death while the crowds urge on my killer. To tell or not to tell? My brain still feels slow from the wine. I stare down the empty corridor as if the decision lies there. Peeta picks up on my hesitation. “Have you been on the roof yet?” I shake my head. “Cinna showed me. You can practi- cally see the whole city. The wind’s a bit loud, though.” I translate this into “No one will overhear us talking” in my head. You do have the sense that we might be under surveil- lance here. “Can we just go up?” “Sure, come on,” says Peeta. I follow him to a flight of stairs that lead to the roof. There’s a small dome-shaped room with a door to the outside. As we step into the cool, windy evening air, I catch my breath at the view. The Capitol twinkles like a vast field of fireflies. Electricity in District 12 comes and goes, usually we only have it a few hours a day. Often the evenings are spent in candlelight. The only time you can count on it is when they’re airing the Games or some important govern- ment message on television that it’s mandatory to watch. But here there would be no shortage. Ever. 80 Peeta and I walk to a railing at the edge of the roof. I look straight down the side of the building to the street, which is buzzing with people. You can hear their cars, an occasional shout, and a strange metallic tinkling. In District 12, we’d all be thinking about bed right now. “I asked Cinna why they let us up here. Weren’t they wor- ried that some of the tributes might decide to jump right over the side?” says Peeta. “What’d he say?” I ask. “You can’t,” says Peeta. He holds out his hand into seeming- ly empty space. There’s a sharp zap and he jerks it back. “Some kind of electric field throws you back on the roof.” “Always worried about our safety,” I say. Even though Cin- na has shown Peeta the roof, I wonder if we’re supposed to be up here now, so late and alone. I’ve never seen tributes on the Training Center roof before. But that doesn’t mean we’re not being taped. “Do you think they’re watching us now?” “Maybe,” he admits. “Come see the garden.” On the other side of the dome, they’ve built a garden with flower beds and potted trees. From the branches hang hun- dreds of wind chimes, which account for the tinkling I heard. Here in the garden, on this windy night, it’s enough to drown out two people who are trying not to be heard. Peeta looks at me expectantly. I pretend to examine a blossom. “We were hunting in the woods one day. Hidden, waiting for game,” I whisper. “You and your father?” he whispers back. 81 “No, my friend Gale. Suddenly all the birds stopped singing at once. Except one. As if it were giving a warning call. And then we saw her. I’m


led away by the little weazened man. That was the last he saw of the man in the red sweater, and as Curly and he looked at receding Seattle from the deck of the Narwhal, it was the last he saw of the warm Southland. Curly and he were taken below by Perrault and turned over to a black-faced giant called Francois. Perrault was a French-Canadian, and swarthy; but Francois was a French-Canadian half-breed, and twice as swarthy. They were a new kind of men to Buck (of which he was destined to see many more), and while he developed no affection for them, he none the less grew honestly to respect them. He speedily learned that Perrault and Francois were fair men, calm and impartial in administering justice, and too wise in the way of dogs to be fooled by dogs. In the 'tween-decks of the Narwhal, Buck and Curly joined two other dogs. One of them was a big, snow-white fellow from Spitzbergen who had been brought away by a whaling captain, and who had later accompanied a Geological Survey into the Barrens. He was friendly, in a treacherous sort of way, smiling into one's face the while he meditated some underhand trick, as, for instance, when he stole from Buck's food at the first meal. As Buck sprang to punish him, the lash of Francois's whip sang through the air, reaching the culprit first; and nothing remained to Buck but to recover the bone. That was fair of Francois, he decided, and the half-breed began his rise in Buck's estimation. The other dog made no advances, nor received any; also, he did not attempt to steal from the newcomers. He was a gloomy, morose fellow, and he showed Curly plainly that all he desired was to be left alone, and further, that there would be trouble if he were not left alone. "Dave" he was called, and he ate and slept, or yawned between times, and took interest in nothing, not even when the Narwhal crossed Queen Charlotte Sound and rolled and pitched and bucked like a thing possessed. When Buck and Curly grew excited, half wild with fear, he raised his head as though annoyed, favored them with an incurious glance, yawned, and went to sleep again. Day and night the ship throbbed to the tireless pulse of the propeller, and though one day was very like another, it was apparent to Buck that the weather was steadily growing colder. At last, one morning, the propeller was quiet, and the Narwhal was pervaded with an atmosphere of excitement. He felt it, as did the other dogs, and knew that a change was at hand. Francois leashed them and brought them on deck. At the first step upon the cold surface, Buck's feet sank into a white mushy something very like mud. He sprang back with a snort. More of this white stuff was falling through the air. He shook himself, but more of it fell upon him. He sniffed it curiously, then licked some up on his tongue.


‘Go to her.’ Thrit gripped Wulf by the shoulder. ‘Wulf, get her inside.’ ‘Don’t die on this moor. Swear it, Thrit.’ ‘Sworn.’ Thrit gave him a shove. ‘Go, Wulf, now.’ Wulf ran. The world was a blur. Halfway there, he grabbed the reins of a riderless horse and threw himself across its saddle. ‘Glorian!’ She heard. Across the bloody, smoking battlefield, their gazes clapped. That was when Glorian Shieldheart did something even her father might have thought was a tad reckless. Wulf saw the decision on her face – and then she spurred her own mount. Her mare came galloping towards him, clearing a line of fire with a whinny. Panic erupted in her wake, and Lady Gladwin bellowed new orders at the archers. Wulf rode all the faster, heart almost pounding out of his chest, his only thought to reach her side. When they met, Glorian pressed their child into his arms. ‘What are you doing?’ Wulf asked over the din. ‘Glorian—’ ‘Take her. Take her away from here,’ Glorian cut in, breathing hard. ‘Go south over the river. Follow the drovers’ path until you find the hill like an upended bowl, the tomb of the Inyscan princess. Take her to it, Wulf, to the barrow. Wait inside until it’s safe.’ ‘Glorian.’ Wulf stared from her to their wailing bairn. ‘I can’t.’ ‘Hollow Crag is lost. Fýredel will come for me. See her safe, Wulf. Someone will find you both.’ She bent to kiss the child, and Sabran screamed. ‘She is the chain upon him now.’ Cupping her with one hand, Wulf reached for Glorian with the other, grasping her arm. ‘Come with us,’ he urged. She shook her head. ‘Glorian, you’ll die here. Everyone will die on Cenning Moor.’ ‘So be it. I have done my duty. I would gladly give my life in battle, as my father would have. I am free to do as I choose. I choose to die with courage.’ She held his cheek and smiled, looking straight into his eyes. ‘Live, Wulfert Glenn, my dearest friend. I will see you in Halgalant.’ She wheeled her horse, and charged to war. 96 East Muysima lay close to Uramyesi, the city built where Snow Maiden was said to have sung her lament. This late in the evening, the island for exiles was hard to see. No lighthouses ever burned on that forsaken shore. Furtia flew with seven other dragons, tiny stars twinkling in the seams where her scales met. Dumai watched the streets of Uramyesi, finding glimmers of light between its rooftops – pyres, for those who had died of the sickness, each one creating sleepless ghosts. Her grandfather must been brought to this city. A boat must have taken him to his end. Uramyesi ended in a sheer drop. There, the black waters of the Abyss shattered against a wall of cliffs, each of monstrous height. The highest leaned some way over the water, an arrowhead pointing at the island, threatening any exile who dared to dream of home. The last glow of sunset reddened the


75 Maiar Ainur of lesser degree than the Valar (singular Maia). 11, 23-6, 30, 57, 61, 83, 91, 105, 108, 111, 114, 229, 289, 292, 322, 353 Malach Son of Marach; given the Elvish name Aradan. 171, 177 Malduin A tributary of the Teiglin; the name probably means 'Yellow River'. 251 Malinalda 'Tree of Gold', a name of Laurelin. 33 Mandos The place of the dwelling in Aman of the Vala properly called Nmo, the Judge, though this name was seldom used, and he himself was usually referred to as Mandos. Named as Vala: 18, 21-3,47, 52, 70, 73, 77-8, 87, 98, 113, 118, 121, 129-30, 154, 227, 308, 316. Named as the place of his dwelling (including Halls of Mandos; also Halls of Awaiting, Houses of the Dead): 22, 38, 42, 52, 61, 68-9, 73, 99, 121, 125, 227, 289. With reference to the Doom of the Noldor and the Curse of Mandos: 150, 154-5, 166, 169, 201, 205, 213, 297 Manw The chief of the Valar, called also Slimo, the Elder King, the Ruler of Arda. Passim; see especially 11, 18-9, 35, 70, 129 Marach Leader of the third host of Men to enter Beleriand, ancestor of Hador Lrindol. 171-2, 180 March of Maedhros The open lands to the north of the headwaters of the river Gelion, held by Maedhros and his brothers against attack on East Beleriand; also called the eastern March. 131-2, 147 Mardil Called the Faithful; the first Ruling Steward of Gondor. 369 Mar-nu-Falmar 'The Land under the Waves', name of Nmenor after the Downfall. 347 Melian A Maia, who left Valinor and came to Middle-earth; afterwards the Queen of King Thingol in Doriath, about which she set a girdle of enchantment, the Girdle of Melian; mother of Lthien, and foremother of Elrond and Elros. 24-5, 57-8, 61, 103-6, 109, 110-1, 121, 130, 135, 144-5, 151-4, 158, 172, 176, 182, Chapter XIX passim, 229-30, Chapters XXI, XXII passim, 315, 322 Melkor The Quenya name for the great rebellious Vala, the beginning of evil, in his origin the mightiest of the Ainur; afterwards named Morgoth, Bauglir, the Dark Lord, the Enemy, etc. The meaning of Melkor was 'He who arises in Might'; the Sindarin form was Belegur, but it was never used, save in a deliberately altered form Belegurth 'Great Death'. Passim (after the rape of the Silmarils usually called Morgoth); see especially 4-5, 8, 25, 50, 51, 70-1, 90-2, 117, 251, 320 Men See especially 37-8, 74,119-21,167-70, 178, 319-20, 326-7; and see also Atani, Children of Ilvatar, Easterlings. Menegroth 'The Thousand Caves', the hidden halls of Thingol and Melian on the river Esgalduin in Doriath; see especially 58, 106-8, 111-2, 125, 130, 134, 145, 155, 200, 203, 208, 217, 222-6, 229, 243-7, 252, 267, 269, 286-91 Meneldil Son of Anrion, King of Gondor. 368 Menelmacar 'Swordsman of the Sky', the constellation Orion. 48 Meneltarma 'Pillar of Heaven', the mountain in the midst of Nmenor, upon whose summit was the Hallow of Eru Ilvatar. 322-4, 329, 332-3, 336, 343, 345, 348 Meres of Twilight See Aelin-uial. Mereth Aderthad


