question. I shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to think it a right, I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to require definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we parted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement.-- Had she refused, I should have gone mad.--But you will be ready to say, what was your hope in doing this?--What did you look forward to?-- To any thing, every thing--to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of good was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther explanation, I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband's son, and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value of.--See me, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit to Randalls;--and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as you were the person slighted, you will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father's compassion, by reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour, during the very happy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting on one point. And now I come to the principal, the only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous explanation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest humiliation.-- A few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to.--My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.-- In order to assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately thrown.--I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object--but I am sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not been convinced of her indifference, I would not have been induced by any selfish views to go on.-- Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me, was as much my conviction as my wish.--She received my attentions with an easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me. We


hand in," said Tess. She drank a little milk as temporary refreshment-- to the surprise--indeed, slight contempt--of Dairyman Crick, to whose mind it had apparently never occurred that milk was good as a beverage. "Oh, if ye can swaller that, be it so," he said indifferently, while holding up the pail that she sipped from. "'Tis what I hain't touched for years-- not I. Rot the stuff; it would lie in my innerds like lead. You can try your hand upon she," he pursued, nodding to the nearest cow. "Not but what she do milk rather hard. We've hard ones and we've easy ones, like other folks. However, you'll find out that soon enough." When Tess had changed her bonnet for a hood, and was really on her stool under the cow, and the milk was squirting from her fists into the pail, she appeared to feel that she really had laid a new foundation for her future. The conviction bred serenity, her pulse slowed, and she was able to look about her. The milkers formed quite a little battalion of men and maids, the men operating on the hard-teated animals, the maids on the kindlier natures. It was a large dairy. There were nearly a hundred milchers under Crick's management, all told; and of the herd the master-dairyman milked six or eight with his own hands, unless away from home. These were the cows that milked hardest of all; for his journey-milkmen being more or less casually hired, he would not entrust this half-dozen to their treatment, lest, from indifference, they should not milk them fully; nor to the maids, lest they should fail in the same way for lack of finger-grip; with the result that in course of time the cows would "go azew"--that is, dry up. It was not the loss for the moment that made slack milking so serious, but that with the decline of demand there came decline, and ultimately cessation, of supply. After Tess had settled down to her cow there was for a time no talk in the barton, and not a sound interfered with the purr of the milk-jets into the numerous pails, except a momentary exclamation to one or other of the beast requesting her to turn round or stand still. The only movements were those of the milkers' hands up and down, and the swing of the cows' tails. Thus they all worked on, encompassed by the vast flat mead which extended to either slope of the valley--a level landscape compounded of old landscapes long forgotten, and, no doubt, differing in character very greatly from the landscape they composed now. "To my thinking," said the dairyman, rising suddenly from a cow he had just finished off, snatching up his three-legged stool in one hand and the pail in the other, and moving on to the next hard-yielder in his vicinity; "to my thinking, the cows don't gie down their milk today as usual. Upon my life, if Winker do begin keeping back like this, she'll not be worth going under by midsummer."


or horse carriages with glass sides. There was no knowing how much of this legend was true and how much invented. Winston could not even remember at what date the Party itself had come into existence. He did not believe he had ever heard the word Ingsoc before 1960, but it was possible that in its Oldspeak form--'English Socialism', that is to say--it had been current earlier. Everything melted into mist. Sometimes, indeed, you could put your finger on a definite lie. It was not true, for example, as was claimed in the Party history books, that the Party had invented aeroplanes. He remembered aeroplanes since his earliest childhood. But you could prove nothing. There was never any evidence. Just once in his whole life he had held in his hands unmistakable documentary proof of the falsification of an historical fact. And on that occasion---- 'Smith!' screamed the shrewish voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W.! Yes, YOU! Bend lower, please! You can do better than that. You're not trying. Lower, please! THAT'S better, comrade. Now stand at ease, the whole squad, and watch me.' A sudden hot sweat had broken out all over Winston's body. His face remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment! A single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while the instructress raised her arms above her head and--one could not say file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (22 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency--bent over and tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes. 'THERE, comrades! THAT'S how I want to see you doing it. Watch me again. I'm thirty-nine and I've had four children. Now look.' She bent over again. 'You see MY knees aren't bent. You can all do it if you want to,' she added as she straightened herself up. 'Anyone under forty-five is perfectly capable of touching his toes. We don't all have the privilege of fighting in the front line, but at least we can all keep fit. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think what THEY have to put up with. Now try again. That's better, comrade, that's MUCH better,' she added encouragingly as Winston, with a violent lunge, succeeded in touching his toes with knees unbent, for the first time in several years. Chapter 4 With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day's work started, Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk. In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston's arm, a large oblong slit protected by


and if this Count and his lady had a hand in it . . . The conversation in the Baron's box was remote movement to Feyd-Rautha, the voices drowned in the foot-stamping chant that came now from all around: "Head! Head! Head! Head!" The Baron scowled, seeing the way Feyd-Rautha turned to him. Languidly, controlling his rage with difficulty, the Baron waved his hand toward the young man standing in the arena beside the sprawled body of the slave. Give the boy a head. He earned it by exposing the slavemaster. Feyd-Rautha saw the signal of agreement, thought: They think they honor me. Let them see what I think! He saw his handlers approaching with a saw-knife to do the honors, waved them back, repeated the gesture as they hesitated. They think they honor me with just a head! he thought. He bent and crossed the gladiator's hands around the protruding knife handle, then removed the knife and placed it in the limp hands. It was done in an instant, and he straightened, beckoned his handlers. "Bury this slave intact with his knife in his hands," he said. "The man earned it." In the golden box, Count Fenring leaned close to the Baron, said: "A grand gesture, that--true bravura. Your nephew has style as well as courage." "He insults the crowd by refusing the head," the Baron muttered. "Not at all," Lady Fenring said. She turned, looking up at the tiers around them. And the Baron noted the line of her neck--a truly lovely flowing of muscles--like a young boy's. "They like what your nephew did," she said. As the import of Feyd-Rautha's gesture penetrated to the most distant seats, as the people saw the handlers carrying off the dead gladiator intact, the Baron watched them and realized she had interpreted the reaction correctly. The people were going wild, beating on each other, screaming and stamping. The Baron spoke wearily. "I shall have to order a fete. You cannot send people home like this, their energies unspent. They must see that I share their elation." He gave a hand signal to his guard, and a servant above them dipped the Harkonnen orange pennant over the box--once, twice, three times--signal for a fete. Feyd-Rautha crossed the arena to stand beneath the golden box, his weapons sheathed, arms hanging at his sides. Above the undiminished frenzy of the crowd, he called: "A fete, Uncle?" The noise began to subside as people saw the conversation and waited. "In your honor, Feyd!" the Baron called down. And again, he caused the pennant to be dipped in signal. Across the arena, the pru-barriers had been dropped and young men were leaping down into the arena, racing toward Feyd-Rautha. "You ordered the pru-shields dropped. Baron?" the Count asked. "No one will harm the lad," the Baron said. "He's a hero." The first of the charging mass reached Feyd-Rautha, lifted him on their shoulders, began parading around the arena. "He could walk unarmed and unshielded through the poorest quarters of Harko tonight," the Baron said. "They'd give him the


me that again--once again, just for him to hear,' said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. 'Tell yer what?' asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishy. 'That about--NANCY,' said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. 'You followed her?' 'Yes.' 'To London Bridge?' 'Yes.' 'Where she met two people.' 'So she did.' 'A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did--and to describe him, which she did--and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did--and where it could be best watched from, which she did--and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur--she did--did she not?' cried Fagin, half mad with fury. 'All right,' replied Noah, scratching his head. 'That's just what it was!' 'What did they say, about last Sunday?' 'About last Sunday!' replied Noah, considering. 'Why I told yer that before.' 'Again. Tell it again!' cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. 'They asked her,' said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, 'they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't.' 'Why--why? Tell him that.' 'Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before,' replied Noah. 'What more of him?' cried Fagin. 'What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that.' 'Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to,' said Noah; 'and so the first time she went to see the lady, she--ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did--she gave him a drink of laudanum.' 'Hell's fire!' cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. 'Let me go!' Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. 'Bill, Bill!' cried Fagin, following him hastily. 'A word. Only a word.' The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. 'Let me out,' said Sikes. 'Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!' 'Hear me speak a word,' rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. 'You won't be--' 'Well,' replied the other. 'You won't be--too--violent, Bill?' The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. 'I mean,' said Fagin, showing that he felt all


