they've gone. I expect they won't play either." Ralph sat down and began to poke little holes in the sand. He was surprised to see that one had a drop of blood by it. He examined his bitten nail closely and watched the little globe of blood that gathered where the quick was gnawed away. Piggy went on speaking. "I seen them stealing off when we was gathering wood. They went that way. The same way as he went himself." Ralph finished his inspection and looked up into the air. The sky, as if in sympathy with the great changes among them, was different today and so misty that in some places the hot air seemed white. The disc of the sun was dull silver as though it were nearer and not so hot, yet the air stifled. "They always been making trouble, haven't they?" The voice came near his shoulder and sounded anxious. "We can do without 'em. We'll be happier now, won't we?" Ralph sat. The twins came, dragging a great log and grinning in their triumph. They dumped the log among the embers so that sparks flew. "We can do all right on our own, can't we?" For a long time while the log dried, caught fire and turned red hot, Ralph sat in the sand and said nothing. He did not see Piggy go to the twins and whisper to them, nor how the three boys went together into the forest. "Here you are." He came to himself with a jolt. Piggy and the other two were by him. They were laden with fruit. "I thought perhaps," said Piggy, "we ought to have a feast, kind of." The three boys sat down. They had a great mass of the fruit with them and all of it properly ripe. They grinned at Ralph as he took some and began to eat. "Thanks," he said. Then with an accent of pleased surprise--"Thanks!" "Do all right on our own," said Piggy. "It's them that haven't no common sense that make trouble on this island. We'll make a little hot fire--" Ralph remembered what had been worrying him. "Where's Simon?" "I don't know." "You don't think he's climbing the mountain?" Piggy broke into noisy laughter and took more fruit. "He might be." He gulped his mouthful. "He's cracked." Simon had passed through the area of fruit trees but today the littluns had been too busy with the fire on the beach and they had not pursued him there. He went on among the creepers until he reached the great mat that was woven by the open space and crawled inside. Beyond the screen of leaves the sunlight pelted down and the butterflies danced in the middle their unending dance. He knelt down and the arrow of the sun fell on him. That other time the air had seemed to vibrate with heat; but now it threatened. Soon the sweat was running from his long coarse hair. He shifted restlessly but there was no avoiding the sun. Presently he was thirsty, and then


was not till the rays of the sun had absorbed the young stranger's retreating figure on the hill that she shook off her temporary sadness and answered her would-be partner in the affirmative. She remained with her comrades till dusk, and participated with a certain zest in the dancing; though, being heart-whole as yet, she enjoyed treading a measure purely for its own sake; little divining when she saw "the soft torments, the bitter sweets, the pleasing pains, and the agreeable distresses" of those girls who had been wooed and won, what she herself was capable of in that kind. The struggles and wrangles of the lads for her hand in a jig were an amusement to her--no more; and when they became fierce she rebuked them. She might have stayed even later, but the incident of her father's odd appearance and manner returned upon the girl's mind to make her anxious, and wondering what had become of him she dropped away from the dancers and bent her steps towards the end of the village at which the parental cottage lay. While yet many score yards off, other rhythmic sounds than those she had quitted became audible to her; sounds that she knew well--so well. They were a regular series of thumpings from the interior of the house, occasioned by the violent rocking of a cradle upon a stone floor, to which movement a feminine voice kept time by singing, in a vigorous gallopade, the favourite ditty of "The Spotted Cow"-- I saw her lie do'--own in yon'--der green gro'--ove; Come, love!' and I'll tell' you where!' The cradle-rocking and the song would cease simultaneously for a moment, and an explanation at highest vocal pitch would take the place of the melody. "God bless thy diment eyes! And thy waxen cheeks! And thy cherry mouth! And thy Cubit's thighs! And every bit o' thy blessed body!" After this invocation the rocking and the singing would recommence, and the "Spotted Cow" proceed as before. So matters stood when Tess opened the door, and paused upon the mat within it surveying the scene. The interior, in spite of the melody, struck upon the girl's senses with an unspeakable dreariness. From the holiday gaieties of the field--the white gowns, the nosegays, the willow-wands, the whirling movements on the green, the flash of gentle sentiment towards the stranger--to the yellow melancholy of this one-candled spectacle, what a step! Besides the jar of contrast there came to her a chill self-reproach that she had not returned sooner, to help her mother in these domesticities, instead of indulging herself out-of-doors. There stood her mother amid the group of children, as Tess had left her, hanging over the Monday washing-tub, which had now, as always, lingered on to the end of the week. Out of that tub had come the day before--Tess felt it with a dreadful sting of remorse--the very white frock upon her back which she had so carelessly greened about the skirt on the damping grass--which had been wrung up and ironed by her mother's own


conversation, Taylor in- formed me that Hyde had been granted bail. How, I don’t know, I thought we’d managed to thwart any attempts at bail. But that gave me a moment to think about what you’d said . . . and I knew something was seriously wrong.” “It was never about the money,” I snap suddenly, an unexpected surge of an- ger flaring in my belly. My voice rises. “How could you even think that? It’s nev- er been about your fucking money!” My head starts to pound and I wince. Christi- an gapes at me for a split second, surprised by my vehemence. He narrows his eyes. “Mind your language,” he growls. “Calm down and eat.”I glare mutinously at him. “Ana,” he warns. “That hurt me more than anything, Christian,” I whisper. “Almost as much as you seeing that woman.” He inhales sharply as if I’ve slapped him and all of a sudden, he looks ex- hausted. Closing his eyes briefly, he shakes his head, resigned. “I know.” He sighs. “And I’m sorry. More than you know.” His eyes are lu- minous with contrition. “Please, eat. While your soup is still hot.” His voice is soft and compelling, and I do as he asks. He breathes a sigh of relief. “Go on,” I whisper, between bites of the illicit fresh white bread roll. “We didn’t know Mia was missing. I thought maybe he was blackmailing you or something. I called you back, but you didn’t answer.” He scowls. “I left you a message then called Sawyer. Taylor started tracking your cell. I knew you were at the bank, so we headed straight there.” “I don’t know how Sawyer found me. Was he tracking my cell, too?” “The Saab is fitted with a tracking device. All our cars are. By the time we got near the bank, you were already on the move, and we followed. Why are you smiling?” 452/551 “On some level I knew you’d be stalking me.” “And that is amusing because?” he asks. “Jack had instructed me to get rid of my cell. So I borrowed Whelan’s cell, and that’s the one I threw away. I put mine into one of the duffle bags so you could track your money.” Christian sighs. “Our money, Ana,” he says quietly. “Eat.” I wipe my soup bowl with the last of my bread and pop it into my mouth. For the first time in a long while, I feel replete in spite of our conversation. “Finished.” “Good girl.” There’s a knock on the door and Nurse Nora enters once more, carrying a small paper cup. Christian clears away my plate, and starts putting all the items back into the box. “Pain relief.” Nora smiles, showing me the white pill in the paper cup. “Is this okay to take? You know—with the baby?” “Yes, Mrs. Grey. It’s Lortab—it’s fine; it won’t affect the baby.” I nod gratefully. My head is pounding. I swallow it down with a sip of water. “You ought to rest, Mrs. Grey.” Nurse Nora looks pointedly at Christian.


And you and you! Yes, you’re perfect!” He took one stool and placed it in front of Nurse Ratched’s cage, well out of reach of her tentacles. Then one in front of Rambo. Hap. Victor. When he finished, he clapped. “There. That’ll do until we make more permanent arrangements.” He hummed under his breath as he went back to his desk. Reaching up above it to another shelf, he pulled down a long object not unlike one of Rambo’s pincers. He squeezed the handle, and the ends of the object opened and closed. “This was a toy human children used,” he said. “They called it a robot arm, but it is not robotic in the slightest! Isn’t that odd? They used it to grab things just out of reach. But watch what I use it for!” He picked up one of the folded pages and, as if he were carrying something dangerous, tiptoed his way over to the stool in front of Rambo’s cage. With his tongue stuck out between his teeth, the Coachman gripped the robot arm with both hands, lowering the page to the stool. “Ta-da!” he said with a flourish. “Your very own label! If you could, my small friend, please read the words aloud so that I can hear if any changes need to be made.” Rambo beeped once, twice, rising slightly on his lift. Then, “VACUUM. USED BY HUMANS TO CLEAN.” He spun in a circle, waving his arms. “That’s me! Oh my goodness, that’s exactly right! Vic. Vic. He’s so good at this!” The Coachman grinned. “Thank you for recognizing the greatness of my work. I will remember this moment forever, or at least until my body breaks down, leaving only my deteriorating consciousness that will undoubtedly devolve into a mimicry of human insanity. Nurse, oh, nurse. It’s your turn.” With a little shimmy of his hips, he glided back to the desk, picking up another piece of paper. Skipping back to the cages, he used the robot arm to drop the page on the stool. “Beautiful miss, if you could, please read the words upon your label.” “No,” Nurse Ratched said. “I am not in the mood.” The Coachman blinked. “The mood? What do you mean, the—oh. Oh. I see! Well, far be it from me to tell a lady of your caliber what she should or should not do. No, I won’t have you tiring out your precious circuitry over something like this. Fear not, I shall read it for you!” “You should come closer,” Nurse Ratched said. “I promise not to strangle you until your head pops off and falls to the floor.” On her screen, the words YOU CAN TRUST ME! I’M A NURSE! The Coachman waggled his finger at her. “Ah, you almost got me there! You are a delight. Your star burns bright, no doubt about it! Your label reads: NURSE REGISTERED AUTOMATON TO CARE, HEAL, EDUCATE, AND DRILL. PERFECTLY PRESERVED.” Nurse Ratched was silent for a moment. Then, “I do not detect any lies. You may continue.” Rambo beeped.


