friend’s face in years, and it was enough to pull his full attention. “One sugar farm is nothing when one considers the scope of what you accomplish on a weekly basis, Calloway.” Simon’s eyebrows rose high. The sale hadn’t even been finalized yet. “How did you know—” “You don’t spend your every moment at the heart of the ton without learning a few things.” As concerning as it was to think people in London already knew about him selling the farm less than a week ago, Simon was more fixated on the way his friend spoke about Society. Though Forester was a gentleman in all ways, his estate wasn’t remotely livable, which led to him either staying in London or spending his time with friends across the country. He had no sanctuary like the pond, but that had never seemed to bother him. Simon would have fallen apart without a place to go, but Forester seemed to thrive. “I don’t know how you stand being around Society day in and day out,” Simon said, shaking his head. Forester smirked. “By necessity, my friend. Purely by necessity. You don’t think I envy your little hamlet here? But a man needs a partner in life, and I am not going to find her in the countryside.” How was Nick Forester still single? As far as Simon knew, he was one of the most sought-after men outside of the peerage, and he could have had his pick of a wife. Simon envied him that, just as Forester apparently envied Simon his home. Perhaps, if he had the time, Simon might have met Lucy under different circumstances, and things would have been different. There he went, thinking about Lucy again. Forester didn’t help matters when he said, “Speaking of women in the countryside, we should talk about Lucy.” Simon groaned. “Why would we need to do that?” “Because you were alone with her yesterday. Or you would have been, if I hadn’t followed you. And Olivia mentioned finding the two of you along that same path the other day. Unchaperoned, I should add.” A sense of foreboding settled in Simon’s gut as he considered that. Whenever trapped in London, he was always careful to avoid any situation that might compromise himself or a lady. But here at home? He didn’t usually given much thought to Society’s rules. “Calloway, she is to be your sister-in-law.” It was too much to hope Forester had said that as a reason to think nothing untoward had happened. “I know that,” Simon said slowly. “Do you?” “Nothing happened, Forester.” Simon couldn’t fully believe himself, however. At the pond yesterday, something had nearly happened, stopped only by Forester. Simon had temporarily lost his mind when he fell into that water. “How long were you there?” he asked warily. For once, Forester didn’t smile. “Long enough. Have you discovered something about our Lucy, or is your brother going to have to call you out when he rises from his deathbed?” “Nothing happened,” Simon repeated. “I haven’t compromised Miss Staley, and I have no


Roach’s PA just called. He’d like you to attend a meeting this morning. It means I have to move some of your appointments again. Is that okay.” His tongue. 313/551 “Sure. Yes,” I mutter trying to halt my wayward thoughts. She grins and ducks out of my office . . . leaving me with my delicious memory of last night. From: Christian Grey Subject: Hyde Date: September 1, 2011 15:24 To: Anastasia Grey Anastasia For your information, Hyde has been refused bail and remanded in custody. He’s charged with attempted kidnap and arson. As yet no date has been set for the trial. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. From: Anastasia Grey Subject: Hyde Date: September 1, 2011 15:53 To: Christian Grey That’s good news. Does this mean you’ll lighten up on security? I really don’t see eye to eye with Prescott. Ana x 314/551 Anastasia Grey Commissioning Editor, SIP From: Christian Grey Subject: Hyde Date: September 1, 2011 15:59 To: Anastasia Grey No. Security will remain in place. No arguments. What’s wrong with Prescott? If you don’t like her, we’ll replace her. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. I scowl at his high-handed e-mail. Prescott isn’t that bad. From: Anastasia Grey Subject: Keep your hair on! Date: September 1, 2011 16:03 To: Christian Grey I was just asking (rolls eyes). And I’ll think about Prescott. Stow that twitchy palm! Ana x Anastasia Grey Commissioning Editor, SIP From: Christian Grey 315/551 Subject: Don’t tempt me. Date: September 1, 2011 16:11 To: Anastasia Grey I can assure you, Mrs. Grey, that my hair is very firmly attached—has this not been demonstrated often enough by your good self? My palm, however, is twitching. I might do something about that tonight. x Christian Grey Not bald yet CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. From: Anastasia Grey Subject: Squirm Date: September 1, 2011 16:20 To: Christian Grey Promises, promises . . . Now stop pestering me. I am trying to work; I have an impromptu meeting with an author. Will try not to be distracted by thoughts of you during the meeting. A x Anastasia Grey Commissioning Editor, SIP 316/551 From: Anastasia Grey Subject: Sailing & Soaring & Spanking Date: September 5, 2011 09:18 To: Christian Grey Husband You sure know how to show a girl a good time. I shall of course be expecting this kind of treatment every weekend. You are spoiling me. I love it. Your wife xox Anastasia Grey Commissioning Editor, SIP From: Christian Grey Subject: My Life’s Mission . . . Date: September 5, 2011 09:25 To: Anastasia Grey Is to spoil you, Mrs. Grey. And keep you safe because I love you. Christian Grey Smitten CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. Oh my. Could he be any more romantic? From: Anastasia Grey Subject: My Life’s Mission . . . Date: September 5, 2011 09:33 To: Christian Grey 317/551 Is to let you—because I love you, too. Now stop being so sappy. You are making me cry. Anastasia Grey Equally Smitten Commissioning Editor, SIP The following day, I gaze at the


autumn night. Anne ran blithely up the hill and into the kitchen, where a hot supper was waiting on the table. "So you've got back?" said Marilla, folding up her knitting. "Yes, and oh, it's so good to be back," said Anne joyously. "I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken! You don't mean to say you cooked that for me!" "Yes, I did," said Marilla. "I thought you'd be hungry after such a drive and need something real appetizing. Hurry and take off your things, and we'll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in. I'm glad you've got back, I must say. It's been fearful lonesome here without you, and I never put in four longer days." After supper Anne sat before the fire between Matthew and Marilla, and gave them a full account of her visit. "I've had a splendid time," she concluded happily, "and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life. But the best of it all was the coming home." 30. The Queens Class Is Organized Marilla laid her knitting on her lap and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were tired, and she thought vaguely that she must see about having her glasses changed the next time she went to town, for her eyes had grown tired very often of late. It was nearly dark, for the full November twilight had fallen around Green Gables, and the only light in the kitchen came from the dancing red flames in the stove. Anne was curled up Turk-fashion on the hearthrug, gazing into that joyous glow where the sunshine of a hundred summers was being distilled from the maple cordwood. She had been reading, but her book had slipped to the floor, and now she was dreaming, with a smile on her parted lips. Glittering castles in Spain were shaping themselves out of the mists and rainbows of her lively fancy; adventures wonderful and enthralling were happening to her in cloudland-adventures that always turned out triumphantly and never involved her in scrapes like those of actual life. Marilla looked at her with a tenderness that would never have been suffered to reveal itself in any clearer light than that soft mingling of fireshine and shadow. The lesson of a love that should display itself easily in spoken word and open look was one Marilla could never learn. But she had learned to love this slim, gray-eyed girl with an affection all the deeper and stronger from its very undemonstrativeness. Her love made her afraid of being unduly indulgent, indeed. She had an uneasy feeling that it was rather sinful to set one's heart so intensely on any human creature as she had set hers on Anne, and perhaps she performed a sort of unconscious penance for this by being stricter and more critical than if the girl had been less dear to her. Certainly Anne herself had no idea how Marilla loved her. She sometimes thought wistfully that Marilla was very hard to please and distinctly lacking in sympathy and


the public with a discontented eye, became aware of me. The second piece was the last new grand comic Christmas pantomime, in the first scene of which, it pained me to suspect that I detected Mr. Wopsle with red worsted legs under a highly magnified phosphoric countenance and a shock of red curtain-fringe for his hair, engaged in the manufacture of thunderbolts in a mine, and displaying great cowardice when his gigantic master came home (very hoarse) to dinner. But he presently presented himself under worthier circumstances; for, the Genius of Youthful Love being in want of assistance - on account of the parental brutality of an ignorant farmer who opposed the choice of his daughter's heart, by purposely falling upon the object, in a flour sack, out of the firstfloor window - summoned a sententious Enchanter; and he, coming up from the antipodes rather unsteadily, after an apparently violent journey, proved to be Mr. Wopsle in a high-crowned hat, with a necromantic work in one volume under his arm. The business of this enchanter on earth, being principally to be talked at, sung at, butted at, danced at, and flashed at with fires of various colours, he had a good deal of time on his hands. And I observed with great surprise, that he devoted it to staring in my direction as if he were lost in amazement. There was something so remarkable in the increasing glare of Mr. Wopsle's eye, and he seemed to be turning so many things over in his mind and to grow so confused, that I could not make it out. I sat thinking of it, long after he had ascended to the clouds in a large watch-case, and still I could not make it out. I was still thinking of it when I came out of the theatre an hour afterwards, and found him waiting for me near the door. "How do you do?" said I, shaking hands with him as we turned down the street together. "I saw that you saw me." "Saw you, Mr. Pip!" he returned. "Yes, of course I saw you. But who else was there?" "Who else?" "It is the strangest thing," said Mr. Wopsle, drifting into his lost look again; "and yet I could swear to him." Becoming alarmed, I entreated Mr. Wopsle to explain his meaning. "Whether I should have noticed him at first but for your being there," said Mr. Wopsle, going on in the same lost way, "I can't be positive; yet I think I should." Involuntarily I looked round me, as I was accustomed to look round me when I went home; for, these mysterious words gave me a chill. "Oh! He can't be in sight," said Mr. Wopsle. "He went out, before I went off, I saw him go." Having the reason that I had, for being suspicious, I even suspected this poor actor. I mistrusted a design to entrap me into some admission. Therefore, I glanced at him as we walked on together, but said nothing. "I had a ridiculous fancy that he


