in England, but she’d let the question drift away. It seemed impossible to leave the marriage until the girls were grown, so what good was it to know? With Peter in London and her in Sussex at Monk’s House, willful blindness was surprisingly easy. Once they moved to California, though—Peter home every night, Maud without work—she had more time to reflect on the mess of her marriage. What she noticed before bothered her more: Peter’s late nights at the office; the password on his phone that he seemed to change every few weeks; his acceptance of their almost nonexistent sex life. As the months passed, she stewed. The family had moved to the Bay Area for Peter’s career, after he’d lost a promotion at his investment bank in London and went on the job market. In moving, Maud had upended her own career, given up Monk’s House, and given up England. Now she was back in the USA, where she didn’t want to be, and back living close to her parents, which she didn’t want either. She was completely dependent on Peter financially. And he was still fooling around. One night as he slept, she groped through the drawers in his unlit study until she found the notebook where he jotted down passwords. She plugged the latest one into his computer, then skimmed his emails until she came upon messages to a woman who worked in the London office and who had recently been in San Francisco. The content was banal: Want to meet for a drink? What time will you finish? She correlated the email timestamp with Peter’s credit card bill and found a charge for a hotel bar in the city. He must have met this woman for an afternoon of sex before coming home to Marin. The next evening, she asked her sister, Annette, to take the girls out to pizza and waited alone for Peter to return from the office. Without a word, she handed him the printed-out email and credit card bill. He blustered, denied, then confessed. Yes, just that one time. Twice. Two afternoons. Never before and never again. The affair hadn’t started until after he left London—Maud didn’t believe this, but she didn’t press. “My ego was still crushed from losing that promotion when we moved here,” Peter said. “And you’ve been so distant. We barely have sex anymore.” “So it’s my fault that you slept with someone else?” “That’s not what I’m saying.” Suddenly Peter looked panicked. Usually, in their arguments, the two of them circled until Maud became dizzy and confused by his logic. But he knew not to get on that merry-go-round now. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I am. What can I do?” Maud already knew what she wanted. She’d known when she went to his study the previous night. She said that she wanted to separate for the summer, to be away from him and out of their marriage. “We’ll parent the girls together, but that’s it. If you want to sleep around, feel free.” “I’m not going to do that.”


was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled `ORANGE MARMALADE', but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. `Well!' thought Alice to herself, `after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!' (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall NEVER come to an end! `I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. `I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--' (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a VERY good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) `--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.) Presently she began again. `I wonder if I shall fall right THROUGH the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--' (she was rather glad there WAS no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) `--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?' (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke--fancy CURTSEYING as you're falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) `And what an ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll never do to ask:


directly at him. "I'm sorry, Leigh." In one fluid motion, Langdon leapt up, swinging his arm skyward, launching the cryptex straight up toward the dome above. Leigh Teabing did not feel his finger pull the trigger, but the Medusa discharged with a thundering crash. Langdon's crouched form was now vertical, almost airborne, and the bullet exploded in the floor near Langdon's feet. Half of Teabing's brain attempted to adjust his aim and fire again in rage, but the more powerful half dragged his eyes upward into the cupola. The keystone! Time seemed to freeze, morphing into a slow-motion dream as Teabing's entire world became the airborne keystone. He watched it rise to the apex of its climb... hovering for a moment in the void... and then tumbling downward, end over end, back toward the stone floor. All of Teabing's hopes and dreams were plummeting toward earth. It cannot strike the floor! I can reach it! Teabing's body reacted on instinct. He released the gun and heaved himself forward, dropping his crutches as he reached out with his soft, manicured hands. Stretching his arms and fingers, he snatched the keystone from midair. Falling forward with the keystone victoriously clutched in his hand, Teabing knew he was falling too fast. With nothing to break his fall, his outstretched arms hit first, and the cryptex collided hard with the floor. There was a sickening crunch of glass within. For a full second, Teabing did not breathe. Lying there outstretched on the cold floor, staring the length of his outstretched arms at the marble cylinder in his bare palms, he implored the glass vial inside to hold. Then the acrid tang of vinegar cut the air, and Teabing felt the cool liquid flowing out through the dials onto his palm. Wild panic gripped him. NO! The vinegar was streaming now, and Teabing pictured the papyrus dissolving within. Robert, you fool! The secret is lost! Teabing felt himself sobbing uncontrollably. The Grail is gone. Everything destroyed. Shuddering in disbelief over Langdon's actions, Teabing tried to force the cylinder apart, longing to catch a fleeting glimpse of history before it dissolved forever. To his shock, as he pulled the ends of the keystone, the cylinder separated. 284 He gasped and peered inside. It was empty except for shards of wet glass. No dissolving papyrus. Teabing rolled over and looked up at Langdon. Sophie stood beside him, aiming the gun down at Teabing. Bewildered, Teabing looked back at the keystone and saw it. The dials were no longer at random. They spelled a five-letter word: APPLE. "The orb from which Eve partook," Langdon said coolly, "incurring the Holy wrath of God. Original sin. The symbol of the fall of the sacred feminine." Teabing felt the truth come crashing down on him in excruciating austerity. The orb that ought be on Newton's tomb could be none other than the Rosy apple that fell from heaven, struck Newton on the head, and inspired his life's work. His labor's fruit! The Rosy flesh with a seeded womb! "Robert," Teabing stammered, overwhelmed. "You


Head of S, thought Bond. They're certainly giving me the red carpet treatment. 'Now,' said Mathis, 'to business. Who killed Le Chiffre?' 'SMERSH,' said Bond. Mathis gave a low whistle. 'My God,' he said respectfully. 'So they were on to him. What did he look like?' Bond explained briefly what had happened up to the moment of Le Chiffre's death, omitting all but the most essential details. It cost him an effort and he was glad when it was done. Casting his mind back to the scene awoke the whole nightmare and the sweat began to pour off his forehead and a deep throb of pain started up in his body. Mathis realized that he was going too far. Bond's voice was getting feebler and his eyes were clouding. Mathis snapped shut his shorthand book and laid a hand on Bond's shoulder. 'Forgive me, my friend,' he said. 'It is all over now and you are in safe hands. All is well and the whole plan has gone splendidly. We have announced that Le Chiffre shot his two accomplices and then committed suicide because he could not face an inquiry into the union funds. Strasbourg and the north are in an uproar. He was considered a great hero there and a pillar of the Communist Party in France. This story of brothels and casinos has absolutely knocked the bottom out of his organization and they're all running around like scalded cats. At the moment the Communist Party is giving out that he was off his head. But that hasn't helped much after Thorez's breakdown not long ago. They're just making it look as if all their big shots were gaga. God knows how they're going to unscramble the whole business.' Mathis saw that his enthusiasm had had the desired effect. Bond's eyes were brighter. 'One last mystery,' Mathis said, 'and then I promise I will go.' He looked at his watch. 'The doctor will be after my skin in a moment. Now, what about the money? Where is it? Where did you hide it? We too have been over your room with a toothcomb. It isn't there.' Bond grinned. 'It is,' he said, 'more or less. On the door of each room there is a small square of black plastic with the number of the room on it. On the corridor side, of course. When Leiter left me that night, I simply opened the door and unscrewed my number plate and put the folded cheque underneath it and screwed the plate back. It'll still be there.' He smiled. 'I'm glad there's something the stupid English can teach the clever French.' Mathis laughed delightedly. 'I suppose you think that's paid me back for knowing what the Muntzes were up to. Well, I'll call it quits. Incidentally, we've got them in the bag. They were just some minor fry hired for the occasion. We'll see they get a few years.' He rose hastily as the doctor stormed into the room and took one look at Bond. 'Out,' he said to Mathis. 'Out and don't


individual and still leave him or her in a condition to make right the wrong that has been done to the gang. And if it’s a case in which the offense is unforgivable, then the simplest methods of resolution are the best—a bullet in the back of the head or a wire garrote cinched around the throat with grave determination. But a loving woman has expanded his mind. During the years Alana has read to him on most evenings and on rainy weekend afternoons, he has developed an appreciation for cunning characters and clever plot twists. One such twist now occurs to him, and it is irresistible. He steps away from the gaping entrance to Whole Fruit, out of sight of the rifleman in case that individual should happen to look back, and he studies the distribution of the corpses: the angles at which they lie to one another, how legs are bent and arms are tucked or not tucked, how one hood is rucked back from an exposed head but three are not, and other fine points of Death’s artful composition. They all wear the black, hooded raincoats that are gang issue, as he does. Unfortunately, he lacks the time to drag one of them away and take that place as his own. However, when the rifleman returns with Nina and young John, he’s going to shepherd them around this grisly scene as quickly as possible. He will be surveying the night for threats, yes, but he will expect any danger to be erect and in a shooting posture or on two feet and moving fast. He won’t be focused on the dead, who can do him no harm. If he’s not focused on them, he’s not going to notice that they number five instead of four. His mind racing but his heart beating slow and steady with the conviction that the author of a clever ruse will see it play out as planned, just like it does in novels, Orlando decides that he should not face the door to the packing plant. If by chance the rifleman glances down and sees eye movement or blinking lashes, the trick won’t work. Orlando lies on his side near the late Kuba, out of the crossed flashlight beams, with his back to the building, head turned toward the north end of the common area, where he believes the three are most likely to proceed. His raincoat is zippered open to mid chest, his right hand tucked inside, the pistol held against his heart and in a firm grip. His left arm is thrown behind him with the palm up, as he imagines it might have been cast in his death throes, and the skirt of his coat is arranged just so. When they are past him, eager to flee the orchard in whatever vehicle the rifleman arrived, Orlando will sit up and shoot them from behind, at close range. All that is required of him now is a little patience. Replacing the magazine of the AR-15 with a spare, Michael warns them with