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

with. A country home in… shit, Gabriel had told her a name to use, and she’d completely forgotten it… a childhood sickness that kept her confined… But the questions, when they came, weren’t about her at all. “So,” Danielle said, leaning forward, eyes darting mischievously between Lore and Alie. “Why is Gabriel really back in court? Is it truly just to escort you?” Lore nearly choked on her tea. That odd glitter was still in Danielle’s eyes, almost like this was a test. “Dani.” Alienor sounded halfway between laughing and screaming, with the kind of nervous strain that came from both desperately wanting and not wanting a conversation to happen. “We don’t need to talk about Gabriel. There’s no need to go excavating ancient history.” Though Alie’s blush was the color of the cherry jam in Lore’s pastry, there was a still a hopeful light in her eyes. Lore recognized it. A torch long held. And it made her think of Gabe’s bare chest and how it’d felt pressed warm against her back a week ago and Bleeding God nothing could be simple, could it? “Poor Bastian.” Brigitte shook her head, face solemn, though the words were teasing. “Went to all this trouble, let Alie use his suite and everything, just for her to ask about Gabriel.” “You know it’s not like that with Bastian,” Alie said. “He’s like a brother.” “Unfortunate, honestly,” Brigitte countered. “I mean, I don’t think being an Arceneaux Queen would be a grand time, but he is unconscionably handsome.” “Unconscionably handsome, yes,” Dani said, “but he’d make an awful husband, if you wanted anything like loyalty. Bastian has someone new in that huge bed three times a week.” “Sounds like fun to me,” Brigitte said with a wicked grin. “It’s really just the queendom that doesn’t suit.” She picked out another macaron. “Don’t tell my father I said that, though. He has half a mind to try and get us betrothed before the end of the season.” Now Lore’s face was nearing the color of Alienor’s. “Gods, betrothals.” Dani rubbed at her temple, as if the very thought sparked a headache. “I don’t want to think about them.” There was genuine exhaustion in Dani’s voice. Alie and Brigitte shared a quick, sympathetic look. “Has your family come around at all, Dani?” Alie asked tentatively. “To the idea of you and Luc?” “Of course not.” Dani sat back with a sigh, crossing her arms and staring at her tea. Her eyes flicked up to Lore, then away. “He’s a commoner. It doesn’t matter that he’s the son of a well-regarded shipbuilder; they only care about lineage.” “And Hugo didn’t put in a good word for you?” “No,” Dani said miserably. “I did what we talked about—I made Hugo take me on a night Luc was fighting, acted like we’d never met. Luc won the match, of course, and Hugo won a pile of money on the bet—Luc did, too. But when I brought up that I might want to marry a well-off commoner… it didn’t go well.” Her


Why is my heart racing?” Geoff, staring at the photo, said, “Jesus,” as if he’d just figured it all out, too, and I was the only one in the dark. Alder said, “Talk this through with me. Talk this through.” He sat on the edge of the bed, the other photos sliding together. It took me so long. It took me a stupid amount of time. And yes, most of the problem was that I was so fixated on you, so laser-focused on your alibi, your motives, your sins, your lies, that what I should have seen as illumination, I saw as a blinding glare. I could only look around the edges of it, like an eclipse. I said, “He rode a bike because—okay, he rode a bike to get to the party. Everyone else walked, but he rode a bike?” Geoff was pacing, his hands on his head. Alder said, “He left Camelot. And they started walking. And so—so they walk there, they stop at the dorms first, maybe they leave at nine. It takes them half an hour. They walk slow because of Mike Stiles’s leg, right?” And still I didn’t get it. “He wasn’t with them,” he said. “Not at first. They’re in groups, there are nineteen kids, they’re not taking attendance. Half are already drunk.” I said, “He wasn’t with them,” or at least I mouthed it. Was that even possible? There was math involved. I grabbed a Calvin Inn notepad and pen from Geoff’s desk and wrote: 8:45-ish? Camelot ends 9:00 start walking 9:30 mattresses 9:58 first mattress photo 9:59 first photo of Serenho 10:45 leave mattresses 11:05 back in dorms Geoff took the pen from my fingers and drew a circle around the first five items, everything from the end of Camelot to Robbie Serenho’s first photo. Next to it, he wrote 1:14. It was so much time. Even if the show had ended a few minutes later. He said, “How long do you think it takes to bike from the gym to the mattresses?” “It was muddy,” I said. Only the dumbest of my thoughts were processing fully. I said, “Alder, you’re not recording this, are you?” He shook his head. “Should I be?” “No.” Geoff said, “I ride a five-minute mile when I’m lazy. Let’s say pedaling fast over 1.4 miles of muddy terrain, maybe on a kid’s bike, let’s say conservatively ten minutes. Extra conservative, fifteen minutes. Even though we’re talking about a teenage athlete with a ton of adrenaline.” I said, “He’s still got almost an hour.” My face was in my hands, because my face was hot and my hands were ice-cold. Alder slid down to the carpet, lay on his back, stared at the ceiling. He said, “Are we nuts? Maybe we’re nuts. So wait: He picks Thalia up backstage. Maybe he tries to get her to come to the mattresses. Maybe he’s told his friends he’s coming, right? They start fighting, they head toward the gym. Whatever happens, happens. He freaks and realizes he needs an alibi. If he


him the time at last, the leisure, to consider this month, this year, and a lifetime of years. He listened to his heart slow. His thoughts stopped rushing with his blood. He saw the moon low in the sky now. The moon there, and the light of the moon caused by what? By the sun, of course. And what lights the sun? Its own fire. And the sun goes on, day after day, burning and burning. The sun and time. The sun and time and burning. Burning. The river bobbled him along gently. Burning. The sun and every clock on the earth. It all came together and became a single thing in his mind. After a long time of floating on the land and a short time of floating in the river he knew why he must never burn again in his life. The sun burned every day. It burned Time. The world rushed in a circle and turned on its axis and time was busy burning the years and the people anyway, without any help from him. So if he burnt things with the firemen, and the sun burnt Time, that meant.that everything burned! One of them had to stop burning. The sun wouldn't, certainly. So it looked as if it had to be Montag and the people he had worked with until a few short hours ago. Somewhere the saving and putting away had to begin again and someone had to do the saving and keeping, one way or another, in books, in records, in people's heads, any way at all so long as it was safe, free from moths, silver-fish, rust and dry-rot, and men with matches. The world was full of burning of all types and sizes. Now the guild of the asbestos-weaver must open shop very soon. He felt his heel bump land, touch pebbles and rocks, scrape sand. The river had moved him toward shore. He looked in at the great black creature without eyes or light, without shape, with only a size that went a thousand miles without wanting to stop, with its grass hills and forests that were waiting for him. He hesitated to leave the comforting flow of the water. He expected the Hound there. Suddenly the trees might blow under a great wind of helicopters. But there was only the normal autumn wind high up, going by like another river. Why wasn't the Hound running? Why had the search veered inland? Montag listened. Nothing. Nothing. Millie, he thought. All this country here. Listen to it! Nothing and nothing. So much silence, Millie, I wonder how you'd take it? Would you shout Shut up, shut up! Millie, Millie. And he was sad. Millie was not here and the Hound was not here, but the dry smell of hay blowing from some distant field put Montag on the land. He remembered a farm he had visited when he was very young, one of the rare times he had discovered that somewhere behind the seven veils of unreality, beyond the walls of parlours and beyond


you said?" asked Mildred. Philip had no one but Griffiths to talk to of his love for Mildred, and little by little had told him the whole story of his connection with her. He described her to him fifty times. He dwelt amorously on every detail of her appearance, and Griffiths knew exactly how her thin hands were shaped and how white her face was, and he laughed at Philip when he talked of the charm of her pale, thin lips. "By Jove, I'm glad I don't take things so badly as that," he said. "Life wouldn't be worth living." Philip smiled. Griffiths did not know the delight of being so madly in love that it was like meat and wine and the air one breathed and whatever else was essential to existence. Griffiths knew that Philip had looked after the girl while she was having her baby and was now going away with her. "Well, I must say you've deserved to get something," he remarked. "It must have cost you a pretty penny. It's lucky you can afford it." "I can't," said Philip. "But what do I care!" Since it was early for luncheon, Philip and Mildred sat in one of the shelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and watched the people pass. There were the Brighton shop-boys who walked in twos and threes, swinging their canes, and there were the Brighton shop-girls who tripped along in giggling bunches. They could tell the people who had come down from London for the day; the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness. There were many Jews, stout ladies in tight satin dresses and diamonds, little corpulent men with a gesticulative manner. There were middle-aged gentlemen spending a week-end in one of the large hotels, carefully dressed; and they walked industriously after too substantial a breakfast to give themselves an appetite for too substantial a luncheon: they exchanged the time of day with friends and talked of Dr. Brighton or London-by-the-Sea. Here and there a well-known actor passed, elaborately unconscious of the attention he excited: sometimes he wore patent leather boots, a coat with an astrakhan collar, and carried a silver-knobbed stick; and sometimes, looking as though he had come from a day's shooting, he strolled in knickerbockers, and ulster of Harris tweed, and a tweed hat on the back of his head. The sun shone on the blue sea, and the blue sea was trim and neat. After luncheon they went to Hove to see the woman who was to take charge of the baby. She lived in a small house in a back street, but it was clean and tidy. Her name was Mrs. Harding. She was an elderly, stout person, with gray hair and a red, fleshy face. She looked motherly in her cap, and Philip thought she seemed kind. "Won't you find it an awful nuisance to look after a baby?" he asked her. She explained that her husband was a curate, a good deal older than herself, who had difficulty in getting permanent work since vicars wanted