rather than the touch as yet. There was not a human soul near. Sad October and her sadder self seemed the only two existences haunting that lane. As she walked, however, some footsteps approached behind her, the footsteps of a man; and owing to the briskness of his advance he was close at her heels and had said "Good morning" before she had been long aware of his propinquity. He appeared to be an artisan of some sort, and carried a tin pot of red paint in his hand. He asked in a business-like manner if he should take her basket, which she permitted him to do, walking beside him. "It is early to be astir this Sabbath morn!" he said cheerfully. "Yes," said Tess. "When most people are at rest from their week's work." She also assented to this. "Though I do more real work today than all the week besides." "Do you?" "All the week I work for the glory of man, and on Sunday for the glory of God. That's more real than the other--hey? I have a little to do here at this stile." The man turned as he spoke to an opening at the roadside leading into a pasture. "If you'll wait a moment," he added, "I shall not be long." As he had her basket she could not well do otherwise; and she waited, observing him. He set down her basket and the tin pot, and stirring the paint with the brush that was in it began painting large square letters on the middle board of the three composing the stile, placing a comma after each word, as if to give pause while that word was driven well home to the reader's heart-- THY, DAMNATION, SLUMBERETH, NOT. 2 Pet. ii. 3. Against the peaceful landscape, the pale, decaying tints of the copses, the blue air of the horizon and the lichened stileboards, these staring vermilion words shone forth. They seemed to shout themselves out and make the atmosphere ring. Some people might have cried "Alas, poor Theology!" at the hideous defacement--the last grotesque phase of a creed which had served mankind well in its time. But the words entered Tess with accusatory horror. It was as if this man had known her recent history; yet he was a total stranger. Having finished his text he picked up her basket, and she mechanically resumed her walk beside him. "Do you believe what you paint?" she asked in low tones. "Believe that tex? Do I believe in my own existence!" "But," said she tremulously, "suppose your sin was not of your own seeking?" He shook his head. "I cannot split hairs on that burning query," he said. "I have walked hundreds of miles this past summer, painting these texes on every wall, gate, and stile the length and breadth of this district. I leave their application to the hearts of the people who read 'em." "I think they are horrible," said Tess. "Crushing! killing!" "That's what they are meant to be!" he replied in a trade voice. "But


You're very simple, I don't think. He was. --Well now I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle they christened me simple Simon. --You must have been a doaty, miss Douce made answer. And what did the doctor order today? --Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I'll trouble you for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky. Jingle. --With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce agreed. With grace of alacrity towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane's she turned herself. With grace she tapped a measure of gold whisky from her crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedalus brought pouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two husky fifenotes. --By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must be a great tonic in the air down there. But a long threatening comes at last, they say. Yes. Yes. Yes. He fingered shreds of hair, her maidenhair, her mermaid's, into the bowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute. None nought said nothing. Yes. Gaily miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling: --O, IDOLORES, QUEEN OF THE EASTERN SEAS! --Was Mr Lidwell in today? In came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan. Mr Bloom reached Essex bridge. Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write. Buy paper. Daly's. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue bloom is on the rye. --He was in at lunchtime, miss Douce said. Lenehan came forward. --Was Mr Boylan looking for me? He asked. She answered: --Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs? She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, a second teacup poised, her gaze upon a page: --No. He was not. Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the sandwichbell wound his round body round. --Peep! Who's in the corner? No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet made overtures. To mind her stops. To read only the black ones: round o and crooked ess. Jingle jaunty jingle. Girlgold she read and did not glance. Take no notice. She took no notice while he read by rote a solfa fable for her, plappering flatly: --Ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put your bill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone? He droned in vain. Miss Douce turned to her tea aside. He sighed aside: --Ah me! O my! He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod. --Greetings from the famous son of a famous father. --Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked. Lenehan opened most genial arms. Who? --Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask? Stephen, the youthful bard. Dry. Mr Dedalus, famous father, laid by his dry filled pipe. --I see, he said. I didn't recognise him for the moment. I hear he is keeping very select company. Have you seen him lately? He had. --I quaffed the nectarbowl with him this very day, said Lenehan. In Mooney's EN VILLE and in Mooney's SUR MER. He had received


countenance and manners would have won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he would not have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of his daughter. The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night; but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started from his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage enough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected smile, and the carriage drove on. The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil pensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was new and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight. 'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St. Aubert, 'and I thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me then, now--it is closing.' 'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a trembling voice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake-- for MY sake.' 'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well- I hope it is so.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 'there is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are


give it up and turn in? A noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in an instant. The alley door closed softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick store. The next moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have something under his arm. It must be that box! So they were going to remove the treasure. Why call Tom now? It would be absurd -- the --------------------------------------------------------- -265- men would get away with the box and never be found again. No, he would stick to their wake and follow them; he would trust to the darkness for security from discovery. So communing with himself, Huck stepped out and glided along behind the men, cat-like, with bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough ahead not to be invisible. They moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left up a cross-street. They went straight ahead, then, until they came to the path that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by the old Welshman's house, half-way up the hill, without hesitating, and still climbed upward. Good, thought Huck, they will bury it in the old quarry. But they never stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the summit. They plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach bushes, and were at once hidden in the gloom. Huck closed up and shortened his distance, now, for they would never be able to see him. He trotted along awhile; then slackened his pace, fearing he was gaining too fast; moved on a piece, then stopped altogether; listened; no sound; none, save that he seemed to hear the beating of his own heart. The hooting of an owl came over the hill -- ominous sound! But no footsteps. Heavens, was everything lost! He was about to spring with winged feet, when a man cleared his throat not four feet from him! Huck's heart shot into his throat, but he swallowed it again; and then he stood there --------------------------------------------------------- -266- shaking as if a dozen agues had taken charge of him at once, and so weak that he thought he must surely fall to the ground. He knew where he was. He knew he was within five steps of the stile leading into Widow Douglas' grounds. Very well, he thought, let them bury it there; it won't be hard to find. Now there was a voice -- a very low voice -- Injun Joe's: "Damn her, maybe she's got company -- there's lights, late as it is." "I can't see any." This was that stranger's voice -- the stranger of the haunted house. A deadly chill went to Huck's heart -- this, then, was the "revenge" job! His thought was, to fly. Then he remembered that the Widow Douglas had been kind to him more than once, and maybe these men were going to murder her. He wished he dared venture to warn her; but he knew he didn't dare -- they might come and catch him. He thought all this


