condolences in person.” Unlike Marion’s father, who’d toned down his accent, Tommy spoke like a true born-and-bred New Yorker. “It’s okay, I saw you there, and I’m so glad you—and your mom—have been there for my father.” “Of course. Now, what do you need from me?” Marion explained about Peter’s offer to help with the investigation. “He’s got a gift with this sort of thing; I saw it myself. I need to get him in there to meet with the detectives.” Tommy cocked his head. “Why don’t you make an appointment yourself? You don’t need me to make introductions.” “I tried that already. They figure I’m some crazy grieving relative and refuse to take me seriously.” His expression was guarded. “What do you want me to do exactly?” “Get me in there, with Peter—I mean, Dr. Griggs—and we’ll take it from there.” “What are the cops’ names?” “It’s a Detective Ogden and a Captain Somers.” “Yikes. You gotta realize I’m just a beat cop. They outrank me and may not respond well to any meddling on my part.” Marion’s heart sank. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to get you into any trouble. I was only hoping . . .” She trailed off. “I’ll do it, don’t worry your head about that. But I can’t promise anything.” “Of course. I can’t thank you enough.” Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Peter loping along the sidewalk. Without his white doctor’s coat, he looked very young and very uncertain, almost bumping into a young woman because he was too busy staring up at the grand copper dome of headquarters. Tommy turned to see what she was looking at. “Is that him?” “It is.” “Huh. Okay.” Marion made the introductions, restraining herself from reaching up and straightening Peter’s tie. “Tommy—I mean Officer Hornsby—is a dear friend of the family,” she said to Peter. “I’d do anything for the Brooks family,” said Tommy as he shook Peter’s hand. “They’ve taken good care of my mother all these years.” “More like she’s taken good care of us,” said Marion. “No, your pop has done more for my family than you’ll ever know. He’s a stand-up guy, your dad. You ready to storm the battlements?” Peter looked a little woozy at the idea, his lips red against his pale skin. Maybe this was a total mistake. But it was the only thing she could think of. It had to work. Tommy led the way into the building and up to the third floor. Ogden and Somers were standing right outside Somers’s office, coffee cups in hand, deep in conversation. Tommy headed straight to them, and they both smiled widely at first, but then caught sight of Marion and exchanged a quick glance. “Tommy, shouldn’t you be out finding pickpockets or whatever you do these days?” said Somers. Even though he was teasing, there was a warmth in his voice. Everyone loved Tommy. “I’ve caught them all, if you can believe it.” “I certainly can. Nice to see you downtown. And I see you have


A single tear slides down her cheek. “Please tell me you weren’t afraid I wouldn’t love you anymore.” I can only look at her, apologetic. “Oh, honey.” My eyes are burning, too. “I’m so sorry.” “Elsie. Elsie.” She takes one slow step toward me. Then another. Then two more and we’re clutching each other in a way we haven’t for a long time, ever maybe, and I’m thinking that she smells like cheese and flowers and something ineffably homey and comforting. “I will love you forever,” she says into my hair. “Even if you’re an animal with no taste.” “I know. I’m just . . .” She pulls back to look at me. “Incredibly messed up?” “Yeah.” My laugh is wet. “That.” “It’s okay. It’s not like I’m any better,” she says darkly. Her slight shoulders rise and fall. “Anything else you’ve been faking?” “Not really.” I scratch my nose. “Flushable wipes are not really flushable.” “Oh.” She cocks her head. “Is that . . . something you were faking?” “Not really, but you should stop using them.” “Okay.” She nods. “My poor butt.” “Oh, and Hedgie and I hate each other.” Her eyes narrow. “Now you’re making shit up.” “I call her the p-word when you’re gone.” “The p-word?” “Pincushi—” “Don’t you dare say it. We’re her moms!” “I consider myself more of an evil stepmother.” She slaps my arm. “Who even are you?” I try to swallow, but my throat is stuffed full. So I settle for holding out my hand and meet Cece’s eyes squarely for what feels like the first time. “I’m Elsie. And I really like cheese, particle physics, and movies with sparkly vampires.” She takes it with a watery smile. “I’m Celeste.” Her fingers are sticky, a little gross. I love her so much. “I’m sure that we’ll be the best of friends.” 26 L I Q U I D C R Y S TA L S I RINSE THE DIRTY CHEDDAR RESCUED FROM THE FLOOR , THINKING , We should probably sweep more often; I hope we don’t get tetanus—just as Cece stands triumphantly with the last three blocks in hand and says, “This floor is surprisingly clean!” I smile into the swirling drain. “So.” She leans against the sink, arms crossed. “How much of you coming out as a lying liar has to do with Jack?” I sober up and kill the faucet. “It’s not . . .” I shake my head. “It’s a mess.” “What is?” My heart wrings. “Everything.” “But you had your sex-cation the other weekend.” I heat up. “We didn’t really . . .” I notice her raised eyebrow and abort my Deny the Obvious mission. “Have you seen Kirk recently?” “This is such an unskilled deflection attempt, I’m just gonna pretend it never happened. So, what exactly isn’t going on between you and the Jackster?” “Whatever it seemed like . . . Wherever we were going, we . . .” I grab the dishcloth. We should probably clean that, too. “I think that might be nowhere.” “How come?” I


on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son," repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward. Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently thought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that if she were to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends' imaginations. With such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very cross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;-- for when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to her, "We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see two more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank. I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a fortnight." Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party quite complete. "He has been wanting to come to us," continued Mr. Weston, "ever since September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.


lyric, to me: “Weighted by the memory of / The memory of a love that never got born” </3 Okay, so this is my favorite record, a live recording that’s just Tim Reynolds and Dave and a couple of acoustic guitars playing a bunch of hits in front of a friendly college audience that doesn’t scream out any rude stuff. Dave starts by telling this story about how he saw a hot, very small—but not a child—adult human woman on the street and he asked her for directions, and she gave them to him and left. After she’d gone he was like “DAMN, THAT GIRL WAS FINE,” but it was too late. He couldn’t ask her name or suggest they get a cup of coffee, his chance for romance with this woman he met on some grimy New York City street was dead, and now her voice was going to echo in his ear, tormenting him until he dies or until he sees another hot young elf on a different street. I love this song because Dave spends a lot of it singing in his gorgeous falsetto, and also because I, too, like to project a complicated fantasy onto a person I saw on the street for approximately nineteen seconds. * * * — I once had to wrestle my original 1994 CD of Under the Table and Dreaming from the greedy clutches of a dude who had broken into my room to try to steal my shit at the boardinghouse where we both lived. The only other thing of value I had at that time was a used, scorched-up Rowenta iron. The album meant that much to me, and also my car had broken down. And I didn’t want to take the bus all the way to Best Buy to replace it, and if we’re being honest—I would absolutely fistfight him again today. My love for “Typical Situation” knows no bounds. So here’s the thing, women of a certain age (forty-three years old, to be precise), who no longer get their period and can’t eat dairy anymore, need romantic music to vibe to. Of course, when I was a wee lass of twenty-two freezing my face off waiting for the L at Granville at seven thirty in the morning, I did so while listening to Trina rapping about grinding on a dick. But listen, I use a retinoid before bed every night now. I am officially in my smooth-jazz adult contemporary years! And yeah, I listen to a lot of metal or whatever in the daytime. But I like to sit in my chair with my eyes closed, swaying to gentle songs and imagining Dave is singing to me when it’s the middle of the night and I’m spiraling. 4. “Here On Out” most romantic lyric, to me: “When you laugh, it’s like a light / That fills me up” This song has a lot of guitar plucking but also a whole orchestra playing on it, which is how you know it’s a “Very Serious Love Song.” Anytime you hear a