'I hope it wasn't the boat that -' 'That father was drownded in?' said Em'ly. 'No. Not that one, I never see that boat.' 'Nor him?' I asked her. Little Em'ly shook her head. 'Not to remember!' Here was a coincidence! I immediately went into an explanation how I had never seen my own father; and how my mother and I had always lived by ourselves in the happiest state imaginable, and lived so then, and always meant to live so; and how my father's grave was in the churchyard near our house, and shaded by a tree, beneath the boughs of which I had walked and heard the birds sing many a pleasant morning. But there were some differences between Em'ly's orphanhood and mine, it appeared. She had lost her mother before her father; and where her father's grave was no one knew, except that it was somewhere in the depths of the sea. 'Besides,' said Em'ly, as she looked about for shells and pebbles, 'your father was a gentleman and your mother is a lady; and my father was a fisherman and my mother was a fisherman's daughter, and my uncle Dan is a fisherman.' 'Dan is Mr. Peggotty, is he?' said I. 'Uncle Dan - yonder,' answered Em'ly, nodding at the boat-house. 'Yes. I mean him. He must be very good, I should think?' 'Good?' said Em'ly. 'If I was ever to be a lady, I'd give him a sky-blue coat with diamond buttons, nankeen trousers, a red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large gold watch, a silver pipe, and a box of money.' I said I had no doubt that Mr. Peggotty well deserved these treasures. I must acknowledge that I felt it difficult to picture him quite at his ease in the raiment proposed for him by his grateful little niece, and that I was particularly doubtful of the policy of the cocked hat; but I kept these sentiments to myself. Little Em'ly had stopped and looked up at the sky in her enumeration of these articles, as if they were a glorious vision. We went on again, picking up shells and pebbles. 'You would like to be a lady?' I said. Emily looked at me, and laughed and nodded 'yes'. 'I should like it very much. We would all be gentlefolks together, then. Me, and uncle, and Ham, and Mrs. Gummidge. We wouldn't mind then, when there comes stormy weather. - Not for our own sakes, I mean. We would for the poor fishermen's, to be sure, and we'd help 'em with money when they come to any hurt.' This seemed to me to be a very satisfactory and therefore not at all improbable picture. I expressed my pleasure in the contemplation of it, and little Em'ly was emboldened to say, shyly, 'Don't you think you are afraid of the sea, now?' It was quiet enough to reassure me, but I have no doubt if I had seen a moderately large wave come tumbling in, I should have taken to my heels, with an awful


deep blue eyes were swimming with tears as she drew his head slowly towards her and kissed him gently on the lips. Then she let him go and turned off the light 'Good night, my dearest love,' she said. Bond bent and kissed her. He tasted the tears on her heck. He went to the door and looked back. 'Sleep well, my darling,' he said. 'Don't worry, everything's all right now.' He closed the door softly and walked to his room with a full heart. CHAPTER 27 - THE BLEEDING HEART The patron brought him the letter in the morning. He burst into Bond's room holding the envelope in front of him as if it was on fire. 'There has been a terrible accident. Madame . . .' Bond hurled himself out of bed and through the bathroom, but the communicating door was locked. He dashed back and through his room and down the corridor past a shrinking, terrified maid. Vesper's door was open. The sunlight through the shutters lit up the room. Only her black hair showed above the sheet and her body under the bedclothes was straight and moulded like a stone effigy on a tomb. Bond fell on his knees beside her and drew back the sheet. She was asleep. She must be. Her eyes were closed. There was no change in the dear face. She was just as she would look and yet, and yet she was so still, no movement, no pulse, no breath. That was it. There was no breath. Later the patron came and touched him on the shoulder. He pointed at the empty glass on the table beside her. There were white dregs in the bottom of it. It stood beside her book and her cigarettes and matches and the small pathetic litter of her mirror and lipstick and handkerchief. And on the floor the empty bottle of sleeping-pills, the pills Bond had seen in the bathroom that first evening. Bond rose to his feet and shook himself. The patron was holding out the letter towards him. He took it. 'Please notify the Commissaire,' said Bond. 'I will be in my room when he wants me.' He walked blindly away without a backward glance. He sat on the edge of his bed and gazed out of the window at the peaceful sea. Then he stared dully at the envelope. It was addressed simply in a large round hand 'Pour Lui'. The thought passed through Bond's mind that she must have left orders to be called early, so that it would not be he who found her. He turned the envelope over. Not long ago it was her warm tongue which had sealed the flap. He gave a sudden shrug and opened it. It was not long. After the first few words he read it quickly, the breath coming harshly through his nostrils. Then he threw it down on the bed as if it had been a scorpion. MY DARLING JAMES [the letter opened], I love you with all my heart and while you read


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

red shirts, and the banner of the Salvation Army to the fore. Such a crowd, chanting in the roadway and scoffing on the pavement, I could not hope to penetrate, and dreading to go back and farther from home again, and deciding on the spur of the moment, I ran up the white steps of a house facing the Museum railings, and stood there until the crowd should have passed. Happily the dog stopped at the noise of the band too, hesitated, and turned tail, running back to Bloomsbury Square again. "On came the band, bawling with unconscious irony some hymn about 'When shall we see his Face?' and it seemed an interminable time to me before the tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me. Thud, thud, thud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for the moment I did not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by me. 'See 'em,' said one. 'See what?' said the other. 'Why--them footmarks--bare. Like what you makes in mud.' "I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping at the muddy footmarks I had left behind me up the newly whitened steps. The passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their confounded intelligence was arrested. 'Thud, thud, thud, When, thud, shall we see, thud, his face, thud, thud.' 'There's a barefoot man gone up them steps, or I don't know nothing,' said one. 'And he ain't never come down again. And his foot was a-bleeding.' "The thick of the crowd had already passed. 'Looky there, Ted,' quoth the younger of the detectives, with the sharpness of surprise in his voice, and pointed straight to my feet. I looked down and saw at once the dim suggestion of their outline sketched in splashes of mud. For a moment I was paralysed. "'Why, that's rum,' said the elder. 'Dashed rum! It's just like the ghost of a foot, ain't it?' He hesitated and advanced with outstretched hand. A man pulled up short to see what he was catching, and then a girl. In another moment he would have touched me. Then I saw what to do. I made a step, the boy started back with an exclamation, and with a rapid movement I swung myself over into the portico of the next house. But the smaller boy was sharp-eyed enough to follow the movement and before I was well down the steps and upon the pavement, he had recovered from his momentary astonishment and was shouting out that the feet had gone over the wall. "They rushed round and saw my new footmarks flash into being on the lower step and upon the pavement. 'What's up?' asked some one. 'Feet! Look! Feet running!' Everybody in the road, except my three pursuers, was pouring along after the Salvation Army, and this not only impeded me but them. There was an eddy of surprise and interrogation. At the cost of bowling over one young fellow I got through, and in another moment I was rushing headlong round the circuit of Russell


he’d done. She beeped softly as she scanned the foot. “Well?” he asked when she rolled back again. “I think it will work. Either that, or it did nothing at all and we have wasted half a day.” He scowled at her. “Hooray!” Rambo said. On a late afternoon—the fifth since the discovery of the android—they had successfully attached the replacement arm and Nurse Ratched began her testing to make sure all the wiring had proper connections. Vic watched as she sent low electrical currents through the android’s body, causing it to jerk slightly. “Good?” he asked. “Good,” she said. “Very good. Excellent, in fact.” At night, they came together as they usually did. Sometimes they listened to music. Sometimes they watched movies, though their collection was small, and they knew them all by heart. They read. They listened as Dad told stories about great machines that bored holes into mountains and underneath cities; machines called dirigibles, airships that took to the skies, hinting at a future that never came. When he trudged his way to his room, Vic was exhausted, but his thoughts never strayed far from his lab. Having finished the major repairs to the arm and foot, they moved on to the rest of the body. The holes and tears in the synthetic skin were left alone for now. They didn’t have the means to regrow skin, though Vic had a few ideas on how to cover the open wounds to make sure the delicate work underneath was protected. It wasn’t until they reached the android’s waist that Vic paused, unsure of how to move on. “Why did you stop?” Nurse Ratched asked. “Take off his pants.” Vic gnawed on his bottom lip. “Are you sure we have to…” “Yes,” Nurse Ratched said. “We need to run a full diagnostic check. Why are you hesitating? Your heart rate is elevated. Your skin is flushed. Do you need a break?” He shook his head, struggling to find the words. “It’s just…” “Ohh,” Rambo said. “Are you scared of his penis?” Vic looked away, throat working. “Do not be silly,” Nurse Ratched said. “I doubt he has genitalia. He does not appear to be an android designed for sexual pleasure, and there would be no need for him to expel urine or fecal matter as you do. Gio does not have a penis or an anus.” Vic glared at her. “I don’t need to know that.” “Why? It is the truth. He does not. You are the only one here with genitalia. There is nothing to fear about them, or the lack of them. It is what it is.” “Do I have an anus?” Rambo asked. “No,” Nurse Ratched said. “But you are one, so.” Rambo beeped in confusion. “I thought I was a vacuum.” “You are. An anal vacuum.” “Huh,” Rambo said. “I like learning new things.” Vic looked down at the android. They had removed his shirt a couple of days before. The chest was smooth, the skin tight where it wasn’t damaged. Like Dad, he didn’t have nipples


