stunning blow, laid the woods, and a rifle ball sang through the doorway and knocked poor fellow senseless on the floor. Meanwhile a third, run- the doctor’s musket into bits. ning unharmed all around the house, appeared suddenly in The boarders swarmed over the fence like monkeys. Squire the doorway and fell with his cutlass on the doctor. and Gray fired again and yet again; three men fell, one for- Our position was utterly reversed. A moment since we wards into the enclosure, two back on the outside. But of were firing, under cover, at an exposed enemy; now it was we these, one was evidently more frightened than hurt, for he who lay uncovered and could not return a blow. was on his feet again in a crack and instantly disappeared The log-house was full of smoke, to which we owed our among the trees. comparative safety. Cries and confusion, the flashes and re- Two had bit the dust, one had fled, four had made good ports of pistol-shots, and one loud groan rang in my ears. Contents their footing inside our defences, while from the shelter of “Out, lads, out, and fight ‘em in the open! Cutlasses!” cried the woods seven or eight men, each evidently supplied with the captain. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 172 173 I snatched a cutlass from the pile, and someone, at the time, the fight was over and the victory was ours. same time snatching another, gave me a cut across the knuck- Gray, following close behind me, had cut down the big les which I hardly felt. I dashed out of the door into the clear boatswain ere he had time to recover from his last blow. An- sunlight. Someone was close behind, I knew not whom. Right other had been shot at a loophole in the very act of firing into in front, the doctor was pursuing his assailant down the hill, the house and now lay in agony, the pistol still smoking in his and just as my eyes fell upon him, beat down his guard and hand. A third, as I had seen, the doctor had disposed of at a sent him sprawling on his back with a great slash across the blow. Of the four who had scaled the palisade, one only re- face. mained unaccounted for, and he, having left his cutlass on the “Round the house, lads! Round the house!” cried the cap- field, was now clambering out again with the fear of death tain; and even in the hurly-burly, I perceived a change in his upon him. voice. “Fire—fire from the house!” cried the doctor. “And you, Mechanically, I obeyed, turned eastwards, and with my lads, back into cover.” cutlass raised, ran round the corner of the house. Next mo- But his words were unheeded, no shot was fired, and the ment I was face to face with Anderson. He roared aloud, and last boarder made good his escape and disappeared with the his hanger went up above his head, flashing in the sunlight. I rest


socket.” The screen went black. “That was flirting. There is a difference.” Vic grimaced as Rambo wheeled around him, arms waving. “They don’t do that in the films.” “At least not in the ones you have seen. Did it work? Are you aroused?” The tiny lens above her screen blinked to life, a blue light scanning him up and down. “You don’t appear to be aroused. Your penis shows no signs of elevated blood flow that supports recreational sexual engagement.” “I don’t have a penis,” Rambo said mournfully. Somewhere inside him, gears shifted and a little slot opened up at his base. He grunted, and a little pipe extended, dripping what looked like oil. “Now I do. Hooray for penises!” “Would you put that away?” Vic asked. “We need to get home.” He looked up at the bruised sky. The sun was beginning to set. “It’s going to be dark soon.” “And you’re scared of the dark,” Rambo said, pipe sliding back in, slot closing. “I’m not scared of the—” “Fear is superfluous,” Nurse Ratched said, falling in behind Vic as he led the way through the forest. “I am not scared of anything.” She paused. “Except for birds that want to nest inside me and lay their eggs in my gears. Evil birds. I will kill them all.” Vic pulled the circuit board from his satchel. It was still whole. Tracing his finger over its bumps and ridges, he whispered, “Worth it.” CHAPTER 2 By the time they reached home, the sky was bleeding violet, and the first stars were out. The sun settled near the horizon, the moon rising like a pale ghost. Rambo rolled ahead along the worn path, already calling out for Vic’s father. Vic should’ve expected this, seeing as how Rambo always wanted to share the moments where they’d almost been horribly murdered, and how lucky they were to escape with their lives. “No,” Vic said after him, cursing inwardly that he’d allowed himself to be distracted. “Don’t tell him about—” But Rambo ignored him, announcing quite loudly that he hadn’t been scared, but even if he was, that was all right. The lights were on in the ground house, meaning Dad was still tinkering down there with his record player. Rambo rolled through the open doorway and disappeared inside. Vic looked toward the elevator near the biggest tree. He thought about escaping to his personal lab above but knew his father wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t at least try to explain himself. “No,” Nurse Ratched said, rolling against him, pushing him toward the ground house. “You need to tell him the truth. I want to watch as you get scolded. It brings me something akin to joy to see you stare at the floor and give him flimsy excuses.” “You’re supposed to be on my side.” “I know,” she said. “I am a traitor. I feel terrible about it. I cannot wait.” She stopped. Her screen flashed a question mark. “Do you hear that?” He glanced back at her. “Hear what?” “I do not know.


opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still. Her husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly push towards her. "This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey." Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little embarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two got up. "I think I'd better leave Philip with you now." "That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me. He'll get on like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?" Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away. "Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you the school-room." He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms. "Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll Just show you the playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself." Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately, kicking up the gravel as he walked. "Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?" The small boy came forward and shook hands. "Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully him." The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them. "What's your name?" "Carey." "What's your father?" "He's dead." "Oh! Does your mother wash?" "My mothers dead, too." Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little. "Well, did she wash?" he went on. "Yes," said Philip indignantly. "She was a washerwoman then?" "No, she wasn't." "Then she didn't wash." The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then he caught sight of Philip's feet. "What's the matter with your foot?" Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the one which was whole. "I've got a club-foot," he answered. "How did you get it?" "I've always had it." "Let's have a look." "No." "Don't then." The little boy accompanied


urgent reason in his mind for being particular to half a quarter of an ounce. Estella took no notice of either of us, but led us the way that I knew so well. I followed next to her, and Joe came last. When I looked back at Joe in the long passage, he was still weighing his hat with the greatest care, and was coming after us in long strides on the tips of his toes. Estella told me we were both to go in, so I took Joe by the coat-cuff and conducted him into Miss Havisham's presence. She was seated at her dressing-table, and looked round at us immediately. "Oh!" said she to Joe. "You are the husband of the sister of this boy?" I could hardly have imagined dear old Joe looking so unlike himself or so like some extraordinary bird; standing, as he did, speechless, with his tuft of feathers ruffled, and his mouth open, as if he wanted a worm. "You are the husband," repeated Miss Havisham, "of the sister of this boy?" It was very aggravating; but, throughout the interview Joe persisted in addressing Me instead of Miss Havisham. "Which I meantersay, Pip," Joe now observed in a manner that was at once expressive of forcible argumentation, strict confidence, and great politeness, "as I hup and married your sister, and I were at the time what you might call (if you was anyways inclined) a single man." "Well!" said Miss Havisham. "And you have reared the boy, with the intention of taking him for your apprentice; is that so, Mr. Gargery?" "You know, Pip," replied Joe, "as you and me were ever friends, and it were looked for'ard to betwixt us, as being calc'lated to lead to larks. Not but what, Pip, if you had ever made objections to the business - such as its being open to black and sut, or such-like - not but what they would have been attended to, don't you see?" "Has the boy," said Miss Havisham, "ever made any objection? Does he like the trade?" "Which it is well beknown to yourself, Pip," returned Joe, strengthening his former mixture of argumentation, confidence, and politeness, "that it were the wish of your own hart." (I saw the idea suddenly break upon him that he would adapt his epitaph to the occasion, before he went on to say) "And there weren't no objection on your part, and Pip it were the great wish of your heart!" It was quite in vain for me to endeavour to make him sensible that he ought to speak to Miss Havisham. The more I made faces and gestures to him to do it, the more confidential, argumentative, and polite, he persisted in being to Me. "Have you brought his indentures with you?" asked Miss Havisham. "Well, Pip, you know," replied Joe, as if that were a little unreasonable, "you yourself see me put 'em in my 'at, and therefore you know as they are here." With which he took them out, and gave them, not to