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

sob. --He was the handsomest man in Cork at that time, by God he was! The women used to stand to look after him in the street. He heard the sob passing loudly down his father's throat and opened his eyes with a nervous impulse. The sunlight breaking suddenly on his sight turned the sky and clouds into a fantastic world of sombre masses with lakelike spaces of dark rosy light. His very brain was sick and powerless. He could scarcely interpret the letters of the signboards of the shops. By his monstrous way of life he seemed to have put himself beyond the limits of reality. Nothing moved him or spoke to him from the real world unless he heard in it an echo of the infuriated cries within him. He could respond to no earthly or human appeal, dumb and insensible to the call of summer and gladness and companionship, wearied and dejected by his father's voice. He could scarcely recognize as his own thoughts, and repeated slowly to himself: --I am Stephen Dedalus. I am walking beside my father whose name is Simon Dedalus. We are in Cork, in Ireland. Cork is a city. Our room is in the Victoria Hotel. Victoria and Stephen and Simon. Simon and Stephen and Victoria. Names. The memory of his childhood suddenly grew dim. He tried to call forth some of its vivid moments but could not. He recalled only names. Dante, Parnell, Clane, Clongowes. A little boy had been taught geography by an old woman who kept two brushes in her wardrobe. Then he had been sent away from home to a college, he had made his first communion and eaten slim jim out of his cricket cap and watched the firelight leaping and dancing on the wall of a little bedroom in the infirmary and dreamed of being dead, of mass being said for him by the rector in a black and gold cope, of being buried then in the little graveyard of the community off the main avenue of limes. But he had not died then. Parnell had died. There had been no mass for the dead in the chapel and no procession. He had not died but he had faded out like a film in the sun. He had been lost or had wandered out of existence for he no longer existed. How strange to think of him passing out of existence in such a way, not by death but by fading out in the sun or by being lost and forgotten somewhere in the universe! It was strange to see his small body appear again for a moment: a little boy in a grey belted suit. His hands were in his side-pockets and his trousers were tucked in at the knees by elastic bands. On the evening of the day on which the property was sold Stephen followed his father meekly about the city from bar to bar. To the sellers in the market, to the barmen and barmaids, to the beggars who importuned him for a lob


and to medicine. From my mother, in particular, I learned that in medicine we must look at the entire cosmos—both within and without the body. Are they in harmony?” He gestures to me. “What pride I have in this moment to see that my daughter has learned to see these patterns not only in those who ail but in the world around her, which is how she was able to bring this matter to me. Just as my daughter or my parents might have felt the pulses, asked questions, and so on, I now follow a similar course to find what in the evidence is out of harmony with the cosmos and what traces have been left behind that reveal past movements.” My father pauses so his secretaries can take down all his words. Once their brushes stop moving, he picks up again. “Fame is a dream some men chase. Sometimes they catch it and manage to hold on to it as if hanging on to the tail of a kite in a tempest. Sometimes they are blinded by desire for recognition or influence, as if they have drunk a flask of fairy wine. We are talking about the basic elements of yin and yang, are we not? The constant push and pull between good and evil, love and hate, honor and disgrace, all of which follow each other in an unending cycle. In this case, Doctor Wong, you were not alone in your misdeeds. I now ask Midwife Shi and Miss Chen to stand next to you.” Once the two women are in place, my father says, “All punishments are dictated by the Great Ming Code: beheading, banishment, penal servitude, and flogging.” Hearing these words, Midwife Shi seems resigned. Miss Chen stays silent beneath her veil. Doctor Wong goes pale, perhaps reconsidering his choice of the coward’s way. “I will begin with Midwife Shi,” my father goes on. “The punishment for lying at an inquest is severe—one hundred blows with a heavy rod.” “No!” Meiling cries out. This is far worse than what she received at the palace. My father ignores the outburst. “While the Great Ming Code says I can’t suspend a sentence, it can be reduced, which I believe is warranted in this case. After all, Midwife Shi—as a woman and as one of the Six Grannies—could not disobey Doctor Wong’s orders. At the same time, we must admire her Confucian fealty. She sacrificed her reputation to secure her daughter’s future. That daughter—another member of the Six Grannies—has also exhibited the precepts of Confucius. In helping to expose Doctor Wong, Young Midwife has helped clear her mother’s name. Midwife Shi will receive one hundred blows from the lightest bamboo rod available in the district.” Hearing the sentence, Meiling’s mother remains as still as stone. Miss Chen’s veil—light and diaphanous—trembles. “As for Miss Chen,” my father says, “she is property. I leave her punishment to Master Yang. But if it were me, I’d have the concubine banished from the household immediately.” He couldn’t know that Miss Chen has already been


their shoulders. The gutted carcass of a pig swung from the stake, swinging heavily as the twins toiled over the uneven ground. The pig's head hung down with gaping neck and seemed to search for something on the ground. At last the words of the chant floated up to them, across the bowl of blackened wood and ashes. "_Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Spill her blood._" Yet as the words became audible, the procession reached the steepest part of the mountain, and in a minute or two the chant had died away. Piggy sniveled and Simon shushed him quickly as though he had spoken too loudly in church. Jack, his face smeared with clays, reached the top first and hailed Ralph excitedly, with lifted spear. "Look! We've killed a pig--we stole up on them--we got in a circle--" Voices broke in from the hunters. "We got in a circle--" "We crept up--" "The pig squealed--" The twins stood with the pig swinging between them, dropping black gouts on the rock. They seemed to share one wide, ecstatic grin. Jack had too many things to tell Ralph at once. Instead, he danced a step or two, then remembered his dignity and stood still, grinning. He noticed blood on his hands and grimaced distastefully, looked for something on which to clean them, then wiped them on his shorts and laughed. Ralph spoke. "You let the fire go out." Jack checked, vaguely irritated by this irrelevance but too happy to let it worry him. "We can light the fire again. You should have been with us, Ralph. We had a smashing time. The twins got knocked over--" "We hit the pig--" "--I fell on top--" "I cut the pig's throat," said Jack, proudly, and yet twitched as he said it. "Can I borrow yours, Ralph, to make a nick in the hilt?" The boys chattered and danced. The twins continued to grin. "There was lashings of blood," said Jack, laughing and shuddering, "you should have seen it!" "We'll go hunting every day--" Ralph spoke again, hoarsely. He had not moved. "You let the fire go out." This repetition made Jack uneasy. He looked at the twins and then back at Ralph. "We had to have them in the hunt," he said, "or there wouldn't have been enough for a ring." He flushed, conscious of a fault. "The fire's only been out an hour or two. We can light up again--" He noticed Ralph's scarred nakedness, and the sombre silence of all four of them. He sought, charitable in his happiness, to include them in the thing that had happened. His mind was crowded with memories; memories of the knowledge that had come to them when they closed in on the struggling pig, knowledge that they had outwitted a living thing, imposed their will upon it, taken away its life like a long satisfying drink. He spread his arms wide. "You should have seen the blood!" The hunters were more silent now, but at this they buzzed again. Ralph flung back his hair. One arm


thing mentioned without ceremony. -- If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.'' ``It is difficult indeed -- it is distressing. -- One does not know what to think.'' ``I beg your pardon; -- one knows exactly what to think.'' But Jane could think with certainty on only one point, -- that Mr. Bingley, if he _had_ _been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public. The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where this conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities. The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card; Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attention of their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of every thing in Mr. Darcy's looks and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia, depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she had no disinclination for it. ``While I can have my mornings to myself,'' said she, ``it is enough. -- I think it no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for every body.'' Elizabeth's spirits were so high on the occasion that, though she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and, if he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop, or Lady


class="s1">

I looked down, highly dubious. How long will this take?

300

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

Day or two.

No good. I need a solution now.

Mike and I worked out a plan. I could write a letter to Meg, which he’d

take home with him to Maun. Teej could then photograph the letter and

text it to Meg. (She had Meg’s number on her phone: I’d given it to her

when she first went to collect Meg from the airport.)

Now I just had to write that letter.

The first challenge was finding a pen among that bunch of muppets.

Does anyone have a pen?

A what?

A pen.

I’ve got an EpiPen!

No! A pen. A biro! My kingdom for a biro!

Oh. A biro. Wow.

Somehow I found one. The next challenge was finding a place to

compose.

I went off under a tree.

I thought. I stared into space. I wrote:

Hey Beautiful. OK you got me—cant stop thinking about you, missing

you, LOTS. Phone went in river. Sad face...Apart from that, having an

amazing time. Wish u were here.

Mike left, letter in hand.

Days later, wrapping up the boat part of the lads’ trip, we returned to

Maun. We met up with Teej, who immediately said: Relax, I’ve already

had a reply.

So it hadn’t been a dream. Meg was real. All of it was real.

Among other things, Meg said in her reply that she was eager to speak

to me.

Jubilant, I went off on the second part of the lads’ trip, into the Moremi

forest. This time I brought a sat phone. While everyone was finishing

dinner I found a clearing and climbed the tallest tree, thinking the

reception might be better.