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

fire, stoking the flames, and tossed the letter back in. It did not catch. The fire coughed smoke, as if the letter were an unpleasant obstacle lodged in its throat. “Damn you,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes at the heavy stationery staring insouciantly back at me from the flames. “Am I supposed to keep the bloody thing under my pillow?” I should, I suppose, mention here that I am perhaps ninety-five percent certain that Wendell Bambleby is not human. This is not the product of mere professional disdain; Bambleby’s impossible letter is not my first piece of evidence regarding his true nature. My suspicions were aroused at our initial meeting some years ago, when I noticed the sundry ways in which he avoided the metal objects in the room, including by feigning righthandedness so as to avoid contact with wedding rings (the Folk are, to a one, left-handed). Yet he could not avoid metal entirely, the event including a dinner, which invariably involved cutlery, sauce boats, and the like, and he mastered the discomfort well enough, which indicated that either my suspicions were unfounded or that he is of royal ancestry—they are the only Folk able to bear the touch of such human workings. Lest I appear credulous, I can attest that this was not enough to convince me. Upon subsequent encounters, I noted sundry suspect qualities, among them his manner of speaking. Bambleby is supposedly born in County Leane and raised in Dublin, and while I am no scholar of the Irish accents, I am expert in the tongue of the Folk, which is but one with many dialects, yet possessing a certain resonance and timbre that is universal, and which I hear whispers of in Bambleby’s voice in occasional, unguarded moments. We have spent a significant amount of time in each other’s company. If he is Folk, he likely lives among us in exile, a not uncommon fate to befall the aristocracy of the Irish fae—their kind rarely goes without a murderous uncle or power-mad regent for long. There are plenty of tales of exiled Folk; their powers are sometimes said to be restricted by an enchantment cast by the exiling monarch, which would explain Bambleby’s need to resign himself to an existence among us lowly mortals. His choice of profession may be part of some fae design I cannot guess at, or it may be a natural expression of Bambleby’s nature, that he should set his sights upon acquiring external affirmations of self-expertise. It remains possible that I am wrong. A scholar must always be ready to admit this. None of my colleagues seem to share my suspicions, which gives me pause, not even the venerable Treharne, who has been doing fieldwork for so long he likes to joke that the common fae no longer hide themselves away when he comes, seeing little difference between him and some old, lumpen piece of furniture. And for all the stories of exiled Folk, it’s not as if any have been discovered in our midst. Which lends itself to one of two


to do that. Mom has a lot of art and I’m going to preserve every single piece of it, as per her final wishes, as stated in the Beneficiary Designations of her will, which I’m sure you agree we should both respect. It might take me a year, and in the meantime, you can’t sell the house.” “Fuck you,” Mark said. “I’m calling Brody.” “Be my guest,” she told him. She knew he’d have to hear it from someone who wasn’t her. She watched Mark’s back as he stormed off to the edge of the front yard, pressing his phone to one ear. Louise worked in a tech-adjacent field, which made her hyperaware of power dynamics. Waiting around for Mark to finish his call looked weak. She executed her alpha move and got started on the house. She went around back and reached through the broken pane of glass to let herself into the garage. Then she slapped the doorbell button that raised the garage door, which made a hideous shriek as it rumbled up, letting in daylight. Cold morning air flowed in around her. The Mark and Louise dolls stared dumbly at her from the shelf. She listened, trying to hear the TV, but all she heard was silence from the house. Next to the dolls she saw a lampshade her mom had painted with starfish, a set of Mom-made clay bookends shaped like pink seahorses, and a white kitchen garbage bag holding the papier-mâché masks her mom had made during her mask phase. Without even looking hard she spotted a stack of unframed canvases and realized they were the oil portraits her mom had painted of the entire family that everyone had deemed too hideous to hang inside the house. Mark’s was the only one that didn’t make him look like a prematurely aged gnome baring its teeth and snarling. Louise looked behind the portraits and saw another white bag of her mom’s needlepoint throw pillows and five cardboard boxes labeled Christmas, which she knew was only one stockpile of handmade ornaments. Normally, a job like this would prompt Louise to start a list, but today she had to fight her urge to organize. Today she’d be inefficient. Today she felt grateful for the enormous amount of stuff filling every corner of their house. Step one: do a walk-through and count the art. Don’t touch it. Just count it. She stood on the steps to the kitchen door and braced herself, then walked inside for the first time since the day she arrived, walked past the hammer on the counter and made herself go into the living room. The easy chair sat empty. The TV was still off. She ignored the rows and rows of silent dolls and focused on the art: the crewelwork Tree of Life over the sofa, the nine framed cross-stitches on the far wall (four of flowers, three Charleston scenes, one elephant balancing on its front legs, one juggling clown), the three more framed cross-stitches beside the doll cabinet, the yarn art Mount Fuji next to


wildly to me. "Did I never give her a burning love, inseparable from jealousy at all times, and from sharp pain, while she speaks thus to me! Let her call me mad, let her call me mad!" "Why should I call you mad," returned Estella, "I, of all people? Does any one live, who knows what set purposes you have, half as well as I do? Does any one live, who knows what a steady memory you have, half as well as I do? I who have sat on this same hearth on the little stool that is even now beside you there, learning your lessons and looking up into your face, when your face was strange and frightened me!" "Soon forgotten!" moaned Miss Havisham. "Times soon forgotten!" "No, not forgotten," retorted Estella. "Not forgotten, but treasured up in my memory. When have you found me false to your teaching? When have you found me unmindful of your lessons? When have you found me giving admission here," she touched her bosom with her hand, "to anything that you excluded? Be just to me." "So proud, so proud!" moaned Miss Havisham, pushing away her grey hair with both her hands. "Who taught me to be proud?" returned Estella. "Who praised me when I learnt my lesson?" "So hard, so hard!" moaned Miss Havisham, with her former action. "Who taught me to be hard?" returned Estella. "Who praised me when I learnt my lesson?" "But to be proud and hard to me!" Miss Havisham quite shrieked, as she stretched out her arms. "Estella, Estella, Estella, to be proud and hard to me!" Estella looked at her for a moment with a kind of calm wonder, but was not otherwise disturbed; when the moment was past, she looked down at the fire again. "I cannot think," said Estella, raising her eyes after a silence "why you should be so unreasonable when I come to see you after a separation. I have never forgotten your wrongs and their causes. I have never been unfaithful to you or your schooling. I have never shown any weakness that I can charge myself with." "Would it be weakness to return my love?" exclaimed Miss Havisham. "But yes, yes, she would call it so!" "I begin to think," said Estella, in a musing way, after another moment of calm wonder, "that I almost understand how this comes about. If you had brought up your adopted daughter wholly in the dark confinement of these rooms, and had never let her know that there was such a thing as the daylight by which she had never once seen your face - if you had done that, and then, for a purpose had wanted her to understand the daylight and know all about it, you would have been disappointed and angry?" Miss Havisham, with her head in her hands, sat making a low moaning, and swaying herself on her chair, but gave no answer. "Or," said Estella, " - which is a nearer case - if you had taught her, from the dawn


four and a half hours in the cold, waiting to be found. It makes my heart ache. Not just the memory but the smell, the cedar and sawdust and that touch of something that’s all Wyn to me. “You don’t mind being out here?” I ask, walking along the table in-process, its top sanded down to be refinished. “I always loved it out here,” he says. “So after the accident, my parents were adamant about getting me back out before I started fixating. It worked, mostly.” I pause, fingers stilling on the table, and look back at him. “I like seeing you here.” He crosses toward me, gently takes my hips in his hands. “I like seeing you here,” he says, voice low, a little hoarse. “It makes me feel like this is real.” “Wyn.” I look up into his face, searching his stormy eyes, the rigid lines between his brows and framing his jaw. “Of course it’s real.” He folds his fingers through mine and brings my hands to the back of his neck, our foreheads resting together, our hearts whirring. “I mean,” he says, “like I can make you happy.” “This is me, happy,” I promise. On our last night in town, we sample more of Hank’s scotch and play a highly competitive game of dominoes, and then sit in front of the hearth and watch the fire crackle and pop. On a sigh, Hank says, “We’re gonna miss you, kiddos.” “We’ll come home again soon,” Wyn promises, lifting my hand, brushing the back of it absently across his lips. Home, I think. That’s new. But it’s not. It’s been growing there for a while, this new room in my heart, this space just for Wyn that I carry with me everywhere I go. 18 REAL LIFE Wednesday I TAKE MY time in the movie theater’s neon green bathroom. I wash my hands, then wipe down the sink area and wash my hands again. On my way back through the burgundy-carpeted arcade in which the bathrooms are tucked, I nearly collide with Wyn. “Sorry,” we both huff, stopping short. My eyes drop to the smorgasbord of paper cartons he’s carrying: Twizzlers, Nerds, Red Hots, Whoppers, and Milk Duds. “Going to a slumber party?” I ask. “I was thirsty,” he says. “Which explains the cup of water and nothing else,” I say. “You think shortbread’s too sweet.” “Thought you might want something,” he says. His eyes look more green than gray right now. I’m finding it hard to look at them, so I train my gaze on the candy. “It looks like you thought I might want everything.” His eyes flash. “Was I wrong?” “No,” I say, “but you didn’t have to do that.” “Trust me, it wasn’t intentional,” he says. “I walked up for the water, and next thing I know I’ve got a wagon filled with corn syrup.” “Well, that’s the Connor family thriftiness. If you buy a wagon, refills are free.” His laugh turns into a groan. He runs the back of his hand up his forehead. “I’m