I ask. He nods. “I don’t have that kind of money, Wyn.” “I know,” he says. “That’s not what I meant.” “I couldn’t take something like that for free,” I say. “It’s going really well, Harriet,” he says. “And I hardly have any expenses right now—maybe you’ve heard: I live with my mom?” I laugh. “I think I remember reading that on TMZ.” He touches my hand against the hood, and god help me, I turn my palm up to his. I need to hold on to him right now, need to feel the calluses I’ve memorized on his palm. “I would love to make you one,” he murmurs. “I’ve got time, and I don’t need money.” Reading my expression, Wyn says, “Or if you don’t want one . . .” “It’s not that.” I shake my head. “It’s amazing. Seeing you like this. So happy.” He studies me for a beat before dropping his gaze on a nod. “I am. I’m really happy.” Now my chest is folding over on itself. “I’m so glad.” “You too, right?” He matches my gaze. That seesaw feeling rocks through me. “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.” “Good,” he says softly. “Why was Gloria so worried about you telling me this?” I ask. “Because she thinks we’re still together,” he says, his gaze dark and steady. “She thinks you’re still waiting for me to come back.” Back to San Francisco. Back to me. I’m not waiting. I’ve known for months he wouldn’t be coming back. So why does hearing it hurt so much? My phone chimes, and I break eye contact, blinking rapidly as I pull it out, read the new message. “Sabrina,” I tell him thickly, sliding off the hood. His mouth hitches, an unconvincing quarter smile. “Looks like our time’s up.” It already was, I think. But the pain, it still feels fresh. 28 DARK PLACE SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA AFTER HANK’S DEATH, Wyn insists we don’t have to postpone. He says we shouldn’t lose the venue or the deposit money. But he’s barely eating, hardly sleeping. “It will be easier this way,” I tell him. “I’ll have more time to adjust to the residency, and then we can figure everything else out.” Months go by, and his grief doesn’t abate. Mine hovers close too, always waiting to trip me up. Everything still makes me think of Hank, of what Gloria must be feeling, what Wyn must be keeping inside. Something as innocent as a car commercial can split me open. I start taking long showers so I can let it all out without piling my pain onto his. Wyn starts taking long runs to burn it all off. We don’t paint the apartment. One weekend he offers, but between his two jobs, it’s his one day off, and he looks so tired. “We’ll get to it eventually,” I say. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, grabbing me by the hips, pulling me toward where he sits on the couch, burrowing his face into my stomach. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I promise. “I want


all this,' replied Fagin. 'If HE'--he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs--'is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you--' 'Well?' said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. 'No matter just now. We'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog--like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes--come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance.' 'I know you well,' replied the girls, without manifesting the least emotion. 'Good-night.' She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them. Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea--not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees--that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay. There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked--to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life--on the object of her more recent fancy. 'With a little persuasion,' thought Fagin, 'what more likely than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited.' These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he sat alone, in the housebreaker's room; and with them uppermost in his thoughts, he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl clearly comprehended it. Her glance


there don't none come here but yourn. Good friendly faces -- good friendly faces. Git up on one another's backs and let me touch 'em. That's it. Shake hands -- yourn'll come through the bars, but mine's too big. Little hands, and weak -- but they've helped Muff --------------------------------------------------------- -220- Potter a power, and they'd help him more if they could." Tom went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of horrors. The next day and the day after, he hung about the court-room, drawn by an almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself to stay out. Huck was having the same experience. They studiously avoided each other. Each wandered away, from time to time, but the same dismal fascination always brought them back presently. Tom kept his ears open when idlers sauntered out of the court-room, but invariably heard distressing news -- the toils were closing more and more relentlessly around poor Potter. At the end of the second day the village talk was to the effect that Injun Joe's evidence stood firm and unshaken, and that there was not the slightest question as to what the jury's verdict would be. Tom was out late, that night, and came to bed through the window. He was in a tremendous state of excitement. It was hours before he got to sleep. All the village flocked to the court-house the next morning, for this was to be the great day. Both sexes were about equally represented in the packed audience. After a long wait the jury filed in and took their places; shortly afterward, Potter, pale and haggard, timid and hopeless, was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated where all the curious eyes could stare at him; no less conspicuous was Injun Joe, stolid as ever. There was another --------------------------------------------------------- -221- pause, and then the judge arrived andthe sheriff proclaimed the opening of the court. The usual whisperings among the lawyers and gathering together of papers followed. These details and accompanying delays worked up an atmosphere of preparation that was as impressive as it was fascinating. Now a witness was called who testified that he found Muff Potter washing in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder was discovered, and that he immediately sneaked away. After some further questioning, counsel for the prosecution said: "Take the witness." The prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when his own counsel said: "I have no questions to ask him." The next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse. Counsel for the prosecution said: "Take the witness." "I have no questions to ask him," Potter's lawyer replied. A third witness swore he had often seen the knife in Potter's possession. "Take the witness." Counsel for Potter declined to question him. The faces of the audience began to betray annoyance. Did this attorney mean to throw away his client's life without an effort? Several witnesses deposed concerning Potter's guilty behavior when brought to the scene of the --------------------------------------------------------- -222-


in Orban, these rooms dripped with extravagance. Light streamed in from open windows shaped like crescents and triangles. A tiered chandelier held dozens of candles above a round table. A sculpted rochelya’s long neck wrapped around the table, its stone tail winding up the table’s leg. The bed could fit every girl in the keep, piled with frilled pillows and fitted with a patterned white headboard. I stood on the plush blue divan and peered out the window, leaning my elbows on the vaulted pane. The sky opened in a light rain. We were in my father’s home. Had he read his books by the fountain? Charmed a girl to round the gardens with him under the stars? Queen Hanan was my grandmother, Felix her nephew. Rumor said Queen Hanan rarely left her wing of the palace anymore, not since losing her son in Jasad and her husband at the Blood Summit. Felix controlled Omal in all but name, and the evidence of his incompetence was everywhere. The Omal palace had leeched its kingdom’s wealth for its own. Lukub was the wealthiest kingdom because every citizen had a home to call their own, food in their bellies, and a trade to practice. Orban rejected the concept of hierarchical villages and towns, and one could only gain a title or a noble status from earning distinction in Orban’s army. Their southern villages still fared worse than the rest, and I wondered if Orban’s determination to claim equality in their kingdom kept them from seeing all the places where it crumbled. Meanwhile, Omal had the largest population, the wealthiest nobles, the most profitable markets, and yet its lower villages slipped closer to starvation each winter. I flopped onto the bed, pitching the unnecessary pillows to the side. One of them sailed past the bedside table, sending an object clattering to the ground. Kicking aside the overstuffed pillow, I picked up a gray clay doll. The toy spanned the length from my wrist to the tip of my tallest finger. Stiff black twine wrapped around it from head to foot. The twine. The twine should have been unwrapped. Why was it there? The doll needed to breathe. It couldn’t breathe with the twine around it. Dreamily, I slid my nail under a strand of the twine and plucked. The doll slid from my grasp, slipping across my wrists before I caught it. In a blink, my mind cleared. As soon as I separated the doll from my cuffs, the haze settled over me again, and I frowned at the twine. It should not have been there. The doll couldn’t breathe. I had to give it back its air. I dropped the doll and scrambled away. “Ghaiba,” I gasped. There weren’t many people who would leave such a thing in my quarters. I used a discarded tunic to pick up the doll. Hesitantly, I pressed its head against my left cuff and braced myself. Nothing. Soraya had said my cuffs resisted the strongest tracking spells. I assumed the spells simply couldn’t find any of my magic


our Palace Beautiful." "We have got to get by the lions first," said Jo, as if she rather liked the prospect. -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.6 Beth Finds the Palace Beautiful The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old Mr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after he had called, said something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid Beth. The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich, for this made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return. But, after a while, they found that he considered them the benefactors, and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. March's motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride and interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the greater. All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the new friendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie, and he privately informed his tutor that "the Marches were regularly splendid girls." With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the solitary boy into their midst and made much of him, and he found something very charming in the innocent companionship of these simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was quick to feel the influences they brought about him, and their busy, lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports, for Laurie was always playing truant and running over to the Marches'. "Never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward," said the old gentleman. "The good lady next door says he is studying too hard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is right, and that I've been coddling the fellow as if I'd been his grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He can't get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs. March is doing more for him than we can." What good times they had, to be sure. Such plays and tableaux, such sleigh rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house. Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked and revel in bouquets, Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed the old gentleman with her criticisms, Amy copied pictures and enjoyed beauty to her heart's content, and Laurie played `lord of the manor' in the most delightful style. But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up courage to go to the `Mansion of Bliss', as Meg called it.


do assure you--" and May's eager voice broke out, covering the embarrassed silence: "The same as Rhinebeck? The Patroon's house? But it will be a hundred thousand times better--won't it, Newland? It's too dear and kind of Mr. van der Luyden to have thought of it." And as they drove off, with the maid beside the coachman, and their shining bridal bags on the seat before them, she went on excitedly: "Only fancy, I've never been inside it--have you? The van der Luydens show it to so few people. But they opened it for Ellen, it seems, and she told me what a darling little place it was: she says it's the only house she's seen in America that she could imagine being perfectly happy in." "Well--that's what we're going to be, isn't it?" cried her husband gaily; and she answered with her boyish smile: "Ah, it's just our luck beginning--the wonderful luck we're always going to have together!" XX. Of course we must dine with Mrs. Carfry, dearest," Archer said; and his wife looked at him with an anxious frown across the monumental Britannia ware of their lodging house breakfast-table. In all the rainy desert of autumnal London there were only two people whom the Newland Archers knew; and these two they had sedulously avoided, in conformity with the old New York tradition that it was not "dignified" to force one's self on the notice of one's acquaintances in foreign countries. Mrs. Archer and Janey, in the course of their visits to Europe, had so unflinchingly lived up to this principle, and met the friendly advances of their fellow-travellers with an air of such impenetrable reserve, that they had almost achieved the record of never having exchanged a word with a "foreigner" other than those employed in hotels and railway-stations. Their own compatriots-- save those previously known or properly accredited-- they treated with an even more pronounced disdain; so that, unless they ran across a Chivers, a Dagonet or a Mingott, their months abroad were spent in an unbroken tete-a-tete. But the utmost precautions are sometimes unavailing; and one night at Botzen one of the two English ladies in the room across the passage (whose names, dress and social situation were already intimately known to Janey) had knocked on the door and asked if Mrs. Archer had a bottle of liniment. The other lady--the intruder's sister, Mrs. Carfry--had been seized with a sudden attack of bronchitis; and Mrs. Archer, who never travelled without a complete family pharmacy, was fortunately able to produce the required remedy. Mrs. Carfry was very ill, and as she and her sister Miss Harle were travelling alone they were profoundly grateful to the Archer ladies, who supplied them with ingenious comforts and whose efficient maid helped to nurse the invalid back to health. When the Archers left Botzen they had no idea of ever seeing Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle again. Nothing, to Mrs. Archer's mind, would have been more "undignified" than to force one's self on the notice of a "foreigner" to whom one had happened