groan at the reminder because I am very mature, but I do wrinkle my nose down at the dingy brown carpet. “I know what you’re thinking”—Mum laughs like she can see my expression—“but he’s a good boy, and he’s more cautious than you. Take care of each other. Especially while your wrist is still healing!” Yeah…about that “wearing a cast for six to eight weeks” thing? Apparently, it’s eight weeks for me. I’ll be free next Monday, a week after this expedition. Bradley’s fault. Obviously. “I mean it, Celine,” Mum says, turning stern. “I guarantee Maria is telling him the same thing.” Not bloody likely. When we stepped off the coach twenty minutes ago, Bradley was already surrounded by people as always, grinning and relaxed, because he managed to make friends during the coach ride while I sat on my own listening to Frank Ocean’s Blonde and texting Michaela. I bet he’s chatting away to his little ginger roommate right now. My roommate is glued to her phone with an expression that suggests she’s either Googling How to kill your BEP roomie and get away with it or reading really great fanfic. “I’ll be good, Mummy.” By which I mean: I’ll try my best not to get killed in the night. “I have to go now, okay?” “Okay, baby. I love you.” “Love you too.” Laura/Aura/Rory glances up as I put the phone down and mumbles, “Five minutes till we meet outside.” I blink. “Are you watching the time for us?” She shrinks into her gray hoodie. “Um…” So she’s not a murderer; she’s just shy. Now I feel bad. “That’s…nice,” I clarify awkwardly. Her smile has a lot in common with a wince. The BEP has been a whirlwind so far. We hopped on a coach this morning, it took us basically up the road to Sherwood Forest, we were introduced to our supervisors (Zion is an Energizer Bunny with locs, and Holly is basically Kourtney Kardashian), and then we were told to pair off and given fifteen minutes to stow our stuff in our bedrooms and report for duty. I’m not sure how I ended up with Laura/Aura/Rory, but it probably has something to do with her being shy and me being…mutinously silent. In a very confident way. Obviously. I try to make more conversation and, annoyingly, I find myself thinking of what Bradley would say. Something obnoxious, probably. But what comes out of my mouth is, “Cute nails.” She examines the chipped purple polish, and her razor-sharp nose flushes pink. “Oh. I can never make it stay….” “Well, who can?” I allow. “But it’s a nice color.” Her nose blushes pinker. She smiles with a bit more warmth and a bit less terror. Success! I am practically a social butterfly. “My name’s Celine, by the way,” I say, even though I already told her. I’m hoping she’ll reintroduce herself, and— Yep. She sits up straighter on her own rickety bed, despite the heavy-looking purple duffel bag planted in her lap, and says, “I’m…Rora.” Pretty sure I still did not


I go home?" When Okonkwo heard that he would not eat any food he came into the hut with a big stick in his hand and stood over him while he swallowed his yams, trembling. A few moments later he went behind the hut and began to vomit painfully. Nwoye's mother went to him and placed her hands on his chest and on his back. He was ill for three market weeks, and when he recovered he seemed to have overcome his great fear and sadness. He was by nature a very lively boy and he gradually became popular in Okonkwo's household, especially with the children. Okonkwo's son, Nwoye, who was two years younger, became quite inseparable from him because he seemed to know everything. He could fashion out flutes from bamboo stems and even from the elephant grass. He knew the names of all the birds and could set clever traps for the little bush rodents. And he knew which trees made the strongest bows. Even Okonkwo himself became very fond of the boy - inwardly of course. Okonkwo never showed any emotion openly, unless it be the emotion of anger. To show affection was a sign of weakness,-the only thing worth demonstrating was strength. He therefore treated Ikemefuna as he treated everybody else - with a heavy hand. But there was no doubt that he liked the boy. Sometimes when he went to big village meetings or communal ancestral feasts he allowed Ikemefuna to accompany him, like a son, carrying his stool and his goatskin bag. And, indeed, Ikemefuna called him father. Ikemefuna came to Umuofia at the end of the carefree season between harvest and planting. In fact he recovered from his illness only a few days before the Week of Peace began. And that was also the year Okonkwo broke the peace, and was punished, as was the custom, by Ezeani, the priest of the earth goddess. Okonkwo was provoked to justifiable anger by his youngest wife, who went to plait her hair at her friend's house and did not return early enough to cook the afternoon meal. Okonkwo did not know at first that she was not at home. After waiting in vain for her dish he went to her hut to see what she was doing. There was nobody in the hut and the fireplace was cold. "Where is Ojiugo?" he asked his second wife, who came out of her hut to draw water from a gigantic pot in the shade of a small tree in the middle of the compound. "She has gone to plait her hair." Okonkwo bit his lips as anger welled up within him. "Where are her children? Did she take them?" he asked with unusual coolness and restraint. "They are here," answered his first wife, Nwoye's mother. Okonkwo bent down and looked into her hut. Ojiugo's children were eating with the children of his first wife. "Did she ask you to feed them before she went?" "Yes," lied Nwoye's mother, trying to minimise Ojiugo's thoughtlessness. Okonkwo knew she was not speaking


nonsense before he went his whole life thinking he wasn’t worth anything. Olivia had told her a little about the businesses the last Lord Calloway had acquired over the years, but Lucy hadn’t realized until this moment how much that inheritance weighed on Simon. No wonder he found it so difficult to smile. But what could she do? She knew nothing about the responsibilities of a lord, and she had given him absolutely no reason to trust her yet. Besides, the carriage came to a stop, which meant they had reached the village and Lucy was out of time. Her panic returned tenfold, though she did her best to hide it. “We will be at the modiste,” Olivia said as soon as Nick had helped her out of the carriage, and she slipped her arm through Lucy’s, almost as if she knew Lucy was considering how easily she could run. That didn’t stop Lucy from planting her feet, however, hoping to delay as long as possible. “You men are not allowed to come with us,” Olivia added. To Lucy’s surprise, Simon immediately argued against that pronouncement. “You expect me to leave you on your own?” he said with some alarm. “Don’t be absurd.” And for some reason, he looked right at Lucy. Her cheeks burned hot, and she ducked her head before anyone noticed her blush. She had no reason to blush because the likes of Lord Calloway looked in her direction. She was being ridiculous, and she needed to stay focused. “I hardly think you want to spend your day in a dressmaker’s shop, Calloway,” Nick said with laughter in his voice. “Come, I have a mind to convince you to purchase me a new watch fob.” Simon seemed as reluctant to leave this spot as Lucy was, even though Nick had put a hand on his arm. He just stood there, his eyes locked on her, yet another new expression on his face that kept her transfixed. He was searching for something, and though Lucy had no idea what he was trying to find in her eyes, she was tempted to let him have it. The man had so much in his life, but she had a feeling he had nothing of what he truly needed. She hardly had anything to give him, but she wished she did. She wished she could help him see what she had seen that first time they’d met in the library: a man of power, conviction, and strength. The kind of man who looked after his family and would stop at nothing to see them taken care of. The kind of man who would lead to Lucy’s ruin if he chose. It had never been a matter of if she would fall to the truth but when. “Come along, Lucy,” Olivia said, giving her a little tug that pulled Lucy’s eyes away from the one man she had no business staring at. “We’ll have you a new wardrobe in no time. Mrs. Bradley is a wonder with fabric and thread, and I can just


which he can mould into whatever shape he likes. So it was with Holgrave. He could talk sagely about the world's old age, but never actually believed what he said; he was a young man still, and therefore looked upon the world--that gray-bearded and wrinkled profligate, decrepit, without being venerable--as a tender stripling, capable of being improved into all that it ought to be, but scarcely yet had shown the remotest promise of becoming. He had that sense, or inward prophecy, --which a young man had better never have been born than not to have, and a mature man had better die at once than utterly to relinquish,--that we are not doomed to creep on forever in the old bad way, but that, this very now, there are the harbingers abroad of a golden era, to be accomplished in his own lifetime. It seemed to Holgrave,--as doubtless it has seemed to the hopeful of every century since the epoch of Adam's grandchildren,--that in this age, more than ever before, the moss-grown and rotten Past is to be torn down, and lifeless institutions to be thrust out of the way, and their dead corpses buried, and everything to begin anew. As to the main point,--may we never live to doubt it!--as to the better centuries that are coming, the artist was surely right. His error lay in supposing that this age, more than any past or future one, is destined to see the tattered garments of Antiquity exchanged for a new suit, instead of gradually renewing themselves by patchwork; in applying his own little life-span as the measure of an interminable achievement; and, more than all, in fancying that it mattered anything to the great end in view whether he himself should contend for it or against it. Yet it was well for him to think so. This enthusiasm, infusing itself through the calmness of his character, and thus taking an aspect of settled thought and wisdom, would serve to keep his youth pure, and make his aspirations high. And when, with the years settling down more weightily upon him, his early faith should be modified by inevitable experience, it would be with no harsh and sudden revolution of his sentiments. He would still have faith in man's brightening destiny, and perhaps love him all the better, as he should recognize his helplessness in his own behalf; and the haughty faith, with which he began life, would be well bartered for a far humbler one at its close, in discerning that man's best directed effort accomplishes a kind of dream, while God is the sole worker of realities. Holgrave had read very little, and that little in passing through the thoroughfare of life, where the mystic language of his books was necessarily mixed up with the babble of the multitude, so that both one and the other were apt to lose any sense that might have been properly their own. He considered himself a thinker, and was certainly of a thoughtful turn, but, with his own path to discover, had perhaps hardly yet


