the blue cross on her pregnancy test that morning. Kay will be the only grandmother her child will ever know, and for that, Sloane wants to maintain the best relationship possible. Their waitress moves to another table, and Sloane braces herself for Kay to berate her for cheating on Ethan. Kay lifts her menu. “After all that came out in the news about you and Brody Carr, Ethan told me he cheated on you after his father died.” Sloane brings a hand to her mouth as her water catches in the back of her throat. Here we go. She expected to have at least a few moments of false pleasantries before Ethan’s mother brought up the subject of who they were sleeping with. “You know…” Kay’s mouth forms a slight frown as she skims the menu. “When we ate here before, I thought maybe Ethan had an affair with Chelsea Carr. The way you two were acting so strangely about Ethan’s investigation. But now it makes sense.” “We both made a mistake.” Kay looks up from the menu with intelligent blue eyes the same color as Ethan’s. “Ethan made a mistake. Your affair with Brody Carr seems a little more calculated than that.” Sloane stiffens as their waitress returns to take their orders. Kay’s pointed stare morphs into a warm smile as she looks up at the young woman. “We’ll need a few more minutes, thanks.” “Not a problem. Take your time.” The waitress turns. Fizzy water sloshes over the side of Sloane’s glass when she sets it onto the table. “That’s not your—” Kay holds up her palm. “I’m not here to judge, dear. I get the sense you know what you’re doing.” Her mother-in-law folds her hands atop the table, her large, brilliant cut diamond glistening on her ring finger. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. That potato gnocchi with pomegranate looks delicious.” Sloane relaxes against her seat. “I think I’ll have that too.” Kay orders for them both when their waitress returns. Sloane lets Kay guide the conversation as they wait for their pasta, relieved when Kay turns the topic to her law firm, and the weather in California, not bringing up her and Ethan’s marriage again. “Any word on when you’ll be returning to work?” Kay asks, after she finishes telling Sloane how much she loved the latest Reese’s Book Club pick. Sloane nods. “I got a call just an hour ago. I’m cleared to go back starting tomorrow.” “Great news.” Kay glances out the window. “You know, it’s amazing to me that a man like Brody Carr would show up to the home of a detective’s wife—a woman he was having an affair with—driving his own car, armed with a gun, and planning to kill her. Not even bothering to check if Ethan was in the house.” Sloane feels a rush of heat rise to her cheeks. Kay sits back in her chair, settling her eyes on Sloane’s. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.” Sloane fights to keep her voice calm. “Brody came over


stance reminded her of his father. She sensed the well of grief rising within her and turned away. Presently she adjusted her stillsuit, refreshed herself with water from the tent's catchpocket, and slipped out to stand and stretch the sleep from her muscles. Paul spoke without turning: "I find myself enjoying the quiet here." How the mind gears itself for its environment, she thought. And she recalled a Bene Gesserit axiom: "The mind can go either direction under stress--toward positive or toward negative: on or off. Think of it as a spectrum whose extremes are unconsciousness at the negative end and hyperconsciousness at the positive end. The way the mind will lean under stress is strongly influenced by training." "It could be a good life here," Paul said. She tried to see the desert through his eyes, seeking to encompass all the rigors this planet accepted as commonplace, wondering at the possible futures Paul had glimpsed. One could be alone out here, she thought, without fear of someone behind you, without fear of the hunter. She stepped past Paul, lifted her binoculars, adjusted the oil lenses and studied the escarpment across from them. Yes, saguaro in the arroyos and other spiny growth . . . and a matting of low grasses, yellow-green in the shadows. "I'll strike camp," Paul said. Jessica nodded, walked to the fissure's mouth where she could get a sweep of the desert, and swung her binoculars to the left. A salt pan glared white there with a blending of dirty tan at its edges--a field of white out here where white was death. But the pan said another thing: water. At some time water had flowed across that glaring white. She lowered her binoculars, adjusted her burnoose, listened for a moment to the sound of Paul's movements. The sun dipped lower. Shadows stretched across the salt pan. Lines of wild color spread over the sunset horizon. Color streamed into a toe of darkness testing the sand. Coal-colored shadows spread, and the thick collapse of night blotted the desert. Stars! She stared up at them, sensing Paul's movements as he came up beside her. The desert night focused upward with a feeling of lift toward the stars. The weight of the day receded. There came a brief flurry of breeze across her face. "The first moon will be up soon," Paul said. "The pack's ready. I've planted the thumper." We could be lost forever in this hellplace, she thought. And no one to know. The night wind spread sand runnels that grated across her face, bringing the smell of cinnamon: a shower of odors in the dark. "Smell that," Paul said. "I can smell it even through the filter," she said. "Riches. But will it buy water?" She pointed across the basin. "There are no artificial lights across there." "Fremen would be hidden in a sietch behind those rocks," he said. A sill of silver pushed above the horizon to their right: the first moon. It lifted into view, the hand pattern plain on its face. Jessica studied the


the work and found it easier than many of his previous jobs. After the center closed, he had stocked warehouse shelves for a snack food company and worked at a different call center before that one, too, shut down. When nothing else came along, my parents’ tiny nest egg—what had been left after they sold their house, dispensed with some debt, and bought their new home—began to dwindle. The last time I’d seen Dad, I had noticed that he was beginning to shuffle more than stride. Since then, he had reportedly given up most of his physical activities—his gardening, the walks he used to take around the neighborhood. Though he was still looking for work and insisted that he did not want to apply for Social Security Disability Insurance, I didn’t know if he could work a full-time job anymore. When she came out to visit us, Mom said she thought his decline must be related to his diabetes, but they couldn’t know for sure what was wrong until he saw a specialist. She assured me he would get to it; they had only recently secured health coverage through her job after a long stretch without it and were still catching up on appointments. Toward the end of her stay, she got a call from her boss. She had been laid off with no notice or severance pay. The company couldn’t even wait until she returned from vacation to give her the news. “This way, at least, you’re eligible for unemployment benefits right away,” her boss said. My parents’ health plan would expire in days. * * * Once, while home on break from college, I asked my father what it was like being an empty nester. He admitted that it was “weird” and he was still getting used to it. “You spend eighteen years focused on raising a kid,” he said, “and then one day everything changes.” “Do you think it’ll ever feel normal?” I asked. He shrugged. “Maybe. If you move back home.” We could have tried to move out west once Dan finished his doctoral program. But my academic goals had given us our next coordinates, and they were no closer to Oregon. I had been admitted to a creative writing graduate program in Washington, D.C., deferring enrollment by a year to get us through the newborn period and Dan’s dissertation defense. While the thought of going back to school with an infant and a toddler at home was daunting, I was afraid that my creativity and drive would atrophy beyond recovery if I didn’t at least try. Dan found a postdoctoral fellowship in the D.C. area, and we rented a town house within walking distance of his job. He made sure to get home in time for me to catch the train to my evening classes. My parents’ situation was worsening, and we were unable to help. Every cent we made went to basic living expenses—rent was three times what our monthly mortgage payment had been in North Carolina, and now we had preschool tuition to pay. There


Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his fat left hand not feeling it. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the hoofs of the outriders. She shouted in his ear the tidings. Understanding, he shifted his tomes to his left breast and saluted the second carriage. The honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C., agreeably surprised, made haste to reply. At Ponsonby's corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind him, E.L.Y'S, while outriders pranced past and carriages. Opposite Pigott's music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c, gaily apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and unobserved. By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes and socks with skyblue clocks to the refrain of MY GIRL'S A YORKSHIRE GIRL. Blazes Boylan presented to the leaders' skyblue frontlets and high action a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit of indigo serge. His hands in his jacket pockets forgot to salute but he offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his eyes and the red flower between his lips. As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency drew the attention of his bowing consort to the programme of music which was being discoursed in College park. Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and drumthumped after the CORTEGE: BUT THOUGH SHE'S A FACTORY LASS AND WEARS NO FANCY CLOTHES. BARAABUM. YET I'VE A SORT OF A YORKSHIRE RELISH FOR MY LITTLE YORKSHIRE ROSE. BARAABUM. Thither of the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M. C. Green, H. Shrift, T. M. Patey, C. Scaife, J. B. Jeffs, G. N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C. Adderly and W. C. Huggard, started in pursuit. Striding past Finn's hotel Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a fierce eyeglass across the carriages at the head of Mr M. E. Solomons in the window of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. Deep in Leinster street by Trinity's postern a loyal king's man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. As the glossy horses pranced by Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, waiting, saw salutes being given to the gent with the topper and raised also his new black cap with fingers greased by porksteak paper. His collar too sprang up. The viceroy, on his way to inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of funds for Mercer's hospital, drove with his following towards Lower Mount street. He passed a blind stripling opposite Broadbent's. In Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across the viceroy's path. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township. At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted themselves, an umbrella and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled to view with wonder the lord mayor and lady mayoress without his golden chain. On Northumberland