friend to the gentleman you spoke of--he that is in peril from these sour old Puritan rulers." "They know each other well, indeed," replied Hester, with a mien of calmness, though in the utmost consternation. "They have long dwelt together." Nothing further passed between the mariner and Hester Prynne. But at that instant she beheld old Roger Chillingworth himself, standing in the remotest comer of the market-place and smiling on her; a smile which--across the wide and bustling square, and through all the talk and laughter, and various thoughts, moods, and interests of the crowd--conveyed secret and fearful meaning. Thesaurus aboard: (adv) afloat, afield, at home, apprehension, astonishment, fright, contraceptive pill, dragee, drug, there, everywhere, here, on base, confusion; (adj, n) terror, awe, dread, anovulatory drug; (adj) pellet, bullet. onboard, where. horror. ANTONYMS: (n) remotest: (adj) furthest, uttermost, bustling: (adj) lively, busy, boisterous, peacefulness, composure, happiness, endmost, extreme, last, utmost. buzzing, brisk, alive, vibrant, noisy, tranquility, hopefulness, comfort, sour: (adj, n) morose, harsh; (adj, v) tumultuous; (v) stirring, full of equanimity. acid; (adj) bitter, rancid, gruff, grim, incident. ANTONYM: (adj) inactive. minded: (prep) inclined; (adj, prep) glum, dour; (adj, n, v) severe; (v) comer: (n) newcomer, arriver, traveler, disposed; (adj) willing, apt, ready, ferment. ANTONYMS: (adj) kindly, traveller, contender, competitor, prone, orientated, favorable, pleasant, bland, amiable, fresh, competition, visitor, whiz kid, Young oriented, prepared, partial. mature, mild, kind; (v) sweeten, Turk; (adj) fresh. pill: (n) lozenge, capsule, tablet, enhance. consternation: (n) alarm, shock, fear, medicine, contraceptive, traded: (adj) listed. Nathaniel Hawthorne 229 CHAPTER XXII. THE PROCESSION Before Hester Prynne could call together her thoughts, and consider what was practicable to be done in this new and startling aspect of affairs, the sound of military music was heard approaching along a contiguous street. It denoted the advance of the procession of magistrates and citizens on its way towards the meeting-house: where, in compliance with a custom thus early established, and ever since observed, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale was to deliver an Election Sermon.% Soon the head of the procession showed itself, with a slow and stately march, turning a corner, and making its way across the market-place. First came the music. It comprised a variety of instruments, perhaps imperfectly adapted to one another, and played with no great skill; but yet attaining the great object for which the harmony of drum and clarion addresses itself to the multitude--that of imparting a higher and more heroic air to the scene of life that passes before the eye. Little Pearl at first clapped her hands, but then lost for an instant the restless agitation that had kept her in a continual effervescence throughout the morning; she gazed silently, and seemed to be borne upward like a floating sea-bird on the long heaves and swells of sound. But she was brought back to her former mood Thesaurus attaining: (v) attain, achieve; (n) separated, apart. surprising, striking, alarming, attainment. heaves: (adj) hay fever, heartburn, itch, appalling, marvellous, dramatic, clarion: (n) horn, trombone, lockjaw, piles, herpes, hernia, frightful, sensational, lurid. ophicleide; (v) trumpet, proclaim, hemorrhoids, rupture; (n) animal


made me laugh. Privacy? What’s that?

At the end of each day I’d sit in my cell, bulling my boots, spitting on

them, rubbing them, making them mirrors in which I could see my shorn

head. No matter what institution I landed in, it seemed, a tragically bad

haircut was the first order of business. Then I’d text Chels. (I was allowed to

keep my mobile, for security reasons.) I might tell her how things were

going, tell her I missed her. Then I’d loan my phone to any other cadets who

might want to text their girlfriends or boyfriends.

Then it was lights-out.

No problem. I was no longer remotely afraid of the dark.

58.

124

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

[I WAS NOW OFFICIAL. I was no longer Prince Harry. I was Second

Lieutenant Wales of the Blues and Royals, second oldest regiment of the

British Army, part of the Household Cavalry, bodyguards to the Monarch.

The “passing out,” as they called it, took place on April 12, 2006.

On hand were Pa and Camilla, Grandpa, Tiggy and Marko.

And, of course, Granny.

She hadn’t attended a passing-out parade for decades, so her appearance

was a dazzling honor. She smiled for all to see as I marched past.

And Willy saluted. He was at Sandhurst too now. A fellow cadet. (He’d

started after me, because he’d gone to university first.) He couldn’t resort to

his typical attitude when we were sharing an institution, couldn’t pretend not

to know me—or he’d be insubordinate.

For one brief moment, Spare outranked Heir.

Granny inspected the troops. When she came to me, she said: Oh... hello.

I smiled. And blushed.

The passing-out ceremony was followed by the playing of “Auld Lang

Syne,” and then the college adjutant rode his white horse up the steps of the

Old College.

Last, there was a lunch in the Old College. Granny gave a lovely speech.

As the day


one might remember their original meanings. In practice it was not difficult for any person well grounded in DOUBLETHINK to avoid doing this, but within a couple of generations even the possibility of such a lapse would have vaished. A person growing up with Newspeak as his sole language would no more know that EQUAL had once had the secondary meaning of 'politically equal', or that FREE had once meant 'intellectually free', than for instance, a person who had never heard of chess would be aware of the secondary meanings attaching to QUEEN and ROOK. There would be many crimes and errors which it would be beyond his power to commit, simply because they were nameless and therefore unimaginable. And it was to be foreseen that with the passage of time the distinguishing characteristics of Newspeak would become more and more pronounced--its words growing fewer and fewer, their meanings more and more rigid, and the chance of putting them to improper uses always diminishing. When Oldspeak had been once and for all superseded, the last link with the past would have been severed. History had already been rewritten, but fragments of the literature of the past survived here and there, imperfectly censored, and so long as one retained one's knowledge of Oldspeak it was possible to read them. In the future such fragments, even if they chanced to survive, would be unintelligible and untranslatable. It was impossible to translate any passage of Oldspeak into Newspeak unless it either referred to some technical process or some very simple everyday action, or was already orthodox (GOODTHINKFUL would be the Newspeak expression) in tendency. In practice this meant that no book written before approximately 1960 could be translated as a whole. Pre-revolutionary literature could only be subjected to ideological translation--that is, alteration in sense as well as language. Take for example the well-known passage from the Declaration of Independence: WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS TO BE SELF-EVIDENT, THAT ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL, THAT THEY ARE ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR WITH CERTAIN INALIENABLE RIGHTS, THAT AMONG THESE ARE LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. THAT TO SECURE THESE RIGHTS, GOVERNMENTS ARE INSTITUTED AMONG MEN, DERIVING THEIR POWERS FROM THE CONSENT OF THE GOVERNED. THAT WHENEVER ANY FORM OF GOVERNMENT BECOMES DESTRUCTIVE OF THOSE ENDS, IT IS THE RIGHT OF THE PEOPLE TO ALTER OR ABOLISH IT, AND TO INSTITUTE NEW GOVERNMENT... It would have been quite impossible to render this into Newspeak while keeping to the sense of the original. The nearest one could come to doing so would be to swallow the whole passage up in the single word CRIMETHINK. A full translation could only be an ideological translation, whereby file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (169 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt Jefferson's words would be changed into a panegyric on absolute government. A good deal of the literature of the past was, indeed, already being transformed in this way. Considerations of prestige made it desirable to preserve the memory of certain historical figures, while at the same time bringing their achievements into line with the philosophy of