Noah, 'and a very good sign too. Now, then! Keep close at my heels, and come along.' With these injunctions, he pushed the rattling door with his shoulder, and entered the house, followed by his companion. There was nobody in the bar but a young Jew, who, with his two elbows on the counter, was reading a dirty newspaper. He stared very hard at Noah, and Noah stared very hard at him. If Noah had been attired in his charity-boy's dress, there might have been some reason for the Jew opening his eyes so wide; but as he had discarded the coat and badge, and wore a short smock-frock over his leathers, there seemed no particular reason for his appearance exciting so much attention in a public-house. 'Is this the Three Cripples?' asked Noah. 'That is the dabe of this 'ouse,' replied the Jew. 'A gentleman we met on the road, coming up from the country, recommended us here,' said Noah, nudging Charlotte, perhaps to call her attention to this most ingenious device for attracting respect, and perhaps to warn her to betray no surprise. 'We want to sleep here to-night.' 'I'b dot certaid you cad,' said Barney, who was the attendant sprite; 'but I'll idquire.' 'Show us the tap, and give us a bit of cold meat and a drop of beer while yer inquiring, will yer?' said Noah. Barney complied by ushering them into a small back-room, and setting the required viands before them; having done which, he informed the travellers that they could be lodged that night, and left the amiable couple to their refreshment. Now, this back-room was immediately behind the bar, and some steps lower, so that any person connected with the house, undrawing a small curtain which concealed a single pane of glass fixed in the wall of the last-named apartment, about five feet from its flooring, could not only look down upon any guests in the back-room without any great hazard of being observed (the glass being in a dark angle of the wall, between which and a large upright beam the observer had to thrust himself), but could, by applying his ear to the partition, ascertain with tolerable distinctness, their subject of conversation. The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just returned from making the communication above related, when Fagin, in the course of his evening's business, came into the bar to inquire after some of his young pupils. 'Hush!' said Barney: 'stradegers id the next roob.' 'Strangers!' repeated the old man in a whisper. 'Ah! Ad rub uds too,' added Barney. 'Frob the cuttry, but subthig in your way, or I'b bistaked.' Fagin appeared to receive this communication with great interest. Mounting a stool, he cautiously applied his eye to the pane of glass, from which secret post he could see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from the dish, and porter from the pot, and administering homoepathic doses of both to Charlotte, who sat patiently by, eating and


on his nerves. The professor sat down; and Philip without a word placed before him the picture which the Salon had rejected; Foinet nodded but did not speak; then Philip showed him the two portraits he had made of Ruth Chalice, two or three landscapes which he had painted at Moret, and a number of sketches. "That's all," he said presently, with a nervous laugh. Monsieur Foinet rolled himself a cigarette and lit it. "You have very little private means?" he asked at last. "Very little," answered Philip, with a sudden feeling of cold at his heart. "Not enough to live on." "There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one's means of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for the shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. it exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his art." Philip quietly put away the various things which he had shown. "I'm afraid that sounds as if you didn't think I had much chance." Monsieur Foinet slightly shrugged his shoulders. "You have a certain manual dexterity. With hard work and perseverance there is no reason why you should not become a careful, not incompetent painter. You would find hundreds who painted worse than you, hundreds who painted as well. I see no talent in anything you have shown me. I see industry and intelligence. You will never be anything but mediocre." Philip obliged himself to answer quite steadily. "I'm very grateful to you for having taken so much trouble. I can't thank you enough." Monsieur Foinet got up and made as if to go, but he changed his mind and, stopping, put his hand on Philip's shoulder. "But if you were to ask me my advice, I should say: take your courage in both hands and try your luck at something else. It sounds very hard, but let me tell you this: I would give all I have in the world if someone had given me that advice when I was your age and I had taken it." Philip looked up at him with surprise. The master forced his lips into a smile, but his eyes remained grave and sad. "It is cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is


surrounding trees and the faraway hum of traffic. But her throat was dry, goose pimples crawling up the backs of her arms. “Come on,” she whispered to the dog, her voice tight. When he didn’t budge, she gave a quick tug on the leash and he followed reluctantly. Once inside, she threw the dead bolt, then disarmed the security system so that it was no longer in the “away” mode, but still would alert her if anyone tried to enter through a door or window. “It’s your imagination. That’s all. You just freaked yourself out,” she told herself, but double-checked the windows, doors, and closets, even under the bed. She might have convinced herself except for the dog. Dave was still on edge, running into the living room window to press his nose between the blinds. She snapped them shut more tightly, unhooked his leash, then walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. It was nothing! But her heart was still pounding as she hung the leash on its hook near the back door and felt suddenly alone. She even thought for half a second about calling Jay before reality set in. “This is all such bullshit,” she said, her voice cracking. Tentatively, the kitten peered out from behind the couch. “There you are.” Picking up Lenore and carrying her into the bedroom, Kristi flopped on the bed and reached for the remote to turn on the TV. As the screen came to life, she opened the drawer of her night table, pulled out the claw hammer, and tucked it under her pillow. Just in case. * * * The dog is a problem. As I run through the darkened streets, I realize I should have taken that mutt out when I’d had the chance, but he’d been too fast, gotten away from me, and I had work to do and it had to be done quickly. I thought he might be lost forever as he took off like a shot and I couldn’t risk chasing him down, or being seen. Besides I had work to do in the house. But I’d been wrong. And tonight, that damned cur had caught scent of me hiding in the shadows, had alerted her that I was there. A stupid, stupid mistake. I could have been caught and all the years of planning, the anxious nights, the second-guessing myself, and finally the attack at St. Louis Cathedral would be for naught. I take the time to remove my cassock and stuff it into the case. Slowly I let out my breath. Still I’m sweating, my breath coming in short bursts, but as I cross St. Charles Avenue, I slow, gather my wits, and make the sign of the cross over my frantically beating heart. I can’t afford to mess this up. Too much is at stake. I’ve gone too far. So I’d had to flee, racing through the shadows, certain that the couple entwined in each other’s arms in the parked sedan with its windows fogged had caught a glimpse of


that action. But this was not the time or place for comforting. "I saw our banner over the house as we came in," she said. He glanced at the painting of his father. "Where were you going to hang that?" "Somewhere in here." "No." The word rang flat and final, telling her she could use trickery to persuade, but open argument was useless. Still, she had to try, even if the gesture served only to remind herself that she would not trick him. "My Lord," she said, "if you'd only . . . " "The answer remains no. I indulge you shamefully in most things, not in this. I've just come from the dining hall where there are --" "My Lord! Please." "The choice is between your digestion and my ancestral dignity, my dear," he said. "They will hang in the dining hall." She sighed. "Yes, my Lord." "You may resume your custom of dining in your rooms whenever possible. I shall expect you at your proper position only on formal occasions." "Thank you, my Lord." "And don't go all cold and formal on me! Be thankful that I never married you, my dear. Then it'd be your duty to join me at table for every meal." She held her face immobile, nodded. "Hawat already has our own poison snooper over the dining table," he said. "There's a portable in your room." "You anticipated this . . . disagreement," she said. "My dear, I think also of your comfort. I've engaged servants. They're locals, but Hawat has cleared them -- they're Fremen all. They'll do until our own people can be released from their other duties." "Can anyone from this place be truly safe?" "Anyone who hates Harkonnens. You may even want to keep the head housekeeper: the Shadout Mapes." "Shadout," Jessica said. "A Fremen title?" "I'm told it means 'well-dipper,' a meaning with rather important overtones here. She may not strike you as a servant type, although Hawat speaks highly of her on the basis of Duncan's report. They're convinced she wants to serve -- specifically that she wants to serve you." "Me?" "The Fremen have learned that you're Bene Gesserit," he said. "There are legends here about the Bene Gesserit." The Missionaria Protectiva, Jessica thought. No place escapes them. "Does this mean Duncan was successful?" she asked. "Will the Fremen be our allies?" "There's nothing definite," he said. "They wish to observe us for a while, Duncan believes. They did, however, promise to stop raiding our outlying villages during a truce period. That's a more important gain than it might seem. Hawat tells me the Fremen were a deep thorn in the Harkonnen side, that the extent of their ravages was a carefully guarded secret. It wouldn't have helped for the Emperor to learn the ineffectiveness of the Harkonnen military." "A Fremen housekeeper," Jessica mused, returning to the subject of the Shadout Mapes. "She'll have the all-blue eyes." "Don't let the appearance of these people deceive you," he said. "There's a deep strength and healthy vitality in them. I think


placing his bowl of soup on the nightstand and fidgeting with the sheets, “that this is the most fun I’ve had on tour in a while.” “I’m guessing that might have something to do with what’s been happening in our hotel rooms?” Finn laughs, this open, brassy sound that I’ve come to learn is his true laugh. Not the one he reserves for panels, the one with slightly sharper edges. This one is smoother. Softer. “Sure, I won’t discount that. But I might have been talking about myself when I was saying that I haven’t gotten out much lately. It’s usually me and the hotel and maybe some room service, if I’m feeling adventurous.” His eyes have started drooping, his words coming out more slurred. The medication is doing its job. “That’s the way it is,” he says with an uncoordinated flick of his hand. “And I know this book might come out and nothing will change, but . . .” “It will,” I say firmly, believing not just in the quality of my writing but in the story he has to tell. Because I really, truly do. “Sometimes I wonder. After all these years, if I’m clinging to relevance just like everyone else. I’m just doing it a slightly different way.” Now he’s sinking back into the pillow, no longer able to hold his head up. “Is anyone even gonna care about that nonprofit? Because . . . I’m kind of a nobody.” “That’s just patently untrue. We spent three hours watching nobody defend Oakhurst University. Which has a shockingly high number of student deaths for such a small school.” My attempt at levity earns me a small quirk of his mouth. “Look, I’ve already learned more about OCD than I ever thought I would. You have something important to say, and for a lot of people, this is going to be the first time they read about it. For others, maybe it’ll be the first time someone’s given words to something they’re going through. And maybe that’ll be the push they need to get help—the knowledge that they’re not alone.” He nods slowly, taking all of this in. “Thank you. For all of this,” he says, reaching to give my arm a haphazard pat, not quite making it. “I mean it. I’d probably be a husk of a human being by now if it weren’t for you.” The way he says it makes me wonder whether anyone else has taken care of him like this before. Whether he’s let them. “Of course,” I say, my throat suddenly dry. His head lolls to one side of the pillow, and it’s clear those meds are stronger than either of us thought. “Chandler, Chandler, Chandler. I must be hell to work with. I can hardly believe you’re putting up with me.” “It’s the paycheck, mostly.” His eyes open wider and he looks at me hard, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place. “I reeeeeally shouldn’t tell you this, but . . . I know someone who has a crush on you.”


