Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

the nights leading up to her first soccer match. So if I can be a bigger idiot than anyone else out here, then maybe Juno won’t worry so much about whether she’ll mess up. I have pom-poms in my tote bag, but they’re a “break in case of emergency” kind of thing. Hopefully it won’t come to that. But once we’re set up at the sideline, I think I might have overcompensated. This entire operation doesn’t seem that intense. Of course there is the one kid in high-tech gear with shiny new cleats and ribbons in her hair that match the uniform. Her parents are easy to spot, too; they’re the ones taking a million pictures of warm-ups and shouting encouragement/instructions across the field. But this is, after all, a group of ten-year-olds, so there’s also the kid who’s obviously in her older sibling’s shorts, which are cinched tightly at the waist and balloon out past her knees, as well as the kid whose parents must be as sporty as I am because they’ve sent their daughter to a soccer game in jeans. I spot Juno in a small group of girls gathered around a sequoia of a man who’s bent and drawing something on a clipboard. He’s too far away for me to ogle properly but has dark hair and upper arms that seem to test the physics of his T-shirt sleeves. “Hello, sir.” I make binoculars out of my hands and pretend to zoom in. “Ahhwoooogah.” I have been a mess since dinner with Connor. An absolute horndog. I haven’t mentioned it to Jess because I think she’s so unsettled by my admitted loss of sex drive and inspiration that she’ll be the worst enabler. It’s been hard enough not texting Connor a daily How about now? The last thing I need is Jess’s brand of ride-or-die yelling “You deserve good sex!” in my ear every day. “That’s the coach,” Jess says, pushing up one of the arms of the shade tent and clicking it into place. “Let me tell you, my kid would never miss a game.” She laughs. “He’s one of the parents, actually. Stevie’s dad.” Stevie is one of Juno’s newer friends, and although I’ve only met her a few times, the two of them are hysterical when together. Too smart and cute for their own good and more fun than many of the adults I know. Who knew they were making kids so great these days? I adjust my imaginary binoculars. “Well, Stevie’s dad is a hot piece.” “He is, indeed.” River ducks inside the sunshade with the three folding chairs in one big hand. “Who’s a hot piece?” “You.” Jess stretches to kiss him. “And Connor.” I think River gives this fair consideration. I think he says, “Stevie’s dad? I could see that.” But I’m not entirely sure because all motion in my brain has halted. “Did you just say Connor?” I ask, stomach falling. Jess is distracted by a folding chair that won’t open. “Yeah, Connor Prince? He’s the coach you’re checking out.” “No.”


class="Apple-converted-space">

wreath at any military grave on behalf of Prince Harry, I was told.

I pleaded that this would be the first time I’d let a Remembrance Day

pass without paying tribute to the fallen, some of whom had been dear

friends.

Request denied.

In the end I rang one of my old instructors at Sandhurst and asked him

to lay my wreath for me. He suggested the Iraq and Afghanistan

Memorial, in London, which had just been unveiled a few years earlier.

By Granny.

Yes. Thats perfect. Thank you.

He said it would be his honor.

Then added: And by the by, Captain Wales. Fuck this. It’s proper wrong.

85.

| eae SURE WHAT TO Call her, or what exactly she did. All I knew was

that she claimed to have “powers.”

425

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

I recognized the high-percentage chance of humbuggery. But the

woman came with strong recommendations from trusted friends, so I

asked myself: What’s the harm?

Then, the minute we sat down together, I felt an energy around her.

Oh, I thought. Wow. There’s something here.

She felt an energy around me too, she said. Your mother is with you.

I know. I’ve felt that of late.

She said: No. Shes with you. Right now.

I felt my neck grow warm. My eyes watered.

Your mother knows you’re looking for clarity. Your mother feels your

confusion. She knows that you have so many questions.

Ido.

The answers will come in time. One day in the future. Have patience.

Patience? The word caught in my throat.

In the meantime, the woman said, my mother was very proud of me.

And fully supportive. She knew it wasn’t easy.

What wasn’t?

<span


her wine. Ethan and Kay turn in her direction as she brings a hand to her chest. “Something bothering you, Sloane?” He turns and fixes his eyes on hers, and she avoids his knowing stare. From his cold expression, she worries that Brody has already accused her. She envisions her ex-lover in their garage. He’s become completely unhinged. Or maybe he always was. Maybe she should tell Ethan about Brody’s impromptu visit in their garage. But not in front of his legal queen mother. Who was he interviewing? Logan? But she’s too afraid to ask. Instead, she shakes her head. “No. Just went down the wrong pipe.” Kay turns to her son. “Such a shame what happened to Sloane’s car.” “What? Oh, right.” Ethan shoots Sloane a wary glance. “I’m just glad she wasn’t hurt. Or hit by another car after she slammed into that concrete barrier.” “No, this was today.” Kay motions toward Sloane with a manicured hand. “She said it looks as though someone took a hammer to her car while she was parked at her yoga studio earlier.” Kay purses her lips while shaking her head. “No city is safe these days.” Ethan cocks his head toward his wife while answering his mother. “I wasn’t aware Sloane did yoga. Ever.” “Ethan, you’re missing the point.” Kay raises her voice a decibel. “It must’ve been horrible for her to come out and find that damage to her hood. Especially after what happened to her car the other day. She told me all about it. And it’s such a lovely car.” “Hmm.” Ethan keeps his eyes on Sloane. Kay lifts the bottle from the middle of the table and gestures toward Ethan’s glass. “Wine?” “No, thanks. Actually, I can’t stay long. I have to get back to work. I’ve just learned some valuable information that I need to follow up on.” Sloane looks out the window, refusing to meet his gaze. Her heart hammers against her chest hard enough she’s afraid Ethan can hear it. Kay returns the bottle to the table. “What’s all this I’ve been hearing in the news about Chelsea Carr?” Sloane tries to keep her eyes from widening as they dart toward her mother-in-law. “So awful about her husband’s involvement with Hachette and those underage girls.” Kay lifts her wine. “Is that your case?” Ethan nods. “Sure is.” “Sloane’s had a busy week too,” he adds. “Haven’t you?” Sloane turns toward him. He frowns. She feels a rise of panic as he casts her a knowing stare, while his mother looks on from the other side of the table. Is he referring to her weekend with Brody or being the doctor who pronounced Chelsea dead? Or both? “I suppose that’s the life of an emergency room doctor,” Kay says. “Yes. Sloane went to college with him. Did she tell you?” Kay’s eyebrows lift in fascination. “Oh, really? With Brody Carr?” Sloane glances at Ethan, whose attention is refocused on her. “Just one class. I didn’t know him.” “Strangely, Sloane was the doctor who pronounced Chelsea dead.” Sloane


Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt

threads would not connect to her. Something was… was repelling Mortem, like an invisible wall had formed around her, cutting her off. And as much as Lore hated her ability, it felt like losing a limb. Whatever had just happened, it seemed not to affect the Sun Prince. He pulled her into an alley, sooty brick lined with crumpled trash. Then Bastian threw away her arm and spun to face her, advancing until she was trapped between the wall and his still-bare chest, not quite touching. She reached for Mortem, but Bastian’s hand closed tight around her arm, and her sense of death was gone again. What was he doing to her? “Out with it,” Bastian growled, tossing the bloodied shirt in his other hand to the side. Gone was the casual, almost lazy arrogance he showed the court; Bastian’s eyes glinted like bayonet ends, just as sharp. “I was going to wait until we got to the vaults to demand my answers, but now that I know for sure you’re the girl who raised Claude, I’ve found I’d rather know it all now.” “Horse,” she corrected him, because her brain was stuck in a hurricane, and it was the only thing that made sense for her to do. “Yes, Lore, I’m aware it’s a horse.” “No, his name is Horse. Not Claude.” Bastian shook his head again, straightening; the motion brought their chests closer together. His hand left her arm and came to rest on the wall beside her head. “Call the damn horse whatever you want,” Bastian said, “just tell me who you’re working for.” “August.” Anxiety made her voice sound thin, like her throat wouldn’t expand enough to let it out fully. “You know that.” “Is that it?” he asked. “Or are you on Kirythea’s payroll, too? You seemed very interested in what I knew about them.” “No, I’m not working for Kirythea. Just your father.” Slowly, Lore managed to get her nerves under control. It didn’t seem like Bastian was planning to kill her. Not yet, anyway. “August thinks you’re working for Kirythea. That’s why I was trying to find out what you knew.” He glared at her, one curl of sweaty black hair falling over his eye. “Well,” he said, after a moment. “Isn’t that a fun bit of irony.” Lore set her jaw, still trapped between the prince and the brick. She didn’t know what to expect from this other, truer Bastian. Every line of him coiled with anger, the kind often hidden. Now, unfettered, it was so obvious she couldn’t believe she’d never noticed before, distracted by funny Bastian, clever Bastian, toying Bastian who seemed fairly easy to handle. This was furious Bastian, and she had no idea what to do with him. That strange gravity was back, like she’d felt when she and Bastian and Gabe were at the mouth of the culvert. Falling toward something inevitable. The Sun Prince stepped back, though not so much that she could run for the alley mouth. His hands remained on either side of her head. “Here’s