I dialed


up, till the succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started away, to forget it, if possible, at the social board. St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed, that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but she considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke so eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause of grief which he concealed from her. On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she more than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness; now, all was silent and forsaken. But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after week passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly declined in health; though Emily, who had been so constantly with him, was almost the last person who observed it. His constitution had never recovered from the late attack of the fever, and the succeeding shock it received from Madame St. Aubert's death had produced its present infirmity. His physician now ordered him to travel; for it was perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they had been by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable, would, by amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone. For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he, by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey--a purpose which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emily seldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or remonstrances, or she would now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have represented that his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eve of their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she was extremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so. 'To save expences, my dear,' he replied--'we are going on an expensive excursion.' The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St. Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores of the Mediterranean, towards Provence. They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure; but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock had struck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some of her drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the parlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her father's room, and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he was in his study--for, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently his custom to rise from his


out of me, metaphorically speaking, to drown anybody in; and yet there would have remained enough within me, and all over me, to pervade my entire existence. The first thing I did, on my own account, when I came back, was to take a night-walk to Norwood, and, like the subject of a venerable riddle of my childhood, to go 'round and round the house, without ever touching the house', thinking about Dora. I believe the theme of this incomprehensible conundrum was the moon. No matter what it was, I, the moon-struck slave of Dora, perambulated round and round the house and garden for two hours, looking through crevices in the palings, getting my chin by dint of violent exertion above the rusty nails on the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and romantically calling on the night, at intervals, to shield my Dora - I don't exactly know what from, I suppose from fire. Perhaps from mice, to which she had a great objection. My love was so much in my mind and it was so natural to me to confide in Peggotty, when I found her again by my side of an evening with the old set of industrial implements, busily making the tour of my wardrobe, that I imparted to her, in a sufficiently roundabout way, my great secret. Peggotty was strongly interested, but I could not get her into my view of the case at all. She was audaciously prejudiced in my favour, and quite unable to understand why I should have any misgivings, or be low-spirited about it. 'The young lady might think herself well off,' she observed, 'to have such a beau. And as to her Pa,' she said, 'what did the gentleman expect, for gracious sake!' I observed, however, that Mr. Spenlow's proctorial gown and stiff cravat took Peggotty down a little, and inspired her with a greater reverence for the man who was gradually becoming more and more etherealized in my eyes every day, and about whom a reflected radiance seemed to me to beam when he sat erect in Court among his papers, like a little lighthouse in a sea of stationery. And by the by, it used to be uncommonly strange to me to consider, I remember, as I sat in Court too, how those dim old judges and doctors wouldn't have cared for Dora, if they had known her; how they wouldn't have gone out of their senses with rapture, if marriage with Dora had been proposed to them; how Dora might have sung, and played upon that glorified guitar, until she led me to the verge of madness, yet not have tempted one of those slow-goers an inch out of his road! I despised them, to a man. Frozen-out old gardeners in the flower-beds of the heart, I took a personal offence against them all. The Bench was nothing to me but an insensible blunderer. The Bar had no more tenderness or poetry in it, than the bar of a public-house. Taking the management of Peggotty's affairs


and said, "Is it Joe?" And the dear old home-voice answered, "Which it air, old chap." "O Joe, you break my heart! Look angry at me, Joe. Strike me, Joe. Tell me of my ingratitude. Don't be so good to me!" For, Joe had actually laid his head down on the pillow at my side and put his arm round my neck, in his joy that I knew him. "Which dear old Pip, old chap," said Joe, "you and me was ever friends. And when you're well enough to go out for a ride - what larks!" After which, Joe withdrew to the window, and stood with his back towards me, wiping his eyes. And as my extreme weakness prevented me from getting up and going to him, I lay there, penitently whispering, "O God bless him! O God bless this gentle Christian man!" Joe's eyes were red when I next found him beside me; but, I was holding his hand, and we both felt happy. "How long, dear Joe?" "Which you meantersay, Pip, how long have your illness lasted, dear old chap?" "Yes, Joe." "It's the end of May, Pip. To-morrow is the first of June." "And have you been here all that time, dear Joe?" "Pretty nigh, old chap. For, as I says to Biddy when the news of your being ill were brought by letter, which it were brought by the post and being formerly single he is now married though underpaid for a deal of walking and shoe-leather, but wealth were not a object on his part, and marriage were the great wish of his hart--" "It is so delightful to hear you, Joe! But I interrupt you in what you said to Biddy." "Which it were," said Joe, "that how you might be amongst strangers, and that how you and me having been ever friends, a wisit at such a moment might not prove unacceptabobble. And Biddy, her word were, 'Go to him, without loss of time.' That," said Joe, summing up with his judicial air, "were the word of Biddy. 'Go to him,' Biddy say, 'without loss of time.' In short, I shouldn't greatly deceive you," Joe added, after a little grave reflection, "if I represented to you that the word of that young woman were, 'without a minute's loss of time.'" There Joe cut himself short, and informed me that I was to be talked to in great moderation, and that I was to take a little nourishment at stated frequent times, whether I felt inclined for it or not, and that I was to submit myself to all his orders. So, I kissed his hand, and lay quiet, while he proceeded to indite a note to Biddy, with my love in it. Evidently, Biddy had taught Joe to write. As I lay in bed looking at him, it made me, in my weak state, cry again with pleasure to see the pride with which he set about his letter. My bedstead, divested of its curtains, had been removed, with me upon it, into the


where earlier Catalina had loomed in the distance and container ships had wallowed at anchor in the long lineup for the port of Long Beach. At the moment, all is formless—rushing rain, billowing mist, the ocean a gray amorphia of swells and swales and flung spume. He is at all times linked to the internet by electromagnetic waves produced and managed by his own strangely altered physiology. Without need of a computer, he can for the most part reach into any website or digitized archives with which he is familiar, pore through its content, and access whatever information he needs in seconds, while remaining entirely aware of—and active in—the real world. In addition, if he plants a data trigger in a system, he’ll be instantly notified when the event that he has anticipated in fact occurs; the alert will come in the form of a brief text message he created with the trigger, appearing as neon-blue letters in his mind’s eye, as though he’s a clairvoyant receiving a vision. Sometimes, when he is seeking to assemble and understand a complex chain of information, or when he knows what to seek but not quite where to seek it, he must enter the funhouse maze that mirrors this world in infinite fractal passageways, which is the internet and all linked computer systems, plunge into it rather than merely reach into it. In such a case, for the duration of his explorations, he loses all conscious awareness of the real place in which he exists. He closes his eyes and prepares to enter the wonders of that alternate world built of ones and zeros, which can seem as fluid and chaotic as any moment of any storm. He has learned that negotiating its megacomplexity of channels is easier if he visualizes himself proceeding in a form of transport—such as a car quickening through a multilayered labyrinth of highways or a sleek cigarette boat speeding through a planet of endless Venetian canals. This time, he imagines himself behind the wheel of a self-driving Tesla, speeding toward the destination that he speaks aloud to its AI driver. His body remains relaxed in the armchair as the Tesla rockets him from the real to the virtual. Although he knows that his body reposes in the library, he can no longer see the room; he can neither hear nor see the storm-tossed ocean beyond the windows. Because total immersion in an abstract world of coded data ferried on electromagnetic waves would confound the senses and be so disorienting that rampant panic might rapidly spiral into madness, the archaea-nano hybrid particles that have invaded Michael’s brain provide him with the ability to instantaneously translate that data into images that match the form of transportation that he has imagined. In this case, it’s a driverless Tesla on a highway system as fantastical as one that might be created if Christopher Nolan and George Lucas had collaborated on a science-fiction film based on an idea by Jorge Luis Borges. As he perceives them, the lanes are a wild ravelment snaking through a


you want to take it to Paris with you." "It'll be ready in time for that." "Only three more whole days. We'll go over by the eleven o'clock, shall we?" "If you like." He would have her for nearly a month entirely to himself. His eyes rested on her with hungry adoration. He was able to laugh a little at his own passion. "I wonder what it is I see in you," he smiled. "That's a nice thing to say," she answered. Her body was so thin that one could almost see her skeleton. Her chest was as flat as a boy's. Her mouth, with its narrow pale lips, was ugly, and her skin was faintly green. "I shall give you Blaud's Pills in quantities when we're away," said Philip, laughing. "I'm going to bring you back fat and rosy." "I don't want to get fat," she said. She did not speak of Griffiths, and presently while they were dining Philip half in malice, for he felt sure of himself and his power over her, said: "It seems to me you were having a great flirtation with Harry last night?" "I told you I was in love with him," she laughed. "I'm glad to know that he's not in love with you." "How d'you know?" "I asked him." She hesitated a moment, looking at Philip, and a curious gleam came into her eyes. "Would you like to read a letter I had from him this morning?" She handed him an envelope and Philip recognised Griffiths' bold, legible writing. There were eight pages. It was well written, frank and charming; it was the letter of a man who was used to making love to women. He told Mildred that he loved her passionately, he had fallen in love with her the first moment he saw her; he did not want to love her, for he knew how fond Philip was of her, but he could not help himself. Philip was such a dear, and he was very much ashamed of himself, but it was not his fault, he was just carried away. He paid her delightful compliments. Finally he thanked her for consenting to lunch with him next day and said he was dreadfully impatient to see her. Philip noticed that the letter was dated the night before; Griffiths must have written it after leaving Philip, and had taken the trouble to go out and post it when Philip thought he was in bed. He read it with a sickening palpitation of his heart, but gave no outward sign of surprise. He handed it back to Mildred with a smile, calmly. "Did you enjoy your lunch?" "Rather," she said emphatically. He felt that his hands were trembling, so he put them under the table. "You mustn't take Griffiths too seriously. He's just a butterfly, you know." She took the letter and looked at it again. "I can't help it either," she said, in a voice which she tried to make nonchalant. "I don't know what's come over me." "It's a little awkward for


