falls forward into the dirt. I shoulder-check Ms. Keane, and she stumbles back before charging at me with her machete raised in front of her. I throw my hands up, but Kyle steps between us. “Grandma!” he shouts. “Just stop!” “Don’t tell me what to do,” she snaps. “Not when you’ve been sneaking around helping these people out. They could have gotten away. We need them, and you risked all of that because of your bleeding heart.” She spits on the ground at his feet. A gurgling sound comes from the blond woman, but after a moment it stops, and she lies too still to be alive anymore. Mr. Lamont tucks the gun into the waist of his pants and awkwardly shoves the dead woman back into the boathouse and shuts the door. Ms. Keane pushes me and Bezi toward the lake. When we reach the rocky shore, Ms. Keane kicks me in the back of my knee, and my legs fold under me. She does the same thing to Bezi, and soon we’re leaning on each other, hands bound, as Mirror Lake’s black waters lap against the dock. Ms. Keane turns to Kyle and narrows her eyes at him. “Go get them.” Kyle skulks off toward the lodge as Mr. Lamont rejoins us and stares out over the water. “The one in the tunnel,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at Ms. Keane. “Did you handle it?” She nods enthusiastically. “And the one with the arrow in his eye.” She claps her hand down on my shoulder. “That was a real good thing you did, sweetie.” I shrug away from her. “So you’ve been watching us?” I ask, trying to work my wrists around, but the zip tie cuts into my skin with every movement. “Of course,” Mr. Lamont says. “The cameras came in handy. I did see that you found my little stash in the control center.” He chuckles. “You can’t fault me for wanting to keep a few mementos. It’s funny how no one ever connects the dots. A camper goes missing, a hiker goes off the grid, even kids—people care about the kids least of all. And all the while, it was them—the glorious order of the owl—the Owl Society.” “We’ll do better than they ever did,” Ms. Keane says. “What?” Bezi asks. Mr. Lamont looks like he’s about to answer when Kyle returns. He’s got Tasha’s lifeless body draped over his shoulder. Bezi turns her face away, and I bite my tongue so hard that it starts to bleed. Kyle sets her down on the ground, then leaves, returning a few moments later with Javier’s corpse. He lays him next to Tasha, then stands off to the side, his eyes downcast. “Do it,” Mr. Lamont says. “Feed the lake.” He begins to chant something in a language I can’t recognize. The words flow out of him like he’s rehearsed it a million times. Ms. Keane and Kyle grab ahold of Tasha and carry her to the end of the pier, where they toss her body into the


his sharp eyes on Philip. "It stung you up a bit when I spoke of your game leg, young fellow?" he said. "People always do, directly or indirectly, when they get angry with me." "I suppose they know it's your weak point." Philip faced him and looked at him steadily. "Are you very glad to have discovered it?" The doctor did not answer, but he gave a chuckle of bitter mirth. They sat for a while staring at one another. Then Doctor South surprised Philip extremely. "Why don't you stay here and I'll get rid of that damned fool with his mumps?" "It's very kind of you, but I hope to get an appointment at the hospital in the autumn. It'll help me so much in getting other work later." "I'm offering you a partnership," said Doctor South grumpily. "Why?" asked Philip, with surprise. "They seem to like you down here." "I didn't think that was a fact which altogether met with your approval," Philip said drily. "D'you suppose that after forty years' practice I care a twopenny damn whether people prefer my assistant to me? No, my friend. There's no sentiment between my patients and me. I don't expect gratitude from them, I expect them to pay my fees. Well, what d'you say to it?" Philip made no reply, not because he was thinking over the proposal, but because he was astonished. It was evidently very unusual for someone to offer a partnership to a newly qualified man; and he realised with wonder that, although nothing would induce him to say so, Doctor South had taken a fancy to him. He thought how amused the secretary at St. Luke's would be when he told him. "The practice brings in about seven hundred a year. We can reckon out how much your share would be worth, and you can pay me off by degrees. And when I die you can succeed me. I think that's better than knocking about hospitals for two or three years, and then taking assistantships until you can afford to set up for yourself." Philip knew it was a chance that most people in his profession would jump at; the profession was over-crowded, and half the men he knew would be thankful to accept the certainty of even so modest a competence as that. "I'm awfully sorry, but I can't," he said. "It means giving up everything I've aimed at for years. In one way and another I've had a roughish time, but I always had that one hope before me, to get qualified so that I might travel; and now, when I wake in the morning, my bones simply ache to get off, I don't mind where particularly, but just away, to places I've never been to." Now the goal seemed very near. He would have finished his appointment at St. Luke's by the middle of the following year, and then he would go to Spain; he could afford to spend several months there, rambling up and down the land which stood to him for romance; after


was a very good wine and powerful, for in spite of the palm fruit hung across the mouth of the pot to restrain the lively liquor, white foam rose and spilled over. "That wine is the work of a good tapper," said Okonkwo. The young suitor, whose name was Ibe, smiled broadly and said to his father: "Do you hear that?" He then said to the others: "He will never admit that I am a good tapper." "He tapped three of my best palm trees to death," said his father, Ukegbu. "That was about five years ago," said Ibe, who had begun to pour out the wine, "before I learned how to tap." He filled the first horn and gave to his father. Then he poured out for the others. Okonkwo brought out his big horn from the goatskin bag, blew into it to remove any dust that might be there, and gave it to Ibe to fill. As the men drank, they talked about everything except the thing for which they had gathered. It was only after the pot had been emptied that the suitor's father cleared his voice and announced the object of their visit. Obierika then presented to him a small bundle of short broomsticks. Ukegbu counted them. "They are thirty?" he asked. Obierika nodded in agreement. "We are at last getting somewhere," Ukegbu said, and then turning to his brother and his son he said: "Let us go out and whisper together." The three rose and went outside. When they returned Ukegbu handed the bundle of sticks back to Obierika. He counted them,- instead of thirty there were now only fifteen. He passed them over to his eldest brother, Machi, who also counted them and said: "We had not thought to go below thirty. But as the dog said, 'If I fall down for you and you fall down for me, it is play'. Marriage should be a play and not a fight so we are falling down again." He then added ten sticks to the fifteen and gave the bundle to Ukegbu. In this way Akuke's bride-price was finally settled at twenty bags of cowries. It was already dusk when the two parties came to this agreement. "Go and tell Akueke's mother that we have finished," Obierika said to his son, Maduka. Almost immediately the women came in with a big bowl of foo-foo. Obierika's second wife followed with a pot of soup, and Maduka brought in a pot of palm-wine. As the men ate and drank palm-wine they talked about the customs of their neighbours. "It was only this morning," said Obierika, "that Okonkwo and I were talking about Abame and Aninta, where titled men climb trees and pound foo-foo for their wives." "All their customs are upside-down. They do not decide bride-price as we do, with sticks. They haggle and bargain as if they were buying a goat or a cow in the market." "That is very bad," said Obierika's eldest brother. "But what is good in one place is bad in another place. In


long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to _talk_ of giving them a hint to be gone. Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth. Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself. Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city. With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them. __ FINIS __ Addendum: According to the _Memoir_of_Jane_Austen_, published in 1870 by her nephew James Edward Austen-Leigh, Jane Austen told her family that Kitty (Catherine) Bennet was ``satisfactorily married to a clergyman near Pemberley'', while Mary Bennet ``obtained nothing higher than one of her uncle Philips' clerks'' in marriage, and ``was content to be considered a star in the society of Meryton''. ================================================================ Chronology of _Pride_and_Prejudice_, according to MacKinnon and Chapman 1811 Before Michaelmas (Sept. 29): Bingley takes possession of Netherfield. Tues 15 Oct. Mr. Collins's letter. Tues 12 Nov. Jane is invited to dine at Netherfield Wed 13 Nov. Her illness. Thurs 14 Nov. Mrs. Bennet at Netherfield. Elizabeth remains. Fri 15 Nov. Darcy begins to feel his