beautifully blue that Anne couldn't help feeling it had been freshly washed! "It looks just as if it had come back from the laundry," she told the others. They squealed with laughter at her. She did say odd things at times. But they knew what she meant. The day had a lovely new feeling about itthe clouds were so pink in the bright blue sky, and the sea looked so smooth and fresh. It was impossible to imagine that it had been so rough the day before. George got her boat. Then she went to get Tim, while the boys hauled the boat down to the sea. Alf, the fisher-boy, was surprised to see George so early. He was about to go with his father, fishing. He grinned at George. "You going fishing, too?" he said to her. "My, wasn't that a storm yesterday! I thought you'd be caught in it." "We were," said George. "Come on, Tim! Come on!" Tim was very pleased to see George so early. He capered round her as she ran back to the others, almost tripping her up as she went. He leapt into the boat as soon as he saw it, and stood at the stern, his red tongue out, his tail wagging violently. "I wonder his tail keeps on," said Anne, looking at it. "One day, Timothy, you'll wag it right off." They set off to the island. It was easy to row now, because the sea was so calm. They came to the island, and rowed around it to the other side. And there was the wreck, piled high on some sharp rocks! It had settled down now and did not stir as waves slid under it. It lay a little to one side, and the broken mast, now shorter than before, stuck out at an angle. "There she is," said Julian, in excitement. "Poor old wreck! I guess she's a bit more battered now. What a noise she made when she went crashing on to those rocks yesterday!" "How do we get to her?" asked Anne, looking at the mass of ugly, sharp rocks all around. But George was not at all dismayed. She knew almost every inch of the coast around her little island. She pulled steadily at the oars and soon came near to the rocks in which the great wreck rested. The children looked at the wreck from their boat. It was big, much bigger than they had imagined when they had peered at it from the top of the water. It was encrusted with shellfish of some kind, and strands of brown and green seaweed hung down. It smelt queer. It had great holes in its sides, showing where it had battered against rocks. There were holes in the deck too. Altogether it looked a sad and forlorn old ship- but to the four children it was the most exciting thing in the whole world. They rowed to the rocks on which the wreck lay. The tide washed over them. George took a look round. "We'll tie our


take my shoes off right now and sell them to you.” I bent and began unlacing my shoes. I got the right shoe off and then I could feel the emcee approaching me, asking for the microphone. I hobbled to the other side of the stage, clutching the microphone in one hand and my shoe in the other. “Would you buy this shoe?” I asked. Murmurs from the audience. “If by wearing this shoe you could be made whole again, would you buy it? Would you, like, set up a meditation practice around it?” “Mr. Green,” the emcee said, urgency in her voice. I turned to her. “Let them decide.” Then I turned back to the audience. “Would you buy this shoe?” Some yeses, some nos, some bewildered laughter, some noises of disgruntlement. The stage lights pulsed like dying stars. I could see galaxies in them. My eyes began to tear up, either from their beauty or from the strain it took to look at them. “Honestly? I think you would buy this shoe. It’s how our brains work. I could tell you anything about this shoe, literally anything, and if I told it to you in the right way, you’d believe it. That’s the power of suggestion. That’s how much we want to believe in innovation.” I sat down at the edge of the stage and I could finally see beyond the lights. What I saw was an abstract impressionist rendering of an audience, shadow creatures seated at shadow tables, and what looked like a centaur standing up with a centauride on his arm and the two of them walking away in shame and anger. I could feel this shame and anger as clearly as I could feel my own happiness. It was a happiness so intense that it was disorienting, spangly and shiny, both palm-of-the-hand compact and too big to be contained in the room. “Susan, this whole thing is dedicated to you, this whole speech. You’re my inspiration.” I turned around and tossed the microphone back to the emcee, who didn’t catch it, and slid off the stage. Commotion, the emcee apologizing for me, Brianna grabbing my arm and hurrying me out of the banquet hall. “What was that?” she asked, all propriety vanished. I struggled with my jacket, giggling again, this time at the literal halos of the lobby lights, at the darkness encroaching on my vision. “I had to say it,” I said. “Ez, please—I need you to give me the tabs back.” I obediently fished the gold case from my pocket and put it in her hand. “We have to do damage control,” she said. Behind me: a voice, elegant, reverse aged: “Ezra.” We both turned. Susan Lehigh emerged from the banquet room door into the lobby, her heels clicking, her smile inquisitive. “Very impressive,” she said. “And sweet of you to dedicate that to me.” She was fuzzing in and out, her image overtaken by something like the static on an old television screen. “We’re just on our way home,” Brianna said, her voice thick


said the captain. “You’re a good boy in THE next morning we fell early to work, for the trans- your line, Jim, but I don’t think you and me’ll go to sea again. You’re too much of the born favourite for me. Is that you, portation of this great mass of gold near a mile by land to the John Silver? What brings you here, man?” beach, and thence three miles by boat to the HISPANIOLA, “Come back to my dooty, sir,” returned Silver. was a considerable task for so small a number of workmen. “Ah!” said the captain, and that was all he said. The three fellows still abroad upon the island did not greatly What a supper I had of it that night, with all my friends trouble us; a single sentry on the shoulder of the hill was around me; and what a meal it was, with Ben Gunn’s salted sufficient to ensure us against any sudden onslaught, and we goat and some delicacies and a bottle of old wine from the thought, besides, they had had more than enough of fight- HISPANIOLA. Never, I am sure, were people gayer or hap- ing. pier. And there was Silver, sitting back almost out of the Therefore the work was pushed on briskly. Gray and Ben Contents firelight, but eating heartily, prompt to spring forward when Gunn came and went with the boat, while the rest during anything was wanted, even joining quietly in our laughter— their absences piled treasure on the beach. Two of the bars, the same bland, polite, obsequious seaman of the voyage out. slung in a rope’s end, made a good load for a grown man— Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 284 285 one that he was glad to walk slowly with. For my part, as I was lowed by the former silence. not much use at carrying, I was kept busy all day in the cave “Heaven forgive them,” said the doctor; “’tis the mutineers!” packing the minted money into bread-bags. “All drunk, sir,” struck in the voice of Silver from behind It was a strange collection, like Billy Bones’s hoard for the us. diversity of coinage, but so much larger and so much more Silver, I should say, was allowed his entire liberty, and in varied that I think I never had more pleasure than in sorting spite of daily rebuffs, seemed to regard himself once more as them. English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Georges, and quite a privileged and friendly dependent. Indeed, it was re- Louises, doubloons and double guineas and moidores and markable how well he bore these slights and with what sequins, the pictures of all the kings of Europe for the last unwearying politeness he kept on trying to ingratiate himself hundred years, strange Oriental pieces stamped with what with all. Yet, I think, none treated him better than a dog, looked like wisps of string or bits of spider’s web, round pieces unless it was Ben Gunn, who was still terribly afraid of his and square pieces, and pieces bored through


she was extremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so. 'To save expences, my dear,' he replied--'we are going on an expensive excursion.' The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St. Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores of the Mediterranean, towards Provence. They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure; but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock had struck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some of her drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the parlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her father's room, and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he was in his study--for, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently his custom to rise from his restless bed, and go thither to compose his mind. When she was below stairs she looked into this room, but without finding him; and as she returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door, and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he was there. The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass that were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her father to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late an hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; but, considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him, she removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly to the closet. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated at a small table, with papers before him, some of which he was reading with deep attention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbed aloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father was ill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness. She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the subject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence, concluding that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presently he knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him assume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, that partook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silently for a considerable time. When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was hastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she stopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence a miniature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she perceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother. St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily could scarcely believe what she saw to be real.