a deep green halter dress, kissed his cheek. “He’s just too good for this world, isn’t he?” The two have been inseparable since season 2 started airing, rarely seen in public without the other. When asked if there might be wedding bells in their future, Walsh laughed. “Nah, we’re too young for that,” he said. “Right now, we’re just having fun.” chapter eight PORTLAND, OR The Nocturnals changed my life. You changed my life. I’ve seen the whole show nine times, and I have all the original DVDs. And I actually majored in biology because of you.” The girl’s shirt says I’d Much Rather Be Unusual, which, from what I can understand, became something of a catchphrase for the show. Hux said it for the first time in season one, and then later repeated it to Meg when she insisted he find someone else so he could have a chance at a normal relationship. Finn smiles, swooping his signature over the photo while a staff member collects the girl’s $125. “I’m honored,” he says earnestly. “Thank you so much. Do you have a favorite season?” “Three, definitely,” she says. “When you and Meg were trapped in that snowstorm, and she had to protect you from that rival wolf pack . . . I rewatch that scene at least once a month.” “That might have been the coldest I’ve been in my entire life.” He passes back the autograph, then gets up for the photo. “One hundred percent worth it, though.” “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she says, squealing as he poses next to her in front of the Rose City Comic Con backdrop. I’m sitting behind Finn’s table, notebook perched in my lap. Everything I’ve written so far is woefully banal. Loves talking to fans. Smiles at everyone. Liked filming season 3. Someone’s going to show up to take away my journalism degree any moment. Finn’s level of fame clearly isn’t the getting-constantly-recognized-on-the-street kind—that didn’t happen to us in Seattle. I was surprised he chose somewhere so public for dinner last night, but aside from the girls who stopped by our table, no one seemed to bat an eye at him. And yet here, he’s a god. The costumes, the shirts with quotes from the show and his ship name, the fans who burst into tears or suddenly turn shy upon meeting him—I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m still a little starstruck by the whole thing, and I have to wonder if that’ll ever wear off. How long it took Finn to get used to it, or if it’s always seemed normal to him. To my complete shock, he hasn’t fired me yet. But there’s something off about him today, or as off as I can tell from having known the guy for a week. Last night’s conversation kept me awake, along with the too-loud humming of the HVAC in my room. At first, I was worried about feeling lonely in the hotel by myself, but my anxiety hasn’t left much room for anything else. How was your first day?!


only the ilex or the larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices where human foot had never wandered, into the glen--so deep, that the thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was scarcely heard to murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous height, and fantastic shape; some shooting into cones; others impending far over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often lodged a weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound, threatened to bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, on every side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms of grandeur--the long perspective of mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow; vallies of ice, and forests of gloomy fir. The serenity and clearness of the air in these high regions were particularly delightful to the travellers; it seemed to inspire them with a finer spirit, and diffused an indescribable complacency over their minds. They had no words to express the sublime emotions they felt. A solemn expression characterized the feelings of St. Aubert; tears often came to his eyes, and he frequently walked away from his companions. Valancourt now and then spoke, to point to Emily's notice some feature of the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere, through which every object came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded her; who could scarcely believe that objects, which appeared so near, were, in reality, so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes was broken only at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering round some cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air; except when the travellers listened to the hollow thunder that sometimes muttered at their feet. While, above, the deep blue of the heavens was unobscured by the lightest cloud, half way down the mountains, long billows of vapour were frequently seen rolling, now wholly excluding the country below, and now opening, and partially revealing its features. Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of these clouds as they changed in shape and tints, and to watch their various effect on the lower world, whose features, partly veiled, were continually assuming new forms of sublimity. After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descend towards Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene. Yet the travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublime objects they had quitted; though the eye, fatigued with the extension of its powers, was glad to repose on the verdure of woods and pastures, that now hung on the margin of the river below; to view again the humble cottage shaded by cedars, the playful group of mountaineer-children, and the flowery nooks that appeared among the hills. As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the grand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements and towers to the splendour of the setting rays, yellow tops of


a few minutes with somebody one worships mean a great deal." "But you don't really worship him?" "I do." "How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but your painting,--your art, I should say. Art sounds better, doesn't it?" "He is all my art to me now. I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the history of the world. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinos was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from him, model from him. Of course I have done all that. He has stood as Paris in dainty armor, and as Adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar- spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms, he has sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, looking into the green, turbid Nile. He has leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland, and seen in the water's silent silver the wonder of his own beauty. But he is much more to me than that. I won't tell you that I am dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express, and I know that the work I have done since I met Dorian Gray is good work, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way--I wonder will you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see things differently, I think of them differently. I can now re-create life in a way that was hidden from me before. 'A dream of form in days of thought,'--who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad, --for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty,--his merely visible presence,--ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in itself all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and body,--how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and have invented a realism that is bestial, an ideality that is void. Harry! Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price, but which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray sat beside me." "Basil, this is quite wonderful!


. . Grethe.” I want to ask if Turner was her last name. The reason Jack’s a Smith but not really a Smith. “Are you sure she was a theorist?” Physics runs in Jack’s family, when the only thing that runs in mine is eczema. “Why do you ask?” “Just . . . Jack doesn’t seem to like theorists very much.” Millicent gives me a look. “He likes you, doesn’t he?” She speaks like I’m the least sharp cookie in the jar, and I flush. “But he once wrote an article that—” “Oh, that.” She chuckles, like it’s a fond family memory. First day of kindergarten, meeting Goofy at Disneyland, and that time her grandson sent an entire field of study into a tailspin. “That had nothing to do with theoretical physics. He was just a teenager acting out, angry because of what he’d found out about Grethe. But he’s a man now. A good one. Too bad I can’t leave him my money, or he’ll just divide it up between the rest of my ungrateful family.” “What had he found out about Grethe?” Was the entire Smith-Turner Hoax about his mom? Did he . . . hate her? Was it some sort of revenge on her for . . . for what? Dying? It’s too ridiculous. “Did he write the article because of her?” I must be asking too many questions. Millicent’s expression shifts, first to guarded, then to vacuous. “I forget,” she says with a ditzy shrug, even though she doesn’t. Millicent, I’m certain, hasn’t forgotten a single thing in her life —not Greg’s name, and certainly not what led Jack to be who he is today. “Jack will tell you. When you’ve been together long enough.” “No, we . . . Really, Jack and I are not—we’re not doing it,” I say. My brain cringes so hard, it folds in on itself. “Oh, I know. This is something else altogether, isn’t it?” “It’s nothing at all. We’re not even friends.” “Right.” Her tone is almost . . . pitying? “Well, you’ll figure it out in your own time.” “Figure out what?” “DVD player’s all set,” Jack announces, emerging in the doorway, “and I’ve left detailed instructions on how to switch to the next season, since the ones I wrote last week are gone.” “Oh, yes. I had to throw the notepad at your aunt Maureen when she said my green pullover was too bright.” “Of course, you had to. Can I drive Elsie home now? Or is the abduction still ongoing?” Millicent huffs. “Do take her, please. I’m sick of both of you. You’re not nearly as entertaining as Jessica Fletcher.” She kicks us out as unceremoniously as she welcomed us in, making a symphony of faux-irritated noises that are belied by how hard she clings to Jack’s hug. “I’ll stop by later to shovel some snow,” he promises. “Fine, but do not come in. I’ll be busy with my show.” “I know.” He kisses her forehead. “Be good till next weekend. Have fun writing spite wills.” “I shall,”


there he fell down into a darkness of grief that was near death. Then Dorlas by his black sword, the fame whereof had come even inter the deeps of Brethil, and by his quest of the King's daughter, knew that this Wildman was indeed the Mormegil of Nargothrond, whom rumour said was the son of Hrin of Dor-lmin. Therefore the woodmen lifted him up, and bore him away to their homes. Now those were set in a stockade upon a high place in the forest, Ephel Brandir upon Amon Obel; for the People of Haleth were now dwindled by war, and Brandir son of Handir who ruled them was a man of gentle mood, and lame also from childhood, and he trusted rather in secrecy than in deeds of war to save them from the power of the North. Therefore he feared the tidings that Dorlas brought, and when he beheld the face of Trin as he lay on the bier a cloud of foreboding lay on his heart Nonetheless being moved by his woe he took him into his own house and tended him, for he had skill in healing. And with the beginning of spring Trin cast off his darkness, and grew hale again; and he arose, and he thought that he would remain in Brethil hidden, and put his shadow behind him, forsaking the past. He took therefore a new name, Turambar, which in the High-elven speech signified Master of Doom; and he besought the woodmen to forget that he was a stranger among them or ever bore any other name. Nonetheless he would not wholly leave deeds of war; for he could not endure that the Orcs should come to the Crossings of Teiglin or draw nigh to Haudh-en-Elleth, and he made that a place of dread for them, so that they shunned it. But he laid his black sword by, and wielded rather the bow and the spear. Now new tidings came to Doriath concerning Nargothrond, for some that had escaped from the defeat and the sack, and had survived the Fell Winter in the wild, came at last to Thingol seeking refuge; and the march-wardens brought them to the King. And some said that all the enemy had withdrawn northwards, and others that Glaurung abode still in the halls of Felagund; and some said that the Mormegil was slain, and others that he was cast under a spell by the dragon and dwelt there yet, as one changed to stone. But all declared that it was known to many in Nargothrond ere the end that the Mormegil was none other than Trin son of Hrin of Dor-lmin. Then Morwen was distraught, and refusing the counsel of Melian she rode forth alone into the wild to seek her son, or some true tidings of him. Thingol therefore sent Mablung after her, with many hardy march-wards, to find her and guard her, and to learn what news they might; but Nienor was bidden to remain behind. Yet the fearlessness of her house was hers; and in an evil