her?” Lenora doesn’t need to think about it. the night she left My stomach suddenly drops. Mary knew everything about the night of the murders—including who did it, how they did it, why they did it. And the day she learned all that, she— Jumped. That’s what I should be thinking, since it’s what Detective Vick said happened. Yet it feels wrong. Like a lie. Instead, a different word ricochets through my brain. Died. That’s the brutal truth. And it can’t be a coincidence. “Did Mary ever tell you why it needed to be a secret?” Lenora types instead of taps. yes She then adds three more words to the line. she was scared I glance again to the page beside the typewriter, onto which Lenora had typed the same answer to a different question. As I do, a thought occurs to me. Something I should have considered sooner but was likely too scared myself to contemplate. But now there’s no avoiding it. “Lenora, did you really think Mary left?” I study her face—the key to all her emotions. Even the ones she’s trying to hide. This time, though, she doesn’t even attempt to disguise the way she feels. Sadness clouds her features as she taps once against the typewriter. No. “You thought she jumped?” Another single tap. One that kicks my pulse up a notch. “Do—” I swallow. My mouth, suddenly dry from fear, can barely get the word out. “Do you think what happened to Mary is because of what you told her?” Two taps from Lenora confirm my worst fear. She thinks Mary was murdered. Swirling within that dreadful realization is another, smaller thought. One brought about by another quick glimpse of the page next to the typewriter. “What did Mary do with the pages the two of you typed?” Lenora responds with a confused look. “She helped you write the whole story.” I think about the pages the two of us have typed, now sitting with Lenora’s pill bottles in the lockbox under my bed. If Mary and Lenora had typed for weeks, why haven’t I seen any evidence of it? Every piece of paper inside the desk is blank, and I saw no sign of typed pages anywhere else in Lenora’s room or mine. “That must have been a thick stack. What did Mary do with them?” Lenora’s reply—she hid them—doesn’t help me. “Do you know where?” This time, her response provides a bit more clarity. in her room A bad feeling skitters down my back. What had once been Mary’s room is now my room—and the truth about the murders has been hidden there all this time. A truth that might have gotten Mary killed. The rest of the evening passes with agonizing slowness. I bathe, dress, and lift Lenora into bed, the whole time telling myself that we could be mistaken. Maybe Mary really did jump. Maybe she had deep wells of despair within her that she could no longer control. Maybe this is just another sad chapter in the overall tragic story of Hope’s


and how they were doing at Baylor. I couldn’t get out of my head the idea of Mike being there at that ski house when Dorian put Beth on the monitor. Mike maybe showing Dorian where the security camera was. Mike being part of the “all of them” who’d sat and watched. I couldn’t imagine it was something he was proud of. I wondered if he ever thought of it at all. I waited till he’d refilled his glass to say, “This hearing is bringing up so much for me. All my adolescent insecurities. I wanted to leave that kid behind.” I felt guilty that I was basically quoting Beth here, but I’m not a creative liar. “That’s funny. I never knew you were insecure. You weren’t trying to play the game, from what I remember. I mean that in a good way. You weren’t doing the whole teen magazine thing.” “I don’t know what that means.” “Just—the girls who’d all get the same haircut and try to sit on your lap in the library. They were insecure. You weren’t like that.” Under most circumstances, I’d have called a man out on using “You’re not like other girls” as a compliment, but this wasn’t the moment. I looked straight at him and said, “I’ve always known what I like.” An unoriginal line, but yes: His ears reddened, he started to say something and stopped. It was too cold, so we moved inside—Mike in the flowery chair, pulled close to the bed so he could put his feet up in their woolly socks. I reclined on the too-many-pillows that the Calvin Inn provided and took my sweatshirt off. I’d put thought into the tank top I wore beneath. “I bet you’re the only person from that ski crowd doing actual useful work now,” I said. “Isn’t everyone else basically just turning money into more money?” He protested, but was clearly flattered. He swished his whiskey and said, “It’s hard to break that pattern of what your parents want. You think you have to earn at least as much as them. Then there were kids like Serenho who didn’t grow up with much. My grandfather and my dad worked their asses off and I get to have this comfortable life in academia, but there’s always the safety net.” “Wait, I thought Serenho was loaded.” I took a sip to hide my shoddy acting. He leaned in, secretive. “No way. He was on massive aid, and the last two years Rachel Popa’s family paid for him.” “Why would they do that?” “Because they could. I don’t know; he’s just a great guy. And he knew how to charm it up with people’s parents. Moms, especially. We’d rag on him, how he was suddenly so polite, like, That sweater really suits you, Mrs. Stiles.” I could see it. He’d been so good with teachers, had the kind of casual relationships with them that meant when I’d show up early for ninth grade English he’d already be there, asking Mrs. Hoffnung how he could get this chocolate


I used to try, home on break, to explain Granby to my old friends in Broad Run. The worst thing I could do was make it sound fancy, so I unwittingly made it sound more like a correctional facility. A good number of them believed I’d been sent away against my will. “Think of it as a small liberal arts college, but for younger kids. Or—did your high school have honors classes? Pretend it’s an honors class.” “But in the woods,” he said, smiling faintly. “An honors class in the woods.” I told him we didn’t have mini-mesters in my time; we’d trudge from holiday break straight back to precalculus, verb conjugations, pH levels. These kids got winter forestry, textiles, abnormal psychology, Shakespearean soliloquies, the history of rap. Skinny Jeans shook his head. “My high school didn’t even have a choice for foreign language. It was Spanish for everyone. Even the Puerto Rican kids.” I laughed, said, “Gotta love an easy A.” I might have been honest about how equivocal I felt toward Granby, how rough my time there was—but I was sobering up a little and something protective had kicked in, a familiar need to prove this wasn’t an entirely elite place and I was not, myself, an elitist to regard warily. So I said next what I usually say: “It’s an amazing school. Coming here on scholarship changed my life.” Note my careful wording, the way I worked in that of all the privileges I’ve had in life, wealth wasn’t one. The scholarship was a lie, but only technically. “I was a fish out of water,” I said, “but it got me out of a tiny town in Indiana and into a place with students from all over. People sometimes think boarding school is all white kids named Trip, but it’s not.” I’d polished that speech to a gloss. I could even deliver it drunk. “I mean,” he said, “they were literally from Puerto Rico. What does a Puerto Rican kid get from Spanish 2? That’s as far as we went, Level 2. Like, Yo tengo que comer manzanas. Level 2.” 5 I lay a long time in bed the next morning—hard mattress, soft pillows—trying to think where I was, what hotel. It clicked when I saw, on the wall opposite, a black-and-white photo of Old Chapel—and a moment later heard the distant bell from that same chapel chime eight. Only two hours before class, and one hour before the journalism teacher overseeing my visit would scoop me up and take me to HR to sign some last things. I sat up and was flooded with hangover bile. Appropriate: I’d had my first hangovers at Granby. I once left physics to vomit in the hallway trash can, and Miss Vogel walked me to the infirmary, where I feigned food poisoning for a nurse who surely was onto me. I texted Jerome and asked how the kids were, something I hadn’t managed yesterday. They were so used to my traveling that we’d long ago abandoned the Here safely! text. I checked


beating her violently with its wings. `Serpent!' screamed the Pigeon. `I'm NOT a serpent!' said Alice indignantly. `Let me alone!' `Serpent, I say again!' repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, `I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!' `I haven't the least idea what you're talking about,' said Alice. `I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried hedges,' the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; `but those serpents! There's no pleasing them!' Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished. `As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs,' said the Pigeon; `but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!' `I'm very sorry you've been annoyed,' said Alice, who was beginning to see its meaning. `And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood,' continued the Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, `and just as I was thinking I should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from the sky! Ugh, Serpent!' `But I'm NOT a serpent, I tell you!' said Alice. `I'm a--I'm a--' `Well! WHAT are you?' said the Pigeon. `I can see you're trying to invent something!' `I--I'm a little girl,' said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered the number of changes she had gone through that day. `A likely story indeed!' said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest contempt. `I've seen a good many little girls in my time, but never ONE with such a neck as that! No, no! You're a serpent; and there's no use denying it. I suppose you'll be telling me next that you never tasted an egg!' `I HAVE tasted eggs, certainly,' said Alice, who was a very truthful child; `but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you know.' `I don't believe it,' said the Pigeon; `but if they do, why then they're a kind of serpent, that's all I can say.' This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding, `You're looking for eggs, I know THAT well enough; and what does it matter to me whether you're a little girl or a serpent?' `It matters a good deal to ME,' said Alice hastily; `but I'm not looking for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn't want YOURS: I don't like them raw.' `Well, be off, then!' said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled down again into its nest. Alice crouched down among the trees as well as she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and every now and then she had to stop and untwist it. After a while she remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands, and