after you'd had her twice at Skuytercliff!" It was at this point that Mr. Jackson seized the chance to place his favourite allusion. "At the Tuileries," he repeated, seeing the eyes of the company expectantly turned on him, "the standard was excessively lax in some respects; and if you'd asked where Morny's money came from--! Or who paid the debts of some of the Court beauties . . ." "I hope, dear Sillerton," said Mrs. Archer, "you are not suggesting that we should adopt such standards?" "I never suggest," returned Mr. Jackson imperturbably. "But Madame Olenska's foreign bringing-up may make her less particular--" "Ah," the two elder ladies sighed. "Still, to have kept her grandmother's carriage at a defaulter's door!" Mr. van der Luyden protested; and Archer guessed that he was remembering, and resenting, the hampers of carnations he had sent to the little house in Twenty-third Street. "Of course I've always said that she looks at things quite differently," Mrs. Archer summed up. A flush rose to May's forehead. She looked across the table at her husband, and said precipitately: "I'm sure Ellen meant it kindly." "Imprudent people are often kind," said Mrs. Archer, as if the fact were scarcely an extenuation; and Mrs. van der Luyden murmured: "If only she had consulted some one--" "Ah, that she never did!" Mrs. Archer rejoined. At this point Mr. van der Luyden glanced at his wife, who bent her head slightly in the direction of Mrs. Archer; and the glimmering trains of the three ladies swept out of the door while the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Mr. van der Luyden supplied short ones on Opera nights; but they were so good that they made his guests deplore his inexorable punctuality. Archer, after the first act, had detached himself from the party and made his way to the back of the club box. From there he watched, over various Chivers, Mingott and Rushworth shoulders, the same scene that he had looked at, two years previously, on the night of his first meeting with Ellen Olenska. He had half- expected her to appear again in old Mrs. Mingott's box, but it remained empty; and he sat motionless, his eyes fastened on it, till suddenly Madame Nilsson's pure soprano broke out into "M'ama, non m'ama . . . " Archer turned to the stage, where, in the familiar setting of giant roses and pen-wiper pansies, the same large blonde victim was succumbing to the same small brown seducer. From the stage his eyes wandered to the point of the horseshoe where May sat between two older ladies, just as, on that former evening, she had sat between Mrs. Lovell Mingott and her newly-arrived "foreign" cousin. As on that evening, she was all in white; and Archer, who had not noticed what she wore, recognised the blue-white satin and old lace of her wedding dress. It was the custom, in old New York, for brides to appear in this costly garment during the first year or two of marriage: his mother, he knew, kept hers


keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?" "Diana is signaling for me to go over," laughed Anne. "You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants." Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently. "There's a good deal of the child about her yet in some ways." "There's a good deal more of the woman about her in others," retorted Marilla, with a momentary return of her old crispness. But crispness was no longer Marilla's distinguishing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas that night. "Marilla Cuthbert has got MELLOW. That's what." Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew's grave and water the Scotch rosebush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves. When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight"a haunt of ancient peace." There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured, "you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you." Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. "Gilbert," she said, with scarlet cheeks, "I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you-and I want you to know that I appreciate it." Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. "I wasn't particularly good of me at all, Anne. I was pleased to be able to do you some small service. Are we going to be friends after this? Have you really forgiven me my old fault?" Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand. "I forgave you that day by the pond landing, although I didn't know it. What a stubborn little goose I was. I've been-I may as well make a complete confession-I've been sorry ever since." "We are going to be the best of friends," said Gilbert, jubilantly.


us. “What calamities?” I remembered Liv asking. “Oh, fires, floods, plagues, the usual,” Cassidy said with relish. “Frogs,” I offered helpfully, sullenly standing with my back against a tree. I was angry about something. I was angry most of the time, back then. Cass picked out our goddesses and assigned us tasks. As Hecate she would design the rituals, of course, and Liv-Athena would do research for us, and as Artemis the huntress I would find things. Magic things. Important things. Whatever my intuition told me the goddesses needed us to find. We would need to do seven rituals, she’d said. Liv had objected, and I tried to compromise on four—four was better for Liv and her fixation on numbers as omens—but Cassidy insisted. Seven. No arguments. It would be fun, she said. It would be our game for the summer, and we’d take it seriously. She didn’t say one last time, but we all knew what she meant. The first few weeks weren’t so different than any of our other games. I brought “treasures” from my dad’s collections or things I found out in the woods—a few things I stole from people in town. Liv read up on myths, and we rewrote them to suit our own sensibilities. Cass led us through the first “ritual,” which involved reciting what she claimed was a genuine prayer to Hecate while walking through the woods in a solemn procession, carrying lit candles. We almost believed again. We were close. Standing on the edge, wanting to fall forward. And then there’d been the fight. It wasn’t the first, not by a long shot. They started over any little thing. Liv would fret and try to make peace, and Cass and I would rip into each other. I don’t remember what it was even about. I do remember the anger, the thorns of it in my veins, the heat of it in my skin. Cass, blond, beautiful, perfect, stood there with her arms crossed, and I wanted to crack her nose with my fist. “You’re such a stuck-up bitch sometimes!” I screamed at her. “You think you can tell everybody what to do!” “I’d rather be a stuck-up bitch than live in trash,” she yelled back, eyes fever bright. I knew she didn’t mean it. She was just trying to get me to break. To hit her, so she could hit me back. There wasn’t anyone else to hurt, and we had to hurt something. Sometimes I gave in to the fight we both wanted. Today I ran. She shouted after me, but I kept going. I had to spend this energy somewhere, and the other option was breaking her pretty face. “Naomi, stop running! Come back! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, come back!” They chased after me. I could hear them crashing through the forest behind me. I leapt over roots and scrambled over logs and ran without paying attention to where I was going. I only wanted to get away. Hot tears streaked my cheeks. Trash. You’re trash. My lungs burned. I wasn’t Artemis,


about it, will you?" she exclaimed, surprised at my earnestness. "But wait, and you shall hear if he conned his A B C to please me, and if it were worth while being civil to the brute. I entered. Linton was lying on the settle, and half got up to wel- come me. " 'I'm ill to-night, Catherine, love,' he said; 'and you must have all the talk, and let me listen. Come and sit by me. I was sure you wouldn't break your word, and I'll make you promise again before you go.' "I knew now that I mustn't tease him, as he was ill; and I spoke softly, and put no questions, and avoided irritating him in any way. I had brought some of my nicest books for him. He asked me to read a little of one, and I was about to comply, when Earnshaw burst the door open, having gathered venom with reflection. He advanced direct to us, seized Linton by the arm, and swung him off the seat. " 'Get to thy own room!' he said, in a voice almost inarticulate with passion; and his face looked swelled and furious. 'Take her there if she comes to see thee; thou shalln't keep me out of this. Begone wi' ye both!' "He swore at us, and left Linton no time to answer, nearly throwing him into the kitchen; and he clenched his fist as I followed, seemingly longing to knock me down. I was afraid for a moment, and I let one volume fall; he kicked it after me, and shut us out. I heard a malignant, crackly laugh by the fire, and turning, be- held that odious Joseph standing rubbing his bony hands, and quivering. " 'I wer sure he'd sarve ye out! He's a grand lad! He's getten t' raight sperrit in him! He knaws---ay, he knaws as weel as I do---who sud be t' maister yonder! Ech, ech, ech! He made ye skift properly! Ech, ech, ech!' " 'Where must we go?' I asked of my cousin, disre- garding the old wretch's mockery. "Linton was white and trembling. He was not pretty then, Ellen---oh no! He looked frightful, for his thin face and large eyes were wrought into an expression of frantic, powerless fury. He grasped the handle of the door, and shook it; it was fastened inside. " 'If you don't let me in I'll kill you! if you don't let me in I'll kill you!' he rather shrieked than said. 'Devil! devil! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!' "Joseph uttered his croaking laugh again. " 'Thear, that's t' father!' he cried. 'That's father! We've allas summut o' either side in us. Niver heed, Hareton, lad---dunnut be 'feared---he cannot get at thee!' "I took hold of Linton's hands and tried to pull him away, but he shrieked so shockingly that I dared not proceed. At last his cries were choked by a dreadful fit of coughing. Blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell on the ground. I ran into the yard, sick with


reflect some rays upon him, and therefore I sought advice from Wemmick's experience and knowledge of men and affairs, how I could best try with my resources to help Herbert to some present income - say of a hundred a year, to keep him in good hope and heart - and gradually to buy him on to some small partnership. I begged Wemmick, in conclusion, to understand that my help must always be rendered without Herbert's knowledge or suspicion, and that there was no one else in the world with whom I could advise. I wound up by laying my hand upon his shoulder, and saying, "I can't help confiding in you, though I know it must be troublesome to you; but that is your fault, in having ever brought me here." Wemmick was silent for a little while, and then said with a kind of start, "Well you know, Mr. Pip, I must tell you one thing. This is devilish good of you." "Say you'll help me to be good then," said I. "Ecod," replied Wemmick, shaking his head, "that's not my trade." "Nor is this your trading-place," said I. "You are right," he returned. "You hit the nail on the head. Mr. Pip, I'll put on my considering-cap, and I think all you want to do, may be done by degrees. Skiffins (that's her brother) is an accountant and agent. I'll look him up and go to work for you." "I thank you ten thousand times." "On the contrary," said he, "I thank you, for though we are strictly in our private and personal capacity, still it may be mentioned that there are Newgate cobwebs about, and it brushes them away." After a little further conversation to the same effect, we returned into the Castle where we found Miss Skiffins preparing tea. The responsible duty of making the toast was delegated to the Aged, and that excellent old gentleman was so intent upon it that he seemed to me in some danger of melting his eyes. It was no nominal meal that we were going to make, but a vigorous reality. The Aged prepared such a haystack of buttered toast, that I could scarcely see him over it as it simmered on an iron stand hooked on to the top-bar; while Miss Skiffins brewed such a jorum of tea, that the pig in the back premises became strongly excited, and repeatedly expressed his desire to participate in the entertainment. The flag had been struck, and the gun had been fired, at the right moment of time, and I felt as snugly cut off from the rest of Walworth as if the moat were thirty feet wide by as many deep. Nothing disturbed the tranquillity of the Castle, but the occasional tumbling open of John and Miss Skiffins: which little doors were a prey to some spasmodic infirmity that made me sympathetically uncomfortable until I got used to it. I inferred from the methodical nature of Miss Skiffins's arrangements that she made tea there every Sunday night; and I rather suspected