stay.’ Glorian dulled as quickly as she had brightened. To distract herself, she drank some wine. ‘All of this does not relieve you of your own duty to wed,’ Queen Sabran reminded her. ‘Princess Idrega has done us a great service. Our Yscali friends will need rewarding.’ And Glorian was the reward. ‘Yes, Mother,’ was all she said. Queen Sabran looked at her, and then through the window, at the fields beyond the castle. ‘I asked your father to marry me here,’ she said. ‘On the shore of Lyfrith Lake.’ ‘Truly?’ Glorian could not recognise this picture of her mother, cavorting in pools and proposing to strange heathen men. It had been years since Glorian had even heard her laugh. ‘Yes.’ Her gaze was distant, but soft, her lips tilted. ‘I was afraid that day. Afraid to take such a great risk on a stranger, a man I knew had blood on his hands – but I did, to save Inys from the rot that had almost consumed it. The rot of decadence, envy, indecision. We must never let it creep back, Glorian.’ She took one more small drink from her goblet. ‘I will hear petitions this afternoon. I trust you will pay close attention to your studies.’ ‘Mother,’ Glorian said, ‘I am sixteen now. If I am to be alone in Inys, I should know more about ruling. May I join you?’ ‘What other lesson do you have today?’ ‘Music.’ Glorian cleared her throat. ‘I am to . . . refine my singing.’ They both knew her voice was as clear as marshwater. ‘I see.’ When Queen Sabran spoke again, her tone was lighter than usual. ‘Perhaps we can dispense with singing for one day.’ **** Glowan Castle was a summer home. The timber-framed throne room lacked the daunting magnificence of its counterpart in Ascalun, but still had a dignified beauty – the walls painted white, the floors strewn with rushes. Its doors had been thrown open to the breeze. Seventy petitioners stood in a crowd, waiting to speak to Queen Sabran. Her throne was polished walnut, set beneath a red canopy, before a banner bearing the True Sword. For the first time, Glorian perched beside her mother on a faldstool. Once more, she sat with her shoulders back and hands in her lap, just as her manners tutor had instructed. The Inysh came to their queen when they had found no satisfaction in their provinces. Most of their grievances were dull, complicated, or both – minor heresies by their neighbours, disputes over burial rights and land boundaries, the occasional plea for a royal pardon – and the heat made it hard to concentrate. Still, Glorian tried. When she wore the crown, it would be her duty to listen to her people, and to try to make things right for them. ‘Lord Mansell,’ Queen Sabran said when a man in his fifties approached. ‘Welcome. How fares your companion?’ The man bowed. ‘Your Grace. Highness,’ he added to Glorian. ‘Lord Edrick is very well.’ ‘And your children?’ A queen was always courteous,


your life so hard, though. Find a girl, for Chrissake.” Nick manages not to roll his eyes. Yeah, being queer isn’t exactly easy. Hiding is hard. Knowing what his family thinks of him is hard. But then there’s Andy—loving him, and letting Andy love him back, are the easiest things he’s ever done. He goes back into the kitchen, where his mother is still on the phone. “Let it simmer twenty minutes, maybe?” Nick wonders who his mother is on the phone with. It can’t be one of his aunts or cousins, because then she’d be speaking at least half in Italian, and his mother would never say white beans when she could say cannellini. Probably some non-Italian from church. “You know, this is why mothers want their sons to marry nice girls. Someone to look after them and make them good food. Men need someone to do that.” She goes silent for a minute, listening to the person on the other end of the line—now Nick’s money is on the new bride of an Italian man from church. “So you’ll make him some nice supper.” Nick leans in and kisses his mother’s cheek before heading out into the street. * * * Instead of taking the train all the way home, Nick gets off while he’s still in Brooklyn. There’s still plenty of light left, so he walks from the Court Street station toward the Navy Yard. He knows that there isn’t much happening there these days, even though at least one ship is being built. When he was a kid, the whole neighborhood was teeming with sailors, shipbuilders, and dockworkers. That had slowed down by the time Nick was old enough to become interested in the Navy Yard for reasons other than its ships. The waterfront from there to the Brooklyn Bridge was always good ground for cruising. There had been more than one queer bar, not to mention alleys, bathrooms, and all the usual places. It had been maybe a fifteen-minute walk from the old Brooklyn Eagle building. Between the paper and that neighborhood, Nick discovered the first corner of the world where he belonged. But as Nick walks along streets that had once been familiar, he realizes he can’t get to the Navy Yard. The street he used to take is gone, torn up to build a highway. He’d known the BQE was going to cut through this part of Brooklyn, but he hadn’t realized it would take this whole street off the map. He scans the area, looking for a way through, but he isn’t enough of a fool to start prowling around empty construction sites right before dusk. In the back of his mind, he meant to look at the place where he’d been arrested. He thought that maybe seeing it would defang the memory a little, that maybe he’d see it was just an alley or something. But now he can’t even get to the memory. It’s like that whole messy time is closed off, bricked up, and he doesn’t know whether to be grateful


rather than the eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled to his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told her their cause. The scene before them bore some resemblance, though it was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, and thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape, while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this world. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot in company with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which had then arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! The recollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could observe his grief. When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he took Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were several that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travel after sun-set, asked what village they could reach about that time. The muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they could gain before the evening shut in. St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust his fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to possess a greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for they carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the rivulet that watered it. Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this narrow valley screened by Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell, Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green. The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff, or athwart the


need you to care about Yahav. It would be odd if you did. But he’s part of the story, and he was a big part of my mental state those two weeks. Lest I sound clueless and desperate: This was someone I’d been seeing for two years, someone who would, when things were working, text me just to say good morning. When we got together he, too, was separated and starting the divorce process. We were already friends—both teaching at UCLA, both enjoying rapid-fire conversation and politics and tapas bars. I don’t believe in soul mates, and that’s made life easier; we were simply good together. I’d met him at a potluck thrown by a psychology professor friend, in a house full of spider plants—a remarkably unsexy party if only because the place smelled of cat litter. Yahav had piled his plate with so much food that I found myself scoping his physique to see if he was all muscle or just an ectomorph. The answer turned out to be both, I confirmed two years later when we finally slept together, when I ran my hand down his ribs and his long, ropy quadriceps. But in the moment, I apologized for staring at his plate, the mountains of orzo and chicken and veggie lasagna. I said, “You have literally everything, so tell me what ends up being best.” He took the request seriously, and kept reporting back throughout the night, advising that the brownies on the far end of the table were the superior ones. “The key is salt,” he sotto-voced into my hair. “The others lack sufficient salt.” Still married to Jerome, I considered my coffee dates with Yahav simply, if thrillingly, social. We shared an interest in Israeli cinema, and he wanted help finding some early Uri Zohar movies, which led to us watching A Hole in the Moon in his office. I was more taken with the books on his shelves than the film, doubly so because he was a law professor and I hadn’t expected to find David Mitchell and Audre Lorde in lieu of anything leatherbound. I understood that because we were becoming friends, we would never sleep together. Specifically: Because I’d opened myself up to him in unflattering ways, because I’d worn glasses and no makeup on our walks, griped about Jerome’s anxiety, even moaned to him about the stretch marks my kids had gifted me, I’d taken sex off the table. And then, at a wine bar late one night after we discussed our foundering marriages and the panic attacks Yahav was getting in traffic, he looked at me with such imploring eyes that the future rolled out in front of us, soft and green. We’d only been seeing each other six months when his wife was diagnosed with severe chronic fatigue syndrome and he realized he needed to stay with her, take care of their daughter, live in the house. Her illness put us on hold, turning a legitimate relationship into an illegitimate one. I found myself in an affair by default, not because


basket of washing and tiptoe across the hall. Downstairs, the front door opens, and I hear Dad’s voice. Thank God. He can talk for England. “Maybe she’s not even here to see you,” Jordan says as I sneak into Em’s room. It’s colder than the rest of the house and half empty. I put my washing down and get out of there sharpish. “Aren’t your parents friends?” he asks. “Maybe she’s come to pick something up.” Ohhh. “Maybe,” I say, my heart slowing. And dropping. Stupid heart. Then I hear Dad say, “Brad’s in his room,” and it bounces back to life. “Nope,” I correct, rushing back across the hall. “Definitely here for me!” My brother Mason sticks his big, square head out of the bathroom door. His hair is in perfect glossy curls and he has a wax strip stuck between his eyebrows. “What are you doing running around out here?” he demands at foghorn volume. “Shut up,” I whisper. “Did you go in Emily’s room? We’re not allowed in there.” “Celine is coming upstairs,” I tell him, “so unless you want to demonstrate your monobrow management technique, get lost.” He gives me the finger and slams the bathroom door with all the force of his overdeveloped biceps. Jordan is laughing in my ear, which is not helpful. “Stop snickering,” I tell him sternly. “What do I do? What do I say—” “Normal stuff,” Jordan instructs, then corrects himself. “Brad stuff. The usual. You do know this girl, remember?” Right, yeah. It’s only Celine. I take a breath and plop back onto my bed. “Of course. Thanks, Jordan.” “You’re welcome. By the way, I think she likes you too.” “Jordan!” That is not helpful, either, because it’s ridiculous. Celine is…Celine. She doesn’t like people. In her world, we’ve only been friends again for, like, five minutes, and I’m pretty sure she requires ten years of loyal companionship and smoldering eye contact and maybe a few deadly battles fought side by side (or back-to-back—that always looks badass in films) before she’d even consider developing a crush. I know she had a…thing with Luke Darker last year, but it was weird and aggressive, and I don’t want that. I want something she’s not going to give me. “That’s not…She doesn’t…Shut up.” “If you say so.” Jordan snorts. “I do say so!” “Fine, whatever,” he singsongs. “Let’s pretend neither of you is remotely interested in the other, if that makes you feel better. Oh, and, Brad?” “Yeah?” “Get off the phone.” “Oh yeah!” I hang up. CHAPTER TEN CELINE We’ve only just settled into December, but when I knock on Bradley’s front door, a holly wreath frames my fist. Trev Graeme answers a few moments later. “Hello, Celine!” He beams. (He’s just like Bradley, smiling all over the place.) “Come in, come in. How are you? How’s—” He breaks off, clocking the garden’s wonky SANTA STOP HERE! sign with a scowl. “Oh, not again. This raatid wind. Excuse my French, sweetheart, one second.” He tiptoes outside in his slippers. When Brad and I fell