thick gauntlet. ‘It can’t be m-mountain sickness. It’s us.’ Dumai managed a weak laugh, though it left her so breathless it hurt. ‘Just a bad cold.’ Lowering herself into the snow, she unhooked one of her ice sickles and fastened it to her arm. ‘Come on. We have to slide. We’ll get you down, Kan. You’ll be fine.’ He took the same position. Dumai sat with her legs in front of her and shunted herself forward, using her heels and sickle to control her descent, and together they went slewing down the face of Brhazat, towards the city that lay far beneath the ceiling. She dug in just before they reached the end of the slope, a solid overhang crusted with snow. ‘Dumai.’ Kanifa stopped behind her. ‘Can you see anywhere to shelter?’ ‘No.’ Her heart struck her breast like a hammer. ‘It’s so dark. I can’t think.’ Kanifa crawled to her side. As he put his hand on the edge, Dumai heard the crack, and in the terrible moment that followed, she saw what they had both failed to notice, in their blindness. This was not a shelf of rock, but ice – and when it broke away from the cliff, they fell with it. Blackness howled around her. Instinct kicked to life, and she lashed out desperately with her ice sickle. The blade sparked and shrieked before it caught, arresting her fall. The rope went taut, almost pulling her down, but somehow, she kept her grip, cracked open her eyes, and found herself staring at her own gloved hand, wrapped around the handle. Kanifa was some way below, saved by the rope. ‘Kanifa,’ Dumai cried. His entire weight pulled on the other end, pulling it hard around her waist. ‘Kan, quickly, swing yourself!’ ‘I can’t.’ She looked down in fear. Her sickle had caught on a frozen outcrop. Through the sleet, she saw that he was right – even if she had been at full strength, the rock face was too far away for her to swing him to it. Her arm trembled. Every joint and rib was threatening to snap. She had lost so much strength at court. Calling on her deepest reserves, she reached down to detach her other sickle from her sash. With a scream of effort, she drove it into the ice. Now she could pull them both up, she could . . . ‘Dumai,’ Kanifa called hoarsely. ‘Dumai, listen to me. You’re too weak to save us both.’ ‘No. I can—’ The ice creaked. Her grip slipped on both sides, and she caught herself just in time, sobbing in pain. Kanifa twisted into a new position. Dumai groaned as the rope tightened around her waist, and then she spotted the blade in his hand, twin to the one she had left in the temple. ‘What are you doing?’ she heaved out. ‘Mai, listen to me.’ He was straining to speak. ‘We’re both dying. If you keep holding me, you’ll be too weak to save yourself.’ Dumai stared down at him. When she saw the choice


glad you stopped by.” Dimly, Nick notices that Mr. Fleming doesn’t get to his feet when Nick leaves, which is odd because he seems like the sort of man to stick by his manners even when obliquely accusing someone of having caused his son to flee the city before dawn. * * * When Andy’s around, he and Nick either go out to lunch or sit together in the Chronicle cafeteria, usually joined by whatever junior reporters are having lunch at the same time. But without Andy, Nick feels like it’s his first day at a new school, despite the fact that he’s been working here for four years and Andy’s only been here for one of them. The day before, he had lunch by himself at the Automat, but today he bites the bullet and goes to the cafeteria. He gets a chicken salad sandwich (which makes him miss Andy, because he is ridiculous) and finds an empty table, thinking he’ll scarf down his food and go back to work. But no sooner has he sat than Mark Bailey comes over and pulls out a chair across from him. “Thought you might want some company,” he remarks. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nick asks, too defensive. “Just that you’re wandering around like a lost dog without Fleming.” Nick almost hisses at him to be quiet, but he hasn’t really said anything too pointed. The fact is that Nick is kind of moping around and Bailey isn’t the first person to notice. Everyone in the newsroom is giving him a wide berth, and Nick would be embarrassed if his brain weren’t busy with about half a dozen other emotions. “Am not,” Nick mutters weakly, then crams his mouth full of chicken salad so he doesn’t have to say anything else. “There you are,” says a woman’s voice. Lilian Corcoran bends to kiss Bailey on the cheek then hitches up her trousers and sits beside Nick. It doesn’t escape him that the only two queer people he knows at the Chronicle have suddenly decided to have lunch with him. “What is this, a club?” Nick asks. “If it were, we’d hardly even have a quorum,” says Lilian. “Only three of us? Please.” Nick lets the ramifications of this sink in. Lilian knows of others? He doesn’t know whether he’s curious or panicked at the idea that there might be a secret network of gay reporters who have all found out about him. “I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age,” Lilian goes on. “You’ve turned down two consecutive dinner invitations and I’m starting to think you’re mad at me. Maureen’s feelings are hurt.” “I have Andy staying with me.” “What, he doesn’t eat?” “I couldn’t bring him to dinner at your place,” Nick says. This is blindingly obvious to him: he couldn’t bring Andy to the one-bedroom apartment Lilian shares with another woman. Lilian regards him for long enough that Nick has to look away. “I see that it’s an advanced case,” she finally says, either to Bailey or to nobody in particular.


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

too late to change the plan now," Harry told Hermione. "We haven't got time to send Charlie another owl, and this could be our only chance to get rid of Norbert. We'll have to risk it. And we have got the invisibility cloak, Malfoy doesn't know about that." They found Fang, the boarhound, sitting outside with a bandaged tail when they went to tell Hagrid, who opened a window to talk to them. "I won't let you in," he puffed. "Norbert's at a tricky stage -- nothin' I can't handle." When they told him about Charlie's letter, his eyes filled with tears, although that might have been because Norbert had just bitten him on the leg. "Aargh! It's all right, he only got my boot -- jus' playin' -- he's only a baby, after all." The baby banged its tail on the wall, making the windows rattle. Harry and Hermione walked back to the castle feeling Saturday couldn't come quickly enough. *** They would have felt sorry for Hagrid when the time came for him to say good-bye to Norbert if they hadn't been so worried about what they had to do. It was a very dark, cloudy night, and they were a bit late arriving at Hagrid's hut because they'd had to wait for Peeves to get out of their way in the entrance hall, where he'd been playing tennis against the wall. Hagrid had Norbert packed and ready in a large crate. "He's got lots o' rats an' some brandy fer the journey," said Hagrid in a muffled voice. "An' I've packed his teddy bear in case he gets lonely." From inside the crate came ripping noises that sounded to Harry as though the teddy was having his head torn off. "Bye-bye, Norbert!" Hagrid sobbed, as Harry and Hermione covered the crate with the invisibility cloak and stepped underneath it themselves. "Mommy will never forget you!" How they managed to get the crate back up to the castle, they never knew. Midnight ticked nearer as they heaved Norbert up the marble staircase in the entrance hall and along the dark corridors. UP another staircase, then another -- even one of Harry's shortcuts didn't make the work much easier. "Nearly there!" Harry panted as they reached the corridor beneath the tallest tower. Then a sudden movement ahead of them made them almost drop the crate. Forgetting that they were already invisible, they shrank into the shadows, staring at the dark outlines of two people grappling with each other ten feet away. A lamp flared. Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe and a hair net, had Malfoy by the ear. "Detention!" she shouted. "And twenty points from Slytherin! Wandering around in the middle of the night, how dare you -- " "You don't understand, Professor. Harry Potter's coming -- he's got a dragon!" "What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! Come on -- I shall see Professor Snape about you, Malfoy!" The steep spiral staircase up to the top of the tower seemed the easiest thing in the world after


the vicinity of all these witnesses, we were finished. My secret exposed, and his plans ruined. But if he caught her, if I held on long enough for his return. If, if, if. It might be over. A rough sound tore from Arin’s mouth, a look of singular devastation shattering his lovely features. I relaxed. He had decided. With a low oath, the Nizahl Heir leapt to his feet. “Keep her alive,” he snarled, with such blistering menace that Jeru and Wes shrank back. He disappeared, several arms reached for me, and I gratefully relinquished my hold on consciousness. ARIN It was her. The name Sylvia had uttered was different from the name that had been given to Arin ten years ago, but he knew. She had tricked him once. It would not happen again. The horse beneath Arin leapt. They sailed over a water trough, scattering a penned herd of sheep. She was weaving, trying to dissipate the traces of her magic. But he could feel it gliding over his skin like the thinnest blade. She would not escape him this time. Arin leaned forward, spurring his horse to dangerous speeds. She would find somewhere noisy to hide. There were plenty of options to choose from. The upper towns of Lukub were celebrating the Alcalah alongside the Ivory Palace. Crowds in red and white were strewn in the streets. Performers twirled on raised platforms, bare feet moving lithely to the beat of the tubluh. Everywhere, chaos. A horse appeared next to his. “Your Highness, I came to help,” Wes said. He was out of breath. “Why are you here?” Alarm locked the muscles in Arin’s body. “Is she—” “No, no. The Champion is alive. Jeru and Ren are with her and the medics. I cannot be of service to anyone there, so I left.” Arin stared at Wes. He could feel the trail of Soraya’s magic fading. If he had any hope of catching her, he needed to move. To cut her off at the alleyway behind the festival and win the game she had started when he was sixteen. If he went after Soraya, Sylvia would die. It was a fact. Her wound was deep. She had likely broken several bones in her fall. Arin needed Sylvia to capture the Mufsids and Urabi. Apprehending Soraya would satisfy his ego, but not his mission. A reasonable voice reminded Arin he could simply torture the necessary information out of Soraya. She had been with the Mufsids for many years; with pain’s incentivizing persuasion, Arin could wring their location out of her. The Urabi’s, too, he suspected. All he had to do was spur his horse forward. “Why shouldn’t I behave as a killer if I’m to suffer the same fate regardless?” Fire danced in her hair. Vaun groaned. Her dark eyes, which should have been lit with the silver and gold of Jasadi magic, brimmed with pain. Pain so severe, Arin suspected she had stopped seeing it for what it was. She would have recast it as anger, as an inborn quality