cost money, and most went without food till dinner. Philip ate some bread and butter, drank a cup of tea, and at half past eight began his day's work again. "First to the right. Second on the left, madam." Soon he began to answer the questions quite mechanically. The work was monotonous and very tiring. After a few days his feet hurt him so that he could hardly stand: the thick soft carpets made them burn, and at night his socks were painful to remove. It was a common complaint, and his fellow `floormen' told him that socks and boots just rotted away from the continual sweating. All the men in his room suffered in the same fashion, and they relieved the pain by sleeping with their feet outside the bed-clothes. At first Philip could not walk at all and was obliged to spend a good many of his evenings in the sitting-room at Harrington Street with his feet in a pail of cold water. His companion on these occasions was Bell, the lad in the haberdashery, who stayed in often to arrange the stamps he collected. As he fastened them with little pieces of stamp-paper he whistled monotonously. CHAPTER CIV THE social evenings took place on alternate Mondays. There was one at the beginning of Philip's second week at Lynn's. He arranged to go with one of the women in his department. "Meet 'em 'alf-way," she said, "same as I do." This was Mrs. Hodges, a little woman of five-and-forty, with badly dyed hair; she had a yellow face with a network of small red veins all over it, and yellow whites to her pale blue eyes. She took a fancy to Philip and called him by his Christian name before he had been in the shop a week. "We've both known what it is to come down," she said. She told Philip that her real name was not Hodges, but she always referred to 'me 'usband Misterodges;" he was a barrister and he treated her simply shocking, so she left him as she preferred to be independent like; but she had known what it was to drive in her own carriage, dear--she called everyone dear--and they always had late dinner at home. She used to pick her teeth with the pin of an enormous silver brooch. It was in the form of a whip and a hunting-crop crossed, with two spurs in the middle. Philip was ill at ease in his new surroundings, and the girls in the shop called him `sidey.' One addressed him as Phil, and he did not answer because he had not the least idea that she was speaking to him; so she tossed her head, saying he was a `stuck-up thing,' and next time with ironical emphasis called him Mister Carey. She was a Miss Jewell, and she was going to marry a doctor. The other girls had never seen him, but they said he must be a gentleman as he gave her such lovely presents. "Never you mind what they say, dear," said Mrs.


“I feel like we’re doing something wrong. Like any minute Mom and Dad are going to come through the front door and Mom’s going to flip that we moved her dolls.” They both listened to a leaf blower howl across the street. “I’m not taking those,” Mark said. He was pointing to the Mark and Louise dolls standing at the end of the couch. Louise had managed to keep them out of her line of sight so far, but now they were the only dolls left. “Then take them to the trash,” she said. “I’m not touching them,” Mark said. “You do it.” Louise stared at them, unable to make herself pick them up. Mark noticed. “Let’s leave them here,” he said. “Mercy said ‘nothing creepy’ and there’s nothing creepier.” “Here,” Mark said, grabbing the Booger Blanket off the end of the couch and dropping it over their heads. “How’s that?” The dolls looked even weirder with the old afghan draped over their heads, but Louise didn’t know another solution. “Sure,” she said. “You want help getting these bags in your truck?” “Someone’ll steal them,” he said. “I’ll keep them in the garage.” They dragged the bulging bags of dolls out to the garage, where Louise tripped over his saw. “Jesus, Mark,” she said. “Don’t you take care of your tools?” He’d quit cutting the patch halfway through and left his saw and the plywood on the concrete floor. There was sawdust everywhere. “It’s a project,” Mark said. They dropped the bags against one wall and, inspired, Louise looked around the garage and saw some collages on the plywood shelves. She grabbed them and leaned them against the rolling garbage can. She picked up the oil portraits of their family and put them there, too, then noticed Mark staring at her. “What?” “Are you throwing those away?” he asked in disbelief. “That’s the Goodwill pile,” Louise said, covering. “Take whatever you want.” Mark picked up the oil portrait of their dad, which gave him a skin condition and a lazy eye. “This is the only picture we have of Dad,” he said. “Except for the hundreds of photos we have of Dad,” Louise said. “And Mom’s clay bust of Dad, and the puppet version of Dad she made for his birthday.” Mark didn’t say anything for a second, and then: “You don’t want to go back in the house, either,” he said, a statement, not a question. “What do you mean?” Louise asked, annoyed he was so perceptive. “We need to clean up the garage, too.” “Mercy doesn’t care about the garage,” Mark said. “You’re putzing around out here because you don’t like it in there any more than I do. The house feels wrong. After you left yesterday I swear I heard something in the attic. I booked out of here.” squirrels, it’s only squirrels, normal natural everyday squirrels “We need to get an exterminator for the attic,” Louise said. “We can stay out here,” Mark said. “No,” Louise said. “We need to get it ready for Mercy. Let’s do the


was our home. We picked the furniture together; we planned a future. I don’t want to go in there ever again. She’s been there, the woman he’s been with, sleeping in my bed – not just sleeping – I bet they were both laughing at me.’ Minnie wrapped an arm around Charlotte. ‘He doesn’t deserve you.’ ‘That’s where he’s gone now, to her, I’m sure of it. I’m finished with him.’ Charlotte wiped her face again. ‘He didn’t even deny it. Do you know what he said to me?’ She shook with anger. ‘He said, “You’re my wife, you’re the one I’m with all the time. I don’t love her. It’s just a bit of fun.” As if I should be grateful.’ ‘That’s awful,’ Minnie muttered. ‘We’ve only been married for a year.’ Charlotte shrugged. ‘I’ve been a fool. He married me because I work hard, I’m professional. I suit his image. Meanwhile, he thinks he can behave how he likes.’ ‘What are you going to do now?’ Minnie prompted. Charlotte looked sad. ‘I’ve no idea.’ Minnie took a breath. ‘You need the company of women.’ ‘What do you mean?’ Charlotte frowned. ‘Go indoors, grab your handbag and come to the autumn festival with me. My friends are all there and we’re going to enjoy our day. You don’t want to be alone inside the house, thinking about Darryl. Forget him for a while. Give yourself some time.’ Charlotte seemed unsure. ‘Come on.’ Minnie took her arm. ‘There will be lots going on at the festival – we’ll take your mind off your ridiculous little husband and his ridiculous little womb weevil.’ Charlotte almost laughed. Then she nodded. ‘Thank you. You’re right. I do need company, strong women, people who will talk some sense…’ She took a breath and glanced back at the house. ‘I’ll just get my bag…’ People swarmed across the village green between bright stalls and flapping bunting. Minnie recognised Jack Lovejoy with his guitar waiting next to the stage, where several musicians were already playing folksy tunes. Penny Ledbury was busy selling jam; Jimmy Baker and Kenny Hooper were chatting near the beer tent. Then Tina rushed over and grabbed her sister’s arm, speaking in a breathless rush. ‘They’re doing the judging now… I have put some pumpkins in, some carrots and onions and peppers. And I’ve done a flower basket.’ Tina’s face was flushed with excitement and Minnie smiled to see her sister so thrilled. ‘Tina, I’m sure you’ll win them all.’ ‘Oh, I don’t know. Penny’s done a flower basket too and so has Bomber Harris. I think Josie’s done one… Janice Lovejoy too, and she’s entered her eggs.’ ‘Are there lots of competitions?’ Charlotte made an effort to look interested, although her mind was elsewhere. ‘Oh, yes.’ Tina was animated. ‘There’s even a Best Pet Friend competition. George Ledbury has entered his pig – it’s lined up next to all the dogs, cats, rabbits and gerbils.’ ‘Nadine?’ Minnie laughed. Tina’s eyes were wide. ‘Oh, George is fussing around her like a proud dad. He’s even


and I watched the people riding with us: the drunk girl rocking queasily back and forth with the movements of the train, the old man holding his phone at a distance and texting with his index finger, the group of teenage boys seated across from each other, exchanging insults. Orson was peaceful among them, checking his own phone on occasion but mostly looking out the window at the city, which bristled with artificial light. Tony Jr. greeted us at the front door with high fives, and as we entered, I realized that this was the kind of party I’d missed out on in high school: crowded, sweaty, full of dangerous alcohol consumption. I made myself a gin and tonic and got a can of Coke for Orson, who immediately downed two gulps. “You can just hang out in the kitchen or the living room,” Tony Jr. called to us over the noise of the crowd. “But don’t go into the dining room. My parents have a piano in there.” I could see over his shoulder the shape of a small player piano. I imagined it probably had stained keys and foot pedals whose brass shine had been worn dull. The idea that Tony Jr. was protecting this piano made me both sad for and proud of him. We passed through the kitchen, saying hi to our coworkers and politely ignoring the people we didn’t know, Orson insisting that we sit down by the food in the living room. Wanting to sit was unlike Orson, but wanting food was, so we wound our way into the living room and found a seat on the couch, from where we watched the sad dramas of the party. Arguments, almost-hookups, drunken hellos. “Are you bored?” he asked after a while. The question made me giddy. He could read my mind. “Yeah, I am, actually,” I said. “Do you want to go?” “No, no. I think I want to get you another drink and me another Coke.” This hadn’t been what I was expecting, but I pretended it had been. “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks. That’s cool.” I watched him disappear into the crowd and waited under the dim lights. More people crowded through the door and Tony Jr. welcomed them, instructed them to throw their coats on the sofa adjacent to the one I was sitting on. Eventually a girl in a jean skirt and tank top approached me and perched herself on the sofa’s arm. “Hey,” she said. I responded in kind. “Are you, like, a friend of Tony Jr.’s?” “I work with him,” I said. “I don’t know him that well.” She nodded thoughtfully. I saw that her red Solo cup was nearly full to the brim. “He’s really nice.” I agreed that he was really nice. “So I saw you walking in with this guy. Is he your friend?” “Orson?” I wanted to say that he was my best friend, but this felt like too intimate a fact to share with the girl. “Yeah, he is.” “That’s cool.” She smiled. “Is he single?” I