"Black hair and eyes!" mused Linton. "I can't fancy him. Then I am not like him, am I?" "Not much," I answered; not a morsel, I thought, surveying with regret the white complexion and slim frame of my companion, and his large languid eyes--- his mother's eyes, save that, unless a morbid touchiness kindled them a moment, they had not a vestige of her sparkiing spirit. "How strange that he should never come to see mamma and me" he murmured. "Has he ever seen me? If he has, I must have been a baby. I remember not a single thing about him." "Why, Master Linton," said I, "three hundred miles is a great distance; and ten years seem very different in length to a grown-up person compared with what they do to you. It is probable Mr. Heathcliff proposed going from summer to summer, but never found a convenient opportunity; and now it is too late. Don't trouble him with questions on the subject; it will disturb him for no good." The boy was fully occupied with his own cogitations for the remainder of the ride, till we halted before the farmhouse garden gate. I watched to catch his impres- sions in his countenance. He surveyed the carved front and low-browed lattices, the straggling gooseberry bushes and crooked firs, with solemn intentness, and then shook his head. His private feelings entirely dis- approved of the exterior of his new abode. But he had sense to postpone complaining. There might be com- pensation within. Before he dismounted I went and opened the door. It was half-past six; the family had just finished breakfast; the servant was clearing and wiping down the table. Joseph stood by his master's chair, telling some tale concerning a lame horse, and Hareton was preparing for the hay-fleld. "Hullo, Nelly!" said Mr. Heathcliff when he saw me. "I feared I should have to come down and fetch my property myself. You've brought it, have you? Let us see what we can make of it. He got up and strode to the door. Hareton and Jo- seph followed in gaping curiosity. Poor Linton ran a frightened eye over the faces of the three. "Sure-ly," said Joseph, after a grave inspection, "he's swopped wi' ye, maister, an' yon's his lass!" Heathcliff, having stared his son into an ague of con- fusion, uttered a scornful laugh. "God! what a beauty! what a lovely, charming thing" he exclaimed. "Haven't they reared it on snails and sour milk, Nelly? Oh, damn my soul! but that's worse than I expected, and the devil knows I was not sanguine!" I bade the trembling and bewildered child get down and enter. He did not thoroughly comprehend the meaning of his father's speech, or whether it were in- tended for him; indeed, he was not yet certain that the grim, sneering stranger was his father. But he clung to me with growing trepidation; and on Mr. Heathcliff's taking a seat and bidding him "come hither," he hid his face on my shoulder and wept. "Tut, tut!" said Heathcliff,


another in the crowd, but from the short glance he gave her it seemed to him that she was paler than usual. 'It's all off,' she murmured as soon as she judged it safe to speak. 'Tomorrow, I mean.' 'What?' 'Tomorrow afternoon. I can't come.' 'Why not?' 'Oh, the usual reason. It's started early this time.' For a moment he was violently angry. During the month that he had known her the nature of his desire for her had changed. At the beginning there had been little true sensuality in it. Their first love-making had been simply an act of the will. But after the second time it was different. The smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her skin seemed to have got inside him, or into the air all round him. She had become a physical necessity, something that he not only wanted but felt that he had a right to. When she said that she could not come, he had the feeling that she was cheating him. But just at this moment the crowd pressed them together and their hands accidentally met. She gave the tips of his fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to invite not desire but affection. It struck him that when one lived with a woman this particular disappointment must be a normal, recurring event; and a deep tenderness, such as he had not felt for her before, suddenly took hold of him. He wished that they were a married couple of ten years' standing. He wished that he were walking through the streets with her just as they were doing now but openly and without fear, talking of trivialities and buying odds and ends for the household. He wished above all that they had some place where they could be alone together without feeling the obligation to make love every time they met. It was not actually at that moment, but at some time on the following day, that the idea of renting Mr Charrington's room had occurred to him. When he suggested it to Julia she had agreed with unexpected readiness. Both of them knew that it was lunacy. It was as though they were intentionally stepping nearer to their graves. As he sat waiting on the edge of the bed he thought again of the cellars of the Ministry of Love. It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and out of one's consciousness. There it lay, fixed in future times, preceding death as surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not avoid it, but one could perhaps postpone it: and yet instead, every now and again, by a conscious, wilful act, one chose to shorten the interval before it happened. At this moment there was a quick step on the stairs. Julia burst into the room. She was carrying a tool-bag of coarse brown canvas, such as he had sometimes seen her carrying to and fro at the Ministry. He started forward to take her in his arms, but she disengaged herself rather hurriedly, partly


though I harbored a hope of one day retrieving my old dollhouse for my then-theoretical children to play with. When a friend asked if I minded that my parents were selling the home I’d grown up in, I scoffed. The last person to live in my childhood bedroom hadn’t even been me, but a friend of mine—my parents, with typical openhandedness, had let her stay with them rent-free for a year and a half after her own parents kicked her out. There were things about the house I’d been fond of: the sprawling, shady backyard that had once contained my rickety old swing set; my room with its blue walls and bursting bookshelves and my cat’s favorite scratching post; the minuscule spare bedroom that I was eventually permitted to turn into a writing space, nearly every square inch filled with our lumpy blue futon and the giant desk I had begged my mother to buy at a yard sale. But I was an adult now, and I couldn’t imagine being so attached to that childhood setting that I would fault my parents for moving. It was their home, not mine, and they had a right to sell it. They sounded upbeat about the change: they’d be closer to their church; they’d be in a quieter neighborhood; they’d have a much lower cost of living. Their house had tripled in value since they bought it in 1980, so they stood to make a nice profit. I was pleased for them, but did not entirely understand their decision. They had talked about relocating for as long as I could remember—first to a bigger city like Portland or Seattle, before they reversed course and said they’d like to live farther out in the country. Now they were finally moving, but not to own a patch of land, or to live in an area with more jobs; instead, they’d paid cash for a manufactured home in good condition in a fifty-five-and-over park fifteen minutes up the road. Why, I wondered, weren’t they purchasing a larger home with the windfall from the sale? Though their new house didn’t have the two-car garage or the back forty, it had higher ceilings and two full bathrooms instead of one, and the common spaces felt more comfortable and open. The first time Dan and I visited my parents after their move, my mother was almost giddy as she gave us a tour and pointed out the guest room we would be sleeping in. I knew how happy she was to see us, but there was something else in her smile, in the warmth in her voice, that took me a moment to recognize: it was pride. I’d never known her to feel that way about our old place, but she clearly liked this one; slightly cluttered and freshly cleaned for our visit, the house was arranged in a way that pleased her, and my parents owned it free and clear. * * * After my father died, I remember thinking it strange that I had so few objects to remember


saw the woman sliding down a wall, sobbing, clutching her limp son to her chest, the two of them sitting in the cold air from the open front door, their eyes as empty as dolls’. When I woke up that time, something sticky had dried on my arms. I tasted it: orange juice. I had egg yolk dried in my scalp. My bare feet were dirty and covered in cuts and I knew who the woman was. I’d seen her before. She was Mrs. Marsten. I didn’t want to think about it. It wasn’t me, it was Pupkin. I pulled on my mask again and hid in Tickytoo Woods. But I had to come out eventually. The next time I did, I was in the basement, wearing greasy jeans, surrounded by Pupkin’s faces on the wall, and they were all laughing at me. He was stronger than we were. We’d given him too much. We’d never said no. He didn’t have any limits. Whatever came next would be really, really bad. I had to do something while I was still myself because right at that moment “myself” felt like chasing a slippery bar of soap around the tub and as much as I wanted to run away and hide, in that one moment, in that cold basement, I knew I might never be Mark again. I grabbed the lighter without thinking. I flicked its wheel and touched the flame to the chin of a big Pupkin mask hanging on the wall and held it there until my thumb burned. I was an idiot. Papier-mâché burns fast and the mask was by the wooden stairs and one second I was flicking the lighter, and the next there were flames racing across the wall, from mask to mask, Pupkin to Pupkin, and licking the bottom of the upstairs floor. I dragged on my T-shirt and limped to the back door. It already felt like there was an open oven at my back. I thought I could go around and warn Sadie and Richard and Clark. My feet were swollen and covered in infected cuts and by the time I’d limped to the front yard I knew I had fucked up bad. From the front yard, you couldn’t see the fire yet, just smoke coming out the broken back windows and orange demons dancing behind the windowpanes. I hobbled up the front steps, and they were hot beneath my feet. I yelled for Richard and Sadie. Maybe I shouted for Clark? I’d like to think I shouted for Clark. I had to do something but the fire was too hungry and I was too weak and I knew I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save any of them. I could barely save myself. I had tried to stop what we were doing, but I hadn’t thought it through. My solution was a Pupkin solution, all instinct and emotion. I had set my friends on fire. I knew that people were going to come and I couldn’t face what I’d done because I was a coward


don’t concern you, Helen.” She bites her lip and says nothing. Menelaus watches his wife, then adds, “We were just speaking of Mycenae and of the gold we owe to Sparta. We made a pact with Tyndareus, and pacts must be respected.” Clytemnestra feels her body relaxing, her fear ebbing away. Odysseus’s words fade, and all that remains is a noise in her head, a faint note of warning. She feels the baby kick and takes a step back. Once, she would have walked into the room and shielded her sister. She would have protected Helen against anyone and anything. But now she can’t. She wanted this, she thinks bitterly. She chose this man out of spite, and now she must have him. * * * Penelope and Odysseus’s departure a few days later leaves Clytemnestra alone once more. That night for dinner, they are joined by Cynisca, her father, Lysimachos, and a few other Spartan nobles. To avoid the empty place next to Agamemnon, Clytemnestra sits beside Helen, who looks up at her, surprised. She smells her sister’s scent, honey, crocus, and almond from the trees that grow near the stables. They stare at each other for a moment. Then Menelaus takes her small white hand in his own, and Helen looks away. Clytemnestra feels colder where her sister’s eyes touched her. She wonders why they haven’t gone back to Mycenae yet. The servants are bringing platters of onions and cheese, the smell trailing behind them, while Tyndareus talks about his last hunt. Cynisca often intervenes, boasting about her own hunts, looking at Agamemnon with a longing that disgusts Clytemnestra. Helen barely touches her food. “So the son of Laertes is traveling with your niece?” Lysimachos asks Tyndareus. “He is,” Tyndareus answers. “That seems a good match,” Agamemnon says. “You like Odysseus?” Cynisca asks him, sipping her wine. Agamemnon doesn’t blink. “I don’t like him. I respect him. He is clever.” “Some say he is the cleverest man alive, a man of endless tricks,” Leda says. “Tricks don’t make heroes,” Menelaus says. Clytemnestra scoffs and turns to her cheese. She is ready to retort if anyone insults Odysseus again, but her father changes the subject. “What news from the East?” “Not much,” Agamemnon says. “The city of Troy still challenges the Greeks at sea, but no one will fight it.” “Many say the city is impenetrable,” Leda comments. “Where is Troy, Mother?” Philonoe asks, her voice shrill in the hall. It is Agamemnon who answers. “On the other side of the Aegean Sea. Farther north than Maeonia”—he turns to Clytemnestra quickly—“where your sister’s husband lives.” “Farther than Lesbos even,” Leda adds, and Philonoe nods, going back to her onions, which she selects one by one and savors like sweets. “No city is impenetrable,” Agamemnon says. “If the Greeks united their armies and fought together, Troy would fall.” Lysimachos scoffs. Spartans don’t fight others’ wars. “That seems unlikely.” Something flickers in Agamemnon’s eyes, but he speaks no more of it. When the moon appears in the sky, Tyndareus calls for entertainment. Wooden