gone. Hawat glanced back at the huddle of his men. He had started the night just past with three hundred of his finest. Of those, an even twenty remained and half of them were wounded. Some of them slept now, standing up, leaning against the rock, sprawled on the sand beneath the rock. Their last 'thopter, the one they'd been using as a ground-effect machine to carry their wounded, had given out just before dawn. They had cut it up with lasguns and hidden the pieces, then worked their way down into this hiding place at the edge of the basin. Hawat had only a rough idea of their location--some two hundred kilometers southeast of Arrakeen. The main traveled ways between the Shield Wall sietch communities were somewhere south of them. The Fremen across from Hawat threw back his hood and stillsuit cap to reveal sandy hair and beard. The hair was combed straight back from a high, thin forehead. He had the unreadable total blue eyes of the spice diet. Beard and mustache were stained at one side of the mouth, his hair matted there by pressure of the looping catchtube from his nose plugs. The man removed his plugs, readjusted them. He rubbed at a scar beside his nose. "If you cross the sink here this night," the Fremen said, "you must not use shields. There is a break in the wall . . . " He turned on his heels, pointed south. " . . . there, and it is open sand down to the erg. Shields will attract a . . . " He hesitated. ". . . worm. They don't often come in here, but a shield will bring one every time." He said worm, Hawat thought. He was going to say something else. What? And what does he want of us? Hawat sighed. He could not recall ever before being this tired. It was a muscle weariness that energy pills were unable to ease. Those damnable Sardaukar! With a self-accusing bitterness, he faced the thought of the soldier-fanatics and the Imperial treachery they represented. His own Mentat assessment of the data told him how little chance he had ever to present evidence of this treachery before the High Council of the Landsraad where justice might be done. "Do you wish to go to the smugglers?" the Fremen asked. "Is it possible?" "The way is long." "Fremen don't like to say no," Idaho had told him once. Hawat said: "You haven't yet told me whether your people can help my wounded." "They are wounded." The same damned answer every time! "We know they're wounded!" Hawat snapped. "That's not the--" "Peace, friend," the Fremen cautioned. "What do your wounded say? Are there those among them who can see the water need of your tribe?" "We haven't talked about water," Hawat said. "We--" "I can understand your reluctance," the Fremen said. "They are your friends, your tribesmen. Do you have water?" "Not enough." The Fremen gestured to Hawat's tunic, the skin exposed beneath it. "You were caught in-sietch, without


insane anger, which showed itself in veins and blotches. But now at night he lay in his bunk, face turned to the wall, listening to whoops of laughter below and the piano-string scurry of rat feet, the violin squeaking of mice, and the great shadowing, motioned silence of the Hound leaping out like a moth in the raw light, finding, holding its victim, inserting the needle and going back to its kennel to die as if a switch had been turned. Montag touched the muzzle. . The Hound growled. Montag jumped back. The Hound half rose in its kennel and looked at him with green-blue neon light flickering in its suddenly activated eyebulbs. It growled again, a strange rasping combination of electrical sizzle, a frying sound, a scraping of metal, a turning of cogs that seemed rusty and ancient with suspicion. "No, no, boy," said Montag, his heart pounding. He saw the silver needle extended upon the air an inch, pull back, extend, pull back. The growl simmered in the beast and it looked at him. Montag backed up. The Hound took a step from its kennel. Montag grabbed the brass pole with one hand. The pole, reacting, slid upward, and took him through the ceiling, quietly. He stepped off in the half-lit deck of the upper level. He was trembling and his face was green-white. Below, the Hound had sunk back down upon its eight incredible insect legs and was humming to itself again, its multi-faceted eyes at peace. Montag stood, letting the fears pass, by the drop-hole. Behind him, four men at a card table under a green-lidded light in the corner glanced briefly but said nothing. Only the man with the Captain's hat and the sign of the Phoenix on his hat, at last, curious, his playing cards in his thin hand, talked across the long room. "Montag . . . ?" "It doesn't like me," said Montag. "What, the Hound?" The Captain studied his cards. "Come off it. It doesn't like or dislike. It just `functions.' It's like a lesson in ballistics. It has a trajectory we decide for it. It follows through. It targets itself, homes itself, and cuts off. It's only copper wire, storage batteries, and electricity." Montag swallowed. "Its calculators can be set to any combination, so many amino acids, so much sulphur, so much butterfat and alkaline. Right?" "We all know that." "All of those chemical balances and percentages on all of us here in the house are recorded in the master file downstairs. It would be easy for someone to set up a partial combination on the Hound's 'memory,' a touch of amino acids, perhaps. That would account for what the animal did just now. Reacted toward me." "Hell," said the Captain. "Irritated, but not completely angry. Just enough 'memory' set up in it by someone so it growled when I touched it." "Who would do a thing like that?." asked the Captain. "You haven't any enemies here, Guy." "None that I know of." "We'll have the Hound checked by our technicians tomorrow.


I said. "Well, then, finish it!" I waited a minute. "What happened before?" He gazed up at me again. "Before what?" "Before you came back. And before you went away." For some time he was silent, but he continued to meet my eyes. "What happened?" It made me, the sound of the words, in which it seemed to me that I caught for the very first time a small faint quaver of consenting consciousness--it made me drop on my knees beside the bed and seize once more the chance of possessing him. "Dear little Miles, dear little Miles, if you KNEW how I want to help you! It's only that, it's nothing but that, and I'd rather die than give you a pain or do you a wrong-- I'd rather die than hurt a hair of you. Dear little Miles"-- oh, I brought it out now even if I SHOULD go too far--"I just want you to help me to save you!" But I knew in a moment after this that I had gone too far. The answer to my appeal was instantaneous, but it came in the form of an extraordinary blast and chill, a gust of frozen air, and a shake of the room as great as if, in the wild wind, the casement had crashed in. The boy gave a loud, high shriek, which, lost in the rest of the shock of sound, might have seemed, indistinctly, though I was so close to him, a note either of jubilation or of terror. I jumped to my feet again and was conscious of darkness. So for a moment we remained, while I stared about me and saw that the drawn curtains were unstirred and the window tight. "Why, the candle's out!" I then cried. "It was I who blew it, dear!" said Miles. XVIII The next day, after lessons, Mrs. Grose found a moment to say to me quietly: "Have you written, miss?" "Yes--I've written." But I didn't add--for the hour--that my letter, sealed and directed, was still in my pocket. There would be time enough to send it before the messenger should go to the village. Meanwhile there had been, on the part of my pupils, no more brilliant, more exemplary morning. It was exactly as if they had both had at heart to gloss over any recent little friction. They performed the dizziest feats of arithmetic, soaring quite out of MY feeble range, and perpetrated, in higher spirits than ever, geographical and historical jokes. It was conspicuous of course in Miles in particular that he appeared to wish to show how easily he could let me down. This child, to my memory, really lives in a setting of beauty and misery that no words can translate; there was a distinction all his own in every impulse he revealed; never was a small natural creature, to the uninitiated eye all frankness and freedom, a more ingenious, a more extraordinary little gentleman. I had perpetually to guard against the wonder of contemplation into which my initiated view betrayed me; to


and quicklime blocks, fizzing and exploding before your very eyes. They drew in even the steadiest of folk, even Winnie. “Oh, I know all the right people,” Mrs. King had said with a grin and a nod. Winnie had always turned a blind eye to Mrs. King’s outside interests. She was no fool: they’d shared a room, and she noticed Dinah running side jobs for Mrs. Bone—passing messages, delivering hampers. Winnie had spotted goods being sneaked in through the back door: sealskin gloves, a tortoiseshell parasol, the most heavenly emollient soaps... “Who gave you this?” she’d asked sternly, holding up a bolt of fine lace, concealed at the very back of Dinah’s wardrobe. “I bought it myself,” Dinah said, truthfully. It was a risk, taking those side jobs. But risks always paid well. Mrs. King had never worried that Winnie might snitch on her. The bond between them was absolute. “Here,” Winnie had said, rummaging inside the wardrobe, grimacing, loosening a back panel. “Hide your treasures if you must.” She paused. “But you should save your pennies. You might want them one day.” Mrs. King remembered the advice. She stopped buying scent bottles and bracelets, and put her cash in old stockings instead. “Sunday,” Winnie said now, scribbling in her notebook. She bit her lip. “Awfully soon, Dinah.” “Sooner the better.” Winnie looked serious. “I suppose you’re right.” Mrs. King stretched out a hand. “You’ll make a terribly good thief, Win.” Winnie frowned. “Don’t tease me.” “I’m not teasing in the least,” said Mrs. King, with mock seriousness. “I’ve never met such a bloodthirsty woman in my life.” Winnie stared up at her from her chair, with an expression in her eyes that made her look suddenly much older. “And I’ve never met a woman in my life who decided to clear out a whole house, strip it right down to the bones, for no more reason than she feels like it.” She studied Mrs. King. “Remind me never to cross you.” Mrs. King kept things easy. “I’m sure you don’t need reminding.” She tapped her pocket watch. “Now, come along. You’ve got a job to do, my fine lady-felon. Clock’s ticking.” 5 Winnie entered the Paragon through the doors on the Mile End Road. She crossed the crush room and saw herself reflected in the giant mirrors, flushed with heat. They’d replaced the gaslights with blistering new electroliers and put Chinese prints all over the walls. Everything was glazed and swagged with red velvet. She rather liked it. She took a breath and made straight for the auditorium, spying a door near the stage. Mrs. King had given very clear instructions. “We need someone with a gift for deception, someone who knows all about acting.” “Who did you have in mind?” “Who do you think?” “You can’t be serious,” Winnie had said, knowing exactly who Mrs. King meant. “She’s entirely unpredictable.” “She’s perfect. And you’ve known her the longest. She’ll do it if you ask her.” Winnie had shaken her head. “Not a good idea.” “Nonsense. I have every faith in