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

the hotel is so quiet this time of night, the only sound I hear is the elevator ding down the hall, and the mechanical sound of the car descending. What the fuck just happened? I fall back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I know Fizzy to be a lot of things—wild, brave, self-assured, assertive, intense—but I don’t know her to be flighty like this. Fizzy is the heroine who turns around to face the oncoming danger head-on. She isn’t the one who throws out bollocks excuses on her way out the door. Now I’m alone and stark naked on this sex-ravaged bed with the echo of our sounds still embedded in the four walls. I sit up, shoving the sheets away. My former therapist’s reminder floats up into my thoughts: You don’t have to deal with it right this second, but you do have to deal with it. I’ll give Felicity Chen the same courtesy. She doesn’t have to deal with me this instant, but eventually, she will have to face this. With deliberate patience, I shower again and get dressed. As much as I can, I put the room back together, ignoring the way images flash into my head as I straighten the sheets—the long plane of her neck as she throws her head back and cries out—as I hang up our towels—water dripping from her lips as she stares between us and watches me fuck her—as I put the champagne bottle in the recycling bin—the view of her lips kissing down the length of me. And then I sit in the chair by the window and slowly count to one hundred and then back down to one. The entire time, I think she must be on her way back. She must be—just now. Maybe now. She’ll walk in and I’ll put aside this anger and we’ll talk it out, one word at a time. But when I leave just after four, the hallways are empty; the bar downstairs is predictably dark and silent. I have no idea where she went but am not going to chase her down with a text message or a call. Fuck this. The sleepy valet takes my ticket and pulls my car around. What a bloody mess. thirty-eight FIZZY I need you to say that again,” Jess says, cupping her warm mug of tea and tucking her feet under the blanket. “I want you to hear how insane it sounds.” “I admit I have feelings for him,” I repeat robotically, pacing my living room floor. “We proceed to have the best sex of my entire lifetime. For hours. Twice. Then he tells me his marriage ended because he cheated. So I bolted.” “Yes, but specifically the next part.” “The part where I went and sat on the floor in an empty hotel ballroom for an hour?” She nods, and then lifts her coffee to her lips to take a sip, letting my words ricochet off my silent living room walls. I did do this. I left Connor naked in my hotel bed


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

out to be filled again by something vast, something dark. Her eyes wouldn’t open, as if her lids had been sutured together. Lore bared her teeth, pulling up strength she didn’t know she had. With a roar, she forced the Mortem out of her, through veins that felt like they might burst, through bones that wanted to break against the pressure. The rock beneath her feet was too brittle already, but Lore could feel the life surrounding her the same way she could feel death—the two of them inverted, different streams from the same source. She felt the heaving bodies of the terrified horses, the fear-curdled heartbeats of the other Presque Mort. The placid, unthinking life of the garden, still green and blooming, and beyond that, the farmland. There was too much Mortem to direct it with any kind of finesse. So Lore let it loose into both, funneling death into living roots both close by and far away, the death in her veins guiding her to life. Law of Opposites, she thought distantly. Death and life strengthening each other, death and life entwined. Spiritum fled every bloom and leaf in the garden, replaced not by death, but by stasis, freezing them in time. Mortem wove into the aura of every scrap of life both seen and unseen—cocooning tiny bugs, larvae, the aphids invisible to the naked eye. Then it went deeper, spearing through the cobblestones of the road, turning to rock the tiny shoots of grass that tried to find cracks of sun, the earthworms waiting for rain, the bulbs of fall-blooming flowers that hadn’t yet broken the surface. Then the farmlands: wheat turning to spears of thin rock, roots becoming intricate statues beneath the earth. She managed to spare the livestock, but only just; the panicked lowing of cattle came loud enough to hear, a deeper counterpoint to the human screams. Everything, stone, their lives frozen as Lore let herself be death’s causeway, let Mortem flow through her like water in a mill wheel. Gabe had told her this kind of channeling required care, but it came through her like chaos. Lore didn’t realize her own screams had joined the rest until all the magic was gone. They want your power, the voice said quietly, fading along with the Mortem as her body slowly clawed its way back to living, dwindling to nothing but the barest whisper. They’ll force you to be stronger, and then break you down. Reduce you to nothing but a womb for magic they can’t make. But only if you let them. Even when you ascend, you must remember that you are wholly your own. Lore opened her eyes. The leak was gone. That was good. But it hadn’t gone quietly. One of the Presque Mort, a man whose name she didn’t know, was now on the ground, staring at his foot. What had been his foot. Now it was only bone, the flesh eaten away, the muscle gone, and even the bones weren’t in the right shape—just a pile, a discarded jumble. They gleamed wet


for and the only thing in which they took delight. Dave was wheeler or sled dog, pulling in front of him was Buck, then came Sol-leks; the rest of the team was strung out ahead, single file, to the leader, which position was filled by Spitz. Buck had been purposely placed between Dave and Sol-leks so that he might receive instruction. Apt scholar that he was, they were equally apt teachers, never allowing him to linger long in error, and enforcing their teaching with their sharp teeth. Dave was fair and very wise. He never nipped Buck without cause, and he never failed to nip him when he stood in need of it. As Francois's whip backed him up, Buck found it to be cheaper to mend his ways than to retaliate. Once, during a brief halt, when he got tangled in the traces and delayed the start, both Dave and Sol- leks flew at him and administered a sound trouncing. The resulting tangle was even worse, but Buck took good care to keep the traces clear thereafter; and ere the day was done, so well had he mastered his work, his mates about ceased nagging him. Francois's whip snapped less frequently, and Perrault even honored Buck by lifting up his feet and carefully examining them. It was a hard day's run, up the Canon, through Sheep Camp, past the Scales and the timber line, across glaciers and snowdrifts hundreds of feet deep, and over the great Chilcoot Divide, which stands between the salt water and the fresh and guards forbiddingly the sad and lonely North. They made good time down the chain of lakes which fills the craters of extinct volcanoes, and late that night pulled into the huge camp at the head of Lake Bennett, where thousands of goldseekers were building boats against the break-up of the ice in the spring. Buck made his hole in the snow and slept the sleep of the exhausted just, but all too early was routed out in the cold darkness and harnessed with his mates to the sled. That day they made forty miles, the trail being packed; but the next day, and for many days to follow, they broke their own trail, worked harder, and made poorer time. As a rule, Perrault travelled ahead of the team, packing the snow with webbed shoes to make it easier for them. Francois, guiding the sled at the gee- pole, sometimes exchanged places with him, but not often. Perrault was in a hurry, and he prided himself on his knowledge of ice, which knowledge was indispensable, for the fall ice was very thin, and where there was swift water, there was no ice at all. Day after day, for days unending, Buck toiled in the traces. Always, they broke camp in the dark, and the first gray of dawn found them hitting the trail with fresh miles reeled off behind them. And always they pitched camp after dark, eating their bit of fish, and crawling to sleep into the snow. Buck was ravenous. The pound