back to Lore. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said finally. “The simplest answer is usually the right one, and the simplest answer is that Kirythea is doing this, somehow. Trying to start a war so they can finally take over Auverraine, too.” “Everything is always going to come back to Kirythea with you.” Bastian tapped his fingers on the glass. “Perhaps you’re not the most impartial party to evaluate this, Remaut.” The Presque Mort’s hands tightened into fists. He took a step closer to the table. “Gabe,” Malcolm cautioned. The sound of his name from his old friend was enough to make Gabe’s shoulders soften, just slightly. He looked away from Bastian, ran a weary hand over his face. “I haven’t been able to raise a body other than the one Anton and August chose,” Lore said quietly. “And they didn’t want me to be present when they started asking questions. Maybe the point wasn’t the questions, but the raising. Maybe they tampered with it somehow. How, I don’t know.” She cut her hand toward the book under the glass. “But it seems there’s a lot we don’t know.” “Then the solution is to find a body they haven’t chosen for you.” Bastian looked at the floor, lips twisted thoughtfully. “One of the ones they’ve hidden away somewhere.” “Exactly.” Lore slid a glance to Gabe, still quiet, still looming. “So, essentially, we’re back at where we started.” “With the added bonus of a slowly dying King, it seems,” Malcolm added. With a sigh, he sat at the table. “Apparently I’m in this now, and seeing as I have no desire for an extended stay on the Isles, I’m going to make myself useful and read this damn book.” He raised a brow at Gabe. “You crossreference the Compendiums on the table over there. It’ll keep you occupied, and it might turn up something new. I’ve stared at them until the words run together.” “What should I do?” Bastian asked brightly. “I wouldn’t dare give orders to a prince.” “Come on, Malcolm, are you salty about the Burnt Isles threat? I understand, but my hands are tied, here. Pardon the poor choice of words.” Malcolm’s dark eyes rolled to the ceiling, as if beseeching Apollius for a moment of peace. “You look through the lecture notes. See if you can find anything.” Everyone fell to their tasks with quiet focus. Lore hadn’t been given a job, and didn’t necessarily want to ask for one, so she drifted over to Gabe, taking a seat next to him at the other long table. “I’m sorry,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say. “For what?” He didn’t look at her, eye fixed to a glass-protected page, but he wasn’t reading. Just staring. “I don’t know.” A sigh, and she folded her hands on the table, rested her head on them. “You’re right that August and Anton wouldn’t bring me here to find out the truth if they already knew it, and I can’t think of another reason why they’d want me in the


He opens a cabinet door and drops to his knees and tucks the candy behind bottles of whatever, farther back than anything the embalmers and cosmeticians might need for the work that currently awaits them. He circles the gurney on which the approximate shape of a man lies under a sheet. He hasn’t seen this customer, and he wants to be able to describe the deceased to Gifford, as absolute proof that he didn’t just plant the Hershey’s Kiss and hastily retreat. He’s seen many dead people, of course, mostly in their open coffins after they have been spruced up and dressed for Heaven. For the most part, he doesn’t find cadavers scary, but instead boring. It’s an unusual situation, however, this being Halloween and the body freshly dead and Durand alone with it, so that the skin on the nape of his neck crawls, and his throat feels tight. Three times, young Durand pinches the sheet between his thumb and forefinger, intending to peel it back and reveal the face of the corpse. Again and again and again, he releases the shroud without fulfilling his intention. He grips the pull on one of the morgue drawers. But he has previously seen the two deceased who came in during the late afternoon. Describing them to Gifford will only reveal that, in spite of having come this far with the Hershey’s Kiss, he lacks the courage to confront, one to one, the corpse for whom no drawer is available. He’s embarrassed by his fear. He has never before been alone with the dead here in the basement at such a late hour, only in viewing rooms on the main floor. This is somehow different. Maybe because here they are underground. That’s where the dead go when they are done with life. Underground. It’s their territory. Especially from midnight to dawn. Durand is trembling. His dread angers him. Other kids his age, even older kids, treat him with respect, almost with awe, all because he lives with dead people, sleeps upstairs untroubled while in the basement dead people are doing who knows what. Some kids are even a little scared of him. They’re eager to hear his latest stories about living with corpses, although after an unusually weird or gruesome anecdote, he can see they regard him with some trepidation. He enjoys being respected, and being feared is even better. Just seven, he already understands that being feared is a source of power, and that people who are fearful can more often be made to do what he wants rather than what they want. Fear is for the weak. His fear infuriates him, and he is shamed by the rapid, frosty exhalations that plume from him. At last he flips the sheet back, revealing a deader that is, at first, no more to be feared than any other. The head is crowned with a thin tangle of white hair, and the forehead is mostly smooth except for a purplish cut above the left eye, which he might have sustained by falling against something when


"Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry. Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time. "No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife brought it up to me." "Did you answer it yourself?" "No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it." In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord. "I could not quite understand the object of your questions this morning, Sir Henry," said he. "I trust that they do not mean that I have done anything to forfeit your confidence?" Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit having now all arrived. Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid person, very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical. You could hardly conceive a less emotional subject. Yet I have told you how, on the first night here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and since then I have more than once observed traces of tears upon her face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty memory which haunts her, and sometimes I suspect Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant. I have always felt that there was something singular and questionable in this man's character, but the adven- ture of last night brings all my suspicions to a head. And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a man who walked softly down the passage with a candle held in his hand. He was in shirt and trousers, with no covering to his feet. I could merely see the outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very slowly and circumspectly, and there was something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole appearance. I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I waited until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him. When I came round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of light through an open door that he had entered one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms are unfurnished and unoccupied so that his expedition became more mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily as if he were standing motionless. I crept down the passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped round the corner of the door.


head. “The good thing is, Adam has grants. We’re hoping that whatever institution wants me will take a look at the money and decide that we can be a package deal. But if they don’t . . .” She shrugs. “We might have to negotiate a spousal hire.” I smile. “Then you’ll set a date?” She leans closer with a surreptitious expression. Her skin is 90 percent freckles, and I’ve known her for five minutes, but I want to be her friend. “I’ve set it already. We’re getting married in April. During spring break. Adam just doesn’t know it yet.” “How does that work?” “So, he’s into nature. Hiking, that stuff. I’m taking him to Yosemite, where a park ranger will marry us in a quick and painless ceremony. Then it’s just going to be the two of us for a week. And the bears, I guess. Oh God, I hope the bears don’t eat us.” She shrugs the thought away. “Anyway, Adam doesn’t love people, and we can always have a party later, but this . . . I think this is the kind of wedding he wants. The one we’re meant to have.” I picture Olive and Adam, alone, trekking hand in hand under the ponderosa pines. It’s not difficult. “Why don’t you just tell him?” “I should, right?” She laughs softly. “I just . . . I was in a pretty bad place when I met him. He did so much—still does, always taking care of me, and I . . . I want to take care of him for once, you know? Make him feel like I’ve got him.” I nod and then stare down at my empty palms. When I really let go, I imagine that you let me take care of you, too. “Have you and Jack been together for a while?” Olive asks, and I look up at her. I can tell that the Elsie she wants would say yes. That she loves Jack very much and likes the thought of someone who’ll take care of him. But. Honesty. For a second, I picture myself blurting out the entire story: how I fakedated Greg, then met Jack, then met Jonathan. But I doubt Olive is familiar with the concept of fake dating, so I sanitize my version. “This is the first time, actually.” It feels weird to say the opposite of what someone wants. And it feels downright horrible when Olive’s response is a disappointed “Oh.” I swallow. “I’m sorry—” “No, no.” She smiles, reassuring. “I’m sorry about earlier. Asking if you’re getting married.” I shake my head. “We’re just . . . getting to know each other.” “That’s great. It’s nice to hear that he’s over his I Don’t Date, Let Me Set Boundaries and Make It Clear That This Is Just About Sex phase.” Her impression of Jack sounds more like Vin Diesel, but it has me thinking: I have no idea what Jack wants from me. Olive is the second person to mention how important boundaries are to him. He hasn’t set


on the shoulder. An odd gesture. Clytemnestra drinks and cools her forehead. She must check on Iphigenia: the wedding will take place in a few hours. “I have to go back now,” she says, smiling at Odysseus. “Help my daughter get ready.” She waits for his face to break into another of his mischievous smiles, for the lines around his eyes to appear. But Odysseus’s face remains blank. He opens his mouth to speak, then something shifts in his eyes. “It is time,” he says coldly. Before Clytemnestra can understand, his men jump up and draw their swords. Instinctively, she snatches for her own, but her hand comes up empty: she has left it in the tent. Leon pushes her behind him, his grip tight on his short dagger. “Go back to the tent, my queen,” he says. She turns to do as he says, slowly, before the men can move— But the door is blocked. The three guards who were sleeping outside are wide awake now, blocking the entrance. They must have been pretending before. She turns to Odysseus, shocked. He is looking at her. “There are two ways in which we can do this,” he says, and his voice is suddenly emptied of any warmth. “Give up your weapon and stay here—” “Where is Iphigenia?” she asks. “Or I am afraid I will have to knock you out.” “Where is she?” she repeats. “Tell me, or I swear I will cut you down.” “You have no blade,” Odysseus says matter-of-factly. Leon lets his dagger fly. It sinks into one man’s knee while the other throws him against the table. There is a loud crash and the wood smashes, Leon collapsing on the ground with it. Clytemnestra jumps aside and yanks the sword from the wounded man. The guards are behind her, and Odysseus is in front, unarmed. On her right, his man and Leon are thrashing, moving together on the ground. Leon is choking, kicking the floor. “Let him go,” Clytemnestra says. The men behind her attack. Their swords close in around her. Clytemnestra keeps them off, swinging hers, but they are too many. She feels the blade of one cutting her leg and she stumbles. They take her down while she shouts, still waving the sword. Someone’s blood spurts on her face. They tie her hands and feet with thick rope. When they try to gag her, she bites their hands and they scream. But soon even her mouth is tied, the knot so tight her head throbs. She can’t see Leon. In front of her, the figures of Odysseus’s men waver before they walk away, outside the tent. She sees Odysseus’s serious face as he kneels in front of her and waits for him to speak, but he says nothing. He places a hand on her knee as though he were soothing a dog, then he leaves too. She is alone. * * * The rope cuts into her wrists, and her arms are numb. They must have tied her to the chair, because however she moves, she