end of a long twelve or fifteen minutes the wheels stopped, and Tom slipped overboard and swam ashore in the dusk, landing fifty yards downstream, out of danger of possible stragglers. He flew along unfrequented alleys, and shortly found himself at his aunt's back fence. He climbed over, approached the "ell," and looked in at the sitting-room window, for a light was burning there. There sat Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, and Joe Harper's mother, grouped together, talking. They were by the bed, and the bed was between them and the door. Tom went to the door and began to softly lift the latch; then he pressed gently and the door yielded a crack; he continued pushing cautiously, and quaking every time it creaked, till he judged he might squeeze through on his knees; so he put his head through and began, warily. "What makes the candle blow so?" said Aunt Polly. Tom hurried up. "Why, that door's open, I believe. Why, of course it is. No end of strange things now. Go 'long and shut it, Sid." Tom disappeared under the bed just in time. He lay and "breathed" himself for a time, and then crept to where he could almost touch his aunt's foot. --------------------------------------------------------- -155- "But as I was saying," said Aunt Polly, "he warn't bad, so to say -- only mischeevous. Only just giddy, and harum-scarum, you know. He warn't any more responsible than a colt. He never meant any harm, and he was the best-hearted boy that ever was" -- and she began to cry. "It was just so with my Joe -- always full of his devilment, and up to every kind of mischief, but he was just as unselfish and kind as he could be -- and laws bless me, to think I went and whipped him for taking that cream, never once recollecting that I throwed it out myself because it was sour, and I never to see him again in this world, never, never, never, poor abused boy!" And Mrs. Harper sobbed as if her heart would break. "I hope Tom's better off where he is," said Sid, "but if he'd been better in some ways -- " "Sid !" Tom felt the glare of the old lady's eye, though he could not see it. "Not a word against my Tom, now that he's gone! God'll take care of him -- never you trouble yourself, sir! Oh, Mrs. Harper, I don't know how to give him up! I don't know how to give him up! He was such a comfort to me, although he tormented my old heart out of me, 'most." "The Lord giveth and the Lord hath taken away -- Blessed be the name of the Lord! But it's so hard -- Oh, it's so hard! Only last Saturday my Joe busted a firecracker right under my nose and I knocked him sprawling. Little did I know then, --------------------------------------------------------- -156- how soon -- Oh, if it was to do over again I'd hug him and bless him for it." "Yes, yes, yes,


her eyes for a moment, picturing the darkest nights on Park Lane, imagining it as it must have been. Shepherd, bolting the garden door. Weak light spilling out of the mews house. A girl cutting through the dark garden, unsteady on her feet. The ghost-white gleam of her apron against the black. “You’ve got something I want, Shepherd.” The realization had come to Mrs. King when she was standing in the cemetery, thinking of her father. The mausoleum behind Alice was huge and vulgar, a festival of funereal gloom. It had made her think at once of Park Lane. A microscopic sneer came into Mr. Shepherd’s eyes. He shifted the lamp from one hand to another, light wobbling. “I doubt that.” “You know where the letter is.” Shepherd said nothing. His eyes blazed at her. “I know my father gave it to you,” Mrs. King said. “Entrusted it to you, I should say. You were utterly loyal to him. You’re the only one who was.” Shepherd lifted his chin. But he didn’t say, I don’t know what you’re talking about. “But you didn’t do as you were told. You can’t have done. Because you didn’t give it to me. You must have been ordered to do so. But you disobeyed that order. You thought you knew best. You couldn’t possibly let me see any proof of my rights.” Shepherd had a belligerent look in his eyes. “I don’t have time for all this. I’ve a household to manage.” “Doesn’t seem like it. No mistress. And, come to that, why doesn’t she have the letter? You should have gone straight to her when your old master died.” The lamplight gleamed. Shepherd said nothing. “Did you want to punish her? Did you feel her pushing you out?” Shepherd pressed his lips together. Mrs. King nodded. “So you hated me, you hated her, you hated both his daughters. What a sorry little creature you are, Shepherd.” She smiled. “I suppose you put that letter somewhere nobody would find it.” It would be easy to get Shepherd by the scruff of his neck. They could shake him, the whole soggy mass of him, rattle his bones. Mrs. King could kick him to the ground, break his jaw. The temptation was very strong. She felt it galloping through her. “I’ve been through every inch of this house,” she said. “I’ve opened every cupboard, knocked on every wall. This isn’t a castle. There are no secret passages. No hidden panels. No strongrooms, no vaults.” Mrs. Bone emerged from the gloom. Shepherd’s eyes widened. “You wicked woman,” he said, recognizing her. “Wicked is as wicked does, Mr. Shepherd,” said Mrs. Bone levelly. “It’s in his coffin, isn’t it?” said Mrs. King. There was a little flash of defiance in his eyes. He still didn’t respect her. He loathed her. It was his weakness. He flexed his hands, as if he meant to do something with them: push her away, punch her... “I’ll break your fingers,” Mrs. King said. “You wouldn’t be able to use them again. Believe me.” “I


have to thank me. I want to be there for Henry. For you. You guys are my family. It’s time to do this for real.” He pauses. “And, Daphne. I can take care of him. I promise I can.” I lean in and hug him, and tears well up in my eyes. I’m filled with a mixture of pride over this hot, sweet surfer boy that I half raised and the devastation that his growing up means I won’t be with my little boy every other weekend. My heart might cave in on itself. But it isn’t fair to keep treating Steven like a child. If the last few weeks have shown me anything, it’s that he’s ready for this. “Steven,” I say, “I want you to know that I couldn’t have done this without you.” “Of course you could have!” I shake my head. “No, I mean it. I can’t express to you how panic-stricken I was when I found out I was pregnant. I didn’t think I could be different from my parents, and I didn’t think I could do it alone. And I didn’t have to because you were so great from the jump.” “We were both great. And I’m happy for you, Daph,” he says. “I’m even happier for the man who finally pinned you down. I never thought I’d see the day.” I laugh and pull away. “Me neither.” “We’ve got this,” Steven says. “You know that’s what you said when I told you I was pregnant?” He shakes his head. “Nope. Don’t remember that conversation at all. In my head I was just saying, Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.” I grimace. “But you did throw up.” We both laugh again, and I realize how far we’ve come. We’ve grown up together. We’ve been through things I will never go through with anyone else. Before I can say anything more, Henry jumps up from behind the bench. “I’ve got you now, Mega Mort!” And Steven, in a truly creepy voice, says, “Never. I will shrink you!” Henry squeals as Steven slings him over his shoulder. “Don’t shrink me, Daddy. Don’t shrink me!” There’s another squeal coming from the direction of the campfire that I recognize as Mary Stuart’s. I head in her direction, seeing June, Lanier, Huff, Paula, and John all gathered around the flames. “You’re here!” I exclaim. “Oh, we’re spending the night,” Paula says. “Yeah. We packed sleeping bags just in case you said no and Huff was too shattered to drive home,” John adds. I think he’s joking, but I can’t tell. “We have a wedding to plan!” Mary Stuart says. “I can’t believe it!” June enthuses. “Me neither,” Mary Stuart says. “Oh, if you guys could figure out when you’re having a kid, that would be great. I want us to have them at the same time so they can be best friends.” I laugh as I sit down on the arm of the Adirondack chair that Huff is in. I love her so much. “We’ll discuss it very first thing,” Huff


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

white world. Soon enough our little wilderness path could have been a grand avenue decked out for a returning general’s triumphant procession. Birds hunkered down for the long winter crept out of their burrows, chirruping their alarmed delight as they grew drunk on berries. A narrow fox darted across our path, a starling clutched in its mouth, sparing us a dismissive glance as it slunk back into the velvet shadow. I tried very hard not to be awed by this flamboyant display of Wendell’s. It was the first time I’d seen him be free with his magic, and it left me feeling unsteady and on edge; I realized that I was used to ignoring that part of him, or at least looking past it. As we crested a rise, I turned to see all that colour unfurled across the sleeping landscape, trees jaunty and defiant even as the chill winds snatched at their leaves like nipping wolves. Towards evening, we came to a mountain pass. The first search party had stopped here—we could tell by the perturbation in the snow, a confusion of hoofprints and boot treads. We carried on a little farther, following the ominous outline of a single set of hooves. The mountains on either side were volcanic-sharp and larger than any earthbound thing should have a right to be, their iced peaks surely closer to the stars than they were to us trudging specks. “Were they alone at this point?” I wondered aloud. Bambleby shrugged, perfectly unconcerned. He had donned his scarf and gloves again, but some of the ruddy warmth lingered in his face. “Shall we stop for the night? I’m famished.” I made him continue for another hour, until we came to the heart of the pass. Bambleby sighed heavily, but helped me unload the tent and tuck it into a fold in the mountain’s skirts, where we would be protected from the weather. More sighing ensued as we made our fire and our supper, a mix of dried meat, spices, and vegetables that we were to boil with melted snow. He stood staring at the pot as if he had never seen one before until I enquired whether he had ever once in his life cooked his own food—for certainly he would have been waited on even more ostentatiously in his faerie kingdom than he was used to in the mortal realm—and he snapped that he didn’t see what difference it made, which was enough of an answer for me. I left him to it, and the burned taste of the stew was worth the enjoyment I derived in watching him flounder about, alternately burning and spattering himself. Afterwards, he retreated in a moody huff to the tent to shroud himself in the blankets Aud had provided, where he withdrew needle and thread and proceeded to mend minute tears in his cloak, muttering to himself and generally making a picture that was like some bizarre inversion of one of the hags of Fate, weaving the future into their tapestries. His seemed like pointless industry to me,