struck a match. Between the candlesticks there was a glass of water. “Water is a good conduit, and the candles, like the box of salt, should protect you while also providing a welcoming space for the ghost. Now you understand the instructions,” López said as he handed Tristán a large notepad and a pen. “Do you need to go over the words again?” “I’m an actor. I can memorize lines,” Tristán replied. He wanted to get this done with before he thought it over and backed out. “You simply ask him to join us and then you write down whatever he says.” “In the movies people hold hands, you know.” “And they probably have a Ouija board manufactured by Juguetes Mi Alegría. Will you simply sit down?” Tristán muttered a curse word but obeyed. López turned off the light and sat to his right. Montserrat had already taken his left. The room was rather dark with only the two candles. He wrapped his hands around the glass of water and asked the water to bless him and protect him before he embarked on this journey. He placed the notepad and the pen on the table, resting his hands lightly next to them. Then he recited the words López had told him to memorize, which were easy enough. López handed him Abel’s photograph, and Tristán held it up. In the dim light it was hard to make out the features, but he tried his best to keep his eyes on the photo and listen to his own breathing. The minutes stretched by. His hand was beginning to ache from holding the photograph up. “Concentrate,” López said. “I am concentrating,” Tristán said, switching hands. “Repeat the incantation again, from the beginning.” Tristán said the words. Nothing happened. After many more minutes López pushed his chair back. “Perhaps we might try something else. I have incense in the sideboard,” he said, as he moved toward a lumpy shape that must be said sideboard, hidden as it was in the dark. Tristán set the photograph down next to the notepad with a sigh. It was cold that night. Tristán hadn’t noticed before, but suddenly the chill of the evening overtook him, making him shiver. His hands brushed against the pen, restless, as López grumbled and opened a drawer, rummaging among what sounded like cutlery. “Where is it? Why, you stupid…” López kept muttering, and Tristán shivered again, his fingers wrapping around the pen. He felt nauseated and pressed one hand against his belly. He closed his eyes. “Tristán?” Montserrat said. He blinked a couple of times. The nausea was dying down, but there was a sharp pain in the back of his skull, as if someone was inserting a needle there. His hand twitched. He wrote down a word and glanced down at the letters. He clutched the edge of the table with his free hand. “Momo,” he said, quickly looking up and staring at her. She stared back at him in confusion. “What?” “That’s not my handwriting.” Montserrat looked at the pad where he had


done, I went in, and stood, touching the old chimney-piece, where she could see me when she raised her eyes. There was an air or utter loneliness upon her, that would have moved me to pity though she had wilfully done me a deeper injury than I could charge her with. As I stood compassionating her, and thinking how in the progress of time I too had come to be a part of the wrecked fortunes of that house, her eyes rested on me. She stared, and said in a low voice, "Is it real?" "It is I, Pip. Mr. Jaggers gave me your note yesterday, and I have lost no time." "Thank you. Thank you." As I brought another of the ragged chairs to the hearth and sat down, I remarked a new expression on her face, as if she were afraid of me. "I want," she said, "to pursue that subject you mentioned to me when you were last here, and to show you that I am not all stone. But perhaps you can never believe, now, that there is anything human in my heart?" When I said some reassuring words, she stretched out her tremulous right hand, as though she was going to touch me; but she recalled it again before I understood the action, or knew how to receive it. "You said, speaking for your friend, that you could tell me how to do something useful and good. Something that you would like done, is it not?" "Something that I would like done very much." "What is it?" I began explaining to her that secret history of the partnership. I had not got far into it, when I judged from her looks that she was thinking in a discursive way of me, rather than of what I said. It seemed to be so, for, when I stopped speaking, many moments passed before she showed that she was conscious of the fact. "Do you break off," she asked then, with her former air of being afraid of me, "because you hate me too much to bear to speak to me?" "No, no," I answered, "how can you think so, Miss Havisham! I stopped because I thought you were not following what I said." "Perhaps I was not," she answered, putting a hand to her head. "Begin again, and let me look at something else. Stay! Now tell me." She set her hand upon her stick, in the resolute way that sometimes was habitual to her, and looked at the fire with a strong expression of forcing herself to attend. I went on with my explanation, and told her how I had hoped to complete the transaction out of my means, but how in this I was disappointed. That part of the subject (I reminded her) involved matters which could form no part of my explanation, for they were the weighty secrets of another. "So!" said she, assenting with her head, but not looking at me. "And how much money is wanting to complete the purchase?" I was rather afraid


word for me, but that warn't going to keep off the bad luck, I knowed that well enough. I started out, after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky, and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it was going to be. There is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn't one of them kind; so I never tried to do anything, but just poked along low-spirited and on the watch-out. I went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where you go through the high board fence. There was an inch of new snow on the ground, and I seen somebody's tracks. They had come up from the quarry and stood around the stile a while, and then went on around the garden fence. It was funny they hadn't come in, after standing around so. I couldn't make it out. It was very curious, somehow. I was going to follow around, but I stooped down to look at the tracks first. I didn't notice anything at first, but next I did. There was a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil. I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked over my shoulder every now and then, but I didn't see nobody. I was at Judge Thatcher's as quick as I could get there. He said: "Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your interest?" "No, sir," I says; "is there some for me?" "Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night -- over a hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you. You had better let me invest it along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it." "No, sir," I says, "I don't want to spend it. I don't want it at all -- nor the six thousand, nuther. I want you to take it; I want to give it to you -- the six thousand and all." He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make it out. He says: "Why, what can you mean, my boy?" I says, "Don't you ask me no questions about it, please. You'll take it -- won't you?" He says: "Well, I'm puzzled. Is something the matter?" "Please take it," says I, "and don't ask me noth- ing -- then I won't have to tell no lies." He studied a while, and then he says: "Oho-o! I think I see. You want to SELL all your property to me -- not give it. That's the correct idea." Then he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says: "There; you see it says 'for a consideration.' That means I have bought it of you and paid you for it. Here's a dollar for you. Now you sign it." So I signed it, and left. Miss Watson's nigger, Jim, had a hair-ball as big as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth stomach of an ox, and


town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense. The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place. 'It was quite true,' he said, 'that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a worse.' So, they travelled on in silence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them together: and no one disposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all. But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd of emotions were wakened up in his breast, when they turned into that which he had traversed on foot: a poor houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him, or a roof to shelter his head. 'See there, there!' cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, and pointing out at the carriage window; 'that's the stile I came over; there are the hedges I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force me back! Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to the old house where I was a little child! Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if I could only see you now!' 'You will see him soon,' replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands between her own. 'You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich you have grown, and that in all your happiness you have none so great as the coming back to make him happy too.' 'Yes, yes,' said Oliver, 'and we'll--we'll take him away from here, and have him clothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where he may grow strong and well,--shall we?' Rose nodded 'yes,' for the boy was smiling through such happy tears that she could not speak. 'You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one,' said Oliver.


grave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me come to the point. Last January, rid of all mistresses in a harsh, bitter frame of mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely life corroded with disappointment, sourly disposed against all men, and especially against allwoman kind (for I began to regard the notion of an intellectual, faithful, loving woman as a mere dream), recalled by business, I came back to England.     "On a frosty, winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thornfield Hall, Abhorred spot! I expected no peace no pleasure there. On a stile in Hay Lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I passed it as negligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to it. I had no presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning that the arbitress of my life my genius for good or evil waited there in humble guise. I did not know it, even when, on the occasion of Mesrour's accident, it came up and gravely offered me help. Childish and slender creature! It seemed as if a linnet had hopped on my foot and proposed to bear me on its tiny wing. I was surly; but the thing would not go; it stood by me with strange perseverance, and looked and spoke with a sort of authority. I must be aided, and by that hand; and aided I was.     "When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something new a fresh sap and sense stole into my frame. It was well I had learned that this elf must return to me that it belonged to my house down below or I could not have felt it pass away from under my hand, and seen it vanish behind the dim hedge, without singular regret, I heard you come home that night, Jane; though probably you were not aware that I thought of you, or watched for you. The next day I observed you myself unseen for half an hour while you played with Adle in the gallery. It was a snowy day, I recollect, and you could not go out of doors. I was in my room; the door was ajar. I could both listen and watch. Adle claimed your outward attention for a while; yet I fancied your thoughts were elsewhere. But you were very patient with her, my little Jane; you talked to her and amused her a long time. When at last she left you, you lapsed at once into deep reverie. You betook yourself slowly to pace the gallery. Now and then in passing a casement, you glanced out at the thick-falling snow; you listened to the sobbing wind, and again you paced gently on and dreamed. I think those day visions were not dark; there was a pleasurable illumination in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding; your look revealed rather the sweet musings of youth, when its spirit follows on willing