momentary glance. O Fiend, whose talisman was that fatal symbol, wouldst thou leave nothing, whether in youth or age, for this poor sinner to revere?--such loss of faith is ever one of the saddest results of sin. Be it accepted as a proof that all was not corrupt in this poor victim of her own frailty, and man's hard law, that Hester Prynne yet struggled to believe that no fellow-mortal was guilty like herself.% The vulgar, who, in those dreary old times, were always contributing a grotesque horror to what interested their imaginations, had a story about the scarlet letter which we might readily work up into a terrific legend. They averred that the symbol was not mere scarlet cloth, tinged in an earthly dye-pot, but was red-hot with infernal fire, and could be seen glowing all alight whenever Hester Prynne walked abroad in the night-time. And we must needs say it seared Hester's bosom so deeply, that perhaps there was more truth in the rumour than our modern incredulity may be inclined to admit. Thesaurus crimson: (adj, n) carmine, ruby, scarlet, sanctified: (adj) consecrated, sacred, sullied: (adj) foul, soiled, tainted, maroon; (v) blush, flush, redden; (adj) blessed, holy, divine, justified, stained, besmirched, unclean, filthy, bloody, ruddy, cherry; (n) deep red. elected, adopted, unearthly, spotted, sordid, flyblown, dim. incredulity: (n) doubt, unbelief, consecrate, dedicated. ANTONYM: ANTONYMS: (adj) untarnished, skepticism, incredulousness, distrust, (adj) secular. clean. wonder, surprise, suspicion, seared: (adj) arid, dry as a bone, talisman: (n) amulet, charm, mascot, suspiciousness, mistrust, scepticism. recusant, parched. ANTONYM: (adj) fetish, periapt, phylactery, lucky ANTONYMS: (n) faith, wet. charm, key, seals, signet, good luck understanding, belief. sinner: (n) criminal, miscreant, culprit, charm. maiden: (n) maid, girl, demoiselle, sinful, trespasser, transgressor, tinged: (adj) plausible, bright, painted, damosel, wench, fille, lass, miss; (adj) evildoer, magdalen, rascal, villain, fey, touched, specious, colorful, first, initiatory, unmarried. sinners. stained, tined, dyed, tinct. Nathaniel Hawthorne 83 CHAPTER %VI. PEARL We have as yet hardly spoken of the infant that little creature, whose innocent life had sprung, by the inscrutable decree of Providence, a lovely and immortal flower, out of the rank luxuriance of a guilty passion. How strange it seemed to the sad woman, as she watched the growth, and the beauty that became every day more brilliant, and the intelligence that threw its quivering sunshine over the tiny features of this child! Her Pearl--for so had Hester called her; not as a name expressive of her aspect, which had nothing of the calm, white, unimpassioned lustre that would be indicated by the comparison. But she named the infant "Pearl," as being of great price--purchased with all she had- -her mother's only treasure! How strange, indeed! Man had marked this woman's sin by a scarlet letter, which had such potent and disastrous efficacy that no human sympathy could reach her, save it were sinful like herself. God, as a direct consequence of the sin which man thus punished, had given her a lovely child, whose place was on that same dishonoured bosom, to connect her parent for ever with the race and


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

and I thought you might like it." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Useful things...your father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens to steal food when he was here." "And there's something else..." "Fire away." "Quirrell said Snape -- " "Professor Snape, Harry." "Yes, him -- Quirrell said he hates me because he hated my father. Is that true?" "Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike yourself and Mr. Malfoy. And then, your father did something Snape could never forgive." "What?" "He saved his life." "What?" "Yes..." said Dumbledore dreamily. "Funny, the way people's minds work, isn't it? Professor Snape couldn't bear being in your father's debt...I do believe he worked so hard to protect you this year because he felt that would make him and your father even. Then he could go back to hating your father's memory in peace..." Harry tried to understand this but it made his head pound, so he stopped. "And sir, there's one more thing..." "Just the one?" "How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?" "Ah, now, I'm glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone -- find it, but not use it -- would be able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes...Now, enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets. Ah! Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit-flavored one, and since then I'm afraid I've rather lost my liking for them -- but I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee, don't you?" He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his mouth. Then he choked and said, "Alas! Ear wax!" *** Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was a nice woman, but very strict. "Just five minutes," Harry pleaded. "Absolutely not." "You let Professor Dumbledore in..." "Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite different. You need rest." "I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, go on, Madam Pomfrey..." "Oh, very well," she said. "But five minutes only." And she let Ron and Hermione in. "Harry!" Hermione looked ready to fling her arms around him again, but Harry was glad she held herself in as his head was still very sore. "Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to -- Dumbledore was so worried -- " "The whole school's talking about it," said Ron. "What really happened?" It was one of those rare occasions when the true story is even more strange and exciting than the wild rumors. Harry told them everything: Quirrell; the mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Ron and Hermione were a very good audience; they gasped in all the right places, and when Harry told them what was under Quirrell's turban, Hermione screamed out loud. "So the Stone's gone?" said Ron finally. "Flamel's just going to die?" "That's what I said, but Dumbledore


can jack up Goliath, bring him down. Goliath he picks up little Davey, loads him in a fuckin’ big slingshot, and splatters him all over the side of the temple.” “What temple?” Speedo asks. “Don’t matter what temple. Important thing is David been taught a moral lesson.” At Whole Fruit, Jason, Hakeem, and Carlisle are waiting just outside the big opening that once was filled by a roll-up door. When Jason directs his light at what they found beyond the threshold, Kuba declares, “No tooth fairy left it. Bitch is here somewhere.” Aleem can almost feel her head in his hands, his thumbs pressing through the warm jelly of her eyes. LUCKY The darkness is so thick that it seems to have substance. Nina feels it pressing on her, coiling in her ears. The air is oily with this darkness, as though it leaves a residue in her lungs when she exhales. Now and then, she thinks she hears voices, ordered packets of sound different from the wind howl and rain chatter that is muffled by the walls of the packing plant. These moments of suspected human presence do not seem to issue from within this building. They’re as brief as they are faint, like voices from some nameless Beyond that you might expect to hear at a séance. Time passes without the storeroom door being thrown open. John is afflicted with allergies, and the environment here challenges his determination to be silent. The poor kid stifles a sneeze and minutes later another, perhaps clamping his hands over his face or pinching his nose—God forbid that it happens if one of Aleem’s homeys does step into the room—and both times he whispers, “Sorry,” and she whispers, “It’s okay.” Maybe ten minutes pass, and he makes a furtive sound, which must have been his hand digging in a coat pocket, because then he blows his nose discreetly. Following a silence without an apology, he reveals a problem in a voice so soft that she strains to hear him. “Oh no. It’s gone.” She whispers, “What?” He barely breathes his reply: “The lucky hundred.” For a moment, his words don’t compute for her, but then she remembers. In the kitchen. Before they fled their home. He pulled one bill from a bundle, examining it with wonder. It’s real. He tucked the banded hundreds into interior pockets of his jacket, but he folded the loose hundred into an exterior pocket. It’s like a lucky penny ten thousand times over. Maybe the same pocket where he had kept folded Kleenex. Now it must be in the water around them. “Forget it,” she whispers. “We have so much more.” After a freighted silence, he says, “Maybe I didn’t lose it here.” He’d first blown his nose when they stepped into the building, just inside the threshold. “The wind will have carried it away,” she assures him. “Maybe not.” “The wind will have taken it,” she insists. THE BITTER BITE He takes the turn at considerable speed, the heavy Bentley pressing to the pavement as though it possesses


the door and say: “Hi, Musgrave.” “No DNA on your earring,” Musgrave says. “I’m fine, thanks.” “If you wait, I’ll give you my first impressions.” “Hey, Tidbo, does she talk to you like you’re a real person?” Tidbo, the chain of evidence sergeant, looks up from his magazine and says: “Oh, shit, no.” “Hi, Felton.” Detective Felton raises his middle finger. It’s like he’s toMAHto and I’m toMAYto. “Fuck you doing here?” Felton says. “Roddy Tebbit.” “The suicide?” Tidbo says. “Okay, if you like. But he’s a Titan, so here I am.” “What makes you think he’s not just a big guy?” “He’s ninety years old, Felton, so yeah, he’s a big guy because someone jacked him up with T7 sometime.” “Fuck the Titans and fuck you.” “That is the general consensus.” “Take your general and consensually shove it—” “Oh Jesus, shut up!” Musgrave says. “Felton, he was a Titan. One dose, for services rendered. Contractual perk, for God’s sake. I never saw that before. Sounder, stop being an asshole.” “Fuck we need him for?” Felton says. “So you can blame someone when you fuck it up,” I tell him, and apparently that’s just too far. Felton raises his fist like he’s showing it to me, then turns away like he’s done. Then he actually goes for it. It’s a good punch and I don’t know if I’d slip it, because I really wasn’t expecting things to get physical, but it doesn’t matter because Musgrave, without looking, reaches back and tases him. I’m serious. With her off hand she sticks a Taser into his backside and fires it, what they call a shunt tap: the barest contact. Felton jerks once, the strong muscles in his stomach crunching him forwards. He yells and falls over, gets his hands in front of his face so that he doesn’t break the nose, but still catches himself a good one. “You’re welcome,” Musgrave says. “Now you’re not gonna punch a civilian consultant during an autopsy, spoil the trace evidence, and get fired and sued and all that shit.” “Are you out of your mind?” Felton yells at her. “You’re bleeding, detective,” Musgrave says, because there’s a little red line coming out of his nose now. “That’s a big no-no in my space.” She tosses him a bottle of aspirin. “Get him out of here, Tidbo. And you,” she adds to me, “don’t imagine for one second I don’t blame you for that shit.” “Fuck did I do?” “Just don’t do it any more.” Tidbo rolls his eyes and helps Felton out to clean up. I don’t argue with Musgrave. I just sit there and wait for her to be ready, and eventually she is. She tosses me a mask and starts to cut. * * * — Autopsies aren’t as bad as people make out. There’s a stink, for sure. In fact there’s all kinds of stink from all kinds of different places, and there’s wet stuff. But mostly what there is is a wonderful, broken thing. Most times the interior landscape is hidden, and we


the main road,” I say. “The car won’t work back there.” Bezi takes a deep, wavering breath as she looks up at the sky. “We’re going to be out there in the dark.” I grasp her hand. “Tasha is out there.” I try to push away the sounds of her terrified screams and the thoughts of what might have caused her to sound that way. “We stay together. We move fast. No side trips. We go to the last place we know Tasha was headed; then we regroup and decide what to do from there. Agreed?” Bezi, Kyle, and even Javier nod. The path that twists around behind the supply shed isn’t maintained as well as the other paths that snake through Camp Mirror Lake. It’s overgrown with spider grass, and the gravel is heaped in uneven treads. Mr. Lamont mentioned that it used to extend all the way to Route 710 but that access was abandoned for the main entrance years ago. The trees press in on us from either side of the trail, and the darkness descends like a shade being drawn across the sky. Kyle clicks on his flashlight. I save the battery on mine, figuring we’ll need it for the walk back. The trail continues through the trees, and while a tall gate bars our path, I can see that it continues into a thickly wooded area. A rusted chain is looped through the gate, and it’s secured with a large, equally rusted padlock. I yank on it, and bits of orange metal flake off on my palm. “Great,” Javier says. “A little tetanus on the way to meet a shotgun-wielding recluse. This was such a good idea, Charity.” I ignore Javier and push on the gate. The chain is only loosely securing the entrance, and by pushing hard, a gap opens, and we slip through. “Come on,” I say, gesturing for Bezi to go through. She squeezes in and pops out the other side, then holds the gate open so I can slip through after her. We pry the gate apart for Javier and for Kyle, and when we’re all through, I survey the path ahead. The dark is almost complete now, and long shadows lean across the uneven pathway. Snaps and clicks sound from the surrounding forest. The feeling of being watched from the deepening shadows stokes a sense of panic in me. I feel like I can’t quite catch my breath or make my heart slow down. I have to beat back the fear over and over again as we push forward. “This was such a bad idea,” Javier whines as he steps on the back of my heel. I round on him. “I know we said we were gonna stick together, but damn. Can you watch my foot?” “I’m scared,” he says, his voice cracking. “There are bears and shit out here, Charity. You think that’s what Tasha was talking about?” I don’t answer him. All I want to do is find Tasha, and if I think too long about what was making her