your brother.” “Hmmm,” he says, but I notice something different in my uncle’s sadness. Its existence seems to have already been accepted. The downcast of his eyes, the heaviness in his back, the sorrow in his smile, and something says to me: This is your Uncle Freddie now. Grief has already set in and changed him, not drastically but markedly. Have Nia, Shu, Jo, or Cam noticed anything like this in me? I am still Maddie. Just a little emptier. “There you go.” Uncle Freddie lets go of my hand. “Get yourself a treat.” He leaves a one-pound coin in my palm and smiles. “Wow.” I grin. “Thank you. I can finally afford to quit my job as a chimney sweep.” He chuckles indulgently; I don’t think he understands the joke and I love him for it. “Don’t spend it all at once.” I look down at the coin and suddenly remember myself back in my primary-school uniform. There was a day when I stole ten pounds out of my dad’s wallet whilst he was in the shower. I’d bought myself and my friends so much chocolate from the corner shop—it was cheap back then. The cashier gave me only a single pound change in exchange for a heavy blue and white striped bag. I remember being impressed that, in the days of thirty-nine-pence chocolate bars and forty-five-pence drink cans, I’d managed to reach a whole number. Somehow Dad knew it was me who had taken the money, and when he got home from work that evening, he didn’t say anything, just … looked around me when I was there. Things were back to normal the next morning and neither of us brought it up, but every now and again, I think about it. I realize only now that I never asked Dad for money after that, but rather waited for him to offer some instead. In the hallway, Mum greets me with a hug. The procession is leading into the living room, but I pause before the doorway, letting Mum walk into me. “Maddie?” she questions. I don’t answer and just carry on into the living room. Dad’s special chair is already gone. The dining table in the corner, previously used to house papers, stray carrier bags, and Dad’s medication, has been cleared. On top lie an assortment of snacks; Mum’s made rock buns and bofrot and tied them in individual bags: to-go. There are canned drinks, bottled water, and a crate of Carlsberg beer. I remember that beer from our first house, in Battersea. I was eleven, maybe twelve, and I opened the fridge for something to drink. I noticed Dad’s opened beer beside the milk and lifted it out. Dad, standing at the stove, looked over his shoulder, as I took a sip. He was going to tell me off, but before he could, I was spitting it out into the sink. Dad chuckled. “Now you know. Don’t waste my beer again, eh?” I rub my eyes hard because I’d never recalled that memory until today. * * *


killed his own wife. He puts his hands on his hips. “Kind of makes you think, doesn’t it?” Sloane steps toward him without a word. She stops a few feet away, keeping the gun tucked behind her back. “Well?” Brody’s eyes narrow into slits. If he’s aware of the water running upstairs, he doesn’t show it. “I’ve already made up my mind. I’m going to tell them how I know you drowned her. Because it almost happened to me. How you snuck into my car, broke into our garage, attacked me, and told me about the oxycodone. How you planned to use it against me if I came forward.” His nose curls into a snarl. “Oh, no you’re not. Did you tell Ethan how you wanted him dead? How you were the one to bring it up after screwing me in the bathtub?” Sloane doesn’t respond. Instead, she slowly moves her finger off the gun barrel and onto the trigger. Brody steps toward her. “And how you adamantly refused to give Narcan?” She ignores the tension that builds between her shoulders. “That’s right. My private investigator talked to one of the first responders.” He smiles. “You shouted at the nurse not to give it.” His smile fades. “What’s that noise?” He points at the ceiling. He gapes at her as the water upstairs turns off. His eyes double in size. “Is Ethan home?” Sloane swings her arm forward and aims the stolen pistol at Brody’s chest. He throws his palms in the air. “Whoa! Sloane, calm down!” “Trust me, I’m calm.” Brody’s eyes dart toward the ceiling. “Ethan!” Sloane fires a round into the fireplace. The glass shatters as her ears ring from the blast. Brody lunges for the gun. “Ethan!” she screeches. She lets the gun fall to the floor as Ethan’s bare footsteps pound down the upstairs hallway. Brody jumps for the gun. He comes up looking terrified and angry all at once. He aims the pistol at her. “Stay. Back.” Sloane steps toward him, seeing her husband fly down the stairs, dripping wet, clutching a towel around his waist, his gun drawn with the other. “Be careful, Ethan! He has a gun!” Brody looks back at Sloane, his brows knit together in horrified confusion. “What are you—” “He tried to kill me!” Brody’s terror-filled pupils lock with Sloane’s before his eyes dart toward Ethan, who stands huffing at the foot of the stairs. “Drop the weapon!” Ethan yells. “Now! Drop the gun!” Brody swings the weapon at Ethan. “She’s the one—” Sloane screams over Brody’s voice. A blast fills the room. Brody’s head recoils from the impact of the bullet to his forehead. Sloane brings her hands to her face as she watches him recoil and collapse to the floor. Ethan rushes over, and Sloane pulls the weapon out of Brody’s limp hand seconds before Ethan can. She looks away before she steps over Brody. His eyes seem fixed on hers as the life drains from them. Sloane turns to Ethan beside her and allows him to take the


of black crepe and jet ornaments, her train pooling behind her like oil. “Pleased with it?” she said. She shook out her wrists, almost nervous. Alice gathered her courage. “You said, Madam, that I should be rewarded. For my work. That I should be paid.” Miss de Vries went still. “Paid?” she said. Alice imagined the man in the mews yard in her mind’s eye. Finish this, she told herself. Finish it, get it done, get out. It was not part of the plan. It was entirely in contravention of it. “Yes, Madam.” Miss de Vries did something strange then. She closed her eyes. “You want to be paid.” She began chuckling, a low and troubling sound. “I see. Of course. How entirely predictable.” Alice felt her skin growing hot. She wanted to step backward, but she held her ground. “I’m very grateful to you, for giving me the opportunity.” “Are you? You don’t seem it.” Miss de Vries’s eyes shimmered in the half light. Her voice hardened. “What of my other offer? What of that?” Alice hesitated. She felt the pull in her gut, the temptation. “I’m not cut out to be a lady’s maid, Madam.” Miss de Vries’s eyes were bright, fierce. “I’m offering you something far better. You would be my companion. I would show you the world. Florence, New York. You’d have a salary, since that’s so important to you.” That word companion. It made Alice’s heart flicker. “I’d be no use, Madam,” she said. “I’ve nothing you need.” “Need has nothing to do with it,” said Miss de Vries, voice rough. “I need nothing. I wish to keep you. You understand?” The ball might have been taking place a hundred miles away. The roar was distant, contained beneath sediment and rock. “Keep me?” said Alice, trying to laugh. “You can’t keep me.” Miss de Vries’s expression changed. “Whyever not?” she said. “Shouldn’t you like it?” Her voice was strained. Miss de Vries was very close, then. It was possible to make out the beating of her pulse. There was something heightened, hectic about it. It matched the rhythm of Alice’s own. Miss de Vries reached for Alice. Her touch wasn’t cool. It transmitted heat. Alice saw Madam’s lips: soft, faintly touched with wine. Would she like it? Alice wondered. The room held its breath. Miss de Vries’s eyes widened, as if checking herself. It was an expression Alice had never seen on Madam’s face before. Uncertainty: delicate, shivering in the heat. Alice reached out to touch the most brittle parts of Madam’s dress, around the shoulders. She alone knew where the joins were, where the clasps could be found. It was her strength that loosened them. Miss de Vries closed her eyes. But she didn’t move. She inched closer, the tiniest, clearest fraction. Alice went further. She closed the breach between them. She kissed her mistress, the air wreathed with orchids, lamplight flickering overhead. * * * Winnie stood back from the smoke machines, her nostrils burning. Her scalp was slick with sweat. Her hands shone with


have a word with my friends in private.” “You have one minute,” Bernard said. “I can’t give you any longer. Don’t make me regret this.” He stepped back away from the crates. The Coachman knelt down next to the crate, arms resting on the side. Vic looked up at him. Hap gripped his sides, fingers digging in. It was almost grounding, and he wondered why he should feel as relieved as he did. “My dear boy,” the Coachman said in a low voice. “Thank you.” “For what?” “Showing me the world isn’t as cold as I once thought.” He reached down and squeezed Vic’s hand. Vic couldn’t speak past the burning in his throat. He nodded, squeezing the Coachman’s hand in return. “I wish you well on your adventure,” the Coachman said as he pulled his hand away. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” “Coachman,” Bernard said, a new urgency in his voice. “It’s time.” “Yes,” the Coachman said, smiling down at them. “It is.” He stood, and with a twitch of his mustache, stepped away out of sight. Bernard appeared above them. He reached down and pulled the lid over them. Before he shut it completely, he said, “There’s a button. To your right. Do you see it?” “Yes.” “It will open the crate. Do not press it until you’re sure.” “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me. Just forget you ever saw me.” And with that, he closed the lid. A moment later, Vic heard a beep and the box latched shut. A moment later, a tiny white bulb lit up near the top left of the crate, and cool air began to stream from vents along the sides. Vic sucked in a breath. It tasted faintly medicinal. He closed his eyes, gripping his pack. “It’s all r-right,” Hap muttered. “You are all r-right. There, th-there.” Vic choked on a laugh. “Are you trying to make me feel better?” “No. I’m trying to s-stop you from panicking and g-getting us caught.” “Oh.” “Is it w-working?” “I don’t know.” “S-stop moving.” Vic did. He opened his eyes, and breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Hap was a warm presence behind him, his hands still on Vic’s sides, fingers brushing against the metal of Vic’s battery vest. It was small. The crate was small. The crate was small, and they were trapped inside. Vic turned his head, looking for the button that Bernard had mentioned. He found it in the corner above their feet. All he would need to do is kick it, and the box would open. It would open, and they would be free. They could stand. They could breathe, because the air was growing thick inside. He gripped the pack tighter as he struggled for control. Bile rose in the back of his throat, acidic and hot. And then Hap whispered, “Tell m-me.” “Tell you what?” Vic gasped, shifting against Hap, feeling the slide of metal and skin and wood against his back. His helmet bumped the lid overhead. His thoughts were clouded, like a