everywhere. He was saturated with malice and mistrust, especially after his sons’ deaths.” His other sons. He is good at avoiding the answers he doesn’t want to give, she considers. His words feel like smoke through her fingers. “And Atreus?” She knows something of Agamemnon’s father already, because her husband told her. Atreus was strong and vengeful. He once killed a boar with his bare hands. He slept with a different servant every night, so the palace was filled with pregnant women. “Atreus did far worse.” He stops there. They both know what Atreus did anyway. “No one was a match for my uncle’s cruelty,” Aegisthus adds. “No one but his wife.” Clytemnestra frowns. “Aerope?” She doesn’t know much about her, except that her affair with Thyestes started the endless chain of violence and revenge between the brothers. “It was said in the palace that whenever Aerope whispered in Atreus’s ear, ten men would die.” “Was it true?” “I never found out. I kept my distance from her, never talked to her unless she talked to me first. Once she told me that boys born with eyes as cold as mine should be skinned alive.” “Maybe Atreus and Thyestes loved her because she was vicious.” “I believe so. Whatever poison they had in them, she had it too.” They keep silent for a while, their unspoken words like fish that can’t be caught. Questions slip into her mind, tickling her like water drops. How many women have you been with? How many servants? Do you know pleasure or only pain? When she turns to him, he is staring at her, motionless. He has the stillness of animals about him. She wants to lean forward and trace the scar on his cheekbone. The desire is so strong that she can almost feel it under her finger—it is like a crumpled leaf. “My queen,” he says. Nothing else. The morning sun falls on his olive skin, makes his eyes glisten like snow in the sunlight. She is breathless, and she can’t bear it. She picks up her dagger and walks away. 29 Lovers NO MORE FEAR, she decides. No more surprises. It is her turn to follow. She starts to go after him in secret, in the early hours of the morning, before she meets the elders and petitioners in the megaron, and in the late afternoon when he practices. She is careful, for she knows he can easily catch her. He is a watchdog, ever patient. She follows him in the narrow streets of the citadel and up the hills and mountains. In the practice yard and in the bathhouse. She is always close enough to see what he is doing but far enough to vanish if he turns. And he often turns. He walks as if hunted, casting a backward glance every now and then. After practice, he dives into the narrow streets of the citadel close to the back gate. It is the busiest time of day, with men passing barrels of grain and wine from hand to hand, dogs sniffing


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives," said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing. "Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful--" "Exactly. But it's odd I should blunder into your house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck. Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night. You must stand that! It's a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn't it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it coagulates, I see. I've been in the house three hours." "But how's it done?" began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. "Confound it! The whole business--it's unreasonable from beginning to end." "Quite reasonable," said the Invisible Man. "Perfectly reasonable." He reached over and secured the whisky bottle. Kemp stared at the devouring dressing-gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the left ribs. "What were the shots?" he asked. "How did the shooting begin?" "There was a fool of a man--a sort of confederate of mine-- curse him!--who tried to steal my money. Has done so." "Is he invisible too?" "No." "Well?" "Can't I have some more to eat before I tell you all that? I'm hungry--in pain. And you want me to tell stories!" Kemp got up. "You didn't do any shooting?" he asked. "Not me," said his visitor. "Some fool I'd never seen fired at random. A lot of them got scared. They all got scared at me. Curse them!--I say--I want more to eat than this, Kemp." "I'll see what there is more to eat downstairs," said Kemp. "Not much, I'm afraid." After he had done eating, and he made a heavy meal, the Invisible Man demanded a cigar. He bit the end savagely before Kemp could find a knife, and cursed when the outer leaf loosened. It was strange to see him smoking; his mouth and throat, pharynx and nares, became visible as a sort of whirling smoke cast. "This blessed gift of smoking!" he said, and puffed vigorously. "I'm lucky to have fallen upon you, Kemp. You must help me. Fancy tumbling on you just now! I'm in a devilish scrape. I've been mad, I think. The things I have been through! But we will do things yet. Let me tell you--" He helped himself to more whisky and soda. Kemp got up, looked about him, and fetched himself a glass from his spare room. "It's wild--but I suppose I may drink." "You haven't changed much, Kemp, these dozen years. You fair men don't. Cool and methodical--after the first collapse. I must tell you. We will work together!" "But how was it all done?" said Kemp, "and how did you


wanted common sense. Sighs grew more worried every month; he could not get the thought out of his head that Mr. Perkins would ask him to fix a day for his marriage; and he hated the attitude the head adopted towards classical literature. There was no doubt that he was a fine scholar, and he was engaged on a work which was quite in the right tradition: he was writing a treatise on the trees in Latin literature; but he talked of it flippantly, as though it were a pastime of no great importance, like billiards, which engaged his leisure but was not to be considered with seriousness. And Squirts, the master of the Middle Third, grew more ill-tempered every day. It was in his form that Philip was put on entering the school. The Rev. B. B. Gordon was a man by nature ill-suited to be a schoolmaster: he was impatient and choleric. With no one to call him to account, with only small boys to face him, he had long lost all power of self-control. He began his work in a rage and ended it in a passion. He was a man of middle height and of a corpulent figure; he had sandy hair, worn very short and now growing gray, and a small bristly moustache. His large face, with indistinct features and small blue eyes, was naturally red, but during his frequent attacks of anger it grew dark and purple. His nails were bitten to the quick, for while some trembling boy was construing he would sit at his desk shaking with the fury that consumed him, and gnaw his fingers. Stories, perhaps exaggerated, were told of his violence, and two years before there had been some excitement in the school when it was heard that one father was threatening a prosecution: he had boxed the ears of a boy named Walters with a book so violently that his hearing was affected and the boy had to be taken away from the school. The boy's father lived in Tercanbury, and there had been much indignation in the city, the local paper had referred to the matter; but Mr. Walters was only a brewer, so the sympathy was divided. The rest of the boys, for reasons best known to themselves, though they loathed the master, took his side in the affair, and, to show their indignation that the school's business had been dealt with outside, made things as uncomfortable as they could for Walters' younger brother, who still remained. But Mr. Gordon had only escaped the country living by the skin of his teeth, and he had never hit a boy since. The right the masters possessed to cane boys on the hand was taken away from them, and Squirts could no longer emphasize his anger by beating his desk with the cane. He never did more now than take a boy by the shoulders and shake him. He still made a naughty or refractory lad stand with one arm stretched out for anything from ten minutes to half an


once united, there shall be no recurrence of these mental terrors; I guarantee that."     "Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such; I wish it more now than ever; since even you cannot explain to me the mystery of that awful visitant."     "And since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal."     "But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morning, and when I looked round the room to gather courage and comfort from the cheerful aspect of each familiar object in full daylight, there on the carpet I saw what gave the distinct lie to my hypothesis the veil, torn from top to bottom in two halves!"     I felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung his arms round me.     "Thank God!" he exclaimed, "that if anything malignant did come near you last night it was only the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think what might have happened!"     He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him I could scarcely pant. After some minutes' silence he continued, cheerily:     "Now, Janet, I'll explain to you all about it. It was half-dream, half-reality: a woman did, I doubt not, enter your room; and that woman was must have been Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself: from all you know, you have reason so to call her what did she do to me? what to Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking you noticed her entrance and her actions; but feverish, almost delirious as you were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance different from her own: the long dishevelled hair, the swelled black face, the exaggerated stature, were figments of imagination results of nightmare: the spiteful tearing of the veil was real; and it is like her. I see you would ask why I keep such a woman in my house: when we have been married a year and a day I will tell you; but not now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my solution of the mystery?"     I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible one: satisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavored to appear so relieved, I certainly did feel; so I answered him with a contented smile. And now, as it was long past one, I prepared to leave him.     "Does not Sophie sleep with Adle in the nursery?" he asked, as I lit my candle.     "Yes, sir."     "And there is room enough in Adle's little bed for you. You must share it with her to-night, Jane; it is no wonder that the incident you have related should make you nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep alone: promise me to go to the nursery."