somehow she had known at first that he was Dickon. Who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the natives charm snakes in India? He had a wide, red, curving mouth and his smile spread all over his face. "I got up slow," he explained, "because if tha' makes a quick move it startles 'em. A body 'as to move gentle an' speak low when wild things is about." He did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but as if he knew her quite well. Mary knew nothing about boys and she spoke to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy. "Did you get Martha's letter?" she asked. He nodded his curly, rust-colored head. "That's why I come." He stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground beside him when he piped. "I've got th' garden tools. There's a little spade an' rake an' a fork an' hoe. Eh! they are good 'uns. There's a trowel, too. An' th' woman in th' shop threw in a packet o' white poppy an' one o' blue larkspur when I bought th' other seeds." "Will you show the seeds to me?" Mary said. She wished she could talk as he did. His speech was so quick and easy. It sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would not like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes and with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head. As she came closer to him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them. She liked it very much and when she looked into his funny face with the red cheeks and round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy. "Let us sit down on this log and look at them," she said. They sat down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of his coat pocket. He untied the string and inside there were ever so many neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one. "There's a lot o' mignonette an' poppies," he said. "Mignonette's th' sweetest smellin' thing as grows, an' it'll grow wherever you cast it, same as poppies will. Them as'll come up an' bloom if you just whistle to 'em, them's th' nicest of all." He stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting up. "Where's that robin as is callin' us?" he said. The chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries, and Mary thought she knew whose it was. "Is it really calling us?" she asked. "Aye," said Dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, "he's callin' some one he's friends with. That's same as sayin' `Here I am. Look at me. I wants a bit of a chat.' There he is in the bush. Whose is he?" "He's


a false sense of security. “Right. Er. What were we saying?” “You and Brad,” she reminds me, “being fourteen and stupid.” I snort. “I would’ve given a lot to be normal at that age,” she says pensively. “You are normal.” “Not really. Which is fine, I know that now. But when I was younger…” She glances at me. “I have celiac. Did I mention that? No gluten. I was diagnosed a couple of years ago. But before that, I was always sick and sore and stumbling all over the place, and everyone thought I was a complete freak, and I thought they were right. I just wanted people to like me. Everyone else had friends. What was wrong with me?” She shrugs while my heart calmly shatters. I’ve never minded people saying I’m annoying or weird or a bitch because I don’t think those things about myself are bad. It never occurred to me that some people deal with the weight of everyone else’s judgment and their own. That never occurred to me at all. “But I have friends now,” she continues. “And I know they’re worth more than all the people who were…who were casually cruel to me, because they’re deliberately kind, and that makes them better people. My kind of people. Except I had to learn that. Don’t we all have to learn that?” I huff and turn my pillow over. “So what are you saying—Brad was unfortunately deprived of his learning years because he’s tragically gorgeous and charming?” Aurora grins. “I didn’t say that. You said that.” I throw my pillow at her. “Not buying it.” Because that can’t be enough. Surely that can’t be enough for the way he made me feel. And the way you made him feel… Was justified. It was. But only if he’s the enemy. And apparently, out here at least, he’s not. BRAD Our second day of the BEP is spent being lectured on the contents of our little green books (the short version is: DO NOT EAT 99 PERCENT OF THE PLANT LIFE AND DO NOT PLAY WITH FOXES) and learning all kinds of safety survival stuff we’ll need to remember for our next expedition. I don’t insult Celine. She doesn’t insult me. In fact, we don’t talk at all, nor do we glare holes into each other’s skulls. It’s all completely normal and healthy and very boring. Success, I suppose. On the plus side, freeing up the brainpower I usually spend on pissing her off has helped me think about my novel a lot more. On the minus side, I’m mostly thinking about how bad it is and how I’m never going to finish it, rather than useful stuff like, you know, working on the plot. On our third day, rain falls again to match my attitude, and Victor gleefully drags us outside to perform manual labor. (I’m no therapist but I’m pretty sure he has issues.) “Can you hold on to this?” I ask Raj, trying to hammer our final tent peg into the soggy grass. He crouches down at


employed to keep Boo out of sight, but Jem figured that Mr. Radley kept him chained to the bed most of the time. Atticus said no, it wasn't that sort of thing, that there were other ways of making people into ghosts. My memory came alive to see Mrs. Radley occasionally open the front door, walk to the edge of the porch, and pour water on her cannas. But every day Jem and I would see Mr. Radley walking to and from town. He was a thin leathery man with colorless eyes, so colorless they did not reflect light. His cheekbones were sharp and his mouth was wide, with a thin upper lip and a full lower lip. Miss Stephanie Crawford said he was so upright he took the word of God as his only law, and we believed her, because Mr. Radley's posture was ramrod straight. He never spoke to us. When he passed we would look at the ground and say, "Good morning, sir," and he would cough in reply. Mr. Radley's elder son lived in Pensacola; he came home at Christmas, and he was one of the few persons we ever saw enter or leave the place. From the day Mr. Radley took Arthur home, people said the house died. But there came a day when Atticus told us he'd wear us out if we made any noise in the yard and commissioned Calpurnia to serve in his absence if she heard a sound out of us. Mr. Radley was dying. He took his time about it. Wooden sawhorses blocked the road at each end of the Radley lot, straw was put down on the sidewalk, traffic was diverted to the back street. Dr. Reynolds parked his car in front of our house and walked to the Radley's every time he called. Jem and I crept around the yard for days. At last the sawhorses were taken away, and we stood watching from the front porch when Mr. Radley made his final journey past our house. "There goes the meanest man ever God blew breath into," murmured Calpurnia, and she spat meditatively into the yard. We looked at her in surprise, for Calpurnia rarely commented on the ways of white people. The neighborhood thought when Mr. Radley went under Boo would come out, but it had another think coming: Boo's elder brother returned from Pensacola and took Mr. Radley's place. The only difference between him and his father was their ages. Jem said Mr. Nathan Radley "bought cotton," too. Mr. Nathan would speak to us, however, when we said good morning, and sometimes we saw him coming from town with a magazine in his hand. The more we told Dill about the Radleys, the more he wanted to know, the longer he would stand hugging the light-pole on the corner, the more he would wonder. "Wonder what he does in there," he would murmur. "Looks like he'd just stick his head out the door." Jem said, "He goes out, all right, when it's pitch dark. Miss Stephanie Crawford said


pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the French eat, out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing in a thousand years. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good. Gaudy colour warns you off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it on the dog first. Led on by the smell or the look. Tempting fruit. Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters. Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this morning. Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no ar no oysters. But there are people like things high. Tainted game. Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old, blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless might mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was it no yes or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs? Or who was it used to eat the scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town. Of course aristocrats, then the others copy to be in the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour. Raw pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in the sea to keep up the price. Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Hock in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. The ELITE. CREME DE LA CREME. They want special dishes to pretend they're. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the flesh. Know me come eat with me. Royal sturgeon high sheriff, Coffey, the butcher, right to venisons of the forest from his ex. Send him back the half of a cow. Spread I saw down in the Master of the Rolls' kitchen area. Whitehatted CHEF like a rabbi. Combustible duck. Curly cabbage A LA DUCHESSE DE PARME. Just as well to write it on the bill of fare so you can know what you've eaten. Too many drugs spoil the broth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards' desiccated soup. Geese stuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive. Do ptake some ptarmigan. Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I remember. DU, DE LA French. Still it's the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills can't write his name on a cheque think he was painting the landscape with his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a kish of brogues,