file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt for going off the rails just once?' 'Are you guilty?' said Winston. 'Of course I'm guilty!' cried Parsons with a servile glance at the telescreen. 'You don't think the Party would arrest an innocent man, do you?' His frog-like face grew calmer, and even took on a slightly sanctimonious expression. 'Thoughtcrime is a dreadful thing, old man,' he said sententiously. 'It's insidious. It can get hold of you without your even knowing it. Do you know how it got hold of me? In my sleep! Yes, that's a fact. There I was, working away, trying to do my bit--never knew I had any bad stuff in my mind at all. And then I started talking in my sleep. Do you know what they heard me saying?' He sank his voice, like someone who is obliged for medical reasons to utter an obscenity. '"Down with Big Brother!" Yes, I said that! Said it over and over again, it seems. Between you and me, old man, I'm glad they got me before it went any further. Do you know what I'm going to say to them when I go up before the tribunal? "Thank you," I'm going to say, "thank you for saving me before it was too late."' 'Who denounced you?' said Winston. 'It was my little daughter,' said Parsons with a sort of doleful pride. 'She listened at the keyhole. Heard what I was saying, and nipped off to the patrols the very next day. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh? I don't bear her any grudge for it. In fact I'm proud of her. It shows I brought her up in the right spirit, anyway.' He made a few more jerky movements up and down, several times, casting a longing glance at the lavatory pan. Then he suddenly ripped down his shorts. 'Excuse me, old man,' he said. 'I can't help it. It's the waiting.' He plumped his large posterior into the lavatory pan. Winston covered his face with his hands. 'Smith!' yelled the voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W! Uncover your face. No faces covered in the cells.' Winston uncovered his face. Parsons used the lavatory, loudly and abundantly. It then turned out that the plug was defective and the cell stank abominably for hours afterwards. Parsons was removed. More prisoners came and went, mysteriously. One, a woman, was consigned to 'Room 101', and, Winston noticed, seemed to shrivel and turn a different colour when she heard the words. A time came when, if it had been morning when he was brought here, it would be afternoon; or if it had been afternoon, then it would be midnight. There were six prisoners in the cell, men and women. All sat very still. Opposite Winston there sat a man with a chinless, toothy face exactly like that of some large, harmless rodent. His fat, mottled cheeks were so pouched at the bottom that it was difficult not to believe that he had little stores of food tucked away there. His pale-grey eyes flitted timorously from face to


Enva’s eyes, which he still saw some nights when he slept below. The mortals had done a fine task of creating this weapon for him. And he decided he wouldn’t burn this town, because he had other plans in mind. With a graceful flick of his fingers, his motioned for his soldiers to rush ahead to scavenge. Sometimes they were good at picking the right ones. But other times, they chose poorly, and he was left with scraps of a being. The secret was this: the will had to still be present in the spirit. It usually shined brightest right before death. Mortals ran either cold or hot, their souls like ice or fire. He had discovered long ago that ice served him best, but every now and then, fire would surprise him. Dacre chose to take a long walk around the town. The wind was beginning to blow the gas to the wayside, and he followed its path to a golden field. He felt the staggering, gasping soul before he saw it. This one was made of ice—a cold, deep spirit like the northern sea. It drew him closer. His feet made no sound, left no impression as they walked over the earth, seeking this dying mortal. At last, Dacre found it. A young man with raven dark hair was crawling through the grass. Dacre stood over him, measuring what remained. The mortal had a minute and thirteen seconds left before his lungs filled with blood and he expired. There were also wounds on his right leg. Dacre was in a good mood that day. Or else he might have let the ice in this one melt away. “My lord?” Dacre turned to see Val, the strongest of his servants, standing in his shadow. “My lord, we have almost secured the town. But a few of the lorries have escaped.” The news should have angered Dacre, and Val was prepared for it, cringing when the god stared at him. “So be it,” Dacre said, glancing back at the gasping mortal on the ground. Blood was dripping from his chin as he raised his head, eyes closed. He sensed Dacre’s presence. “This one.” “Yes, what of this one, my lord?” Dacre was quiet, watching the man crawl. What was he seeking? Why didn’t he just lie down and die? His soul was so anguished, nearly rent in half. It made Dacre wince. But he could heal those wounds. He was a merciful god, after all. The god of healing. This mortal, once mended, would do very well in his army. Because Dacre suddenly realized with delight … this was no soldier, but a correspondent. And Dacre had never had one of those before. “Take him below.” Val bowed before he drew a ring in the ground, encircling the mortal. A quick way to open a portal, to pass below. Satisfied, Dacre set his eyes eastward, on the path that would lead him to Enva. Acknowledgments “A girl who writes letters to her missing brother, and the boy who reads them.” I wrote


of terror, which we do not find in any other accompaniment of the scene. But, listen! That puff of the breeze was louder. it, had a tone unlike the dreary and sullen one which has bemoaned itself, and afflicted all mankind with miserable sympathy, for five days past. The wind has veered about! It now comes boisterously from the northwest, and, taking hold of the aged framework of the Seven Gables, gives it a shake, like a wrestler that would try strength with his antagonist. Another and another sturdy tussle with the blast! The old house creaks again, and makes a vociferous but somewhat unintelligible bellowing in its sooty throat (the big flue, we mean, of its wide chimney), partly in complaint at the rude wind, but rather, as befits their century and a half of hostile intimacy, in tough defiance. A rumbling kind of a bluster roars behind the fire-board. A door has slammed above stairs. A window, perhaps, has been left open, or else is driven in by an unruly gust. It is not to be conceived, before-hand, what wonderful wind-instruments are these old timber mansions, and how haunted with the strangest noises, which immediately begin to sing, and sigh, and sob, and shriek,--and to smite with sledge-hammers, airy but ponderous, in some distant chamber, --and to tread along the entries as with stately footsteps, and rustle up and down the staircase, as with silks miraculously stiff,--whenever the gale catches the house with a window open, and gets fairly into it. Would that we were not an attendant spirit here! It is too awful! This clamor of the wind through the lonely house; the Judge's quietude, as he sits invisible; and that pertinacious ticking of his watch! As regards Judge Pyncheon's invisibility, however, that matter will soon be remedied. The northwest wind has swept the sky clear. The window is distinctly seen. Through its panes, moreover, we dimly catch the sweep of the dark, clustering foliage outside, fluttering with a constant irregularity of movement, and letting in a peep of starlight, now here, now there. Oftener than any other object, these glimpses illuminate the Judge's face. But here comes more effectual light. Observe that silvery dance upon the upper branches of the pear-tree, and now a little lower, and now on the whole mass of boughs, while, through their shifting intricacies, the moonbeams fall aslant into the room. They play over the Judge's figure and show that he has not stirred throughout the hours of darkness. They follow the shadows, in changeful sport, across his unchanging features. They gleam upon his watch. His grasp conceals the dial-plate,--but we know that the faithful hands have met; for one of the city clocks tells midnight. A man of sturdy understanding, like Judge Pyncheon, cares no more for twelve o'clock at night than for the corresponding hour of noon. However just the parallel drawn, in some of the preceding pages, between his Puritan ancestor and himself, it fails in this point. The Pyncheon of two centuries ago, in common with most of his


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

bawdy aunt. And in all this quiet in my mind, the who am I really? shouts the loudest. One of my favorite things about Connor was that he didn’t need me to be anything. I could be silly and loud or thoughtful and contemplative and it was all just… me. He told me that I was more than my playful, sexy, adventurous author persona. He said I had thoughtful depth and sensitive layers. It felt like he had a pocket Fizzy Decoder (and I am not just talking about his dick). (Though the dick helped, too.) Evan arrives in a suit and looks objectively hot. I’m so conflicted. On the one hand, I could choose him for the trip. It’s not going to happen with us—I think we both know that—and maybe a relaxing ex-to-friend trip together to Fiji is just what I need. But on the other hand, with the show’s popularity, I don’t want to do the public “breakup,” don’t want to have to pretend to have been in love and fallen out of it. But if I choose Isaac, I’d be doing us both a disservice. Isaac is exactly who I would have expected to fall for, but in this reality, I now only feel very platonic things for him. Are his feelings genuinely romantic? Would a trip with him be the most excruciating, awkward ten days? Could I maybe learn to like him? I groan, and Liz gives my chin a gentle pinch, reminding me to hold still while she applies eyeliner. “What’s with you?” she asks, her breath sweet and minty near my cheek. “You seem stressed.” “I am.” “Are you worried the audience won’t choose the one you want?” Liz has never asked me anything about the show. I always assumed it was a don’t-ask-don’t-tell kind of thing, but maybe it’s as simple as everyone not being a nosy asshole such as myself. A smart woman would say yes. A dumb one—me—says, “I don’t think I want either of them.” She straightens, and her voice comes out in a whisper. “Which one do you want most?” I go for broke: “The one who’s seven feet tall with the god-tier bone structure.” She laughs but seems completely unsurprised. “Yeah, you two are a trip.” I don’t immediately know what she means, and a self-conscious flush flashes through me. Because then I do know. She means what I feel, too, which is that the real story has been the friendship that has bloomed between me and her boss, Connor Prince. The cameras haven’t captured this most beautiful of all story arcs: how this towering, intentional man and this small, chaotic woman came together first with friction and then with mutual admiration and then with something that felt a lot like love. I had the real story right in front of me this whole time, and blew it. “He’s been so off,” Liz says, breaking into my thoughts. “Everyone feels it.” These last words pull me up to the surface again, newly aware. “What do you mean?” She shrugs,