or evening when they arrested him. Since he was arrested he had not been fed. He sat as still as he could on the narrow bench, with his hands crossed on his knee. He had already learned to sit still. If you made unexpected movements they yelled at you from the telescreen. But the craving for food was growing upon him. What he longed for above all was a piece of bread. He had an idea that there were a few breadcrumbs in the pocket of his overalls. It was even possible--he thought this because from time to time something seemed to tickle his leg--that there might be a sizeable bit of crust there. In the end the temptation to find out overcame his fear; he slipped a hand into his pocket. 'Smith!' yelled a voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W.! Hands out of pockets in the cells!' He sat still again, his hands crossed on his knee. Before being brought here he had been taken to another place which must have been an ordinary prison or a temporary lock-up used by the patrols. He did not know how long he had been there; some hours at any rate; with no clocks and no daylight it was hard to gauge the time. It was a noisy, evil-smelling place. They had put him into a cell similar to the one he was now in, but filthily dirty and at all times crowded by ten or fifteen people. The majority of them were common criminals, but there were a few political prisoners among them. He had sat silent against the wall, jostled by dirty bodies, too preoccupied by fear and the pain in his belly to take much interest in his surroundings, but still noticing the astonishing difference in demeanour between the Party prisoners and the others. The Party prisoners were always silent and terrified, but the ordinary criminals seemed to care nothing for anybody. They yelled insults at the guards, fought back fiercely when their belongings were impounded, wrote obscene words on the floor, ate smuggled food which they produced from mysterious hiding-places in their clothes, and even shouted down the telescreen when it tried to restore order. On the other hand some of them seemed to be on good terms with the guards, called them by nicknames, and tried to wheedle cigarettes through the spyhole in the door. The guards, too, treated the common criminals with a certain forbearance, even when they had to handle them roughly. There was much talk about the forced-labour camps to which most of the prisoners expected to be sent. It was 'all right' in the camps, he gathered, so long as you had good contacts and knew the ropes. There was bribery, favouritism, and racketeering of every kind, there was homosexuality and prostitution, there was even illicit alcohol distilled from potatoes. The positions of trust were given only to the common criminals, especially the gangsters and the murderers, who formed a sort of aristocracy. All the dirty jobs were done by the politicals. There was


of a thief, because he might get the gold back from a thief. Reasoning that his money had to have been taken that night, he searches outside in the rain and mud for footprints. For a moment, his hysteria surfaces and he fears a supernatural power at work--the same one that struck him down before--but he pushes that thought away and returns to the idea of a thief. Naturally, he suspects people from the village and seizes upon one man, Jem Rodney, as the probable thief. (Remember Jem Rodney--the poacher who discovered Silas having a fit once by the roadside?) Because it relieves his mind, Silas invents evidence pointing to Jem. Eager for action, he runs out into the rain to summon the authorities. He doesn't lock his door--there's nothing to protect anymore. Eliot moves out of Silas' limited, intense emotional state to the more relaxed world of the village. She conveys Marner's opinion of the Rainbow--a sinful place (his moral judgment is still Puritan) for the husbands of his customers. But it's where the authorities are likely to be, so that's where heheads. NOTE: Eliot explains the social hierarchy of the pub. The richer customers drink in one room, the parlor, while commoners gather across the hall in the kitchen. (Many English pubs today still have a refined saloon bar and a plainer public bar.) At the Rainbow, the gentlemen drink hard liquor--"spirits"--while poor men drink cheap beer. The people of Raveloe seem to like this stratification. It is fluid, though. Tonight, for example, the richest gentry are away at the Osgoods' party. Therefore, the lower upperclass men who weren't invited have moved over to the lowerclass bar, where they can be the big shots. Does this seem confusing to you? If so, just think of how a stranger would react to the different cliques and social categories in your school. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 6 Eliot backtracks to recount the evening's conversation at the Rainbow. This re-establishes your sense of the Raveloe community, which contrasts against Silas' isolated existence. NOTE: DUTCH REALISM If you could paint Eliot's description of the men at the pub, it would probably look like a seventeenth-century Dutch painting by Jan Vermeer or Frans Hals. Eliot admired this school of art, called "genre" painting, which featured tavern or kitchen scenes in realistic detail. You can see here figures side-lit by the fire, and pipe-smoke hanging in the air. Facial expressions are drawn dramatically. Social distinctions are clear in details of drink and clothing. There isn't anything important these men have to say--they talk for the sake of fellowship. Mr. Snell, the landlord, like a master of ceremonies, begins the conversation by speaking to his cousin the butcher. As you read this scene, be aware of how slow it is, full of long pauses, repetitions, and rambling arguments. Today, people talk quickly, getting right to the point, and jump from topic to topic. But in an old society like Raveloe's, people took all night to speak their minds. The butcher and the farrier (blacksmith) get into an


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

sparkling. “Well,” he said, redirecting the conversation away from Bastian, “not to worry. We’ll try again. Perhaps a different corpse will have more to say. This one was just a child.” August nodded, once. Lore felt sick again. “So I… what do you want me to do while…” “Enjoy the Citadel, Lore.” August turned around, headed back the way they came, to the narrow tunnel and the alcove-lined hallway beyond. “You’re an officially introduced member of the court. Make friends, find lovers, amuse yourself as you see fit. Just make sure you do it all while staying near my son.” Behind August, the muscles on the unscarred side of Anton’s face tightened. “And I’ll let you know when we have another corpse for you to raise,” August continued. “I’m sure it won’t be long.” Lore followed the King back into the tunnel, unsure of what else to do. The Sacred Guard, she noticed, once again didn’t acknowledge them at all. The end of his bayonet gleamed wickedly sharp in the sun through the skylight. She picked at the threads in her tailored gown. “Your Majesty, I know I’m supposed to get close to Bastian, but if I had a directive, any clue at all to what kind of information you think he’s passing on…” “You’ve been given your directives.” The Sainted King mounted the short staircase at the end of the tunnel, pushed open the door. The hallway beyond glittered, the alcoves holding all those Bleeding Gods shimmering like miniature suns. “Are you implying you aren’t up to the task?” The implications of that didn’t need to be spelled out. Burnt Isles if she was lucky, pyre if she wasn’t. “No.” Lore shook her head. “No, I’m up to it.” “Good.” August turned his back on her and strode down the hallway, the orange-and-gold cloak he’d worn at morning prayers fluttering behind him. He didn’t give her a deadline for a report, she noticed. Apparently, he was content to wait until she had something concrete to tell him. The doors to the vaults closed softly behind her. When Lore turned, Anton peered at her from his one gleaming eye. Then, with a tilt of his chin, he asked, “How old are you, Lore?” Her brows drew together, confusion bringing a quick answer. “Twenty-three.” “And your birthday is near midsummer, correct? Your year of Consecration.” It still made her uneasy that he knew so much about her. Lore nodded again and started walking toward the end of the gilded hall, toward the rest of the Citadel. Anton fell into easy step beside her. “We’ll have to make sure you’re given a proper ceremony, since you’re part of the court now. Even if it is currently under false pretenses.” “That’s really not necessary.” “Oh, I think it is.” He swept past her in a rustle of pale robes, opening the door before she could reach it. “Bastian is probably out on the green somewhere. Go find him.” With that order, Anton glided away into the depths of the Citadel, headed to whatever holy duties