up on the brain screening tests and I would never have passed. I think Yooden told me a lot of things that are still locked away." "So you think you went and mucked about inside your own brain as a result of Yooden talking to you?" "He was a hell of a talker." "Yeah, but Zaphod old mate, you want to look after yourself you know." Zaphod shrugged. "I mean, don't you have any inkling of the reasons for all this?" asked Ford. Zaphod thought hard about this and doubts seemed to cross his minds. "No," he said at last, "I don't seem to be letting myself into any of my secrets. Still," he added on further reflection, "I can understand that. I wouldn't trust myself further than I could spit a rat." A moment later, the last planet in the catalogue vanished from beneath them and the solid world resolved itself again. They were sitting in a plush waiting room full of glass-top tables and design awards. A tall Magrathean man was standing in front of them. "The mice will see you now," he said. ================================================================= Chapter 30 "So there you have it," said Slartibartfast, making a feeble and perfunctory attempt to clear away some of the appalling mess of his study. He picked up a paper from the top of a pile, but then couldn't think of anywhere else to put it, so he but it back on top of the original pile which promptly fell over. "Deep Thought designed the Earth, we built it and you lived on it." "And the Vogons came and destroyed it five minutes before the program was completed," added Arthur, not unbitterly. "Yes," said the old man, pausing to gaze hopelessly round the room. "Ten million years of planning and work gone just like that. Ten million years, Earthman ... can you conceive of that kind of time span? A galactic civilization could grow from a single worm five times over in that time. Gone." He paused. "Well that's bureaucracy for you," he added. "You know," said Arthur thoughtfully, "all this explains a lot of things. All through my life I've had this strange unaccountable feeling that something was going on in the world, something big, even sinister, and no one would tell me what it was." "No," said the old man, "that's just perfectly normal paranoia. Everyone in the Universe has that." "Everyone?" said Arthur. "Well, if everyone has that perhaps it means something! Perhaps somewhere outside the Universe we know ..." "Maybe. Who cares?" said Slartibartfast before Arthur got too excited. "Perhaps I'm old and tired," he continued, "but I always think that the chances of finding out what really is going on are so absurdly remote that the only thing to do is to say hang the sense of it and just keep yourself occupied. Look at me: I design coastlines. I got an award for Norway." He rummaged around in a pile of debris and pulled out a large perspex block with his name on it and a model of


and turned towards her aunt. "Aye, very true, my dear," cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken a word--"I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good night." Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell. He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend-- an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference-- fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause. "My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.-- Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--"Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?"


fully trowing that in the fields and pastures to "sigh gratis" is by no means deemed waste; love-making being here more often accepted inconsiderately and for its own sweet sake than in the carking anxious homes of the ambitious, where a girl's craving for an establishment paralyzes her healthy thought of a passion as an end. "Tess, why did you say 'no' in such a positive way?" he asked her in the course of a few days. She started. "Don't ask me. I told you why--partly. I am not good enough--not worthy enough." "How? Not fine lady enough?" "Yes--something like that," murmured she. "Your friends would scorn me." "Indeed, you mistake them--my father and mother. As for my brothers, I don't care----" He clasped his fingers behind her back to keep her from slipping away. "Now--you did not mean it, sweet?--I am sure you did not! You have made me so restless that I cannot read, or play, or do anything. I am in no hurry, Tess, but I want to know--to hear from your own warm lips--that you will some day be mine--any time you may choose; but some day?" She could only shake her head and look away from him. Clare regarded her attentively, conned the characters of her face as if they had been hieroglyphics. The denial seemed real. "Then I ought not to hold you in this way--ought I? I have no right to you--no right to seek out where you are, or walk with you! Honestly, Tess, do you love any other man?" "How can you ask?" she said, with continued self-suppression. "I almost know that you do not. But then, why do you repulse me?" "I don't repulse you. I like you to--tell me you love me; and you may always tell me so as you go about with me--and never offend me." "But you will not accept me as a husband?" "Ah--that's different--it is for your good, indeed, my dearest! O, believe me, it is only for your sake! I don't like to give myself the great happiness o' promising to be yours in that way--because--because I am SURE I ought not to do it." "But you will make me happy!" "Ah--you think so, but you don't know!" At such times as this, apprehending the grounds of her refusal to be her modest sense of incompetence in matters social and polite, he would say that she was wonderfully well-informed and versatile--which was certainly true, her natural quickness, and her admiration for him, having led her to pick up his vocabulary, his accent, and fragments of his knowledge, to a surprising extent. After these tender contests and her victory she would go away by herself under the remotest cow, if at milking-time, or into the sedge, or into her room, if at a leisure interval, and mourn silently, not a minute after an apparently phlegmatic negative. The struggle was so fearful; her own heart was so strongly on the side of his--two ardent hearts against one poor little conscience--that she tried to fortify her resolution by


There was so much about you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last,--such a little time. "The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as golden next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will have its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we did not dare to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!" Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the fretted purple of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion, for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time it flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro. Suddenly Hallward appeared at the door of the studio, and made frantic signs for them to come in. They turned to each other, and smiled. "I am waiting," cried Hallward. "Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks." They rose up, and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and- white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the end of the garden a thrush began to sing. "You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, looking at him. "Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?" [18] "Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer." As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry's arm. "In that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped upon the platform and resumed his pose. Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair, and watched him. The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that


just Muff Potter, Muff Potter, Muff Potter all the time. It keeps me in a sweat, constant, so's I want to hide som'ers." "That's just the same way they go on round me. I reckon he's a goner. Don't you feel sorry for him, sometimes?" "Most always -- most always. He ain't no account; but then he hain't ever done anything to hurt anybody. Just fishes a little, to get money to get drunk on -- and loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do that -- leastways most of us -- --------------------------------------------------------- -218- preachers and such like. But he's kind of good -- he give me half a fish, once, when there warn't enough for two; and lots of times he's kind of stood by me when I was out of luck." "Well, he's mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted hooks on to my line. I wish we could get him out of there." "My! we couldn't get him out, Tom. And besides, 'twouldn't do any good; they'd ketch him again." "Yes -- so they would. But I hate to hear 'em abuse him so like the dickens when he never done -- that." "I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear 'em say he's the bloodiest looking villain in this country, and they wonder he wasn't ever hung before." "Yes, they talk like that, all the time. I've heard 'em say that if he was to get free they'd lynch him." "And they'd do it, too." The boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. As the twilight drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood of the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that something would happen that might clear away their difficulties. But nothing happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in this luckless captive. The boys did as they had often done before -- went to the cell grating and gave Potter some tobacco --------------------------------------------------------- -219- and matches. He was on the ground floor and there were no guards. His gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences before -- it cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and treacherous to the last degree when Potter said: "You've been mighty good to me, boys -- better'n anybody else in this town. And I don't forget it, I don't. Often I says to myself, says I, 'I used to mend all the boys' kites and things, and show 'em where the good fishin' places was, and befriend 'em what I could, and now they've all forgot old Muff when he's in trouble; but Tom don't, and Huck don't -- they don't forget him, says I, 'and I don't forget them.' Well, boys, I done an awful thing -- drunk and crazy at the time -- that's the only way I account for it -- and now I got to swing for it, and it's right. Right, and best, too, I reckon -- hope so, anyway. Well, we won't talk about that. I don't want to make


paintings could deposit their belongings anonymously, through a series of high-tech veils of privacy, withdrawing items at any time, also in total anonymity. As Sophie pulled the taxi to a stop in front of their destination, Langdon gazed out at the building's uncompromising architecture and sensed the Depository Bank of Zurich was a firm with little sense of humor. The building was a windowless rectangle that seemed to be forged entirely of dull steel. Resembling an enormous metal brick, the edifice sat back from the road with a fifteen-foot-tall, neon, equilateral cross glowing over its facade. Switzerland's reputation for secrecy in banking had become one of the country's most lucrative exports. Facilities like this had become controversial in the art community because they provided a perfect place for art thieves to hide stolen goods, for years if necessary, until the heat was off. Because deposits were protected from police inspection by privacy laws and were attached to numbered accounts rather than people's names, thieves could rest easily knowing their stolen goods were safe and could never be traced to them. Sophie stopped the taxi at an imposing gate that blocked the bank's driveway-a cement-lined ramp that descended beneath the building. A video camera overhead was aimed directly at them, and Langdon had the feeling that this camera, unlike those at the Louvre, was authentic. Sophie rolled down the window and surveyed the electronic podium on the driver's side. An LCD screen provided directions in seven languages. Topping the list was English. INSERT KEY. Sophie took the gold laser-pocked key from her pocket and turned her attention back to the podium. Below the screen was a triangular hole. "Something tells me it will fit," Langdon said. Sophie aligned the key's triangular shaft with the hole and inserted it, sliding it in until the entire shaft had disappeared. This key apparently required no turning. Instantly, the gate began to swing open. Sophie took her foot off the brake and coasted down to a second gate and podium. Behind her, the first gate closed, trapping them like a ship in a lock. Langdon disliked the constricted sensation. Let's hope this second gate works too. This second podium bore familiar directions. INSERT KEY. When Sophie inserted the key, the second gate immediately opened. Moments later they were winding down the ramp into the belly of the structure. 120 The private garage was small and dim, with spaces for about a dozen cars. At the far end, Langdon spied the building's main entrance. A red carpet stretched across the cement floor, welcoming visitors to a huge door that appeared to be forged of solid metal. Talk about mixed messages, Langdon thought. Welcome and keep out. Sophie pulled the taxi into a parking space near the entrance and killed the engine. "You'd better leave the gun here." With pleasure, Langdon thought, sliding the pistol under the seat. Sophie and Langdon got out and walked up the red carpet toward the slab of steel. The door had no handle, but on the wall beside it was another triangular keyhole.