the other end of the room interrupted itself for perhaps as much as thirty seconds. The old man whom he had followed was standing at the bar, having some kind of altercation with the barman, a large, stout, hook-nosed young man with enormous forearms. A knot of others, standing round with glasses in their hands, were watching the scene. 'I arst you civil enough, didn't I?' said the old man, straightening his shoulders pugnaciously. 'You telling me you ain't got a pint mug in the 'ole bleeding boozer?' 'And what in hell's name IS a pint?' said the barman, leaning forward with the tips of his fingers on the counter. ''Ark at 'im! Calls 'isself a barman and don't know what a pint is! Why, a pint's the 'alf of a quart, and there's four quarts to the gallon. 'Ave to teach you the A, B, C next.' 'Never heard of 'em,' said the barman shortly. 'Litre and half litre--that's all we serve. There's the glasses on the shelf in front of you.' 'I likes a pint,' persisted the old man. 'You could 'a drawed me off a pint easy enough. We didn't 'ave these bleeding litres when I was a young man.' 'When you were a young man we were all living in the treetops,' said the barman, with a glance at the other customers. There was a shout of laughter, and the uneasiness caused by Winston's entry seemed to disappear. The old man's whitestubbled face had flushed pink. He turned away, muttering to himself, and bumped into Winston. Winston caught him gently by the arm. 'May I offer you a drink?' he said. 'You're a gent,' said the other, straightening his shoulders again. He appeared not to have noticed Winston's blue overalls. 'Pint!' he added aggressively to the barman. 'Pint of wallop.' The barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer into thick glasses file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (49 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt which he had rinsed in a bucket under the counter. Beer was the only drink you could get in prole pubs. The proles were supposed not to drink gin, though in practice they could get hold of it easily enough. The game of darts was in full swing again, and the knot of men at the bar had begun talking about lottery tickets. Winston's presence was forgotten for a moment. There was a deal table under the window where he and the old man could talk without fear of being overheard. It was horribly dangerous, but at any rate there was no telescreen in the room, a point he had made sure of as soon as he came in. ''E could 'a drawed me off a pint,' grumbled the old man as he settled down behind a glass. 'A 'alf litre ain't enough. It don't satisfy. And a 'ole litre's too much. It starts my bladder running. Let alone the price.' 'You must have seen great changes since you were a young man,' said Winston tentatively. The old man's pale blue eyes moved from the darts board to the


narrowing. And then, voice gentle: “What’s got you in a twist?” “Nothing,” she said, anguished. “Hmm,” he said, turning his gaze away from her. “Do I sense a tragedy?” She blushed at that and scurried outside, crossing the garden, then the yard. Mr. Doggett and his boys were playing Racing Demon outside the mews house, flicking cigarette ash behind the ornamental urns. They didn’t notice Alice, or else she supposed they didn’t care to acknowledge her presence, taking her to be a plain and stupid girl, with no purpose in this house, nothing at all to recommend her. The dress was calling silently to her, summoning her back. She wanted to avoid it. She needed a break. She marched to the mews door, as if she had an errand to run, as if she were on a mission of great import. As the clocks chimed the quarter hour she stepped out through the mews door into the lane. She froze. Two men, wearing rich, silk-lined overcoats, were standing under the streetlamp. The air smelled of gardenias. She recognized the scent, and then their faces, at once. They came to the gate. The taller of the two lifted his hat, tilted it toward her, perfectly courteous. He had a smile on his face that Alice knew by instinct, that she would have known even if she were a babe in arms. Danger, danger, danger. The debt collectors had found her, after all. Perhaps they didn’t think she was going to run. Or if she did, they didn’t care. They continued to smile at her, eyes steady, as if to say, We’ll track you anyway. They had one message, and they handed it over on a piece of paper. She opened it once she was inside the house, in the kitchen passage, back to the wall. Breathing hard, she made out the words under the flickering lamplight: One week. 15 Twelve days to go It was time to get some more skin in the game. Mrs. King had gone over the calculations with Winnie. They needed enough hands to manage the pulleys, set up the winches, pack and wheel the crates, dismantle the runners and the slides, lift the heaviest articles of furniture, and more. Mrs. King went to Mrs. Bone’s villa on the docks to start hiring men. The wraith-like porter eyed her with suspicion from the second she arrived. “Mrs. King?” She glanced up and saw the Janes peeping around the door to the inventions room. The girls were in starched collars, fierce frills on their aprons. “They’re here,” said Jane-one. There was a vast warehouse on one side of the yard. Jane-one dragged the door back on its runners. Jane-two handed Mrs. King a piece of paper. “Names,” she said. “Burn it after, please.” Casting feeble light, the electric lamps sputtered as she entered the vast space. The whole warehouse smelled of sulfur. The cobblestones had been swept, scrubbed, rinsed, and swept again, and half a dozen men stood waiting underneath a gigantic set of metal beams. “Where are the others?”


and cuts out for we make our own clothes, our frocks and pelisses, and everything; the little one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history and grammar, and hears the second class repetitions; and the one who wears a shawl, and has a pocket-handkerchief tied to her side with a yellow ribbon, is Madam Pierrot; she comes from Lisle in France, and teaches French."     "Do you like the teachers?"     "Well enough."     "Do you like the little black one, and the Madam ? I cannot pronounce her name as you do."     "Miss Scatcherd is hasty you must take care not to offend her; Madam Pierrot is not a bad sort of person."     "But Miss Temple is the best isn't she?"     "Miss Temple is very good, and very clever: she is above the rest, because she knows far more than they do."     "Have you been long here?"     "Two years."     "Are you an orphan?"     "My mother is dead."     "Are you happy here?"     "You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough for the present; now I want to read."     But at the moment the summons sounded for dinner; all re-entered the house. The odor which now filled the refectory was scarcely more appetizing than that which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast; the dinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong steam redolent of rancid fat. I found the mess to consist of indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and cooked together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant plateful was apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered within myself whether every day's fare would be like this.     After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the school-room: lessons recommenced, and were continued till five o'clock.     The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with whom I had conversed in the veranda, dismissed in disgrace, by Miss Scatcherd, from a history class, and sent to stand in the middle of the large school-room. The punishment seemed to me in a high degree ignominious, especially for so great a girl she looked thirteen or upward. I expected she would show signs of great distress and shame; but to my surprise she neither wept nor blushed: composed, though grave, she stood, the central mark of all eyes. "How can she bear it so quietly so firmly?" I asked of myself. "Were I in her place, it seems to me, I should wish the earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as if she were thinking of something beyond her punishment beyond her situation; of something not round her nor before her. I have heard of day-dreams is


a farm! And by that I absolutely do not mean me! But I wanted (and deserved, frankly) that coat, so I could live out my fantasy as a person who needs to throw a little something on to “dash to the market for fresh cream.” I’ve never dashed anywhere a day in my life. But with this luxurious Deals on the Daily chore coat on my back? MAYBE I WOULD. Peter Thomas Roth Anti-Aging Cleansing Gel Duo #A331311 EXTREMELY PERSUASIVE AND IRRESISTIBLE PRODUCT COPY: Two full-sized bottles of Peter Thomas Roth’s luxurious facial cleansing gel produces a beautifully fresh, youthful-looking complexion with advanced pore-resurfacing action. These two cleansers contain 1 percent glycolic acid and other ingredients that help diminish the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. Lemon, lime, and grapefruit extracts help to leave the skin ultraclean, revitalized, and invigorated. WHAT DID THE LADY IN THE VIDEO SAY? Lately my skin has been sensitive to the point of deep, subdermal pain, but I am watching this anyway because I am a sucker for the idea that a tiny dab of liquid that you mix with water and rub on your skin for approximately ten seconds before the shower rinses it all down the drain can somehow change the composition of my face. On screen, Julia starts this one off in a way that caught me so off guard I had to double-check that I wasn’t watching a diet ad: “Over the summer you got lazy, you were Real Housewives–ing it, reading magazines on the front porch? Well, don’t worry, everything you’re gonna see tonight is a quick turnaround that’s gonna get you back to where you should’ve been.” I’m sorry but is this…………………still a commercial for face wash??? I love it. Shame me, Mommy! Make me feel like absolute dogshit for spending the entire summer frying bacon on my forehead at high noon! Julia has an aesthetician in studio with her today, and she is thrilled to be with us and can’t wait to answer our stream of burning questions in the chat. Okay, I love QVC and watch it like I’m chilling with my pals, but even I am not cool or confident enough to kick it with the heavy hitters in the chat. That’s for the real QCard insiders. The as-yet-unnamed aesthetician enthusiastically details a full antiaging skincare routine, but Julia interrupts her to tell us that this best beauty product–nominated cleanser typically retails for $75, but they are cutting me, their best friend, a deal by offering two bottles for less than $50! I don’t care so much about that, as chances are I’m gonna be back to using Cetaphil from the bottom shelf of Walgreens within a matter of days anyway, but I love that she’s doing math. The aesthetician says you can keep one for yourself and give the other to your significant other, and I broke out in a full-body sweat like “HOLD UP, THEY GOT LESBIANS ON HERE????” But, no. She is just talking about her dumb husband who apparently never washed his face in


the contessa standing to return fire with a range of purse-carry accessories. The same pepperpot gun Roddy bought comes in a thigh holster and ships with a selection of replaceable grips in non-slip pearl or abalone. There are no cash registers, so you’d think these items change hands as a courtesy, but in the middle of the room there’s a tall woman—ordinary tall, not Titan tall—in what I’m guessing is about twenty grand’s worth of ballistic spidersilk formal wear. She says her name is Celine. The accent is French with a trace of somewhere else, maybe Bangkok but maybe not. “Hi Celine, I’m Cal.” “And what can I do for you, Cal?” “Suppose you had to guess?” She nods and looks me up and down, checking for cost. Feet, wrist, neck. My shoes say I walk; I don’t wear a watch because they’re unnecessary now and I don’t wear a necklace because men who wear necklaces look like mob lawyers in TV shows. Also because they can be used to strangle you in a tussle. No easy markers of wealth, yet here I am. Tech bro, maybe. Musician. Film asshole. Or: Celine’s eyes flick to the arms of my jacket, looking for a holster. Then she walks around back, looking at the lines of my clothes. “Federal,” she says at last, “I hope.” “I’m a consultant.” She sighs. “Couldn’t decide if the suit was really good or if you just weren’t carrying.” She hits a bell and a kid comes out of the back room. He’s wearing hayseed overalls and a Henley shirt. A stitched tag on the left cuff has a mock fire service badge and the words “no-burn.” Celine tells him to mind the store. “But call me, Aaron, if anything comes up.” Aaron ducks his head, twice, and I wonder if he’s her son. Mick’s is a family business, but in keeping with its executive spy vibe it’s hard to find out what family. Though probably not hard enough that it’s actually interesting. We head into the back office, plush leather and fitting rooms for the bespoke set, and on through into the warehouse space behind, where the real work gets done and the lacquer gives way to chipboard and bare concrete. Way in the back someone’s cutting fabric with hydraulic diamond shears. Celine pulls two old office chairs up to the same side of a trestle table and we sit. There’s a working tablet propped up on two old coffee cans, sleek lines buried in shock-absorbent foam so you can drop it and keep working. The foam looks cheap and homemade, but I figure it’s offcuts from something halfway nuke-proof. “I really look like a Fed?” She shrugs. “If you were a Fed you might actually be here to buy. What do you want, Mr…. ?” “Cal,” I remind her. “Sounder.” “You mind if I call you Cal?” “If I can call you Celine.” “You’ll have to. I haven’t told you my other name.” Someone brings a jug of cold water and two cups, and she pours one