him a little, allowed him to give or take an hour or two in his communications with M. He knew that this was probably a fallacy, that probably there was another member of the Service at Royale-les-Eaux who was reporting independently, but it did give the illusion that he wasn't only 150 miles across the Channel from that deadly office building near Regent's Park, being watched and judged by those few cold brains that made the whole show work. Just as Fawcett, the Cayman Islander in Kingston, knew that if he bought that Morris Minor outright instead of signing the hire-purchase agreement, someone in London would probably know and want to know where the money had come from. Bond read the cable twice. He tore a telegram form off the pad on the desk (why give them carbon copies?) and wrote his reply in capital letters: THANKS INFORMATION SHOULD SUFFICE - BOND He handed this to the concierge and put the cable signed 'Dasilva' in his pocket. The employers (if any) of the concierge could bribe a copy out of the local post office, if the concierge hadn't already steamed the envelope open or read the cable upside down in Bond's hands. He took his key and said good night and turned to the stairs, shaking his head at the liftman. Bond knew what an obliging danger-signal a lift could be. He didn't expect anyone to be moving on the first floor, but he preferred to be prudent. Walking quietly up on the balls of his feet, he regretted the hubris of his reply to M via Jamaica. As a gambler he knew it was a mistake to rely on too small a capital. Anyway, M probably wouldn't let him have any more. He shrugged his shoulders and turned off the stairs into the corridor and walked softly to the door of his room. Bond knew exactly where the switch was and it was with one flow of motion that he stood on the threshold with the door full open, the light on and a gun in his hand. The safe, empty room sneered at him. He ignored the half-open door of the bathroom and, locking himself in, he turned up the bed-light and the mirror-light and threw his gun on the settee beside the window. Then he bent down and inspected one of his own black hairs which still lay undisturbed where he had left it before dinner, wedged into the drawer of the writing-desk. Next he examined a faint trace of talcum powder on the inner rim of the porcelain handle of the clothes cupboard. It appeared immaculate. He went into the bathroom, lifted the cover of the lavatory cistern and verified the level of the water against a small scratch on the copper ball-cock. Doing all this, inspecting these minute burglar-alarms, did not make him feel foolish or self-conscious. He was a secret agent, and still alive thanks to his exact attention to the detail of his profession. Routine precautions were to him no more unreasonable than they would


upon excuses of looking to their accommodation, which she found rather better than she expected, was compelled to return, and converse with Valancourt alone. They talked of the character of the scenes they had passed, of the natural history of the country, of poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subject on which Emily always spoke and listened to with peculiar pleasure. The travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was fatigued with his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain, they separated soon after supper. In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restless night; that he was feverish, and his wound very painful. The surgeon, when he dressed it, advised him to remain quietly at Beaujeu; advice which was too reasonable to be rejected. St. Aubert, however, had no favourable opinion of this practitioner, and was anxious to commit Valancourt into more skilful hands; but learning, upon enquiry, that there was no town within several leagues which seemed more likely to afford better advice, he altered the plan of his journey, and determined to await the recovery of Valancourt, who, with somewhat more ceremony than sincerity, made many objections to this delay. By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house that day; but St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs of the town, situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, some in abrupt precipices, and others swelling with woods of cedar, fir, and cypress, which stretched nearly to their highest summits. The cheerful green of the beech and mountain-ash was sometimes seen, like a gleam of light, amidst the dark verdure of the forest; and sometimes a torrent poured its sparkling flood, high among the woods. Valancourt's indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several days, during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition and his talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He saw a frank and generous nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible of whatever is grand and beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhat romantic. Valancourt had known little of the world. His perceptions were clear, and his feelings just; his indignation of an unworthy, or his admiration of a generous action, were expressed in terms of equal vehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom checked it, and often repeated to himself, 'This young man has never been at Paris.' A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation. He determined not to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly recovered; and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not able to manage his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few days in the carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had discovered that Valancourt was of a family of the same name in Gascony, with whose respectability he was well acquainted. The latter accepted the offer with great pleasure, and they again set forward among these romantic wilds about Rousillon. They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand appeared; frequently


me for breaking up with a really good guy, it wasn’t because I couldn’t see a future with him; it was because I could only see a future with you. So Steven and I might have a bedtime routine with Henry, but what you and I have is a real, true love story. It’s a connection I’ve never felt with anyone else, and I know I never will. If you want to throw that away because the logistics are hard, then that’s fine. I hear you. We’re grown-ups and we have our own lives, and logistics are hard.” I sound confident, but this still gives me butterflies. What if Huff takes my offer and walks away? “This new situation is something Steven and I have been talking about and will continue to talk about. But I need you to know that no matter what we decide about our living situation, I will never, ever stop loving you.” Huff lies down, his hands under his neck. “For real?” he asks. “For real,” I say, lying down beside him. “Then I guess I’m the luckiest guy in the world.” He kisses me, running his fingers through my hair. He pulls me closer. “I mean, I guess I could get used to having Steven as a roommate if it means getting to do this all the time.” But as I kiss him, a wave of panic washes over me. This hiccup reminds me how much I don’t like change. Steven and I have made magic of our coparenting, of being there for our son in a way that feels healthy and honest. How would adding Huff to that dynamic affect that? Could I let Steven solo parent on his weekends without feeling totally bereft? Will Henry be able to accept two dads in his life? I know Huff will be an incredible stepfather. But I can’t quite reconcile how we will get there just yet. “I love you,” Huff whispers. “You’re right. It will all work out. I am willing to do whatever it takes.” I nod and smile as we get up and he walks back toward the room he is sharing with his sister, my best friend, the one I am betraying with every breath. Instead of going into my room, I walk down to the river’s edge, the stars seemingly not just in the sky but all around me, glittering and twinkling, as alive and vibrant as children’s laughter. I sit on the bank of the river, watching the ripples the wind makes on the flowing water. I remember the summer when Huff and I were counselors, the last time we were here together, in fact. What possessed him, I don’t know, but my father had shown up, totally unannounced. I hadn’t seen him in four years. In that time, he had sobered up, gotten married. He was having a baby and he wanted me to know my sister. He wanted us to be a family. I told him I had a family. I wasn’t interested in another one. I had spent


equal force. If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him. Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of effecting any material change of society. They must encounter each other, and make the best of it. Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs. Goddard's; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself. CHAPTER XVIII Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs. Weston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For the present, he could not be spared, to his "very great mortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant period." Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed--much more disappointed, in fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank's coming two or three months later would be a much better plan; better time of year; better weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner. These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself. Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr. Frank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston's disappointment, as might naturally belong to their friendship. She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at the conduct of the


wait in the next room." "Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also." The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes. "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures." "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I observed. "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination." "A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting." "You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique." The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the


was an opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself,and with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in a wing of the castle further to the right than the rooms I knew and a storey lower down. From the windows I could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle was built on the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or bow, or culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort, impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secured. To the west was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more an air of comfort than any I had seen. The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it softened the wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in some measure the ravages of time and moth. My lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the place which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the presence of the Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is the nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere "modernity" cannot kill. Later: The morning of 16 May.--God preserve my sanity, for to this I am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me, that to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve


irritation, a shift in tone so delicate most people missed it entirely. ‘Not on the water. Under it. A light.’ ‘What kind of light?’ ‘Not our kind.’ Tetu took off his backpack and pulled out a small antique mahogany box, an incongruous item set among emergency rations and survival equipment. As though presenting a gift, he opened the lid of the box and Echo leaned forward, peering at fragments of alien technology, a collection veined with capillaries of mauve and jade, which continued to pulse despite being broken and separate from any obvious power source. She picked up the largest of these shards, bringing the light close to her eyes. ‘The law states that all alien discoveries must be turned over to McMurdo.’ ‘That’s the whole point. I’m going to hand them over. And hope that they pick me.’ ‘Why wouldn’t they pick you? You’re one of the smartest people in Hope Town.’ ‘McMurdo is taking fewer ordinary-born people. They’re only interested in ice-adapted people now. And everyone will have told them how difficult I am. If they don’t take me… I can’t imagine my future on the Peninsula. I won’t survive in Hope Town.’ ‘What’s wrong with Hope Town?’ ‘For a start, everyone is under so much pressure to be happy all the time. Our only job is joy, planning the next music festival, or organizing sports leagues. What are the opportunities? Working on the algae farms, or the canneries, or the recycle plants? I get the survival strategy; life is to be enjoyed and it’s a smart approach. But I can’t be here, in this town, stitching seal pelts, looking forward to the next party. That can’t be my life.’ ‘What do you want your life to be?’ ‘Something bigger.’ What he didn’t say was that he couldn’t imagine a life without her. Tetu’s parents had both been taken by the cold when he’d been young and there were many orphaned children living with foster parents; it was rare for a family not to have at least one adopted child. He’d skipped from family to family over the years, never finding anyone he could settle with. Recently he’d stopped even unpacking his bag, certain that each placement would last only a few months. Since the death of his parents the only unbroken relationship in his life had been with Echo. They hiked together, explored the mountains together. They’d always watch the last sunset of summer and the first sunrise after winter. For the first time in his life, he’d experienced happiness. He was in love with someone who might not even experience love in the same way. Echo undressed, remarking: ‘These clothes are useless in the water.’ Trying not to stare, Tetu mumbled: ‘Yes, I guess they are.’ Standing naked, her scales giving her the appearance of wearing an elegant outer shell, she turned to Tetu. ‘Are you embarrassed by the fact I’m naked?’ Silent for a moment, he eventually overcame his awkwardness. ‘Echo, you don’t have to ask every question that comes into your head.’ ‘I’m curious.’ ‘No, I’m