He repeated, "No. What made you think of ambition? Who is ambitious? I know I am; but how did you find it out?"     "I was speaking of myself."     "Well, if you are not ambitious, you are " He paused.     "What?"     "I was going to say impassioned; but, perhaps, you would have misunderstood the word, and been displeased. I mean, that human affections and sympathies have a most powerful hold on you. I am sure you cannot long be content to pass your leisure in solitude, and to devote your working hours to a monotonous labor wholly void of stimulus, any more than I can be content," he added, with emphasis, "to live here buried in morass, pent in with mountain my nature, that God gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven-bestowed, paralyzed made useless. You hear now how I contradict myself. I, who preached contentment with a humble lot, and justified the vocation even of hewers of wood and drawers of water in God's service I, his ordained minister, almost rave in my restlessness. Well, propensities and principles must be reconciled by some means."     He left the room. In this brief hour I had learned more of him than in the whole previous month: yet still he puzzled me.     Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as the day approached for leaving their brother and their home. They both tried to appear as usual, but the sorrow they had to struggle against was one that could not be entirely conquered or concealed. Diana intimated that this would be a different parting from any they had ever yet known. It would probably, as far as St. John was concerned, be a parting for years it might be a parting for life.     "He will sacrifice all to his long-framed resolves," she said; "natural affection and feelings more potent still. St. John looks quiet, Jane; but he hides a fever in his vitals. You would think him gentle, yet in some things he is inexorable as death; and the worst of it is, my conscience will hardly permit me to dissuade him from his severe decision; certainly, I cannot for a moment blame him for it. It is right, noble, Christian, yet it breaks my heart." And the tears gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her head low over her work.     "We are now without father; we shall soon be without home and brother," she murmured.     At that moment a little accident supervened, which seemed decreed by fate purposely to prove the truth of the adage that "misfortunes never come singly:" and to add to their distresses the vexing one of the slip between the cup and the lip. St. John passed the window reading a letter. He entered.     "Our Uncle John is dead," said he.     Both the sisters


through the field, Roman following close behind her. Attie was pacing the kitchen, a furious expression on her face when Iris opened the back doors. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Iris Winnow!” she cried. “Or else I’ll kill you myself, do you hear me?” “Attie,” Iris said calmly, stepping over the threshold. “I need to introduce you to someone.” She moved aside so Attie could get a clear view of Roman, entering the B and B for the first time. Attie’s jaw dropped. But she quickly recovered from her surprise, her eyes narrowing with slight suspicion. “Did the eithrals drop a boy from the sky, then?” “Another correspondent,” Iris said, at which Roman glanced at her. “This is Roman Kitt. Kitt, this is my friend and fellow writer, Att—” “Thea Attwood,” he finished, and he set down his typewriter case to extend his hand to Attie, reveling in her renewed shock. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.” Iris was confused, glancing between the two of them. But Attie’s own surprise melted and suddenly she was grinning. She shook Roman’s hand and asked, “Do you have a copy with you?” Roman slid the leather bag from his shoulder. He untethered it and procured a newspaper, wound tight to ward off wrinkles. He gave it to Attie, and she viciously unfurled it, her eyes racing across the headlines. “Gods below,” she murmured, breathless. “Look at this, Iris!” Iris moved to stand at Attie’s side, only to stifle her own gasp. Attie’s war article was on the front page of the Inkridden Tribune. A major headline. THE PATH OF DACRE’S DESTRUCTION by THEA ATTWOOD Iris read the first few lines over Attie’s shoulder, awe and excitement coursing through her. “If you’ll both excuse me, there’s a letter I need to write,” Attie said abruptly. Iris watched her bolt down the hallway, knowing she was probably going to wax vengefully poetic to the professor who had once dismissed her writing. Iris’s smile lingered, thinking about Attie’s words on the front page and how many people in Oath had most likely read them. From the corner of her eye, she saw Roman reaching into his bag again. There was another crinkle of paper, and she resisted looking at him until he spoke. “Did you think I wouldn’t bring one for you, Winnow?” “What do you mean?” she asked, a touch defensively. She finally glanced at him to see he was extending another rolled newspaper to her. “Read it for yourself,” he said. She accepted the paper, slowly unrolling it. Another edition of the Inkridden Tribune, from a different day. But this time, it was Iris’s article on the front page. THE UNEXPECTED FACE OF WAR by INKRIDDEN IRIS Her eyes passed over the familiar words—A war with the gods is not what you expect it to be—and her vision blurred for a moment as she gathered her composure. She swallowed and rolled the paper back up, extending it to Roman, who was watching her with an arched brow. “Inkridden Iris,” he said, his


consequence I read her diaries and reached out to her former colleagues, hoping to get a better idea of what a career in physics might entail. That is how I discovered her awful experiences with her former mentor, who had forced her to leave academia. That man was Christophe Laurendeau, and at the time he was the editor in chief of Annals. When I tried to report him for what he’d done to my mother, I was told that there were no grounds to open an investigation. So I took matters into my own hands. I knew what kind of article Dr. Laurendeau would look upon favorably, and I knew from the grapevine that he was infamous for being lax when it came to the peer review of works that he believed would further his own scientific agenda. So I wrote something that would fit those criteria. Again: my aim was to sabotage Laurendeau’s career, and as unethical as that may sound, it’s something I stand by. He did suffer setbacks, and for several years he was unable to receive funding or mentor students—an outcome I cannot regret. But that’s not all that happened. After I exploited one specific weakness within one specific journal to target one specific individual, the scientific community began to use my article as an example of the decline of theoretical physics. And what I regret is that as it happened, I stayed silent. For over fifteen years I did nothing to dispel the idea that I believed theoretical physics to be inferior. I became a symbol of the enmity between theoretical and experimental physics, and of that, I am ashamed. I am ashamed of how it must have made my theorist colleagues feel, and I am ashamed that I did not quell these assumptions for over a decade. Above all, I am ashamed that I put a person I deeply respect in the position of having to explain to me the consequences of my own actions because I was too proud, too angry, and too self-centered to realize them. So let me send a message to anyone who still cites my article as a weapon in some petty war within our discipline: don’t. I never believed that theoretical physics was less rigorous, or less important a field than experimental physics. And if you do believe that, you are mistaken, and you should read some of the most meaningful theory work of the past few decades. I am citing several below . . . “Oh my God.” My hands are trembling. My legs, too. And the floor, I’m pretty sure. “Oh my God.” “Yup.” I look up. I’d forgotten Cece existed. I’d forgotten to breathe. I’d forgotten the rest of the world was a thing. “That’s, like, the science equivalent of proposing with a flash mob.” “No.” I shake my head forcefully enough to scroll out everything that’s inside it. Mashed potatoes, probably. “He’s not proposing. He’s just . . .” I crumple in a chair. “Finally reckoning with his decades-long evil legacy because he wants you to


claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang. "One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me. "I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot. "'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; 'we'll be as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping of us. If you don't--it's a fine, law-abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman within hail.' "Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice. "His


well to you, you must be beastly to them; if you treat them decently they make you suffer for it." She got up from the floor and said she must go. She gave Philip a long, steady look. Then she sighed. "It's so inexplicable. What does it all mean?" Philip took a sudden determination. "I think I'd better tell you, I don't want you to think too badly of me, I want you to see that I can't help myself. Mildred's come back." The colour came to her face. "Why didn't you tell me at once? I deserved that surely." "I was afraid to." She looked at herself in the glass and set her hat straight. "Will you call me a cab," she said. "I don't feel I can walk." He went to the door and stopped a passing hansom; but when she followed him into the street he was startled to see how white she was. There was a heaviness in her movements as though she had suddenly grown older. She looked so ill that he had not the heart to let her go alone. I'll drive back with you if you don't mind." She did not answer, and he got into the cab. They drove along in silence over the bridge, through shabby streets in which children, with shrill cries, played in the road. When they arrived at her door she did not immediately get out. It seemed as though she could not summon enough strength to her legs to move. "I hope you'll forgive me, Norah," he said. She turned her eyes towards him, and he saw that they were bright again with tears, but she forced a smile to her lips. "Poor fellow, you're quite worried about me. You mustn't bother. I don't blame you. I shall get over it all right." Lightly and quickly she stroked his face to show him that she bore no ill-feeling, the gesture was scarcely more than suggested; then she jumped out of the cab and let herself into her house. Philip paid the hansom and walked to Mildred's lodgings. There was a curious heaviness in his heart. He was inclined to reproach himself. But why? He did not know what else he could have done. Passing a fruiterer's, he remembered that Mildred was fond of grapes. He was so grateful that he could show his love for her by recollecting every whim she had. CHAPTER LXXII FOR the next three months Philip went every day to see Mildred. He took his books with him and after tea worked, while Mildred lay on the sofa reading novels. Sometimes he would look up and watch her for a minute. A happy smile crossed his lips. She would feel his eyes upon her. "Don't waste your time looking at me, silly. Go on with your work," she said. "Tyrant," he answered gaily. He put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth for dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her. She was a little cockney, of