neither power nor wisdom assuaged their grief, and the knowing of evil in the hour of its being. And they mourned not more for the death of the Trees than for the marring of Fanor: of the works of Melkor one of the most evil. For Fanor was made the mightiest in all parts of body and mind, in valour, in endurance, in beauty, in understanding, in skill, in strength and in subtlety alike, of all the Children of Ilvatar, and a bright flame was in him. The works of wonder for the glory of Arda that he might otherwise have wrought only Manw might in some measure conceive. And it was told by the Vanyar who held vigil with the Valar that when the messengers declared to Manw the answers of Fanor to his heralds, Manw wept and bowed his head. But at that last word of Fanor: that at the least the Noldor should do deeds to live in song for ever, he raised his head, as one that hears a voice far off, and he said: 'So shall it be! Dear-bought those songs shall be accounted, and yet shall be well-bought. For the price could be no other. Thus even as Eru spoke to us shall beauty not before conceived be brought into E, and evil yet be good to have been.' But Mandos said: 'And yet remain evil. To me shall Fanor come soon.' But when at last the Valar learned that the Noldor had indeed passed out of Aman and were come back into Middle-earth, they arose and began to set forth in deeds those counsels which they had taken in thought for the redress of the evils of Melkor. Then Manw bade Yavanna and Nienna to put forth all their powers of growth and healing; and they put forth all their powers upon the Trees. But the tears of Nienna availed not to heal their mortal wounds; and for a long while Yavanna sang alone in the shadows. Yet even as hope failed and her song faltered, Telperion bore at last upon a leafless bough one great flower of silver, and Laurelin a single trait of gold. These Yavanna took; and then the Trees died, and their lifeless stems stand yet in Valinor, a memorial of vanished joy. But the flower and the fruit Yavanna gave to Aul, and Manw hallowed them, and Aul and his people made vessels to hold them and preserve their radiance: as is said in the Narsilion, the Song of the Sun and Moon. These vessels the Valar gave to Varda, that they might become lamps of heaven, outshining the ancient stars, being nearer to Arda; and she gave them power to traverse the lower regions of Ilmen, and set them to voyage upon appointed courses above the girdle of the Earth from the West unto the East and to return. These things the Valar did, recalling in their twilight the darkness of the lands of Arda; and they resolved now to illumine Middle-earth and with light to hinder the deeds


my own room and found him making the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along thought, that there are no servants in the house. When later I saw him through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the dining room, I was assured of it. For if he does himself all these menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else in the castle, it must have been the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that brought me here. This is a terrible thought, for if so, what does it mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his hand for silence? How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the coach had some terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! For it is a comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing which I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about Count Dracula,as it may help me to understand. Tonight he may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful, however, not to awake his suspicion. Midnight.--I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he afterwards explained by saying that to a Boyar the pride of his house and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said "we", and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his great white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I shall put down as nearly as I can, for it tells in its way the story of his race. "We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our


wide warded off by the hill with the two peaks upon the east, the upon the surface of the bay. About the same time, the sun Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 222 223 went fairly down and the breeze whistled low in the dusk that he should show himself so careless. For if I could see this among the tossing pines. radiance, might it not reach the eyes of Silver himself where At least, and at last, I was off the sea, nor had I returned he camped upon the shore among the marshes? thence empty-handed. There lay the schooner, clear at last Gradually the night fell blacker; it was all I could do to from buccaneers and ready for our own men to board and get guide myself even roughly towards my destination; the double to sea again. I had nothing nearer my fancy than to get home hill behind me and the Spy-glass on my right hand loomed to the stockade and boast of my achievements. Possibly I faint and fainter; the stars were few and pale; and in the low might be blamed a bit for my truantry, but the recapture of ground where I wandered I kept tripping among bushes and the HISPANIOLA was a clenching answer, and I hoped that rolling into sandy pits. even Captain Smollett would confess I had not lost my time. Suddenly a kind of brightness fell about me. I looked up; So thinking, and in famous spirits, I began to set my face a pale glimmer of moonbeams had alighted on the summit of homeward for the block house and my companions. I remem- the Spy-glass, and soon after I saw something broad and sil- bered that the most easterly of the rivers which drain into very moving low down behind the trees, and knew the moon Captain Kidd’s anchorage ran from the two-peaked hill upon had risen. my left, and I bent my course in that direction that I might With this to help me, I passed rapidly over what remained pass the stream while it was small. The wood was pretty open, to me of my journey, and sometimes walking, sometimes run- and keeping along the lower spurs, I had soon turned the ning, impatiently drew near to the stockade. Yet, as I began corner of that hill, and not long after waded to the mid-calf to thread the grove that lies before it, I was not so thoughtless across the watercourse. but that I slacked my pace and went a trifle warily. It would This brought me near to where I had encountered Ben have been a poor end of my adventures to get shot down by Gunn, the maroon; and I walked more circumspectly, keep- my own party in mistake. ing an eye on every side. The dusk had come nigh hand The moon was climbing higher and higher, its light began completely, and as I opened out the cleft between the two to fall here and there in masses through the more open dis- peaks, I became


open—but she came to the porch at the sound of the car. “I’m off on my hike.” She looped a canteen over her chest. “There’s mint water in the house for you. I don’t do ice. No freezer. Sorry.” “I usually forget to take a break when I start working,” Maud said. “That doesn’t surprise me. The outhouse is that building over there. Good luck.” Alice left, and Maud unloaded the back of the car. Then she started to lay down plastic, first flattening the grasses with a wooden board, one square foot at a time. On a bathroom break, she walked to the barn with the whitewashed windows and looked through a gap in the slats. She could make out a massive shape. That must be Basket 4, she decided, the last sculpture in Alice’s series, the one that had never been sold. But why paint over the windows? She didn’t think Maria was right about Alice being paranoid about the press. As she walked back to the field, it came to her. Alice doesn’t want to see it, she thought. She’s hiding it from herself. She stopped at noon, just before Alice returned from the mountain. “I can come back tomorrow,” she said. “Let’s stick to Wednesdays,” Alice said. The following week, Maud worked faster and harder, trying to get the middle of the field done, rolling out the thick sheets of plastic. “Spotted a whale,” Alice said, passing by as Maud hammered in stakes. “There’s a view of the ocean?” Maud said. “There’s a hell of a view of the ocean. You want lunch when you’re done?” “Sure,” Maud said. She had plenty of time before she needed to pick up Ella and Louise. “I’m going to the library to read,” Alice said. “The table will be set at twelve.” The table, it turned out, was metaphorical. As Maud carried the leftover plastic sheeting to the car, she saw Alice come out on the porch with two bowls. “Lunch,” she yelled. The bowl Alice handed her was filled with grains Maud didn’t recognize, crushed nuts, and dates, all swimming in a glumpy sauce. “Enjoy,” Alice said. She tore a date in half and shared it with Clark. Maud sat down next to her on the bench. They seemed, already, to have entered a new phase. Alice no longer appeared interested in challenging Maud, as if some hesitation had been laid to rest. But as they ate, she didn’t utter a single word. “Is this cumin I taste?” Maud said, three-quarters of the way through her bowl. “I like it with the cashews. I’ll tell my husband. He’s been making Indian food lately.” “Correct.” Alice glanced over. “Are you worried I want to sleep with you?” “No,” Maud said. “Why?” “You seem nervous. And you just flashed the husband badge.” “I was just trying to make conversation.” “That’s why people shouldn’t try to make conversation,” Alice said. “They can suggest a subtext they don’t mean.” She fed Clark another date. “For the record, when you walked into that conference room,


Still following the note of the bell, they entered the shade of those woods, lighted only by the moonbeams, that glided down between the leaves, and threw a tremulous uncertain gleam upon the steep track they were winding. The gloom and the silence that prevailed, except when the bell returned upon the air, together with the wildness of the surrounding scene, struck Emily with a degree of fear, which, however, the voice and conversation of Valancourt somewhat repressed. When they had been some time ascending, St. Aubert complained of weariness, and they stopped to rest upon a little green summit, where the trees opened, and admitted the moon- light. He sat down upon the turf, between Emily and Valancourt. The bell had now ceased, and the deep repose of the scene was undisturbed by any sound, for the low dull murmur of some distant torrents might be said to sooth, rather than to interrupt, the silence. Before them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and woods to the left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deep shadow, that involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits only were tipped with light; while the distant perspective of the valley was lost in the yellow mist of moon-light. The travellers sat for some time wrapt in the complacency which such scenes inspire. 'These scenes,' said Valancourt, at length, 'soften the heart, like the notes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melancholy which no person, who had felt it once, would resign for the gayest pleasures. They waken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to benevolence, pity, and friendship. Those whom I love--I always seem to love more in such an hour as this.' His voice trembled, and he paused. St. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand he held; she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some time, been occupied by the remembrance of her mother. He seemed by an effort to rouse himself. 'Yes,' said he, with an half-suppressed sigh, 'the memory of those we love--of times for ever past! in such an hour as this steals upon the mind, like a strain of distant music in the stillness of night;--all tender and harmonious as this landscape, sleeping in the mellow moon-light.' After the pause of a moment, St. Aubert added, 'I have always fancied, that I thought with more clearness, and precision, at such an hour than at any other, and that heart must be insensible in a great degree, that does not soften to its influence. But many such there are.' Valancourt sighed. 'Are there, indeed, many such?' said Emily. 'a few years hence, my Emily,' replied St. Aubert, 'and you may smile at the recollection of that question--if you do not weep to it. But come, I am somewhat refreshed, let us proceed.' Having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above, the convent of which they were in search. A high wall, that surrounded it, led them to an ancient