here. I don’t know why you’ve come, but I can do nothing for you. Please leave before I summon the Authority.” He turned away, picking up his tablet, shoulders hunched near his ears. “Thank you for visiting me today. But it would be best if you leave. I don’t know why you’ve come here. I don’t have time for you. I’m very busy.” Once, when Vic was a child—four, perhaps five—he still struggled to find his voice, to put his thoughts into words. He hated how hard it was, how it would come in fits and starts without rhyme or reason, punctuated with a guttural force that hurt his throat. On one such day—spring, close to summer, so bright and so green—he tried to tell his father about what he’d seen in the forest. A bird. A simple bird, its feathers blue, its beak and talons black. It had cocked its head at Vic from its perch on a tree branch. The sound it made was a trill of warning, wings and feathers ruffled. He went to his father, his thoughts forming clearly but without a voice. Dad—patient, always patient and kind—had waited, watching, never trying to rush Vic, knowing he needed time to say what he needed to say. Vic was about to give up, about to deflate and pretend nothing had happened. But then something shifted in his head, pieces interlocking in a way they’d never before. He said, “Bird.” And so softly, so wonderfully, Dad said, “A bird? Tell me.” Vic shifted from side to side, trying to keep hold of the clear thoughts, slippery though they were. He opened his mouth once more, but no sound came out. His face twisted in frustration, breaths coming out in quick pants. Dad said, “Slow and sure. Think. Focus. Take your time. Easier said than done, I know, but I believe in you. I always have. I always will. You can do this, Victor. I know you can.” “Bird,” Vic said again. “Outside. Bird. It … yelled. At me. Loud. The bird yelled loud.” “Did it?” Dad asked gently. “Show me.” Dad took him by the hand as they walked out of the ground house. Vic moved with purpose, knowing what he wanted Dad to see. Dad, for his part, never questioned him, never told him to slow down, though he only needed to take one step for every three of Vic’s. They stopped underneath a tree. Vic pointed. The bird was still there, turning its head until it stared at them with a black eye. It trilled again, the warning clear. “Ah,” Dad said. “I see. It is yelling. But it’s doing so for a reason. May I pick you up?” Vic held his arms toward his father. He felt big hands wrap around his waist as he was lifted into the air. His dad was big, so big that Vic felt as tall as the trees. “There,” Dad whispered in his ear. “See the branch the bird is standing on? Look below it. Near the hollow in the tree.”


my in-laws and said to them, 'You have taken back your sister. I did not send her away. You yourselves took her. The law of the clan is that you should return her bride-price.' But my wife's brothers said they had nothing to tell me. So I have brought the matter to the fathers of the clan. My case is finished. I salute you." "Your words are good," said the leader of the ecjwucjwu. "Let us hear Odukwe. His words may also be good." Odukwe was short and thickset. He stepped forward, saluted the spirits and began his story. "My in-law has told you that we went to his house, beat him up and took our sister and her children away. All that is true. He told you that he came to take back her bride-price and we refused to give it him. That also is true. My in-law, Uzowulu, is a beast. My sister lived with him for nine years. During those years no single day passed in the sky without his beating the woman. We have tried to settle their quarrels time without number and on each occasion Uzowulu was guilty-- "It is a lie!" Uzowulu shouted. "Two years ago," continued Odukwe, "when she was pregnant, he beat her until she miscarried." "It is a lie. She miscarried after she had gone to sleep with her lover." "Uzowulu's body, I salute you," said Evil Forest, silencing him. "What kind of lover sleeps with a pregnant woman?" There was a loud murmur of approbation from the crowd. Odukwe continued: "Last year when my sister was recovering from an illness, he beat her again so that if the neighbours had not gone in to save her she would have been killed. We heard of it, and did as you have been told. The law of Umuofia is that if a woman runs away from her husband her bride-price is returned. But in this case she ran away to save her life. Her two children belong to Uzowulu. We do not dispute it, but they are too young to leave their mother. If, in the other hand, Uzowulu should recover from his madness and come in the proper way to beg his wife to return she will do so on the understanding that if he ever beats her again we shall cut off his genitals for him." The crowd roared with laughter. Evil Forest rose to his feet and order was immediately restored. A steady cloud of smoke rose from his head. He sat down again and called two witnesses. They were both Uzowulu's neighbours, and they agreed about the beating. Evil Forest then stood up, pulled out his staff and thrust it into the earth again. He ran a few steps in the direction of the women,- they all fled in terror, only to return to their places almost immediately. The nine egwugwu then went away to consult together in their house. They were silent for a long time. Then the metal gong sounded and the flute was blown. The egwugwu had


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

we shall go to ICODEF and be showered with praise for being the first scholars to empirically document an encounter with the courtly fae of Ljosland. I shall get my funding. You will make a name for yourself—your cherished tenure will follow soon thereafter. Do you know who was recently appointed to the hiring committee?” He folded his hands and smiled at me. I held his gaze. I will not lie and say I was not tempted by his suggestion. It would be an easy scheme to carry out, an exceptionally easy one to get away with. I was too practical not to talk through my concerns before ruling the idea out. “You have already earned a reputation for falsifying research,” I said. “Would such dramatic claims not fall under suspicion?” “Ah, that’s where you come in, my dear Em. Your reputation is spotless. No one would believe you would participate in a ruse of this magnitude. Of any magnitude. You will launder my reputation most efficiently.” I believed him. But it did not take me more than a moment to make my decision. Perhaps I did not care—could not care—as much as I should for the fate of two youths. But I was also not someone who would put glory before discovery, empty praise before enlightenment. This was about the encyclopaedia, but it was also about something greater than that—the thing that drove me to create the encyclopaedia in the first place. “We don’t know for certain that Lilja and Margret are lost,” I said. He gave a groan and pressed his hands to his face. I waited. “If you wish it,” he said from between his fingers, “I will help you.” I examined him carefully, for I am used to dealing in faerie bargains, and could recognize one in his voice. Yet it was a faerie bargain with only one side, a singular thing indeed. I could not comprehend his motivations. “I wish it,” I said. “Shall I say it three times?” “I suppose you might as well, you infernal creature.” I did. “Wonderful,” he replied sourly. “Well, don’t expect me to help with the packing. I am doing this against my own better judgment. And if the provisions prove inadequate, I am turning the whole mad expedition around.” SKIP NOTES * Of course, I refer here to de Grey’s disappearance whilst investigating the sinister goat-footed mountain faeries of Austria in 1861, and Eichorn’s subsequent vanishing act a year later during one of his many rescue attempts. (Eichorn was convinced de Grey was abducted into Faerie, discounting the commonly accepted narrative of her having taken a fall during a nasty storm.) Decades later, villagers throughout the Berchtesgaden Alps claim to hear Eichorn’s voice calling “Dani! Dani!” during winter tempests, though whether this amounts to evidence that one or both remain trapped in some liminal alpine realm is the subject of much conjecture. See When Folklorists Become Folklore: Ethnographic Accounts of the Eichorn/de Grey Saga by Ernst Graf. 18th November The provisions were more than adequate. The entire village came together


would be Genial Arroya; it’s a g pronounced like an h. He’s the son of Genial Sr., the president. They aren’t on good terms.” “So you’re working with the son?” Dexter nodded. “Okay, give it to him then.” “I can’t just peddle your product without financial incentive.” “It’s your product. too.” “Cut me in.” “You get twenty-five percent of the sales down there.” “Thirty-five.” I sighed. He had the self-assuredness of a petulant child, which made bargaining futile. “Thirty-five,” I ceded. Orson walked back toward us, clapped a hand on each of our shoulders. “What’re we talking about here?” “The photo shoot,” Dexter said quickly, making a show of reading texts on his watch. “The Times reporter should be here soon.” Then a distant whirring: I could see a dot in the sky but none of its defining features. “Is that the air taxi?” Orson asked, craning his neck. Dexter looked from one of us to the other and grinned. “Yep.” The whirring turned to thwacking as the air taxi settled on the ground in front of us. Dexter did some ostentatious pressing of buttons on his watch and said, “A male tiger can weigh up to one ton.” Then he opened the hatch and a white Bengal tiger stood awkwardly in the passenger compartment, purring loudly. I stepped back, heart pounding, and Orson clapped his hands together and crowed with laughter. “This is Mickey,” Dexter said. “He’s totally harmless. I had the drone grab him from my place.” Mickey stepped gingerly out of the drone, and Orson collapsed to his knees and held his hand out to Mickey, who began licking it like a dog. “See, that’s the beauty of the air taxi,” Dexter said. “It can be programmed to fly wherever you want using the simple GPS technology I’ve got on my watch.” He held up his watch face, tapped it. “I don’t even need the remote control. Tell me this isn’t shit you want to get behind.” “We want to get behind it,” I said, distracted by Orson’s giggles as the tiger licked his palm. “Can Mickey be in the photo shoot?” Orson asked. “Hell yes,” Dexter said. “You’ve got creative control, man. We can pose with the tiger, we can pose in midair, whatever.” Orson turned to me, gleeful, all pretense of composure abandoned. “Isn’t this great?” he asked. I smiled. His eyes were so bright it was hard not to. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s really great.” * * * The profile came out a week later. “Bliss Effect: The Combined Genius of Orson Ortman and Dexter Ellhorn.” Orson and Dexter standing arms akimbo among a sea of mini drones. Orson flying a drone while Dexter watched. Orson and Dexter and Mickey peering out of the air taxi, hovering in midair. I speed-read the profile aloud while Orson lay in the hotel bed next to me. As usual, I had Brianna book us two rooms, and as usual, we’d completely neglected one of them. Orson was still naked from our exploits, smoking, staring at the ceiling. I was