I would die for her you would understand. . ." He stopped with a sort of choke in his voice. "Good boy!" said Van Helsing. "In the not-so-far-off you will be happy that you have done all for her you love. Come now and be silent. You shall kiss her once before it is done, but then you must go, and you must leave at my sign. Say no word to Madame. You know how it is with her. There must be no shock, any knowledge of this would be one. Come!" We all went up to Lucy's room. Arthur by direction remained outside. Lucy turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing. She was not asleep, but she was simply too weak to make the effort. Her eyes spoke to us, that was all. Van Helsing took some things from his bag and laid them on a little table out of sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and coming over to the bed, said cheerily, "Now, little miss, here is your medicine. Drink it off, like a good child. See, I lift you so that to swallow is easy. Yes." She had made the effort with success. It astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in fact, marked the extent of her weakness. The time seemed endless until sleep began to flicker in her eyelids. At last, however, the narcotic began to manifest its potency, and she fell into a deep sleep. When the Professor was satisfied, he called Arthur into the room, and bade him strip off his coat. Then he added, "You may take that one little kiss whiles I bring over the table. Friend John, help to me!" So neither of us looked whilst he bent over her. Van Helsing, turning to me, said, "He is so young and strong, and of blood so pure that we need not defibrinate it." Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed the operation. As the transfusion went on, something like life seemed to come back to poor Lucy's cheeks, and through Arthur's growing pallor the joy of his face seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I began to grow anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur, strong man as he was. It gave me an idea of what a terrible strain Lucy's system must have undergone that what weakened Arthur only partially restored her. But the Professor's face was set, and he stood watch in hand, and with his eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur. I could hear my own heart beat. Presently, he said in a soft voice, "Do not stir an instant. It is enough. You attend him. I will look to her." When all was over, I could see how much Arthur was weakened. I dressed the wound and took his arm to bring him away, when Van Helsing spoke without turning round, the man seems to have eyes in the back of his head, "The brave lover, I think, deserve another


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house. The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms. Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up. "Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said cheerfully. He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all. As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket. The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now. Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow. Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea? One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds...twenty...ten...nine -- maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him -- three...two...one... BOOM. The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in. CHAPTER FOUR -- THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. "Where's the cannon?" he said stupidly. There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands -- now they knew what had been in the long, thin package he had brought


passionately, desperately. His mouth was soft and yet eager. The sudden realisation of how he felt about me set fireworks off behind my eyelids. Knowing that it shouldn’t, couldn’t ever happen again, neither of us wanted it to end. I don’t know how long we stood like that, buried in our embrace. We did not speak. Occasionally his hands would caress the back of my neck, but for the most part, he simply held me, enveloping me closer and tighter. I didn’t want to move. Or think. Or wonder what it meant. The intimacy was all I craved. And then, it was over. I wasn’t sure how or who had pulled away, but we were no longer touching. He thrust his arms into his jacket and buttoned it up. His eyes met mine briefly and the look was one of fear. ‘I’m sorry.’ I tried to respond but found I had no words. My mouth formed the word ‘I’, but no sound came forth. Then he was gone, the bell ringing with his departure. I sat at my little table, shivering. What was I doing? Matthew was a married man with children. I could not, would not, be that other woman. But there was something between us and I wasn’t sure how we could carry on suppressing it. When I was in Paris, I had known Armand would break my heart, but Matthew – he would break my resolve, which was much, much worse. The solution came with the postman the following morning. A letter with a return address printed on a gold label on the back of the envelope filled me with excitement – Honresfield Library. I had written requesting access to their vast collection of papers, manuscripts and letters, specifically those pertaining to the Brontë sisters. The owners, Alfred and William Law, were two self-made industrialist brothers, who grew up near the Brontë family home and had acquired some of their manuscripts from a literary dealer. I was taking my first tentative steps as a literary sleuth – thanks to Sylvia igniting the passion for a second Emily Brontë novel at Shakespeare and Company. There was just one problem: I would have to return to England to investigate further. It was a risk, but now it seemed even more of a risk to stay. I had to put some distance between myself and Matthew. Besides, did I want to pour all of my energy into another doomed liaison, or concentrate on my work? I nodded in the affirmative. My work. That was where my true passion was to be found. I considered the logistics; The Honresfield Library was in Rochdale, near the Laws’ factory. That was over two hundred miles away from London, so I was unlikely to run into anyone I knew. I thought of Emily’s poem ‘No Coward Soul Is Mine’ and, without realising it, had already made up my mind to go. I finally felt as though I were leaving Opaline Carlisle, the girl, behind. Miss Gray would become the woman I always wanted to be. As


Edgar is re- stored from the ill-temper he gave way to at your com- ing. I begin to be secure and tranquil; and you, restless to know us at peace, appear resolved on exciting a quar- rel. Quarrel with Edgar, if you please, Heathcliff, and deceive his sister. You'll hit on exactly the most effi- cient method of revenging yourself on me." The conversation ceased. Mrs. Linton sat down by the fire, flushed and gloomy. The spirit which served her was growing intractable; she could neither lay nor control it. He stood on the hearth with folded arms, brooding on his evil thoughts; and in this position I left them to seek the master, who was wondering what kept Catherine below so long. "Ellen," said he, when I entered, "have you seen your mistress?" "Yes; she's in the kitchen, sir," I answered. "She's sadly put out by Mr. Heathcliff's behaviour; and, in- deed, I do think it's time to arrange his visits on another footing. There's harm in being too soft, and now it's come to this------" And I related the scene in the court, and, as near as I dared, the whole subsequent dispute. I fancied it could not be very prejudicial to Mrs. Linton, unless she made it so afterwards by assuming the de- fensive for her guest. Edgar Linton had difficulty in hearing me to the close. His first words revealed that he did not clear his wife of blame. "This is insufferable!" he exclaimed. "It is disgrace- ful that she should own him for a friend, and force his company on me! Call me two men out of the hall, Ellen. Catherine shall linger no longer to argue with the low ruffian. I have humoured her enough." He descended, and bidding the servants wait in the passage, went, followed by me, to the kitchen. Its oc- cupants had recommenced their angry discussion. Mrs. Linton, at least, was scolding with renewed vigour. Heathcliff had moved to the window, and hung his head, somewhat cowed by her violent rating apparently. He saw the master first, and made a hasty motion that she should be silent; which she obeyed abruptly, on dis- covering the reason of his intimation. "How is this?" said Linton, addressing her. "What notion of propriety must you have to remain here, after the language which has been held to you by that black- guard? I suppose, because it is his ordinary talk, you think nothing of it. You are habituated to his baseness, and, perhaps, imagine I can get used to it too." "Have you been listening at the door, Edgar?" asked the mistress, in a tone particularly calculated to pro- voke her husband, implying both carelessness and contempt of his irritation. Heathcliff, who had raised his eyes at the former speech, gave a sneering laugh at the latter---on purpose, it seemed, to draw Mr. Linton's attention to him. He succeeded; but Edgar did not mean to entertain him with any high flights of passion. "I have been so far forbearing with you, sir," he said quietly---"not


indeed you would have had him at your mercy!" It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog had lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house while Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. The story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld from him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned the truth about the woman whom he had loved. But the shock of the night's adventures had shattered his nerves, and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever under the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were destined to travel together round the world before Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that he had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate. And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative, in which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after the death of the hound the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they had found a pathway through the bog. It helped us to realize the horror of this woman's life when we saw the eagerness and joy with which she laid us on her husband's track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we not been there to drag him out he could never have set his foot upon firm land again. He held an old black boot in the air. "Meyers, Toronto," was printed on the leather inside. "It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend Sir Henry's missing boot." "Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight." "Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound upon the track. He fled when he