near to the edge of a precipice. We must wish you good-morning now, Mrs. Lyons, and it is probable that you will very shortly hear from us again." "Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after difficulty thins away in front of us," said Holmes as we stood waiting for the arrival of the express from town. "I shall soon be in the position of being able to put into a single connected narrative one of the most singular and sensational crimes of modern times. Students of criminology will remember the analogous incidents in Godno, in Little Russia, in the year '66, and of course there are the Anderson murders in North Carolina, but this case possesses some features which are entirely its own. Even now we have no clear case against this very wily man. But I shall be very much surprised if it is not clear enough before we go to bed this night. " The London express came roaring into the station, and a small, wiry bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage. We all three shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential way in which Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned a good deal since the days when they had first worked together. I could well remember the scorn which the theories of the reasoner used then to excite in the practical man. "Anything good?" he asked. "The biggest thing for years," said Holmes. "We have two hours before we need think of starting. I think we might employ it in getting some dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London fog out of your throat by giving you a breath of the pure night air of Dartmoor. Never been there? Ah, well, I don't suppose you will forget your first visit." Chapter 14 The Hound of the Baskervilles One of Sherlock Holmes's defects -- if, indeed, one may call it a defect -- was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment. Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which loved to dominate and surprise those who were around him. Partly also from his professional caution, which urged him never to take any chances. The result, however, was very trying for those who were acting as his agents and assistants. I had often suffered under it, but never more so than during that long drive in the darkness. The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we were about to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing, and I could only surmise what his course of action would be. My nerves thrilled with anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces and the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow road told me that we were back upon the moor once again. Every stride of the horses and every turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to our supreme adventure. Our conversation


the people in front of me, peering into the glass cases that held the manuscripts. ‘How did they survive all this time?’ I whispered. A smile spread from his eyes to his lips. ‘You’re getting hooked now, aren’t you?’ I just rolled my eyes, but he wasn’t far wrong. Of course I’d seen reproductions from the Book of Kells in books and even on tea towels, but seeing it in real life like this, the intricate drawings and the handwritten text, it was hard not to get sucked into its story. ‘It was stolen once in 1007 from Kells by the Vikings. They stripped whatever gold they could from the cover and left what they believed was a worthless manuscript under a sod of turf.’ I couldn’t help wondering about the lives of the people who wrote the text, all in Latin. Still, there wasn’t much time to ponder as the crowds kept coming and it was time to move on to the Long Room Library. I don’t know what I expected, but my skin flushed with goosebumps at the sight of it. It was like a cathedral of books; wooden galleries arched upwards from floor to ceiling, filled with leatherbound books. I’d never seen anything like it. As we walked along the central corridor, marble busts lined the way; philosophers whose names sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t have said what any of them were known for. Surrounded by all of this learning, it was hard not to feel like, no matter how much you studied, you would never have an inch of the knowledge contained in this room. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ he said. I hadn’t been aware that he was watching for my reaction. I turned to face him, ignoring the crowds pushing us ever forwards. ‘Why did you really bring me here?’ He took a moment, shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up to the highest mezzanines where conservators were working with gloved hands. ‘I wanted to show you that anything is possible.’ He stepped out of the way of a group of American students, noisily making their way past. Then he stepped back a little closer to me, so I could feel his breath. ‘After that day in the library, I could see you wanted to belong. And I just wanted to show you that you do.’ I stopped hearing the people around us, barely even noticed them filing past. No one had ever seen me the way he just had. And even if they did, they certainly didn’t do anything to try and help me. I was lost for words and my throat felt thick with a sadness I’d never allowed myself to feel. He ran his hand through his hair, which unfailingly fell into his eyes when he bent his head, as he was doing now. ‘Do you want to grab a pint somewhere?’ I just nodded and smiled as he stood back and cleared a path for me to walk ahead. He’d found a pub on a small side street that looked as


going to his place in the afternoons for the past few weeks.” Maud broke into a cold sweat. “Every day?” “Yes,” the psychiatrist said with a concerned nod. “She says she went back there tonight because she didn’t know where else to go. She was trying to run away. I think only to scare you. She was upset her father was taking her home. She told me again that Mr. Crews didn’t touch her. But the police will want to talk to her before she’s discharged. We need to be thorough. It’s odd that he hid it from you.” Maud’s eyes filled. “I had no idea. And I didn’t know she’d been hurting herself.” “Now you do,” the psychiatrist said gently. “And you can get her help.” Maud called Peter to tell him what the psychiatrist had said. “Is Louise okay?” she asked. “She fell asleep. I’m driving around the block in circles.” Voices equally robotic, they’d moved into emergency mode. In Ella’s room, the nurse had folded the gown around Ella’s waist and was swabbing her leg. “Don’t want you here,” Ella said to Maud, drowsily and icily. “Ella’s agreed to let me disinfect her cut,” the nurse said. “Why don’t you wait outside? I’ll get you when I’m done.” Peter texted that Louise had woken up and that he was getting her breakfast. Eventually the nurse told Maud that Ella was asleep if she wanted to go into the room. Eyelids swollen, mouth ajar, Ella’s pale face blended into the pillow. Maud stood at the foot of the bed. After folding back the sheet and blanket, she lifted Ella’s gown and carefully peeled back the large gauze bandage on her left leg. Row upon row of ridges ran down Ella’s thigh, some glossy and pink, some weathered to scars, others still crusty, each one straight and spaced precisely. She stared at the devastation, memorizing each line before replacing the bandage, lowering the gown, and pulling the sheet back up. While Ella slept, she changed the three plane tickets home for a flight that evening, adding a seat for herself. She called Annette and told her what had happened, omitting that she’d had sex with Gabriel. She called Lone Pines, the psychiatric hospital near her parents’ house, and made an appointment for an assessment. She called Ella’s pediatrician and left a message. She called the insurance company. Her finger dialed numbers. Her voice said words. Her mind swirled. The police officer who had met them when they arrived at the hospital came back midmorning, after Peter and Louise had visited. Ella had gathered herself to give Louise a hug. “Let’s switch,” Peter said to Maud. “Please let me stay with her,” Maud said. “Please.” “Fine,” he said. She needed to hear everything. She needed every piece of information Ella gave. She was still anticipating another blow, some horrible truth about Gabriel. Again, she sat next to the bed in the room. The police officer pulled up a chair. The psychiatrist stood by the window with a clipboard. The social worker sat


prior. Perhaps if she saved everything she made while working for the Winthrop family, she could afford a sojourn to the Continent and get to see some of the places Father had once dreamed of visiting before his wife died. After Lucy’s mother passed away, Father had never been the same. “Italy is nice,” a voice said. Lucy jumped so high she dropped the book, though she immediately leaned down to grab it before the pages became too bent. “I’m sorry,” she gasped and turned toward the window. She had thought she was alone, but a man sat stretched out in a large armchair, his hazel eyes showing signs of sleepiness as he watched her, as if he had only just woken. “I did not realize anyone was in here.” He cocked his head to one side, studying her carefully. “No, the fault is mine. I should have announced myself.” Though she had never seen him before, parts of his features looked familiar enough that she could guess his name. He must be Simon, William’s older brother. He had the same strong jaw as his brother, and his dark hair was just as thick, though a little more unruly, as if it didn’t often behave. His eyes were far darker than William’s blue ones, and much warmer. He did not dress nearly as well, though, and Lucy did her best to ignore his poorly tied cravat, even though she was tempted to tell him he needed to find himself a new valet if he was to be taken seriously in London. Mr. Granger had spoken of such things often, declaring himself an expert in the latest fashions. “Lord Calloway?” she said. When had he arrived? He was not due until the morning. Rising to his feet—he was tall, like William, but far broader—he straightened his clothing and bowed a little. “Either I do not remember meeting you,” he said, “or you are more knowledgeable than I am.” He spoke with a lightness that immediately brought a smile to Lucy’s lips, which she thought impressive, considering how on edge she had been since leaving London and that he was the person who would inevitably decide her fate once the truth came out. She should have been quaking where she stood, but she felt as calm as she had when she woke this afternoon. There was some sort of magic to this place, this home, that quelled her fears in a way nothing ever had. “Well,” she said and carefully replaced the book on the shelf before offering a curtsy, “I can say with certainty that we have not met. I think I would remember a man who sleeps in a library instead of a bedchamber.” “Yes, well . . .” He glanced at the chair behind him, as if searching for a good excuse because the truth would not be in his favor. “I arrived early.” “I noticed,” Lucy replied. When Lord Calloway smiled, Lucy recognized the same broad happiness that she had seen in Olivia, though it had to filter through a


she’d been through, but by the time he had commented on the nails in her bedroom window with, “Wow. I see you’ve got some old-fashioned security here, but it’s the kind that can kill you if you’re trapped by a fire,” he was beginning to bug her, even though he was joking. He finally finished by remarking that she should change out the backup battery every year and have someone double-check the system regularly, then took the time to explain how it worked, showing her how to turn off the various areas in the house. He reminded her once more that though he’d upgraded her existing system, she really should spring for something more high-tech. “This system has its flaws and is really old.” “I know. It came with the house when we bought it.” After he double-checked his work he handed her a thin instruction manual for the new parts that was printed in six or seven different languages and left. Relieved to see him go, she watched him through the sidelight of the front door as he spent another fifteen minutes with paperwork and on his phone before he backed his van out of the driveway and turned down the now-dark street. Once his taillights disappeared, she changed her security code and tested the app on her phone that linked her to the system. Everything seemed to work. “Thank God,” she said aloud, and thought that maybe now her father would be happy. If that was even possible. Her phone buzzed again and she recognized the number of the animal shelter. “Hello?” a bright voice said. “Is this Kristi Bentz?” “It is.” “Hi, it’s Heather at the animal shelter. And I think we may have found the perfect dog for you. A two-year-old neutered male, around eighty pounds and a love. He’s part Staffordshire terrier, pit, you know. And . . . from the looks of him, he’s got a little lab, or boxer, or both, we’re really not sure. Haven’t done any DNA on him, you know.” A dyed-in-the-wool mutt, it seemed. The woman was going on about the dog. “His name is Dave and he came in from another shelter. He’s been quarantined and already seen by the vet. He’s healthy, neutered, and you could meet him tomorrow if you’re still interested.” She didn’t hesitate, said she’d fill out the application online and be at the shelter in the morning, and disconnected. The picture of Dave came through in less than a minute and in that instant she fell in love with a floppy-eared, caramel-colored dog with a black snout and a pink tongue lolling from one side of his mouth. He looked like a mutt. Pure and simple. Maybe part lab. Maybe part pit bull, but definitely a mutt. And—because of his silly pose in the picture—not that intimidating. But that was okay, she thought. This dog would guard her, yes, but have to get along with her newly adopted kitten and be gentle with children as well. Absently she touched her still-flat abdomen. A baby was