crashed in Tokyo or something.” “Oh, that kind of left? Like in a hurry?” She grins. “Like a man seeing his ex-wife show up with her lawyer. First proper human thing I saw him do. He got a call and: poof. He was out the door and down the line. Didn’t even hang around for the thank-you speech.” “Ouch. Girlfriend, you think?” “I couldn’t possibly say,” she says, then ruins it with “but the things one hears about that man it could hardly be anything else. Now shoo! I have to figure out this rotation. Go carry someone!” “Can I bring you another coffee later?” “If you want to find the way to my heart, bring me one from the place over the street.” “Yes, ma’am.” Stefan Tonfamecasca was here the night Roddy Tebbit was killed. And he left early. * * * — Sometime after I get back to bed, Marcus the nurse brings a Jell-O shot full of nutrition that tastes of steamed broccoli, and he’s pleased to poke me in the bullet hole again and remind me to wash it. He gives me a squirt bottle like the ones boxers have to drink from between rounds and says I can just sluice some soapy water over myself. A passing registrar makes an inappropriate wolf-whistle and later a tired nurse-administrator ticks boxes and signs me out. I’m done. * * * — I walk down the street through the snow. The city is still white, with inclusions of anthracite and brown mountain dust. I can feel the putty in my side, less like a golf ball and more like a hard steel grape. It’s itchy but I’m not allowed to touch it—“I don’t want you to fucking fiddle with it, Cal, I want you to pretend that it’s a little tiny feathery bird nesting there, and if you touch it the other birds will stop loving it because it smells of your fingers, and they will peck it to death and that will be on you”—so I don’t touch it. But I really want to. * * * — I stop by my place to change clothes because the ones I was wearing when I was admitted are a mess. The hospital laundry got the blood out but they’re still busted at the seams and there’s a hole in the jacket and the shirt where the bullet went in. I look like the ghost of Jack Ruby. I shower and I’m having fantasies about raking my fingers over the skin. I do what Marcus said and splash water over the wound from the bottle and that makes it about a billion times worse. God knows how I’m going to survive doing that every six hours and not touch it. Maybe it’s better I don’t try and just end up with a skin discolouration that looks like a sphincter. I breathe in the steam, tasting metal pipes and the deep mineral background of Othrys, ice and iron and shale. Why did someone want to kill Susan Green? Was Roddy Tebbit right


have no idea what he wants me to be. “Jack,” I say. A barely there whisper, but he can hear me. He can hear everything. “Jack. I . . . I just . . .” I shake my head. And then I can’t stand to be seen anymore, so I take a step back and weave my way through the room, looking for Monica to make my excuses. 10 INERTIA I N HINDSIGHT ,” C ECE MUSES WHILE NIBBLING PENSIVELY ON A piece of gouda, “we should have seen this coming. Boston’s population is seven hundred thousand. Say half are men, and half of that twenty-one to forty—Faux’s target demo. Now, Faux’s not cheap, and the masses are getting poorer while Jeff Bezos ruthlessly profits off my desperate need for one-day shipping of dill-pickle lip balm. So maybe only a fourth of the dudes can afford to hire us. And of that fourth, half is either in a happily committed relationship or . . . has morals. Now, consider that we’ve been doing this for about four years, fake-girlfriending an average of two clients a month. If we crunch the numbers . . .” She looks at me expectantly. I consider pretending I’m not a human calculator, then give up. “Ninety-six men.” I sigh. “And their family and friends. In a pool of twenty-one thousand.” Cece holds a carrot to Hedgie, who takes a delicate nibble. “Which makes the probability of us coming across someone we met through Faux in our private lives . . . ? Time to nerd out, nerd queen.” “Bayesian probability? Or frequentist?” Cece’s grin is my favorite of hers, with the tongue sticking out of her teeth. “Doesn’t matter. The point is, it’s possible that in our quixotic quest to make enough money to pay our taxes—something Jeff Dill Pickle Bezos is not asked to do, by the way—we . . .” “Fucked up?” “A good assessment.” I let my forehead slide to the table. It’s cold, and sticky with something that might not be Hedgie’s urine. “What if Austin tells his mother that I’m some kind of con woman who tricks her clients into . . . into . . .” “Into not fucking her? Did he look like he might want to talk to Monica?” “I . . .” Once Jack was done with him, he just looked scared. Shitless, one might add. But also angry, and angry people do angry, stupid things. Like climbing on top of a toilet in the men’s restroom with Jack Smith-Turner’s hands pressed into their waist. Or forgetting to monitor their glucose levels. God, what a shit show of an interview. At least the most disgraceful moments happened behind the scenes—yay for semiprivate humiliation. “I don’t know.” “Either way, as a mother myself,” Cece says with a meaningful glance at Hedgie, “if my douchebag kid came to me whining that the rising star of theoretical physics denied him an eighty—” “Seventy.” “—seventy-dollar hand job—the audacity of that bitch—I’d exclusively be angry at my douchebag kid.” I straighten and sigh


I do the dishes, and it ends up making more work. What else?” “I don’t like when you downplay your intelligence.” “I’m working on that,” he says. “And honestly, the medicine helps. So does feeling good at my job.” My rib cage seems to shrink, or else my heart grows. “Good. You should be at least a fraction as proud of yourself as I am of you.” “Those,” he says quietly, smiling, “are not fighting words.” “That’s because it’s your turn,” I say. “You’re mad at me too.” “I am?” he says. “Furious,” I say. He squeezes me to him. “Furious,” he breathes. “About what again?” Sabrina’s words replay in my head: You’re losing the love of your life because you’re too indecisive to just pick a wedding date . . . Parth saw what Wyn wrote . . . you sat there and let your life happen to you instead of fighting for what you want. My stomach flip-flops. “Maybe because of the wedding.” “What wedding?” he says. “Ours,” I say. “We didn’t have one,” he says. “And maybe you think I didn’t care,” I say. “Or that I was afraid to commit to you, and that’s why I couldn’t make any decisions. Maybe you think I was intentionally putting it off.” He swallows, murmurs, “Weren’t you?” My head swims at the confirmation, the final piece of the puzzle clicking into place, five months too late. Tears gloss my eyes. It wasn’t one moment when everything went wrong, when I failed him, when we lost each other. There were dozens, on either side. Missed signs. Dropped lines. It fucking hurts to realize it. To understand that I made him think I didn’t want him. “I was trying to be easy, Wyn,” I choke out. “You were so unhappy. And I didn’t want to rush you while you were mourning. I didn’t want to need you when you were in so much pain, so I pretended I was fine. I was scared that if you realized what a wreck I was, you wouldn’t want me, so I pushed you away.” His mouth softens, but his fingers draw tight. “Harriet,” he says, all rough tenderness, the exact contradiction of Wyn Connor, funneled into one spoken word. “I always want you.” It takes me a second to get anything out. “Another thing I’m mad about . . . I hate when I hurt your feelings and you don’t tell me, so I have to try to guess what I did and how to fix it. Like tonight.” “Tonight?” he asks. “When we got back in the car. You wouldn’t even look at me.” “Shit, Harriet,” he says. “I was just embarrassed. About this entire fucking week. About dragging you into this situation when it turns out there was no good reason.” “But when you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I assume things, Wyn,” I say. “And it’s all I can think about. That I’ve messed things up.” “That’s not healthy,” he says. “I know, but it’s the truth,” I say. “Well, I don’t like