her arm. ‘Be careful. The ocean is dangerous. Even for you.’ ‘You are much more likely to die, fully clothed, standing here, than I am swimming in that water.’ Tetu laughed. He often thought that Echo was funny even if she didn’t mean to be. ‘I’ll be careful, then.’ Echo perched on the edge of the ice and, like an Antarctic mermaid, slipped into the freezing waters. Watching her disappear Tetu crouched out of the wind. No doubt about it: he was in love. He’d do anything for her; a useless sentiment since she was the most self-sufficient person he’d ever known. She needed nothing from him, neither his help nor his advice, yet he felt she needed him nonetheless. He didn’t believe she was unaware of his feelings. But biologically and scientifically, what kind of love was possible between an ice-adapted person and an ordinary-born? Perhaps such romances had taken place in McMurdo, but not in Hope Town. Almost certainly she desired someone more like her, someone who could swim naked in freezing ocean waters and skip barefoot across glaciers. Regardless, he loved her, and if they were separated, his heart would be broken. THE ANTARCTIC PENINSULA UNDER THE WATERS OF WORDIE BAY SAME DAY AN ICE SHELF HAD ONCE enclosed Wordie Bay, but it had collapsed twelve years before the alien occupation, brought about by rising sea temperatures – a body of ice between Cape Jeremy and Mount Edgell breaking apart and disappearing in a matter of months. One of the most often repeated theories behind the occupation was environmental. The alien species had arrived to rescue this planet from humankind’s stewardship and events such as the ice shelf collapse had acted as a Gaia-like planetary distress signal, with humankind dispossessed of the planet for violating the terms of our lease, neglectful tenants shunted off the temperate continents and relegated to exile in the cold. There was no purpose to this speculation, since the alien occupiers had never explained their actions and seemingly had no interest in humanity except to move it out of their way; the debate about their possible motivation was no more than an idle topic of conversation over a game of cards or a glass of ash-fermented seal milk. Nonetheless, it had been observed that all measures of temperature – air, sea and ice – were dropping sharply, and with the end of mankind’s reign the world had undoubtably become a colder place. Having no natural buoyancy, Echo sank to the bottom of the bay, landing with a puff of silt around her feet. Where the Compass Glaciers calved into the ocean there was a jawbone of ice, the gums lined with algae, feasted upon by unfathomably large swarms of krill. On the seabed, in between the forests of kelp, was a disco floor of orange sea stars and shimmering sea urchins. Spider crabs hastily retreated from her, no doubt scared that she might be hunting them since they were a popular delicacy in Hope Town. A large silver octopus took no evasive action, passing close


teak table. “Sit,” Christian commands. I do as he says and settle into a director’s chair. Christian takes a seat beside me and passes me a gin and tonic. “Cheers, Mrs. Grey.” “Cheers, Mr. Grey.” I take a welcome sip. It’s thirst-quenching, cold, and de- licious. When I gaze at him, he’s watching me carefully, his mood unreadable. It’s very frustrating . . . I don’t know if he’s still mad at me. I deploy my patented dis- traction technique. “Who owns this boat?” I ask. “A British knight. Sir Somebody-or-Other. His great-grandfather started a grocery store. His daughter’s married to one of the Crown Princes of Europe.” Oh. “Super-rich?” 34/551 Christian looks suddenly wary. “Yes.” “Like you,” I murmur. “Yes.” Oh. “And like you,” Christian whispers and pops an olive into his mouth. I blink rapidly . . . a vision of him in his tux and silver waistcoat comes to mind . . . his eyes burning with sincerity as he gazes down at me during our wedding ceremony. “All that is mine is now yours,” he says, his voice ringing out clearly reciting his vows from memory. All mine? Holy cow. “It’s odd. Going from nothing to”—I wave my hand to indicate our opulent surroundings—“to everything.” “You’ll get used to it.” “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.” Taylor appears on deck. “Sir, you have a call.” Christian frowns but takes the proffered BlackBerry. “Grey,” he snaps and rises from his seat to stand at the bow of the yacht. I gaze out at the sea, tuning out his conversation with Ros—I think—his number two. I am rich . . . stinking rich. I have done nothing to earn this money . . . just married a rich man. I shudder as my mind drifts back to our con- versation about prenups. It was the Sunday after his birthday, and we were seated at the kitchen table enjoying a leisurely breakfast . . . all of us. Elliot, Kate, Grace, and I were debating the merits of bacon versus sausage, while Carrick and Christian read the Sunday paper . . . 35/551 “Look at this,” squeals Mia as she sets her netbook on the kitchen table in front of us. “There’s a gossipy item on the Seattle Nooz website about you being engaged, Christian.” “Already?” Grace says in surprise. Then her mouth purses as some obviously unpleasant thought crosses her mind. Christian frowns. Mia reads the column out loud. “Word has reached us here at The Nooz that Seattle’s most eligible bachelor, the Christian Grey, has finally been snapped up and wedding bells are in the air. But who is the lucky, lucky lady? The Nooz is on the hunt. Bet she’s reading one helluva prenup.” Mia giggles then stops abruptly as Christian glares at her. Silence descends, and the atmosphere in the Grey kitchen plunges to below zero. Oh no! A prenup? The thought has never crossed my mind. I swallow, feeling all the blood drain from my face. Please ground, swallow me up now! Christian


promote ratification of the Constitution. I wasn’t comparing myself to them, but I used the literary device for the same reason they had. I wanted the public to focus on the message, not the messenger. In a world of snap judgments and online mobs, readers would have to pay attention to the point, and Trump would be unable to distract attention by quarreling with its author. The paper chose “Anonymous” instead, describing the writer the same way the White House did when they put me on background calls with reporters, as “a senior official in the Trump administration.” On September 5, 2018, it hit Washington like an earthquake. The secretary and Chad were traveling, and I was alone in a DHS office a few blocks away from the White House. I got a burst of news alerts on my phone about a “bombshell” op-ed from someone within the administration. I opened the piece, which was headlined, “I AM PART OF THE RESISTANCE INSIDE THE TRUMP ADMINISTRATION.” In the quiet of the office, I re-read some of the opening lines: The president continues to act in a manner that is detrimental to the health of our republic. That is why many Trump appointees have vowed to do what we can to preserve our democratic institutions while thwarting Mr. Trump’s more misguided impulses until he is out of office. The root of the problem is the president’s amorality. Anyone who works with him knows he is not moored to any discernible first principles that guide his decision making. The piece cited foreign policy as an example of a “two-track presidency.” Trump wanted to placate America’s adversaries, like Russian President Vladimir Putin, as long as their manipulation of U.S. affairs was helpful to him personally. His advisors opposed such appeasement and kept the administration on the rails. These Adults weren’t a “Deep State,” I wrote, but a “Steady State.” It didn’t take long to feel the aftershock from the Oval Office. “TREASON?” the president tweeted, as the piece went viral. Within hours, it was one of the most read articles of the year. Trump demanded the newspaper hand over the “GUTLESS” author for unspecified “national security purposes.” He threatened to prosecute whoever had written the piece. Then he told reporters he wanted the Justice Department to investigate the Times itself, in addition to the unidentified writer. In a rare rebuke, former president Barack Obama condemned the White House for trying to “pressure the Attorney General or the FBI” to punish political opponents. Trump seemed ignorant of the irony. I’d written a piece about the president’s abuses of power. In response, he sought to abuse his power to root out a dissenter and punish speech protected by the First Amendment. The president’s explosive response led the newspaper to increase security at its New York headquarters, fearing potential retaliation from MAGA supporters. White House press secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders urged Trump backers to harass the Times, tweeting out a message with a private phone number for the opinion editors. “If you want to know who this gutless


Powerful enough that he might actually be able to return to life, Montserrat thought. Oh, she hadn’t been sure his ritual would have worked in the first place back in 1961, but she thought it might work now. Alma Montero had drawn on Ewers’s spell, his old magic, for her own purposes, but she had not drained it completely, and Ewers’s magic had also remained latent in that nitrate film. It persisted, Montserrat and Tristán’s tinkering with this magic made it worse, and at this point Montserrat was certain that if Clarimonde Bauer and her associates got hold of the nitrate print they would somehow be able to restore Ewers to pristine health. They were two steps from encountering Ewers in the flesh. This would surely be disastrous for Montero and López. Montserrat wasn’t sure it would be better for her and Tristán. They were not members of his cult, and Ewers was no friend of theirs. Who knew, maybe the first thing Ewers would do after returning to life might be to kill both of them. “He’s concerned, otherwise he wouldn’t have come here,” López said. “He wanted to stop us. He knows he’s in danger. We will use the sequence of runes as dictated by Abel—” “There was something wrong with Abel,” Tristán said, cutting him short. “There, toward the end, before Ewers interrupted him. He was trying to tell me something and couldn’t.” “You need to get that film,” López said and pointed to an armoire across the room. “There are blessed nails in there. Take my car, sprinkle the nails behind you as you get into the vehicle…the wards I drew, they haven’t washed off…that should suffice. I will not survive a second attack. You need to go, now.” Montserrat opened the armoire’s door and began pulling out drawers. She found a plastic bag filled with copper nails and turned to Tristán, who took her aside. “If we go out there we are completely exposed,” he said, his voice low. “And should we be leaving the man alone like this? What if Ewers comes back?” “He’s coming back one way or another,” Montserrat said. “You don’t know that.” “He is not going to give up. But neither are we.” Montserrat hurried back to the room where they’d slept and put on her jacket, slinging her purse over her shoulder. The keys to the car were on a shelf by the front door, under a postcard from Hawaii that had been taped to the wall. Tristán pressed a hand against the door, blocking her way. “Have you paused to think Ewers might want us to leave this house?” “What do you mean?” “It could be a trap. Abel was trying to warn me about something.” “What?” “I don’t know.” Montserrat rubbed a hand against her head. She felt tired, and her body ached. López could say everything he wanted about them being younger and stronger, but this spell casting hit you like a punch to the gut. She’d felt it when she’d reflected Clarimonde’s spell, and it was thrice


is the living example of the people who are least good, or our own intuition. 'So,' continued Bond, warming to his argument, 'Le Chiffre was serving a wonderful purpose, a really vital purpose, perhaps the best and highest purpose of all. By his evil existence, which foolishly I have helped to destroy, he was creating a norm of badness by which, and by which alone, an opposite norm of goodness could exist. We were privileged, in our short knowledge of him, to see and estimate his wickedness and we emerge from the acquaintanceship better and more virtuous men.' 'Bravo,' said Mathis. 'I'm proud of you. You ought to be tortured every day. I really must remember to do something evil this evening. I must start at once. I have a few marks in my favour - only small ones, alas,' he added ruefully - 'but I shall work fast now that I have seen the light. What a splendid time I'm going to have. Now, let's see, where shall I start, murder, arson, rape? But no, these are peccadilloes. I must really consult the good Marquis de Sade. I am a child, an absolute child in these matters.' His face fell. 'Ah, but our conscience, my dear Bond. What shall we do with him while we are committing some juicy sin? That is a problem. He is a crafty person this conscience and very old, as old as the first family of apes which gave birth to him. We must give that problem really careful thought or we shall spoil our enjoyment. Of course, we should murder him first, but he is a tough bird. It will be difficult, but if we succeed, we could be worse even than Le Chiffre. 'For you, dear James, it is easy. You can start off by resigning. That was a brilliant thought of yours, a splendid start to your new career. And so simple. Everyone has the revolver of resignation in his pocket. All you've got to do is pull the trigger and you will have made a big hole in your country and your conscience at the same time. A murder and a suicide with one bullet! Splendid! What a difficult and glorious profession. As for me, I must start embracing the new cause at once.' He looked at his watch. 'Good. I've started already. I'm half an hour late for a meeting with the chief of police.' He rose to his feet laughing. 'That was most enjoyable, my dear James. You really ought to go on the halls. Now about that little problem of yours, this business of not knowing good men from bad men and villains from heroes, and so forth. It is, of course, a difficult problem in the abstract. The secret lies in personal experience, whether you're a Chinaman or an Englishman.' He paused at the door. 'You admit that Le Chiffre did you personal evil and that you would kill him if he appeared in front of you now? 'Well, when you get back to London you will find