thank God! I know it to be otherwise. Yes, I thank God!"     He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat from his brow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in mute devotion. Only the last words of the worship were audible.     "I thank my Maker that in the midst of judgment He has remembered mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto!"     Then he stretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear hand, held it a moment to my lips, then let it pass round my shoulder: being so much lower of stature than he, I served both for his prop and guide. We entered the wood and wended homeward.       |Go to Contents |               Chapter XXXVIII     Conclusion     READER, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said: "Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning." The housekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic order of people to whom one may at any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of having one's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire did for some three minutes hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending again over the roast, said only:" Have you, miss? Well, for sure!"     "A short time after she pursued: "I seed you go out with the master, but I didn't know you were gone to church to be wed;" and she basted away. John, when I turned to him, was grinning from ear to ear.     "I telled Mary how it would be," he said; "I knew what Mr. Edward" (John was an old servant, and had known his master when he was the cadet of the house, therefore he often gave him his christian name) "I knew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was certain he would not wait long neither: and he's done right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, miss!" and he politely pulled his forelock.     "Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and Mary this." I put into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear more I left the


nodded, voice strained. “It seemed...natural. That a girl would want to make friends with other girls. To learn about their lives. Understand where they came from. Share a little schooling.” “Earn them an afternoon off,” said Mrs. King quietly. “And those girls took liberties. Grew cheeky. Felt they were favored. I always chalked it up to a lapse in discipline. The master allowing indulgences, just to favor Miss de Vries.” Mrs. Bone dragged her gaze back from the house. “Clever, really. A neat way to put the girls at ease. I daresay he needed them to be comfortable upstairs.” Mrs. Bone felt a shudder pass through her. “Does Miss de Vries know?” Winnie simply shook her head. “It’s like I said. You can’t...you can’t tell. It’s not spoken of.” “Who was the man, then? The man in the gray coat.” “I never found out.” “Never asked, you mean.” “He would have been a gentleman of means,” said Mrs. King. “He would have paid well for the visit.” “Danny didn’t need more money.” “Money isn’t everything,” said Mrs. King. “It isn’t influence.” Mrs. Bone knew that. She understood patronage. A corkscrew chain of favors. Tastes, pleasures, likes, fancies. Powders, perfumes, poppies. And in the night, behind rich drapes, with oil lamps: girls. Dancing girls, chorus girls, waifs and strays. You had to know where to find them, how to train them, how to get rid of them. Mrs. Bone didn’t just avoid that business. She took in plenty of those girls, over the years. All those Janes. She suddenly addressed Mrs. King. “No one ever came for you, did they?” Winnie straightened, her eyes fierce. “Never. I shared a room with her the whole time. I wouldn’t have let them. I looked after you.” There was something heated, something desperate, in the way she said it. Mrs. King said, voice grave. “And you, Winnie? You were all right?” Winnie’s eyes flickered back and forth. “Yes,” she said, quickly. “Yes, I was fine.” “What about our fine lady duchess?” said Mrs. Bone, quietly. “Hephzibah?” said Mrs. King. Her eyes widened at that, shocked. It was rare to ever see that look upon her face. Winnie opened her mouth, shut it again. Shook her head. Mrs. Bone crossed her arms. “That’s clear enough to me.” Mrs. King said soberly, “And me.” They looked at one another. “Something needs to be done about this,” said Mrs. Bone. “Something needs to be done?” Winnie’s voice went up a notch. “You think I haven’t tried? I went to Shepherd. I went to the master.” “What happened?” “I said I’d discovered something perfectly dreadful.” “What did he say?” Mrs. Bone asked, fearing the answer. Winnie laughed, a bitter sound. “He told me not to be so disagreeable. The next day, I was given my papers. I was out of Park Lane barely an hour after that. No character, no wages.” It wasn’t easy to read Mrs. King’s expression through the gloom. But Mrs. Bone had heard enough. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “Well?” she said. “I want


that passes understanding. Buck heard the chaffering, saw the money pass between the man and the Government agent, and knew that the Scotch half-breed and the mail-train drivers were passing out of his life on the heels of Perrault and Francois and the others who had gone before. When driven with his mates to the new owners' camp, Buck saw a slipshod and slovenly affair, tent half stretched, dishes unwashed, everything in disorder; also, he saw a woman. "Mercedes" the men called her. She was Charles's wife and Hal's sister--a nice family party. Buck watched them apprehensively as they proceeded to take down the tent and load the sled. There was a great deal of effort about their manner, but no businesslike method. The tent was rolled into an awkward bundle three times as large as it should have been. The tin dishes were packed away unwashed. Mercedes continually fluttered in the way of her men and kept up an unbroken chattering of remonstrance and advice. When they put a clothes-sack on the front of the sled, she suggested it should go on the back; and when they had put it on the back, and covered it over with a couple of other bundles, she discovered overlooked articles which could abide nowhere else but in that very sack, and they unloaded again. Three men from a neighboring tent came out and looked on, grinning and winking at one another. "You've got a right smart load as it is," said one of them; "and it's not me should tell you your business, but I wouldn't tote that tent along if I was you." "Undreamed of!" cried Mercedes, throwing up her hands in dainty dismay. "However in the world could I manage without a tent?" "It's springtime, and you won't get any more cold weather," the man replied. She shook her head decidedly, and Charles and Hal put the last odds and ends on top the mountainous load. "Think it'll ride?" one of the men asked. "Why shouldn't it?" Charles demanded rather shortly. "Oh, that's all right, that's all right," the man hastened meekly to say. "I was just a-wonderin', that is all. It seemed a mite top-heavy." Charles turned his back and drew the lashings down as well as he could, which was not in the least well. "An' of course the dogs can hike along all day with that contraption behind them," affirmed a second of the men. "Certainly," said Hal, with freezing politeness, taking hold of the gee-pole with one hand and swinging his whip from the other. "Mush!" he shouted. "Mush on there!" The dogs sprang against the breast-bands, strained hard for a few moments, then relaxed. They were unable to move the sled. "The lazy brutes, I'll show them," he cried, preparing to lash out at them with the whip. But Mercedes interfered, crying, "Oh, Hal, you mustn't," as she caught hold of the whip and wrenched it from him. "The poor dears! Now you must promise you won't be harsh with them for the rest of the trip,


became unbalanced. This could occur due to a number of factors, such as gravitational distortions or the unintended influence of dark matter.” Coogong nodded. “We, too, have been examining the possible introduction of gravitational waves. Gravitational waves, ripples in the fabric of space-time that may have been generated by the acceleration of, say … a massive object, such as a colliding black hole or a neutron star. By analyzing the patterns of these gravitational waves, we can potentially identify the existence and location of these anomalies.” “I think we would have noticed a colliding black hole or a neutron star,” Doogan spat, dismissing the idea with the wave of a hand. “Ah, but you’re assuming I’m referring to anomalies back within our own universe. I do not believe that is the case here. In this scenario, we will consider two universes, each with its own laws of physics and properties. For the purpose of explanation, let’s call them Universe A and Universe B. According to the theory of quantum mechanics, particles can exist in multiple states or locations simultaneously. It is possible that in the vast expanse of space, a rare and brief fluctuation in the quantum fields of Universe A and Universe B could occur, causing the boundaries between the two universes to temporarily weaken and overlap. During this brief period of overlap, the laws of physics and properties of each universe would mix and merge, creating a unique and unfamiliar environment. However, since the overlap is only temporary, the two universes would eventually separate again, and each would return to its original state. The consequences of such a merging could be catastrophic or transformative, depending on the specific laws of physics and properties of each universe. It could result in the formation of new particles, the creation of strange energies, or the emergence of entirely new physical laws that were not previously observed in either universe.” I said, “So you’re saying the cause of this—that colliding black hole or neutron star, whatever—could have been generated within another universe? How does that help us? If anything, that seems to make this conversation even more futile.” The room went quiet. “What if there was a record … an imprint of the course of events leading up to and including transitioning through the wormhole?” Chief Grizwald asked. The freckled-faced man looked to Coogong and then to Doogan questioningly. Coogong said, “Sorry, I’m not following.” Grizwald said, “While each of our three vessels has advanced MATHR-type ship artificial intelligence, that ship technology does not measure concurrent wormhole anomalies, and perhaps more importantly, track extramural influences … mainly because much of that science is either misunderstood or beyond our current technological comprehension.” Commander F. Stanly said, “I repeat, this is a waste of time.” Hardy’s faceplate was now a compilation of spinning animated gears. He placed a heavy hand on Grizwald’s shoulder, momentarily causing the man to wince. “We don’t need to understand the science, the physics behind the wormhole influences. That would be impossible, considering we have no idea where these influences were even