my voice tight with suppressed anxiety. “Sorry … we’re almost there, Cap,” Grimes said. “Slowing … it’ll take a bit of time to bring Adams alongside Lincoln.” We all took in the spectacle before us. USS Lincoln, her sleek SpaceWing design giving the impression she was gliding through space, even though she was hobbled there within the gravity pull of a nearby, small moon–sized asteroid. Adams responded to Grime’s helmsmanship, slowing, slowing, then easing to a full stop. I said, “Okay, easy now, Mr. Grimes. Bring us alongside … amidship to amidship.” Deck plates rattled; overhead crystal chandeliers tinkled as aft and port side thrusters engaged. Grimes maneuvered the dreadnought with a level of finesse and grace I hadn’t thought possible for such a behemoth ship. As if reading my mind, Akari switched the halo display into logistical mode, the larger of the asteroids a yellow ball, both Adams and Lincoln now green icon representations, and too many Liquilid dragonflies smaller red dots, which clearly were almost upon us. Akari’s voice cut through the chaos. “Dragonflies are closing in. I’ve done all I can with rail spikes and Phazon Pulsars. Changing tactics … Ah! There you are, little dragonflies … Why don’t you say hello to our EMP pulse emitters?” The bridge vibrated with each EMP emission. Wave after wave, more red dots on the display flickered out. Bosun Polk, looking anxious, said, “Crew Member Grimes, do you have us in position yet? I have to get moving, get to the lower decks.” The helmsman, deep in concentration, didn’t answer. Then the ship jerked to a stop. “Yes, Bosun, Adams is in position … three cargo hatches are aligned with their Lincoln counterparts. Perfectly, I might add,” he said with a confident smirk. Chen’s raised voice caught my attention. “What’s the issue, Mr. Chen?” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll give you one guess, Captain.” “Hardy?” “Hardy.” “Let me hear the channel,” I said. “… hold your horses; I’m a tad busy right now.” Hardy’s Boston-accented voice filled the bridge. “What’s the problem, Hardy?” I scolded. “Cap! Didn’t know you were—” “What are you doing that’s so important you can’t follow my orders?” I actually didn’t know for sure Hardy wasn’t following orders, but odds were he was up to something. Chen cut in, “Bosun Polk has this process all worked out. We’ll need a crew member at each of the cargo airlock hatchways on Lincoln’s side. We have Wanda midship, Grip forward, and Hardy is supposed to be there aft, ready to open that hatch on her command.” I looked back and saw Bosun Polk’s empty seat. A loud metallic drumming emanated over the channel—the sound of a thousand-pound ChronoBot running. “I’m on my way; it’s not like we’re all just standing around over here with our thumbs up our respective keisters.” I noticed Akari had gone still, and ominously quiet. “Lieutenant?” She literally grimaced. “Uh, I just thought of something.” “Spit it out. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.” She tapped at her board, bringing the halo display back to


you,” he began. “I’ll take you back to the field to look for Kitt. But we can’t go beyond it; we can’t stray into the town. It’s too dangerous. And after we search the field, you will agree to let me take you somewhere safe. You’ll follow me home.” Iris was silent, but her mind was reeling. “Do you agree to my terms, Iris?” Forest prompted. She nodded. She had every faith Roman was still in the field, waiting for her to come to him. “Yes. Take me there. Now.” They reached the field by evening. Forest had been right; Dacre’s forces now ruled Avalon Bluff. Iris crouched in the grass, staring at the town. Fires were lit and music was pouring like a stream. Smoke still rose from the ashes, but Dacre was celebrating. His white flag with the red eithral eye was raised, flapping in the wind. The gas was long gone by now. As if it had never been. “We’ll have to crawl through the grass,” Forest said, his words clipped with tension. “It looks like Dacre isn’t expecting any retaliation from Enva’s forces. I don’t see any sentries, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t stationed as snipers. So move very slowly, and stay down. Do you hear me?” She nodded. She didn’t spare her brother a glance. She was too focused on the sway of the grass as the wind raked over it. On the place she believed Roman to be. She and Forest crawled side by side through the field. She moved gentle but swift, as he instructed. She didn’t wince when the stalks cut her hands, and it felt like a year passed before she reached the place where she had fought her brother, hours ago. She recognized it easily. The grass was broken here, trampled by their boots. She swallowed the temptation to call for Roman. She remained low, crawling on her belly. The stars were beginning to wink overhead. The music from Avalon Bluff continued to echo, a fierce beating of drums. The light was almost gone. Iris strained her eyes, looking for him amongst the flax. Roman! Her breaths were shallow and painful. Perspiration dripped from her brow, even as the temperature dropped. She searched for him, knowing this had been the spot. She searched, but there was no trace of him. Only his blood, staining the grass. “We need to go, Iris,” Forest whispered. “Wait,” she pleaded. “I know he has to be here.” “He’s not. Look.” Her brother pointed at something. She frowned, studying it. There was a ring drawn in the dirt. It encircled them both as they paused, still lying low. “What is this, Forest?” she asked, finding more of Roman’s blood on the ground. It looked like spilled ink in the dusky light. “We need to go. Now,” he hissed, grabbing her wrist. She didn’t want him touching her, and she lurched away. Her hand still ached, as did her neck. All due to him. “Just a minute longer, Forest,” she begged. “Please.” “He’s not here, Iris. You


away. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. I was in shock. “I know Lee,” Jesse said. “She won’t go into your house just for money. We need to make her pity you. To think she’s saving you.” I stood taller, found my voice. “Benjamin would never hit me in the face.” “Lee doesn’t know that.” He reached out to wipe my tears, but I flinched away from his touch. The sudden violence had rattled me. And the ease with which he had hit me hurt more than the physical pain. “Pull yourself together, Hazel.” His voice was calm, controlled. “I know what I’m doing.” I nodded, blinked away the tears, and I left. When I was outside his building, I puked into the dry, brittle grass. But it worked. When I removed my sunglasses in the spa parking lot, Lee was horrified by my injured face, my traumatized demeanor. When I asked her to come into my house, to set me free, she agreed. The money and the new identification were secondary. She was scared for me. She felt compelled to save me. And in return, I would send her to jail for a murder she hadn’t committed. But it was the only way I could be free of one man to start over with another. A man who would do anything for me. Even kill for me. The same man who had just punched me in the face. 35 LATER THAT NIGHT, MY HANDS pressed into the cool marble countertop as I leaned close to the bathroom mirror. The bruise was a deep navy blue, almost black. A small blood vessel had popped in my eye, leaving a red spot on the white surface. It no longer hurt, but it was hideous. I turned and lifted my shirt. The bruises on my back were fading, the skin an ugly shade of green and yellow. I looked at myself clinically and dispassionately. Who was this pitiful creature, so beaten and battered? How had she let it come to this? I turned away from the stranger staring back at me and focused on the plan. Slipping out of the house that night was easy enough. While Benjamin controlled the surveillance cameras with an app on his phone, I simply angled the one over the back door to face the wall. Benjamin might notice, but he’d blame the wind. And by the time he got home from work he’d forget to adjust it. Tomorrow, Jesse would climb the steep, overgrown trail from the beach, creep through the forested backyard, and let himself in through this door. My husband didn’t consider it a vulnerable part of the house. But he’d always underestimated me. I scrambled down to the beach and walked around the rocky point. The late spring sun still hung lazily in the sky, though it was almost nine. I clamored to the spot where Lee had often parked her car. It wasn’t there, of course. She was spending the night at Jesse’s. It was all part of the plan. And she’d be eager to


make me sad. QUIETLY HOSTILE is how I would describe my public personality; I am mild-mannered and super polite, but just beneath the surface of my skin, my blood is electrified and I am one inconsiderate driver away from a full Falling Down–style emotional collapse. I don’t know how to teach a child not to seethe and instead to develop a healthy coping and communication style, because I do not know how to do that for myself. Are these all just words that describe…me? One hundred percent yes, and they describe my illiterate, toothless mother as well, which is how I know with absolute certainty that this is what any one of the millions of unfertilized eggs I’ve reabsorbed into my body would have evolved into had ol’ enlarged prostate and I ever foolishly attempted to procreate “back in the day.” When I was an actual kid growing up on welfare with a sick mom and expired Tuna Helper from the dollar store, the future and its infinite possibilities stretched before me like a sumptuous buffet I couldn’t afford to go to, one I’d be forced to watch other people enjoy from where I stood: outside, pressing my sebum into the glass and drooling. Even at nine years old I knew there was no way I was gonna ruin my chance to fill my adult life with overpriced candles and designer lip balms by giving birth to a baby with a bad personality whose needs I’d be legally required to place above my own for eighteen-plus interminable years. I have never been pregnant. I’m not saying to brag but to let you know I would wrap a dick in plutonium if I could, just to make sure there’s no earthly way a human child could wriggle its way through any protective barrier and swim past all my sluggish organs to implant its rapidly multiplying cells in my inhospitable uterine lining. I had an ablation five years ago and thank God it worked, so even if I accidentally slipped and fell on an ejaculating penis, all those spermies are gonna find at the end of their .18-meter relay is an empty haunted house overtaken by gooey floating cobwebs. Honestly, you should thank God too that you don’t have to watch Me and Me Junior trying to put each other in a headlock in the middle of Saks to determine which one of us was gonna get the one small bottle of Jo Malone Me could afford! Or hearing about Me seething watching Me Junior get the one good entrée at the steak place while I make do with the sides! Me Junior wearing shoes with holes in the soles because Me couldn’t resist the siren song of a perfect deep coral blush from Pat McGrath! We got a pandemic dog because our local SPCA really turned up the advertising juice with everybody stuck at home looking for a reason to get even three lousy minutes of fresh (masked) air. One morning my lady logged onto Facebook for her daily dose of Russian disinformation