`Of course not,' Alice replied very readily: `but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together.' `Which is just the case with MINE,' said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. `I don't quite understand you,' she said, as politely as she could. `The Dormouse is asleep again,' said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, `Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself.' `Have you guessed the riddle yet?' the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. `No, I give it up,' Alice replied: `what's the answer?' `I haven't the slightest idea,' said the Hatter. `Nor I,' said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. `I think you might do something better with the time,' she said, `than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.' `If you knew Time as well as I do,' said the Hatter, `you wouldn't talk about wasting IT. It's HIM.' `I don't know what you mean,' said Alice. `Of course you don't!' the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. `I dare say you never even spoke to Time!' `Perhaps not,' Alice cautiously replied: `but I know I have to beat time when I learn music.' `Ah! that accounts for it,' said the Hatter. `He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!' (`I only wish it was,' the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) `That would be grand, certainly,' said Alice thoughtfully: `but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know.' `Not at first, perhaps,' said the Hatter: `but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked.' `Is that the way YOU manage?' Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. `Not I!' he replied. `We quarrelled last March--just before HE went mad, you know--' (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) `--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing "Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!" You know the song, perhaps?' `I've heard something like it,' said Alice. `It goes on, you know,' the Hatter continued, `in this way:-- "Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--"' Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep `Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle--' and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. `Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse,' said the Hatter, `when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, "He's murdering the time! Off with his head!"' `How dreadfully


involved in. Further circuits amused themselves by analysing the molecular components of the door, and of the humanoids' brain cells. For a quick encore they measured the level of hydrogen emissions in the surrounding cubic parsec of space and then shut down again in boredom. A spasm of despair shook the robot's body as he turned. "Come on," he droned, "I've been ordered to take you down to the bridge. Here I am, brain the size of a planet and they ask me to take you down to the bridge. Call that job satisfaction? 'Cos I don't." He turned and walked back to the hated door. "Er, excuse me," said Ford following after him, "which government owns this ship?" Marvin ignored him. "You watch this door," he muttered, "it's about to open again. I can tell by the intolerable air of smugness it suddenly generates." With an ingratiating little whine the door slit open again and Marvin stomped through. "Come on," he said. The others followed quickly and the door slit back into place with pleased little clicks and whirrs. "Thank you the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation," said Marvin and trudged desolately up the gleaming curved corridor that stretched out before them. "Let's build robots with Genuine People Personalities," they said. So they tried it out with me. I'm a personality prototype. You can tell can't you?" Ford and Arthur muttered embarrassed little disclaimers. "I hate that door," continued Marvin. "I'm not getting you down at all am I?" "Which government ..." started Ford again. "No government owns it," snapped the robot, "it's been stolen." "Stolen?" "Stolen?" mimicked Marvin. "Who by?" asked Ford. "Zaphod Beeblebrox." Something extraordinary happened to Ford's face. At least five entirely separate and distinct expressions of shock and amazement piled up on it in a jumbled mess. His left leg, which was in mid stride, seemed to have difficulty in finding the floor again. He stared at the robot and tried to entangle some dartoid muscles. "Zaphod Beeblebrox ...?" he said weakly. "Sorry, did I say something wrong?" said Marvin, dragging himself on regardless. "Pardon me for breathing, which I never do anyway so I don't know why I bother to say it, oh God I'm so depressed. Here's another of those self-satisfied door. Life! Don't talk to me about life." "No one ever mentioned it," muttered Arthur irritably. "Ford, are you alright?" Ford stared at him. "Did that robot say Zaphod Beeblebrox?" he said. ================================================================= Chapter 12 A loud clatter of gunk music flooded through the Heart of Gold cabin as Zaphod searched the sub-etha radio wavebands for news of himself. The machine was rather difficult to operate. For years radios had been operated by means of pressing buttons and turning dials; then as the technology became more sophisticated the controls were made touch-sensitive - you merely had to brush the panels with your fingers; now all you had to do was wave your hand in the general direction of the components and hope. It saved a lot of muscular expenditure of course, but


hope, than another man,' said Mr. Omer. 'Look at me! My wind may fail me at any moment, and it ain't likely that, to my own knowledge, I'd be self-interested under such circumstances. I say it ain't likely, in a man who knows his wind will go, when it DOES go, as if a pair of bellows was cut open; and that man a grandfather,' said Mr. Omer. I said, 'Not at all.' 'It ain't that I complain of my line of business,' said Mr. Omer. 'It ain't that. Some good and some bad goes, no doubt, to all callings. What I wish is, that parties was brought up stronger-minded.' Mr. Omer, with a very complacent and amiable face, took several puffs in silence; and then said, resuming his first point: 'Accordingly we're obleeged, in ascertaining how Barkis goes on, to limit ourselves to Em'ly. She knows what our real objects are, and she don't have any more alarms or suspicions about us, than if we was so many lambs. Minnie and Joram have just stepped down to the house, in fact (she's there, after hours, helping her aunt a bit), to ask her how he is tonight; and if you was to please to wait till they come back, they'd give you full partic'lers. Will you take something? A glass of srub and water, now? I smoke on srub and water, myself,' said Mr. Omer, taking up his glass, 'because it's considered softening to the passages, by which this troublesome breath of mine gets into action. But, Lord bless you,' said Mr. Omer, huskily, 'it ain't the passages that's out of order! "Give me breath enough," said I to my daughter Minnie, "and I'll find passages, my dear."' He really had no breath to spare, and it was very alarming to see him laugh. When he was again in a condition to be talked to, I thanked him for the proffered refreshment, which I declined, as I had just had dinner; and, observing that I would wait, since he was so good as to invite me, until his daughter and his son-in-law came back, I inquired how little Emily was? 'Well, sir,' said Mr. Omer, removing his pipe, that he might rub his chin: 'I tell you truly, I shall be glad when her marriage has taken place.' 'Why so?' I inquired. 'Well, she's unsettled at present,' said Mr. Omer. 'It ain't that she's not as pretty as ever, for she's prettier - I do assure you, she is prettier. It ain't that she don't work as well as ever, for she does. She WAS worth any six, and she IS worth any six. But somehow she wants heart. If you understand,' said Mr. Omer, after rubbing his chin again, and smoking a little, 'what I mean in a general way by the expression, "A long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether, my hearties, hurrah!" I should say to you, that that was - in a general way - what I miss in Em'ly.' Mr. Omer's face and


me you’ll wear a KN95.” “Do you know what people like me call flying commercial?” I said. “We call it flying.” “Yeah, I guess I asked for that.” This conversation had started after midnight, and we were then on the phone for two and a half hours more, discussing how the kids of one of his side project band members were sewing masks for residents of nursing homes; and how while walking Sugar that evening I’d passed a slim white woman in a T-shirt that said Good Vibes Only, and how that seemed like a thing a slim white woman shouldn’t be wearing at this particular cultural moment; and how I was reading a novel set in Communist Romania; and how he was reading a book of nonfiction about the future of artificial intelligence but the truth was that he read it only at night and rarely got through more than a few pages before falling asleep; and how the previous week, he had started writing a new song for the first time since he’d had Covid and it hadn’t gone incredibly well but also hadn’t been a disaster; and about how in the Indigo Girls’ “Dairy Queen,” there was a lyric I’d never been clear on because it kind of sounded like “to hold you” but it also kind of sounded like “to haunt you” and if you looked it up online it said hold, but I wanted it to be haunt; and about the Dairy Queen chain and how he’d never been to one, and I said that was because he’d never lived in the Midwest; and about how I’d never been to In-N-Out Burger, and he said that was because I’d never lived in California. By then, it was almost three-thirty my time and I felt like the teenager I’d never been, drugged on lust and conversation. Just before we hung up, I said, “Usually I hate talking on the phone, but I don’t hate talking on the phone to you.” “I’ll try not to let that go to my head.” He sounded very happy, and I felt a squeezing around my heart. Wasn’t this all too good to be true? For the last week, whenever I hadn’t actively been writing an email to or reading an email from Noah, as I’d scrambled eggs or dragged the trash and recycling bins to the curb, I’d often pulled my phone from my pocket and reread both the messages he’d sent me and the ones I’d sent him, especially if I was waiting for a response; more than once I read all the emails, in order, in their entirety. I also had continuously composed future emails in my head and assessed almost any experience I was having—not, admittedly, that I was having many—through the filter of whether they’d be worth describing to Noah. And now we’d spoken and it hadn’t ruined everything! He added, “Can I call you again tomorrow night?” “You definitely can,” I said. “Can I email you seven times before I call you tomorrow night?” “I’m hoping you