limit to what I’m willing to compromise for protected research time, health insurance, and bottomless cheese-purchasing power. Monica shakes her head energetically. “Not in any meaningful way.” “I see.” Relief warms my belly. Very well. “Thank you for being straightforward with me. I’ll be equally straightforward: Is there anything I can do to be chosen over the other candidate?” She studies me, serious for a moment. Then her face breaks into a fierce grin, and that—that is my tell. That’s how I know who the me Monica wants is: a champion. Her tribute to the Hunger Games of physics. A gladiator to take on Jonathan Smith-Turner, the entitled STEMlord she despises. Well, I can do that. Because I happen to despise the very same guy. “This is what you need to know, Elsie: most of the faculty members you’ll meet during the interview—including Jonathan—have already decided which candidate they’ll recommend for hire, based on whether they prefer a theorist or an experimentalist. They already know whether they’ll vote for you or for George, and there isn’t much we can do to change their minds.” My eyebrow arches before I can yank it down. I don’t think Monica meant to let slip that Jonathan Smith-Turner’s candidate’s name is George, but I’m the diametrical opposite of surprised. Of course he’d want to hire a man. “But,” she continues, “there are a handful of professors who straddle the line between theoretical and experimental. Drs. Ikagawa, Alvarez, Voight. They’re part of Volkov’s research team and follow where he leads. Which means that Volkov is going to be the deciding vote. My advice is, talk to him during the dead times of your interview. If possible, tailor your presentations to suit his interests. And . . . I don’t know that Jonathan might try to give his candidate an advantage and make you look bad, but . . . be wary of him. Be very careful.” I nod slowly. And then I nod again, inhaling deeply, untangling my overwhelmed thoughts. Yes, academic interviews are optimized to ensure the candidate’s maximum suffering—but this is situation-room-level politicking, more than I prepared for. I’m a simple girl. With simple needs. All I want is to spend my days solving hydrodynamic equations to calculate the large-scale spatiotemporal chaos exhibited by dry active nematics. And maybe, if possible, buy life-compatible levels of pancreatic hormones at reasonable prices. But—I bite my lower lip, thinking quickly—maybe I can do this. I’m a great physicist, a pro at giving others what they want, and once I get this job, it’ll be just me and my science. And being selected over Smith-Turner’s candidate? It’d be like avenging Dr. L. and theoretical physics, even just a little. What a lovely, heartwarming thought. “Okay,” I tell Monica. I met her all of ten minutes ago, but we’re looking at each other like lifelong allies. That accelerated camaraderie that comes from plotting a murder together. Jonathan Smith-Turner’s, of course. “I can do that.” She’s pleased. “I know this is unorthodox. But you’re the ideal candidate. What’s best for the


do that?" "Who do what?" asked Miss Gates patiently. "I mean how can Hitler just put a lot of folks in a pen like that, looks like the govamint'd stop him," said the owner of the hand. "Hitler is the government," said Miss Gates, and seizing an opportunity to make education dynamic, she went to the blackboard. She printed DEMOCRACY in large letters. "Democracy," she said. "Does anybody have a definition?" "Us," somebody said. I raised my hand, remembering an old campaign slogan Atticus had once told me about. "What do you think it means, Jean Louise?" "'Equal rights for all, special privileges for none,'" I quoted. "Very good, Jean Louise, very good," Miss Gates smiled. In front of DEMOCRACY, she printed WE ARE A. "Now class, say it all together, 'We are a democracy.'" We said it. Then Miss Gates said, "That's the difference between America and Germany. We are a democracy and Germany is a dictatorship. Dictator-ship," she said. "Over here we don't believe in persecuting anybody. Persecution comes from people who are prejudiced. Prejudice," she enunciated carefully. "There are no better people in the world than the Jews, and why Hitler doesn't think so is a mystery to me." An inquiring soul in the middle of the room said, "Why don't they like the Jews, you reckon, Miss Gates?" "I don't know, Henry. They contribute to every society they live in, and most of all, they are a deeply religious people. Hitler's trying to do away with religion, so maybe he doesn't like them for that reason." Cecil spoke up. "Well I don't know for certain," he said, "they're supposed to change money or somethin', but that ain't no cause to persecute 'em. They're white, ain't they?" Miss Gates said, "When you get to high school, Cecil, you'll learn that the Jews have been persecuted since the beginning of history, even driven out of their own country. It's one of the most terrible stories in history. Time for arithmetic, children." As I had never liked arithmetic, I spent the period looking out the window. The only time I ever saw Atticus scowl was when Elmer Davis would give us the latest on Hitler. Atticus would snap off the radio and say, "Hmp!" I asked him once why he was impatient with Hitler and Atticus said, "Because he's a maniac." This would not do, I mused, as the class proceeded with its sums. One maniac and millions of German folks. Looked to me like they'd shut Hitler in a pen instead of letting him shut them up. There was something else wrong- I would ask my father about it. I did, and he said he could not possibly answer my question because he didn't know the answer. "But it's okay to hate Hitler?" "It is not," he said. "It's not okay to hate anybody." "Atticus," I said, "there's somethin' I don't understand. Miss Gates said it was awful, Hitler doin' like he does, she got real red in the face about it-" "I should think she would." "But-" "Yes?" "Nothing,


the firelight seeped into it, Iris could discern typed words on the inside. Very few words, but distinctly dark. She unfolded and read the letter. She felt her breath catch. This isn’t Forest. {3} Missing Myths This isn’t Forest. The words echoed through Iris as she walked down Broad Street the next morning. She was in the heart of the city, the buildings rising high around her, trapping cold air and the last of dawn’s shadows and the distant ring of the trams. She was almost to work, following her normal routine as if nothing strange had happened the night before. This isn’t Forest. “Then who are you?” she whispered, hands fisted deep in her pockets. She slowly came to a halt in the street. The truth was she had been too intimidated to write them back. Instead, she had spent the dark hours in an eddy of worry, remembering all the things she had said in her previous letters. She had told Forest she’d dropped out of school. It would be a blow to him—a broken promise—so she had quickly followed it up with her coveted job at the Gazette, where she was most likely going to earn columnist. Despite that personal information, she had never given away her true name; all her letters to Forest ended with her moniker. Little Flower. And she was most certainly relieved that— “Winnow? Winnow!” A hand grabbed her upper arm like a vise. She was suddenly yanked backward with such force that her teeth pierced her lower lip. Iris stumbled but found her bearings just as the oiled whoosh of a tram passed by, so close she could taste metal in her mouth. She had almost been hit. The realization made her knees quake. And someone was still holding her arm. She glanced up to behold Roman Kitt with his fashionable fawn-colored jacket and shined leather brogues and slicked-back hair. He was staring at her as if she had sprouted a second head. “You should pay attention to where you’re going!” he snapped, releasing her as if the contact had scorched him. “I was one second away from watching you be smashed on the cobblestones.” “I saw the tram,” she replied, straightening her trench coat. He had nearly ripped it, and she would have been devastated if he had. “I beg to differ,” Roman said. Iris pretended she hadn’t heard him. She carefully stepped over the tram rails and hurried up the stairs into the lobby, blisters blooming on her heels. She was wearing her mother’s dainty ankle boots, which were a size too small, but they would have to do until Iris could purchase a new set of heels. And because her feet were throbbing … she decided she needed to take the lift. Roman was unfortunately on her trail, and she realized with an inward groan that they would have to ride the elevator together. They stood waiting for it, shoulder to shoulder. “You’re here early,” Roman finally said. Iris touched her sore lower lip. “So are you.” “Autry give you an