grisly had been the work of the mutineers of the Fuwalda, and through it all John Clayton had stood leaning carelessly beside the companionway puffing meditatively upon his pipe as though he had been but watching an indifferent cricket match. As the last officer went down he thought it was time that he returned to his wife lest some members of the crew find her alone below. Though outwardly calm and indifferent, Clayton was inwardly apprehensive and wrought up, for he feared for his wife's safety at the hands of these ignorant, half-brutes into whose hands fate had so remorselessly thrown them. As he turned to descend the ladder he was surprised to see his wife standing on the steps almost at his side. "How long have you been here, Alice?" "Since the beginning," she replied. "How awful, John. Oh, how awful! What can we hope for at the hands of such as those?" "Breakfast, I hope," he answered, smiling bravely in an attempt to allay her fears. "At least," he added, "I'm going to ask them. Come with me, Alice. We must not let them think we expect any but courteous treatment." The men had by this time surrounded the dead and wounded officers, and without either partiality or compassion proceeded to throw both living and dead over the sides of the vessel. With equal heartlessness they disposed of their own dead and dying. Presently one of the crew spied the approaching Claytons, and with a cry of: "Here's two more for the fishes," rushed toward them with uplifted ax. But Black Michael was even quicker, so that the fellow went down with a bullet in his back before he had taken a half dozen steps. Chapter 2 14 With a loud roar, Black Michael attracted the attention of the others, and, pointing to Lord and Lady Greystoke, cried: "These here are my friends, and they are to be left alone. D'ye understand? "I'm captain of this ship now, an' what I says goes," he added, turning to Clayton. "Just keep to yourselves, and nobody'll harm ye," and he looked threateningly on his fellows. The Claytons heeded Black Michael's instructions so well that they saw but little of the crew and knew nothing of the plans the men were making. Occasionally they heard faint echoes of brawls and quarreling among the mutineers, and on two occasions the vicious bark of firearms rang out on the still air. But Black Michael was a fit leader for this band of cutthroats, and, withal held them in fair subjection to his rule. On the fifth day following the murder of the ship's officers, land was sighted by the lookout. Whether island or mainland, Black Michael did not know, but he announced to Clayton that if investigation showed that the place was habitable he and Lady Greystoke were to be put ashore with their belongings. "You'll be all right there for a few months," he explained, "and by that time we'll have been able to make an inhabited coast somewhere and scatter a bit. Then


The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Dutchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX The Mock Turtle's Story `You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!' said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. `When I'M a Duchess,' she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone though), `I won't have any pepper in my kitchen AT ALL. Soup does very well without--Maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot-tempered,' she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, `and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn't be so stingy about it, you know--' She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. `You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit.' `Perhaps it hasn't one,' Alice ventured to remark. `Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. `Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it.' And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as she spoke. Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was VERY ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. `The game's going on rather better now,' she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. `'Tis so,' said the Duchess: `and the moral of that is--"Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!"' `Somebody said,' Alice whispered, `that it's done by everybody minding their own business!' `Ah, well! It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, `and the moral of THAT is--"Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves."' `How fond she is of finding morals in things!' Alice thought to herself. `I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist,' the Duchess said after a pause: `the reason is, that I'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?' `HE might bite,' Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious


behind a screen, you can't care much abut it." Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. "You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he said. "Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others. The only difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can't have forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the same thing." He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in jest, "If you want to have an interesting quarter of an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won't exhibit your picture. He told me why he wouldn't, and it was a revelation to me." Yes, perhaps Basil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try. "Basil," he said, coming over quite close, and looking him straight in the face, "we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I will tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?" Hallward shuddered in spite of himself. "Dorian, if I told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation." "No, Basil, you must tell me," murmured Dorian Gray. "I think I have a right to know." His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward's mystery. "Let us sit down, Dorian," said Hallward, looking pale and pained. "Let us sit down. I will sit in the shadow, and you shall sit in the sunlight. Our lives are like that. Just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the picture something that you did not like?-- something that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?" "Basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands, and gazing at him with wild, startled eyes. "I see you did. Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I had never loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as [57] Harry says, a really 'grande passion' is the privilege of those who have nothing to do,


had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighborhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental causes.' Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him. "In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in another. "It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed way from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father." The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips. "This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the papers on the sundial.'" "What have you done?" asked Holmes. "Nothing." "Nothing?" "To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white hands--"I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard against." "Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair." "I have seen the police." "Ah!" "But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings." Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible imbecility!" he cried. "They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the house with me." "Has he


"Isn't she queer- not waiting to welcome us- and not coming in to supper- and not even in yet! After all, she's sleeping in my room- goodness knows what time she'll be in!" All the three children were fast asleep before Georgina came up to bed! They didn't hear her open Anne's door. They didn't hear her get undressed and clean her teeth. They didn't hear the creak of her bed as she got into it. They were so tired that they heard nothing at all until the sun awoke them in the morning. When Anne awoke she couldn't at first think where she was. She lay in her little bed and looked up at the slanting ceiling, and at the red roses that nodded at the open window- and suddenly remembered all in a rush where she was! "I'm at Kirrin Bay- and it's the holidays." she said to herself, and screwed up her legs with joy. Then she looked across at the other bed. In it lay the figure of another child, curled up under the bed-clothes. Anne could just see the top of a curly head, and that was all. When the figure stirred a little, Anne spoke. "I say! Are you Georgina?" The child in the opposite bed sat up and looked across at Anne. She had very short curly hair, almost as short as a boy's. Her face was burnt a dark-brown with the sun, and her very blue eyes looked as bright as forget-me-nots in her face. But her mouth was rather sulky, and she had a frown like her father's. "No," she said. "I'm not Georgina." "Oh!" said Anne, in surprise. "Then who are you?" "I'm George," said the girl. "I shall only answer if you call me George. I hate being a girl. I won't be. I don't like doing the things that girls do. I like doing the things that boys do. I can climb better than any boy, and swim faster too. I can sail a boat as well as any fisher-boy on this coast. You're to call me George. Then I'll speak to you. But I shan't if you don't." "Oh!" said Anne, thinking that her new cousin was most extraordinary. "All right! I don't care what I call you. George is a nice name, I think. I don't much like Georgina. Anyway, you look like a boy." "Do I really?" said George, the frown leaving her face for a moment. "Mother was awfully cross with me when I cut my hair short. I had hair all round my neck; it was awful." The two girls stared at one another for a moment. "Don't you simply hate being a girl?" asked George. "No, of course not," said Anne. "You see- I do like pretty frocks- and I love my dolls- and you can't do that if you're a boy." "Pooh! Fancy bothering about pretty frocks," said George, in a scornful voice. "And dolls! Well, you are a baby, that's all I can say." Anne felt offended. "You're not very polite," she


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

sane here, if anything can. Everything blends together now, but I vividly remember writing that last entry, how angry I was, as if it were only a day or two gone—perhaps it was. I must have tossed and turned for an hour at least. How on earth was I supposed to concentrate on research now, with a marriage proposal from one of the Folk dangling over my head? I could almost imagine myself a maiden in one of the stories, but stories didn’t leave dirty teacups scattered throughout the cottage, or underline passages in my books—in ink—no matter how many times I ordered them not to. Of course I wanted to marry Wendell. That was the most infuriating thing about the whole business—my feelings conspired against my reason. I will not lie and say my desire was purely romantic, for I couldn’t stop myself from imagining the picture we would make back at Cambridge—despite his controversies, Wendell Bambleby was still a celebrated scholar, and yes, we would be a fearsome team indeed. I doubted I would have to worry ever again about securing funding for future fieldwork, nor being overlooked when it came to conference invitations. It was the thought of invitations—yes, that thought—that made me rise from my bed. I yanked open my door, intending to stomp down the hall and —well, throw myself at him. I wanted to see what he would do, but more important, I needed to know if it was something I would enjoy. I was not going to marry someone without making sure of that. But before I could take a step in his direction, a calm settled over me like a dream. Instead of going to Wendell’s door, I returned to my own room and dressed in warm clothes. Shadow remained asleep at the foot of my bed, though it was a strange sleep—he twitched and whined, his huge paws batting at invisible foes. I left my room and pulled on my cloak. As I did, I happened to glance down at my hand. The ring was there, but it was no longer a ring of shadow. It was a ring of ice, polished smooth and patterned with tiny blue crystals. I knew exactly what was happening, of course. I have had enough faerie magic thrown at me over the years that I believe I have become somewhat inured to it—at the very least, I have trained myself to recognize when enchantment is affecting me; the absence of such recognition is what dooms most mortals. The truth is that it is not impossible to throw off faerie spells if you have a focused mind. But most people don’t try, because they fail to recognize that it is enchantment pushing them to dance until their feet bleed, or murder their families, or any other number of horrors inflicted upon hapless mortals by the Folk. Unfortunately, in this case, the knowledge of my own enchantment was of little use, for it was uncommonly strong magic, and held me like an iron vise. I did what I could