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

summer days. Beyond the familiar curving oak at the edge of the frame should be a little stream. “Is it a faerie forest?” “Oh—I don’t know,” he said. “It is leaf and bole and the scent of pine. That’s all I care about.” Indeed, I did catch the faintest aroma of needles, now that I was thinking about it. Summer needles on a forest floor, warmly fragrant as they snapped underfoot. I settled beside the fire, even though I was exhausted; in truth, I felt a little giddy. The snowy ride through that wild country; the conversation with the faerie woman—in and of itself a greater triumph than most dryadologists could hope for in their entire career. The things I had learned in a single night would give me material for a year’s worth of papers. I downed the wine and sank back into my chair, my mind already dancing through the additions I would make in my encyclopaedia. He sat with me, chattering away about our triumphant return to Cambridge and ICODEF, and myriad other things, and not expecting anything substantial in reply, which is one of my favourite qualities about him. It sounds odd to admit that I find the company of such a boisterous person restful, but perhaps it is always restful to be around someone who does not expect anything from you beyond what is in your nature. After a while, though, I felt an unexpected guilt. “You don’t have to stay with me,” I said. “You can go down to the tavern and regale the villagers with the tale of our success.” “Why would I do that? I prefer your company, Em.” He said it as if it were obvious. I snorted again, assuming he was teasing me. “Over the company of a tavern filled with a rapt and grateful audience? I’m sure you do.” “Over anyone else’s company.” Again, he said it with some amusement, as if wondering what I was doing speculating about something so evident. “You are drunk,” I said. “Shall I prove it to you?” “No, you shan’t,” I said, alarmed, but he was already sweeping to the floor, bending his knee and taking my hand between his. “What in God’s name are you doing?” I said between my teeth. “And why are you doing it now?” “Shall I make an appointment?” he said, then laughed. “Yes, I believe you would like that. Well, name the time when it would be convenient for you to receive a declaration of love.” “Oh, get up,” I said, furious now. “What sort of jest is this, Wendell?” “You don’t believe me?” He smiled, all mischief, a look I’d seen from other Folk, enough to know not to trust him one inch. “Ask for my true name, and I’ll give it to you.” “Why on earth would you do that?” I demanded, yanking my hand back. “Oh, Em,” he said forlornly. “You are the cleverest dolt I have ever met.” I stared at him, my heart thundering. Of course, I am not a dolt in any sense;


to be always coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's way.'' Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an epithet. As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information; and he soon afterwards said aloud, ``Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?'' ``I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,'' said Mrs. Bennet, ``to walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never seen the view.'' ``It may do very well for the others,'' replied Mr. Bingley; ``but I am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?'' Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying, ``I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience.'' During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her disapprobation. ____ In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to be made unhappy; and that it should be through her means -- that _she_, his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her -- was a wretched reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when, looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, ``Go to


It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way. He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived. 'Fagin!' whispered a voice close to his ear. 'Ah!' said the Jew, turning quickly round, 'is that--' 'Yes!' interrupted the stranger. 'I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?' 'On your business, my dear,' replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. 'On your business all night.' 'Oh, of course!' said the stranger, with a sneer. 'Well; and what's come of it?' 'Nothing good,' said the Jew. 'Nothing bad, I hope?' said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion. The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him. Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light. 'It's as dark as the grave,' said the man, groping forward a few steps. 'Make haste!' 'Shut the door,' whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise. 'That wasn't my doing,' said the other man, feeling his way. 'The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole.' Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs. 'We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear,' said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; 'and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle on the stairs. There!' With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon


natural science. With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge along the paths of time and exchanged the discoveries of recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different when the masters of the science sought immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand; but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth. Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted with the localities and the principal residents in my new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town. Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person was short but remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and the various improvements made by different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present state of the science and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget: "The ancient teachers of this science," said he, "promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that the elixir of life is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows." Such were the professor's words--rather let me say such the words of the fate--enounced to


must have been careless and left something behind, or maybe he’s just this side of creepy to manage to track me down. Oh god—I cannot see him again. My heart starts back up with a new, less panicked rhythm when I blink my bleary eyes and see the name: Wyatt Torres. Missed you last night. Just four words and he’s able to take me back to that evening a few weeks ago, desperate kisses and twisted sheets and entry number one on my list of regrets. A list that only seems to keep growing. I flop back onto the pillow, scrolling his social media for photos of the housewarming. There he is with some of our other friends from college, posing in front of an impressive charcuterie board. It looks like a proper, classy AF party for the gainfully employed, nary a Ping-Pong ball or Solo cup in sight. Wyatt, with his job as a reporter at the Tacoma News Tribune. Alyssa, an investigative reporter at a local TV station. Josh, the sole reporter for a twice-weekly newspaper on the Eastside, covering everything from city council meetings to high school football games. We always joked in college that we couldn’t wait to be the age where we could throw mature parties, the kind with hors d’oeuvres and cocktail napkins and wine we hadn’t bought for two dollars at Trader Joe’s. We’d all be award-winning journalists then, sharing anecdotes about our latest stories and bragging about who’d be the first to make the front page. If only we’d known that a digital front page was slightly less exciting. It’s easy to forget that even before that, I wanted to write books of my own, before I realized it was impractical to think I’d be one of the lucky ones who could survive on that alone. I wrote all the time as a kid, stapling together little books with haphazardly doodled covers. Mysteries were my favorite; I loved the thrill of being able to trick the reader (aka my parents or Noemie), dropping what I’m sure were very obvious red herrings and leading them to a conclusion they swore they never saw coming. In hindsight, they might have been lying to protect my fragile preteen self-esteem. Being able to create chaos and then wrap everything up soothed my anxious brain, and there was something innately satisfying about stringing sentences together, to the point where I could hear their rhythm in my head before I typed them out. Nothing beat the pure and utter joy of finding exactly the right word to mean exactly the right thing. That was a long time ago, when you could tell adults you wanted to be an author when you grew up and they’d grin and tell you how creative you were, how smart! But then you got older. Closer to the age you’d need to be when a school printed on a piece of paper the thing you’d committed the last four years of your life to. You have to be a little more realistic, guidance counselors said.


shape beneath the steadfast constellations, Simon's dead body moved out toward the open sea. CHAPTER TEN The Shell and the Glasses Piggy eyed the advancing figure carefully. Nowadays he sometimes found that he saw more clearly if he removed his glasses and shifted the one lens to the other eye; but even through the good eye, after what had happened, Ralph remained unmistakably Ralph. He came now out of the coconut trees, limping, dirty, with dead leaves hanging from his shock of yellow hair. One eye was a slit in his puffy cheek and a great scab had formed on his right knee. He paused for a moment and peered at the figure on the platform. "Piggy? Are you the only one left?" "There's some littluns." "They don't count. No biguns?" "Oh--Samneric. They're collecting wood." "Nobody else?" "Not that I know of." Ralph climbed on to the platform carefully. The coarse grass was still worn away where the assembly used to sit; the fragile white conch still gleamed by the polished seat. Ralph sat down in the grass facing the chief's seat and the conch. Piggy knelt at his left, and for a long minute there was silence. At last Ralph cleared his throat and whispered something. Piggy whispered back. "What you say?" Ralph spoke up. "Simon." Piggy said nothing but nodded, solemnly. They continued to sit, gazing with impaired sight at the chief's seat and the glittering lagoon. The green light and the glossy patches of sunshine played over their befouled bodies. At length Ralph got up and went to the conch. He took the shell caressingly with both hands and knelt, leaning against the trunk. "Piggy." "Uh?" "What we going to do?" Piggy nodded at the conch. "You could--" "Call an assembly?" Ralph laughed sharply as he said the word and Piggy frowned. "You're still chief." Ralph laughed again. "You are. Over us." "I got the conch." "Ralph! Stop laughing like that. Look, there ain't no need, Ralph! What's the others going to think?" At last Ralph stopped. He was shivering. "Piggy." "Uh?" "That was Simon." "You said that before." "Piggy." "Uh?" "That was murder." "You stop it!" said Piggy, shrilly. "What good're you doing talking like that?" He jumped to his feet and stood over Ralph. "It was dark. There was that--that bloody dance. There was lightning and thunder and rain. We was scared!" "I wasn't scared," said Ralph slowly, "I was--I don't know what I was." "We was scared!" said Piggy excitedly. "Anything might have happened. It wasn't--what you said." He was gesticulating, searching for a formula. "Oh, Piggy!" Ralph's voice, low and stricken, stopped Piggy's gestures. He bent down and waited. Ralph, cradling the conch, rocked himself to and fro. "Don't you understand, Piggy? The things we did--" "He may still be--" "No." "P'raps he was only pretending--" Piggy's voice trailed off at the sight of Ralph's face. "You were outside. Outside the circle. You never really came in. Didn't you see what we--what they did?" There was loathing, and at the same time a kind of