by disappointment--though, doubtless, by depression--when any casual incident or recollection made him sensible of the withered leaf. So this oddly composed little social party used to assemble under the ruinous arbor. Hepzibah--stately as ever at heart, and yielding not an inch of her old gentility, but resting upon it so much the more, as justifying a princess-like condescension--exhibited a not ungraceful hospitality. She talked kindly to the vagrant artist, and took sage counsel--lady as she was--with the wood-sawyer, the messenger of everybody's petty errands, the patched philosopher. And Uncle Venner, who had studied the world at street-corners, and other posts equally well adapted for just observation, was as ready to give out his wisdom as a town-pump to give water. "Miss Hepzibah, ma'am," said he once, after they had all been cheerful together, "I really enjoy these quiet little meetings of a Sabbath afternoon. They are very much like what I expect to have after I retire to my farm!" "Uncle Venner" observed Clifford in a drowsy, inward tone, "is always talking about his farm. But I have a better scheme for him, by and by. We shall see!" "Ah, Mr. Clifford Pyncheon!" said the man of patches, "you may scheme for me as much as you please; but I'm not going to give up this one scheme of my own, even if I never bring it really to pass. It does seem to me that men make a wonderful mistake in trying to heap up property upon property. If I had done so, I should feel as if Providence was not bound to take care of me; and, at all events, the city wouldn't be! I'm one of those people who think that infinity is big enough for us all--and eternity long enough." "Why, so they are, Uncle Venner," remarked Phoebe after a pause; for she had been trying to fathom the profundity and appositeness of this concluding apothegm. "But for this short life of ours, one would like a house and a moderate garden-spot of one's own." " It appears to me," said the daguerreotypist, smiling, "that Uncle Venner has the principles of Fourier at the bottom of his wisdom; only they have not quite so much distinctness in his mind as in that of the systematizing Frenchman." "Come, Phoebe," said Hepzibah, "it is time to bring the currants." And then, while the yellow richness of the declining sunshine still fell into the open space of the garden, Phoebe brought out a loaf of bread and a china bowl of currants, freshly gathered from the bushes, and crushed with sugar. These, with water,--but not from the fountain of ill omen, close at hand,--constituted all the entertainment. Meanwhile, Holgrave took some pains to establish an intercourse with Clifford, actuated, it might seem, entirely by an impulse of kindliness, in order that the present hour might be cheerfuller than most which the poor recluse had spent, or was destined yet to spend. Nevertheless, in the artist's deep, thoughtful, all-observant eyes, there was, now and then, an expression, not sinister, but questionable; as


he kept talking. I could not handle that I was getting dumped on South Bridge. I had just told him how hard I’d worked to avoid letting my heart break on campus. I’d held Granby in my palm like the most fragile egg, avoided risk, kept my crushes theoretical, tried my best to hide in plain sight. I’d worked for four years to keep the same Granby I’d first glimpsed from the Robesons’ car window: mythic, a place I was visiting rather than a place that could ever hurt me. I hadn’t been feeling the weather, but the air was suddenly both bone-cold and wet. I went into self-protective mode—not a mode I’m interested in unlearning in therapy. I said I should let him get going. I didn’t respond to his monologue. I started walking him back to his car as if I’d always planned to. I said, “But I never finished my story. This girl Rachel, she just brought her boot down on the wrapper and all the ants. She said, There. You can write that my human boot smashed it all.” Yahav said, “Children are psychopaths.” I wanted to protest that we hadn’t been children, we’d been juniors, but that made no sense. My whole face stung as we said goodbye. I made sure to walk away without glancing back. At the end of freshman year, I’d drawn an “A” for Ace with purple Sharpie on a smooth rock the size of my fist and dropped it into the ravine from South Bridge, and it landed with the letter up. A good sign, I felt, for my last days of school. I was astonished the next fall to find that the creek hadn’t washed it away, the sun hadn’t bleached it out. It stayed all year. It stayed the next fall, too, but after the snows melted my junior spring, it was either gone or the marker had faded completely. Still, I looked for it every time; the place where it had landed was an anchor for me, a sacred point keeping me safe at Granby. I looked for it now, as I crossed back. I only felt worse, of course, to find the spot empty. Don’t start collecting things, don’t start collecting things, and then I had the next line: People will say we’re in love. It was from Oklahoma!, from a song about people who were, of course, actually in love. Fuck. Well, there it was. I didn’t need agreement from Fran or Carlotta: Thalia was telling me herself. 38 I was still in the middle of the bridge when Lance called. I only answered to stop myself from deciding to chase after Yahav. Lance sounded like he was breathing through sand. He said, “I thought you said you weren’t touching Twitter again.” “I didn’t!” “Okay. Okay. Did you know that when you ‘like’ a response on Twitter, people can see?” “Of course. Why? What?” “Someone has receipts on you hearting this Elizabeth Warren GIF? It’s—she’s in, like, a feather headdress and she’s—” “I saw that,” I said,


say?” “Finnegan . . . Walsh? He’s an actor?” “No shit, he’s an actor,” she says. “Finn Walsh, of The Nocturnals, the most formative show of my teen years? I’ve only tried to get you to watch it a hundred times.” She unzips her bag and unearths her keys. “Holy shit. Are you writing a book with Finn Walsh?” “I might be,” I say, and explain the call. And that I have to be at lunch with him in fifteen minutes. On our drive downtown, Noemie does her best to fill me in on 2008’s biggest paranormal teen drama while I shimmy out of my leggings in her backseat. Typically, I’d spend hours researching a potential new author, but this time, I’m going to have to rely on my cousin. And she might be better than Wikipedia. By the time we hit the freeway, I know the following about Finnegan Walsh: He starred on the TV show The Nocturnals from 2008 to 2012, about hot werewolves navigating college life (but he didn’t even play one of the werewolves). Oliver Huxley was a biology major trying to find a cure for his werewolf crush, who Noemie explains he was adorably devoted to, even when she pushed him away because she thought he could never love a beast like her. As a result, he ranks high on Noemie’s list of sexiest nerds, sandwiched between Adam Brody and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. During filming, he kept a relatively low profile, i.e., no scandals or controversies (“that we know of,” Noemie says). Since The Nocturnals went off the air, he’s starred in some low-budget romantic comedies, and more recently, a couple of Hallmark Christmas movies, including one from a couple years ago called Ms. Mistletoe that Noemie admits she watched and unironically loved. She opens up the glove compartment and hands me a bottle of dry shampoo as the car swerves. “Here. Put this on. And there should be some ballet flats in that Whole Foods bag.” “Be honest with me. Are you running an Ann Taylor outlet out of the back of your car?” A glare in the mirror. “Don’t knock Ann Taylor. She’s gotten me through a lot of tough times.” Noemie and I are not the same size. Her black-and-white-checked blouse strains over my chest, but with a cardigan, it’ll be okay. Some dry shampoo in my hair and I’m good to go. “Are you sure I look presentable?” I ask, tugging at the skirt once she pulls into a loading zone downtown. It shows my bruise, but it’s better than the threadbare leggings I wore to the gym. “My breasts aren’t too breasty in this?” Noemie assesses me, smooths a stubborn strand of hair back into place. “You look business-casual hot. I’d hire you to write a book for the horny werewolf fandom.” A quick hug and a promise to tell her everything, and then she’s gone. My heart roars in my ears. I’ve never met an author in person like this, not in what essentially sounds like an interview situation with two strangers


myself, and in his fastidious judgment, no musician either; but I delighted in listening when the performance was good. No sooner had twilight, that hour of romance, begun to lower her blue and starry banner over the lattice, than I rose, opened the piano, and entreated him, for the love of heaven, to give me a song. He said I was a capricious witch, and that he would rather sing another time; but I averred that there was no time like the present.     "Did I like his voice?" he asked.     "Very much." I was not fond of pampering that susceptible vanity of his; but for once, and from motives of expediency, I would even soothe and stimulate it.     "Then, Jane, you must play the accompaniment."     "Very well, sir, I will try."     I did try, but was presently swept off the stool, and denominated "a little bungler." Being pushed unceremoniously to one side which was precisely what I wished he usurped my place, and proceeded to accompany himself, for he could play as well as sing. I hied me to the window-recess; and while I sat there and looked out on the still trees and dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung, in mellow tones, the following strain:     The truest love that ever heart  Felt at its kindled core  Did through each vein, in quickened start,  The tide of being pour.     Her coming was my hope each day,  Her parting was my pain;  The chance that did her steps delay  Was ice in every vein.     I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,  As I loved, loved to be;  And to this object did I press  As blind as eagerly.     But wide as pathless was the space  That lay our lives between,  And dangerous as the foamy race  Of ocean-surges green.     And haunted as a robber-path  Through wilderness or wood;  For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,  Between our spirits stood.     I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned;  I omens did defy;  Whatever menaced harassed, warned,  I passed impetuous by.     On sped my rainbow, fast as light;  I flew as in a dream;  For glorious rose upon my sight  That child of Shower and Gleam.     Still bright on clouds of suffering dim  Shines that soft, solemn joy;  Nor care I how dense and grim  Disasters gather nigh.     I care not in this moment sweet,  Though all I have rushed o'er  Should come on pinion strong and fleet,  Proclaiming vengeance sore.     Though haughty Hate should strike me down,  Right, bar approach to me,  And grinding