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

last, in reply to my urgings, he informed me that he had permanently given up copying. “What!” exclaimed I; “suppose your eyes should get entirely well—better than ever before—would you not copy then?” “I have given up copying,” he answered, and slid aside. He remained as ever, a fixture in my chamber. Nay—if that were possible—he became still more of a fixture than before. What was to be done? He would do nothing in the office: why should he stay there? In plain fact, he had now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a necklace, but afflictive to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. I speak less than truth when I say that, on his own account, he occasioned me uneasiness. If he would but have named a single relative or friend, I would instantly have written, and urged their taking the poor fellow away to some convenient retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alone in the universe. A bit of wreck in the mid Atlantic. At length, necessities connected with my business tyrannized over all other considerations. Decently as I could, I told Bartleby that in six days’ time he must unconditionally leave the office. I warned him to take measures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I offered to assist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the first step towards a removal. “And when you finally quit me, Bartleby,” added I, “I shall see that you go not away entirely unprovided. Six days from this hour, remember.” At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo! Bartleby was there. I buttoned up my coat, balanced myself; advanced slowly towards him, touched his shoulder, and said, “The time has come; you must quit this place; I am sorry for you; here is money; but you must go.” “I would prefer not,” he replied, with his back still towards me. “You must.” He remained silent. Now I had an unbounded confidence in this man’s common honesty. He had frequently restored to me sixpences and shillings carelessly dropped upon the floor, for I am apt to be very reckless in such shirt-button affairs. The proceeding then which followed will not be deemed extraordinary. “Bartleby,” said I, “I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are thirty-two; the odd twenty are yours.—Will you take it?” and I handed the bills towards him. But he made no motion. “I will leave them here then,” putting them under a weight on the table. Then taking my hat and cane and going to the door I tranquilly turned and added—”After you have removed your things from these offices, Bartleby, you will of course lock the door—since every one is now gone for the day but you—and if you please, slip your key underneath the mat, so that I may have it in the morning. I shall not see you again; so good-bye to you. If hereafter in your new place of abode I can be of any service to you, do not fail


seemed to make a sound bent on assaulting him. From some out-of-sight speaker system, a semi-soothing voice blared, the words echoing up and down the buildings even as they crackled. “EVERYTHING YOU DO MUST BE RECORDED BY ORDER OF THE AUTHORITY. REMEMBER, THERE IS COMFORT IN ROUTINE. DO WHAT YOU ARE PROGRAMMED TO DO, AND YOU WILL BE AS RIGHT AS RAIN. IF THERE IS A FAULT IN YOUR PROTOCOLS, PLEASE REPORT TO THE NEAREST ADMINISTRATION OFFICE IMMEDIATELY FOR PROCESSING. IT WILL NOT HURT. WE WILL FIX YOU AND MAKE IT ALL BETTER. THE AUTHORITY WISHES YOU A WONDERFUL AFTERNOON. ATTENTION. ATTENTION. ATTENTION. EVERYTHING YOU DO MUST BE—” Gaze still turned upward, he stepped onto the street. The moment his foot touched down, he was jerked back by his collar. Something whizzed by in front of him, horn blaring angrily. “W-watch it,” Hap growled at him. “Pay attention.” Vic grimaced. “Sorry. It’s just … loud. I can’t focus.” “Try,” Hap said. “Follow th-the others. Don’t stop.” He spun Vic around, pushing him down the road. Nurse Ratched didn’t hesitate. She moved with purpose, ignoring everything happening around her. Rambo attempted to do the same but kept getting distracted by literally everything. “Oh my gosh! Would you look at that. And that. And what is that? I’ve never seen such a thing!” He rolled up to a machine sitting next to a building. It was rusted out, its casing cracked. It had the vague outline of a face on its upper body, though it had no eyes. Its teeth were black and sharp. It leaned against the side of a building. “Hello! How are you? I’m Rambo. I’m a vacuum!” The machine turned toward him. “Ram … bo?” “Yes! What’s your name? Oh, excuse me. Your designation.” “My … designation,” the machine said. “I … I…” The mouth of the machine opened, black slick pouring out mixed with nuts and bolts. Rambo scooted back out of the splash zone. “That’s okay,” he said. “I can clean that up for you.” Without her turning around, tentacles shot out from Nurse Ratched, wrapping around Rambo and pulling him away from the mess on the sidewalk. “Do not talk to strangers,” she said. “They will offer you sweets and then take you away and eat you.” “They will?” Rambo gasped. “Why didn’t anyone tell me that?” Vic and Hap hurried past the machine, even as it reached for them, saying, “I am I am I am—” Vic tried to keep his head down, putting one foot in front of the other, but something would catch the corner of his eye, and he’d be helpless against it. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting of the City of Electric Dreams, but it wasn’t this. This felt dank and dark, the machines on the street in varying stages of decay. The voice from the speakers above kept repeating the same words over and over, and they bounced around his skull. ATTENTION, ATTENTION, ATTENTION, and he yelped when an android pushed by him, walking in the opposite direction. “Watch


her, his threads spilling silver in her eyesight. She drew to a halt with a surprised “Careful!” “Oops,” said Nico. “Did I step on you?” Edei came around on Io’s other side, casually hooking her free hand into his elbow. To Nico, he said, “She’s in the Quilt. It makes it hard to see the real world or discern your threads from the one in her hand. I suggest you tell your story from where you are now.” His tone was good-natured, his palm cupping Io’s hand softly. Io remembered her admission—she liked him—and let the fuzzy warmth of his body seep into her, like a traveler coming in from the cold. If he wanted to help her, she’d let him. If he wanted to be sweet, she’d enjoy it. She had promised herself: no more guilt. “How’d you know I was going to tell a story?” asked Nico. “Is there anything else you do?” Chimdi chimed in. “Do you see how they treat me, Io? If this is what friends are, I never want to meet my enemies.” “I’ve told you a dozen times: we’re not friends,” Chimdi commented. “And what do you call the guys that you’re always around, have drinks and share laughs with?” “These particular guys? I call them Idiot One and Idiot Two.” Edei interrupted, very seriously, “Am I Idiot One or Two?” “Two, of course.” She quirked an eyebrow at Nico. “This one’s idiocy vastly outshines yours.” Edei’s laugh echoed down the busy street. A breathtaking sound; Io wished for a bottle so she could distill it. Open it on sleepless nights and lull herself to sweet dreams—gods. She really was a weirdo. She was Smitten, capital S, neon sign, symphonic orchestra playing in the background. On her other side, Nico argued, “I am a delight.” “You are,” Io piped in. “And don’t listen to them. All three of you are connected by strong, bright threads. They love you, no matter what they claim.” Chimdi groaned. “That is a gross transgression of your powers, cutter. Where are the fury-born when you need them?” “Let’s not joke about the fury-born,” Edei said. The mood of the group sobered a bit. Edei was right: the extinction of the fury-born was one of the blackest pages in other-born history. When the Kinship Treaty was signed, humans required that other-born establish governing bodies. The horae-born, descendants of the goddesses of time, formed the Agora and became their leaders; smaller other-born compounds, like the muse-born, took charge of separate city-nations; and the fury-born, goddesses of divine punishment, formed the policing body, named the Order of the Furies. The fury-born could see a bright orange latticework akin to the Quilt, which showed them a person’s wrongdoings. A very useful and unique power when it came to other-born, whose unnatural skills made it particularly hard to prove and prosecute a crime. Io didn’t really understand how it worked and probably never would, since the fury-born had died out completely. For years before the Moonset Riots, there had been rumors that their bloodline was


and off his feet. Pike, who had been trembling abjectly, took heart at this open mutiny, and sprang upon his overthrown leader. Buck, to whom fair play was a forgotten code, likewise sprang upon Spitz. But Francois, chuckling at the incident while unswerving in the administration of justice, brought his lash down upon Buck with all his might. This failed to drive Buck from his prostrate rival, and the butt of the whip was brought into play. Half-stunned by the blow, Buck was knocked backward and the lash laid upon him again and again, while Spitz soundly punished the many times offending Pike. In the days that followed, as Dawson grew closer and closer, Buck still continued to interfere between Spitz and the culprits; but he did it craftily, when Francois was not around, With the covert mutiny of Buck, a general insubordination sprang up and increased. Dave and Sol-leks were unaffected, but the rest of the team went from bad to worse. Things no longer went right. There was continual bickering and jangling. Trouble was always afoot, and at the bottom of it was Buck. He kept Francois busy, for the dog- driver was in constant apprehension of the life-and-death struggle between the two which he knew must take place sooner or later; and on more than one night the sounds of quarrelling and strife among the other dogs turned him out of his sleeping robe, fearful that Buck and Spitz were at it. But the opportunity did not present itself, and they pulled into Dawson one dreary afternoon with the great fight still to come. Here were many men, and countless dogs, and Buck found them all at work. It seemed the ordained order of things that dogs should work. All day they swung up and down the main street in long teams, and in the night their jingling bells still went by. They hauled cabin logs and firewood, freighted up to the mines, and did all manner of work that horses did in the Santa Clara Valley. Here and there Buck met Southland dogs, but in the main they were the wild wolf husky breed. Every night, regularly, at nine, at twelve, at three, they lifted a nocturnal song, a weird and eerie chant, in which it was Buck's delight to join. With the aurora borealis flaming coldly overhead, or the stars leaping in the frost dance, and the land numb and frozen under its pall of snow, this song of the huskies might have been the defiance of life, only it was pitched in minor key, with long- drawn wailings and half-sobs, and was more the pleading of life, the articulate travail of existence. It was an old song, old as the breed itself--one of the first songs of the younger world in a day when songs were sad. It was invested with the woe of unnumbered generations, this plaint by which Buck was so strangely stirred. When he moaned and sobbed, it was with the pain of living that was of old the pain of his wild