hill he made his dwelling and wrought there his sorcery, and all folk feared the Sorcerer of Dol Guldur, and yet they knew not at first how great was their peril. Even as the first shadows were felt in Mirkwood there appeared in the west of Middle-earth the Istari, whom Men called the Wizards. None knew at that time whence they were, save Crdan of the Havens, and only to Elrond and to Galadriel did he reveal that they came over the Sea. But afterwards it was said among the Elves that they were messengers sent by the Lords of the West to contest the power of Sauron, if he should arise again, and to move Elves and Men and all living things of good will to valiant deeds. In the likeness of Men they appeared, old but vigorous, and they changed little with the years, and aged but slowly, though great cares lay on them; great wisdom they had, and many powers of mind and hand. Long they journeyed far and wide among Elves and Men, and held converse also with beasts and with birds; and the peoples of Middle-earth gave to them many names, for their true names they did not reveal. Chief among them were those whom the Elves called Mithrandir and Curunr, but Men in the North named Gandalf and Saruman. Of these Curunr was the eldest and came first, and after him came Mithrandir and Radagast, and others of the Istari who went into the east of Middle-earth, and do not come into these tales. Radagast was the friend of all beasts and birds; but Curunr went most among Men, and he was subtle in speech and skilled in all the devices of smith-craft. Mithrandir was closest in counsel with Elrond and the Elves. He wandered far in the North and West and made never in any land any lasting abode; but Curunr journeyed into the East, and when he returned he dwelt at Orthanc in the Ring of Isengard, which the Nmenreans made in the days of their power. Ever most vigilant was Mithrandir, and he it was that most doubted the darkness in Mirkwood, for though many deemed that it was wrought by the Ringwraiths, he feared that it was indeed the first shadow of Sauron returning; and he went to Dol Guldur, and the Sorcerer fled from him, and there was a watchful peace for a long while. But at length the Shadow returned and its power increased; and in that time was first made the Council of the Wise that is called the White Council, and therein were Elrond and Galadriel and Crdan, and other lords of the Eldar, and with them were Mithrandir and Curunr. And Curunr (that was Saruman the White) was chosen to be their chief, for he had most studied the devices of Sauron of old. Galadriel indeed had wished that Mithrandir should be the Lead of the Council, and Saruman begrudged them that, for his pride and desire of mastery was grown great; but Mithrandir refused the office,


same time something seemed to move on the verge of the dip eastward--a mere dot. It was the head of a man approaching them from the hollow beyond the Sun-stone. Clare wished they had gone onward, but in the circumstances decided to remain quiet. The figure came straight towards the circle of pillars in which they were. He heard something behind him, the brush of feet. Turning, he saw over the prostrate columns another figure; then before he was aware, another was at hand on the right, under a trilithon, and another on the left. The dawn shone full on the front of the man westward, and Clare could discern from this that he was tall, and walked as if trained. They all closed in with evident purpose. Her story then was true! Springing to his feet, he looked around for a weapon, loose stone, means of escape, anything. By this time the nearest man was upon him. "It is no use, sir," he said. "There are sixteen of us on the Plain, and the whole country is reared." "Let her finish her sleep!" he implored in a whisper of the men as they gathered round. When they saw where she lay, which they had not done till then, they showed no objection, and stood watching her, as still as the pillars around. He went to the stone and bent over her, holding one poor little hand; her breathing now was quick and small, like that of a lesser creature than a woman. All waited in the growing light, their faces and hands as if they were silvered, the remainder of their figures dark, the stones glistening green-gray, the Plain still a mass of shade. Soon the light was strong, and a ray shone upon her unconscious form, peering under her eyelids and waking her. "What is it, Angel?" she said, starting up. "Have they come for me?" "Yes, dearest," he said. "They have come." "It is as it should be," she murmured. "Angel, I am almost glad--yes, glad! This happiness could not have lasted. It was too much. I have had enough; and now I shall not live for you to despise me!" She stood up, shook herself, and went forward, neither of the men having moved. "I am ready," she said quietly. LIX The city of Wintoncester, that fine old city, aforetime capital of Wessex, lay amidst its convex and concave downlands in all the brightness and warmth of a July morning. The gabled brick, tile, and freestone houses had almost dried off for the season their integument of lichen, the streams in the meadows were low, and in the sloping High Street, from the West Gateway to the mediaeval cross, and from the mediaeval cross to the bridge, that leisurely dusting and sweeping was in progress which usually ushers in an old-fashioned market-day. From the western gate aforesaid the highway, as every Wintoncestrian knows, ascends a long and regular incline of the exact length of a measured mile, leaving the houses gradually behind. Up this road from the precincts


sister did. Miss Hope was merely trying to please her.” Not knowing how to respond, I begin to smooth the skirt of my uniform. My tell. “What are you suggesting?” “That the culprit is you, dear,” Mrs. Baker says. “Why would I type this?” “Attention?” Jessie suggests while shooting a quick glance at Carter she probably doesn’t want me to notice. I glare at her. “I don’t need anyone’s attention.” “Then why are we all here?” Mrs. Baker tilts her head, staring directly at me, her blue eyes boring into me like the sunrise. “You’re the one who demanded we all come here so you could show us the words on that page and tell us Miss Hope claims it was her sister. Why go to all that trouble?” “Because I want whoever did it to stop,” I say. “Please. And stop sneaking into Miss Hope’s room at night.” Mrs. Baker’s body goes rigid. “Someone’s been doing that?” “Yes.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I did,” I say. “The morning after my first night here. I told you I heard footsteps in Miss Hope’s bedroom and you said it was just the wind. But I heard it again the next night. And saw someone at that window. And watched a shadow pass the door between our rooms. That wasn’t the wind. So it was either one of you or it was Lenora.” I stare at Mrs. Baker, silently daring her to chastise me for not saying “Miss Hope.” She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Tell me immediately if it ever happens again.” Then she leaves, thereby bringing an end to this melodramatic—and ultimately fruitless—household meeting. Archie is the first to follow her out. Then Carter, who gives me a we-need-to-talk-later look before slipping out the door. Jessie, however, lingers. Remaining on the divan, she says, “Sorry about that. I don’t really think you did it for attention.” “Gee, thanks.” Jessie stands, steps closer, touches my arm. “What I mean is that I don’t think you did it at all.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lenora pretending she isn’t paying attention to every single word. Before Jessie can say anything else, I pull her into my room and shut the adjoining door behind us. “Did you do it?” I ask her. “Did you type it and get Lenora to tell me it was her sister?” Jessie drifts away from me, toward the bookshelf. “No way. How could you, like, even think that?” Because she’s done this kind of thing before. In the ballroom. With a Ouija board. Like we’re in a goddamn game of Clue. “If it was some kind of prank, I’d—” “I told you it wasn’t me,” Jessie snaps. “How do you know it wasn’t Lenora? She can type, right?” “Not like this.” I glance at the page in my hand, filled with proper capitalization and punctuation. “And not without help.” “Maybe she can do more than you think.” Kenny said the same thing last night. And I thought it myself before that, as I fiddled with the