back muscles)--the frightening thing was that it might all be true. If the Party could thrust its hand into the past and say of this or that event, IT NEVER HAPPENED--that, surely, was more terrifying than mere torture and death? The Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance with Eurasia. He, Winston Smith, knew that Oceania had been in alliance with Eurasia as short a time as four years ago. But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his own consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed--if all records told the same tale--then the lie passed into history and became truth. 'Who controls the past,' ran the Party slogan, 'controls the future: who controls the file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (21 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt present controls the past.' And yet the past, though of its nature alterable, never had been altered. Whatever was true now was true from everlasting to everlasting. It was quite simple. All that was needed was an unending series of victories over your own memory. 'Reality control', they called it: in Newspeak, 'doublethink'. 'Stand easy!' barked the instructress, a little more genially. Winston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled his lungs with air. His mind slid away into the labyrinthine world of doublethink. To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the guardian of democracy, to forget whatever it was necessary to forget, then to draw it back into memory again at the moment when it was needed, and then promptly to forget it again: and above all, to apply the same process to the process itself. That was the ultimate subtlety: consciously to induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed. Even to understand the word 'doublethink' involved the use of doublethink. The instructress had called them to attention again. 'And now let's see which of us can touch our toes!' she said enthusiastically. 'Right over from the hips, please, comrades. ONE-two! ONE-two!...' Winston loathed this exercise, which sent shooting pains all the way from his heels to his buttocks and often ended by bringing on another coughing fit. The half-pleasant quality went out of his meditations. The past, he reflected, had not merely been altered, it had been actually destroyed. For how could you establish even the most obvious fact when there existed no record outside your own memory? He tried to remember in what year he had first heard mention of Big Brother. He thought it must have been at some time in the sixties, but it was impossible to be certain. In the Party histories, of course, Big Brother figured as the leader and guardian


be useful during the journey—brushes, ink, and paper for writing, capes of different thicknesses for whatever weather we might encounter, jars with candied ginger in case of nausea. “Do you plan on staying in our room for the entire voyage?” Miss Zhao asks. She is not the beauty she once was, but her acceptance of the passage of time exudes a quiet loveliness that to my eyes is both endearing and admirable. “I do not, and I hope you don’t either. I learned from you many years ago to travel with my own money. I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes to allow us to sit on the deck.” Miss Zhao smiles. “So we are to see the world again.” * * * When we have favorable winds, the sails are hoisted. When the winds are against us, men on towpaths pull the boat upstream with ropes. In shallow waters, the boatmen use poles to propel us. If the water is deep, they rely on oars. We pass through locks that raise or lower the vessel to the required levels. We go day and night, covering about ninety li between sunrises. The greatest surprise is that the person who steers the boat is a woman. Her face is brown from the sun, her body wiry. She is, without doubt, lowly to have a position in which she works with her hands. As such, she sleeps under a lean-to on the deck. Fall is upon us—the weather temperate, and the skies clear—which allows Miss Zhao and me to spend a lot of time on the deck taking in the scenery. Here in the south, we see abundance in every direction. Villages are well populated, with houses and other buildings made of brick, with tile roofs. Fields spread wide and lush with autumnal crops. Occasionally, we glimpse a woman drawing water from a well or pounding grain. Otherwise, it seems the land is so bountiful and rich that even the wives and daughters of farmers can remain inside to weave and embroider. Miss Zhao engages me in conversation, inquiring about my daughters and husband. I’m truthful about my daughters and circumspect about my husband. Maoren and I are lucky to have love for each other, but I’m still hurt that he would send me from our home and my responsibilities to our daughters—and what I hope is a son inside me—in his pursuit of glories for the Yang family. Miss Zhao considers what I’ve said—and left unspoken—and makes a suggestion. “You should write to him.” She would not have maintained her station, precarious as it is, all these years if she weren’t sophisticated in the ways of men and their families. “You don’t need to share endearments, although they won’t hurt.” “But how would I send a letter? The mail system is for the emperor and government alone.” “You could hire a courier. Or you could wait to see if the palace will send a letter for you.” She watches me consider these possibilities. “The main thing is to show your husband and your


great strength and agility increased in the period following his maturity that he had come to believe that he might master the redoubtable Terkoz in a hand to hand fight were it not for the terrible advantage the anthropoid's huge fighting fangs gave him over the poorly armed Tarzan. The entire matter was taken out of Tarzan's hands one day by force of circumstances, and his future left open to him, so that he might go or stay without any stain upon his savage escutcheon. It happened thus: The tribe was feeding quietly, spread over a considerable area, when a great screaming arose some distance east of where Tarzan lay upon his belly beside a limpid brook, attempting to catch an elusive fish in his quick, brown hands. With one accord the tribe swung rapidly toward the frightened cries, and there found Terkoz holding an old female by the hair and beating her unmercifully with his great hands. As Tarzan approached he raised his hand aloft for Terkoz to desist, for the female was not his, but belonged to a poor old ape whose fighting days were long over, and who, therefore, could not protect his family. Terkoz knew that it was against the laws of his kind to strike this woman of another, but being a bully, he had taken advantage of the weakness of the female's husband to chastise her because she had refused to give up to him a tender young rodent she had captured. When Terkoz saw Tarzan approaching without his arrows, he continued to belabor the poor woman in a studied effort to affront his hated chieftain. Tarzan did not repeat his warning signal, but instead rushed bodily upon the waiting Terkoz. Never had the ape-man fought so terrible a battle since that long-gone day when Bolgani, the great king gorilla had so horribly manhandled him ere the new-found knife had, by accident, pricked the savage heart. Tarzan's knife on the present occasion but barely offset the gleaming fangs of Terkoz, and what little advantage the ape had over the man in brute strength was almost balanced by the latter's wonderful quickness and agility. In the sum total of their points, however, the anthropoid had a shade the better of the battle, and had there been no other personal attribute to influence the final outcome, Tarzan of the Apes, the young Lord Chapter 12 Greystoke, would have died as he had lived--an unknown savage beast in equatorial Africa. But there was that which had raised him far above his fellows of the jungle--that little spark which spells the whole vast difference between man and brute--Reason. This it was which saved him from death beneath the iron muscles and tearing fangs of Terkoz. Scarcely had they fought a dozen seconds ere they were rolling upon the ground, striking, tearing and rending--two great savage beasts battling to the death. Terkoz had a dozen knife wounds on head and breast, and Tarzan was torn and bleeding--his scalp in one place half torn from his head so that a great piece


at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime." Granger moved his hand. "My grandfather showed me some V-2 rocket films once, fifty years ago. Have you ever seen the atom-bomb mushroom from two hundred miles up? It's a pinprick, it's nothing. With the wilderness all around it. "My grandfather ran off the V-2 rocket film a dozen times and then hoped that some day our cities would open up and let the green and the land and the wilderness in more, to remind people that we're allotted a little space on earth and that we survive in that wilderness that can take back what it has given, as easily as blowing its breath on us or sending the sea to tell us we are not so big. When we forget how close the wilderness is in the night, my grandpa said, some day it will come in and get us, for we will have forgotten how terrible and real it can be. You see?" Granger turned to Montag. "Grandfather's been dead for all these years, but if you lifted my skull, by God, in the convolutions of my brain you'd find the big ridges of his thumbprint. He touched me. As I said earlier, he was a sculptor. 'I hate a Roman named Status Quo!' he said to me. 'Stuff your eyes with wonder,' he said, 'live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away. To hell with that,' he said, 'shake the tree and knock the great sloth down on his ass.'" "Look!" cried Montag. And the war began and ended in that instant. Later, the men around Montag could not say if they had really seen anything. Perhaps the merest flourish of light and motion in the sky. Perhaps the bombs were there, and the jets, ten miles, five miles, one mile up, for the merest instant, like grain thrown over the heavens by a great sowing hand, and the bombs drifting with dreadful swiftness, yet sudden slowness, down upon the morning city they had left behind. The bombardment was to all intents and purposes finished, once the jets had sighted their target, alerted their bombardiers at five thousand miles an hour; as quick as the whisper of a scythe the war was finished. Once the bomb-release was yanked it was over. Now, a full three seconds, all of the time in history, before the bombs struck, the enemy ships themselves were gone half around the visible world, like bullets in which a savage islander might not believe because they were invisible; yet the heart is suddenly shattered, the body falls in separate motions and the blood is astonished to be freed on the air; the brain squanders its few precious memories and, puzzled,