and inimical creatures from their feasting by the fire. He set his teeth and started to climb, finding the holds by touch. The stick that had supported a skull hampered him but he would not be parted from his only weapon. He was nearly level with the twins before he spoke again. "Samneric--" He heard a cry and a flurry from the rock. The twins had grabbed each other and were gibbering. "It's me. Ralph." Terrified that they would run and give the alarm, he hauled himself up until his head and shoulders stuck over the top. Far below his armpit he saw the luminous flowering round the rock. "It's only me. Ralph." At length they bent forward and peered in his face. "We thought it was--" "--we didn't know what it was--" "--we thought--" Memory of their new and shameful loyalty came to them. Eric was silent but Sam tried to do his duty. "You got to go, Ralph. You go away now--" He wagged his spear and essayed fierceness. "You shove off. See?" Eric nodded agreement and jabbed his spear in the air. Ralph leaned on his arms and did not go. "I came to see you two." His voice was thick. His throat was hurting him now though it had received no wound. "I came to see you two--" Words could not express the dull pain of these things. He fell silent, while the vivid stars were spilt and danced all ways. Sam shifted uneasily. "Honest, Ralph, you'd better go." Ralph looked up again. "You two aren't painted. How can you--? If it were light--" If it were light shame would burn them at admitting these things. But the night was dark. Eric took up; and then the twins started their antiphonal speech. "You got to go because it's not safe--" "--they made us. They hurt us--" "Who? Jack?" "Oh no--" They bent to him and lowered their voices. "Push off, Ralph--" "--it's a tribe--" "--they made us--" "--we couldn't help it--" When Ralph spoke again his voice was low, and seemed breathless. "What have I done? I liked him--and I wanted us to be rescued--" Again the stars spilled about the sky. Eric shook his head, earnestly. "Listen, Ralph. Never mind what's sense. That's gone--" "Never mind about the chief--" "--you got to go for your own good." "The chief and Roger--" "--yes, Roger--" "They hate you, Ralph. They're going to do you." "They're going to hunt you tomorrow." "But why?" "I dunno. And Ralph, Jack, the chief, says it'll be dangerous--" "--and we've got to be careful and throw our spears like at a pig." "We're going to spread out in a line across the island--" "--we're going forward from this end--" "--until we find you." "We've got to give signals like this." Eric raised his head and achieved a faint ululation by beating on his open mouth. Then he glanced behind him nervously. "Like that--" "--only louder, of course." "But I've done nothing," whispered Ralph, urgently. "I only wanted to keep up a fire!" He paused


door whistled open. Montag stood. The door gasped, started shut. Only then .did he leap past the other passengers, screaming in his mind, plunge through the slicing door only in time. He ran on the white tiles up through the tunnels, ignoring the escalators, because he wanted to feel his feet-move, arms swing, lungs clench, unclench, feel his throat go raw with air. A voice drifted after him, "Denham's Denham's Denham's," the train hissed like a snake. The train vanished in its hole. "Who is it?" "Montag out here." "What do you want?" "Let me in." "I haven't done anything l" "I'm alone, dammit ! " "You swear it?" "I swear!" The front door opened slowly. Faber peered out, looking very old in the light and very fragile and very much afraid. The old man looked as if he had not been out of the house in years. He and the white plaster walls inside were much the same. There was white in the flesh of his mouth and his cheeks and his hair was white and his eyes had faded, with white in the vague blueness there. Then his eyes touched on the book under Montag's arm and he did not look so old any more and not quite as fragile. Slowly his fear went. "I'm sorry. One has to be careful." He looked at the book under Montag's arm and could not stop. "So it's true." Montag stepped inside. The door shut. "Sit down." Faber backed up, as if he feared the book might vanish if he took his eyes from it. Behind him, the door to a bedroom stood open, and in that room a litter of machinery and steel tools was strewn upon a desk-top. Montag had only a glimpse, before Faber, seeing Montag's attention diverted, turned quickly and shut the bedroom door and stood holding the knob with a trembling hand. His gaze returned unsteadily to Montag, who was now seated with the book in his lap. "The book-where did you-?" "I stole it." Faber, for the first time, raised his eyes and looked directly into Montag's face. "You're brave." "No," said Montag. "My wife's dying. A friend of mine's already dead. Someone who may have been a friend was burnt less than twenty-four hours ago. You're the only one I knew might help me. To see. To see. ." Faber's hands itched on his knees. "May I?" "Sorry." Montag gave him the book. "It's been a long time. I'm not a religious man. But it's been a long time." Faber turned the pages, stopping here and there to read. "It's as good as I remember. Lord, how they've changed it- in our `parlours' these days. Christ is one of the `family' now. I often wonder it God recognizes His own son the way we've dressed him up, or is it dressed him down? He's a regular peppermint stick now, all sugar-crystal and saccharine when he isn't making veiled references to certain commercial products that every worshipper absolutely needs." Faber sniffed the book. "Do you know that


old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician. At any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he `glowered' as Jo said." "Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg. "How silly!" said Jo. "Let him be a musician if he wants to, and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go." "That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I suppose. Italians are always nice, " said Meg, who was a little sentimental. "What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to him, hardly," cried Jo, who was not sentimental. "I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine Mother sent him." "He meant the blanc mange, I suppose." "How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course." "Did he?" And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her before. "I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you get it," said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter. "I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy and I like him, and I won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We'll all be good to him because he hasn't got any mother, and he may come over and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?" "Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will remember that children should be children as long as they can." "I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed Amy. "What do you say, Beth?" "I was thinking about our `PILGRIM'S PROGRESS'," answered Beth, who had not heard a word. "How we got out of the Slough and through the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying, and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going to be our Palace Beautiful." "We have got to get by the lions first," said Jo, as if she rather liked the prospect. -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.6 Beth Finds the Palace Beautiful The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old Mr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after he had called, said something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid Beth. The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich, for this made them shy of accepting


away from your own management; but to-day you are got back again--and as I cannot be always with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command rather than mine." "It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always with me. You are always with me." "Dating from three o'clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before." "Three o'clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you first in February." "Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)-- nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people." "I say nothing of which I am ashamed," replied he, with lively impudence. "I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February." And then whispering-- "Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They shall talk. Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?" Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr. Knightley's answer was the most distinct. "Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?" "Oh! no, no"--cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could-- "Upon no account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing." "It is a sort of thing," cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, "which I should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though, perhaps, as the Chaperon of the party-- I never was in any circle--exploring parties--young ladies--married women--" Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply, "Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed--quite unheard of-- but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every body knows what is due to you." "It will not do," whispered Frank to Emma; "they are most of them affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen--I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only


toasted herself with her beer bottle. Back in the farmhouse, as she brushed her teeth, she examined her face in the bathroom mirror and saw a residual flush in her cheeks and a playful lift to her eyes. When she’d first met Peter, her face had also bloomed, but in the heat of difference rather than of connection. Their contradictions had been exciting: his interest in numbers, her interest in words; her small, pale body, his large, hairy one. Peter’s acidic sense of humor seemed like a sign of intelligence and a distance from the world that she’d never been able to find. As they curled naked in bed, whispering their pasts to each other, his every admission of vulnerability and hurt—the bullying at school, his parents’ fighting, his father’s philandering—felt like a gift. She’d married him thinking that he operated with a secret code that she’d eventually crack. But she could never decipher the symbols, and once Ella arrived, she stopped trying. Now she turned off the faucet and went down the hall to the sound of its dripping, which continued as she lay awake in bed. Her marriage, she thought, trying to sleep, had died of chronic illness, although the simple story was that Peter had killed it. The evidence had been easy to find. Maud was a researcher, trained to look for clues. She’d suspected Peter of cheating when they lived apart 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


iron seat of Aegon's misshapen throne. His eyes searched the faces along the wall. "Lord Beric," he called out. "Thoros of Myr. Ser Gladden. Lord Lothar." The men named stepped forward one by one. "Each of you is to assemble twenty men, to bring my word to Gregor's keep. Twenty of my own guards shall go with you. Lord Beric Dondarrion, you shall have the command, as befits your rank." A GAME OF THRONES 413 The young lord with the red-gold hair bowed. "As you command, Lord Eddard." Ned raised his voice, so it carried to the far end of the throne room. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, his Hand, I charge you to ride to the westlands with all haste, to cross the Red Fork of the Trident under the king's flag, and there bring the king's justice to the false knight Gregor Clegane, and to all those who shared in his crimes. I denounce him, and attaint him, and strip him of all rank and titles, of all lands and incomes and holdings, and do sentence him to death. May the gods take pity on his soul." When the echo of his words had died away, the Knight of Flowers seemed perplexed. "Lord Eddard, what of me?" Ned looked down on him. From on high, Loras Tyrell seemed almost as young as Robb. "No one doubts your valor, Ser Loras, but we are about justice here, and what you seek is vengeance." He looked back to Lord Beric. "Ride at first light. These things are best done quickly." He held up a hand. "The throne will hear no more petitions today." Alyn and Porther climbed the steep iron steps to help him back down. As they made their descent, he could feel Loras Tyrell's sullen stare, but the boy had stalked away before Ned reached the floor of the throne room. At the base of the Iron Throne, Varys was gathering papers from the council table. Littlefinger and Grand Maester Pycelle had already taken their leave. "You are a bolder man than 1, my lord," the eunuch said softly. "How so, Lord Varys?" Ned asked brusquely. His leg was throbbing, and he was in no mood for word games. "Had it been me up there, I should have sent Ser Loras. He so wanted to go . . . and a man who has the Lannisters for his enemies would do well to make the Tyrells his friends." "Ser Loras is young," said Ned. "I daresay he will outgrow the disappointment." "And Ser Ilyn?" The eunuch stroked a plump, powdered cheek. "He is the King's Justice, after all. Sending other men to do his office . . . some might construe that as a grave insult." "No slight was intended." In truth, Ned did not trust the mute knight, though perhaps