full of porcelain containers line the walls, and dozens of copper pots hang from the ceiling on wrought iron racks. A massive wooden counter sits in the center of the room, running from almost one wall to another. Decades ago, an army of cooks and servers likely scurried over the black-and-white-tiled floor on their way to the adjoining dining room. Now there’s only one—a man with a thick chest and even thicker stomach wearing checkered pants and a white chef’s coat. In his seventies, he has a shaved head and a slightly bent nose, but his smile is wide. “Archibald, this is Miss Hope’s new caregiver,” Mrs. Baker says. “Kit, this is Archibald.” He looks up from the counter, where he’s kneading dough for homemade bread. “Welcome, Kit. And call me Archie.” “All of Miss Hope’s meals are prepared by Archibald, so you won’t be needed in that capacity,” Mrs. Baker tells me. “He also cooks for the rest of the staff. You’re free to prepare your own meals, of course, but I’d advise against it. Archibald is the best cook on the Maine coast.” It dawns on me how quickly my life has changed. This morning, I woke up in the same bed I’ve had since I was ten. Tonight, I’ll be falling asleep in a mansion that has a professional cook. And a maid. And a terrace with a bird’s-eye view of the sea. As if to silently bring me back to earth, Mrs. Baker moves on, guiding me to a set of steps tucked into a corner of the kitchen. The opposite of the Grand Stairs, these are steep, narrow, and dark. Clearly meant for servants. Of which I am one. I can’t forget about that. “Archibald and Jessica have rooms on the third floor,” Mrs. Baker says, her voice echoing down the narrow stairwell as she climbs. “Your quarters are on the second floor, next to Miss Hope’s room.” “She’s upstairs?” I say, surprised. “If she’s immobile, shouldn’t she be on the ground floor for easier access?” “Miss Hope doesn’t mind, I assure you.” “The house has an elevator?” “Of course not.” “Then how do I take her outside?” Mrs. Baker comes to a dead stop halfway up the stairs. So quickly that I almost bump into her. To avoid a collision, I drop down a step, which allows Mrs. Baker to tower over me as she says, “Miss Hope doesn’t go outside.” “Ever?” “Ever.” Mrs. Baker’s on the move again, quickly climbing the rest of the rickety staircase. “Miss Hope hasn’t been outside of this house in decades.” “What if she needs to see a doctor?” “Then the doctor comes to her,” Mrs. Baker says. “But what if she needs to be taken to the hospital?” “That will never happen.” “But what if—” There’s an emergency. That’s what I try to say. I can’t get the words out because Mrs. Baker stops once more, this time at the landing. “Miss Hope was born in this house, and this is where she will die,” she says. “Until then,


is so important.” Finn sets aside his silverware, clasping his hands together as he waits to come up with the right words. He did this yesterday, too, gave his mouth time to catch up to his brain. “Cons— conventions. That’s the majority of what I do these days. I sit at a table so people can pay two hundred dollars for an autograph and photo. I sit on panels talking about this thing I starred in nearly fifteen years ago, as though nothing I’ve done since can even remotely measure up. Because it hasn’t. And I love the fans of the show, I really do—but this isn’t what I thought I’d be doing with my career when I was just starting out.” I can’t deny that sounds a little familiar. “I can’t keep doing the con circuit forever,” he continues. “Hollywood still thinks I’m that lovesick guy pining for his werewolf girlfriend. I want this book to mean something—for it to be even a fraction as meaningful as The Nocturnals was for some of our fans. I really think it could do that. If it has the right author.” I don’t bother pointing out that Finn is technically the author. I’d just be the one holding the pen. “There are things I want in the book that I’ve never really talked about before. And I just . . . I’d love for this book to be able to help someone, if they’re in a similar place.” He gives me a sheepish shrug. “Sorry—you can understand why I can’t discuss the details without an NDA.” The vagueness is mildly intriguing, but . . . “I feel for you. I do.” If I can’t convince him with the sheer awkwardness of the two of us working together, I’ll use logic. “But I haven’t seen a single episode. Which is probably pretty obvious, since I didn’t recognize you.” “Doesn’t matter. You’d research. And . . . I like that.” His gaze settles on me with a renewed determination, his voice even softer now. “I like that you’re not going in with some preconceived notions of who I am.” When he leans forward, I have to fight the urge to hold a hand to my heart to keep it from speeding up. There’s a seriousness to him, one that seemed attractive yesterday and almost intimidating now. Twenty-four hours ago, we were strangers. Now, if Finn is to be believed, I might have the power to alter the trajectory of his career. And he might be able to do the same with mine. “I don’t want to grovel. But I will if I have to, Chandler.” The way he says my name—I try to ignore how it feels. How it reminds me of his voice wrapped about it last night. He does this professionally. Everything is an act, and there’s a distinct possibility all of this is a performance. I can’t let myself get steamrolled just because he’s reading from a please-pity-me script. “I didn’t want this process to be such a headache for everyone. I’d write


gobble it whole. Anne slipped her arm through Julian's. She felt rather small and scared. "You're all right, Anne", said Julian, loudly. "Now just watch- you'll see something queer in a minute." They all watched. At first they saw nothing, for the waves reared up so high that they hid everything a little way out. Then suddenly George saw what Julian meant. "Gracious!" she shouted, 'it is a ship! Yes, it is! Is it being wrecked? It's a big ship- not a sailing-boat, or fishing-smack!" "Oh, is anyone in it?" wailed Anne. The four children watched and Tim began to bark as he saw the queer dark shape lurching here and there in the enormous waves. The sea was bringing the ship nearer to shore. "It will be dashed on to those rocks," said Julian, suddenly. "Look- there it goes!" As he spoke there came a tremendous crashing, splintering sound, and the dark shape of the ship settled down on to the sharp teeth of the dangerous rocks on the southwest side of the island. It stayed there, shifting only slightly as the big waves ran under it and lifted it a little. "She's stuck there," said Julian. "She won't move now. The sea will soon be going down a bit, and then the ship will find herself held by those rocks." As he spoke, a ray of pale sunshine came wavering out between a gap in the thinning clouds. It was gone almost at once. "Good!" said Dick, looking upwards. "The sun will be out again soon. We can warm ourselves then and get dry- and maybe we can find out what that poor ship is. Oh Julian- I do so hope there was nobody in it. I hope they've all taken to boats and got safely to land." The clouds thinned out a little more. The wind stopped roaring and dropped to a steady breeze. The sun shone out again for a longer time, and the children felt its welcome warmth. They all stared at the ship on the rocks. The sun shone on it and lighted it up. "There's something queer about it somehow," said Julian, slowly. "Something awfully queer. I've never seen a ship quite like it." George was staring at it with a strange look in her eyes. She turned to face the three children, and they were astonished to see the bright gleam in her blue eyes. The girl looked almost too excited to speak. "What is it?" asked Julian, catching hold of her hand. "Julian- oh Julian- it's my wreck!" she cried, in a high excited voice. "Don't you see what's happened! The storm has lifted the ship up from the bottom of the sea, and has lodged it on those rocks. It's my wreck!" The others saw at once that she was right. It was the old wrecked ship! No wonder it looked queer. No wonder it looked so old and dark, and such a strange shape. It was the wreck, lifted high out of its sleeping-place and put on the rocks near by.


one in his right mind. But Ruby Gillis knows a great deal about such matters because she has so many big sisters, and Mrs. Lynde says the Gillis girls have gone off like hot cakes. Mr. Phillips goes up to see Prissy Andrews nearly every evening. He says it is to help her with her lessons but Miranda Sloane is studying for Queen's too, and I should think she needed help a lot more than Prissy because she's ever so much stupider, but he never goes to help her in the evenings at all. There are a great many things in this world that I can't understand very well, Matthew." "Well now, I dunno. as I comprehend them all myself," acknowledged Matthew. "Well, I suppose I must finish up my lessons. I won't allow myself to open that new book Jane lent me until I'm through. But it's a terrible temptation, Matthew. Even when I turn my back on it I can see it there just as plain. Jane said she cried herself sick over it. I love a book that makes me cry. But I think I'll carry that book into the sitting room and lock it in the jam closet and give you the key. And you must not give it to me, Matthew, until my lessons are done, not even if I implore you on my bended knees. It's all very well to say resist temptation, but it's ever so much easier to resist it if you can't get the key. And then shall I run down the cellar and get some russets, Matthew? Wouldn't you like some russets?" "Well now, I dunno but what I would," said Matthew, who never ate russets but knew Anne's weakness for them. Just as Anne emerged triumphantly from the cellar with her plateful of russets came the sound of flying footsteps on the icy board walk outside and the next moment the kitchen door was flung open and in rushed Diana Barry, white faced and breathless, with a shawl wrapped hastily around her head. Anne promptly let go of her candle and plate in her surprise, and plate, candle, and apples crashed together down the cellar ladder and were found at the bottom embedded in melted grease, the next day, by Marilla, who gathered them up and thanked mercy the house hadn't been set on fire. "Whatever is the matter, Diana?" cried Anne. "Has your mother relented at last?" "Oh, Anne, do come quick," implored Diana nervously. "Minnie May is awful sick-she's got croup. Young Mary Joe says-and Father and Mother are away to town and there's nobody to go for the doctor. Minnie May is awful bad and Young Mary Joe doesn't know what to do-and oh, Anne, I'm so scared!" Matthew, without a word, reached out for cap and coat, slipped past Diana and away into the darkness of the yard. "He's gone to harness the sorrel mare to go to Carmody for the doctor," said Anne, who was hurrying on hood and jacket. "I know it as well as