swivel in her seat. “Where? Don’t look where?” Cam sighs. “Fine, Maddie, don’t look yet. Jo, on our right, second seat down, brown hair.” “Guy in the gray jumper?” “Yeah. Now, Maddie, you look.” I act as if I’m scanning the area and look at the bench on our right. The man in the gray jumper looks our age and he’s sat in a group of six but has his hand in the red hair of the girl on his left. “What about him?” Jo asks. “His name’s Callum and he ghosted a friend of mine after three dates,” Cam says. “Now we know why.” Jo pretends to be sick as I look at the girl with her back to me. “Men,” Jo says. “Were they sleeping together?” “They did once, after their third date.” Jo looks up at the sky and says, “Typical.” “Apparently he pulled out all the stops, too,” Cam says. “Picked Kirsten up in his car, bought her flowers, they went to dinner, he paid, et cetera. She invited him to hers, they do it, and the next morning he says he’ll call her, he’s running late for work or some bullshit, and then nothing. She thought he was dead until he had the ‘decency’ to text her saying it wasn’t going to work out. She was a mess.” Jo takes a bite of her pizza. “Unbelievable.” “What a dick!” I throw in. Jo coughs, “Dick!” loudly, but thankfully Callum and his table don’t hear her. I’ve read many internet tales of ghosting, but it’s usually after the first date or a couple of days texting, so disappearing after the third date is new. My first thought is: What did she do wrong? Then I shake my head and call myself a bad feminist. “I can’t believe people really don’t call you back after you’ve slept with them,” I say. “Men don’t,” Cam says. “Not even a bedside note?” I ask. Cam laughs at this. “He’s not even that good-looking,” Jo says. “Not to say the good-looking ones are excused, but he’s … so plain!” “Those kind of men always have the most audacity,” Cam remarks. “Are you going to say something?” Jo asks. “No,” Cam replies. “Kirsten wouldn’t thank me for it. She’s talking to someone new now, anyway.” “Where is she finding all these eligible—although questionable—men?” Jo asks. “I have a friend who’s been looking with no luck.” I should probably contribute something meaningful to this conversation; it’s like doing a group presentation and the two alphas dominate, but soon the teacher is going to look my way, say, “You’ve been quiet, Maddie,” and stick me with a question I have no hope of answering. Cam pulls a face. “Online.” “You’re not a fan?” I say, curious. “I don’t know how you could be,” she replies. “With shit algorithms that present you with profiles proudly displaying DTF? It’s hard to get excited.” I nod supportively whilst making a mental note to google “DTF.” I think it means “down to fuck,” but I’d like to make sure.


in her daughter’s eyes. “But now is not the time. I must see your father first.” Chrysothemis looks down at her feet, suddenly sad. “Father spent all his time in the great hall with those soldiers from Crete and Argos. We saw him only at dinner. Now the soldiers are gone, but Father is always with the elders.” “He is discussing the war,” Iphigenia says. “Every city fears Troy, it seems, but no one wants to fight.” Clytemnestra leads her daughters up the steps to the entrance of the palace. Behind them, Aileen follows, her arms filled with tunics and sandals. When they step over the threshold, the air is suddenly fresher. “I will see your father now,” Clytemnestra says. “Find Electra and prepare for dinner.” * * * The courtyard that leads to the megaron is cool and quiet. Clytemnestra half expects to see Electra there, eavesdropping on her father, but there is no one under the shadowy colonnades except the frescoed griffins, sitting proudly by every column. She can hear the whispers coming from the hall in the anteroom, with its bare walls and stone floor. The air there is moist, the light scarce. An older servant approaches to wash her feet. She stands still as the woman unties her sandals and cleans her in the footbath. When her feet have been wiped with a dry cloth, she steps forward into the bright light of the megaron. The hall is richly adorned. Its walls are decorated with frescoes of warriors and lions fighting, their spears flying, chasing the fleeing beasts. The first time she saw the frightened lions, Clytemnestra laughed—no one who ever hunted lions saw the animals in such a state. “This speaks of the power of our city,” Agamemnon had said. “It is a lie,” she replied. “It is a story. Stories draw people together; they lead armies and form alliances.” As much as she hated him, she knew he was right. Four guards stand with their backs to the walls, holding spears and shields. Clytemnestra waits by the columned entrance as one moves forward to announce her presence to the king. Beyond the hearth that occupies the center of the room, she can see Agamemnon seated on his raised throne, the steps that lead to it gilded and shiny. A boy is seated at his feet while a group of older men whisper, their voices hissing. “The queen is here,” the guard announces, and the king and elders turn. Clytemnestra walks past the frescoed battles of Mycenaeans against barbaroi, the lions, and deer toward the throne. Orestes jumps to his feet about to run to her, then stops, controlling himself. He is olive-skinned, like his mother, with dark curls that fall around his face. The elders kneel, their faces touching the floor at Clytemnestra’s feet. “Please stand,” she says. “There is no need.” It troubles her to see them so obliging, when all they do when her husband isn’t here is challenge and contradict her. “My queen,” one says, straightening. He is a brutal man called Polydamas,


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

cook, who took up the chase. I made one last desperate turn and found myself among lamps and ironmongery. I went behind the counter of this, and waited for my cook, and as he bolted in at the head of the chase, I doubled him up with a lamp. Down he went, and I crouched behind the counter and began whipping off my clothes as fast as I could. Coat, jacket, trousers, shoes were all right, but a lambswool vest fits a man like a skin. I heard more men coming, my cook was lying quiet on the other side of the counter, stunned or scared speechless, and I had to make another dash for it, like a rabbit hunted out of a wood-pile. "'This way, policeman!' I heard some one shouting. I found myself in my bedstead store-room again, and at the end a wilderness of wardrobes. I rushed among them, went flat, got rid of my vest after infinite wriggling, and stood a free man again, panting and scared, as the policeman and three of the shopmen came round the corner. They made a rush for the vest and pants, and collared the trousers. 'He's dropping his plunder,' said one of the young men. 'He must be somewhere here.' "But they did not find me all the same. "I stood watching them hunt for me for a time, and cursing my ill-luck in losing the clothes. Then I went into the refreshment- room, drank a little milk I found there, and sat down by the fire to consider my position. "In a little while two assistants came and began to talk over the business very excitedly and like the fools they were. I heard a magnified account of my depredations, and other speculations as to my whereabouts. Then I fell to scheming again. The insurmountable difficulty of the place, especially now it was alarmed, was to get any plunder out of it. I went down into the warehouse to see if there was any chance of packing and addressing a parcel, but I could not understand the system of checking. About eleven o'clock, the snow having thawed as it fell, and the day being finer and a little warmer than the previous one, I decided that the Emporium was hopeless, and went out again, exasperated at my want of success, with only the vaguest plans of action in my mind." Chapter 23 In Drury Lane "But you begin to realise now," said the Invisible Man, "the full disadvantage of my condition. I had no shelter, no covering. To get clothing was to forego all my advantage, to make of myself a strange and terrible thing. I was fasting; for to eat, to fill myself with unassimilated matter, would be to become grotesquely visible again." "I never thought of that," said Kemp. "Nor had I. And the snow had warned me of other dangers. I could not go abroad in snow--it would settle on me and expose me. Rain, too, would make me a watery outline, a glistening surface of a


world. (Charles Darwin's revolutionary On the Origin Of Species by Means of Natural Selection would be published in 1859.) Not only nature, but human social systems as well, were subjected to scientific analysis. Theories such as social Darwinism, rational humanism, and Marxism would eventually grow out of this. Philosophers were suggesting entirely new moral systems to go with the revolutionary scientific views. In place of an orderly universe ruled by God, justice, and the class system, these Victorians contemplated the possibility of a vast, bleak void where nothing but scientific principles applied. This was a heady environment for Marian Evans. Her new friends, impressed by her powerful mind, gave her a sense of self-worth. Eventually she was asked to translate a book, then to write reviews for intellectual journals. After her father died she moved to London and began to edit one such journal. In the thick of the literary scene, admired by famous people, she came into her own. Interesting men paid her attention; she had a couple of awkward romances. Then she fell in love with George Henry Lewes, a prominent journalist and critic--and a married man. Lewes fell in love with her, too, but under the laws of those days it was impossible for him to get a divorce, even though his wife was flagrantly unfaithful to him. Marian, gravely weighing all factors, decided to defy society and live with Lewes. This made Marian a figure of scandal in London. No "decent" ladies would receive her in their homes (though due to a cruel double standard Lewes was still invited). Only a few radical women and progressive men kept up friendships with Marian. Her family disowned her. In her isolation she depended on Lewes' loyal, protective love. They had decided not to have children (although she soon became a second mother to his sons). Shrewdly, Lewes realized that Marian needed something to engage her emotions as well as her immense intellect. He began to urge her to write fiction. Self-conscious, afraid of criticism or rejection, Marian wrote her first story, "Amos Barton," in 1856. Before she would send it to a publisher, however, she and Lewes invented a pen name--George Eliot. She didn't want to publish under her real name, fearing readers would read it only because of her scandalous reputation. She deliberately chose a man's name, too. Many Victorian women wrote novels, but these were often looked down upon as slight, feminine stories. Marian hoped her books would be judged seriously if readers thought a man had written them. (Similarly, a few years earlier, the Bronte sisters had signed male pen names to their novels Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights.) Although George Eliot's first stories were well reviewed, her first full-length novel, Adam Bede, was a runaway success. Set in the Warwickshire countryside where Marian had grown up, it vibrated with a simple realism totally new in English literature. No one before had cast ordinary farm laborers as main characters in a novel, or had drawn such complex psychological portraits of them. What's more, the book's plot centered