Zhao gently moves my mother’s leg so it dangles off the side of the bed and places her foot in the water. My mother stirs but doesn’t waken. “Go to Respectful Lady’s dressing table and bring me her ointments and powders.” I do as I’m told. My father’s concubine shakes some of the same astringent Poppy uses on my feet into the water. It’s made from ground mulberry root, tannin, and frankincense. By the time the doctor arrives, Miss Zhao and I have patted dry my mother’s foot, sprinkled alum between the toes and over the injury, and set it on a pillow. My mother has stirred each time we’ve moved her, but she has yet to open her eyes. “You stay here,” Miss Zhao says. “I’ll talk to your father to see how he wants to proceed. A male doctor may not see or touch a female patient. A go-between is needed. Often the husband is chosen, but I will volunteer.” As soon as she’s gone, my mother’s eyes flutter open. “I do not want that woman in my room,” she says weakly. “Go out there. Tell your father that she cannot be the go-between.” I step into the corridor. It’s still raining, and I gulp in the fresh air. Even so, the smell of my mother’s rotting flesh clings to the back of my throat. My father and Miss Zhao speak to a man who must be the doctor. I have now seen my seventh male. He wears a long robe in dark blue fabric. His gray hair laps at the curve of his stooped shoulders. I’m afraid to approach, but I must. I walk up to my father, pull on his sleeve, and say, “Respectful Lady is awake, and she asks that I be the go-between.” The man I take to be the doctor says, “Prefect Tan, it would be proper for you to do this duty.” But when my father’s eyes brim with tears, the doctor turns to Miss Zhao. “I suspect you have some experience with the ailments that afflict women.” I am only a girl, but I must honor my mother’s wishes. “Respectful Lady wants—” My father slaps the back of his hand against his other palm to stop me from saying another word. Silently he weighs the possibilities. Then he speaks. “Doctor Ho, you will use my daughter.” Father looks down at me. “You repeat exactly what the doctor says to your mother and what your mother says back to the doctor. Do you understand?” I nod solemnly. His decision reflects his love for my mother. I’m sure of it. The adults exchange a few more words, and then my father is led away by Miss Zhao. The doctor asks me a series of questions, which I take to Respectful Lady. She answers, “No, I have not eaten spicy foods. You can tell him my sleep is fine. I am not suffering from excessive emotions.” I go back and forth between Doctor Ho in the colonnade and my mother in her bed. The questions—and the


going to sea at all if he had Smollett: “that you have a map of an island, that there’s crosses ground enough to say that. As for Mr. Arrow, I believe him on the map to show where treasure is, and that the island thoroughly honest; some of the men are the same; all may be lies—” And then he named the latitude and longitude ex- for what I know. But I am responsible for the ship’s safety actly. and the life of every man Jack aboard of her. I see things Contents “I never told that,” cried the squire, “to a soul!” going, as I think, not quite right. And I ask you to take “The hands know it, sir,” returned the captain. certain precautions or let me resign my berth. And that’s all.” Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 76 77 “Captain Smollett,” began the doctor with a smile, “did schooner had been overhauled; six berths had been made astern ever you hear the fable of the mountain and the mouse? You’ll out of what had been the after-part of the main hold; and excuse me, I dare say, but you remind me of that fable. When this set of cabins was only joined to the galley and forecastle you came in here, I’ll stake my wig, you meant more than by a sparred passage on the port side. It had been originally this.” meant that the captain, Mr. Arrow, Hunter, Joyce, the doctor, “Doctor,” said the captain, “you are smart. When I came and the squire were to occupy these six berths. Now Redruth in here I meant to get discharged. I had no thought that Mr. and I were to get two of them and Mr. Arrow and the captain Trelawney would hear a word.” were to sleep on deck in the companion, which had been en- “No more I would,” cried the squire. “Had Livesey not larged on each side till you might almost have called it a round- been here I should have seen you to the deuce. As it is, I have house. Very low it was still, of course; but there was room to heard you. I will do as you desire, but I think the worse of swing two hammocks, and even the mate seemed pleased with you.” the arrangement. Even he, perhaps, had been doubtful as to “That’s as you please, sir,” said the captain. “You’ll find I the crew, but that is only guess, for as you shall hear, we had do my duty.” not long the benefit of his opinion. And with that he took his leave. We were all hard at work, changing the powder and the “Trelawney,” said the doctor, “contrary to all my notions, I berths, when the last man or two, and Long John along with believed you have managed to get two honest men on board them, came off in a shore-boat. with you—that man and John Silver.” The cook came up the side like a monkey for cleverness, “Silver, if you like,” cried the squire;


reasons. Curiously enough, the dolphins had long known of the impending destruction of the planet Earth and had made many attempts to alert mankind of the danger; but most of their communications were misinterpreted as amusing attempts to punch footballs or whistle for tidbits, so they eventually gave up and left the Earth by their own means shortly before the Vogons arrived. The last ever dolphin message was misinterpreted as a surprisingly sophisticated attempt to do a double-backwards- somersault through a hoop whilst whistling the "Star Sprangled Banner", but in fact the message was this: So long and thanks for all the fish. In fact there was only one species on the planet more intelligent than dolphins, and they spent a lot of their time in behavioural research laboratories running round inside wheels and conducting frighteningly elegant and subtle experiments on man. The fact that once again man completely misinterpreted this relationship was entirely according to these creatures' plans. ================================================================= Chapter 24 Silently the aircar coasted through the cold darkness, a single soft glow of light that was utterly alone in the deep Magrathean night. It sped swiftly. Arthur's companion seemed sunk in his own thoughts, and when Arthur tried on a couple of occasions to engage him in conversation again he would simply reply by asking if he was comfortable enough, and then left it at that. Arthur tried to gauge the speed at which they were travelling, but the blackness outside was absolute and he was denied any reference points. The sense of motion was so soft and slight he could almost believe they were hardly moving at all. Then a tiny glow of light appeared in the far distance and within seconds had grown so much in size that Arthur realized it was travelling towards them at a colossal speed, and he tried to make out what sort of craft it might be. He peered at it, but was unable to discern any clear shape, and suddenly gasped in alarm as the aircraft dipped sharply and headed downwards in what seemed certain to be a collision course. Their relative velocity seemed unbelievable, and Arthur had hardly time to draw breath before it was all over. The next thing he was aware of was an insane silver blur that seemed to surround him. He twisted his head sharply round and saw a small black point dwindling rapidly in the distance behind them, and it took him several seconds to realize what had happened. They had plunged into a tunnel in the ground. The colossal speed had been their own relative to the glow of light which was a stationary hole in the ground, the mouth of the tunnel. The insane blur of silver was the circular wall of the tunnel down which they were shooting, apparently at several hundred miles an hour. He closed his eyes in terror. After a length of time which he made no attempt to judge, he sensed a slight subsidence in their speed and some while later became aware that they were gradually gliding to


to say when she began, for she read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's expression. "It's a great responsibility you've taken on yourself," said that lady gloomily, "especially when you've never had any experience with children. You don't know much about her or her real disposition, I suppose, and there's no guessing how a child like that will turn out. But I don't want to discourage you I'm sure, Marilla." "I'm not feeling discouraged," was Marilla's dry response. "when I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see Anne. I'll call her in." Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding the delight herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the short tight wincey dress she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment. "Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say." Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot. "I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you-I hate you-I hate you-" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? Hew dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!" "Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll NEVER forgive you for it, never, never!" Stamp! Stamp! "Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting


tired,” she says. “I always worry more when I’m tired.” I frown. I’ve been so self-absorbed (and/or drunk) that somehow I missed the way her face has thinned, and the faint purple blots beneath her eyes. “Hey,” I say. “Are you okay?” “Why wouldn’t I be?” That’s a weirdly evasive reply for Cleo. “Because you run a whole-ass farm,” I say. “And you are but one dainty five-foot-two-inch woman.” Her smile brightens her whole face. “Yes, but you forget: my girlfriend is a five-foot-ten-inch Scandinavian American goddess who can drink four barrels of moonshine and still win a grocery store race.” “Clee,” I say. She checks over her shoulder, then drops her voice. “Okay, yes, I’m stressed,” she says. “The truth is, Kimmy and I went back and forth about bowing out of this year’s trip for the last three weeks. When I told Sabrina we might have to miss it, it did not go well, so we decided we’d come for a couple of days. Only now we can’t head back early after all, so we’re scrambling to have neighbors go take care of things for us at home.” “I’m so sorry,” I say. “How can I help?” “It’s okay. It’s one week of stress. Well, and the full week it will take us to catch up on the time away.” “Hey!” For some reason—quite possibly all the subterfuge I’m currently engaged in—I jump when Sabrina pops her head in between us. Cleo does too. “Don’t sneak up on us.” “Um, I literally just walked up,” Sabrina says. “Did I catch you two in the middle of a drug deal or something?” She reaches between us to grab Cleo’s book, scrutinizing the cover. “Mushrooms? Again?” Cleo’s lips thin. “They’re fascinating.” “What about you, Sab?” I cut in. “Did you find anything?” “Oh my god, yeah,” she says. “This book is a fictional take on the Donner Party.” “How . . . nice,” I say. She cackles, grabs the book out of my hand. I didn’t realize I was holding one—I must’ve yanked it out when she surprised us. “Harry,” she says, reading the back of it. “This book is every bit as fucked as mine.” “I guarantee it’s not,” I say. “An interior designer finds a hand behind a wall,” she says. “Yes, but it’s cozy.” I take the book back. “How is that cozy,” she asks. “It’s a cozy mystery,” I say. “It’s hard to explain.” “Oh-kay.” Her voice wrenches up into a wordless yip of surprise as Kimmy appears at her shoulder. Beside me, Cleo grabs for the edge of the bookshelf, as if for support. “Why is everyone so jumpy?” Kim asks. “Sabrina’s reading about the Donners again,” Cleo says. “It’s fiction,” Sabrina says. Cleo asks, “Where are Parth and Wyn? Are they finished?” Kimmy shrugs. “I passed Parth by the fancy books.” “What are the fancy books?” I ask. “She means he’s looking for something the New York Times has described as ‘revelatory,’ ” Sabrina says. “Actually . . .” Parth walks up with a paper bag