thrilling. And then Anne found the entrance! It was quite by accident. She was tired and sat down to rest. She lay on her front and scrabbled about in the sand. Suddenly her fingers touched something hard and cold in the sand. She uncovered it- and lo and behold, it was an iron ring! She gave a shout and the others looked up. "There's a stone with an iron ring in it here!" yelled Anne, excitedly. They all rushed over to her. Julian dug about with his spade and uncovered the whole stone. Sure enough, it did have a ring in it- and rings are only let into stones that need to be moved! Surely this stone must be the one that covered the dungeon entrance! All the children took turns at pulling on the iron ring, but the stone did not move. Then Julian tied two or three turns of rope through it and the four children put out their full strength and pulled for all they were worth. The stone moved. The children distinctly felt it stir. "All together again!" cried Julian. And all together they pulled. The stone stirred again and then suddenly gave way. It moved upwards- and the children fell over on top of one another like a row of dominoes suddenly pushed down! Tim darted to the hole and barked madly down it as if all the rabbits of the world lived there! Julian and George shot to their feet and rushed to the opening that the moved stone had disclosed. They stood there, looking downwards, their faces shining with delight. They had found the entrance to the dungeons! A steep flight of steps, cut out of the rock itself, led downwards into deep darkness. "Come on!" cried Julian, snapping on his torch. "We've found what we wanted! Now for the dungeons!" The steps down were slippery. Tim darted down first, lost his foot-hold and rolled down five or six steps, yelping with fright. Julian went after him, then George, then Dick and then Anne. They were all tremendously thrilled. Indeed, they quite expected to see piles of gold and all kinds of treasure everywhere around them! It was dark down the steep flight of steps, and smelt very musty. Anne choked a little. "I hope the air down here is all right," said Julian. "Sometimes it isn't good in these underground places. If anyone feels a bit funny they'd better say so and we'll go up into the open air again." But however funny they might feel nobody would have said so. It was all far too exciting to worry about feeling queer. The steps went down a long way. Then they came to an end. Julian stepped down from the last rock-stair and flashed his torch around. It was a weird sight that met his eyes. The dungeons of Kirrin Castle were made out of the rock itself. Whether there were natural caves there, or whether they had been hollowed out by man the children could not tell. But certainly they were very mysterious,


once again brings her A game. . . . The author’s exquisite writing and vividly detailed love scenes between two realistically flawed protagonists make this a must-read for fans and first-timers.” —Booklist on A Gentleman Never Keeps Score “Sebastian’s latest elegantly and eloquently written Regency historical . . . slowly unfolds into an unforgettable love story that manages to be both sweetly romantic and sizzlingly sensual at the same time, demonstrating once again why Sebastian is one of the brightest new stars in the romance genre.” —Booklist (starred review) on It Takes Two to Tumble “Sebastian crafts another enormously fun, sexy romp that is also touching. . . . Highly recommended.” —Library Journal (starred review) on A Little Light Mischief “Sebastian shatters taboos and genre expectations, crafting searing, meaningful, unique romances—and she makes it all look easy.” —RT Book Reviews (top pick) on The Ruin of a Rake “Another exquisitely written, deeply romantic novel from Sebastian.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review) on The Lawrence Browne Affair “Cat Sebastian’s debut is an utterly swoon-worthy cross-class romance. Don’t miss it!” —Courtney Milan, New York Times bestselling author, on The Soldier’s Scoundrel Also by Cat Sebastian The London Highwaymen Series The Queer Principles of Kit Webb The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes The Seducing the Sedgwicks Series It Takes Two to Tumble A Gentleman Never Keeps Score Two Rogues Make a Right The Regency Impostors Series Unmasked by the Marquess A Duke in Disguise A Delicate Deception The Turner Series The Soldier’s Scoundrel The Lawrence Browne Affair The Ruin of a Rake A Little Light Mischief (novella) Copyright This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. we could be so good. Copyright © 2023 by Cat Sebastian. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. first edition Cover design and illustration by Alan Dingman Cover images © Getty Images (silhouette); © Shutterstock Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for. Digital Edition JUNE 2023 ISBN: 978-0-06-327277-4 Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-327276-7 About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd. Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia www.harpercollins.com.au Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower 22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor Toronto, Ontario, M5H 4E3 www.harpercollins.ca India HarperCollins India A 75, Sector 57 Noida Uttar Pradesh 201 301 www.harpercollins.co.in New Zealand HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive Rosedale 0632 Auckland, New Zealand www.harpercollins.co.nz


his finger slips inside my underwear, I can sense him stumble, unsure where to start. “Here,” I say, reaching down to guide him until we both find that sensitive bundle of nerves. I graze it with the lightest touch. “Do you feel that?” “I—I think so.” He lets out a sharp breath. “Oh. Yeah, I feel it.” “You okay?” “Just fifteen years of ineptitude crashing down around me.” I shed my underwear to give him easier access. A concentrated tension runs from his cheekbones down to his jaw. His touch is gentle, exactly the way I told him to be. Uncertain, and there’s something undeniably sexy about that. I relax into it, letting him slowly, slowly take control. “Yeah?” he says when my breathing quickens, and I pant out a yes. But then he slows down too much and I lose the momentum, and I have to swallow down the frustration. This must go on for at least fifteen minutes—getting close before the pleasure fades away. “I—I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” With his other hand, he swipes at his brow. “What if we tried something else?” We’d be deviating from the outline, but it might be necessary. “What if . . . what if I showed you how I make myself come?” The idea already has a new kind of pressure building in my core, my heart rate quickening. I hadn’t planned on this, but suddenly it seems like not only a guaranteed orgasm but a perfect teaching opportunity. And I really like the mental image of him watching me. He tilts his head, curiosity piqued. “I would not be opposed to that.” I swat at his arm. “Teenage fantasy coming true?” “Maybe if you were dressed like Galadriel.” He glances around the room. “Should I turn the thermostat up? Or down?” he asks. “I don’t want you to be too hot, or too cold. Since, uh, that’s the function of a thermostat. To keep from getting too cold. Or too hot.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Am I being too awkward about this? Because I can guarantee you, I’m going to enjoy it.” “Yes,” I say, laughing, even as heat rushes to my cheeks. “But it’s very cute.” I sink back onto the bed, head pressed against the pillow. The temperature in the room jumps at least twenty degrees as electricity races through my veins. Maybe I should have asked him to turn down the thermostat after all. Yes, he’s seen me naked, but that was back when I thought he was one-night-only. He wasn’t taking in every detail of my body. I let out a shaky breath and run a finger down my stomach. Past my navel. I start slowly, taking my time to find a rhythm, every ounce of awareness focused on the warmth beneath my hand. My body is tight, knees still nearly touching. With every rotation of my finger, I feel my legs loosen. Finn’s reactions spur me on, banishing any lingering self-consciousness. A flutter of his eyes when I slide


his parishioners whenever it were required. ``He must be an oddity, I think,'' said she. ``I cannot make him out. -- There is something very pompous in his stile. -- And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail? -- We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could. -- Can he be a sensible man, sir?'' ``No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.'' ``In point of composition,'' said Mary, ``his letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed.'' To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which astonished her husband and daughters. Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet, indeed, said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall, heavy looking young man of five and twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage. This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers, but Mrs. Bennet who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily, ``You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly.'' ``You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.'' ``Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things, I know, are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.'' ``I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, -- and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more, but perhaps when we are better acquainted --''


the green bullet off and thrust it in his pocket. "Well--so there's more here than I thought. I saw you tilt your head, listening. First I thought you had a Seashell. But when you turned clever later, I wondered. We'll trace this and drop it on your friend." "No! " said Montag. He twitched the safety catch on the flame-thrower. Beatty glanced instantly at Montag's fingers and his eyes widened the faintest bit. Montag saw the surprise there and himself glanced to his hands to see what new thing they had done. Thinking back later he could never decide whether the hands or Beatty's reaction to the hands gave him the final push toward murder. The last rolling thunder of the avalanche stoned down about his ears, not touching him. Beatty grinned his most charming grin. "Well, that's one way to get an audience. Hold a gun on a man and force him to listen to your speech. Speech away. What'll it be this time? Why don't you belch Shakespeare at me, you fumbling snob? `There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, for I am arm'd so strong in honesty that they pass by me as an idle wind, which I respect not!' How's that? Go ahead now, you second-hand litterateur, pull the trigger." He took one step toward Montag. Montag only said, "We never burned right..." "Hand it over, Guy," said Beatty with a fixed smile. And then he was a shrieking blaze, a jumping, sprawling, gibbering mannikin, no longer human or known, all writhing flame on the lawn as Montag shot one continuous pulse of liquid fire on him. There was a hiss like a great mouthful of spittle banging a redhot stove, a bubbling and frothing as if salt had been poured over a monstrous black snail to cause a terrible liquefaction and a boiling over of yellow foam. Montag shut his eyes, shouted, shouted, and fought to get his hands at his ears to clamp and to cut away the sound. Beatty flopped over and over and over, and at last twisted in on himself like a charred wax doll and lay silent. The other two firemen did not move. Montag kept his sickness down long enough to aim the flame-thrower. "Turn around!" They turned, their faces like blanched meat, streaming sweat; he beat their heads, knocking off their helmets and bringing them down on themselves. They fell and lay without moving. The blowing of a single autumn leaf. He turned and the Mechanical Hound was there. It was half across the lawn, coming from the shadows, moving with such drifting ease that it was like a single solid cloud of black-grey smoke blown at him in silence. It made a single last leap into the air, coming down at Montag from a good three feet over his head, its spidered legs reaching, the procaine needle snapping out its single angry tooth. Montag caught it with a bloom of fire, a single wondrous blossom that curled in petals of yellow and blue and orange about the metal