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

you, as a friend, to comply as far as may be with the usages of this office. Say now you will help to examine papers to-morrow or next day: in short, say now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:—say so, Bartleby.” “At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable,” was his mildly cadaverous reply. Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed suffering from an unusually bad night’s rest, induced by severer indigestion then common. He overheard those final words of Bartleby. “Prefer not, eh?” gritted Nippers—”I’d prefer him, if I were you, sir,” addressing me—”I’d prefer him; I’d give him preferences, the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he prefers not to do now?” Bartleby moved not a limb. “Mr. Nippers,” said I, “I’d prefer that you would withdraw for the present.” Somehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntarily using this word “prefer” upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been without efficacy in determining me to summary means. As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly and deferentially approached. “With submission, sir,” said he, “yesterday I was thinking about Bartleby here, and I think that if he would but prefer to take a quart of good ale every day, it would do much towards mending him, and enabling him to assist in examining his papers.” “So you have got the word too,” said I, slightly excited. “With submission, what word, sir,” asked Turkey, respectfully crowding himself into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing, making me jostle the scrivener. “What word, sir?” “I would prefer to be left alone here,” said Bartleby, as if offended at being mobbed in his privacy. “That’s the word, Turkey,” said I—”that’s it.” “Oh, prefer? oh yes—queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as I was saying, if he would but prefer—” “Turkey,” interrupted I, “you will please withdraw.” “Oh certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should.” As he opened the folding-door to retire, Nippers at his desk caught a glimpse of me, and asked whether I would prefer to have a certain paper copied on blue paper or white. He did not in the least roguishly accent the word prefer. It was plain that it involuntarily rolled form his tongue. I thought to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man, who already has in some degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of myself and clerks. But I thought it prudent not to break the dismission at once. The next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at his window in his dead-wall revery. Upon asking him why he did not write, he said that he had decided upon doing no more writing.


mutt has begun to slide backward, unable to find any purchase on the metal, even though I can hear the slow screeching of the claws like nails on a blackboard, I fire into its throat. Its body twitches and flops onto the ground with a thud. “Katniss?” I can feel Peeta’s grip on my arm. “It’s her!” I get out. 328 “Who?” asks Peeta. My head snaps from side to side as I examine the pack, tak- ing in the various sizes and colors. The small one with the red coat and amber eyes . . . Foxface! And there, the ashen hair and hazel eyes of the boy from District 9 who died as we struggled for the backpack! And worst of all, the smallest mutt, with dark glossy fur, huge brown eyes and a collar that reads 11 in woven straw. Teeth bared in hatred. Rue . . . “What is it, Katniss?” Peeta shakes my shoulder. “It’s them. It’s all of them. The others. Rue and Foxface and . . . all of the other tributes,” I choke out. I hear Peeta’s gasp of recognition. “What did they do to them? You don’t think . . . those could be their real eyes?” Their eyes are the least of my worries. What about their brains? Have they been given any of the real tributes memo- ries? Have they been programmed to hate our faces particu- larly because we have survived and they were so callously murdered? And the ones we actually killed . . . do they believe they’re avenging their own deaths? Before I can get this out, the mutts begin a new assault on the horn. They’ve split into two groups at the sides of the horn and are using those powerful hindquarters to launch them- selves at us. A pair of teeth ring together just inches from my hand and then I hear Peeta cry out, feel the yank on his body, the heavy weight of boy and mutt pulling me over the side. If not for the grip on my arm, he’d be on the ground, but as it is, it takes all my strength to keep us both on the curved back of the horn. And more tributes are coming. 329 “Kill it, Peeta! Kill it!” I’m shouting, and although I can’t quite see what’s happening, I know he must have stabbed the thing because the pull lessens. I’m able to haul him back onto the horn where we drag ourselves toward the top where the lesser of two evils awaits. Cato has still not regained his feet, but his breathing is slowing and I know soon he’ll be recovered enough to come for us, to hurl us over the side to our deaths. I arm my bow, but the arrow ends up taking out a mutt that can only be Thresh. Who else could jump so high? I feel a moment’s relief because we must finally be up above the mutt line and I’m just turning back to face Cato when Peeta’s jerked


that," Aunt Alexandra said, a declaration that with her was always a threat, never a promise. Surprised, I turned to her. "Why not, Aunty? They're good folks." She looked at me over her sewing glasses. "Jean Louise, there is no doubt in my mind that they're good folks. But they're not our kind of folks." Jem says, "She means they're yappy, Scout." "What's a yap?" "Aw, tacky. They like fiddlin' and things like that." "Well I do too-" "Don't be silly, Jean Louise," said Aunt Alexandra. "The thing is, you can scrub Walter Cunningham till he shines, you can put him in shoes and a new suit, but he'll never be like Jem. Besides, there's a drinking streak in that family a mile wide. Finch women aren't interested in that sort of people." "Aun-ty," said Jem, "she ain't nine yet." "She may as well learn it now." Aunt Alexandra had spoken. I was reminded vividly of the last time she had put her foot down. I never knew why. It was when I was absorbed with plans to visit Calpurnia's house- I was curious, interested; I wanted to be her "company," to see how she lived, who her friends were. I might as well have wanted to see the other side of the moon. This time the tactics were different, but Aunt Alexandra's aim was the same. Perhaps this was why she had come to live with us- to help us choose our friends. I would hold her off as long as I could: "If they're good folks, then why can't I be nice to Walter?" "I didn't say not to be nice to him. You should be friendly and polite to him, you should be gracious to everybody, dear. But you don't have to invite him home." "What if he was kin to us, Aunty?" "The fact is that he is not kin to us, but if he were, my answer would be the same." "Aunty," Jem spoke up, "Atticus says you can choose your friends but you sho' can't choose your family, an' they're still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge 'em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don't." "That's your father all over again," said Aunt Alexandra, "and I still say that Jean Louise will not invite Walter Cunningham to this house. If he were her double first cousin once removed he would still not be received in this house unless he comes to see Atticus on business. Now that is that." She had said Indeed Not, but this time she would give her reasons: "But I want to play with Walter, Aunty, why can't I?" She took off her glasses and stared at me. "I'll tell you why," she said. "Because- he- is- trash, that's why you can't play with him. I'll not have you around him, picking up his habits and learning Lord-knows-what. You're enough of a problem to your father as it is." I don't know what I would have done, but Jem stopped me. He caught me by


to him, kisses his forehead. “You are right,” she says. “We don’t.” * * * From the top of the high wall near the Lion Gate, the land glows bright against the dark of the woods and mountains. Iphigenia is speaking to her father animatedly, and two guards watch over them, a few feet behind. Just this morning, Aileen has taken the women down to the river to wash the clothes, and now Iphigenia is wearing one of her best dresses: light blue, sewn with gold drops and pendants. Feeling her mother’s presence, she stops talking and turns. “You are leaving us again, Mother,” she says. Agamemnon turns too. His face is tired—he hasn’t slept much. Clytemnestra heard him discussing potential alliances with his men until dark. When they had finally stopped speaking and she had fallen asleep, she dreamed of war and death. “You heard about Timandra,” she says. He nods. “You are going to Sparta. And this time Leon is accompanying you. So in case you want to murder someone . . .” He lingers on the word, sneering, but Clytemnestra ignores him. “Timandra is not in Sparta,” she says. Agamemnon meets her eyes without flinching. “Your sister isn’t the only one causing trouble. Your brothers are starting a family feud.” Eager to participate, Iphigenia intervenes. “Uncles Castor and Polydeuces have kidnapped two women who were already promised to your cousins.” “Which cousins?” “Lynceus and Idas from Messenia.” “I don’t even know them.” She has heard the names, the sons of one of her father’s stepbrothers, but never met them. “They are still your family,” Agamemnon says, “and they are angry. Your father was close with Aphareus, Lynceus and Idas’s father.” “Was he?” “Tyndareus told me.” Clytemnestra breathes in, clenching her fists. That was when she started losing her father, as soon as Agamemnon came into her home and slowly made his way into Tyndareus’s heart. “You have to go to Sparta and fix this,” he says. “Castor will listen to you.” “And if he doesn’t?” “Then you make him.” She looks down at the houses clustered around the city walls. The people in the streets are so loud that she can hear their laughter and shouts, the sounds of smiths casting bronze and of feet splashing in ponds. “What about Helen?” she asks. “Surely she can convince Polydeuces.” Agamemnon waits a moment before speaking. “Your sister hasn’t been well lately. She shuts herself into her room and doesn’t even talk to her daughter.” “What happened to her?” “Menelaus says she is unhappy.” “What has he done to her?” He laughs. “You always think us guilty of petty crimes. My brother hasn’t done anything. Your sister is spoiled, always has been.” “Menelaus doesn’t respect her,” Clytemnestra spits out. “Mother,” Iphigenia says, touching her hand, soothing her, “I think you should go. Uncle Castor will do anything you tell him to, and Aunt Helen will be happier as soon as she sees you.” Clytemnestra takes a deep breath, letting in the cold air. Her daughter clearly doesn’t know anything about Castor:


sleeves of my tunic on the glass. The dulhath surged toward me. I raised my hand, finally relenting to the battering demand of my magic. It wailed as its heads began to unwind from each other, white goo strung between each slab of head as it moved. I snapped my fingers, and the heads tore in separate directions, ripping its massive body into three. I severed the bottom of a spidery leg and roped it around my thigh with a strip of the abandoned quilt. I sneered at the dulhath’s quivering heads, tossing the infant’s rattle onto where I hoped its face was. “The only weak thing to die in this house is you.” After checking the gloomy sky for Al Anqa’a, I sprinted at full speed past the bracket of shops, leaping over craters teeming with munban nests and tarnished pots. At the looming silhouette of Al Anqa’a, I rushed through the narrow crevice separating a butcher’s shop from a cluster of sapling trees. I glanced over my shoulder as I rounded the edge. A springy wall slammed me to the ground, sending my axe flying. I squinted, adjusting my sight in the shade. A strangled cry slipped from my lips before I could stop myself. A zulal undulated around Mehti’s body. Only his head was visible from the massive worm’s winding embrace. Death clouded eyes that hours ago had danced with mischief. The zulal throbbed around the Omal Champion, suckling the moisture from his body in its deadly coil. When the worm finished, it would leave behind his desiccated, shriveled carcass and slither away to lie in wait for its next meal. My axe had fallen partially under the zulal. I crawled toward it, extending my fingers as far as they could go. When the handle eluded me, I crawled a little closer. The zulal abruptly stopped rippling around Mehti’s corpse. Damn it to the tombs! Abandoning the axe, I sprinted away as the top half of the white worm unraveled with a wet sucking noise. I did not glance back to see if it was slithering after me. I pulled out the dagger hidden in my tunic, its lightness an unpleasant contrast to the axe’s satisfying heft. When Al Anqa’a finished its next circuit, I pushed off the building. Not far ahead, the trees reverted to their natural clusters as Dar al Mansi ended and Essam Woods began. From there, it would be a fifteen-minute hike to where the masses waited to greet the returning Champions. I weaved through a flower garden, the bottom of my boot collecting mud and moldering petals. By the time I reached the border, I hadn’t encountered another creature. The prospect of doubling back for the zulal and looking into Mehti’s sallow face appalled my common sense. There had to be another creature this close to the border, right? A rustle from the right spun me around. I lifted the dagger, flexing my arm in preparation. One clean strike, and I would be done with the second trial forever. A man stumbled from over


to be set up in proof of her jealousy, that she was under strong suspicion of having, at about the time of the murder, frantically destroyed her child by this man - some three years old - to revenge herself upon him. Mr. Jaggers worked that, in this way. "We say these are not marks of finger-nails, but marks of brambles, and we show you the brambles. You say they are marks of finger-nails, and you set up the hypothesis that she destroyed her child. You must accept all consequences of that hypothesis. For anything we know, she may have destroyed her child, and the child in clinging to her may have scratched her hands. What then? You are not trying her for the murder of her child; why don't you? As to this case, if you will have scratches, we say that, for anything we know, you may have accounted for them, assuming for the sake of argument that you have not invented them!" To sum up, sir," said Wemmick, "Mr. Jaggers was altogether too many for the Jury, and they gave in." "Has she been in his service ever since?" "Yes; but not only that," said Wemmick. "She went into his service immediately after her acquittal, tamed as she is now. She has since been taught one thing and another in the way of her duties, but she was tamed from the beginning." "Do you remember the sex of the child?" "Said to have been a girl." "You have nothing more to say to me to-night?" "Nothing. I got your letter and destroyed it. Nothing." We exchanged a cordial Good Night, and I went home, with new matter for my thoughts, though with no relief from the old. Chapter 49 Putting Miss Havisham's note in my pocket, that it might serve as my credentials for so soon reappearing at Satis House, in case her waywardness should lead her to express any surprise at seeing me, I went down again by the coach next day. But I alighted at the Halfway House, and breakfasted there, and walked the rest of the distance; for, I sought to get into the town quietly by the unfrequented ways, and to leave it in the same manner. The best light of the day was gone when I passed along the quiet echoing courts behind the High-street. The nooks of ruin where the old monks had once had their refectories and gardens, and where the strong walls were now pressed into the service of humble sheds and stables, were almost as silent as the old monks in their graves. The cathedral chimes had at once a sadder and a more remote sound to me, as I hurried on avoiding observation, than they had ever had before; so, the swell of the old organ was borne to my ears like funeral music; and the rooks, as they hovered about the grey tower and swung in the bare high trees of the priory-garden, seemed to call to me that the place was changed, and that Estella was gone


long that she all but went to sleep there. However, before she went to bed she took a good look at her mouth, eyes and hair. All next day in the house and store she thought resisting thoughts about Tea Cake. She even ridiculed him in her mind and was a little ashamed of the association. But every hour or two the battle had to be fought all over again. She couldn’t make him look just like any other man to her. He looked like the love thoughts of women. He could be a bee to a blossom—a pear tree blossom in the spring. He seemed to be crushing scent out of the world with his foot- steps. Crushing aromatic herbs with every step he took. Spices hung about him. He was a glance from God. So he didn’t come that night and she laid in bed and pre- tended to think scornfully of him. “Bet he’s hangin’ round some jook or ’nother. Glad Ah treated him cold. Whut do Ah want wid some trashy nigger out de streets? Bet he’s livin’ wid some woman or ’nother and takin’ me for uh fool. Glad Ah caught mahself in time.” She tried to console herself that way. The next morning she awoke hearing a knocking on the front door and found Tea Cake there. “Hello, Mis’ Janie, Ah hope Ah woke you up.” “You sho did, Tea Cake. Come in and rest yo’ hat. Whut you doin’ out so soon dis mornin’?” “Thought Ah’d try tuh git heah soon enough tuh tell yuh Their Eyes Were Watching God 127 mah daytime thoughts. Ah see yuh needs tuh know mah day- time feelings. Ah can’t sense yuh intuh it at night.” “You crazy thing! Is dat whut you come here for at day- break?” “Sho is. You needs tellin’ and showin’, and dat’s whut Ah’m doin’. Ah picked some strawberries too, Ah figgered you might like.” “Tea Cake, Ah ’clare Ah don’t know whut tuh make outa you. You’se so crazy. You better lemme fix you some break- fast.” “Ain’t got time. Ah got uh job uh work. Gottuh be back in Orlandah at eight o’clock. See yuh later, tell you straighter.” He bolted down the walk and was gone. But that night when she left the store, he was stretched out in the hammock on the porch with his hat over his face pretending to sleep. She called him. He pretended not to hear. He snored louder. She went to the hammock to shake him and he seized and pulled her in with him. After a little, she let him adjust her in his arms and laid there for a while. “Tea Cake, Ah don’t know ’bout you, but Ah’m hongry, come on let’s eat some supper.” They went inside and their laughter rang out first from the kitchen and all over the house. Janie awoke next morning by feeling Tea Cake almost kissing her breath away. Holding her and caressing her as if he feared she might escape his grasp and fly


had taken titles, Ezeudu was to be buried after dark with only a glowing brand to light the sacred ceremony. But before this quiet and final rite, the tumult increased tenfold. Drums beat violently and men leaped up and down in frenzy. Guns were fired on all sides and sparks flew out as machetes clanged together in warriors' salutes. The air was full of dust and the smell of gunpowder. It was then that the one-handed spirit came, carrying a basket full of water. People made way for him on all sides and the noise subsided. Even the smell of gunpowder was swallowed in the sickly smell that now filled the air. He danced a few steps to the funeral drums and then went to see the corpse. "Ezeudu!" he called in his guttural voice. "If you had been poor in your last life I would have asked you to be rich when you come again. But you were rich. If you had been a coward, I would have asked you to bring courage. But you were a fearless warrior. If you had died young, I would have asked you to get life. But you lived long. So I shall ask you to come again the way you came before. If your death was the death of nature, go in peace. But if a man caused it, do not allow him a moment's rest." He danced a few more steps and went away. The drums and the dancing began again and reached fever-heat. Darkness was around the corner, and the burial was near. Guns fired the last salute and the cannon rent the sky. And then from the centre of the delirious fury came a cry of agony and shouts of horror. It was as if a spell had been cast. All was silent. In the centre of the crowd a boy lay in a pool of blood. It was the dead man's sixteen-year-old son, who with his brothers and half-brothers had been dancing the traditional farewell to their father. Okonkwo's gun had exploded and a piece of iron had pierced the boy's heart. The confusion that followed was without parallel in the tradition of Umuofia. Violent deaths were frequent, but nothing like this had ever happened. The only course open to Okonkwo was to flee from the clan. It was a crime against the earth goddess to kill a clansman, and a man who committed it must flee from the land. The crime was of two kinds, male and female. Okonkwo had committed the female, because it had been inadvertent. He could return to the clan after seven years. That night he collected his most valuable belongings into head-loads. His wives wept bitterly and their children wept with them without knowing why. Obierika and half a dozen other friends came to help and to console him. They each made nine or ten trips carrying Okonkwo's yams to store in Obierika's barn. And before the cock crowed Okonkwo and his family were fleeing to his motherland. It was a little village called


Dick and Anne can go home with your mother and carry the things. I'll just go and tell Aunt Fanny." He ran up to his aunt. "Do you mind if I go and buy some ice-creams?" he asked. "We haven't had one today. I won't be long. Can George go with me?" "I don't expect she will want to," said his aunt. "But you can ask her." "George, come with me!" yelled Julian, setting off to the little village at a great pace. George gave a sudden grin and ran after him. She soon caught him up and smiled gratefully at him. "Thanks," she said. "You go and get the ice-creams, and I'll have a look at Tim." They parted, Julian bought four ice-creams, and turned to go home. He waited about for George, who came running up after a few minutes. Her face was glowing. "He's all right," she said. "And you can't imagine how pleased he was to see me! He nearly jumped over my head! I say- another ice-cream for me. You really are a sport, Julian. I'll have to share something with you quickly. What about going to my island tomorrow?" "Golly!" said Julian, his eye's shining. "That would be marvellous. Will you really take us tomorrow? Come on, let's tell the others!" The four children sat in the garden eating their ices. Julian told them what George had said. They all felt excited. George was pleased. She had always felt quite important before when she had haughtily refused to take any of the other children to see Kirrin Island- but it felt much nicer somehow to have consented to row her cousins there. "I used to think it was much, much nicer always to do things on my own," she thought, as she sucked the last bits of her ice. "But it's going to be fun doing things with Julian and the others." The children were sent to wash themselves and to get tidy before supper. They talked eagerly about the visit to the island next day. Their aunt heard them and smiled. "Well, I really must say I'm pleased that George is going to share something with you," she said. "Would you like to take your dinner there, and spend the day? It's hardly worth while rowing all the way there and landing unless you are going to spend some hours there." "Oh, Aunt Fanny! It would be marvellous to take our dinner!" cried Anne. George looked up. "Are you coming too, Mother?" she asked. "You don't sound at all as if you want me to," said her mother, in a hurt tone. "You looked cross yesterday, too, when you found I was coming. No- I shan't come tomorrow- but I'm sure your cousins must think you are a queer girl never to want your mother to go with you." George said nothing. She hardly ever did say a word when she was scolded. The other children said nothing too. They knew perfectly well that it wasn't that George didn't want her mother to go- it