trowsers we are much better entitled to st. george's decoration than they. Whether to admit Hercules among us or not, concerning this I long remained dubious: for though according to the Greek mythologies, that antique Crockett and Kit Carson --that brawny doer of rejoicing good deeds, was swallowed down and thrown up by a whale; still, whether that strictly makes a whaleman of him, that might be mooted. It nowhere appears that he ever actually harpooned his fish, unless, indeed, from the inside. Nevertheless, he may be deemed a sort of involuntary whaleman; at any rate the whale caught him, if he did not the whale. I claim him for one of our clan. But, by the best contradictory authorities, this Grecian story of Hercules and the whale is considered to be derived from the still more ancient Hebrew story of Jonah and the whale; and vice versa; certainly they are very similar. If I claim the demigod then, why not the prophet? .. <p 362 > Nor do heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets alone comprise the whole roll of our order. Our grand master is still to be named; for like royal kings of old times, we find the headwaters of our fraternity in nothing short of the great gods themselves. That wondrous oriental story is now to be rehearsed from the Shaster, which gives us the dread Vishnoo, one of the three persons in the godhead of the Hindoos; gives us this divine Vishnoo himself for our Lord; --Vishnoo, who, by the first of his ten earthly incarnations, has for ever set apart and sanctified the whale. When Brahma, or the God of Gods, saith the Shaster, resolved to recreate the world after one of its periodical dissolutions, he gave birth to Vishnoo, to preside over the work; but the Vedas, or mystical books, whose perusal would seem to have been indispensable to Vishnoo before beginning the creation, and which therefore must have contained something in the shape of practical hints to young architects, these Vedas were lying at the bottom of the waters; so Vishnoo became incarnate in a whale, and sounding down in him to the uttermost depths, rescued the sacred volumes. Was not this Vishnoo a whaleman, then? even as a man who rides a horse is called a horseman? Perseus, St. George, Hercules, Jonah, and Vishnoo! there's a member-roll for you! What club but the whaleman's can head off like that? .. <p 362 > .. < chapter lxxxiii 26 JONAH HISTORICALLY REGARDED > Reference was made to the historical story of Jonah and the whale in the preceding chapter. Now some Nantucketers rather distrust this historical story of Jonah and the whale. But then there were some sceptical Greeks and Romans, who, standing out from the orthodox pagans of their times, equally doubted the story of Hercules and the whale, and Arion and the dolphin; .. <p 363 > and yet their doubting those traditions did not make those traditions one whit the less facts, for all that. One old Sag-Harbor whaleman's chief reason for


saw you turn your back on me and walk away,” Mark said. “I bet you didn’t know I saw that, but I did.” You don’t know how fragile this is, Louise thought. One day your brain just goes ping and you fall through the ice and puppets are talking and telling you what to do and when you fall into that world it means your brain is broken and you never get out again. “I’m sorry you remember it that way,” Louise said, voice tight, “because that must feel terrible, but that’s not what happened.” “Stop telling me what I remember!” Mark shouted. His voice echoed off the walls and took on a harsh, metallic edge. “Mark,” Louise tried, putting all the compassion she had into her voice, “memories are funny things—” “I remember everything being so heavy, I remember the water sucking me down, I remember being so cold my skin burned. I’ve never been that cold again in my life. I remember opening my mouth to breathe and the pond water tasted like copper. I remember a flash of gray sky, and seeing the edge of the ice, and seeing you watch me drown, and then you turned around and walked away. That’s my first memory. You walking away from me while I drowned.” “No.” Louise started talking over the end of his sentence. “That’s not how it was.” She felt like that cartoon coyote running in midair—the only thing keeping her from falling was the belief she was still on solid ground. “You didn’t think I remembered,” Mark said. “You and Mom and Dad thought that if you never talked about it this would go away, but I remember.” “I came right in the house when I couldn’t find you and got Mom and Mr. Calvin,” Louise said, remembering sitting down beside the fire while grownup voices murmured reassuringly from the sofa. She remembered opening up her new Spirograph and loving how clean and useful it looked. Where’s Mark? Potty. You’re bad, bad, bad, bad . . . “You were five years old,” Mark said, relentless. “And you told me to go out on the ice, and when I fell through you left me there to drown. They should have gotten you help for trying to kill me, but instead everyone acted like it didn’t happen because Louise is perfect.” Being scared made Louise angry. “What are you? The lone truth teller?” she shot back. “No one remembers anything from when they were two!” Mark stripped hard cheese off a piece of pizza. “I went on a church ski trip when I was fourteen,” Mark said, rolling the cheese into a pellet. “We went ice-skating and I stepped out on that frozen lake for the first time and had a panic attack and I. Remembered. Everything. I told Amanda Fox because I had to tell someone. She’s the only person who’s ever believed me. When I came home I asked Mom and I expected her to say ‘I’m so sorry’ and for her to get you and you’d apologize


Mulsub in starlight. I never understood what that meant before now. What if she used the same magic as Canthe?’ Esbar looked at it, her expression resolving. ‘Hold the gate,’ she ordered their sisters. ‘I need higher ground.’ Tunuva ran towards the cliffs with her. Royal tombs were carved into their western face. In their wake, the gates cracked open to let out a flood of Ersyri soldiers, roaring as they made a last foray. Those operating the catapults went up and down the cliffs on a wooden platform, pulled by chains. Esbar and Tunuva climbed on to it. Feeling their weight, someone above began to hoist them up, and as the platform swayed above the tombs, they saw the whole city, on fire from one end to the other. Below, their sisters grew smaller, beating away the horde at the gates. ‘They’re coming from the north,’ Esbar said, watching. Tunuva nodded. She looked down at her cloak, once white, and found it soaked in blood. At the top, they stepped off the platform to find the city guard cranking down the arm of the largest catapult, Izi observing them. From here, starlight could be glimpsed through the smoke. ‘Izi, get to the tombs to recover,’ Esbar told her. ‘You’ve fought enough.’ ‘I’m fine, Prioress—’ ‘That was an order.’ With a nod of defeat, Izi went to the platform, holding her side. Tunuva craned her neck to see the catapults, which stood as tall as old bone towers. A stab at her senses drew her gaze north. ‘There,’ she announced, seeing the shape in the distance. ‘It’s coming.’ ‘Release on my command,’ Esbar called to the soldiers. ‘Not a moment before or after.’ Tunuva crouched on the edge of the cliff. When the great wyrm came into the glow of the burning city, she said, ‘It’s the one that killed Lalhar. The one that led the slaughter in Carmentum.’ ‘Dedalugun,’ Esbar said, as it moved closer and closer to the palace. ‘That is what the Ersyris have called it.’ Begetter of ashes. ‘It’s too near the Royal Fort,’ one of the soldiers warned. ‘We have to release, or—’ ‘Wait.’ Dedalugun lifted itself with a sweep of its wings, and Esbar bellowed, ‘Now!’ The soldiers pulled on a rope, releasing the weight. It hurtled downward, and the long arm of the catapult swung up to hurl the boulder high over Jrhanyam. It tumbled over and over before it struck its mark full in the flank, hard enough to obliterate a building. The soldiers roared in triumph. Dedalugun banked away from the Royal Fort with a sound that made the cliffs tremble. Below, the lesser wyrms and beasts echoed its cry. ‘They’re bonded,’ Tunuva murmured. ‘All of them. Dedalugun is the master, the sire.’ ‘Good.’ Esbar grasped the spear. ‘Let’s hope they all die together.’ Dedalugun had seen the threat. Its eyes brightened like a pair of red suns. ‘Move,’ Tunuva shouted to the soldiers, who ran for their lives just as the wyrm breathed explosive fire over the catapults, engulfing them in a


father counts Jonos Bracken among his oldest and most loyal bannermen." The three men-at-arms exchanged uncertain looks. "Our lord is honored by his trust," one of them said hesitantly. "I envy your father all these fine friends," Lannister quipped, "but I do not quite see the purpose of this, Lady Stark." She ignored him, turning to the large party in blue and grey. They were the heart of the matter; there were more than twenty of them. "I know your sigil as well: the twin towers of Frey. How fares your good lord, sers?" Their captain rose. "Lord Walder is well, my lady. He plans to take a new wife on his ninetieth name day, and has asked your lord father to honor the wedding with his presence." Tyrion Lannister sniggered. That was when Catelyn knew he was hers. "This man came a guest into my house, and there conspired to murder my son, a boy of seven," she proclaimed to the room at large, I 258 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN pointing. Ser Rodrik moved to her side, his sword in hand. "In the name of King Robert and the good lords you serve, I call upon you to seize him and help me return him to Winterfell to await the king's justice." She did not know what was more satisfying: the sound of a dozen swords drawn as one or the look on Tyrion Lannister's face. SANSA Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games. The splendor of it all took Sansa's breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind . . . and the knights themselves, the knights most of all. "It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last. The seven knights of the Kingsguard took the field, all but Jaime Lannister in scaled armor the color of milk, their cloaks as white as freshfallen snow. Ser Jaime wore the white cloak as well, but beneath it he was shining gold from head to foot, with a lion'shead helm and a golden sword. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, thundered past them like an avalanche. Sansa remembered Lord Yohn Royce, who had guested at Winterfell two years 260 GLORGL R.R. MARTIN before. "His armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm,"