the denizens of the jungle, that on many moonlight nights Tarzan of the Apes and Tantor, the elephant, walked together, and where the way was clear Tarzan rode, perched high upon Tantor's mighty back. Many days during these years he spent in the cabin of his father, where still lay, untouched, the bones of his parents and the skeleton of Kala's baby. At eighteen he read fluently and understood nearly all he read in the many and varied volumes on the shelves. Also could he write, with printed letters, rapidly and plainly, but script he had not mastered, for though there were several copy books among his treasure, there was so little written English in the cabin that he saw no use for bothering with this other form of writing, though he could read it, laboriously. Thus, at eighteen, we find him, an English lordling, who could speak no English, and yet who could read and write his native language. Never had he seen a human being other than himself, for the little area traversed by his tribe was watered by no greater river to bring down the savage natives of the interior. Chapter 9 46 High hills shut it off on three sides, the ocean on the fourth. It was alive with lions and leopards and poisonous snakes. Its untouched mazes of matted jungle had as yet invited no hardy pioneer from the human beasts beyond its frontier. But as Tarzan of the Apes sat one day in the cabin of his father delving into the mysteries of a new book, the ancient security of his jungle was broken forever. At the far eastern confine a strange cavalcade strung, in single file, over the brow of a low hill. In advance were fifty black warriors armed with slender wooden spears with ends hard baked over slow fires, and long bows and poisoned arrows. On their backs were oval shields, in their noses huge rings, while from the kinky wool of their heads protruded tufts of gay feathers. Across their foreheads were tattooed three parallel lines of color, and on each breast three concentric circles. Their yellow teeth were filed to sharp points, and their great protruding lips added still further to the low and bestial brutishness of their appearance. Following them were several hundred women and children, the former bearing upon their heads great burdens of cooking pots, household utensils and ivory. In the rear were a hundred warriors, similar in all respects to the advance guard. That they more greatly feared an attack from the rear than whatever unknown enemies lurked in their advance was evidenced by the formation of the column; and such was the fact, for they were fleeing from the white man's soldiers who had so harassed them for rubber and ivory that they had turned upon their conquerors one day and massacred a white officer and a small detachment of his black troops. For many days they had gorged themselves on meat, but eventually a stronger body of troops had come and fallen upon their village


starving dog staring at a T-bone. Connor licks his lips, pulling them in between his teeth, and I realize he’s reacting to the weight of my stare. Blinking away, I focus my attention on the waves crashing into the smooth sand instead. I need to get my shit together. As much as I’m glad I’m a butterfly coming out of the cocoon of sexual stagnation, I probably shouldn’t fly directly to the first flower I see. Especially if that flower’s professional goal is finding me a soulmate. “Well,” he says after our odd, lengthy showdown, “let’s start easy.” I stretch, pretending to crack my neck. “Tell me what you look for in a guy.” Taking a deep breath, I look out at the waves in the distance, thinking. “Have you ever gone to the grocery store hungry?” Connor laughs in understanding. “Yes.” “Cheese plate, carrots, chips, salsa, Cocoa Pebbles, and sugar cookies. Whatever sounds good at the time.” “Right.” “I’d describe my dating energy a little like that. I don’t have a type, exactly, but maybe that’s part of the problem.” He nods but doesn’t take this opportunity to speak. Again: hot. “I initially did the DNADuo for fun,” I say. “You know, to try out the technology from a romance research perspective. I got matches and went out with everyone. I wanted to see if a Base Match felt different from a Silver.” “Did it?” he asks. “It did, but in romance, love is often about getting past our core assumptions. So if someone told me I had a Titanium Match, wouldn’t I subconsciously work harder to make it successful than I would with a Base Match? That’s always the question with this technology.” He hums, nodding. “That makes sense.” “I think doing this show is the perfect way for me to get back into the dating scene. I won’t know what kind of matches I have. I won’t overthink it. I’ll just have to go on how we vibe and let the audience worry about the rest. I mean, I’m not having any luck on my own, why not let a bunch of strangers give it a shot?” “And you never went back to the app? You haven’t used it at all in the past couple years?” “Oh, I haven’t had much interest in dating for a while. My desire to find a partner crashed and burned entirely around the same time I was doing my DNADuo dating spree—unrelated to the app, I should add.” He seems to chew on his next words before finally asking, “What’s the unrelated bit?” Connor smiles. “If you don’t mind me asking.” “Ah. Well…” There are very few things I hate discussing, but high on the list are the word moist spoken aloud, people who use FML or LOL in actual conversation, and my tumultuous yet brief relationship with a man named Rob. “Around the time the DNADuo was launching, I went to a party with a friend and met this guy. We were together for a little while and I thought things were


by the gang, but have a curse put on it and be forgot forever. Everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and asked Tom if he got it out of his own head. He said, some of it, but the rest was out of pirate-books and robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned had it. Some thought it would be good to kill the FAMILIES of boys that told the secrets. Tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil and wrote it in. Then Ben Rogers says: "Here's Huck Finn, he hain't got no family; what you going to do 'bout him?" "Well, hain't he got a father?" says Tom Sawyer. "Yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find him these days. He used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he hain't been seen in these parts for a year or more." They talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they said every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn't be fair and square for the others. Well, nobody could think of anything to do -- everybody was stumped, and set still. I was most ready to cry; but all at once I thought of a way, and so I offered them Miss Watson -- they could kill her. Everybody said: "Oh, she'll do. That's all right. Huck can come in." Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign with, and I made my mark on the paper. "Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of busi- ness of this Gang?" "Nothing only robbery and murder," Tom said. "But who are we going to rob? -- houses, or cattle, or --" "Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't rob- bery; it's burglary," says Tom Sawyer. "We ain't burglars. That ain't no sort of style. We are high- waymen. We stop stages and carriages on the road, with masks on, and kill the people and take their watches and money." "Must we always kill the people?" "Oh, certainly. It's best. Some authorities think different, but mostly it's considered best to kill them -- except some that you bring to the cave here, and keep them till they're ransomed." "Ransomed? What's that?" "I don't know. But that's what they do. I've seen it in books; and so of course that's what we've got to do." "But how can we do it if we don't know what it is?" "Why, blame it all, we've GOT to do it. Don't I tell you it's in the books? Do you want to go to doing different from what's in the books, and get things all muddled up?" "Oh, that's all very fine to SAY, Tom Sawyer, but how in the nation are these fellows going to be ran- somed if we don't know how to do it to them? -- that's the thing I want to get at. Now, what do you reckon it is?" "Well, I don't know.


have paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.'' He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her at last to go -- saying, as she quitted the room, ``If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.'' Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer any thing material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity would come in time. When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her, and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to credit what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself. ``Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages you will have! Jane's is nothing to it -- nothing at all. I am so pleased -- so happy. Such a charming man! -- so handsome! so tall! -- Oh, my dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted.'' This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself, soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room, her mother followed her. ``My dearest child,'' she cried, ``I can think of nothing else! Ten thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of, that I may have it tomorrow.'' This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her