Ella. They communicated via that secret email account. Gabriel was living in Mexico, waiting for the day when he could pick up Ella and drive her over the border. Maud told Peter that she’d bring up the search with Ella’s therapist, Rita, the next day at Lone Pines. When she sat down in Rita’s office at the end of the session, Ella was playing with a fidget, a stress-relieving toy shaped like a snake, the rainbowed segments clicking as she ran them through her fingers. “Anything you’d like to discuss?” Rita said to Maud. “Ella did an internet search yesterday,” Maud said. She couldn’t say his name. “Yes.” Rita folded her hands over her knees. “She told me.” She turned to Ella. “Maybe your mother needs to hear what we discussed.” “I don’t care what she needs to hear,” Ella said, as the snake clicked. “I thought you said what we talked about stayed between us.” “It does, but if your mom doesn’t hear, she can’t understand. It’s your choice, though.” This is when and where it happens, Maud thought, grinding her teeth. This is where I learn the truth. Ella blinked at Rita, then glanced at Maud. “I wanted to see a picture of him. See what he looked like again.” “And can you tell your mom why?” “Why should I have to?” Her hands moved faster, the clicking louder. “You don’t have to, but I think she’ll worry if you don’t.” Rita tilted her head at Maud. “Is that right?” “Yes,” Maud said. She felt a gratitude for Rita that was close to adoration. “Because I don’t understand why I liked him so much,” Ella said bluntly. “At Montgomery Place, he didn’t seem so old. Or disgusting.” “Why disgusting?” Maud said. Ella shrugged. “He just is.” “Could I have a quick word with your mom?” Rita asked. After Ella had left for the waiting room, Maud said, “Disgusting sounds alarming.” “She knows she had a little crush on him,” Rita said. “She’s said that to you?” “Not in so many words. He listened to her when she was vulnerable. That gave him power. And she understands that his keeping their meetings a secret was inappropriate.” “I keep wondering if more happened with him,” Maud said. “I feel she’s not saying something. It’s this worry that won’t go away.” “Maud,” Rita said, “if I had any suspicion that more had happened, I wouldn’t only tell you and Peter, I’d tell the authorities. Ella is trying to let what happened last summer go. I’m not surprised that she looked him up.” “I can’t let it go,” Maud said. She had pieces of evidence that no one else did. Gabriel had said that he loved her and slept with her, while meeting her daughter in secret over and over. But if she told Rita all this, she would eventually have to tell Peter. And he’d be enraged by her lies. Their marriage wouldn’t survive the blow. “It’s going to be hard to trust Ella again.” Rita leaned forward in her chair, her face


eighth day. She did not return to Okonkwo's compound until three days before the naming ceremony. The child was called Onwumbiko. Onwumbiko was not given proper burial when he died. Okonkwo had called in another medicine man who was famous in the clan for his great knowledge about ogbanje children. His name was Okagbue Uyanwa. Okagbue was a very striking figure, tall, with a full beard and a bald head. He was light in complexion and his eyes were red and fiery. He always gnashed his teeth as he listened to those who came to consult him. He asked Okonkwo a few questions about the dead child. All the neighbours and relations who had come to mourn gathered round them. "On what market-day was it born?" he asked. "Oye," replied Okonkwo. "And it died this morning?" Okonkwo said yes, and only then realised for the first time that the child had died on the same market-day as it had been born. The neighbours and relations also saw the coincidence and said among themselves that it was very significant. "Where do you sleep with your wife, in your obi or in her own hut?" asked the medicine man. "In her hut." "In future call her into your obi." The medicine man then ordered that there should be no mourning for the dead child. He brought out a sharp razor from the goatskin bag slung from his left shoulder and began to mutilate the child. Then he took it away to bury in the Evil Forest, holding it by the ankle and dragging it on the ground behind him. After such treatment it would think twice before coming again, unless it was one of the stubborn ones who returned, carrying the stamp of their mutilation--a missing finger or perhaps a dark line where the medicine man's razor had cut them. By the time Onwumbiko died Ekwefi had become a very bitter woman. Her husband's first wife had already had three sons, all strong and healthy. When she had borne her third son in succession, Okonkwo had slaughtered a goat for her, as was the custom. Ekwefi had nothing but good wishes for her. But she had grown so bitter about her own chi that she could not rejoice with others over their good fortune. And so, on the day that Nwoye's mother celebrated the birth of her three sons with feasting and music, Ekwefi was the only person in the happy company who went about with a cloud on her brow. Her husband's wife took this for malevolence, as husbands' wives were wont to. How could she know that Ekwefi's bitterness did not flow outwards to others but inwards into her own soul,- that she did not blame others for their good fortune but her own evil chi who denied her any? At last Ezinma was born, and although ailing she seemed determined to live. At first Ekwefi accepted her, as she had accepted others--with listless resignation. But when she lived on to her fourth, fifth and sixth years, love returned once more to


and overwhelm her with joy -- and the theatrical gorgeousness of the thing appealed strongly to his nature, too, but he resisted and lay still. He went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends that it was conjectured at first that the boys had got drowned while taking a swim; then the small raft had been missed; next, certain boys said the missing lads had promised that the village should "hear something" soon; the wise-heads had "put this and that together" and decided that the lads had gone off on that raft and would turn up at the --------------------------------------------------------- -157- next town below, presently; but toward noon the raft had been found, lodged against the Missouri shore some five or six miles below the village -- and then hope perished; they must be drowned, else hunger would have driven them home by nightfall if not sooner. It was believed that the search for the bodies had been a fruitless effort merely because the drowning must have occurred in mid-channel, since the boys, being good swimmers, would otherwise have escaped to shore. This was Wednesday night. If the bodies continued missing until Sunday, all hope would be given over, and the funerals would be preached on that morning. Tom shuddered. Mrs. Harper gave a sobbing good-night and turned to go. Then with a mutual impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each other's arms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt Polly was tender far beyond her wont, in her good-night to Sid and Mary. Sid snuffled a bit and Mary went off crying with all her heart. Aunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touchingly, so appealingly, and with such measureless love in her words and her old trembling voice, that he was weltering in tears again, long before she was through. He had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making broken-hearted ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully, and turning over. But at last she was still, only moaning a --------------------------------------------------------- -158- little in her sleep. Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside, shaded the candle-light with his hand, and stood regarding her. His heart was full of pity for her. He took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the candle. But something occurred to him, and he lingered considering. His face lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the bark hastily in his pocket. Then he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and straightway made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him. He threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large there, and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was tenantless except that there was a watchman, who always turned in and slept like a graven image. He untied the skiff at the stern, slipped into it, and was soon rowing cautiously upstream. When he had pulled a mile above the village, he started quartering across and bent himself


instances of great ferocity, cunning, and malice in the monster attacked; therefore it was, that those who by accident ignorantly gave battle to Moby Dick; such hunters, perhaps, for the most part, were content to ascribe the peculiar terror he bred, more, as it were, to the perils of the Sperm Whale fishery at large, than to the individual cause. In that way, mostly, the disastrous encounter between Ahab and the whale had hitherto been popularly regarded. And as for those who, previously hearing of the White Whale, by chance caught sight of him; in the beginning of the thing they had every one of them, almost, as boldly and fearlessly lowered for him, as for any other whale of that species. But at length, such calamities did ensue in these assaults --not restricted to sprained wrists and ancles, broken limbs, or devouring amputations --but fatal to the last degree of fatality; those repeated disastrous repulses, all accumulating and piling their terrors upon Moby Dick; those things had gone far to shake the fortitude of many brave hunters, to whom the story of the White Whale had eventually come. Nor did wild rumors of all sorts fail to exaggerate, and still the more horrify the true histories of these deadly encounters. For not only do fabulous rumors naturally grow out of the very body of all surprising terrible events, --as the smitten tree gives birth to its fungi; but, in maritime life, far more than in that of terra firma, wild rumors abound, wherever there is any adequate reality for them to cling to. And as the sea surpasses the land in this matter, so the whale fishery surpasses every other sort of maritime life, in the wonderfulness and fearfulness of the .. <p 177 > rumors which sometimes circulate there. For not only are whalemen as a body unexempt from that ignorance and superstitiousness hereditary to all sailors; but of all sailors, they are by all odds the most directly brought into contact with whatever is appallingly astonishing in the sea; face to face they not only eye its greatest marvels, but, hand to jaw, give battle to them. Alone, in such remotest waters, that though you sailed a thousand miles, and passed a thousand shores, you would not come to any chiselled hearthstone, or aught hospitable beneath that part of the sun; in such latitudes and longitudes, pursuing too such a calling as he does, the whaleman is wrapped by influences all tending to make his fancy pregnant with many a mighty birth. No wonder, then, that ever gathering volume from the mere transit over the widest watery spaces, the outblown rumors of the White Whale did in the end incorporate with themselves all manner of morbid hints, and half-formed foetal suggestions of supernatural agencies, which eventually invested Moby Dick with new terrors unborrowed from anything that visibly appears. So that in many cases such a panic did he finally strike, that few who by those rumors, at least, had heard of the White Whale, few of those hunters were