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 Lisa-some kind of clue as to who killed him. Or why I'm in danger." Or what happened to my family. "I have to go see." "But if he wanted to tell you why you were in danger, why wouldn't he simply write it on the floor where he died? Why this complicated word game?" "Whatever my grandfather was trying to tell me, I don't think he wanted anyone else to hear it. Not even the police." Clearly, her grandfather had done everything in his power to send a confidential transmission directly to her. He had written it in code, included her secret initials, and told her to find Robert Langdon-a wise command, considering the American symbologist had deciphered his code. "As strange as it


a scrape there, Mr. Giles.' 'I hope you don't mean to say, sir,' said Mr. Giles, trembling, 'that he's going to die. If I thought it, I should never be happy again. I wouldn't cut a boy off: no, not even Brittles here; not for all the plate in the county, sir.' 'That's not the point,' said the doctor, mysteriously. 'Mr. Giles, are you a Protestant?' 'Yes, sir, I hope so,' faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned very pale. 'And what are YOU, boy?' said the doctor, turning sharply upon Brittles. 'Lord bless me, sir!' replied Brittles, starting violently; 'I'm the same as Mr. Giles, sir.' 'Then tell me this,' said the doctor, 'both of you, both of you! Are you going to take upon yourselves to swear, that that boy upstairs is the boy that was put through the little window last night? Out with it! Come! We are prepared for you!' The doctor, who was universally considered one of the best-tempered creatures on earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger, that Giles and Brittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and excitement, stared at each other in a state of stupefaction. 'Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?' said the doctor, shaking his forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the bridge of his nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy's utmost acuteness. 'Something may come of this before long.' The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office: which had been recling indolently in the chimney-corner. 'It's a simple question of identity, you will observe,' said the doctor. 'That's what it is, sir,' replied the constable, coughing with great violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone the wrong way. 'Here's the house broken into,' said the doctor, 'and a couple of men catch one moment's glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here's a boy comes to that very same house, next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him--by doing which, they place his life in great danger--and swear he is the thief. Now, the question is, whether these men are justified by the fact; if not, in what situation do they place themselves?' The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn't law, he would be glad to know what was. 'I ask you again,' thundered the doctor, 'are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?' Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenly round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound of wheels. 'It's the runners!' cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved. 'The what?' exclaimed the doctor, aghast


Tickled by the whisper of his breath against her skin as he bent to press his lips against her shoulder blade, unsullied by what had happened before or all that might come after. No man had ever made her feel like this, not even Nonso. Ensconced in his attentiveness, she was the splendorous sun around which his life revolved. “Have you spoken to your mum today?” “I need to call her back.” Wúràọlá yawned. “I don’t have the energy yet.” “I saw her just before coming here.” “How?” “I went to her shop.” He rubbed her forearm. “It sounds as if your mother has been planning this introduction since you were born.” Wúràọlá laughed. “You people are best friends now, ehn?” “She has the colour coordination on lockdown, the menu, guest list. You won’t have to do a thing, just attend.” “I think we might even end up fighting if I try to do anything beyond choosing my own clothes.” “And I spoke to her about Mọ́tárá.” “For goodness sake, Kúnlé.” “We are practically family, Wúrà, I should be able to speak to your mum directly about these things. I just explained that I wanted Mọ́tárá to stop calling me by name, and she agreed immediately. Everything is okay, darling. She had even been thinking about how it would be best for Mọ́tárá to call me Brother Kúnlé. I’ve sorted that out.” Kúnlé let out a slow breath. “That is what I should have done instead of confronting you about it. I should have gone directly to your parents all along. That’s the mature way to handle things.” He was gone when Wúràọlá woke up around midnight. She stumbled into the living room to check the door and found that he had locked the door from the outside and slipped the key under the door. Kúnlé had also left a nylon bag on one of the ratty armchairs that had come with the apartment. It contained a bowl of asaro and foil-wrapped chicken lap. She sat in one of the chairs and ate the meal, crunching the chicken bones so she could suck out the marrow. * * * Kingsley picked Wúràọlá up before noon on Saturday. His car smelled as though the seats had been soaked in perfume overnight. It took a while before Wúràọlá adjusted to the musky scent and could notice that Kingsley was humming. “Can we just play some music?” “Let me sing for you instead.” Kingsley moved his shoulders to some internal rhythm. “Óyá, special request. You know you want it.” Wúràọlá chuckled and began fiddling with the radio. As Kingsley launched into Styl Plus’s “Call My Name,” she was reminded of the calming weeks they’d spent exchanging handwritten notes and giving each other novels as gifts. They enjoyed the same kind of books and would spend hours chatting about a plot twist. He sang to her when they were alone and sometimes rocked her to sleep while humming a lullaby. He’d been just what she needed after the possibility of something permanent with Nonso had flamed


He sighs. “I got an e-mail from Detective Clark. He wants to talk to you about that fucker Hyde.” “Really?” I sit back to gaze at Christian. “Yes. I told him you’re in Portland for the time being, so he’ll have to wait. But he says he’d like to interview you here.” “He’s coming here?” “Apparently so.” Christian looks bemused. I frown. “What’s so important that can’t wait?” “Exactly.” “When’s he coming?” “Today. I’ll e-mail him back.” “I have nothing to hide. I wonder what he wants to know?” “We’ll find out when he gets here. I’m intrigued, too.” Christian shifts again. “Breakfast will be here shortly. Let’s eat, then we can go and see your dad.” I nod. “You can stay here if you want. I can see you’re busy.” He scowls. “No, I want to come with you.” “Okay.” I grin, and wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. Ray is bad-tempered. It’s a joy. He’s itchy, scratchy, impatient, and uncomfortable. “Dad, you’ve been in a major car accident. It will take time to heal. Christian and I want to move you to Seattle.” “I don’t know why you’re bothering with me. I’ll be fine here on my own.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” I squeeze his hand fondly, and he has the grace to smile at me. “Do you need anything?” “I could murder a doughnut, Annie.” I grin indulgently at him. “I’ll get you a doughnut or two. We’ll go to Voodoo.” “Great!” “You want some decent coffee, too?” “Hell yeah!” “Okay, I’ll go get some.” 385/551 Christian is once more in the waiting room, talking on the phone. He really should set up office in here. Weirdly, he’s by himself, although the other ICU beds are occupied. I wonder if Christian’s frightened off the other visitors. He hangs up. “Clark will be here at four this afternoon.” I frown. What could be so urgent? “Okay. Ray wants coffee and doughnuts.” Christian laughs. “I think I would too if I’d been in an accident. Ask Taylor to go.” “No, I’ll go.” “Take Taylor with you.” His voice is stern. “Okay.” I roll my eyes and he glares. Then he smirks and cocks his head to one side. “There’s no one here.” His voice is deliciously low, and I know he’s threaten- ing to spank me. I am about to dare him, when a young couple enters the room. She is weeping softly. I shrug apologetically at Christian, and he nods. He picks up his laptop, takes my hand, and leads me out of the room. “They need the privacy more than we do,” Christian murmurs. “We’ll have our fun later.” Outside Taylor is waiting patiently. “Let’s all go get coffee and doughnuts.” At four o’clock precisely there’s a knock on the suite door. Taylor ushers in Detective Clark, who looks more bad-tempered than usual. He always seems to look bad-tempered. Perhaps it’s the way his face is set. “Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey, thank you for seeing me.” 386/551 “Detective Clark.” Christian shakes his hand and directs him to


were building, carving and reshaping the ice shelf. A connection had been established and could never be broken. Part of her belonged to them and it would be a lie to pretend that she didn’t want to see Eitan again. Liza and Atto had remained calm in the face of this new refugee crisis. There would be enormous challenges with housing and a scarcity of resources, but perhaps it would be better for people to accept a simpler form of existence, with no laboratories or supercomputers, no audacious plans to repopulate the continent. Better to embrace a sense of humility, a life on the Peninsula defined by community and a heightened sense of comradeship that had developed over twenty years. Weren’t they better people now, better at caring for each other, better at sharing – more affectionate, more compassionate, fairer even under the most testing of circumstances? Maybe these virtues couldn’t ultimately save them from extinction, but they would make the last decades of people some of the best. The end might be their finest hour, a time of decency, a species ending not with intertribal warfare and savagery but at its most humane. These abstract notions were of no consolation to Tetu. He was heartbroken, a pain that felt physical as much as it did emotional – a searing wound inside his chest. He’d lost Echo, or perhaps he’d lost the dream of her since it now seemed absurd to imagine they’d ever stood a chance. The future he’d imagined in McMurdo City was gone. Romanticism and ambition had sustained him. He didn’t know how to live without them. The point of his life had been to create a home with Echo. Without this vision of a home, the kind of home he’d never experienced growing up, there was nothing, nothing to work for, nothing to strive for. Having barely spoken since the attack at the base, he felt Liza place a hand on his back. ‘Talk to her.’ ‘What do I say?’ ‘She loves you. I don’t know what form that love will take. But it’s still love.’ Tetu found Echo helping the arriving refugees into the Parliament building, where they were being greeted with cups of hot fish stew. She stepped aside from her work to talk to him. He asked: ‘You love him?’ Rarely taken by surprise, Echo was amazed by this question. ‘Love who?’ ‘That creature. I know what being in love looks like. And you’re in love with him, whatever he is. He asked you to walk up that hill with him and up you went. Just like that. You didn’t hesitate. He could’ve asked you to do anything, you would’ve gone with him.’ ‘I said no to him.’ ‘You said no to his plans. You didn’t say no to him.’ ‘Tetu, I don’t know him. I met him only once.’ ‘But like your parents, in Lisbon, you know.’ On this point she remained silent. He was right. That feeling, irrational and uncontrolled, that was love. Tetu declared, without a trace of hostility, coming to terms