the Eurotas just after noon on the third day. The water is frozen, reflecting the dark mountains and the colorless sky. The helots are working the land, cloths wrapped around their hands in an attempt to ward off the cold. Clytemnestra is careful to ride by the side of the fields, and as she passes, the helots look up, their faces all age lines and scars. By the rocky terrain at the foot of the palace, a bearded man is waiting for them. The wind is so strong that he has covered his ears under his cloak. Still, his hands are chapped and his eyes watery. As soon as Clytemnestra and Leon dismount their horses, the man steps forward. “King Menelaus is waiting for you. You are to come at once.” His voice sounds like nails screeching on rock. “Is my sister safe?” “Queen Helen is entertaining a guest. You are to see King Menelaus first. That is what he commands.” “Bring me to him, then.” They walk up the stairs, hurrying to match the man’s pace. As soon as they cross the threshold inside, the warmth welcomes them like an embrace. The man guides them to the megaron, turning every once in a while to check on them, as though Clytemnestra didn’t know the way. When they reach the hall, the man motions them to wait outside. Standing by the closed door, they hear him announce them: “Queen Clytemnestra, my king.” “What are you waiting for? Let her in.” Menelaus’s voice, mocking the man. “Bring food and wine.” The door opens again and a servant runs outside, an empty platter in her hands. She nods quickly to Clytemnestra and disappears in the kitchen’s direction. Menelaus is seated in what was Tyndareus’s throne near the hearth. At his feet, two house dogs eat a long bone. The queen’s chair next to him, draped with lambskins, is empty. Thanks to the many lit torches that illuminate the frescoes, the room is even warmer than the rest of the palace. Clytemnestra walks toward the hearth, Leon close behind her. She stops by the images of running men, their bodies the color of hazelnut, and waits for her brother-in-law to speak. For what feels like a very long time, Menelaus keeps silent. He looks at her, pensive. His bronze hair has grown grayer with the years, but his face is still handsome. Finally, the servant comes back to the room, breathless and with a full platter, and Menelaus seems to wake from his trance. “Please, eat,” he says, smiling. “I am glad to have you here.” Clytemnestra picks up a piece of goat cheese and accepts the cup of wine the girl is offering her. “And I am glad to be back.” Menelaus smirks, as though her response was a jest. “You have a very strange family, Clytemnestra,” he says. She sips the wine. She doesn’t know where he is leading. Menelaus stretches in his throne and she notices the precious rings on his fingers, not the kind of jewelry a true Spartan would wear.


my neck and lifted my chin. The water hugged my waist, lapping higher with each step. When the water reached my shoulders, the ground disappeared below me. I lowered my arms and kicked, paddling through the tar-like water. The weight of the lake was a rebellion against logic, and my lungs burned for air before I was halfway across. Something long and slippery wrapped itself around my thigh, winding around my leg. It flitted away, but not before terror filled the limited capacity of my chest. Have you forgotten our first lesson? Panic erases all skill, any training. Keep your head and do what needs to be done, Hanim commanded. I tipped my chin back, keeping my face pointed to the sun as the water swallowed my neck. The water hardened. My legs slogged uselessly against the resistance. The lake caressed my cheeks, sliding at my lower lip. Is this how Fairel had woken up after the horses trampled her legs? Fairel, who had only wanted to protect Nadia’s chairs. She would never join the young women balancing pots on their heads as they ambled through Mahair. She would never chase the ducks escaping Yuli’s farm or scale Essam’s trees. Fairel would lead a full life, because her spirit demanded nothing less, but it was not the life she would have had if not for Felix of Omal. Pain pricked in my deadened arms. Magic flooded my body, and I gasped as sensation returned to my limbs. The water loosened around me, becoming malleable again. I swam, relishing the sharp discomfort of the cuffs, and nearly wept when I made contact with solid ground. I staggered from the lake. Any attempts to save my breath flew away as I panted like a dog in an Orbanian summer. I needed to find Timur. The sun sank lower in the sky, casting long shadows from the trees. It had passed like minutes, but I must have been in the lake close to an hour. As soon as I got to my feet, a shrieking bird dove toward me. I shielded my face as it tore into my sleeve, clawing my arm. I slashed my dagger at it and ran into the trees, leaping over bushes with vines writhing like serpents. Leaves sharper than glass rained around me. Timur should have finished crossing the lake already, unless he tried to cross at a wider juncture of the lake. If Mehti and Diya reached the bluff before me, Timur would lose his chance at the second trial. Without my interference, he could not cry sabotage to Vaida. He would not die in Ayume. I tore away a branch clinging to my vest, straining to hear the other Champions. A flock of birds screamed as they flew into the bladed leaves. Bloody feathers floated into my field of vision, and I stumbled over an eddy of water divorced from the lake. A rabbit lay sideways in the shallow pool, enveloped in the void but for a single, open eye. The battle of Ayume had warped this territory


seven?” he said. “I’ll bring the food and the new lab results.” “I’ll bring the wine,” Maud said. As Gabriel walked away toward the woods, she headed to the mansion. Where the lawn ended in a horseshoe of gravel, the building rose three stories, painted the color of milky tea and frosted with cornices and floral festoons. A century ago, Montgomery Place had been one of the finest estates in New York’s Hudson Valley, its grounds spreading for hundreds of acres through forest and field. This September, the gates would reopen with the mansion and grounds restored. Maud had been hired to turn back the clock to 1860 on the lawn she now crossed, once a labyrinthine formal garden. She planned to reseed the flowerbeds, remake the paths, and return the statues and urns to their positions. By mid-June, as the roots settled into the warming soil, she’d fill the conservatory with tropical plants. That was the plan, but only if she could figure out the location of those missing beds. Maud mounted the steps of the mansion, feeling deflated. She wanted to resurrect the original garden, not some inauthentic, shrunken version. And she knew from her fifteen years of experience as a landscape historian in England that sometimes you failed. Sometimes you never found the documents listing the original plants. Sometimes the soil didn’t turn up seeds or chemical traces and the stone wall you were sure had run through a sea of ivy turned out to be an errant mark on a faulty map. Garden archaeology was notoriously difficult. Despite Gabriel’s encouragement, she knew that he was losing hope too. At the side door to the house, she stopped under a portico to take in the view, a balm to her nerves. A skirt of lawn swept to a marble balustrade that crowned a slope of thistle and goldenrod. Fields rolled into grizzled oak forest, and then the land dove into the river. On the opposite shore, the Catskill Mountains cut smooth shadows out of the sky. Taking a long breath of the perfumed air, Maud squared her shoulders and went inside. The archives were on the top floor and to reach them she needed to get by Harriet Tagley, the director of Montgomery Place, whom she’d seen at a window several times that morning, watching her and Gabriel. She could hear Harriet now in the library, listening to jazz as she sorted books. Quietly, Maud coaxed off her boots and put on the velvet slippers used to protect the fragile floors, then passed through the foyer under the spun-sugar chandelier. The restoration of the house’s lower floor was already done. The dining room table was set for an eighteenth-century dinner: a plaster roast, ringed by plastic grapes, throned in a cornucopia of silver and crystal. Behind gilded mirrors, the wallpaper bloomed with poppies and dripped with ivy. Upstairs, however, the floors were still carpeted and the rooms furnished for the 1960s. At the end of an avocado-green hallway, a spool of plastic sheeting and a heap of power tools


be bent for the greater good. For the glory of His promises to be fulfilled.” Anton’s hand lifted, a finger tracing over one of the golden rays on his pendant. “He forgives His faithful, always. For everything.” Lore swallowed. Tightened her fists in her skirt. The shame didn’t dissipate, but she managed to shove it down, push it somewhere to stay until she dealt with it later. “I failed,” she said, shaking her head, returning to the matter at hand instead of an existential one she couldn’t parse yet. “We learned absolutely nothing about what’s happening in the villages.” They’ve awakened. It still reverberated in her head, that awful whisper from a dead mouth. They’ve awakened. She’d asked the dead boy what happened to him, and she didn’t think the dead could lie. It was an answer of some kind, but not one that made any sense. “It doesn’t matter, on this first attempt.” August waved a hand as he stepped through the small door of the vault, ducking so his crown didn’t knock into the lintel. Despite his look of confused near-terror when he heard the corpse speak, he looked in good spirits now, almost excited. “You made it talk. That’s what we wanted.” Her brows knit. “But I didn’t—” “In time,” August said. It might’ve been reassuring coming from anyone else. From him, it sounded like the extension of a sentence. “We’ll try again.” “The body won’t keep,” Anton said quietly. “It will have to be moved.” “Burn it.” Another wave of August’s hand, careless. “There will be another.” “Yes.” August’s eyes flickered to Lore, then away. “Now that Kirythea has begun, I don’t expect them to stop.” “So you’re still convinced it’s Kirythea?” Lore asked. “Who else could it be?” August pulled his flask from within his cloak and took another sip. Anton’s nose wrinkled, but the Priest Exalted didn’t comment on his brother’s indiscretions. “And speaking of Kirythea—did you attend Bastian’s soiree last night?” “Sure did.” Lore stared at the door to the vault behind him. It gaped open enough for her to see the body prostrate on his plinth. “But I didn’t find out anything important, so it wasn’t exactly a success.” “In time,” August repeated. “You’ll learn something in time.” Anton’s pendant swung, the garnet blood drop sparkling. “Well,” he said, redirecting the conversation away from Bastian, “not to worry. We’ll try again. Perhaps a different corpse will have more to say. This one was just a child.” August nodded, once. Lore felt sick again. “So I… what do you want me to do while…” “Enjoy the Citadel, Lore.” August turned around, headed back the way they came, to the narrow tunnel and the alcove-lined hallway beyond. “You’re an officially introduced member of the court. Make friends, find lovers, amuse yourself as you see fit. Just make sure you do it all while staying near my son.” Behind August, the muscles on the unscarred side of Anton’s face tightened. “And I’ll let you know when we have another corpse for you to raise,” August continued. “I’m