Janes followed Winnie downstairs. They observed the pleasing majesty of it all. Footmen running. Noses turning upward. Disbelief. The orchestra falling silent, waltz frozen midspin. “Fire, fire!” yelled a voice. And then it was real, the fear. It unfurled itself like a ribbon. The guests were like starlings in flight, a drunken, frightened rush of powdered hair and crooked crowns and ermine trains. Jane-two tested her voice. “Fire!” she bellowed. “Everybody out!” “Oh, give over,” muttered Jane-one, pressing a hand to her ear. Together they worked the crowd: pushing, shoving, scaring, very nearly ramming people down the stairs. Mrs. Bone’s men, the ones dressed as guests, helped. “Out, out, out,” they chanted, and it was remarkable to see the world obey them, growing increasingly frightened. “I’m choking!” cried one. “Smoke! It’s in my lungs!” By the time they reached the front porch, they could hear Lord Ashley. Clearly, he was the worst sort of person in a crisis, bellowing orders for horses, buckets, hoses, causing even more confusion than before. Jane-one observed the chaos on the pavement, countesses calling for their husbands, ministers calling for each other, and a hundred motors jammed at every junction. “They need to call for the fire brigade!” exclaimed Lord Ashley. “Now!” “They have,” replied Mr. Lockwood. “I’m sure of it.” “That bloody pyramid,” said Ashley. “It’s blocking the bloody road.” Jane-one spotted the lamp-boy lurking by the railings. He had a weaselly, toothy look about him. “You, boy,” said Lockwood, reaching for him. “Run to the fire station.” “Sir, there’s people inside. Upstairs. I can see ’em moving around...” Lockwood shook him. “Aren’t you listening? Get them to send the engines.” A window opened, and one of Mrs. Bone’s men looked out, waving his arms, scaring back the crowd. “Who’s that?” said Ashley. “Who’s inside?” “Get back, get away from the house!” the man was shouting. A cry went up, and people began backing away, into the street, making for the park. “We’ll get the drapes down!” Lord Ashley shouted up at them. “Quick, men, that’s it! Get those curtains off their rails!” Jane-one heard Mr. Lockwood say slowly, “Where is Miss de Vries?” * * * Winnie came into the hall. “Ready?” murmured one of the men, peering upward. A pulley above them was wheeling madly, taking the long chain with it. The pulleys had been looped onto the iron braces underneath the glass dome. They held a platform, operating like a gigantic version of the electric lift, wide enough to shift half a dozen big crates between the ground floor and the upper floors of the house. Their faces showed the strain of holding all the ropes. The dome shimmered over the front hall. Please, God, let it hold, she thought. She could almost feel the glass quaking. “Someone give the word,” said the first man. Winnie’s mind scrambled. Plans, papers, schematics, diagrams, calculations, machinery, pulleys, inventories and ledgers. Hired hands and fences. Prices marked up in the ledger. Tricks, tales, lies, glorious acts of make-believe. Puzzle pieces, carved up and scattered by Mrs.


locked, gave a little under pressure. I tried it harder, and found that it was not really locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had fallen somewhat,and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here was an opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself,and with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in a wing of the castle further to the right than the rooms I knew and a storey lower down. From the windows I could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle was built on the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or bow, or culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort, impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secured. To the west was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more an air of comfort than any I had seen. The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it softened the wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in some measure the ravages of time and moth. My lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the place which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the presence of the Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is the nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere "modernity" cannot kill. Later: The morning of 16 May.--God preserve my sanity, for to this I am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening


principal tenor with the English National Opera. I told Vanessa what I’d seen at Bethesda Fountain. Even so, the purple and the blue could both have been Robbie—could have been, for instance, intercourse and blow jobs. Vanessa was the one who proved otherwise. I went through ’94–’95 and she went through ’93–’94. We were quiet until she hit her pen on the table. “Here,” she said. Thalia had written Ski Team—away at Hebron across the whole weekend of March 4 to 6, 1994. A time when the ski team was definitively gone to Maine. But there was a purple X that Saturday. “She wouldn’t have gone with the ski team, would she?” I shook my head. “They didn’t let friends travel with the team. She maybe could have signed out to someone’s house and—but no, look, she had tech rehearsal that weekend.” Little Shop wet tech was written in much smaller letters than Robbie’s ski team commitment, but it was there. And if Thalia had failed to show for tech rehearsal, the one vital day when I was fully in charge, it would have been seared in my memory. “So,” she said. I nodded. “So.” Vanessa pulled the senior planner to the middle of the table. “The week she died,” she said. “The blue X here on Wednesday, in brackets. What are the brackets?” “Maybe she still had her period,” I said, “and they—maybe it was something other than sex.” “Maybe he pulled out,” she said, and I reminded myself that yes, Vanessa was an adult, not someone I needed to protect from any of this. I said, “She was with both of them on Thursday.” “It’s so much sex,” Vanessa said, and laughed drily. “Can you imagine being that young?” I shook my head. I said, “My impression—and maybe you know more than I do—my impression is that Denny Bloch was never really investigated. For Thalia’s death.” I didn’t know how this would go over, didn’t know how upset she might be at the suggestion that the case wasn’t settled, hermetically sealed. Vanessa was focused on something other than my face, something over my shoulder. “He was how old, again?” “Thirty-three,” I said. “Married, two kids. He’s still teaching.” Her fingers went to the bridge of her nose. “Christ.” I said, “I worry—I mean, the kids all talked together before anyone got interviewed. You know how the rumor mill can be. And I’m sure they were all concerned with protecting Robbie, since he’d obviously be the first person they looked at. I never thought I knew more than her friends. I assumed if they were pointing at Omar they had information I didn’t. But what’s occurred to me lately is that maybe I knew more. Or at least I knew this one thing, this one important thing, and no one ever asked me.” There was a crash behind the coffee counter and then a shrieking giggle. Vanessa turned, and in the light her face looked even older—resigned, hardened. Suddenly, she was every sister of every murdered girl they ever put on


in that awful place, she must have wanted revenge on her brother. I know I would have. I thought of Shane and his accident. Madame Bowden had hardly flinched. Something was tugging at my mind and I wondered why she hadn’t come down for breakfast yet. Every morning she was the one to wake me with her shrill voice and endless demands. What if there was something wrong with her? With every step I climbed I told myself I was being stupid and that she was just having a nice long lie in, but I didn’t really believe it. I knocked on the door to her bedroom and, after a moment, let myself in. My eyes adjusted to the scene. Her bed had not been slept in and she herself was nowhere to be seen. ‘Madame Bowden?’ I called out. ‘Are you there?’ The door to the ensuite was slightly ajar, but on further inspection, it was empty. ‘Hello?’ I called out on to the landing, but the house had such an air of stillness that I knew I was alone. I checked downstairs for a note but there was nothing. Of course she did not have a mobile phone, so I couldn’t call her. She refused to have her daily movements monitored by technology companies. I wasn’t sure what to do and spent the morning wandering from room to room, looking out of the windows at the street outside every few minutes. ‘Do you have any of her friends’ numbers that you could call?’ my mother asked, when the worry became too much and I had to call someone. ‘I can’t remember any of their names and there’s no address book or anything.’ It was only now I realised that I knew so little about the woman. ‘Should I call the police? What if she’s wandered off somewhere and forgotten where she is?’ ‘Has she ever seemed forgetful?’ my mother asked. ‘Well, no, but you saw her when you were here, she is pretty old.’ ‘I didn’t see her.’ Her answer seemed out of place – like trying to force a cube into a round hole. ‘What are you saying? Of course you saw her. I introduced you both when you were here the other day.’ After a pause my mother spoke again. ‘She wasn’t there when I stopped by, remember?’ My flesh broke out in goosebumps. What the hell was going on? I almost jumped when I heard the doorbell ring. ‘Maybe that’s her now,’ I said, rushing to open the door, but it was Henry. ‘You may as well come in,’ I said, then told my mother I would call her back. He looked a bit fidgety, like something was bothering him. We both spoke at the same time. ‘I found something out—’ ‘Madame Bowden is missing!’ His eyes flashed wide. ‘Missing?’ ‘I went to wake her for breakfast and her bed hadn’t been slept in.’ ‘Oh.’ His tone was annoyingly dismissive. ‘What was it you wanted anyway?’ I hadn’t meant it to come out as sharp as it