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

totality. “Let’s begin.” Lore expected the knife to flash down to Bastian’s exposed throat; the way he thrashed made it clear he did, too. But the Presque Mort holding the Sun Prince didn’t pull his head back farther to make his neck an easier target. Instead he and the other monk wrestled one arm out from behind Bastian’s back, thrust it forward to present his palm to his father. The scarred lines of half a sun gleamed red in the fading light. The Presque Mort holding Lore did the same—twisted her hand out from behind her, the hand the Night Sisters had burned the moon into eleven years ago today. Lore tried to curl it into a fist, but the monk forced her fingers backward, almost to the breaking point. It was quick. August carved Bastian’s hand first, fast and brutal, blood rushing from his son’s palm to patter on the floor, joining what still leaked from his head wound. Then Lore; she gritted her teeth against a scream as the dagger point dug into her flesh, sheared through life and heart lines to add to an old scar. Half a sun, arcing up from the points of her crescent moon. She knew without looking that Bastian’s palm would match, a moon sliced beneath his sun, their two scars fit into one symbol. Life and death, light and dark. Through the atrium window above, the sky slipped into totality, two celestial bodies momentarily mirroring their new scars before the moon covered the sun. Dropping the bloody knife, August took their cut hands and pushed them together before him, palm-to-palm, wound-to-wound. Lore felt like she’d been struck by lightning. Power arced from where her hand pressed against Bastian’s, shooting down every limb, a magnification of what she’d felt when he pulled the strands of Mortem from her in the catacombs. Life, a rush of blood, a torrent of clean air in labored lungs. And Bastian felt the opposite. She saw it, and felt it, too, the connection she’d sensed all along made manifest as a bridge between them. Cold and stillness, emptying, traveling through him in a storm of death. Opposites, brought together, strengthening each other. August’s mouth opened. He made a high, mad sound, not a laugh or a cry but something more animal than either. In the darkness of totality, the angles of his face were stark as a skull. He dropped Lore and Bastian’s hands. Both of them slumped, consciousness hard to hold. Lore’s body felt like it was pulled in opposite directions, like it would shake itself apart at the seams. Dark and light and life and death, things that shouldn’t live in the same space, both held in her now. “That’s quite enough.” Anton. Finally. The Priest Exalted stood at the other end of the atrium, wearing his white robe and the gleaming pendant. It swung as he walked, slowly, up the center of the floor. August impassively watched his brother approach, toying with his knife. A smear of blood marred his doublet. “You finally deign to show


Nick. “Thank you for getting all my things. I don’t think I thanked you yet.” Nick looks up from the copy of Sports Illustrated he’s reading. Nick’s the kind of person who reads an entire magazine, cover to cover, then throws it away. It’s amazing what some people are capable of. “You thanked me half a dozen times.” “There aren’t any pajamas, though.” “Shit. You can borrow some of mine.” Andy glances up and down Nick’s body. If Nick believes Andy can fit into anything of Nick’s, he has another think coming. “I mean, I can try.” Nick looks at him oddly but disappears into his bedroom. He emerges a moment later with a pair of striped pajamas. “There’s a clean towel in the bathroom and the shaving cream’s in the medicine cabinet. And if you need anything else, just ask. Oh, and drink this before you go to bed.” Nick goes into the kitchen and Andy follows, watching Nick fill a glass of water at the sink. “Aspirin’s in the medicine cabinet.” “You realize I’m a grown man, yes?” Andy rolls his eyes, but he drinks the water. A draft of cold air makes him turn to find the source, and he sees that the kitchen window is propped open. “Do you want me to close that?” “It has to stay open,” Nick says. “To make it enticing for burglars?” “This is the fifth floor. Nobody’s coming in the window. No, it’s for . . . ventilation.” There’s a distinct pause there before ventilation. “For ventilation,” Andy repeats, raising his eyebrows. But Nick doesn’t elaborate, so Andy lets it drop and gets changed into his pajamas. Andy climbs into bed and drifts off before he even knows he’s shut his eyes. When he wakes, the door to Nick’s room is already shut with no light coming from beneath it. * * * The sunlight is coming from a strange direction and the sheets are all wrong, so Andy’s already braced for disaster before he’s even fully awake. When he opens his eyes, the reality of the previous day comes crashing back to him, but the blow is softened by the realization that he’s in Nick’s apartment. He can hear the sounds of someone moving around, which must mean that Nick is already awake. He makes a halfhearted effort to arrange the bedcovers neatly and stumbles out to the kitchen, where he finds Nick making breakfast. More specifically, he finds Nick in his underwear making breakfast. He’s wearing boxer shorts and a sleeveless undershirt, a cigarette between his lips, the beginnings of a beard already showing on his jaw, and in general looking every inch the ruffian. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Nick calls out without turning around. “There’s some coffee on the stove. Two eggs or three?” “Two.” A patch of dark hair is visible at the neckline of Nick’s undershirt, and Andy finds this . . . arresting, somehow. He already knew it was there—Nick loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt at the slightest provocation, so


she flung herself at his feet, and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I didn't act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try,--indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me,--if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don't go away from me. I couldn't bear it. Can't you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard, and try to [41] improve. Don't be cruel to me because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me; and yet I couldn't help it. Oh, don't leave me, don't leave me." A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the passions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him. "I am going," he said at last, in his calm, clear voice. "I don't wish to be unkind, but I can't see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer to him. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel, and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre. Where he went to, he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly-lit streets with gaunt black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by cursing, and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and had heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. When the dawn was just breaking he found himself at Covent Garden. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market, and watched the men unloading their wagons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge jade- green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its gray sun- bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for


of us, seeing me as a sort of pathetic younger brother to Orson’s capable and handsome older one. She tipped us extra on top of Dmitri’s flamboyant $400 or $500 tips, and whenever she’d pass through the lobby on her way to the Executive Lounge or the pool, she’d ask us both how our nights were going. “Quite well, actually,” I said on a night when Orson wasn’t scheduled to work until after the cocktail hour. “How long are you in town?” “Oh, we’re around for another two weeks, dear. We own a penthouse a few blocks over but we sometimes stay here for a change of scenery. You know how boring it can get to be in one place for so long.” I nodded, though I didn’t. “Have I told you about the wine?” “No, I don’t think so.” I leaned in and told her about the wine. She raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” “And, Carol? I have to admit that he’s been saving a bottle just for you.” That night, Orson got the call at the front desk. He went up to Carol and Dmitri’s executive suite, where Dmitri was asleep in the next room. “He’s a heavy sleeper,” Carol said almost immediately. As Orson recounted it later, she was looking at Orson like he was something to be devoured. “I promise he won’t wake up.” Orson was taken aback: usually it took a ten-minute song and dance to plant the idea in the wives’ heads that it would be all right to drink with him. He sat, and they drank, and he ran through the script. An hour in, she asked him the question: “Your story’s so inspiring, Orson. Have you ever thought of becoming a motivational speaker?” “I haven’t,” he said, genuinely surprised. She smiled slyly at him. “My dear, people would absolutely pay to hear your story. They’ll all want to know how they can be more like you.” “Like me?” He tried to feign humility. “I haven’t done much more than become a receptionist at the Boyd.” “Well, perhaps. But you’re on your way to great things. You’ve worked hard, Orson, and you’re living the American dream. My father was a ranch hand’s son and he grew up to become the lieutenant governor of Texas. That’s your future, my dear.” Carol cut Orson a deal: she’d rent out the lobby conference room and provide him with an audience if he’d just come and tell his story. “You can do it one night after you clock out, dearest. Just bring yourself—you can bring your little friend for support if you need to, of course—and tell us all what you’ve just told me. And maybe afterward take some questions. We’ll all pitch in a hundred dollars each, just for you.” “A motivational speaker?” Orson asked me that night while we were lying spent and naked in bed. I ran my tongue over my top row of teeth, trying to dislodge a fibrous piece of lo mein. “She just wants me to tell the story of my life?”