what wonder that the little boy was quite at a loss to guess the meaning of these strange figures. Near the middle of the book he found his old enemy, Sabor, the lioness, and further on, coiled Histah, the snake. Oh, it was most engrossing! Never before in all his ten years had he enjoyed anything so much. So absorbed was he that he did not note the approaching dusk, until it was quite upon him and the figures were blurred. He put the book back in the cupboard and closed the door, for he did not wish anyone else to find and destroy his treasure, and as he went out into the gathering darkness he closed the great door of the cabin behind him as it had been before he discovered the secret of its lock, but before he left he had noticed the hunting knife lying where he had thrown it upon the floor, and this he picked up and took with him to show to his fellows. He had taken scarce a dozen steps toward the jungle when a great form rose up before him from the shadows of a low bush. At first he thought it was one of his own people but in another instant he realized that it was Bolgani, the huge gorilla. So close was he that there was no chance for flight and little Tarzan knew that he must stand and fight for his life; for these great beasts were the deadly enemies of his tribe, and neither one nor the other ever asked or gave quarter. Had Tarzan been a full-grown bull ape of the species of his tribe he would have been more than a match for the gorilla, but being only a little English boy, though enormously muscular for such, he stood no chance against his cruel antagonist. In his veins, though, flowed the blood of the best of a race of mighty fighters, and back of this was the training of his short lifetime among the fierce brutes of the jungle. He knew no fear, as we know it; his little heart beat the faster but from the excitement and exhilaration of adventure. Had the opportunity presented itself he would have escaped, but solely because his judgment told him he was no match for the great thing which confronted him. And since reason showed him that successful flight was impossible he met the gorilla squarely and bravely without a tremor of a single muscle, or any sign of panic. In fact he met the brute midway in its charge, striking its huge body with his closed fists and as futilely as he had been a fly attacking an elephant. But in one hand he still clutched the knife he had found in the cabin of his father, and as the brute, striking and biting, closed upon him the boy accidentally turned the point toward the hairy breast. As the knife sank deep into its body the gorilla shrieked in pain and rage. But the boy had learned in that brief


and made your own escape," she said. "Who are you?" he asked. "The Shadout Mapes, housekeeper." "How did you know where to find me?" "Your mother told me. I met her at the stairs to the weirding room down the hall." She pointed to her right. "Your father's men are still waiting." Those will be Hawat's men, he thought. We must find the operator of this thing. "Go to my father's men," he said. "Tell them I've caught a hunter-seeker in the house and they're to spread out and find the operator. Tell them to seal off the house and its grounds immediately. They'll know how to go about it. The operator's sure to be a stranger among us." And he wondered: Could it be this creature? But he knew it wasn't. The seeker had been under control when she entered. "Before I do your bidding, manling," Mapes said, "I must cleanse the way between us. You've put a water burden on me that I'm not sure I care to support. But we Fremen pay our debts--be they black debts or white debts. And it's known to us that you've a traitor in your midst. Who it is, we cannot say, but we're certain sure of it. Mayhap there's the hand guided that flesh-cutter." Paul absorbed this in silence: a traitor. Before he could speak, the odd woman whirled away and ran back toward the entry. He thought to call her back, but there was an air about her that told him she would resent it. She'd told him what she knew and now she was going to do his bidding. The house would be swarming with Hawat's men in a minute. His mind went to other parts of that strange conversation: weirding room. He looked to his left where she had pointed. We Fremen. So that was a Fremen. He paused for the mnemonic blink that would store the pattern of her face in his memory--prune-wrinkled features darkly browned, blue-on-blue eyes without any white in them. He attached the label: The Shadout Mapes. Still gripping the shattered seeker, Paul turned back into his room, scooped up his shield belt from the bed with his left hand, swung it around his waist and buckled it as he ran back out and down the hall to the left. She'd said his mother was someplace down here--stairs . . . a weirding room. =========================== What had the Lady Jessica to sustain her in her time of trial? Think you carefully on this Bene Gesserit proverb and perhaps you will see: "Any road followed precisely to its end leads precisely nowhere. Climb the mountain just a little bit to test that it's a mountain. From the top of the mountain, you cannot see the mountain." -from "Muad'Dib: Family Commentaries" by the Princess Irulan At the end of the south wing, Jessica found a metal stair spiraling up to an oval door. She glanced back down the hall, again up at the door. Oval? she wondered. What an odd shape for a door in a house.


and I punch it into the phone. I will have the taxi take me to Jesse’s apartment. There is a chance that the police will be there already, but I doubt that. Someone—Hazel probably—will need to come home, discover Jesse’s body, and call them. She might claim he was an intruder. The cops will have to ID his corpse. The phone rings in my ear as my eyes rove the area for a landmark to give to the dispatcher. The Trader Joe’s is across the street, the parking lot where Hazel was supposed to leave my Toyota. It won’t be there, of course. She doesn’t want me to drive off into the sunset now. She wants me to get on a plane and disappear. Without ever knowing who Jesse was, or why he is dead. But then I see it. At the back of the lot, far from the store entrance. My car. “What the fuck, Hazel?” I mutter. Is this a trap? I hang up the phone just as the taxi dispatcher answers. Cautiously, I scurry across the busy street and enter the parking lot. My eyes are peeled for cops, security guards, Benjamin Laval, but the car and I are abandoned. And ignored. The keys are on the back tire, just like Hazel said they’d be. Hurriedly, I open my trunk. Everything is there. Or it seems to be. But wait… the Nirvana T-shirt where I’d kept the netsuke is wrinkled, tossed on top of the pile of clothing. Digging through my backpack, I can’t find the smooth carved snake. Hazel must have taken it. But why? To help me? Or to set me up? Slamming the trunk, I hop into the driver’s seat and reach carefully under the seat for my knife. It’s not there either. I lean over and search the passenger floor. Squeezing over the console, I feel around in the back seat. My weapon is gone. Hazel undoubtedly took it. Was Jesse stabbed with my knife? Am I going to be framed for his murder? A shopping cart crashes into a post, and I jump, my heart hammering in my throat. I need to get out of here. Someone could be looking for me right now. Righting myself, I fumble with the keys in the ignition and pull carefully out of the lot. As I drive toward Jesse’s apartment, I make a deal with myself. If the cops are there, I will ditch my car somewhere and go to the airport. I’ll pack a bag, turn my cash into Bitcoin, and start my life over. People do it all the time. I will become Kelly Wilcox. I will accept all the things I do not know, and I will let Jesse and Hazel go. His slack face, the punctures in his chest, the metallic scent of his blood revisit me and I feel queasy. But I push the images from my mind and keep driving until the blocky apartment building appears in the distance. I cruise past it, eyes darting around for any signs of police.


his own voice rattled his ears. Sound carried badly in this thin atmosphere. "Desolate hole if you ask me," said Ford. "I could have more fun in a cat litter." He felt a mounting irritation. Of all the planets in all the star systems of all the Galaxy - didn't he just have to turn up at a dump like this after fifteen years of being a castaway? Not even a hot dog stand in evidence. He stooped down and picked up a cold clot of earth, but there was nothing underneath it worth crossing thousands of light years to look at. "No," insisted Arthur, "don't you understand, this is the first time I've actually stood on the surface of another planet ... a whole alien world ...! Pity it's such a dump though." Trillian hugged herself, shivered and frowned. She could have sworn she saw a slight and unexpected movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she glanced in that direction all she could see was the ship, still and silent, a hundred yards or so behind them. She was relieved when a second or so later they caught sight of Zaphod standing on top of the ridge of ground and waving to them to come and join him. He seemed to be excited, but they couldn't clearly hear what he was saying because of the thinnish atmosphere and the wind. As they approached the ridge of higher ground they became aware that it seemed to be circular - a crater about a hundred and fifty yards wide. Round the outside of the crater the sloping ground was spattered with black and red lumps. They stopped and looked at a piece. It was wet. It was rubbery. With horror they suddenly realized that it was fresh whalemeat. At the top of the crater's lip they met Zaphod. "Look," he said, pointing into the crater. In the centre lay the exploded carcass of a lonely sperm whale that hadn't lived long enough to be disappointed with its lot. The silence was only disturbed by the slight involuntary spasms of Trillian's throat. "I suppose there's no point in trying to bury it?" murmured Arthur, and then wished he hadn't. "Come," said Zaphod and started back down into the crater. "What, down there?" said Trillian with severe distaste. "Yeah," said Zaphod, "come on, I've got something to show you." "We can see it," said Trillian. "Not that," said Zaphod, "something else. Come on." They all hesitated. "Come on," insisted Zaphod, "I've found a way in." "In?" said Arthur in horror. "Into the interior of the planet! An underground passage. The force of the whale's impact cracked it open, and that's where we have to go. Where no man has trod these five million years, into the very depths of time itself ..." Marvin started his ironical humming again. Zaphod hit him and he shut up. With little shudders of disgust they all followed Zaphod down the incline into the crater, trying very hard not to look at its unfortunate creator. "Life,"