do this to me?” “I think that’s a question for both of us.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He paused. “Did you go to my office yesterday to collect Judy’s things? I stopped by this afternoon to catch up on some work, and Dennis said he ran into you.” “I was there, yes.” “What’s going on?” But the words didn’t have the vehemence of his earlier questions. “I have to go. I’ll be in touch when I can. I’m safe, but I can’t see you right now.” Marion hung up. With nowhere else to go, Marion stayed at Peter’s apartment again, where they solidified their plan well into


advantage over the stray acquaintances she made during her working-hours; but she would not let him. "My aunt would think it so funny," she said. He suspected that her refusal was due only to a disinclination to let him see her aunt. Mildred had represented her as the widow of a professional man (that was her formula of distinction), and was uneasily conscious that the good woman could hardly be called distinguished. Philip imagined that she was in point of fact the widow of a small tradesman. He knew that Mildred was a snob. But he found no means by which he could indicate to her that he did not mind how common the aunt was. Their worst quarrel took place one evening at dinner when she told him that a man had asked her to go to a play with him. Philip turned pale, and his face grew hard and stern. "You're not going?" he said. "Why shouldn't I? He's a very nice gentlemanly fellow." "I'll take you anywhere you like." "But that isn't the same thing. I can't always go about with you. Besides he's asked me to fix my own day, and I'll just go one evening when I'm not going out with you. It won't make any difference to you." "If you had any sense of decency, if you had any gratitude, you wouldn't dream of going." "I don't know what you mean by gratitude. if you're referring to the things you've given me you can have them back. I don't want them." Her voice had the shrewish tone it sometimes got. "It's not very lively, always going about with you. It's always do you love me, do you love me, till I just get about sick of it." (He knew it was madness to go on asking her that, but he could not help himself. "Oh, I like you all right," she would answer. "Is that all? I love you with all my heart." "I'm not that sort, I'm not one to say much." "If you knew how happy just one word would make me!" "Well, what I always say is, people must take me as they find me, and if they don't like it they can lump it." But sometimes she expressed herself more plainly still, and, when he asked the question, answered: "Oh, don't go on at that again." Then he became sulky and silent. He hated her.) And now he said: "Oh, well, if you feel like that about it I wonder you condescend to come out with me at all." "It's not my seeking, you can be very sure of that, you just force me to." His pride was bitterly hurt, and he answered madly. "You think I'm just good enough to stand you dinners and theatres when there's no one else to do it, and when someone else turns up I can go to hell. Thank you, I'm about sick of being made a convenience." "I'm not going to be talked to like that by anyone. I'll just show you how much


in the bathroom—and I watched for a few minutes. Sweat had made a messy column down the front of his gray T-shirt and also appeared in large patches when he lifted his arms, and again I felt a wave of attraction. He did some sit-ups, and I wondered if his body felt sore from sex, sore in a good way, like mine did. He went back to lifting the kettlebell, and, more because I didn’t want to be creepy than because I’d lost interest, I closed the shade. I then lay on the bed with the latest issue of The New Yorker and read the cartoon captions until my phone buzzed. Hey just finished, he’d texted. I saw you out the window, I replied. You looked cute. Also sweaty, he replied. Sweaty in a cute way, I replied. Want to come visit your own guest room? I would love to! he replied. He showed up within about a minute, this time carrying two water glasses. I took both and set them on the table beside the armchair then hugged and kissed him. He kissed me back before saying, “Are you sure you don’t care if I’m sweaty?” “I’m very sure,” I said. Afterward, when he’d collapsed on me and I was running my fingertips over his back, I said, “So have you, uh, dated much during the pandemic?” “Well,” he said, “the last person I had sex with is you. And the person before that was also you and the person before that was also you.” “Who was the person before that?” He lifted his head. “This is kind of a complicated answer. The last serious relationship I had was with a woman named Louisiana. We broke up almost four years ago.” “I know who she is,” I said. “And I know you dated her.” This was the jewelry designer / pest control heiress. “We’ve never officially gotten back together, but—well, for lack of a better way to say it, we’ve hooked up a few times over the years. Including this past April. And I don’t want to sound disrespectful to her, but I remembered pretty quickly why we’d broken up. That’s always how it’s been with her.” “Can you be more specific and thorough about her unappealing qualities?” He laughed. “I can picture her wearing a Good Vibes Only T-shirt,” he said. “How about that? Or, this is a lot more serious, but she’s very preoccupied with food and her weight and counting calories. She’s extremely thin. And I feel for her, but I have enough issues of my own on that front that I find it challenging to be around.” “Was she staying here?” “Sometimes. She lives in Malibu.” I wondered but didn’t ask if her Malibu house had been funded by cockroaches or necklaces. “Ending things again with her is what made me resolve to email you,” Noah said. “It still took a while to work up the nerve. But I’d felt lonely after being sick, with everything shut down. And then being around Louisiana felt equally lonely. It