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

To escape held up relations between Jesus and Papa against those between Mary and her son. Said religion was not a lying-in hospital. Mother indulgent. Said I have a queer mind and have read too much. Not true. Have read little and understood less. Then she said I would come back to faith because I had a restless mind. This means to leave church by back door of sin and re-enter through the skylight of repentance. Cannot repent. Told her so and asked for sixpence. Got threepence. Then went to college. Other wrangle with little round head rogue's eye Ghezzi. This time about Bruno the Nolan. Began in Italian and ended in pidgin English. He said Bruno was a terrible heretic. I said he was terribly burned. He agreed to this with some sorrow. Then gave me recipe for what he calls RISOTTO ALLA BERGAMASCA. When he pronounces a soft O he protrudes his full carnal lips as if he kissed the vowel. Has he? And could he repent? Yes, he could: and cry two round rogue's tears, one from each eye. Crossing Stephen's, that is, my green, remembered that his countrymen and not mine had invented what Cranly the other night called our religion. A quartet of them, soldiers of the ninety-seventh infantry regiment, sat at the foot of the cross and tossed up dice for the overcoat of the crucified. Went to library. Tried to read three reviews. Useless. She is not out yet. Am I alarmed? About what? That she will never be out again. Blake wrote: I wonder if William Bond will die For assuredly he is very ill. Alas, poor William! I was once at a diorama in Rotunda. At the end were pictures of big nobs. Among them William Ewart Gladstone, just then dead. Orchestra played O WILLIE, WE HAVE MISSED YOU. A race of clodhoppers! MARCH 25, MORNING. A troubled night of dreams. Want to get them off my chest. A long curving gallery. From the floor ascend pillars of dark vapours. It is peopled by the images of fabulous kings, set in stone. Their hands are folded upon their knees in token of weariness and their eyes are darkened for the errors of men go up before them for ever as dark vapours. Strange figures advance as from a cave. They are not as tall as men. One does not seem to stand quite apart from another. Their faces are phosphorescent, with darker streaks. They peer at me and their eyes seem to ask me something. They do not speak. MARCH 30. This evening Cranly was in the porch of the library, proposing a problem to Dixon and her brother. A mother let her child fall into the Nile. Still harping on the mother. A crocodile seized the child. Mother asked it back. Crocodile said all right if she told him what he was going to do with the child, eat it or not eat It. This mentality, Lepidus would say, is indeed bred out of your mud by the operation of your sun.


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

one will get you back through the purple flames?" Hermione pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end of the line. "You drink that," said Harry. "No, listen, get back and get Ron. Grab brooms from the flying-key room, they'll get you out of the trapdoor and past Fluffy -- go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore, we need him. I might be able to hold Snape off for a while, but I'm no match for him, really." "But Harry -- what if You-Know-Who's with him?" "Well -- I was lucky once, wasn't I?" said Harry, pointing at his scar. "I might get lucky again." Hermione's lip trembled, and she suddenly dashed at Harry and threw her arms around him. "Hermione!" "Harry -- you're a great wizard, you know." "I'm not as good as you," said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of him. "Me!" said Hermione. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important things -- friendship and bravery and -- oh Harry -- be careful!" "You drink first," said Harry. "You are sure which is which, aren't you?" "Positive," said Hermione. She took a long drink from the round bottle at the end, and shuddered. "It's not poison?" said Harry anxiously. "No -- but it's like ice." "Quick, go, before it wears off." "Good luck -- take care." "GO!" Hermione turned and walked straight through the purple fire. Harry took a deep breath and picked up the smallest bottle. He turned to face the black flames. "Here I come," he said, and he drained the little bottle in one gulp. It was indeed as though ice was flooding his body. He put the bottle down and walked forward; he braced himself, saw the black flames licking his body, but couldn't feel them -- for a moment he could see nothing but dark fire -- then he was on the other side, in the last chamber. There was already someone there -- but it wasn't Snape. It wasn't even Voldemort. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN -- THE MAN WITH TWO FACES It was Quirrell. "You!" gasped Harry. Quirrell smiled. His face wasn't twitching at all. "Me," he said calmly. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter." "But I thought -- Snape -- " "Severus?" Quirrell laughed, and it wasn't his usual quivering treble, either, but cold and sharp. "Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?" Harry couldn't take it in. This couldn't be true, it couldn't. "But Snape tried to kill me!" "No, no, no. I tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds and I'd have got you off that broom. I'd have managed it before then if Snape hadn't been muttering a countercurse, trying to save you." "Snape was trying to save me?" "Of course," said Quirrell coolly.


her father and Judy would be at work. Meanwhile, Marion would be moping around her childhood bedroom, fretting over being fired and wondering what might have been. There was no way for her to travel back in time and audition for the School of American Ballet, but perhaps that didn’t mean all was lost. What if, for one day, she pursued a path that she’d thought was closed—followed in her mother’s footsteps and took a chance? Instead of tamping down her passion for dance, as her father and Nathaniel wanted, what if she struck out on her own and joined the hundreds of dancers hoping to become a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall? If she failed and was laughed out of the room, she’d at least know that dancing professionally had never been an option after all. There was only one way to find out. CHAPTER FOUR Marion rose with the sun and slipped a cotton day dress over a fresh pair of tights and a leotard. She put her hair up into a tight bun and brushed her teeth as quietly as she could in the bathroom. Her bag was by the door where she’d left it, holding her pointe shoes, a pair of tap shoes, and her well-worn character shoes. She had to be prepared for anything. She was still angry at her dad for taking away the pearls like she was a child. Last night, after she’d stormed upstairs, she heard him go to his study and open the safe, where he would keep the necklace until her punishment was over. It was stupid, really. She and Judy knew where he kept the key: tucked under his “Employee of the Year” award on the bookshelf behind the desk. Deep down, she understood that he wanted to have control over his daughters as a way of keeping them free from harm, especially after losing his wife. That was why he blew up at them every so often. Blew up at Marion, was more like it. These days, Judy could do no wrong. Marion slipped out of the house before Judy or her father was even awake and made the six fifty train to Grand Central just in time. From there, she zigzagged her way up Sixth Avenue, maneuvering around the men in overcoats and hats heading to their office jobs. A block away, she caught sight of the marquee for Radio City Music Hall, its neon lettering and sapphire-blue stripes curving gracefully around the corner of the limestone building, and felt a zing of excitement and nerves travel up her spine. Underneath stood an army of young dancers who all looked like Marion: hair tied back in buns, a slash of red lipstick on their faces. The line stretched from the box office entrance up to Fifty-First Street, where it disappeared off to the right. As Marion neared, she heard a voice call her name. Vanessa stood on the opposite corner of the street. Marion crossed with the light. “Hi, Vanessa.” “What are you doing here?” Vanessa’s eyes were


neither of us lay down. Catherine took her station by the lattice, and watched anxiously for morning, a deep sigh being the only answer I could obtain to my frequent entreaties that she would try to rest. I seated myself in a chair, and rocked to and fro, passing harsh judgment on my many derelictions of duty, from which, it struck me then, all the misfortunes of my employers sprang. It was not the case in reality, I am aware, but it was in my imagination that dismal night; and I thought Heathcliff himself less guilty than I. At seven o'clock he came and inquired if Miss Lin- ton had risen. She ran to the door immediately, and answered, "Yes." "Here, then," he said, opening it, and pulling her out. I rose to follow, but he turned the lock again. I demanded my release. "Be patient," he replied. "I'll send up your break- fast in a while." I thumped on the panels and rattled the latch angrily, and Catherine asked why I was still shut up? He an- swered, I must try to endure it another hour; and they went away. I endured it two or three hours. At length I heard a footstep---not Heathcliff's. "I've brought you something to eat," said a voice. "Oppen t' door!" Complying eagerly, I beheld Hareton, laden with food enough to last me all day. "Tak it," he added, thursting the tray into my hand. "Stay one minute," I began. "Nay," cried he, and retired, regardless of any pray- ers I could pour forth to detain him. And there I remained enclosed the whole day, and the whole of the next night, and another, and another. Five nights and four days I remained altogether, see- ing nobody but Hareton, once every morning; and he was a model of a gaoler---surly and dumb, and deaf to every attempt at moving his sense of justice or com- passion. CHAPTER XXVIII. On the fifth morning, or rather afternoon, a differ- ent step approached, lighter and shorter, and this time the person entered the room. It was Zillah, donned in her scarlet shawl, with a black silk bonnet on her head, and a willow basket swung to her arm. "Eh, dear, Mrs. Dean!" she exclaimed. "Well, there is a talk about you at Gimmerton. I never thought but you were sunk in the Blackhorse marsh, and missy with you, till master told me you'd been found, and he'd lodged you here! What! and you must have got on an island, sure. And how long were you in the hole? Did master save you, Mrs. Dean? But you're not so thin--- you've not been so poorly, have you?" "Your master is a true scoundrel!" I replied. "But he shall answer for it. He needn't have raised that tale. It shall all be laid bare." "What do you mean?" asked Zillah. "It's not his tale. They tell that in the village, about your being lost in the marsh; and I calls to Earnshaw, when I come in, 'Eh, they's queer things, Mr.