be. I’m probably not getting my Warner Bros. film. I probably won’t be a millionaire. The hype could still help me, though—I could still make some tens of thousands of dollars from Greenhouse’s option offer. I could sell a few thousand more copies based on the publicity from that deal alone. And there’s always that elusive, tempting “maybe.” Maybe this will get picked up by Netflix, or HBO or Hulu. Maybe the film will be a massive hit, and they’ll do another print run of my book with the movie poster on the cover, and I’ll get to attend the premiere in a dress tailor-made for me, arm in arm with the handsome Asian actor they cast to play A Geng. Elle Fanning will star as Annie Waters, and we’ll take a cute selfie together at the premiere like the one Athena once took with Anne Hathaway. Why not dream big? I’ve found, as I keep hitting my publishing goalposts, that my ambitions get larger and larger. I got my embarrassingly large advance. I got my bestseller status, my major magazine profiles, my prizes and honors. Now, with the sickly sweet taste of the Miss Saigon lingering on my tongue, all that feels paltry in comparison to what true literary stardom looks like. I want what Stephen King has, what Neil Gaiman has. Why not a movie deal? Why not Hollywood stardom? Why not a multimedia empire? Why not the world? Eleven THE ATTACKS START ON TWITTER. The first tweet comes from an account named @Athena LiusGhost, created earlier this week; no profile picture, no words in the bio: Juniper Song, aka June Hayward, did not write The Last Front. I did. She stole my book, stole my voice, and stole my words. #SaveAthena. Then, dated a few hours later, several sickening follow-ups in the thread. June Hayward befriended me a few years ago to get closer to my process and my work. She came over often to my apartment, and I would catch her rooting through my notebooks when she thought I wasn’t looking. The proof is in black and white. Read my previous novels. Compare them to the prose in The Last Front. Read June’s debut novel, and ask yourself: is The Last Front a novel a white woman could have written? For let’s be clear: Juniper Song Hayward is a white woman. She’s using the pen name Juniper Song to pretend to be Chinese American. She’s taken new author photos to look more tan and ethnic, but she’s as white as they come. June Hayward, you are a thief and a liar. You’ve stolen my legacy, and now you spit on my grave. Shame on June. Shame on Eden Press. Daniella Woodhouse must withdraw the current edition from bookstores and return the rights to Athena’s mother, Patricia Liu. All future editions should be published under Athena’s name alone. Do not let injustice stand. #SaveAthena. There’s a penultimate tweet tagging over a dozen prominent Twitter accounts, begging them to RT for visibility. Then a final tweet, tagging me. My vision’s


it had shown me the man himself standing upon the summit of the Black Tor. That, then, should be the centre of my search. From there I should explore every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one. If this man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, at the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he had dogged us so long. He might slip away from us in the crowd of Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenant should not be within it I must remain there, however long the vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth where my master had failed. Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now at last it came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was none other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, gray-whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate of bis garden, which opened on to the highroad along which I travelled. "Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he with unwonted good humour, "you must really give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass of wine and to congratulate me." My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the oppor- tunity was a good one. I alighted and sent a message to Sir Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I fol- lowed Frankland into his dining-room. "It is a great day for me, sir -- one of the red-letter days of my life," he cried with many chuckles. "I have brought off a double event. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, and that there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I have established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton's park, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own front door. What do you think of that? We'll teach these magnates that they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners, confound them! And I've closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk used to picnic. These infernal people seem to think that there are no rights of property, and that they can swarm where they like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decided Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven't had such a day since I had Sir John Morland for trespass because he shot in his own warren." "How on earth did you do that?" "Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading -- Frankland v. Morland, Court of Queen's Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but I got


ought to have all the family papers.” Lockwood took a small breath. Then he said, “What do you mean?” “Dear me. I suppose I shall have to go back to the register office again.” “Whatever do you want to do that for?” Mrs. King had two choices. She could rile him for the fun of it, but that could lead to unpredictable outcomes. She could play for time, but that would test her own patience, too. She decided to rile him. “That’s a conversation I’d rather have with Miss de Vries.” “Why?” His eyes were glued to hers. “It’s a personal matter.” He leaned back in his chair, weighing that. There was something coarse in Mr. Lockwood, underneath his gloss and gleam. You could tell by looking at his hands. Calloused, with blackened nails. “I’d advise you to talk to me,” he said. Mrs. King smiled. “No.” Then Mr. Lockwood got up. “Tell me at once,” he said, voice low. There was a tiny bit of spittle at the edge of his mouth. It glistened. “Be calm, Lockwood,” she said. He stepped closer. “Mind your manners. I’ll ask you again.” He licked his lips, a quick, reptilian move. Mrs. King could feel her lungs expanding, contracting, entirely steady. Mr. Lockwood bent over and put his arms on her chair. “Don’t do that, Mr. Lockwood,” said Mrs. King. His breath was too sweet. It smelled of vanilla and honey. It turned her stomach. “Then answer my question.” “I really won’t.” His front teeth were very straight and even. But she could see the ones at the back, a jumble of black and silver. “Do you want me to drag it out of you?” he said. Mrs. King stared at him. “I wouldn’t advise it.” “Stand up.” He reached out and grabbed her arm. Mrs. King shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled backward, eyes widening in shock. She rose smoothly from her chair and backhanded him across the face. It was the sort of blow they delivered in the workhouse, or the asylum. Clean, powerful, without emotion. She heard the crack. Mr. Lockwood tripped, as she knew he would, and fell to the floor. It always surprised Mrs. King how easily men fell over. Even wiry, compact people like Mr. Lockwood. They never saw it coming. He flailed for a moment, grubby hands out. “Up you get,” said Mrs. King. “Before someone comes in and sees you brought so low.” She watched him take a moment, recover, propel himself upward onto the balls of his feet. He crouched there, fury in his eyes. There was a click at the door, a sudden rush of light and noise. A whiff of ferns, of orchids. A low voice cut through the air. “Mrs. King.” Miss de Vries stood framed by the light in the hall. The ball was a bonfire of heat and color and noise behind her. Mr. Lockwood rose, turning crimson. Mrs. King stayed where she was, entirely ready. Now they could really get down to business. “Sit down, Mr. Lockwood,” said


haven’t seen the three of them side by side before, and it strikes me how strong Yang blood is in them with their full-moon faces, and identical heights, builds, and even the fall of their hair. I also see Doctor Wong for the first time. He’s not at all as I’d imagined. He’s far younger—in his mid-thirties, with high cheekbones, and perfectly formed brows that draw attention to his eyes. He’s clean-shaven, like my husband, and dressed simply but elegantly. I’m on the right side of the aisle with Lady Kuo and a few of the women who rushed to the courtyard in response to my screams. I see Midwife Shi, but Meiling is not in attendance, although I expected her to be here as part of her apprenticeship. Spinster Aunt lies on a table under a sheet of muslin. From my position, I can see the white orchids that beckoned me three nights ago. A man sits at a small table facing us, with his back to the courtyard. He wears a long robe bearing the embroidered insignia of his rank. A black cap rises high on his head with two wings extending over his ears. A sparse beard covers his chin with two long forks of hair like a serpent’s split tongue reaching down his chest. He begins by introducing himself. “I am Magistrate Fu. I am the sole investigator. I can make an arrest. I also serve as the judge and can pronounce the sentence if wrongdoing is found.” He pauses to regard us. Then he continues, speaking deliberately. “I expect truth, and I will order one of the three accepted methods of torture to assure it—beating with a stick, ankle squeezers for men, and finger squeezers for women—if need be. Those who lie or falsify evidence will receive one hundred blows from a heavy rod as set forth by the Board of Punishments.” The magistrate falls silent to let us absorb this information. Then, “All inquests must take place in front of the assembled family and the accused, if there is one, so that good and evil can meet face-to-face, without secrets, without bureaucracy, without opportunity to shield parents, grandparents, siblings, or servants, or allow the guilty party to avoid the results of his or her actions.” He pulls on one of the tails of his beard. “Nothing is more serious than a capital case, if this indeed turns out to be one. No piece of evidence can be treated lightly. If even one tiny mistake is made, the repercussions can stretch ten thousand li.” He proceeds with official language to note the date, the province, the prefecture, and the names and titles of those in attendance. He then reads from a paper on the table before him. “We are assembled today to determine what led to the death of Yang Fengshi, known by her family as Spinster Aunt. From the honorific by which she was addressed, I understand she was never married. She was seventy years of age.” Yang Fengshi. How could I not have known her