I trust you." He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. "What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Henry, smiling, and, taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house. CHAPTER II [...12] As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann's "Forest Scenes." "You must lend me these, Basil," he cried. "I want to learn them. They are perfectly charming." "That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian." "Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don't want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool, in a wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush colored his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn't know you had any one with you." "This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything." "You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, stepping forward and shaking him by the hand. "My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favorites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also." "I am in Lady Agatha's black books at present," answered Dorian, with a funny look of penitence. "I promised to go to her club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together,--three duets, I believe. I don't know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call." "Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don't think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano she makes quite enough noise for two people." "That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered Dorian, laughing. Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely-curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candor of youth was there, as well as all youth's passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. He was made to be worshipped. "You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray,--far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan, and opened his cigarette-case. Hallward had been busy mixing his colors and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry's last [13] remark he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would


grime and the diligent work of generations of spiders. Nevertheless, she dims the Tac beam with two fingers across the big lens. She wants to tell her boy everything’s all right, they’ll come safely through this night, but she never lies to him. In her mind’s eye, she can see Aleem and his homeys, those rats with their faces concretized by the lust for power and hatred that is the essence of them, challenging her with that hard stare they call “the red eye,” which demands submission and threatens murder. There is no safe place tonight. She kisses John’s brow and leads him through the foul-smelling water in this walled lagoon, toward the rooms along the right-hand wall. SAFE HOUSE This particular property in the ISA portfolio is a safe mansion rather than a safe house, on an acre of land behind a gated estate wall, in a gated community of multimillion-dollar residences. The architecture is Tuscan, as the community’s design committee imagines that to be, though they seem to have in mind a different Italy from the one in Europe. It has seven bedrooms, ten baths, a home theater, as well as indoor and outdoor swimming pools, among other amenities. Calaphas puts down the window of his sedan and gets his hand wet as he enters his nine-digit agent-ID number in the keypad. The handsome gate rolls open as he puts up the window. He follows the driveway to the portico at the front entrance. Several dangerous people of interest to the agency have been interrogated in this residence for days or even weeks at a time, without being charged with crimes and without the interference of attorneys. They generally are brought here in a state of sedation, in the trunk of a car, and are kept in a windowless basement room. Once vital information has been extracted from them and their guilt has been confirmed, they are processed by a PowerPak cremation system that reduces them to ashes and bits of stubborn bone, humble remains that are more easily disposed of than awkward corpses. The primary purpose of the place, however, is to temporarily house people—often entire families—from other countries, people who serve the New Truth movement and whom the agency wants in the United States without informing immigration officials about the backgrounds of these individuals. Here, they are assigned new names, given life histories to memorize, supplied with documents to support their new identities, and put on the agency payroll. In a few cases, they are provided with the services of a superb plastic surgeon. Leaving his sedan in the protection of the portico, Calaphas climbs four steps and enters his nine-digit agent ID in a keypad by the front door. The electronic lock disengages a trio of deadbolts, and the door swings open, and he steps inside. The safe house is overseen by Bob and Joy Klink, who have an apartment here. Having been made aware of his arrival when he passed through the front gate, they are waiting to greet him in the foyer. They know Calaphas,


mused, chewing her lip. ‘Lyndon might use it to his advantage.’ ‘I suppose you’re right. One last sacrifice to see justice done.’ I had set events in motion now; there was no turning back. Was I scared? Of course I was. Yet the story had now become so much bigger than me, I felt responsible to act on behalf of all those who would never have the opportunity to get justice for what my brother did to them. I would restore some integrity to the Carlisle name. I felt it was what my father would have wanted also. The time had come. I had to confront him face to face. As the evening grew dark, I made my way to my erstwhile family home. The air was still and quiet, my footsteps on the pavement the only sound, save for the blood pounding in my ears. I came to the front gate of the house. How much smaller everything looked. I knocked on the door, and in the moments while I waited, I tried to imagine myself as a very tall, strong-rooted tree. I let the muscles in my shoulders release and focused all of my energy into the centre of my belly. That’s where the fire burned, and I knew I would need to draw on it now, with precision and fierceness. A woman answered. ‘Mr Carlisle,’ I said, plainly. ‘Is he expecting you?’ ‘If he is not, then he is a fool.’ The woman looked puzzled, then went to deliver the message. I didn’t wait for an invitation into my own home. I closed the door behind me and followed her across the parquet hall to the parlour. ‘Excuse me, Madam, you must wait here.’ ‘I’ve waited long enough,’ I said, pushing past her with ease. He was having his supper at the table and almost choked on his soup when he saw me. ‘What the devil—’ ‘Surprised to see me, Brother?’ He didn’t speak another word. He hated being seen to be at a disadvantage. He would wait to see the lie of the land before planning his counter-attack. I was not prepared for how much older he would look – older than his years. He had become frail, his skin papery and thin and frightfully red around his scars. His hands were arthritic, curling into themselves, and he was practically bald. ‘You’re wondering why I am here and not in my cell at St Agnes’s?’ He patted the corner of his mouth with a napkin and placed it on the table. The woman who had answered the door still hovered around me like a fly in summer until he waved her away. ‘How did she do it? you must be thinking to yourself. And what of Dr Lynch? He still takes your money every month, does he not?’ He narrowed his eyes and stood up from the table. For all his weakness, he could still command himself like an officer. It took all of my will not to step back. ‘How dare you show your face here.’ I


“So I gotta go.” He was stepping into his running shoes. “When will you be back? Oh, never mind. Sorry, I remember.” She slid down the headboard and plumped a pillow. “You don’t know.” “That’s right.” “Keep me informed. Text me.” “Will do.” He didn’t even bother kissing her, was out the door, calling over his shoulder to have her reset the alarm, as he stepped into the garage and climbed into his Jeep. That son of a bitch was alive. All these years. But Bentz had known it. Deep down he’d never been satisfied that Father John’s body had never been recovered. That whole eaten-by-alligators theory had never really stuck with him. And the second he’d stepped into Teri Marie Gaines’s apartment, seeing her dead body with the telltale pattern of tiny cuts around her neck where a rosary had been used as a garrote, he’d been convinced. Montoya and all the other doubters could just eat crow. As the garage door rolled up, he told his Bluetooth to call Montoya, but before the call connected, his partner was calling him. As Bentz connected, still backing out of the drive, Montoya said, “I heard.” “You were listening?” “Of course. I’m on my way to the radio station.” “Meet you there.” Speeding through the near-empty streets, Bentz wondered where the psycho was hiding. Somewhere near Our Lady of the Grove, he thought. Despite what Father Anthony had told him, Bentz had done a quick Internet search of the parish, seen pictures of the priests who had been associated with the parish over the years, none of whom was close to looking like the Rosary Killer. He’d even gone so far as to use the computer to age old pictures of the psycho, but still none of the priests came close to height, weight, or age of the murderer who had supposedly died in the bayou. Though New Orleans was rumored to be always awake and had more than its share of night people who thrived on the music and bars of the French Quarter, tonight was quieter than usual. The denizens who normally spent the early morning hours drinking and laughing, dancing and exploring the darker corners of Bourbon Street seemed to have decided to stay home or had gone somewhere else. Tonight things seemed quieter. Calmer. Traffic was light and he pulled into an empty spot near the warehouse where the radio station was located. A patrol car, lights flashing, was parked near the entrance, the cop within Kate Donahue, barely more than a rookie, who had already secured the building, though if past experience proved true, Father John was not inside. “We’re clear,” Donahue said as Bentz made his way to the booth where Samantha Leeds Wheeler, aka Dr. Sam, was still seated at her desk. “You were right,” she said, ashen faced, eyes round with fear, fingers rubbing together anxiously. “He’s back.” She was nodding to herself, staring at a computer screen where a display of all the callers into the program—their names and numbers and reason for their


he said. "I knew long that Mr. Jonathan was a man of much thankfulness, but see, his wife have all the good things. And will you not so much honor me and so help me as to read it for me? Alas! I know not the shorthand." By this time my little joke was over, and I was almost ashamed. So I took the typewritten copy from my work basket and handed it to him. "Forgive me," I said. "I could not help it, but I had been thinking that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not have time to wait, not on my account, but because I know your time must be precious, I have written it out on the typewriter for you." He took it and his eyes glistened. "You are so good," he said. "And may I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read." "By all means," I said. "read it over whilst I order lunch, and then you can ask me questions whilst we eat." He bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the light, and became so absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not be disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking hurriedly up and down the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and took me by both hands. "Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to you? This paper is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am dazed, I am dazzled, with so much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that you do not, cannot comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so clever woman. Madame," he said this very solemnly, "if ever Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know. It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend, as a friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights. You are one of the lights. You will have a happy life and a good life, and your husband will be blessed in you." "But, doctor, you praise me too much, and you do not know me." "Not know you, I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and women, I who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to him and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that you have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell all their lives,