is apt to be but by the more festal celebration of one of the sacred laws of his comfort; and I held that I carried out the spirit of the pledge given not to appeal to him when I let my charges understand that their own letters were but charming literary exercises. They were too beautiful to be posted; I kept them myself; I have them all to this hour. This was a rule indeed which only added to the satiric effect of my being plied with the supposition that he might at any moment be among us. It was exactly as if my charges knew how almost more awkward than anything else that might be for me. There appears to me, moreover, as I look back, no note in all this more extraordinary than the mere fact that, in spite of my tension and of their triumph, I never lost patience with them. Adorable they must in truth have been, I now reflect, that I didn't in these days hate them! Would exasperation, however, if relief had longer been postponed, finally have betrayed me? It little matters, for relief arrived. I call it relief, though it was only the relief that a snap brings to a strain or the burst of a thunderstorm to a day of suffocation. It was at least change, and it came with a rush. XIV Walking to church a certain Sunday morning, I had little Miles at my side and his sister, in advance of us and at Mrs. Grose's, well in sight. It was a crisp, clear day, the first of its order for some time; the night had brought a touch of frost, and the autumn air, bright and sharp, made the church bells almost gay. It was an odd accident of thought that I should have happened at such a moment to be particularly and very gratefully struck with the obedience of my little charges. Why did they never resent my inexorable, my perpetual society? Something or other had brought nearer home to me that I had all but pinned the boy to my shawl and that, in the way our companions were marshaled before me, I might have appeared to provide against some danger of rebellion. I was like a gaoler with an eye to possible surprises and escapes. But all this belonged--I mean their magnificent little surrender-- just to the special array of the facts that were most abysmal. Turned out for Sunday by his uncle's tailor, who had had a free hand and a notion of pretty waistcoats and of his grand little air, Miles's whole title to independence, the rights of his sex and situation, were so stamped upon him that if he had suddenly struck for freedom I should have had nothing to say. I was by the strangest of chances wondering how I should meet him when the revolution unmistakably occurred. I call it a revolution because I now see how, with the word he spoke, the curtain rose on the last act of my dreadful drama,


Island. 206 207 “I’m not strong enough, and I don’t like the job; and there he lies, for me,” said I. “This here’s an unlucky ship, this HISPANIOLA, Jim,” he went on, blinking. “There’s a power of men been killed in this HISPANIOLA—a sight o’ poor seamen dead and gone since you and me took ship to Bristol. I never seen sich dirty luck, not I. There was this here O’Brien now—he’s dead, ain’t he? Well now, I’m no scholar, and you’re a lad as can read and figure, and to put it straight, do you take it as a dead man is dead for good, or do he come alive again?” Chapter 26. “You can kill the body, Mr. Hands, but not the spirit; you Israel Hands. must know that already,” I replied. “O’Brien there is in an- other world, and may be watching us.” THE wind, serving us to a desire, now hauled into the “Ah!” says he. “Well, that’s unfort’nate—appears as if kill- west. We could run so much the easier from the north-east ing parties was a waste of time. Howsomever, sperrits don’t corner of the island to the mouth of the North Inlet. Only, as reckon for much, by what I’ve seen. I’ll chance it with the we had no power to anchor and dared not beach her till the sperrits, Jim. And now, you’ve spoke up free, and I’ll take it tide had flowed a good deal farther, time hung on our hands. kind if you’d step down into that there cabin and get me a— The coxswain told me how to lay the ship to; after a good well, a—shiver my timbers! I can’t hit the name on ‘t; well, many trials I succeeded, and we both sat in silence over an- you get me a bottle of wine, Jim—this here brandy’s too strong other meal. for my head.” “Cap’n,” said he at length with that same uncomfortable Now, the coxswain’s hesitation seemed to be unnatural, smile, “here’s my old shipmate, O’Brien; s’pose you was to and as for the notion of his preferring wine to brandy, I en- tirely disbelieved it. The whole story was a pretext. He wanted Contents heave him overboard. I ain’t partic’lar as a rule, and I don’t take no blame for settling his hash, but I don’t reckon him me to leave the deck—so much was plain; but with what pur- ornamental now, do you?” pose I could in no way imagine. His eyes never met mine; Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 208 209 they kept wandering to and fro, up and down, now with a out of a coil of rope, a long knife, or rather a short dirk, look to the sky, now with a flitting glance upon the dead discoloured to the hilt with blood. He looked upon it for a O’Brien. All the time he kept smiling and putting his tongue moment, thrusting forth his under jaw, tried the point upon out in the most guilty, embarrassed manner, so that a child his hand, and


As they entered the Salle des Etats, her eyes scanned the narrow room and settled on the obvious spot of honor-the center of the right-hand wall, where a lone portrait hung behind a protective Plexiglas wall. Her grandfather paused in the doorway and motioned toward the painting. "Go ahead, Sophie. Not many people get a chance to visit her alone." Swallowing her apprehension, Sophie moved slowly across the room. After everything she'd heard about the Mona Lisa, she felt as if she were approaching royalty. Arriving in front of the protective Plexiglas, Sophie held her breath and looked up, taking it in all at once. Sophie was not sure what she had expected to feel, but it most certainly was not this. No jolt of amazement. No instant of wonder. The famous face looked as it did in books. She stood in silence for what felt like forever, waiting for something to happen. "So what do you think?" her grandfather whispered, arriving behind her. "Beautiful, yes?" "She's too little." Saunire smiled. "You're little and you're beautiful." I am not beautiful, she thought. Sophie hated her red hair and freckles, and she was bigger than all the boys in her class. She looked back at the Mona Lisa and shook her head. "She's even worse than in the books. Her face is... brumeux." "Foggy," her grandfather tutored. "Foggy," Sophie repeated, knowing the conversation would not continue until she repeated her new vocabulary word. "That's called the sfumato style of painting," he told her, "and it's very hard to do. Leonardo da Vinci was better at it than anyone." Sophie still didn't like the painting. "She looks like she knows something... like when kids at school have a secret." Her grandfather laughed. "That's part of why she is so famous. People like to guess why she is smiling." "Do you know why she's smiling?" "Maybe." Her grandfather winked. "Someday I'll tell you all about it." Sophie stamped her foot. "I told you I don't like secrets!" "Princess," he smiled. "Life is filled with secrets. You can't learn them all at once." "I'm going back up," Sophie declared, her voice hollow in the stairwell. "To the Mona Lisa?" Langdon recoiled. "Now?" Sophie considered the risk. "I'm not a murder suspect. I'll take my chances. I need to understand what my grandfather was trying to tell me." "What about the embassy?" Sophie felt guilty turning Langdon into a fugitive only to abandon him, but she saw no other option. She pointed down the stairs to a metal door. "Go through that door, and follow the illuminated exit signs. My grandfather used to bring me down here. The signs 69 will lead you to a security turnstile. It's monodirectional and opens out." She handed Langdon her car keys. "Mine is the red SmartCar in the employee lot. Directly outside this bulkhead. Do you know how to get to the embassy?" Langdon nodded, eyeing the keys in his hand. "Listen," Sophie said, her voice softening. "I think my grandfather may have left me a message at the Mona


suspect I started to go mad. Chapter Forty-One MARTHA ‘So, what aspect of Austen’s theme has changed with this book, her last published before her death?’ The tutor was sitting on the edge of his desk, one leg swinging free as he held a copy of Persuasion in his hand. There was a young American woman who always sat at the front of the class and apparently knew everything about every book ever written. I figured she probably fancied our tutor, but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘I mean, it’s still all about marriage and social standing,’ she said. ‘Anne judges people by their character, rather than their rank but in the end she still succumbs to Lady Russell’s snobbery and turns down Wentworth’s marriage proposal.’ ‘Great summary,’ Logan said, slouching at the back of the room. ‘Saves me reading it.’ I smiled at him. He was my kind of people. Although why he was taking a night course in literature and not reading the book was a bit odd. ‘Okay, okay, maybe Austen isn’t for everyone. But in a way, the reason her books are still so popular today is because the themes still matter to us. Love. Family loyalty. Pride. Societal pressure to conform. You may all think you’re walking around exercising your free will in every situation, but you’re not. You’re constantly influenced by what your heart wants, what your head wants and how you want the world to see you.’ He was right. In all of these years, nothing had really changed. ‘I think the main theme,’ said Beverly, a retired dental nurse who always sat beside me, ‘is about getting a second chance at love.’ I was trying not to read people any more, it didn’t seem fair, but sometimes I did it without thinking. Her first love had been killed in a car crash and she’d never met anyone since. I hoped for her sake that Jane Austen was right. ‘Exactly, Beverly. Anne is “persuaded” to give up her chance of love because Wentworth has no prospects, but instead of moving on with her life, she bitterly regrets her decision. Yet, in the end, she realises that the years apart have made her more appreciative of love when it comes back to her.’ As we packed up for the evening, the tutor asked if I had given any more thought to the degree course. ‘Based on your written assignments I think you’d be a perfect candidate,’ he said, ‘although I would like a little more interaction in class. I think it would benefit you.’ I still found it so hard to speak up in front of people. I had only just overcome my issues with reading. After the night I found the tattoo completed on my back, it was as though a spell had been broken. Books no longer troubled me in the same way and the stories they held within had become invitations rather than warning signs. It was like I’d been given the key to a locked door. ‘Here’s some material for you, entry