libido. The damn thing had a personality now and it wanted to know why it hadn’t been pampered since their wedding night. She definitely hadn’t exfoliated and lotioned herself to death hoping something might accidentally happen again. Of course not. They were in the midst of a war! What was his first move going to be? She didn’t know his prank style yet. What if he shaved off one of her eyebrows? That was exactly the kind of nonsubtle action her husband would take. Had she gotten herself in too deep? Why was exhilaration spinning in her tummy like a Ferris wheel? Who got this much enjoyment out of a fake husband? Was she doing it wrong? Obviously, yes. A ping on her laptop signaled an incoming email. She was on the verge of assuming it was an advertisement when she noticed Claudia’s name. Why was her business partner emailing her so late? With no subject line? Frowning, Natalie opened the email and found a short message: Sorry if I’m the first one to tell you, just didn’t want you to be blindsided this week. Below that cryptic statement was a link to a New York Times article. No, an engagement announcement. For Morrison and his new girlfriend. Her whole body beat once, a tingle at the crown of her head. Mostly out of shock. After that, she waited for the jealousy to rise up and drag her under. It never did. They were like two fictitious characters on the screen, smiling and two dimensional and so far away. What did those two people do for fun? Probably not a prank war. They definitely wouldn’t dance to “Brick House” at their wedding. But she hoped they had their own versions of those activities. She really did. Like, wow. She actually found herself truly hoping they would be happy. How evolved was that? Thanks for letting me know, Natalie typed back. I’ll send a fruit basket. She hit send and sat on the edge of the bed for another moment, still a little wary of the total lack of shits she gave over Morrison’s being engaged. What did that mean? A gruff rendition of “Love Train” being sung in the kitchen drew her attention. She set her laptop on the bedside table and promptly forgot about the news. It was time to face her fate. No more putting it off. Whatever comeuppance was in her future, she would take it like a woman and immediately begin plotting revenge. Would it be sugar replaced with salt in an evening coffee? Or maybe even an old-school whoopee cushion. That smacked of August— As soon as she opened her bedroom door, a bucket of water turned over and rained down on her head. It was like that famous scene from Flashdance, except she wasn’t wearing a sexy leotard and the absolute soaking wasn’t voluntary. No cinematic value whatsoever. Standing at the stove and laughing like a psychotic hyena, August snapped a picture with his phone. “Photographic evidence. Bet you wish you’d thought of that.” Natalie was


His fingers sought his long nose. "What is it, Heck?" said Atticus. Mr. Tate found his neck and rubbed it. "Bob Ewell's lyin' on the ground under that tree down yonder with a kitchen knife stuck up under his ribs. He's dead, Mr. Finch." 29 Aunt Alexandra got up and reached for the mantelpiece. Mr. Tate rose, but she declined assistance. For once in his life, Atticus's instinctive courtesy failed him: he sat where he was. Somehow, I could think of nothing but Mr. Bob Ewell saying he'd get Atticus if it took him the rest of his life. Mr. Ewell almost got him, and it was the last thing he did. "Are you sure?" Atticus said bleakly. "He's dead all right," said Mr. Tate. "He's good and dead. He won't hurt these children again." "I didn't mean that." Atticus seemed to be talking in his sleep. His age was beginning to show, his one sign of inner turmoil, the strong line of his jaw melted a little, one became aware of telltale creases forming under his ears, one noticed not his jet-black hair but the gray patches growing at his temples. "Hadn't we better go to the livingroom?" Aunt Alexandra said at last. "If you don't mind," said Mr. Tate, "I'd rather us stay in here if it won't hurt Jem any. I want to have a look at his injuries while Scout... tells us about it." "Is it all right if I leave?" she asked. "I'm just one person too many in here. I'll be in my room if you want me, Atticus." Aunt Alexandra went to the door, but she stopped and turned. "Atticus, I had a feeling about this tonight- I- this is my fault," she began. "I should have-" Mr. Tate held up his hand. "You go ahead, Miss Alexandra, I know it's been a shock to you. And don't you fret yourself about anything- why, if we followed our feelings all the time we'd be like cats chasin' their tails. Miss Scout, see if you can tell us what happened, while it's still fresh in your mind. You think you can? Did you see him following you?" I went to Atticus and felt his arms go around me. I buried my head in his lap. "We started home. I said Jem, I've forgot m'shoes. Soon's we started back for 'em the lights went out. Jem said I could get 'em tomorrow...." "Scout, raise up so Mr. Tate can hear you," Atticus said. I crawled into his lap. "Then Jem said hush a minute. I thought he was thinkin'- he always wants you to hush so he can think- then he said he heard somethin'. We thought it was Cecil." "Cecil?" "Cecil Jacobs. He scared us once tonight, an' we thought it was him again. He had on a sheet. They gave a quarter for the best costume, I don't know who won it-" "Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?" "Just a little piece from the schoolhouse. I yelled somethin' at him-" "You yelled,


air about it, and a sunny spaciousness which invited the mind to day-dreaming. The trimness of the trees, the vivid whiteness of the houses, the breadth, were very agreeable; and he felt himself already thoroughly at home. He sauntered along, staring at the people; there seemed an elegance about the most ordinary, workmen with their broad red sashes and their wide trousers, little soldiers in dingy, charming uniforms. He came presently to the Avenue de l'Observatoire, and he gave a sigh of pleasure at the magnificent, yet so graceful, vista. He came to the gardens of the Luxembourg: children were playing, nurses with long ribbons walked slowly two by two, busy men passed through with satchels under their arms, youths strangely dressed. The scene was formal and dainty; nature was arranged and ordered, but so exquisitely, that nature unordered and unarranged seemed barbaric. Philip was enchanted. It excited him to stand on that spot of which he had read so much; it was classic ground to him; and he felt the awe and the delight which some old don might feel when for the first time he looked on the smiling plain of Sparta. As he wandered he chanced to see Miss Price sitting by herself on a bench. He hesitated, for he did not at that moment want to see anyone, and her uncouth way seemed out of place amid the happiness he felt around him; but he had divined her sensitiveness to affront, and since she had seen him thought it would be polite to speak to her. "What are you doing here?" she said, as he came up. "Enjoying myself. Aren't you?" "Oh, I come here every day from four to five. I don't think one does any good if one works straight through." "May I sit down for a minute?" he said. "If you want to." "That doesn't sound very cordial," he laughed. "I'm not much of a one for saying pretty things." Philip, a little disconcerted, was silent as he lit a cigarette. "Did Clutton say anything about my work?" she asked suddenly. "No, I don't think he did," said Philip. "He's no good, you know. He thinks he's a genius, but he isn't. He's too lazy, for one thing. Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. The only thing is to peg away. If one only makes up one's mind badly enough to do a thing one can't help doing it." She spoke with a passionate strenuousness which was rather striking. She wore a sailor hat of black straw, a white blouse which was not quite clean, and a brown skirt. She had no gloves on, and her hands wanted washing. She was so unattractive that Philip wished he had not begun to talk to her. He could not make out whether she wanted him to stay or go. "I'll do anything I can for you," she said all at once, without reference to anything that had gone before. "I know how hard it is." "Thank you very much," said Philip, then in a moment:


me: I had leaped triumphantly into a ring of people I had never seen before. Atticus got up from his chair, but he was moving slowly, like an old man. He put the newspaper down very carefully, adjusting its creases with lingering fingers. They were trembling a little. "Go home, Jem," he said. "Take Scout and Dill home." We were accustomed to prompt, if not always cheerful acquiescence to Atticus's instructions, but from the way he stood Jem was not thinking of budging. "Go home, I said." Jem shook his head. As Atticus's fists went to his hips, so did Jem's, and as they faced each other I could see little resemblance between them: Jem's soft brown hair and eyes, his oval face and snug-fitting ears were our mother's, contrasting oddly with Atticus's graying black hair and square-cut features, but they were somehow alike. Mutual defiance made them alike. "Son, I said go home." Jem shook his head. "I'll send him home," a burly man said, and grabbed Jem roughly by the collar. He yanked Jem nearly off his feet. "Don't you touch him!" I kicked the man swiftly. Barefooted, I was surprised to see him fall back in real pain. I intended to kick his shin, but aimed too high. "That'll do, Scout." Atticus put his hand on my shoulder. "Don't kick folks. No-" he said, as I was pleading justification. "Ain't nobody gonna do Jem that way," I said. "All right, Mr. Finch, get 'em outa here," someone growled. "You got fifteen seconds to get 'em outa here." In the midst of this strange assembly, Atticus stood trying to make Jem mind him. "I ain't going," was his steady answer to Atticus's threats, requests, and finally, "Please Jem, take them home." I was getting a bit tired of that, but felt Jem had his own reasons for doing as he did, in view of his prospects once Atticus did get him home. I looked around the crowd. It was a summer's night, but the men were dressed, most of them, in overalls and denim shirts buttoned up to the collars. I thought they must be cold-natured, as their sleeves were unrolled and buttoned at the cuffs. Some wore hats pulled firmly down over their ears. They were sullen-looking, sleepy-eyed men who seemed unused to late hours. I sought once more for a familiar face, and at the center of the semi-circle I found one. "Hey, Mr. Cunningham." The man did not hear me, it seemed. "Hey, Mr. Cunningham. How's your entailment gettin' along?" Mr. Walter Cunningham's legal affairs were well known to me; Atticus had once described them at length. The big man blinked and hooked his thumbs in his overall straps. He seemed uncomfortable; he cleared his throat and looked away. My friendly overture had fallen flat. Mr. Cunningham wore no hat, and the top half of his forehead was white in contrast to his sunscorched face, which led me to believe that he wore one most days. He shifted his feet, clad in heavy work shoes. "Don't you