STRAW Because maybe Nina knows he drives a black Cadillac Escalade, Aleem is traveling in a white Lexus SUV driven by his homey, Kuba Franklin. Earlier, Kuba parked two blocks from Nina’s shitcan house, and Aleem walked to her place. Now that Aleem is back in the Lexus, riding shotgun, Kuba takes them into Nina’s block and parks across the street, at a distance but within sight of the house, so they have a clear line on whatever might go down. He lets the engine run to keep the heater on, but he switches off the windshield wipers, so as not to be too obvious. “You drippin’ all over my upholstery,” Kuba says. “Fuckin’ weather app said won’t be no rain till four o’clock. I ruin this jacket, I oughta sue their ass.” “What makes me wanna jack up somebody is my health app.” “You got a health app?” “Too much data, man. Too much naggin’. Says eat this, next thing says iffen you eat it, you get cancer.” “You got a health app?” “Sends me an alert, says it can track my menstrual cycle, predict when’s my next period. They think I’m goin’ trans or what?” “You confuse ’em, spellin’ Cuba with a K, like a girl might. What’s the point, gangbangers like us havin’ a health app?” “Come sixty-five, I want my brain and balls workin’ good.” “Sixty-five?” “I wanna enjoy retirement.” “How old are you, homey? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine?” “Twenty-seven.” “Only way you get as far as fifty is Jesus pullin’ a miracle for you.” “I believe in positive thinkin’.” “You do, huh?” “I do.” “So a carload of Crips or Bloods, gunned up for a ride, pulls up next to us, outta nowhere.” “This is too deep into Vig ground.” “Nowhere’s too deep. They got themselves a full-auto breakdown loaded with slugs in a big-dick magazine.” “You gotta worst case it to make your point.” “They hose us through your window. How does positive thinkin’ make a difference?” “It’s better than negative thinkin’.” “It is, huh?” “Damn right.” “How’s it better?” “You worry about a thing, you’re callin’ it to you.” “That your philosophy?” “A piece of it, yeah.” “So now I’m gonna worry about a good-lookin’ bitch knockin’ on this window to give me the sweetest piece of head I ever got. Hope this don’t take too long ’fore it happens.” Kuba laughs. Aleem says, “You see the error of your philosophy.” “No way. I’m laughin’ in spite of myself. It don’t mean you’re Socrates.” “Don’t matter how long you live, homey. Matters that you get what you want when you want it. Matters that you jack them up ’stead of they jack you up. Matters that no one never wants to die enough to disrespect you.” They sit for a moment without speaking, cocooned in the roar of the downpour, which to Aleem is the sound and the promise of power, matching the quieter but persistent roar within him, the power within him to enforce his will with violence and be known as a war god of


found out his treason was to simply dispose of me after he captured the Mufsids and Urabi. He plucked the next thorn of uncertainty before I could speak. “You will be constantly surrounded by guards if you win the Alcalah—independent guards from every kingdom who do not obey any command but yours. Not even mine.” It didn’t matter. We both knew that if he wanted to kill me, he would. Yet I found myself struggling to believe he would risk plunging his own kingdom into turmoil by murdering his Champion. If he accused another kingdom of killing me, it would be grounds for war. Even Felix, whose intelligence I admired less than a rutting pig’s, had not dared to lay a hand on me after Arin’s declaration. The world swayed. My fingers strained around the branch. I could no longer keep the darkness at bay. “I believe you,” I slurred. My last recollection before my hand slackened and my body dropped was of the Nizahl Heir running, sliding in the mud trail, and the collision of our bodies over the edge of the cliff. ARIN He was alive. Bleeding quite profusely, but alive. Good. His calculations hadn’t failed him. Arin exhaled, rolling his shoulders with a wince. The river lapped at his legs. The Jasadi lay unmoving against him. He had caught her at a precise angle, using the curve of the riverbank to slide to the rocks instead of tumbling straight down. The moon spared little light to see her with. Arin turned to the side, laying her inside a shallow puddle. Still no movement. Water lapped against the boulders, lifting her hair into a cloud of black curls circling her face. Combined with the deathly pallor of her skin, the effect pricked a rare bead of disquiet in the Nizahl Heir. Blood spread in the river from the wounds in her arm and leg. She wasn’t healing. Nothing could be easy with her. The possibility of her magic not healing her on its own had occurred to him, but he had hoped he was wrong. Arin pulled off his gloves and hesitated. The last time he brushed against her magic, it had consumed him. The utter loss of control was not a memory he would soon forget. Her chest was barely rising. If she died, he would lose his best chance to lure the Mufsids and Urabi to the Alcalah. Sharp rocks dug into Arin’s knees as he loomed over the girl. With no small amount of distaste, he grasped the Jasadi’s hands. If she were awake, he had no doubt she’d claw his palms raw. She had the temperament of a deranged goose. Every interaction he’d shared with her had thoroughly convinced him he was not dealing with a stable woman. The hunger seized him as soon as their hands touched. Howling through Arin, digging into him with a thousand whittling blades. His teeth cut his bottom lip open. Her magic—it was strong. Too strong. He should have guessed as soon as he touched her in the Relic Room


on my body except for my own) and my pals (Bob, the manager at a furniture store in the one strip mall you avoid going to, and Harriet, who works at the neck-pillow store at the airport) getting our blood pressures up for seven minutes and not a second longer at the end of a grueling week. Scissoring So nice they had to list it twice. * * * — If I was into role-play I’d literally be like, “Let’s do the one where we play hot dog vendors at the Tigers’ stadium who get home late and are too tired to touch each other’s genitals so they just fall asleep in matching recliners, fully clothed,” but I do understand the transgressive appeal of fucking in a nun’s costume, even though I have had just enough African Methodist Episcopal indoctrination that even the idea of initiating ass eating while wearing God’s uniform makes me feel phantom flames from hell lapping at the back of my neck. My ultimate sex fantasy would be something like: I want to rig the sky so it rains and thunders for three days (but not scary thunder) and the rain magically doesn’t flood anything or make the roads too treacherous to get a pesto-based pizza delivered in a reasonable amount of time, also the power doesn’t ever go out and the Wi-Fi stays strong, plus I get to wear the same threadbare sweatshirt I always wear, without a pinching-ass digging-ass bra, and we watch thirteen straight hours of television and then make out in the dark and go to sleep in separate rooms and maybe I’ll use my high-tech vibrator that simulates sucking human lips alone (you need one of those!), if I’m not too exhausted. You’re lying if you say that doesn’t sound like the best night of your life. No one is actually fantasizing about figuring out which leg hole is which in the Sexy-Illusion Bodystocking! I can’t find this on Pornhub anymore, so I’ve got “Two Old Nuns Having Amzing [sic] Lesbian Sex” queued up on a site purporting to have “the best in lesbian erotica.” And I want to talk about how this porn movie you are supposed to furtively jerk off to in your linen closet, or wherever you hide from your family, is thirty-nine minutes and eleven seconds long. I am genuinely curious: Does anyone need this much time to bring themselves to orgasm, as they risk second-degree-burning the tops of their thighs from a blisteringly hot laptop? Also, are there people who watch porn like a show and, I don’t know, take note of the cinematography and shit while they eat chips? Thirty-nine minutes is such a long time to keep one hand hovering over the pause button in case someone wakes up or comes home! I would like to be finished in a maximum of three minutes and nineteen seconds!!!!!! Okay so, we open with a sweeping overhead shot of the Italian (?) countryside (??), and then we follow the camera inside the convent to find a very stern


a television and a record player. “I’m putting your bags in the spare room,” Nick says. “You have a spare room?” Nick snorts. “You thought I was inviting you to sleep on my couch? I mean, the room isn’t much, but—” Andy flings a sofa cushion across the room, missing Nick by a yard. A moment later, he hears sounds coming from the kitchen—the water running, doors opening and shutting. “Another drink?” Nick calls. “Sure, why not.” Nick brings over two glasses of what looks like whiskey. “Budge over.” Andy manages to haul himself upright and takes the offered glass. Nick, meanwhile, lights a cigarette and passes it over. Andy doesn’t really smoke, but he always wants a cigarette when someone else is smoking, so Nick just preempts the whole song and dance by giving him one straight off the bat. “I ran into Emily at your apartment,” Nick says. “She was picking up some things so you wouldn’t be bothered by seeing them there.” Andy doesn’t know what to say to that, and it doesn’t matter, because Nick keeps talking. “She looked awful. She obviously felt awful, too. She cried all over me.” There are probably a dozen things he ought to be feeling, but primarily he’s glad Nick didn’t try to shun Emily. “I feel bad for her.” “Me too. She fucked up—” “She really didn’t. She met someone else and didn’t want to dump me over the telephone.” “She fucked up,” Nick repeats, more firmly now. “But who hasn’t? Well, you haven’t. But you’re the exception.” Andy’s given up trying to correct Nick on this bit of lunacy. “Go to hell.” “Come on.” Nick takes a drag from his cigarette. “You lead a blameless life.” Andy doesn’t know how to answer that, so instead he watches Nick’s hand idly opening and closing his lighter. “I feel guilty for having slept with her. Is that strange? It was only after we were engaged, but now we’re not getting married and I feel like I did something wrong.” Nick looks away and shakes his head. “Only you, Andy.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Only you would manage to make this whole thing into your own fault. Did you make it good for her?” “Did I what?” Andy sputters. “I’m trying to figure out what you have to feel guilty about. Did you make it a pleasant experience for her?” Nick articulates these last words deliberately, as if otherwise Andy might not know what he means. “Uh. Yes.” Andy and Nick never talk about sex, at least not any sex that either of them has. It’s a sort of conversational third rail that they’re very careful around. Andy thinks it’s probably best to steer clear of any topic that might make Nick feel like he has to either lie or sidestep the question of who exactly he sleeps with. Andy has seen Nick look at men, and he’d noticed that Nick never talked about women, but he didn’t put two and two together until Emily did it for him. Until Nick went