legend tells us the Holy Grail is a chalice-a cup. But the Grail's description as a chalice is actually an allegory to protect the true nature of the Holy Grail. That is to say, the legend uses the chalice as a metaphor for something far more important." "A woman," Sophie said. "Exactly." Langdon smiled. "The Grail is literally the ancient symbol for womanhood, and the Holy Grail represents the sacred feminine and the goddess, which of course has now been lost, virtually eliminated by the Church. The power of the female and her ability to produce life was once very sacred, but it posed a threat to the rise of the predominantly male Church, and so the sacred feminine was demonized and called unclean. It was man, not God, who created the concept of 'original sin,' whereby Eve tasted of the apple and caused the downfall of the human race. Woman, once the sacred giver of life, was now the enemy." 161 "I should add," Teabing chimed, "that this concept of woman as life-bringer was the foundation of ancient religion. Childbirth was mystical and powerful. Sadly, Christian philosophy decided to embezzle the female's creative power by ignoring biological truth and making man the Creator. Genesis tells us that Eve was created from Adam's rib. Woman became an offshoot of man. And a sinful one at that. Genesis was the beginning of the end for the goddess." "The Grail," Langdon said, "is symbolic of the lost goddess. When Christianity came along, the old pagan religions did not die easily. Legends of chivalric quests for the lost Grail were in fact stories of forbidden quests to find the lost sacred feminine. Knights who claimed to be "searching for the chalice" were speaking in code as a way to protect themselves from a Church that had subjugated women, banished the Goddess, burned nonbelievers, and forbidden the pagan reverence for the sacred feminine." Sophie shook her head. "I'm sorry, when you said the Holy Grail was a person, I thought you meant it was an actual person." "It is," Langdon said. "And not just any person," Teabing blurted, clambering excitedly to his feet. "A woman who carried with her a secret so powerful that, if revealed, it threatened to devastate the very foundation of Christianity!" Sophie looked overwhelmed. "Is this woman well known in history?" "Quite." Teabing collected his crutches and motioned down the hall. "And if we adjourn to the study, my friends, it would be my honor to show you Da Vinci's painting of her." Two rooms away, in the kitchen, manservant Rmy Legaludec stood in silence before a television. The news station was broadcasting photos of a man and woman... the same two individuals to whom Rmy had just served tea. 162 CHAPTER 57 Standing at the roadblock outside the Depository Bank of Zurich, Lieutenant Collet wondered what was taking Fache so long to come up with the search warrant. The bankers were obviously hiding something. They claimed Langdon and Neveu had arrived earlier and were turned away from the bank because they


(one I remember represented a grim man in a cuirass, and one a lady with powdered hair and a pearl necklace) at a bronze lamp pendent from the ceiling, at a great clock whose case was of oak, curiously carved, and ebon black with time and rubbing. Everything appeared very stately and imposing to me; but then I was so little accustomed to grandeur. The hall door, which was half of glass, stood open; I stepped over the threshold. It was a fine autumn morning; the early sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still green fields. Advancing on to the lawn I looked up and surveyed the front of the mansion. It was three stories high, of proportions not vast, though considerable a gentleman's manor-house, not a nobleman's seat; battlements round the top gave it a picturesque look. Its gray front stood out well from the background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants were now on the wing; they flew over the lawn and grounds to alight in a great meadow, from which these were separated by a sunk fence, and where an array of mighty old thorn-trees, strong, knotty, and broad as oaks, at once explained the etymology of the mansion's designation. Farther off were hills not so lofty as those round Lowood, nor so craggy, nor so like barriers of separation from the living world, but yet quiet and lonely enough hills, and seeming to embrace Thornfield with a seclusion I had not expected to find existent so near the stirring locality of Millcote. A little hamlet, whose roofs were blent with trees, straggled up the side of one of these hills; the church of the district stood nearer Thornfield; its old tower-top looked over a knoll between the house and gates.     I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air, and listening with delight to the cawing of the rooks, yet surveying the wide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking what a great place it was for one lonely little dame like Mrs. Fairfax to inhabit, when that lady appeared at the door.     "What! out already?" said she. "I see you are an early riser." I went up to her, and was received with an affable kiss and shake of the hand.     "How do you like Thornfied?" she asked. I told her I liked it very much.     "Yes," she said, "it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be getting out of order unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to come and reside here permanently, or, at least, visit it rather oftener. Great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor."     "Mr. Rochester!" I exclaimed. "Who is he?"     "The owner of Thornfield," she responded, quietly. "Did you not know he was called Rochester?"     Of course I did not I had never heard of him before; but the old lady seemed


wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Very truly yours, IRENE NORTON, nee ADLER. "What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?" "From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a very different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business to a more successful conclusion." "On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire." "I am glad to hear your Majesty say so." "I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand. "Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly," said Holmes. "You have but to name it." "This photograph!" The King stared at him in amazement. "Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it." "I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honor to wish you a very good-morning." He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers. And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honorable title of the woman. ADVENTURE II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me. "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said cordially. "I was afraid that you were engaged." "So I am. Very much so." "Then I can wait in the next room." "Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt