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In the Lives of Puppets.txt

causing irritation.” Rambo’s arms drooped as he slowed. “I don’t get it.” “That is fine,” Nurse Ratched told him. “It is high-brow intellectual humor. It is not for everyone. I will try again. I just flew in from a considerable distance, and boy, are my process servers exhausted—” “Stop,” Vic snapped. “Now.” She did. He closed his eyes, trying to regain control. His head hurt. He wasn’t angry, not exactly, and even if he was, he didn’t know who to direct it toward. He internalized it. He breathed in and out, in and out. His heart rate slowed. The sweat began to cool on his skin. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, opening his eyes again. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” “It is fine,” she said. “Do not worry about it.” He shook his head. “It’s not fine. You were just … being you. Thank you.” “You are welcome, Victor.” “Are we fighting?” Rambo asked quietly. “No,” Vic said. “We’re okay.” Rambo flashed his sensors in relief. “Good. I don’t like it when we fight.” Nurse Ratched rolled back over to the table, the tarp now covering the android, though it didn’t do much to conceal the fact that a body was hidden underneath. “We should not stay in here much longer tonight. It will only make Gio ask more questions.” Vic nodded. “Tomorrow, then. We can start tomorrow.” They found Dad in the ground house sitting in his chair, hands folded and resting on his stomach. The dying gasps of sunlight filtered weakly through the far window. Dad chuckled as Rambo raised his arms up, asking to be lifted. He bent over, pulling Rambo up and onto his lap. Rambo settled, tucking his arms in at his sides. “Eventful day?” he asked. “Yes,” Nurse Ratched said. “Unexpectedly so.” Vic looked down at the floor. “I wasn’t … doing what she said.” “He was not,” Nurse Ratched agreed. “It was a tasteless joke, and I apologize.” Dad nodded slowly. “It’s all right, you know. If you were. Your space is your space. You can do whatever you wish—” “Dad!” He shrugged. “I’m just saying. You’re not a child anymore. And being asexual doesn’t mean you still won’t have questions about—” Vic groaned. “Can we not? Please?” “Okay,” Dad said. “I won’t bring it up again. I know these things make you uncomfortable.” “Many things make Victor uncomfortable,” Nurse Ratched said. “It is fascinating. There is no one like him in all the world.” “No,” Dad said quietly. “I don’t believe there is.” He smiled as he looked Vic up and down. The smile faded when he saw Vic’s bandaged hand. “What happened?” Vic looked down. He’d forgotten. His mind froze, unable to think of a believable excuse. “Lab accident,” Nurse Ratched said. “Minor. Cut his palm on a carving knife. I administered first aid. It did not require stitching. It will not leave a scar.” Dad stared at Vic for a beat too long. “That right?” “Yeah,” Vic muttered. “Just slipped, is all.” “You go to the Scrap Yards today?” Vic scratched

Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt

something to me when you left, something that’s stayed with me. He said I couldn’t be that way if you weren’t so inclined. It was a revelation.” He stops, and frowns. “I didn’t know any other way, Ana. Now I do. It’s been educational.” “Me, educate you?” I scoff. His eyes soften. “Do you miss it?” he asks. Oh! “I don’t want you to hurt me, but I like to play, Christian. You know that. If you wanted to do something . . .” I shrug, gazing at him. “Something?” “You know, with a flogger or your crop—” I stop, blushing. He raises his brow, surprised. “Well . . . we’ll see. Right now, I’d like some good old-fashioned vanilla.” His thumb skirts my bottom lip, and he kisses me once more. From: Anastasia Grey Subject: Good Morning Date: August 29, 2011 09:14 To: Christian Grey Mr. Grey I just wanted to tell you that I love you. That is all. Yours Always A x 310/551 Anastasia Grey Commissioning Editor, SIP From: Christian Grey Subject: Banishing Monday Blues Date: August 29, 2011 09:18 To: Anastasia Grey Mrs. Grey What gratifying words to hear from one’s wife (errant or not) on a Monday morn- ing. Let me assure you that I feel exactly the same way. Sorry about the dinner this evening. I hope it won’t be too tedious for you. x Christian Grey, CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. Oh yes. The American Shipbuilding Association dinner. I roll my eyes . . . More stuffed shirts. Christian really does take me to the most fascinating functions. From: Anastasia Grey Subject: Ships that pass in the night Date: August 29, 2011 09:26 To: Christian Grey Dear Mr. Grey I am sure you can think of a way to spice up the dinner . . . Yours in anticipation Mrs. G. x 311/551 Anastasia (non-errant) Grey Commissioning Editor, SIP From: Christian Grey Subject: Variety is the Spice of Life Date: August 29, 2011 09:35 To: Anastasia Grey Mrs. Grey I have a few ideas . . . x Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Now Impatient for the ASA Dinner Inc. All the muscles in my belly clench. Hmm . . . I wonder what he’ll dream up. Hannah knocks on the door, interrupting my reverie. “Ready to go through your schedule for this week, Ana?” “Sure. Sit.” I smile, recovering my equilibrium, and minimize my e-mail pro- gram. “I’ve had to move a couple of appointments. Mr. Fox next week and Dr.—” My phone rings, interrupting her. It’s Roach. He asks me up to his office. “Can we pick this up in twenty minutes?” “Of course.” 312/551 From: Christian Grey Subject: Last night Date: August 30, 2011 09:24 To: Anastasia Grey Was . . . fun. Who would have thought the ASA annual dinner could be so stimulating? As ever, you never disappoint, Mrs. Grey. I love you. x Christian Grey In awe, CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. From: Anastasia Grey Subject: I love a good ball game . . . Date: August 30,

Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt

and giggling. “Christian!” I scold, glaring at him. I thought we were going to make love in the sea . . . and chalk up yet another first. He bites his lower lip to stifle his amusement. I splash him, and he splashes me right back. “We have all night,” he says, grinning like a fool. “Laters, baby.” He dives beneath the sea and surfaces three feet away from me, then in a fluid, graceful crawl, swims away from the shore, away from me. Gah! Playful, tantalizing Fifty! I shield my eyes from the sun as I watch him go. He’s such a tease . . . what can I do to get him back? While I swim back to the shore, I contemplate my options. At the sun loungers our drinks have arrived, and I take a quick sip of Coke. Christian is a faint speck in the distance. Hmm . . . I lie down on my front and, fumbling with the straps, take my bikini top off and toss it casually onto Christian’s sun lounger. There . . . see how brazen I can be, Mr. Grey. Put this in your pipe and smoke it. I shut my eyes and let the 16/551 sun warm my skin . . . warm my bones, and I drift away under its heat, my thoughts turning to my wedding day. “You may kiss the bride,” Reverend Walsh announces. I beam at my husband. “Finally, you’re mine,” he whispers and pulls me into his arms and kisses me chastely on the lips. I am married. I am Mrs. Christian Grey. I am giddy with joy. “You look beautiful, Ana,” he murmurs and smiles, his eyes glowing with love . . . and something darker, something hot. “Don’t let anyone take that dress off but me, understand?” His smile heats a hundred degrees as his fingertips trail down my cheek, igniting my blood. Holy crap . . . How does he do this, even here with all these people staring at us? I nod mutely. Jeez, I hope no one can hear us. Luckily Reverend Walsh has discreetly stepped back. I glance at the throng gathered in their wedding finery . . . My mom, Ray, Bob, and the Greys are all applauding—even Kate, my maid of honor, who looks stunning in pale pink as she stands beside Christian’s best man, his brother Elliot. Who knew that even Elliot could scrub up so well? All wear huge, beaming smiles—except Grace, who weeps graciously into a dainty white handkerchief. “Ready to party, Mrs. Grey?” Christian murmurs, giving me his shy smile. I melt. He looks divine in a simple black tux with silver waistcoat and tie. He’s so . . . dashing. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” I grin, a totally goofy smile on my face. 17/551 Later the wedding party is in full swing . . . Carrick and Grace have gone to town. They have the marquee set up again and beautifully decorated in pale pink, silver, and ivory with its sides open,

Pineapple Street.txt

someone’s uncle or niece or babysitter sitting on an overstuffed sofa, telling the camera what it was like to find the body, or not find the body, or hear the voicemail, or find the purse she never would have left behind. What woman leaves a purse behind? What woman has ever left her purse? The lady taking up the whole sidewalk with her stroller looked happy, if tired, but she couldn’t be. She was late for walking Lester Holt around the scene of the crime. She needed to show Lester Holt the spot where she’d looked into the snowbank and saw what she thought was a mannequin. She needed to take Lester Holt into the ravine, where he would step so carefully over the fallen logs with his Italian shoes. She needed Lester Holt to see the bed, the pillowcase, the broken curtain rod, the hairbrush. Look, Lester Holt: This was her wallet. Who would leave a wallet? #8: YOU Let’s go there, at last. Let’s picture it. You make sure you’re onstage at the end of the show. It’s not so much about being seen but about looking calm, happy, paternal on tape so people will look back and think, This is not a man who’s about to kill someone. Thalia has said she thinks she’s pregnant, although there’s no way, you’re too careful. Every couple of months she’s sure she’s late. You tell her she needs to keep better track of her periods, and she says, “You sound like Bodie Kane. She had this whole system.” You aren’t aware that Thalia has followed that system for the past year, knows damn well she’s not pregnant. As far as you know, Thalia isn’t meticulous about anything: calling when she says she will, taking the pills you pay for, keeping things secret from her friends. Your wife keeps asking her to babysit, and she keeps saying yes. At first the babysitting was a ruse so you could walk her home at the end of the night, but you’ve come up with better plans, and now you tell Thalia to say no when Suzanne asks, but there she is at your house on a Saturday as you and Suzanne head out to dinner with friends in Hanover. That Monday, she sits in your office and pouts and asks where you and your wife honeymooned, and it becomes clear from her follow-ups that she’s looked through your photo albums. Later that week, Suzanne can’t find her blue nightgown. A few weeks later Thalia babysits again, and that night as you climb into bed you find her silver teardrop earrings on your own nightstand, as if you’d bedded her right there, as if Suzanne were supposed to find them, as if Thalia had copied the moment wholesale from some movie. You scoop them deftly into the pocket of your pajama pants, where, at two in the morning when you roll over, they stab your thigh, thankfully just your thigh. You’ve tried three times now to break things off—not because you want to, but because as

The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

bearded face. Marvel's face was astonishment. "I'm dashed!" he said. "If this don't beat cock-fighting! Most remarkable!--And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, 'arf a mile away! Not a bit of you visible--except--" He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. "You 'aven't been eatin' bread and cheese?" he asked, holding the invisible arm. "You're quite right, and it's not quite assimilated into the system." "Ah!" said Mr. Marvel. "Sort of ghostly, though." "Of course, all this isn't so wonderful as you think." "It's quite wonderful enough for my modest wants," said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "Howjer manage it? How the dooce is it done?" "It's too long a story. And besides--" "I tell you, the whole business fair beats me," said Mr. Marvel. "What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that--I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you--" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "I came up behind you--hesitated--went on--" Mr. Marvel's expression was eloquent. "--then stopped. 'Here,' I said, 'is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me.' So I turned back and came to you--you. And--" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I'm all in a dizzy. May I ask--How is it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help?-- Invisible!" "I want you to help me get clothes--and shelter--and then, with other things. I've left them long enough. If you won't--well! But you will--must." "Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I'm too flabbergasted. Don't knock me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you've pretty near broken my toe. It's all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist--Lord!" "Pull yourself together," said the voice, "for you have to do the job I've chosen for you." Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round. "I've chosen you," said the voice. "You are the only man, except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me--and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me," he said, "if you fail to do as I direct you--" He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel's shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don't want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don't you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you--just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I'm most willing to do." Chapter 10 Mr. Marvel's Visit to Iping After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its

Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

flirtation is my love language, and that I haven’t gotten laid in a very, very long time. Frankly, I was just being polite by apologizing. “Tell me about Jess and River,” he says, blessing us both with an escape route. “How do you know them?” “Jess and I have been friends forever. River used to come into our coffee shop every morning and they’d do this whole Pride and Prejudice flirt-but-not-flirt thing. It was entertaining but ultimately exhausting. I forced her to do the DNADuo. I’m telling you, if it wasn’t for me, she’d still be single. I should get a finder’s fee.” “I wasn’t really paying attention to the technology yet when the company first launched,” he says, “but they had a very high match, right?” “Diamond—a score of ninety-nine, in fact, still the highest score in company history. The executives actually paid her to get to know him. Honestly, I couldn’t have written a better happily ever after myself.” I make the mistake of letting my eyes wander down the length of his body. He seems strangely fidgety, and when he pulls his sweater up and over his head, folding it on the back of his chair, my brain short-circuits for at least a second. A new emotion invades my blood: soft fondness. I blink at his chest and the five grinning male faces there beneath WONDERLAND in the branded, swooping font. “You’re wearing a Wonderland T-shirt?” “Stevie and I got some merch when you and Juno were stuck in that abysmal porta potty line earlier.” I laugh-whisper, “Merch. You’ve got the lingo.” He grins at my slack-jawed awe. “We are on a quest, right? A quest for joy? Do I not need to attain certain knowledge?” For a beat, I’m speechless. I have a tight feeling in my chest, like twine around my lungs, seeing him in this T-shirt. And not just wearing it, but proudly wearing it. I’ve agreed with Jess about how hot it is that River is such a good dad to Juno, but it’s a truth I can’t look at straight on. I celebrate it for her obliquely, on the sidelines. I want a family, of course, but who knows what that will look like for me. The meet someone + love someone + be together long enough to want to have a kid together math isn’t really mathing for me. I assume my role is being the auntie everyone comes to when they need to learn how to do the perfect winged eyeliner, hide a hangover from a parent, or cry about their first broken heart. I think every child needs someone who adores them unconditionally but is not biologically obligated to. Being attracted to a proud dad is doing weird, painful things to my breathing. It’s only attraction, I remind myself. Don’t make it into a big deal. “I didn’t realize their merch sizes went up to giant,” I say, pushing my voice out past the cork of emotion in my throat. I make the mistake of reaching out to touch the shirt

Yellowface.txt

defined as staying in my current apartment and ordering takeout every other day instead of every day—I could survive the next ten, even fifteen years on my earnings from The Last Front alone. The hardcover of The Last Front has gone back for its eleventh printing. The paperback edition just came out, which has generated a nice sales bump—paperbacks are cheaper, so they sell a bit better. I truly don’t need the money. I could walk away from all of this and be perfectly fine. But, my God, I want to be back in the spotlight. You enjoy this delightful waterfall of attention when your book is the latest breakout success. You dominate the cultural conversation. You possess the literary equivalent of the hot hand. Everyone wants to interview you. Everyone wants you to blurb their book, or host their launch event. Everything you say matters. If you utter a hot take about the writing process, about other books, or even about life itself, people take your word as gospel. If you recommend a book on social media, people actually drive out that day to go buy it. But your time in the spotlight never lasts. I’ve seen people who were massive bestsellers not even six years ago, sitting alone and forlorn at neglected signing tables while lines stretched around the corner for their younger, hotter peers. It’s hard to reach such a pinnacle of literary prominence that you remain a household name for years, decades past your latest release. Only a handful of Nobel Prize winners can get away with that. The rest of us have to keep racing along the hamster wheel of relevance. I’ve just learned from Twitter that my mentee, Emmy Cho, has signed with Athena’s former literary agent, Jared, a hotshot shark known for six- and seven-figure deals. As her mentor I’m happy for her, but I also feel a spike of anxiety every time Emmy shares her good news. I’m afraid she’ll catch up to me, that her inevitable book deal will involve an advance bigger than mine, that she’ll sell film rights to a production company that will actually sell it to a studio, that her fame will then overshoot mine, and that the next time we see each other at some literary event she will merely greet me with a cool, superior nod. The only way to get ahead, of course, is to dazzle the world with my next project. But I’ve no clue what that might be. BRETT CALLS ONE MORNING, OSTENSIBLY TO CATCH UP. WE TRADE pleasantries for a while, and then he asks, “So, how are things going in writing land?” I know what he’s really asking. Everyone’s clamoring for my next pitch, and it’s not only because publishing has such a short attention span. What he’s thinking, and what Daniella is thinking, is that if I can put out a follow-up to The Last Front soon, something clearly not plagiarized or so intimately linked to Athena, but that still retains the ineffable Juniper Song spark, then we can dispel the

Maame.txt

up to 15% of all Parkinson’s. Hereditary Parkinson’s continues to be rare. The majority of Parkinson’s cases are “idiopathic.” Idiopathic means there is no known cause. I suppose now is as good a time as any to let you know that I have an older brother, James. He lives in Putney, so it’s just Dad and me here in Croydon. My mum spends most of her time in Ghana, running a hostel that my grandfather left to her and my uncle when he died. She’ll come back home for a year, then return to Ghana for a year, rinse and repeat. It wasn’t always a yearlong thing, she used to only go for a couple of months at a time, but excuses would sprout up like inconspicuous mushrooms: “It’s so expensive and long a flight, it doesn’t make economic sense to stay here for such a short time” or “British weather doesn’t agree with my arthritis” or “My brother is no good; he’s not business-minded like me.” A year after Grandad passed, I overheard talk of upheaving us all to Accra, but Mum said no. “My degree from Ghana helped me not one bit here and Maddie is an A-plus student. That cannot go to waste. She will do better than us if here, and so you, their father, must stay.” Thus her yo-yo traveling began. My brother James pretty much left when Mum did. She was the iron fist of the household and Dad didn’t know what to do with us when she was gone, so he did very little. James also didn’t know what to do with himself, so he spent most evenings and weekends at various friends’ houses. I barely saw him. He went to a different school from me and then straight to somebody else’s house; he had decided early on that his friends were his family. Mum hated that; she’d shout on the landline, punctuated by the automated voice reminding us how much we had left on our blue calling card. “Stay home, James! Stop eating at other people’s houses when your father has put food in the fridge. Their parents will think you have no mother!” James, at fifteen, would shout back, “I don’t!” I’d lie to friends and tell them Mum was only gone for a month or two, three tops, because I knew they wouldn’t get it. They’d ask, “What about you?” But I was fine. I was raised to be independent, to wash my own clothes, to shop for food and cook my own meals, to do my homework on time, to iron my uniform and assemble my school lunch. I didn’t need to be looked after. I was proud to be so trusted—I didn’t know any better. Then they’d ask, “What about your dad?” And he was fine too because my parents aren’t the same as yours and their marriage isn’t conventional. They do things their own way. I thought back then that it worked. I ignored James when he said it didn’t. * * * Dad’s sitting in his armchair by

Hound of the Baskervilles.txt

front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience. "If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered. In half an hour we won't be able to see our hands in front of us." "Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?" "Yes, I think it would be as well." So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we were half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea, with the moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably on. "We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take the chance of his being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we must hold our ground where we are." He dropped on his knees and clapped his ear to the ground. "Thank God, I think that I hear him coming." A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouch- ing among the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as through a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were await- ing. He looked round him in surprise as he emerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he came swiftly along the path, passed close to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us. As he walked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like a man who is ill at ease. "Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cock- ing pistol. "Look out! It's coming!" There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes's elbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. But sud- denly they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade gave a yell of terror and threw himself face downward upon the ground. I sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog. With long bounds the huge black creatwe was leaping down the track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we by the apparition that we

Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt

hair, brushing it until it shines, and inserting my best gold and jade pins to hold and decorate the upswept bun. The red paint on my lips and pink powder on my cheeks stand out even brighter and, I hope, alluringly, above my snow-white gown made of silk as thin and translucent as a cicada’s wing. My mother-in-law would never offer a compliment, but on this day she can’t complain about how I look. “Do you think it will be better for you to be at the front gate, attend the banquet, or be in your bedchamber when my son arrives?” she asks. There is only one correct response. “Though I long to see my husband and every minute apart has been a sword in my heart, I’ll remain in my room. I hope his desires will bring him to me quickly.” Lady Kuo nods her approval. Then, “While my duty is to oversee the banquet for our guests, please be confident that I’ll watch to make sure my son neither eats nor drinks too much. I want him active in the bedchamber.” I bow my head in deference, although it’s hard to imagine what control she might have over my husband in this regard. She raps her knuckles again to dismiss me and then rises to address the room. “We don’t often receive guests in the inner chambers. I expect everyone to be hospitable.” After a pause, she adds, “I realize tomorrow is the day Doctor Wong and Young Midwife pay their monthly call. Their work is too important to cancel. I’ll make sure you each have an opportunity to see them, but please remember that our men are making connections that can build the Yang family’s wealth and reputation. We must do all we can to help by showing these traveling women”—those last words come out of her mouth as though she’s speaking of ghouls—“that we live by the values Confucius and the emperor have set forth.” Not long after she leaves, I tell my daughters to keep working on their embroidery and then retire to my room. Listening to the distant sounds of arrival and greeting, and later the hum from the welcome banquet being held in the second courtyard, I keep returning to my wedding night and the anticipation I felt. The evening crawls toward midnight, but I remain still, so movement won’t smear my makeup or push a single hair out of place. My gown drapes across my lap to the floor. I adjust the fabric so that the toes of my shoes peek out from the puddled silk as an enticement. I am like this—as sublime as a figurine of the Goddess of Mercy in meditation—when Maoren enters. My appearance has the desired effect. “Tonight we will make a son,” my husband says, pulling me into his arms. * * * The next morning, the visitors are already settled in the inner chambers when I enter. Everyone is in attendance, which means that Doctor Wong and Meiling have yet to arrive. My mother-in-law motions for me

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt

Mock Turtle: `nine the next, and so on.' `What a curious plan!' exclaimed Alice. `That's the reason they're called lessons,' the Gryphon remarked: `because they lessen from day to day.' This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. `Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?' `Of course it was,' said the Mock Turtle. `And how did you manage on the twelfth?' Alice went on eagerly. `That's enough about lessons,' the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: `tell her something about the games now.' CHAPTER X The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. `Same as if he had a bone in his throat,' said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- `You may not have lived much under the sea--' (`I haven't,' said Alice)--`and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--' (Alice began to say `I once tasted--' but checked herself hastily, and said `No, never') `--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!' `No, indeed,' said Alice. `What sort of a dance is it?' `Why,' said the Gryphon, `you first form into a line along the sea-shore--' `Two lines!' cried the Mock Turtle. `Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--' `THAT generally takes some time,' interrupted the Gryphon. `--you advance twice--' `Each with a lobster as a partner!' cried the Gryphon. `Of course,' the Mock Turtle said: `advance twice, set to partners--' `--change lobsters, and retire in same order,' continued the Gryphon. `Then, you know,' the Mock Turtle went on, `you throw the--' `The lobsters!' shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. `--as far out to sea as you can--' `Swim after them!' screamed the Gryphon. `Turn a somersault in the sea!' cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. `Back to land again, and that's all the first figure,' said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. `It must be a very pretty dance,' said Alice timidly. `Would you like to see a little of it?' said the Mock Turtle. `Very much indeed,' said Alice. `Come, let's try the first figure!' said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. `We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?' `Oh, YOU sing,' said the Gryphon. `I've forgotten the words.' So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this,

The Da Vinci Code.txt

not about to let her grandfather know that. She set her jaw firmly and let go of his hand. 68 "Up ahead is the Salle des Etats," her grandfather said as they approached the Louvre's most famous room. Despite her grandfather's obvious excitement, Sophie wanted to go home. She had seen pictures of the Mona Lisa in books and didn't like it at all. She couldn't understand why everyone made such a fuss. "C'est ennuyeux," Sophie grumbled. "Boring," he corrected. "French at school. English at home." "Le Louvre, c'est pas chez moi!" she challenged. He gave her a tired laugh. "Right you are. Then let's speak English just for fun." Sophie pouted and kept walking. As they entered the Salle des Etats, her eyes scanned the narrow room and settled on the obvious spot of honor-the center of the right-hand wall, where a lone portrait hung behind a protective Plexiglas wall. Her grandfather paused in the doorway and motioned toward the painting. "Go ahead, Sophie. Not many people get a chance to visit her alone." Swallowing her apprehension, Sophie moved slowly across the room. After everything she'd heard about the Mona Lisa, she felt as if she were approaching royalty. Arriving in front of the protective Plexiglas, Sophie held her breath and looked up, taking it in all at once. Sophie was not sure what she had expected to feel, but it most certainly was not this. No jolt of amazement. No instant of wonder. The famous face looked as it did in books. She stood in silence for what felt like forever, waiting for something to happen. "So what do you think?" her grandfather whispered, arriving behind her. "Beautiful, yes?" "She's too little." Saunire smiled. "You're little and you're beautiful." I am not beautiful, she thought. Sophie hated her red hair and freckles, and she was bigger than all the boys in her class. She looked back at the Mona Lisa and shook her head. "She's even worse than in the books. Her face is... brumeux." "Foggy," her grandfather tutored. "Foggy," Sophie repeated, knowing the conversation would not continue until she repeated her new vocabulary word. "That's called the sfumato style of painting," he told her, "and it's very hard to do. Leonardo da Vinci was better at it than anyone." Sophie still didn't like the painting. "She looks like she knows something... like when kids at school have a secret." Her grandfather laughed. "That's part of why she is so famous. People like to guess why she is smiling." "Do you know why she's smiling?" "Maybe." Her grandfather winked. "Someday I'll tell you all about it." Sophie stamped her foot. "I told you I don't like secrets!" "Princess," he smiled. "Life is filled with secrets. You can't learn them all at once." "I'm going back up," Sophie declared, her voice hollow in the stairwell. "To the Mona Lisa?" Langdon recoiled. "Now?" Sophie considered the risk. "I'm not a murder suspect. I'll take my chances. I need to understand what my grandfather was trying to tell me." "What about the embassy?"

Pineapple Street.txt

house. I learned that someone else missed his girlfriend, no, really missed her, really, and no, he wasn’t seeing anyone else, he loved her, why was she being like that, stop being like that, didn’t she know he missed her? We’re granted so few superpowers in life. This was one of mine. I could walk the halls knowing things none of those Barton Hall boys would voluntarily tell me. I knew Jorge Cardenas didn’t let himself drink when he was sad, because that was how alcoholism started, and he didn’t want to be like his father. It would be convenient if I’d picked up that phone one day and heard something useful, something incriminating. Heard someone threatening Thalia, for instance. Or heard something about you. But it was simply part of a broader habit: I collected information about my peers the way some people hoard newspapers. I hoped this would help me become more like them, less like myself—less poor, less clueless, less provincial, less vulnerable. Every summer, I’d bring home the yearbook and mark each student’s photo with a special code of colored checkmarks: whether I knew them, considered them a friend, had a crush. Sometimes, in the depths of summer isolation, I’d look up people’s families in the school directory to learn their parents’ first names, with the sole purpose of lifting me, for a minute, out of a bedroom I hated in a house that wasn’t my own in a town where I didn’t know anyone anymore. This doesn’t make me special, and I knew that then, too. I’m only saying it by way of explanation: I cared about details. Not because they were something I could control, but because they were something I could own. And there was so little that was mine. 3 Fran and Anne had invited me for a late dinner, so I put on the snow boots I’d purchased for the trip and headed across South Bridge to Lower Campus. It was nine degrees out, the snow hard enough to walk across without sinking. I wondered if I’d pass people I knew, but I seemed to be the only living thing outdoors. When I’d been back before, it was to limited parts of campus. I hadn’t crossed the bridges, entered academic buildings. The dimensions seemed off now; my memory, and my frequent Granby dreams, had moved things inch by inch. The statue of Samuel Granby had somehow moved ten feet uphill, for instance. I passed close, touched his foot with my glove for old times’ sake. That fall, right after I’d accepted the invitation to teach, I woke thinking about the main street through town, the one with all the businesses, but couldn’t remember its name, so I googled Granby School map. What I found, beyond the answer (Crown Street!), were detailed maps of campus as it was in March of 1995, maps people had marked with dotted lines representing their theories, the routes they’d charted through the woods. I knew Thalia’s murder had caught and held the public’s attention, but I hadn’t understood

THE SCARLET LETTER.txt

appreciate; (n, v) accept, assure, profess, promise. palatable, nice, flattering, delicious, honor; (adj) adoring, worshipping, ANTONYMS: (v) negate, veto, kind, complimentary, amicable worshiping; (adv) adoringly. nullify, refute, repress acutely: (adv) sharply, keenly, ANTONYMS: (v) detest, despise, affirmed: (adj) acknowledged, severely, astutely, piercingly, shrilly, condemn, loathe, disrespect, abhor, avowed, guaranteed cleverly; (adj, adv) intensely, scorn affirming: (adj) predicative, extremely, gravely, critically. adorn: (v) deck, dress, embellish, predicant, assertory; (n) ANTONYMS: (adv) chronically, ornament, beautify, enrich, grace, confirmation mildly, slightly, faintly, vaguely, trim, garnish, gild, blazon. afflicted: (adj) miserable, distressed, unexceptionally ANTONYMS: (v) mar, disfigure, stricken, pitiful, sorrowful, ill, acuteness: (n) acuity, sharpness, deform, deface, damage, hurt woeful, dejected, sorry; (v) afflict, acumen, discrimination, gravity, adorned: (adj) decorated, ornate, displeased insight, sensitivity, perspicacity, bedecked, decked out, fancy, affliction: (n, v) adversity; (n) penetration, keenness, intensity. garnished, ornamented, decked, distress, regret, martyrdom, ANTONYMS: (n) faintness, beautiful, inscribed, festooned torment, curse, trial, bane, insignificance, dullness adornment: (n) jewelry, misadventure, sorrow, agony. adaptation: (n) adjustment, embellishment, decoration, ANTONYMS: (n) gift, godsend, acclimatization, alteration, version, garnishment, accessory, trim, frill, solace, blessing reworking, acclimation, fitness, passementerie, trimming, garnish, afflictions: (n) buffeting modification, conversion, adaption, flower aforesaid: (adj) aforenamed, said, immunization. ANTONYMS: (n) advancement: (n, v) advance; (n) foregoing, above-mentioned, same, Nathaniel Hawthorne 257 preceding, former, foresaid disinclination, apathy, tardiness, uphill, above ground; (prep) upon; afresh: (adv) again, newly, over delay (adj) eminent, lofty again, new, once again, freshly, once alas: (adv) unluckily, regrettably, amazed: (adj) astounded, astonished, more, often; (adj) the other day, just sadly, unhappily, sorry to say; (n) stunned, dumbfounded, now, only yesterday oh; (int) lackaday. ANTONYM: flabbergasted, shocked, staggered, agitated: (adj) upset, excited, (adv) luckily bewildered, surprised, nervous, restive, tumultuous, alchemist: (n) alchemister, thunderstruck, aghast distressed, tense, jumpy, intellectual, intellect, philosopher, amen: (adj) right, correct; (n) Amon; overwrought, anxious, alarmed. alchymy, chemic (adv) positively, yes ANTONYMS: (adj) calm, lethargic, alchemy: (n) pseudoscience, alchymy, amenable: (adj) accountable, tranquil, relaxed, assured, cool, still interpersonal chemistry, alchemist, yielding, answerable, tractable, agitation: (n) disturbance, alchemistic, magic, sorcery, submissive, responsible, compliant, excitement, tumult, stirring, alchemistry obedient, acquiescent, accessible, convulsion, stir, commotion, alertness: (n) watchfulness, agility, pliable. ANTONYMS: (adj) emotion, unrest, shake, turmoil. alacrity, nimbleness, liveliness, obstinate, stubborn, disobedient, ANTONYMS: (n) serenity, calm, jealousy, wariness, attention, uncooperative, irresponsible, equanimity, rest, peace, deterrent quickness, intelligence, nonconforming, disagreeable, agonised: (adj) painful consciousness. ANTONYMS: (n) unanswerable, unaccountable, agreeable: (adj) accordant, nice, dream, drowsiness, inattentiveness, intractable, unamenable sweet, consistent, suitable, amusing, slowness, unconsciousness amidst: (adv, prep) among; (adv) enjoyable, affable; (adj, v) pleasant, alien: (n) foreigner, outsider; (adj) amongst; (prep) between, midst, desirable; (adj, n) acceptable. strange, extrinsic, remote, exotic, into ANTONYMS: (adj) disagreeable, extraneous, unfamiliar; (n, v) amiss: (adj, adv) wrong; (adj) bad, discordant, unpleasant, nasty, alienate; (adj, n) unknown; (v) haywire, faulty, astray, guilty; (adv) unwilling, resistant, aggressive, estrange. ANTONYMS: (adj) badly, poorly, awry, wrongly, adrift. repugnant, averse, stubborn, familiar, akin, ordinary; (adj, n) ANTONYMS: (adj, adv) right; (adv) unacceptable native; (n) citizen, local perfectly, properly, suitably, aided: (adj) power, favored alienation: (n) estrangement, appropriately, correctly, well; (adj) aiding: (adj) healthy, subventitious, abalienation, disaffection, dislike, okay, correct, good subsidiary, serviceable, auxiliary, separation, transfer, breach,

Blowback.txt

apartment and said goodbye to the safe house, hoping my own security situation was improving. Aside from getting accosted by a guy at an Ikea (whose repeated attempts to get in my face spiced up an otherwise boring day for Dennis), it was uneventful. The building was quiet and modern. A guard sat in the lobby. After I moved in, I got a notification that I had received a package, which was strange. I hadn’t given the address out to friends or family yet. Downstairs in the mail room, I fetched the shipment. Inside a grimy box, someone had sent me cheaply made winter clothing. No note. No return address. The package was followed by several more, including a glove, a knitted cap, and other assorted items. The packages were all dated the same. November 14, 2020, the day we’d toured apartments during the first “Stop the Steal” rally. I should have taken Dennis’s advice and stayed home that day. Someone had clearly followed me to the new address, despite painstaking efforts to keep it under wraps. Within days of move-in, the place didn’t feel like a sanctuary. It was just another target. Nevertheless, I decided to stop carrying my handgun for a while, for mental health reasons. I had started going to therapy again and was on a low-dose antidepressant. I locked the pistol in a metal gun safe and gave Hannah the key. Dennis didn’t ask why I stopped carrying. But one evening as I prepared to head in for the night, he stopped me to offer up a self-defense alternative. “Sir, I have a small gift for you,” he said, digging in his backpack, pushing aside extra magazines of ammo and a trauma kit. He handed me a small box. “What’s this?” I asked. “Open it.” Inside was a gray ballpoint pen with a cap. “My favorite weapon,” he replied. He could tell I was confused. “It’s made out of carbon fiber.” “So it’s an indestructible ballpoint pen?” I replied, not catching on. Dennis removed the pen from the box and pulled off the cap to reveal it wasn’t a pen at all but a shiv, sharpened to a fine point. The shaft was hollowed out, like a soda straw with a knife at the end. “If a bad guy comes your way, you plunge the sharp part into his neck, chest, or wherever,” he explained, “while keeping your thumb over the end of the straw.” He made a stabbing motion in the air. “The attacker has got two options: A, he can hold still, keep this inside him, and stay alive until help arrives. Or B, he can throw you off and bleed out,” he said, lifting his thumb off the end of the shaft to demonstrate. “Dennis, I don’t know what to say,” I remarked. “What a graphic gift.” “Don’t mention it,” he responded. “Just keep ‘Little Dennis’ with you, especially when I’m gone.” * * * The morning of January 6, 2021, I woke up with only one in-person meeting on my calendar: “TSCM Sweep.” 2

Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt

a rescue dog named Bonnie who would always be happier to see me than him, which he’d defend by saying, “She sees me every day. Of course she seems more excited to see you when you’re here.” We split our time between Seattle and LA before we decided to rent out Finn’s Los Feliz house and move in together this year, a quaint two-bedroom only a ten-minute drive from Noemie. Stella sold The Poisoned Pen in a two-book deal shortly after I finished it, in large part thanks to the relationships I’d built through ghostwriting. The sequel is coming out next year, so I’ve been immersed in writing and working a part-time job at a bookstore near our apartment. Finn’s wrapping production on a Hanukkah-themed romantic comedy, the first one for a network known mainly for Christmas movies. Plus, he’s often traveling for stakeholder meetings for his nonprofit, Healthy Minds, which already has a dozen therapists on staff. Our lives are busier than they’ve ever been, and I can’t imagine them any other way. My parents are deeply amused by the whole thing, including the fact that their daughter is in a relationship with someone they’ve watched on TV. My dad called him Hux for a full three months after I introduced him and still has the occasional slip. “I still can’t believe you haven’t let us read it yet,” my mom says after wrapping me in a hug. “We’ve read all the others!” “Yes, but this one is different. Just to be safe, I think you should skip chapters three, eleven, fourteen, the last few pages of eighteen, and half of twenty.” I consider this as I sign their copy. “And definitely twenty-two and twenty-four. Actually, maybe I should just hold on to this and redact some of those parts?” “Those are all the good parts,” Noemie stage-whispers, and I mime smacking her with the book. Just when I think I’ve signed everything and all my friends and family have moved the party over to the bar, one last person approaches my table. “Who should I make it out to?” I ask, the words still sounding strange but starting to feel more familiar. “Your fiancé,” Finn says as he slides the book forward. Another word I haven’t gotten used to, and I love the way it sounds in his voice. I glance down at the ring on my finger, warmth blooming in my chest. The engagement: a quiet, perfect moment between us a few months ago before we put his house up for rent. Glasses of wine, soft jazz playing from his sound system, Bonnie dozing in my lap. “Not being married to you feels like a complete waste of time,” he said, toying with a strand of my hair. “I think we should fix that.” Now he watches me swipe my pen over the title page, nothing but the purest admiration in his eyes. “My signature is a mess,” I declare. The two C’s aren’t uniform, and it looks a little like I’m practicing cursive on one of those gridded

The House of the Seven Gables.txt

all this had actually happened. Of course it was not real; no such black, easterly day as this had yet begun to be; Judge Pyncheon had not talked with, her. Clifford had not laughed, pointed, beckoned her away with him; but she had merely been afflicted--as lonely sleepers often are--with a great deal of unreasonable misery, in a morning dream! "Now--now--I shall certainly awake!" thought Hepzibah, as she went to and fro, making her little preparations. "I can bear it no longer I must wake up now!" But it came not, that awakening moment! It came not, even when, just before they left the house, Clifford stole to the parlor-door, and made a parting obeisance to the sole occupant of the room. "What an absurd figure the old fellow cuts now!" whispered he to Hepzibah. "Just when he fancied he had me completely under his thumb! Come, come; make haste! or he will start up, like Giant Despair in pursuit of Christian and Hopeful, and catch us yet!" As they passed into the street, Clifford directed Hepzibah's attention to something on one of the posts of the front door. It was merely the initials of his own name, which, with somewhat of his characteristic grace about the forms of the letters, he had cut there when a boy. The brother and sister departed, and left Judge Pyncheon sitting in the old home of his forefathers, all by himself; so heavy and lumpish that we can liken him to nothing better than a defunct nightmare, which had perished in the midst of its wickedness, and left its flabby corpse on the breast of the tormented one, to be gotten rid of as it might! XVII The Flight of Two Owls SUMMER as it was, the east wind set poor Hepzibah's few remaining teeth chattering in her head, as she and Clifford faced it, on their way up Pyncheon Street, and towards the centre of the town. Not merely was it the shiver which this pitiless blast brought to her frame (although her feet and hands, especially, had never seemed so death-a-cold as now), but there was a moral sensation, mingling itself with the physical chill, and causing her to shake more in spirit than in body. The world's broad, bleak atmosphere was all so comfortless! Such, indeed, is the impression which it makes on every new adventurer, even if he plunge into it while the warmest tide of life is bubbling through his veins. What, then, must it have been to Hepzibah and Clifford,--so time-stricken as they were, yet so like children in their inexperience,--as they left the doorstep, and passed from beneath the wide shelter of the Pyncheon Elm! They were wandering all abroad, on precisely such a pilgrimage as a child often meditates, to the world's end, with perhaps a sixpence and a biscuit in his pocket. In Hepzibah's mind, there was the wretched consciousness of being adrift. She had lost the faculty of self-guidance; but, in view of the difficulties around her, felt it hardly worth an effort to regain

Lord of the Flies.txt

falling, still falling, it sank toward the beach and the boys rushed screaming into the darkness. The parachute took the figure forward, furrowing the lagoon, and bumped it over the reef and out to sea. Toward midnight the rain ceased and the clouds drifted away, so that the sky was scattered once more with the incredible lamps of stars. Then the breeze died too and there was no noise save the drip and trickle of water that ran out of clefts and spilled down, leaf by leaf, to the brown earth of the island. The air was cool, moist, and clear; and presently even the sound of the water was still. The beast lay huddled on the pale beach and the stains spread, inch by inch. The edge of the lagoon became a streak of phosphorescence which advanced minutely, as the great wave of the tide flowed. The clear water mirrored the clear sky and the angular bright constellations. The line of phosphorescence bulged about the sand grains and little pebbles; it held them each in a dimple of tension, then suddenly accepted them with an inaudible syllable and moved on. Along the shoreward edge of the shallows the advancing clearness was full of strange, moonbeam-bodied creatures with fiery eyes. Here and there a larger pebble clung to its own air and was covered with a coat of pearls. The tide swelled in over the rain-pitted sand and smoothed everything with a layer of silver. Now it touched the first of the stains that seeped from the broken body and the creatures made a moving patch of light as they gathered at the edge. The water rose farther and dressed Simon's coarse hair with brightness. The line of his cheek silvered and the turn of his shoulder became sculptured marble. The strange attendant creatures, with their fiery eyes and trailing vapors, busied themselves round his head. The body lifted a fraction of an inch from the sand and a bubble of air escaped from the mouth with a wet plop. Then it turned gently in the water. Somewhere over the darkened curve of the world the sun and moon were pulling, and the film of water on the earth planet was held, bulging slightly on one side while the solid core turned. The great wave of the tide moved farther along the island and the water lifted. Softly, surrounded by a fringe of inquisitive bright creatures, itself a silver shape beneath the steadfast constellations, Simon's dead body moved out toward the open sea. CHAPTER TEN The Shell and the Glasses Piggy eyed the advancing figure carefully. Nowadays he sometimes found that he saw more clearly if he removed his glasses and shifted the one lens to the other eye; but even through the good eye, after what had happened, Ralph remained unmistakably Ralph. He came now out of the coconut trees, limping, dirty, with dead leaves hanging from his shock of yellow hair. One eye was a slit in his puffy cheek and a great scab had formed on his right knee.

Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt

and Javier, one of our new hires, arguing in a small clearing. Porter’s got his hand pushed down on his hip. “Just because you’re too scared to go over there and check don’t mean it doesn’t need to be done.” “You do it, then,” Javier says. “You know the whole place like the back of your hand. Doesn’t it make more sense for you to go check?” Porter throws his hands up, then spots me walking toward them. “Oh, good,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Boss is here. Let her tell you whose job it is to check the perimeter fencing because news flash, sugafoot, it ain’t me.” I approach Javier. “That would be your job. Is there a problem?” Javier smiles, and his right eyebrow arches up. He’s tall, dark hair and eyes, a scattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. He looks like an athlete, but I’ve seen him trip over damn near every exposed root or uneven pathway out here. I don’t think he’s coordinated enough to walk in a straight line, much less play sports. “Aw, come on, Charity,” he whines. “Porter is so much better at this. He knows every inch of this place, and besides, something might happen to me, and then we’d never get a chance to really know each other, you know?” He flashes me another smile. He’s so obvious, it’s actually a little funny. “I’m a vegetarian,” I say to him. He looks at me, confused. “Huh?” “She don’t like meat,” Porter says. “Strictly strawberries, like my man Harry Styles said.” Javier’s brows push together. Me and Porter are both part of the alphabet mafia, so we get it, but poor Javier is clueless. “I’m gay,” I say. “Very, very gay. Save all that flirting and goofy grinning for somebody who wants it and who also isn’t your direct supervisor.” Porter tilts his head to the side. “I, however, am strictly dickly and not your supervisor, so please feel free to try and seduce me. It probably still won’t work because you’re out here tryna hand your job duties off to somebody else, but I think you should give it a try anyway.” Javier looks like he might actually take Porter up on his offer, but I cut him off. “Javier, you gotta get on the perimeter check. It’s important.” It still feels a little weird handing out tasks and staying on top of people’s assigned jobs. My previous two seasons, I always took on extra tasks—coordinated the game and set up reservations. I even worked to perfect our fake-blood recipes. At the start of this season, Mr. Lamont told me he was so impressed with my work ethic the previous summers that he was handing me the reins when it came to the day-to-day operations. He said I was responsible, self-sufficient, and trustworthy. That’s mostly true. I’m all those things, but mostly because I don’t have any other choices. Being the child of an irresponsible parent who doesn’t really care what you’re doing as long as it doesn’t mess up

Of Human Bondage.txt

in it, and a couple of big arm-chairs; a Turkey carpet adorned the floor, and the walls were decorated with sporting prints. Mr. Carter was sitting at the desk and got up to shake hands with Philip. He was dressed in a long frock coat. He looked like a military man; his moustache was waxed, his gray hair was short and nut, he held himself upright, he talked in a breezy way, he lived at Enfield. He was very keen on games and the good of the country. He was an officer in the Hertfordshire Yeomanry and chairman of the Conservative Association. When he was told that a local magnate had said no one would take him for a City man, he felt that he had not lived in vain. He talked to Philip in a pleasant, off-hand fashion. Mr. Goodworthy would look after him. Watson was a nice fellow, perfect gentleman, good sportsman--did Philip hunt? Pity, _the_ sport for gentlemen. Didn't have much chance of hunting now, had to leave that to his son. His son was at Cambridge, he'd sent him to Rugby, fine school Rugby, nice class of boys there, in a couple of years his son would be articled, that would be nice for Philip, he'd like his son, thorough sportsman. He hoped Philip would get on well and like the work, he mustn't miss his lectures, they were getting up the tone of the profession, they wanted gentlemen in it. Well, well, Mr. Goodworthy was there. If he wanted to know anything Mr. Goodworthy would tell him. What was his handwriting like? Ah well, Mr. Goodworthy would see about that. Philip was overwhelmed by so much gentlemanliness: in East Anglia they knew who were gentlemen and who weren't, but the gentlemen didn't talk about it. CHAPTER XXXVII AT FIRST the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carter dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of accounts. Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with disfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthy who made use of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with one of the more experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: he came to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which were in low water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him to add up. He attended lectures for his first examination. Mr. Goodworthy repeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to it. Philip left the office at six and walked across the river to Waterloo. His supper was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spent the evening reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the National Gallery. Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled out of Ruskin's works, and with this in hand he went industriously through room after

The-One.txt

forward. “Hey, it’s Ethan from homicide.” “Oh! Hey, Ethan, I heard you were back. And evidently working the same hours! Good for you, man. What can I do for you?” Macedo’s warm tone gives no indication that he’s holding a grudge or something, like the people in his own office. “I was wondering if you could give me some information on a death that occurred about a month ago.” “Sure.” “Great. The name of the deceased is Samuel David Lucas, and he died on October 27th.” Ethan hears Macedo’s fingertips tap against his keyboard. “Yep. Got the report right here. There’s not much to it. Oh, yeah. I remember this one. I was the one who picked up his body from Bayside. His cause of death was sepsis. IV drug user.” Ethan goes still. “Bayside?” “Yeah. He’d been in the ICU for a couple of days before we got the call. He was brought to the ER after passing out at a bus stop.” Ethan brings his hand to his temple. If he was brought to the ER two days before he died, it was likely during Sloane’s shift. “There was no next of kin so we—” “Thanks, Macedo. I gotta run, but I really appreciate your help.” Ethan slams his laptop closed and stands from his chair while slipping his phone into his pocket. “See ya tomorrow, Marks,” one of his coworkers says as he marches out of the homicide unit. “Good night,” Ethan calls over his shoulder. He throws the door open to the seventh-floor parking area adjacent to the homicide unit, seething with rage as he rushes to his car. Sloane lied about everything. Carr hadn’t brought a gun to their home that night. Sloane was so desperate to get rid of Brody Carr that she stole a gun off her patient in the ER. She planned the whole damn thing. Chapter 51 Perched on one of her barstools, Sloane smiles at Ethan when he walks into the kitchen. “I have something to tell you. Two things, actually.” He presses his trembling hands against the kitchen island countertop, trying to control the anger seething through his body. He’s never been this enraged in his life. “Like that you lied about Carr bringing a gun to our house? That you actually stole it from a gang member who came into the ER?” Her face falters, but only for a moment. “How do you know that?” Ethan recognizes he’s more livid now that she’s not even bothering to deny it. “Did you lure him over here that night? You must have.” She stares back at him. “Yes.” He takes a deep breath. “Why wasn’t there a record of that on his phone?” “I told him to get a second unregistered phone after you were assigned to Chelsea’s case. And I got one too.” Ethan backs away from the counter and paces back and forth, tempted to throw one of Sloane’s stupid barstools through the window. “Only so I could make sure he wasn’t going to falsely incriminate me. For a while,

Hound of the Baskervilles.txt

guess, no doubt, but I am almost certain that this address has been written in a hotel." "How in the world can you say that?" "If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a single word and has run dry three times in a short address, showing that there was very little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else. Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that could we examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels around Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated Times leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent this singular message. Halloa! Halloa! What's this?" He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words were pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes. "Well?" "Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is a blank half- sheet of paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you have been in London?" "Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not." "You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?" "I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel," said our visitor. "Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch me?" "We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us before we go into this matter?" "Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting." "I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth reporting." Sir Henry smiled. "I don't know much of British life yet, for I have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here." "You have lost one of your boots?" "My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid. You will find it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind?" "Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine." "Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the incident may seem. You have lost one of your boots, you say?" "Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last night, and there was only one in the morning. I could get no sense out of the chap who cleans them. The worst of it is that I only bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never had them on." "If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be cleaned?" "They were tan boots

Five On A Treasure Island.txt

thought that George was getting nicer and nicer! "Well, now we'll get down to business," said Julian, and he pulled out his map. "We must study this really carefully, and find out exactly under what spot the entrances to the dungeons are. Now- come around and let's do our best to find out! It's up to us to use our brains- and beat that man who's bought the island!" They all bent over the traced map. It was quite dry now, and the children looked at it earnestly. It was plain that in the old days the castle had been a very fine place. "Now look," said Julian, putting his finger on the plan of the dungeons. "These seem to run all along under the castle- and here- and here- are the marks that seem to be meant to represent steps or stairs." "Yes," said George. "I should think they are. Well, if so, there appear to be two ways of getting down into the dungeons. One lot of steps seems to begin somewhere near this little room- and the other seems to start under the tower there. And what do you suppose this thing is here, Julian?" She put her finger on a round hole that was shown not only in the plan of the dungeons, but also in the plan of the ground floor of the castle. "I can't imagine what that is," said Julian, puzzled. "Oh yes, I know what it might be! You said there was an old well somewhere, do you remember? Well, that may be it, I should think. It would have to be very deep to get fresh water right under the sea- so it probably goes down through the dungeons too. Isn't this thrilling?" Everyone thought it was. They felt happy and excited. There was something to discover- something they could and must discover within the next day or two. They looked at one another. "Well," said Dick, "what are we going to start on? Shall we try to find the entrance to the dungeons- the one that seems to start round about this little room? For all we know there may be a big stone we can lift that opens above the dungeon steps!" This was a thrilling thought, and the children jumped up at once. Julian folded up the precious map and put it into his pocket. He looked round. The stone floor of the little room was overgrown with creeping weeds. They must be cleared away before it was possible to see if there were any stones that looked as if they might be moved. "We'd better set to work," said Julian, and he picked up a spade. "Let's clear away these weeds with our spades- scrape them off, look, like this- and then examine every single stone!" They all picked up spades and soon the little stone room was full of a scraping sound as the four of them chiselled away at the close-growing weeds with their spades. It wasn't very difficult to get the stones clear of them, and

Kristy-Woodson-Harvey-The-Summer-of-Songbirds.txt

I can’t be apart from you again. Whatever that looks like. Whatever it takes. I’m all in.’ ” My face is blazing, and Mary Stuart is frozen on the ledge of the firepit, like if she just doesn’t move maybe none of this will be real. “Lanier, I—” She wads the paper up and throws it in the fire, which sort of riles me. That’s my note. “One thing, Daphne. I have only ever asked you for one thing.” This is so categorically untrue that I want to laugh in her face. She asks me for things all the time. And I do them willingly with a smile on my face because that’s what friends do. “Why is it that you can’t just stay away from my brother?” I start to chime in, but Mary Stuart comes to my defense. “Because she loves him, Lanier. Because he loves her. Because they broke up and neither of them has been happy since.” “You knew?” she asks Mary Stuart. “I didn’t know they were together, but good Lord, Lanier, everyone knows they’re in love. And when things were rocky with Daphne, I kind of got where you were coming from. But we’re older now. We’re all in a different place. You can’t really play the card that Daphne will drag Huff down with her. She hasn’t so much as looked at a drink in years. We practically had to shove a Tylenol in her after Henry was born and she was hurting all over, for heaven’s sake. She will never go there again because of him. And because of us. And because she has yoga and journaling and therapy and whatever the hell else she does constantly, every day, to keep herself on track. She was twenty-three. You’ve punished her enough.” I’m floored by Mary Stuart standing up for me this way. And I’m also grateful. Because yes, yes to all those things. I try to be compassionate. “Lanier, I understand your concern, but—” “No! You do not understand my concern because you don’t have a brother.” That is technically true. But it burns through me, breaks my heart. “What is so wrong with me, Lanier? What is so bad about your best friend, the person who knows all your secrets, who you always run to first? What is so wrong with me that I’m not good enough for Huff?” Lanier looks as if she’s going to burst open. “We’re back here again, the two of you keeping secrets from me. Do you know how it feels for the two people you love the most to just leave you totally out in the cold?” I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me. “No, that’s great, Daphne, let’s just go right back there. Call me in six months when he’s dying to get married and you’re on the verge of falling apart. Can’t wait to clean that up. Again.” I am expecting her to be upset, so I’m trying to maintain my composure despite my heart beating out of my chest.

Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt

“Look at me, I’m Celine. I want to be friends with Brad, but I would rather choke to death on a crab stick—” Her braids whip my shoulder as she spins around to face me. “Why would I be eating a crab stick? I hate crab sticks!” “I know,” I explain patiently, “that’s the point. Now shut up and let me finish.” I clear my throat and start again. “I’m Celine and I would rather choke to death on a crab stick than admit I like Brad because I think I can replace all emotional conversations with power moves and epic stink eye.” “Oh my God.” Her voice lowers to a hiss, like air rushing out of a hot-air balloon. “Fine! Okay! You’re not so bad and I…I might understand why you did what you did when we were kids, and I…forgive you. Okay? So will you shut up?” Did I just annoy Celine into saying we’re cool? I think I might have. Funny how it’s not as satisfying as I imagined. “Maybe.” I shrug. “Maybe?” “Hey. You’re not the only one who can hedge.” “Ugh. Can we just…talk for five minutes without you making me think about myself?” she asks, which is a sentence I never thought I’d hear come out of her mouth. She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not like you. I really don’t have the whole emotional intelligence thing down.” I blink, and the tension in me pops like a cork. My smile is slow but this time I’m satisfied because she’s talking to me. Actually talking, like we know each other again. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted that until it happened. We walk down the path side by side. “You know,” I say casually, “I have a theory that everyone needs therapy. Like going to the dentist.” “Yeah? Tell that to the NHS.” She snorts. My parents paid for my therapist Dr. Okoro privately because, between Dad’s job and Mum’s dental practice, we’re not exactly struggling. I scratch the back of my head. Celine’s grin is razor sharp. “Nothing to say, rich boy?” “I could say that we’re not rich,” I mutter, “but I’m sure you’d have a field day with that.” She laughs. My heart thuds. “Thanks, by the way,” she murmurs after a moment. “For. You know. Saying that. In there.” I have been on such a roller coaster since I left the Beech Hut, I’d almost forgotten Max Donovan even existed. Now it comes thundering back, and I wince. “Does he talk to you like that all the time?” “Why?” she asks. “What are you going to do, fight him?” Would it be bad to say yes? I think it would be bad. Violence is not the answer. Although, history suggests it is occasionally the answer— She laughs. “What is going on with your face right now? I’m joking.” I roll my eyes. “You’re the bane of my existence. Did you know that?” She grins. “I hoped.” I really can’t stand this girl. I wonder how long I get to walk with her.

spare.txt

</span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">time they set it upon her head.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">It looked heavy. It also looked magical. The more we stared, the brighter<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">it got—was that possible? And the glow was seemingly internal. The jewels<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">did their part, but the crown seemed to possess some inner energy source,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">something beyond the sum of its parts, its jeweled band, its golden fleurs-<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">de-lis, its crisscrossing arches and gleaming cross. And of course its ermine<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">base. You couldn’t help but feel that a ghost, encountered late at night inside<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">the Tower, might have a similar glow. I moved my eyes slowly,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">261<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.:me/Afghansalarlibrary<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">appreciatively, from the bottom to the top. The crown was a wonder, a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">transcendent and evocative piece of art, not unlike the poppies, but all I<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">could think in that moment was how tragic that it should remain locked up<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">in this Tower.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Yet another prisoner.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Seems a waste, I said to Willy and Kate, to which, I recall, they said<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">nothing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Maybe they were looking at that band of ermine, remembering my<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">wedding remarks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Maybe not.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">76.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">A WEEKS LATER, after more than a year of talking and planning,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">thinking and worrying, seven thousand fans packed into the Queen<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Elizabeth Olympic Park for the opening ceremony. The Invictus Games<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">were born.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">It had been decided that the International Warrior Games was a tongue<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">twister, a mouthful. A clever Royal Marine had then come up with this far<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">better alternative.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">As soon as he suggested it we all said: Of course! After the William<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Ernest Henley poem!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Every Brit knew that poem. Many had the first line by heart.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Out of the night that covers me...<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">And what schoolboy or schoolgirl didn’t encounter at least once those<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">sonorous final lines?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I am the master of my fate,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Iam the captain of my soul.<span

The House of the Seven Gables.txt

unusual at that day) being covered with a carpet, so skilfully and richly wrought that it seemed to glow as with living flowers. In one corner stood a marble woman, to whom her own beauty was the sole and sufficient garment. Some pictures--that looked old, and had a mellow tinge diffused through all their artful splendor--hung on the walls. Near the fireplace was a large and very beautiful cabinet of ebony, inlaid with ivory; a piece of antique furniture, which Mr. Pyncheon had bought in Venice, and which he used as the treasure-place for medals, ancient coins, and whatever small and valuable curiosities he had picked up on his travels. Through all this variety of decoration, however, the room showed its original characteristics; its low stud, its cross-beam, its chimney-piece, with the old-fashioned Dutch tiles; so that it was the emblem of a mind industriously stored with foreign ideas, and elaborated into artificial refinement, but neither larger, nor, in its proper self, more elegant than before. There were two objects that appeared rather out of place in this very handsomely furnished room. One was a large map, or surveyor's plan, of a tract of land, which looked as if it had been drawn a good many years ago, and was now dingy with smoke, and soiled, here and there, with the touch of fingers. The other was a portrait of a stern old man, in a Puritan garb, painted roughly, but with a bold effect, and a remarkably strong expression of character. At a small table, before a fire of English sea-coal, sat Mr. Pyncheon, sipping coffee, which had grown to be a very favorite beverage with him in France. He was a middle-aged and really handsome man, with a wig flowing down upon his shoulders; his coat was of blue velvet, with lace on the borders and at the button-holes; and the firelight glistened on the spacious breadth of his waistcoat, which was flowered all over with gold. On the entrance of Scipio, ushering in the carpenter, Mr. Pyncheon turned partly round, but resumed his former position, and proceeded deliberately to finish his cup of coffee, without immediate notice of the guest whom he had summoned to his presence. It was not that he intended any rudeness or improper neglect,--which, indeed, he would have blushed to be guilty of,--but it never occurred to him that a person in Maule's station had a claim on his courtesy, or would trouble himself about it one way or the other. The carpenter, however, stepped at once to the hearth, and turned himself about, so as to look Mr. Pyncheon in the face. "You sent for me," said he. "Be pleased to explain your business, that I may go back to my own affairs." "Ah! excuse me," said Mr. Pyncheon quietly. "I did not mean to tax your time without a recompense. Your name, I think, is Maule, --Thomas or Matthew Maule,--a son or grandson of the builder of this house?" "Matthew Maule," replied the carpenter,--"son of him who built the house,--grandson of the rightful

To Kill a Mockingbird.txt

you hear why?" asked Reverend Sykes. "Helen's got three little'uns and she can't go out to work-" "Why can't she take 'em with her, Reverend?" I asked. It was customary for field Negroes with tiny children to deposit them in whatever shade there was while their parents worked- usually the babies sat in the shade between two rows of cotton. Those unable to sit were strapped papoose-style on their mothers' backs, or resided in extra cotton bags. Reverend Sykes hesitated. "To tell you the truth, Miss Jean Louise, Helen's finding it hard to get work these days... when it's picking time, I think Mr. Link Deas'll take her." "Why not, Reverend?" Before he could answer, I felt Calpurnia's hand on my shoulder. At its pressure I said, "We thank you for lettin' us come." Jem echoed me, and we made our way homeward. "Cal, I know Tom Robinson's in jail an' he's done somethin' awful, but why won't folks hire Helen?" I asked. Calpurnia, in her navy voile dress and tub of a hat, walked between Jem and me. "It's because of what folks say Tom's done," she said. "Folks aren't anxious to- to have anything to do with any of his family." "Just what did he do, Cal?" Calpurnia sighed. "Old Mr. Bob Ewell accused him of rapin' his girl an' had him arrested an' put in jail-" "Mr. Ewell?" My memory stirred. "Does he have anything to do with those Ewells that come every first day of school an' then go home? Why, Atticus said they were absolute trash- I never heard Atticus talk about folks the way he talked about the Ewells. He said-" "Yeah, those are the ones." "Well, if everybody in Maycomb knows what kind of folks the Ewells are they'd be glad to hire Helen... what's rape, Cal?" "It's somethin' you'll have to ask Mr. Finch about," she said. "He can explain it better than I can. You all hungry? The Reverend took a long time unwindin' this morning, he's not usually so tedious." "He's just like our preacher," said Jem, "but why do you all sing hymns that way?" "Linin'?" she asked. "Is that what it is?" "Yeah, it's called linin'. They've done it that way as long as I can remember." Jem said it looked like they could save the collection money for a year and get some hymn-books. Calpurnia laughed. "Wouldn't do any good," she said. "They can't read." "Can't read?" I asked. "All those folks?" "That's right," Calpurnia nodded. "Can't but about four folks in First Purchase read... I'm one of 'em." "Where'd you go to school, Cal?" asked Jem. "Nowhere. Let's see now, who taught me my letters? It was Miss Maudie Atkinson's aunt, old Miss Buford-" "Are you that old?" "I'm older than Mr. Finch, even." Calpurnia grinned. "Not sure how much, though. We started rememberin' one time, trying to figure out how old I was- I can remember back just a few years more'n he can, so I'm not much older, when you take off the fact that men

Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt

my hands at him. Joe nodded, like Cool. “First I’m going to just kind of map you with my hands. And then once I’ve got a really 3-D mental picture, I’ll start sketching.” Joe nodded again, like Let’s go. But I was still hesitating. “I’m going to frame the portrait kind of from the waistband up. So I’m really going to have to touch you everywhere.” “Got it,” Joe said. “And I want you to know,” I went on, “what I’m about to do to you, I’ve also done to myself.” That came out unexpectedly suggestive. I was trying so hard to pretend like this was just another day at the office. Like I did this kind of thing all the time—no big deal. But my hands were weirdly cold. And I was strangely aware of my blood traveling through my body. And then, as I reached out to touch him, just before I made contact, my hand faltered. It just … stopped. Like there was an invisible force field. But that’s when Joe’s hand came up, and he cupped it behind mine, and he pulled my palm to his chest. I felt the impact before I realized what he was doing: the stonelike hardness of his collarbone beneath my fingertips, the spongy firmness of his pecs beneath, the warmth of his skin. I could feel that he was looking at me. I could feel him encouraging me. And something else, too. Something that felt like longing. Was it his or mine? For a second, the air in my lungs felt tight. “Don’t be shy,” Joe said. “I’m fine. Just do what you need to do.” “I’m not being shy,” I said. But neither of us believed me. Anyway, that broke the ice. After that, I closed my eyes and worked my hand around his shoulders and neck and chest before making my way up past the Adam’s apple and over the ridge of the jaw to his face. Was it working? I wasn’t sure. But I’d decided I didn’t have to decide. I was just going to do it. I wasn’t going to overthink it or evaluate it or judge it. I was just going to capture the moment. For better and for worse. This was by far the most self-conscious I’d ever been around a model. Pull it together, I told myself. Doctors touch people all the time. But I was no doctor. Also, I’m assuming, doctors didn’t usually spend a ton of time with patients outside the office. Or have recent memories of altruistically kissing them in front of their ex-wives. Or have crushes on them they were in denial about. The truth is, it was intense. For one thing, we were so close to each other. You’re never just inches away from people for long stretches of time like that. I was close enough to hear him breathing, and even to feel those breaths as they brushed over my arm. I could smell his aftershave, which was scented like cedar and juniper, I decided. For another thing, I

After Death.txt

Kravitz, Benedetto, and Spackman. Ordinarily, Woodbine schedules appointments only between ten o’clock in the morning and four in the afternoon. On this occasion, however, he isn’t meeting with ordinary clients, and even the great man will bestir himself before dawn when the matter requiring his attention is sufficiently rewarding. Like the public spaces in this building, Woodbine’s office is an exacting and fastidious marriage of high drama and good taste. The desk is an uncharacteristically large work by Ruhlmann, circa 1932. The lamp upon it is not from Office Depot, but shines forth from the long-ago studios of Louis Comfort Tiffany; the dragonfly motif is a rare specimen executed largely in gold glass with vivid blue insects and no doubt appeals to Woodbine because it suggests mystery and power, the two cloaks in which he’s wrapped himself throughout his career. Although the attorney owns a fifteen-thousand-square-foot residence on two acres, a half-hour’s drive from his office, he maintains an apartment here on the fifth floor. In addition to a living room, dining room, chef’s kitchen, bedroom, bath, and gym, there is a concealed panic room that can withstand any assault that might be made against it. His third wife, forty-year-old Vanessa, twenty-two years his junior, lives with him in the mansion, but she has no access to his apartment, which she assumes—or pretends to assume—is of modest size and used solely when he’s so overwhelmed by the demands of the law that he can’t spare the time even for a short commute. This allows Woodbine to have a parallel life of quiet but intense debauchery at odds with his public image. The apartment entrance is concealed in the office paneling, behind a large and excruciatingly pretentious cubist painting that might be by Picasso or Braque—or by a barber who cut their hair. The lock responds to a signal when an electronic key is held to a blue triangle that symbolizes something in the painting; a code reader behind the canvas confirms the signal and releases the lock. Michael neither has a key nor needs one to finesse the code reader. The door opens, and he enters a small foyer, proceeding from there into the living room. The apartment security system tracks all occupants by their heat signatures and pinpoints them on a floor plan displayed on a large screen in the panic room. In a crisis, sheltering behind steel plate and concrete, Woodbine would be aware of where each invader could be found, and he would be able to coordinate with a police SWAT team, by phone, to facilitate their efforts to locate the culprits and secure the premises. Michael is now represented by a blinking red dot on that panic-room display, where at the moment there is no one to see it. Three other signifiers are also blinking. Although Michael would prefer to be an ordinary man, he is unique by any standard, and no return to a normal life is possible for him. He proceeds. The three men are gathered at the kitchen island on which packets of hundred-dollar bills

1984.txt

His face remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment! A single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while the instructress raised her arms above her head and--one could not say file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (22 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency--bent over and tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes. 'THERE, comrades! THAT'S how I want to see you doing it. Watch me again. I'm thirty-nine and I've had four children. Now look.' She bent over again. 'You see MY knees aren't bent. You can all do it if you want to,' she added as she straightened herself up. 'Anyone under forty-five is perfectly capable of touching his toes. We don't all have the privilege of fighting in the front line, but at least we can all keep fit. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think what THEY have to put up with. Now try again. That's better, comrade, that's MUCH better,' she added encouragingly as Winston, with a violent lunge, succeeded in touching his toes with knees unbent, for the first time in several years. Chapter 4 With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day's work started, Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk. In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston's arm, a large oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building. Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had unrolled. Each contained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated jargon--not actually Newspeak, but consisting largely of Newspeak words--which was used in the Ministry for internal purposes. They ran: times 17.3.84 bb speech malreported africa rectify times 19.12.83 forecasts 3 yp 4th quarter 83 misprints verify current issue times 14.2.84 miniplenty malquoted chocolate rectify times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling With a faint feeling of satisfaction

Love Theoretically.txt

I want to air-fry myself out of this plane of existence the second it’s out of my mouth, but Jack’s not listening. His eyes move rapidly all over my body, like I haven’t been almost naked in front of him for the past ten minutes. “You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs. “You said you don’t care. That you barely notice. That there are lots of beautiful women.” “I don’t know.” He’s usually so confident, but right now he sounds as disoriented as I feel. “With you, I notice.” He nips wet kisses down my jaw. “You think you can come again?” Impossible to tell. I haven’t come with another person before, and an improvement rate of 200 percent seems steep, but maybe? I’d rather be present for this, though. Study him. Know what Jack looks like when he’s not fully in control. “I think I don’t want to.” He nods, and what happens next is not really for me. He steps between my thighs and angles the underside of his cock so that it hits my clit. It has us both gasping, but it’s about what he wants. As is the way he slots the head against my opening, and the long moment he leaves it there, grunting, a turning point in the multiverse, where two futures exist: one in which he pushes in and fucks me, the other in which he follows those inflexible rules of his. Unfortunately, Jack Smith-Turner is a stickler. It occurs to me that I could be doing this for him. I could be more than just a warm body and slender arms looped around his neck. “Should I—” “Not tonight.” His movements are picking up, knuckles brushing rhythmically against my slit. “I just want to look at you. Know you’re here.” He uses my slick to make himself wet, hard, fast pulls, and after just a handful of seconds I see the tension in his arms, the muted tremors in his fingers, how close he already is. “Shit, Elsie.” His voice is urgent. A little desperate. His forehead presses against mine. “There were days, these last few months, when you were all I could think about. Even if I didn’t really want to.” Then a choked “Fuck” that feels like a rush of breath against my lips, and I know he’s there. I think he’ll finish with a growl, make a mess out of me, maybe admire his handiwork, but that’s not what happens at all. Instead he pulls back so that his eyes can hold my own till the very last moment, glassy and nearly all black. His free hand searches blindly, frantically. It grabs mine when he finds it, twining our fingers together in a tight grip, and that’s when I know. When I realize deep in my belly that for Jack this is not about friction or about fucking. It’s not even about coming, or about anything else I might have stupidly suspected. This is about him and me. And the possibility of something that goes far

Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt

Then she asks, “Shall we continue?” I take a breath. “Rice-and-salt days are the most important years in a woman’s life. They are when I will be busy with wife and mother duties—” “As I am now.” Respectful Lady gracefully tips her head, setting the gold and jade ornaments that hang from her bun to tinkle softly. How pale she is, how elegant. “Each day should begin early. I rise before dawn, cleanse my face, rinse my mouth with fragrant tea, attend to my feet, and fix my hair and makeup. Then I go to the kitchen to make sure the servants have lit the fire and begun the morning meal.” She releases my hand and sighs, as though exhausted by the effort of getting so many words to leave her mouth. She takes a deep breath before continuing. “Memorizing these responsibilities is central to your education, but you can also learn by observing as I supervise the chores that must be done each day: bringing in fuel and water, sending a big-footed servant girl to the market, making sure clothes—including those of Miss Zhao—are washed, and so many other things that are essential to managing a household. Now, what else?” She’s been teaching me like this for four years already, and I know the answer she likes me to give. “Learning to embroider, play the zither, and memorize sayings from Analects for Women—” “And other texts too, so that by the time you go to your husband’s home, you will have an understanding of all you must do and all you must avoid.” She shifts on her stool. “Eventually, you will reach the time of sitting quietly. Do you know what this means?” Maybe it’s because I’m feeling physical pain, but the thought of the sadness and loneliness of sitting quietly causes tears to well in my eyes. “This will come when I can no longer bring children into the world—” “And extends into widowhood. You will be the one who has not died, waiting for death to reunite you with your husband. This is—” A maid arrives with a tray of snacks, so my mother and I can continue our studies through lunch without a break. Two hours later, Respectful Lady asks me to repeat the rules we’ve covered. “When walking, don’t turn my head,” I recite without protest. “When talking, don’t open my mouth wide. When standing, don’t rustle my skirts. When happy, don’t rejoice with loud laughter. When angry, never raise my voice. I will bury all desire to venture beyond the inner chambers. Those rooms are for women alone.” “Very good,” Respectful Lady praises me. “Always remember your place in the world. If you follow these rules, you will establish yourself as a true and proper human being.” She closes her eyes. She’s hurting too. Only she’s too much of a lady to speak of it. A squeal from my little brother interrupts our shared moment. Yifeng runs across the courtyard. His mother, Miss Zhao—free of her performing duties—glides behind him. Her feet are also bound, and

THE SCARLET LETTER.txt

graven; (prep) ANTONYMS: (adj) undistinguished, Endecott, Endecott insculptured; (v) fixed, imprinted obscure, low, unremarkable, endowed: (adj) gifted, clever, cute, engrossed: (adj) rapt, engaged, intent, 280 The Scarlet Letter occupied, preoccupied, busy, request, conjure, crave, bid. letters, edification, reading, fascinated, obsessed, thoughtful, ANTONYMS: (v) demand, reject learnedness, culture, lore, hooked; (adj, v) immersed. entreaty: (n) plea, prayer, request, eruditeness; (n, v) knowledge; (adj, ANTONYMS: (adj) disinterested, petition, adjuration, supplication, n) wisdom. ANTONYM: (n) bored, distracted, indifferent, suit, demand, desire, invocation; (v) simplicity unconcerned, uninterested, solicitation escaping: (n) evasion, getaway, inattentive, carefree enumerated: (adj) detailed break, breakout, running away, enigma: (adj, n) mystery, riddle; (n) envelop: (v) fold, enfold, encase, running off, run-around; (adj) puzzle, secret, perplexity, poser, enclose, wrap, encircle, conceal, fugitive question, problem, closed book, nut embrace, beset, hide; (n) envelope. escort: (n, v) chaperon, attend, to crack, logogriph. ANTONYMS: ANTONYMS: (v) reveal, release, convoy, guard, guide, conduct, date; (n) clearness, explanation open, unwrap, expose (v) accompany, see; (n) suite, enjoin: (v) command, dictate, direct, enveloped: (adj) convoluted, attendant. ANTONYMS: (v) instruct, tell, charge, require, forbid, enclosed, cover, bounded, abandon, desert, leave, follow disallow, impose, order. Byzantine, clothed, involved, misty, escutcheon: (n) buckler, shield, ANTONYMS: (v) acquiesce, yield, swallowed, vestured, emotionally esquire, protection, plate, arms, a submit, permit, request, let, comply, involved shield, cover plate, escocheon, finger agree, allow, obey enveloping: (n) envelopment, plate enjoined: (adj) lawful enclosure, boxing, enclosing, esoteric: (adj) cryptic, esoterics, enlarged: (adj) inflated, magnified, encasement; (prep) about; (adj) abstruse, arcane, secret, mysterious, extended, expanded, puffy, comprehensive, roundabout, obscure, inner, dark, confidential, increased, augmented, amplified, circuitous. ANTONYM: (adj) mystic. ANTONYMS: (adj) distended, wide, swollen. contained understandable, simple, public, ANTONYM: (adj) atrophied epoch: (n) era, date, period, day, plain, obvious, mainstream, enlivened: (adj) bouncy, active, season, time, term, cycle, crisis, date familiar, known, accessible spirited, alive, bouncing of reference, times especial: (adj) extraordinary, special, enlivening: (adj) cheerful, bracing, erase: (v) delete, efface, blot out, specific, chief, individual, distinct, genial, refreshing, invigorating, obliterate, wipe out, expunge, distinctive, characteristic, thrilling, revitalizing, reviving, annihilate, eradicate, clear, rub out, appropriate, peculiar, express. stimulating, pleasant, vitalizing eliminate. ANTONYMS: (v) restore, ANTONYMS: (adj) general, normal, enmity: (n, v) animosity; (n) record, add, acknowledge common, unexceptional, usual antagonism, animus, hostility, erect: (adj) upright, vertical, esteem: (n) deference, admiration; (n, aggression, rancor, ill will, straightforward; (v) build, raise, v) respect, value, consideration, antipathy, hatred, war, dislike. rear, construct, assemble, lift, put account; (v) appreciate, deem, adore, ANTONYMS: (n) friendship, up, put together. ANTONYMS: (v) admire, count. ANTONYMS: (v) friendliness, affinity, love, kindness, dismantle, wreck, topple, level, scorn, hate, disdain, insult, despise, affection, adoration, amity, demolish, destroy; (adj) prostrate, abominate, abhor, dislike, reject; (n) cooperation, goodwill drooping, prone, flaccid, flat disesteem, disapproval enshrined: (adj) hallowed erie: (n) Lake Erie esteemed: (adj) dear, reputable, ensue: (v) come, arise, happen, result, errand: (n) chore, mission, job, task, respected, honorable, noble, succeed, occur, transpire, turn out, assignment, embassy, duty, charge, honored, prestigious, important, befall, come after, stem. messenger, communication, work distinguished, August, respect. ANTONYMS: (v) forerun, preface, erratic: (adj) capricious, irregular, ANTONYM: (adj) disreputable antecede, dwindle, recede eccentric, freakish, broken, estimation: (n)

Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt

add me to your patient portal, just so I can check the results as soon as they come in?” My dad coughs and my mom presses her lips together, staring pointedly at the ceiling. Oh. Maybe I’ve crossed some sort of boundary I wasn’t aware of? They’re pretty decent with technology, given their age, but surely it wouldn’t hurt for me to get more involved. Especially now that I’m back. “We’ve been meaning to talk to you about this,” my dad says. “Your mom and I . . . well, we know we’re no spring chickens.” My mom gives her hair a toss. “Speak for yourself,” she says. “What we want to say is that we don’t need you to bend over backward to help us. We got by just fine the past couple months when you were out of town.” I swallow hard. I wasn’t prepared to hear that—that they hadn’t needed me. “I was worried, though.” “We know you worry because you care,” my dad says. “But it’s just too much. We know you asked Noemie to check in on us a few times, and at a certain point, it felt a little like having a babysitter.” I wince. That wasn’t what I’d wanted at all. “I’m so sorry. I guess I didn’t exactly know what to do.” “I know there will come a time when we want your help,” my dad says. “When we need it. It might be tomorrow, but it also might be years from now.” My mom pats my knee. “We’re just not quite ready to let you parent us yet.” As we finish breakfast, something hits me with a striking clarity. I wonder if I haven’t only been using ghostwriting as a crutch, like Finn said. How many jobs did I never apply for because they’d have meant leaving Seattle? How many opportunities did I miss out on because I was so intent on holding myself back? I’ve been so worried about people not needing me anymore that I tethered myself to them so tightly, I could hardly untie the knots. I thought this place and these people were my whole world, and while I don’t love them any less than I did before I took this assignment, the truth is that my world is larger than that. Again and again, I fell for new cities and new experiences—and most of all, the version of myself who could step outside her comfort zone. Because the Chandler from back in September wouldn’t be able to read a text from Wyatt, after weeks and weeks of silence, inviting me to a holiday party he’s throwing later this month, and simply type, Sorry, can’t make it! before deleting the entire thread. * * * I’m avoiding the book. It’s due in three days, and I’m avoiding it. I’ve finished watching The Nocturnals because that was easier than opening up the memoir, than confronting the end of this job and the start of something I haven’t put a name to yet. I even went to a reverse running class

A Game of Thrones.txt

and backed water. The galley slowed. Another shout. The oars slid back inside the hull. As they thumped against the dock, Tyroshi seamen leapt down to tie up. Moreo came bustling up, all smiles. "King's Landing, my lady, as you did command, and never has a ship made a swifter or surer passage. Will you be needing assistance to carry your things to the castle?" "We shall not be going to the castle. Perhaps you can suggest an inn, someplace clean and comfortable and not too far from the river." The Tyroshi fingered his forked green beard. "Just so. I know of several establishments that might suit your needs. Yet first, if I may be so bold, there is the matter of the second half of the payment we agreed upon. And of course the extra silver you were so kind as to promise. Sixty stags, I believe it was." "For the oarmen," Catelyn reminded him. "Oh, of a certainty," said Moreo. "Though perhaps I should hold it for them until we return to Tyrosh. For the sake of their wives and children. If you give them the silver here, my lady, they will dice it away or spend it all for a night's pleasure." "There are worse things to spend money on," Ser Rodrik put in. "Winter is coming." "A man must make his own choices," Catelyn said. "They earned the silver. How they spend it is no concern of mine." "As you say, my lady," Moreo replied, bowing and smiling. Just to be sure, Catelyn paid the oarmen herself, a stag to each man, and a copper to the two men who carried their chests halfway up Visenya's hill to the inn that Moreo had suggested. It was a rambling old place on Eel Alley. The woman who owned it was a sour crone with a wandering eye who looked them over suspiciously and bit the coin that Catelyn offered her to make sure it was real. Her rooms were large and airy, though, and Moreo swore that her fish stew was the most savory in all the Seven Kingdoms. Best of all, she had no interest in their names. "I think it best if you stay away from the common room," Ser Rodrik said, after they had settled in. "Even in a place like this, one never knows who may be watching." He wore ringmail, dagger, and longsword under a dark cloak with a hood he could pull up over his head. "I will be back before nightfall, with Ser Aron," he promised. "Rest now, my lady." Catelyn was tired. The voyage had been long and fatiguing, and she was no longer as young as she had been. Her windows opened on the alley and rooftops, with a view of the Blackwater beyond. She watched Ser Rodrik set off, striding briskly through the busy streets until he was 152 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN lost in the crowds, then decided to take his advice. The bedding was stuffed with straw instead of feathers, but she had no trouble falling asleep. She

After Death.txt

an old dog, he shakes himself to cast off the stupefaction that has overcome him. He raises his eyes from the money and regards his homeys. Gathered before him, they are familiar yet mysterious in some way he can’t explain. “Hakeem, Carlisle, go round the far end, block that big open door. You’re in position, signal with a flashlight. Jason, Kuba, and me—we come in from this end, clear the place. Nina shows with her trey eight, don’t take no shit. Try just to cap the bitch’s knees. Leave the face shot for me. I done earned it.” WHIRLED IN A VORTEX Michael is guided by the stylized compass glowing in the upper right-hand corner of his field of vision, in a manner similar to the way that battle data is projected onto the windshield of a fighter jet. He hurries through phalanxes of death-smitten trees that stand like faceless totems of some race long extinct. The ground is muddy here where grass has failed, sucking at his shoes as if the earth itself is sentient and malevolent and wishes to pull him deep underground and entomb him among the rotting roots that once conveyed sustenance to the countless limbs of the orchard. As he passes between two haggard trees and into yet another harvesting alley, he nearly collides with a fast-moving figure so poorly revealed in the rain-slashed gloom that it might be either a man or a woman, perhaps a boy, although too tall to be John or Nina. The individual startles, nearly falls on the slippery mat of dead grass, regains balance, and issues a name and query in a voice male and unfamiliar—“Orlando?” Whoever this might be, he’s no innocent happening through the apple grove on this night of all nights. He’s one of Aleem’s crew, an experienced murderer. Even as the stranger speaks, Michael reverses his grip on the AR-15 and closes the last step between them and chops the butt of the rifle at the other’s head. The contact is solid, and the man collapses. Michael drops to his knees on the stranger’s chest, hears a subtle crack and a plosive exhalation, but still the man has the power to buck and twist, to reach out with both hands, trying to find his attacker’s face. Turning his head to the side to protect his eyes, Michael holds the rifle by barrel and stock, employing it as a crushing tool, pressing down with all his weight and strength on the throat. He is gripped by an awful, primitive desperation that is born not from fear for his life but from an intrinsic regret that he has been reduced to this brutality, yet he does not relent, must not relent. None but a gargling sound escapes the stranger, and as his strength wanes, his hands flutter down onto the rifle and find Michael’s hands. He does not claw for relief, but presses Michael’s hands as if this encounter has resulted in an unanticipated bonding, his touch soft and supplicant, expressing a plea for mercy, though he himself has

Wuthering Heights.txt

half forgetting her former insults, he tried to make himself agreeable, by the housekeeper's account. "Missis walked in," she said, "as chill as an icicle, and as high as a princess. I got up and offered her my seat in the armchair. No, she turned up her nose at my civility. Earnshaw rose too and bade her come to the settle, and sit close by the fire; he was sure she was starved. " 'I've been starved a month and more,' she an- swered, resting on the word as scornful as she could. "And she got a chair for herself, and placed it at a distance from both of us. Having sat till she was warm, she began to look round, and discovered a number of books in the dresser. She was instantly upon her feet again, stretching to reach them; but they were too high up. Her cousin, after watching her endeavours a while, at last summoned courage to help her. She held her frock, and he filled it with the first that came to hand. "That was a great advance for the lad. She didn't thank him, still he felt gratifled that she had accepted his assistance, and ventured to stand behind as she examined them, and even to stoop and point out what struck his fancy in certain old pictures which they con- tained. Nor was he daunted by the saucy style in which she jerked the page from his finger. He contented him- self with going a bit farther back, and looking at her instead of the book. She continued reading, or seek- ing for something to read. His attention became, by degrees, quite centreed in the study of her thick, silky curls. Her face he couldn't see, and she couldn't see him. And, perhaps not quite awake to what he did, but attracted like a child to a candle, at last he proceeded from staring to touching. He put out his hand and stroked one curl, as gently as if it were a bird. He might have stuck a knife into her neck, she started round in such a taking. " 'Get away this moment! How dare you touch me! Why are you stopping there?' she cried in a tone of dis- gust. 'I can't endure you! I'll go upstairs again if you come near me.' "Mr. Hareton recoiled, looking as foolish as he could do. He sat down in the settle very quiet, and she con- tinued turning over her volumes another half-hour. Finally Earnshaw crossed over and whispered to me,--- " 'Will you ask her to read to us, Zillah? I'm stalled of doing naught; and I do like---I could like to hear her. Dunnot say I wanted it, but ask of yourseln.' " 'Mr. Hareton wishes you would read to us, ma'am,' I said immediately. 'He'd take it very kind---he'd be much obliged.' "She frowned, and looking up, answered,--- " 'Mr. Hareton and the whole set of you will be good enough to understand that I reject any pretence at kindness you have the

The Call of the Wild.txt

world would vanish and the real world come into his eyes, and he would get up and yawn and stretch as though he had been asleep. It was a hard trip, with the mail behind them, and the heavy work wore them down. They were short of weight and in poor condition when they made Dawson, and should have had a ten days' or a week's rest at least. But in two days' time they dropped down the Yukon bank from the Barracks, loaded with letters for the outside. The dogs were tired, the drivers grumbling, and to make matters worse, it snowed every day. This meant a soft trail, greater friction on the runners, and heavier pulling for the dogs; yet the drivers were fair through it all, and did their best for the animals. Each night the dogs were attended to first. They ate before the drivers ate, and no man sought his sleeping-robe till he had seen to the feet of the dogs he drove. Still, their strength went down. Since the beginning of the winter they had travelled eighteen hundred miles, dragging sleds the whole weary distance; and eighteen hundred miles will tell upon life of the toughest. Buck stood it, keeping his mates up to their work and maintaining discipline, though he, too, was very tired. Billee cried and whimpered regularly in his sleep each night. Joe was sourer than ever, and Sol-leks was unapproachable, blind side or other side. But it was Dave who suffered most of all. Something had gone wrong with him. He became more morose and irritable, and when camp was pitched at once made his nest, where his driver fed him. Once out of the harness and down, he did not get on his feet again till harness-up time in the morning. Sometimes, in the traces, when jerked by a sudden stoppage of the sled, or by straining to start it, he would cry out with pain. The driver examined him, but could find nothing. All the drivers became interested in his case. They talked it over at meal-time, and over their last pipes before going to bed, and one night they held a consultation. He was brought from his nest to the fire and was pressed and prodded till he cried out many times. Something was wrong inside, but they could locate no broken bones, could not make it out. By the time Cassiar Bar was reached, he was so weak that he was falling repeatedly in the traces. The Scotch half-breed called a halt and took him out of the team, making the next dog, Sol-leks, fast to the sled. His intention was to rest Dave, letting him run free behind the sled. Sick as he was, Dave resented being taken out, grunting and growling while the traces were unfastened, and whimpering broken-heartedly when he saw Sol-leks in the position he had held and served so long. For the pride of trace and trail was his, and, sick unto death, he could not bear that another dog should do his

The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt

a sapless old tree as this.' 'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves! How often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, 'I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that venerable tree.' 'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.' 'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where its spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it, unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest, and near a heavy gothic mansion--' 'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you. You must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A- PROPOS of Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events may call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell me is the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave the improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be tempted to stay some time in Italy.' Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remain abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonder at this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improvements might be deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never take place. Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with St. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained a considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known; but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell upon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone she was tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared

Hound of the Baskervilles.txt

her own home. "They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his horse's head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed, were whim- pering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them. "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess, than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerviile lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads of these three dare- devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days. "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said to have plagued the family

In the Lives of Puppets.txt

promptly. “Three blocks. Shall I lead?” Hap nodded. “You f-first. Then Rambo. Victor. I’ll b-bring up the r-rear.” “Second in command!” Rambo said as he spun in circles. “I knew it. Don’t worry, men and Nurse Ratched. I won’t let you down!” “Ready?” Hap asked Vic. Vic took a deep breath and nodded. Hap pushed the door all the way open. Nurse Ratched rolled through, followed by Rambo. Vic stood on the threshold, unable to make his feet move. Hap pressed a hand against the small of his back. “Be brave.” “Be brave,” Vic whispered, and for the first time, stepped out into the City of Electric Dreams … … directly into sensory overload. He couldn’t focus on any one thing, head jerking from side to side, up and down. They were on a road of sorts, one lane traveling in either direction, bisected by a glowing white line. Across the street stood grungy buildings of cracked concrete and crumbling brick, sand and dirt coating the sides. The smell was extraordinary, a mixture of gasoline and exhaust and something fetid, heavy and thick. He choked on it, trying to breathe through his mouth. His eyes bulged from his head as he looked upward. The lights of the city were neon sharp even in the afternoon sunlight. Every color he’d ever seen (and a few he hadn’t) ran up the sides of the buildings: blue and violet and red and orange. Above them, what appeared to be a rail system stretched along the length of the street, crates not unlike the ones they’d been in flying by at incredible speeds, attached to large cables. And it was loud, so loud that Vic couldn’t hear himself think. Everything seemed to make a sound bent on assaulting him. From some out-of-sight speaker system, a semi-soothing voice blared, the words echoing up and down the buildings even as they crackled. “EVERYTHING YOU DO MUST BE RECORDED BY ORDER OF THE AUTHORITY. REMEMBER, THERE IS COMFORT IN ROUTINE. DO WHAT YOU ARE PROGRAMMED TO DO, AND YOU WILL BE AS RIGHT AS RAIN. IF THERE IS A FAULT IN YOUR PROTOCOLS, PLEASE REPORT TO THE NEAREST ADMINISTRATION OFFICE IMMEDIATELY FOR PROCESSING. IT WILL NOT HURT. WE WILL FIX YOU AND MAKE IT ALL BETTER. THE AUTHORITY WISHES YOU A WONDERFUL AFTERNOON. ATTENTION. ATTENTION. ATTENTION. EVERYTHING YOU DO MUST BE—” Gaze still turned upward, he stepped onto the street. The moment his foot touched down, he was jerked back by his collar. Something whizzed by in front of him, horn blaring angrily. “W-watch it,” Hap growled at him. “Pay attention.” Vic grimaced. “Sorry. It’s just … loud. I can’t focus.” “Try,” Hap said. “Follow th-the others. Don’t stop.” He spun Vic around, pushing him down the road. Nurse Ratched didn’t hesitate. She moved with purpose, ignoring everything happening around her. Rambo attempted to do the same but kept getting distracted by literally everything. “Oh my gosh! Would you look at that. And that. And what is that? I’ve never seen such a thing!” He rolled up to a

Great Expectations.txt

her, said I had a favour to ask of her. "And it is, Biddy," said I, "that you will not omit any opportunity of helping Joe on, a little." "How helping him on?" asked Biddy, with a steady sort of glance. "Well! Joe is a dear good fellow - in fact, I think he is the dearest fellow that ever lived - but he is rather backward in some things. For instance, Biddy, in his learning and his manners." Although I was looking at Biddy as I spoke, and although she opened her eyes very wide when I had spoken, she did not look at me. "Oh, his manners! won't his manners do, then?" asked Biddy, plucking a black-currant leaf. "My dear Biddy, they do very well here--" "Oh! they do very well here?" interrupted Biddy, looking closely at the leaf in her hand. "Hear me out - but if I were to remove Joe into a higher sphere, as I shall hope to remove him when I fully come into my property, they would hardly do him justice." "And don't you think he knows that?" asked Biddy. It was such a very provoking question (for it had never in the most distant manner occurred to me), that I said, snappishly, "Biddy, what do you mean?" Biddy having rubbed the leaf to pieces between her hands - and the smell of a black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that evening in the little garden by the side of the lane - said, "Have you never considered that he may be proud?" "Proud?" I repeated, with disdainful emphasis. "Oh! there are many kinds of pride," said Biddy, looking full at me and shaking her head; "pride is not all of one kind--" "Well? What are you stopping for?" said I. "Not all of one kind," resumed Biddy. "He may be too proud to let any one take him out of a place that he is competent to fill, and fills well and with respect. To tell you the truth, I think he is: though it sounds bold in me to say so, for you must know him far better than I do." "Now, Biddy," said I, "I am very sorry to see this in you. I did not expect to see this in you. You are envious, Biddy, and grudging. You are dissatisfied on account of my rise in fortune, and you can't help showing it." "If you have the heart to think so," returned Biddy, "say so. Say so over and over again, if you have the heart to think so." "If you have the heart to be so, you mean, Biddy," said I, in a virtuous and superior tone; "don't put it off upon me. I am very sorry to see it, and it's a - it's a bad side of human nature. I did intend to ask you to use any little opportunities you might have after I was gone, of improving dear Joe. But after this, I ask you nothing. I am extremely sorry to see this

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

is his before it is mine. How different are the words HOME, CHRIST, ALE, MASTER, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. --And to distinguish between the beautiful and the sublime, the dean added, to distinguish between moral beauty and material beauty. And to inquire what kind of beauty is proper to each of the various arts. These are some interesting points we might take up. Stephen, disheartened suddenly by the dean's firm, dry tone, was silent; and through the silence a distant noise of many boots and confused voices came up the staircase. --In pursuing these speculations, said the dean conclusively, there is, however, the danger of perishing of inanition. First you must take your degree. Set that before you as your first aim. Then, little by little, you will see your way. I mean in every sense, your way in life and in thinking. It may be uphill pedalling at first. Take Mr Moonan. He was a long time before he got to the top. But he got there. --I may not have his talent, said Stephen quietly. --You never know, said the dean brightly. We never can say what is in us. I most certainly should not be despondent. PER ASPERA AD ASTRA. He left the hearth quickly and went towards the landing to oversee the arrival of the first arts' class. Leaning against the fireplace Stephen heard him greet briskly and impartially every Student of the class and could almost see the frank smiles of the coarser students. A desolating pity began to fall like dew upon his easily embittered heart for this faithful serving-man of the knightly Loyola, for this half-brother of the clergy, more venal than they in speech, more steadfast of soul than they, one whom he would never call his ghostly father; and he thought how this man and his companions had earned the name of worldlings at the hands not of the unworldly only but of the worldly also for having pleaded, during all their history, at the bar of God's justice for the souls of the lax and the lukewarm and the prudent. The entry of the professor was signalled by a few rounds of Kentish fire from the heavy boots of those students who sat on the highest tier of the gloomy theatre under the grey cobwebbed windows. The calling of the roll began and the responses to the names were given out in all tones until the name of Peter Byrne was reached. --Here! A deep bass note in response came from the upper tier, followed by coughs of protest along the other benches. The professor paused in his reading and called the next name: --Cranly! No answer. --Mr Cranly! A smile flew across Stephen's face as he thought of his friend's

spare.txt

us to a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">place even more remote.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Out.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We squinted at the terrain, the skies. Really? Here?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Colder, heavier rain started to come down. The instructors shouted that<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">we should imagine our helicopter had just crash-landed behind enemy lines,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">and our only hope of survival was to go by foot from one end of the moor to<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">the other, a distance of ten miles. We’d been given a meta narrative, which<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">we now recalled: We were a Christian army, fighting a militia sympathetic<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">to Muslims.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Our mission: Evade the enemy, escape the forbidding terrain.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Go.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">The truck roared away.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Wet, cold, we looked around, looked at each other. Well, this sucks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We had a map, a compass, and each man had a bivvy bag, essentially a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">body-length waterproof sock, to sleep in. No food was allowed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">206<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t. me/Afghansalarlibrary<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Which way?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">This way?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">OK.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Bodmin was desolate, allegedly uninhabited, but here and there in the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">distance we saw farmhouses. Lighted windows, smoke curling from brick<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">chimneys. How we longed to knock on a door. In the good old days people<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">would help out the soldiers on exercise, but now things were different.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Locals had been scolded many times by the Army; they knew not to open<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">their doors to strangers with bivvy bags.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">One of the two men on my team was my mate Phil. I liked Phil, but I<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">started to feel something like unbounded love for the other man, because he<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">told us he’d visited Bodmin Moor as a summer walker and he knew where<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">we were. More, he knew how to get us out.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">He led, we followed like children, through the dark and into the next day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">At dawn we found a wood of fir trees. The temperature approached<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">freezing, the rain fell even harder. We said to hell with our solitary bivvy<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">bags, and curled up together, spooned actually,

Lord of the Flies.txt

patches blinked more rapidly, dulled and went out, so that he saw that a great heaviness of smoke lay between the island and the sun. If anyone peered under the bushes and chanced to glimpse human flesh it might be Samneric who would pretend not to see and say nothing. He laid his cheek against the chocolate-colored earth, licked his dry lips and closed his eyes. Under the thicket, the earth was vibrating very slightly; or perhaps there was a sound beneath the obvious thunder of the fire and scribbled ululations that was too low to hear. Someone cried out. Ralph jerked his cheek off the earth and looked into the dulled light. They must be near now, he thought, and his chest began to thump. Hide, break the line, climb a tree--which was the best after all? The trouble was you only had one chance. Now the fire was nearer; those volleying shots were great limbs, trunks even, bursting. The fools! The fools! The fire must be almost at the fruit trees--what would they eat tomorrow? Ralph stirred restlessly in his narrow bed. One chanced nothing! What could they do? Beat him? So what? Kill him? A stick sharpened at both ends. The cries, suddenly nearer, jerked him up. He could see a striped savage moving hastily out of a green tangle, and coming toward the mat where he hid, a savage who carried a spear. Ralph gripped his fingers into the earth. Be ready now, in case. Ralph fumbled to hold his spear so that it was point foremost; and now he saw that the stick was sharpened at both ends. The savage stopped fifteen yards away and uttered his cry. Perhaps he can hear my heart over the noises of the fire. Don't scream. Get ready. The savage moved forward so that you could only see him from the waist down. That was the butt of his spear. Now you could see him from the knee down. Don't scream. A herd of pigs came squealing out of the greenery behind the savage and rushed away into the forest. Birds were screaming, mice shrieking, and a little hopping thing came under the mat and cowered. Five yards away the savage stopped, standing right by the thicket, and cried out. Ralph drew his feet up and crouched. The stake was in his hands, the stake sharpened at both ends, the stake that vibrated so wildly, that grew long, short, light, heavy, light again. The ululation spread from shore to shore. The savage knelt down by the edge of the thicket, and there were lights flickering in the forest behind him. You could see a knee disturb the mold. Now the other. Two hands. A spear. A face. The savage peered into the obscurity beneath the thicket. You could tell that he saw light on this side and on that, but not in the middle--there. In the middle was a blob of dark and the savage wrinkled up his face, trying to decipher the darkness. The seconds lengthened. Ralph was looking straight

Fahrenheit 451.txt

And the leg was at last his own leg again. He had been afraid that running might break the loose ankle. Now, sucking all the night into his open mouth, and blowing it out pale, with all the blackness left heavily inside himself, he set out in a steady jogging pace. He carried the books in his hands. He thought of Faber. Faber was back there in the steaming lump of tar that had no name or identity now. He had burnt Faber, too. He felt so suddenly shocked by this that he felt Faber was really dead, baked like a roach in that small green capsule shoved and lost in the pocket of a man who was now nothing but a frame skeleton strung with asphalt tendons. You must remember, burn them or they'll burn you, he thought. Right now it's as simple as that. He searched his pockets, the money was there, and in his other pocket he found the usual Seashell upon which the city was talking to itself in the cold black morning. "Police Alert. Wanted: Fugitive in city. Has committed murder and crimes against the State. Name: Guy Montag. Occupation: Fireman. Last seen . . ." He ran steadily for six blocks, in the alley, and then the alley opened out on to a wide empty thoroughfare ten lanes wide. It seemed like a boatless river frozen there in the raw light of the high white arc-lamps; you could drown trying to cross it, he felt; it was too wide, it was too open. It was a vast stage without scenery, inviting him to run across, easily seen in the blazing illumination, easily caught, easily shot down. The Seashell hummed in his ear. "... watch for a man running ... watch for the running man . . . watch for a man alone, on foot . . . watch..." Montag pulled back into the shadows. Directly ahead lay a gas station, a great chunk of porcelain snow shining there, and two silver beetles pulling in to fill up. Now he must be clean and presentable if he wished, to walk, not run, stroll calmly across that wide boulevard. It would give him an extra margin of safety if he washed up and combed his hair before he went on his way to get where . . . ? Yes, he thought, where am I running? Nowhere. There was nowhere to go, no friend to turn to, really. Except Faber. And then he realized that he was indeed, running toward Faber's house, instinctively. But Faber couldn't hide him; it would be suicide even to try. But he knew that he would go to see Faber anyway, for a few short minutes. Faber's would be the place where he might refuel his fast draining belief in his own ability to survive. He just wanted to know that there was a man like Faber in the world. He wanted to see the man alive and not burned back there like a body shelled in another body. And some of the

Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt

Cape of Good Hope at so early a day would wrest the honor of the discovery of that great headland from Bartholomew Diaz, its reputed discoverer, and so make modern history a liar. But all these foolish arguments of old Sag-Harbor only evinced his foolish pride of reason --a thing still more reprehensible in him, seeing that he had but little learning except what he had picked up from the sun and the sea. I say it only shows his foolish, impious pride, and abominable, devilish rebellion against the reverend clergy. For by a Portuguese Catholic priest, this very idea of Jonah's going to Nineveh via the Cape of Good Hope was advanced as a signal magnification of the general miracle. And so it was. Besides, to this day, the highly enlightened Turks devoutly believe in the historical story of Jonah. And some three centuries ago, an English traveller in old Harris's Voyages, speaks of a Turkish Mosque built in honor of Jonah, in which mosque was a miraculous lamp that burnt without any oil. .. <p 365 > .. < chapter lxxxiv 2 PITCHPOLING > To make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers perform an analogous operation upon their boat; they grease the bottom. Nor is it to be doubted that as such a procedure can do no harm, it may possibly be of no contemptible advantage; considering that oil and water are hostile; that oil is a sliding thing, and that the object in view is to make the boat slide bravely. Queequeg believed strongly in anointing his boat, and one morning not long after the German ship Jungfrau disappeared, took more than customary pains in that occupation; crawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and rubbing in the unctuousness as though diligently seeking to insure a crop of hair from the craft's bald keel. He seemed to be working in obedience to some particular presentiment. Nor did it remain unwarranted by the event. Towards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship sailed down to them, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy; a disordered flight, as of Cleopatra's barges from Actium. Nevertheless, the boats pursued, and Stubb's was foremost. By great exertion, Tashtego at last succeeded in planting one iron; but the stricken whale, without at all sounding, still continued his horizontal flight, with added fleetness. Such unintermitted strainings upon the planted iron must sooner or later inevitably extract it. It became imperative to lance the flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to haul the boat up to his flank was impossible, he swam so fast and furious. What then remained? Of all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand and countless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced, none exceed that fine manoeuvre with the lance called pitchpoling. Small sword, or broad sword, in all its .. <p 366 > exercises boasts nothing like it. It is only indispensable with an

A Spell of Good Things.txt

sure his clothes, though threadbare, were clean before each wear. On Saturdays, she washed everyone’s clothes with soda, the round yellow bars peeling back her skin with each soak. She did not allow her children to wash their own clothes because of how harsh the soda soaps were. Her hands, she often said, were ruined already. Ẹniọlá and Bùsọ́lá should keep theirs as long as they could. “I’ll tell my wife to give you a spray before you leave,” Honourable said. “Some anti-perspirant. I sweat a lot too, so I understand what’s going on with you.” Ẹniọlá looked up. Honourable seemed sincere. He was not mocking him. Honourable leaned back in his chair and cocked his head to one side. “Stand up, let me see you.” Ẹniọlá stood, pressing his bare feet firmly into the plush rug because he worried that he might sway on his feet. He felt his throat dry up as the older man’s gaze swept over his body. Honourable’s face was expressionless, as though he were looking not at a human being but an unpainted concrete wall. “How old are you?” Honourable asked. “Sixteen sir.” “You’re eighteen, do you understand?” Honourable said. “Yes sir.” Ẹniọlá nodded. Maybe Honourable would ask him to register to vote in the next year’s election. He had to be eighteen to get a voter’s card. “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done.” “Sir?” “Out with it. At eighteen, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Stabbed someone? Now, don’t lie. Your friends must have told you that is the number one rule here, all liars end up in the fire, they told you that, right?” Ẹniọlá nodded. They had told him no such thing, but he did not want to get them in trouble. He cleared his throat. “Last month, I stole a phone from a woman who was sitting in front of me in church.” “Hmmm, were there people beside you?” “Yes sir.” “How come they didn’t see you take the phone?” “Everyone was praying sir, so their eyes were closed.” “I see. Where was this phone?” “The phone?” “When you took it, where was it? Was it in her bag?” “No sir. She put it beside her on the bench, I just had to reach forward a little.” “So she was careless.” Honourable stood up, lifted the folds of his agbádá and settled the dark blue fabric on his shoulders. “You see, if she really valued that phone, it would have been in her bag. She would have protected it. What is that thing they say? A goat can only eat what is left uncared for, àbí? You took your chance, I like that. One must take everything life has offered up. Gobble up every chance and opportunity. And so, what happened after you took this phone? Tell me.” Honourable’s voice was warm now, his face creased into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “I switched off the phone and left the church immediately. I knew she would try to call it once she noticed it was

Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

on me that first day mid–Fizzy googling before Ella interrupts to breathlessly explain that she isn’t a big reader but knows everything about every dating show ever and cannot wait for the show to start tonight. Ash mostly stands off to the side smiling at the countertop and trying not to make direct eye contact. I’ve been so wrapped up in the Fizzyness of the situation tonight I’ve barely let myself think about the show. But when it’s time and everyone crowds into my living room, the nerves finally kick in. Likewise, Fizzy declines food or a glass of wine, saying she’s not sure it will stay down. Everyone tries to get Fizzy to sit on the couch in the center of the room—she is the star, after all—but she insists it will only make her more anxious. She needs space to pace and possibly escape if needed. Everyone laughs, and that’s how Fizzy ends up standing in the back with me. The room falls into silence as the opening notes of the theme song play. The glossy True Love Experiment logo appears on the screen, followed by our host. Just as we hoped, Lanelle Turner is the perfect amount of funny and relatable as she introduces herself and explains the premise of the show. We’ll meet our Heroine, and her eight Heroes. Along with Fizzy, each contestant has undergone the popular DNADuo screening, and the results have been sealed. Not even the producers know the outcome. It will be up to the audience to follow each date and vote for who they think is Fizzy’s soulmate. Each week the votes will be tallied, and two Heroes will be eliminated. In the final episode, the DNADuo scores will be revealed, and we’ll see if the audience or science has been a better predictor of Fizzy’s soulmate. The Hero chosen by the audience will win a $100,000 cash prize, and, after the scores are revealed, Fizzy will have the chance to choose who she takes along for an all-expenses-paid trip to Fiji. Hopefully, the audience correctly chooses her true love and happily ever after. But first, the audience gets to meet River. When Lanelle mentions his name, the room around me fills with applause, the loudest—including a few catcalls and whistles—from Nat and Fizzy. When I asked Fizzy how she managed to convince him, she first told me she used nature’s credit card. When I didn’t get it— Sex, Connor. Oh my God, a dirty joke doesn’t work if I have to explain it! —she said she told him that by laying out the science himself, he controlled the narrative, and therefore how people would see it. It didn’t mean he was necessarily backing the show, only his technology. Now, footage of River walking through the halls of the Salk and working in a lab fills the screen, followed by a voiceover of him explaining the initial idea, and the years and years of research that went into developing it. He’s careful to clarify that it isn’t about finding people with similar DNA.

USS-Lincoln.txt

his ship, his crew.” Captain Wallace Ryder stood there. One arm was in a sling; his left ear was bandaged. He attempted a smile. “Come to check on me sweetheart.” Viv cursed under her breath and stormed off. “She’s right,” I said. “My intentions are self-serving here.” “Yeah, well, you’ve always been an asshole. Think it comes with the job. Let me help make you even less popular. My totally un-medical opinion tells me we have ten, maybe twelve, pilots ready to be released soon. I’ve been ordered to my quarters for rest and recuperation. How’s it looking in Flight Bay?” I looked about HealthBay and then back to my friend. “Honestly? Not so different than here.” “Yeah, we’ve taken it in the shorts. I get that, Quintos. But we’ve been right here before. We’ll come out of this—” “I don’t need a pep talk, Ryder. What’s waiting for us beyond the remnants of that destroyed world is far more than a few Ziu scout ships. Go to your quarters, follow Viv’s directives, and get some rest.” I squeezed his shoulder and headed for the exit. Across the compartment, I momentarily caught Viv’s eye. She looked away. My Jadoo ring vibrated. Without looking at it, I said, “Go for Captain.” “Captain, I believe we have it worked out.” I stopped outside in the corridor. “Go on, Coogong.” “I believe we’re ready …” “You’ll have to be more specific. Ready for what?” “To jump us out of here, Captain. To return us to our own universe.” I had a lot of questions. What were the odds of success? What about Wrath and Portent? How long would it take to get things going? But instead of wasting even a moment’s time, I said, “Where are you?” “I’m on the bridge, Captain. We’re all on the bridge.” “On my way.” Having just quansported, I literally sprinted into the bridge. “Sitrep!” I barked, now seeing not only Coogong but also Captain Loggins and Captain Church. Akari said, “We’ve been busy.” She looked to Coogong to take it from there. The Thine scientist glanced to Church and Loggins and raised his stick-figure hands, conveying I should slow down and take a breath. “The not-so-good news first. Both Wrath’s and Portent’s drive compensator circuits have been, for lack of a better way of putting it, overwritten.” I looked to Church and Loggins. Neither looked overly concerned. Okay … Coogong continued, “With that said, Adams will have to make the jump for all three vessels. Together, we will make the … maneuver.” The ship suddenly shook to the point I had to reach out for the captain’s mount armrest. “What was that?” Akari said, “That would be Boundless Wrath cozying up to our starboard side. Portent is already on our port side. Mooring clamps have been secured. For all intents and purposes, we are now one ship.” I was impressed and a tad speechless. Hardy said, “Understand, this might not work. We might tear apart from one another; we might have miscalculated things …” “Uh … Captain?” Grimes said

How to Sell a Haunted House.txt

so she got twice as many. The Calvins’ presents were the best. The Calvins were very old and didn’t have any children of their own, and they’d known her since she was a little baby, so they always gave her something her mom said was too nice. This year they visited the Calvins the day before Christmas Eve, the last visit of the season. That night they’d have cheese toast and tomato soup because her mom was resting for Christmas Eve, when she’d cook all day for supper and then at midnight they’d go for the candlelight service at church. After that they’d go to bed and Santa would come, then it would be Christmas morning, and presents, and then all the cousins would come and stay all day and into the night, and they’d bring covered dishes and she could eat as much as she wanted. The Calvins represented the end of the visits and the start of two days of fun. Patricia and Martin Calvin lived in a bungalow out at the far end of Pitt Street by the ruined old bridge, on a big lot with a long driveway. To Louise, going to their house always felt like driving to the country, even though they lived less than a mile away. Their mom parked in the drive and turned around over the seat to make sure their hats and gloves were on and their jackets were zipped up, then she let them out and they crunched across the frosted grass and rang the Calvins’ doorbell. Martin Calvin opened the door and let them in. It was warm inside and smelled like Christmas trees, and they had on lamps and a fire, and everything was dim and orange and glowed. Mr. Calvin pulled two boxes out from under the tree with its pulsing green, yellow, and red lights. Louise put Pupkin next to her and carefully peeled off her paper to reveal a Spirograph. She traced the big round letters on the cover of the box with one finger, then opened it to see the hot pink harness, the yellow ruler, the different-size blue tips, each with their own pocket to hold it. Her breath moved up into the back of her throat. “Thank you, Mr. Calvin,” she said. “Thank you, Mrs. Calvin.” “Marty,” her mom said, “it’s too much.” “Do you like that, honey?” Mr. Calvin asked. “It’s precious,” Louise said. She didn’t want to take it out of its box until she was home and could do it carefully and make sure she didn’t lose a piece, so instead she just kept opening the box and looking at how everything inside had a perfect place, touching them one after the other, rubbing their smooth edges with her fingertips. Mark got one of those super-detailed Hess trucks people bought at the gas station for five fill-ups and five dollars. He fell down hard on his bottom and pushed his Hess truck around on the floor. Their mom began to talk in hushed tones with Mrs. Calvin about her health.

Titanium-Noir.txt

yes, Mâri says, she knows Roddy. Occasionally he comes and sits in. He always orders the same things, very particular. He doesn’t drink much. Always used to come in by himself. No, never with Mrs. Catchpole—Mâri does not love Mrs. Catchpole—but there was a girl, a pale, pretty girl, she looked tiny next to him but she was about the same height as Mâri. Atilla says she was a singer. How does he know she was a singer? She told him so. And when was he talking to the pretty singer, exactly? When he brought the sorpotel and the paprika feijoada. Well, he should keep his eyes on his cooking, then, and not disturb the female guests. I was going to ask whether the singer wore earrings, but I figure I’m not getting an answer to that now. Atilla goes back to the kitchen, and when a kid comes through the main door with a skateboard Mâri immediately brings him over and sits him down. “This is Andor. He made the delivery last night. Tell him, Andor.” The kid says he made the delivery last night. “But the guy never came to the door. No tip.” “Andor!” “Sorry, Mom.” “You’re not supposed to leave food. If they don’t come to the door we bring it back. Keep it warm.” “But he called out to leave it.” That’s interesting. “You sure about that?” “Pretty sure. I knocked, he didn’t answer. I knocked again and he said to leave the food.” “Him or someone else?” “I…guess it could have been either.” “Andor!” “No, he’s right, Mrs.—” What did she say the name was? “Adami. Through a door, one sentence like that, he can’t know whose voice. Not to be sure. That’s important. Thank you, Andor.” “S’okay.” He gets up to go. I lay a couple of bills on the table. “Since you didn’t get a tip.” Leave my finger on the top one. “You think there was someone else in there? Or was he by himself?” “Someone else. I figured it was his girlfriend. I thought there was, uh,” a glance at his mother, “kinda heavy breathing. Like if someone had been, uh, getting a lot of exercise.” She scowls, and he takes flight. “Do your chores!” “Yes, Mom.” The kitchen door closes. “Good kid.” She smiles then, like sunrise. I go outside and think about Roddy Tebbit ordering food before killing himself, and Roddy Tebbit sitting in his chair overlooking the city, and Roddy Tebbit dead on the carpet, and I think about someone breathing heavy enough to be heard outside by a kid who had other things on his mind. * * * — Musgrave’s office is on the first floor, with the mortuary right alongside. The entire south wall is made of white smoked glass so the autopsy room can use natural light. The other wall is the cadaver bank, row upon row of square doors with corpses stored behind them one on top of the other like a library of grief. I put my head round the door and say:

Divine Rivals.txt

left the front door unlocked for her mother and carried a candle into her room, where she was surprised to find a piece of paper lying on her floor. Her mysterious pen pal had written again, even though she had yet to respond to their myth-filled letter. She was beginning to wonder if they were from another time. Perhaps they had lived in this very room, long before her. Perhaps they were destined to live here, years from now. Perhaps their letters were somehow slipping through a fissure of time, but it was this place that was causing it. Iris retrieved the paper and sat on the edge of her bed, reading: Do you ever feel as if you wear armor, day after day? That when people look at you, they see only the shine of steel that you’ve so carefully encased yourself in? They see what they want to see in you—the warped reflection of their own face, or a piece of the sky, or a shadow cast between buildings. They see all the times you’ve made mistakes, all the times you’ve failed, all the times you’ve hurt them or disappointed them. As if that is all you will ever be in their eyes. How do you change something like that? How do you make your life your own and not feel guilt over it? While she was reading it a second time, soaking in their words and pondering how to respond to something that felt so intimate it could have been whispered from her own mouth, another letter came over the threshold. Iris stood to fetch it, and that was the first time she truly tried to envision who this person was. She tried, but they were nothing more than stars and smoke and words pressed on a page. She knew absolutely nothing about them. But after reading something like this, as if they had bled themselves on the paper … she longed to know more. She opened the second letter, which was a hasty: I sincerely apologize for bothering you with such thoughts. I hope I didn’t wake you. No need to reply to me. I think it helps to type things out. Iris knelt and reached for her typewriter beneath the bed. She fed a fresh sheet of paper into the roller and then sat there, staring at its possibilities. Slowly, she began to type, her fingers meeting the keys. Her thoughts began to strike across the page: I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it’s that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear. It takes courage to let down your armor, to welcome people to see you as you are. Sometimes I feel the same as you: I can’t risk having people behold me as I truly am. But there’s also a small voice in the back of my mind, a voice that

Jane Eyre.txt

I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic. If even this stranger had smiled and been good-humored to me when I addressed him; if he had put off my offer of assistance gayly and with thanks, I should have gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew inquiries; but the frown, the roughness of the traveler, set me at my ease: I retained my station when he waved to me to go, and announced: "I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this solitary lane, till I see you are fit to mount your horse." He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in my direction before. I should think you ought to be at home yourself," said he, "if you have a home in this neighborhood; where do you come from?" "From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it is moonlight; I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish it; indeed, I am going there to post a letter." "You live just below do you mean at that house with the battlements?" pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam, bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods, that, by contrast with the western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow. "Yes, sir." "Whose house is it?" "Mr. Rochester's." "Do you know Mr. Rochester?" "No; I have never seen him." "He is not resident, then?" "No." "Can you tell me where he is?" "I cannot." "You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are " He stopped, ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple a black merino cloak, a black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough for a lady's maid. He seemed puzzled to decide what I was: I helped him. "I am the governess." "Ah, the governess!" he repeated; "deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The governess!" and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes he rose from the stile; his face expressed pain when he tried to move. "I cannot commission you to fetch help," he said; "but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind." "Yes, sir." "You have not an umbrella that

Five On A Treasure Island.txt

properly out, and the children's wet clothes dried in its hot rays. They steamed in the sun, and even Tim's coat sent up a mist too. He didn't seem to like the wreck at all, but growled deeply at it. "You are funny, Tim," said George, patting him. "It won't hurt you! What do you think it is?" "He probably thinks it's a whale," said Anne with a laugh. "Oh, George- this is the most exciting day of my life! Oh, can't we possibly take the boat and see if we can get to the wreck?" "No, we can't," said George. "I only wish we could. But it's quite impossible, Anne. For one thing I don't think the wreck has quite settled down on the rocks yet, and maybe it won't till the tide has gone down. I can see it lifting a little still when an extra big wave comes. It would be dangerous to go into it yet. And for another thing I don't want my boat smashed to bits on the rocks, and us thrown into that wild water! That's what would happen. We must wait till tomorrow. It's a good idea to come early. I expect lots of grown-ups will think it's their business to explore it." The children watched the old wreck for a little time longer and then went all round the island again. It was certainly not very large, but it really was exciting, with its rocky little coast, its quiet inlet where their boat was, the ruined castle, the circling jackdaws, and the scampering rabbits everywhere. "I do love it," said Anne. "I really do. It's just small enough to feel like an island. Most islands are too big to feel like islands. I mean, Britain is an island, but nobody living on it could possibly know it unless they were told. Now this island really feels like one because wherever you are you can see to the other side of it. I love it." George felt very happy. She had often been on her island before, but always alone except for Tim. She had always vowed that she never, never would take anyone there, because it would spoil her island for her. But it hadn't been spoilt. It had made it much nicer. For the first time George began to understand that sharing pleasures doubles their joy. "We'll wait till the waves go down a bit then we'll go back home," she said. "I rather think there's some more rain coming, and we'll only get soaked through. We shan't be back till tea-time as it is, because we'll have a long pull against the out-going tide." All the children felt a little tired after the excitements of the morning. They said very little as they rowed home. Everyone took turns at rowing except Anne, who was not strong enough with the oars to row against the tide. They looked back at the island as they left it. They couldn't see the wreck because that was on the opposite side, facing the open sea.

The Age of Innocence.txt

jeopardy) to be able to remind themselves that Beaufort WAS; but, after all, if a Dallas of South Carolina took his view of the case, and glibly talked of his soon being "on his feet again," the argument lost its edge, and there was nothing to do but to accept this awful evidence of the indissolubility of marriage. Society must manage to get on without the Beauforts, and there was an end of it--except indeed for such hapless victims of the disaster as Medora Manson, the poor old Miss Lannings, and certain other misguided ladies of good family who, if only they had listened to Mr. Henry van der Luyden . . . "The best thing the Beauforts can do," said Mrs. Archer, summing it up as if she were pronouncing a diagnosis and prescribing a course of treatment, "is to go and live at Regina's little place in North Carolina. Beaufort has always kept a racing stable, and he had better breed trotting horses. I should say he had all the qualities of a successful horsedealer." Every one agreed with her, but no one condescended to enquire what the Beauforts really meant to do. The next day Mrs. Manson Mingott was much better: she recovered her voice sufficiently to give orders that no one should mention the Beauforts to her again, and asked--when Dr. Bencomb appeared--what in the world her family meant by making such a fuss about her health. "If people of my age WILL eat chicken-salad in the evening what are they to expect?" she enquired; and, the doctor having opportunely modified her dietary, the stroke was transformed into an attack of indigestion. But in spite of her firm tone old Catherine did not wholly recover her former attitude toward life. The growing remoteness of old age, though it had not diminished her curiosity about her neighbours, had blunted her never very lively compassion for their troubles; and she seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Beaufort disaster out of her mind. But for the first time she became absorbed in her own symptoms, and began to take a sentimental interest in certain members of her family to whom she had hitherto been contemptuously indifferent. Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege of attracting her notice. Of her sons-in-law he was the one she had most consistently ignored; and all his wife's efforts to represent him as a man of forceful character and marked intellectual ability (if he had only "chosen") had been met with a derisive chuckle. But his eminence as a valetudinarian now made him an object of engrossing interest, and Mrs. Mingott issued an imperial summons to him to come and compare diets as soon as his temperature permitted; for old Catherine was now the first to recognise that one could not be too careful about temperatures. Twenty-four hours after Madame Olenska's summons a telegram announced that she would arrive from Washington on the evening of the following day. At the Wellands', where the Newland Archers chanced to be lunching, the question as to who

Little Women.txt

Marmee and the girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself, " I know I'll get my music some time, if I'm good." There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind. If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she would have answered at once, "My nose." When she was a baby,Jo had accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor `Petrea's', it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself, and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself. "Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, "When Papa was rich we did so-and-so," which was very touching, and her long words were considered `perfectly elegant' by the girls. Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing, however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin's clothes. Now Florence's mama hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was good, well made, and little worn, but Amy's artistic eyes were much afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull purple with yellow dots and no trimming. "My only comfort," she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, "is that Mother doesn't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty, as Maria Parks's mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful, for sometimes she is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school. When I think

Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically. It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener’s business to verify the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or more scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original. It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine that to some sanguine temperaments it would be altogether intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet Byron would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand. Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose. One object I had in placing Bartleby so handy to me behind the screen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of instant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended with the copy, so that immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Bartleby might snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay. In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating what it was I wanted him to do—namely, to examine a small paper with me. Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when without moving from his privacy, Bartleby in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.” I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume. But in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, “I would prefer not to.” “Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride. “What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here—take it,” and I thrust it towards him. “I would prefer not to,” said he. I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at

What-Dreams-May-Come.txt

she challenged him with only a look, telling him he could be more than what he’d limited himself to? Letting out another sigh, Mother lowered her own sewing and gestured to the stranger on the settee, who stood gracefully. “This is Martine. Martine Calloway. She arrived early this morning, much to our surprise.” Calloway? But they didn’t have any relatives in France. Simon opened his mouth to say so when a hand clapped on his shoulder, making him jump. “You’re blocking the door,” William said brightly. He seemed to have fully recovered overnight, and he pushed Simon deeper into the room so he could get inside as well. Then, to Simon’s consternation, William stepped right up to the mysterious Calloway woman and planted a kiss on her lips. Oh. He didn’t have the energy to deal with this new development. Simon turned right around and left the room. If William was already married to someone else, that somehow made all of this even worse, and he was desperate to find some reason to leave the county and give himself some space from the topsy-turvy world his life had become. He made it only a dozen steps down the corridor before William caught up to him, sliding to a halt in front of him and blocking his path. “Get out of my way,” Simon growled. William shook his head. “Not until you hear what I have to say.” Simon had no idea what to believe anymore, and no matter what William told him, he had no way to know if he could trust him. Even his mother and sister seemed privy to whatever nonsense was happening around him, and Simon wanted to run. To ride his horse as far as he would go and then keep running. But he couldn’t go to the stables now. Not when it would only remind him of that kiss with Lucy. An involuntary shudder ran through him at the memory. First the library, then his pond, now riding—Lucy had tainted everything he loved. “I am not in the mood, Will,” he said. Narrowing his eyes, William looked far stronger than he likely was. Simon had always been able to beat him in a wrestling match, but after this latest fever, he knew it would be perfectly easy to knock his brother down and get away. He had endured enough unrest the last several days, however, so he kept his fists at his side and clenched his jaw tight. “You were the one who said you wanted to talk when I recovered,” William pointed out, relaxing a bit as he stood there. Did he really think Simon might have hurt him? Perhaps they didn’t know each other at all. “So let’s talk.” Simon knew he would regret this. “About what?” “About Lucy.” Simon reconsidered his decision not to fight, but his mother would surely find them if he laid a finger on William. She had always had a knack for turning up at the worst moments. Groaning, he shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about Lucy.”

Cold People.txt

remember the lesson. She was the last of her kind.’ ‘Echo, you’re the first of your kind and the last. I don’t know what kind of genetic advances they’ve made in McMurdo. I don’t know what this new generation of Cold People will be like. But I do know that you’re special. More special than even the scientists realize.’ As she said goodbye, Professor Lili, a woman who’d once enjoyed promenades by the Huangpu River with her husband and her two children, felt like she was losing her family for a second time. Echo gave her mentor a hug, feeling her fragile body in her powerful arms. Her teacher was crying. Waiting for the professor to stop, she wondered how such sensitive, delicate creatures had survived for so long. THE ANTARCTIC PENINSULA HOPE TOWN WORDIE HOUSE SAME DAY WORDIE HOUSE WAS ONE OF Hope Town’s most prestigious properties, now occupied by one of the community’s most prominent families – Liza, Atto and their daughter Echo. They were a family known for their contribution to society, their kindness and willingness to help anyone who called on them for support. Their house was named after James Wordie, the chief geologist on Shackleton’s expedition. Shackleton was a revered historical figure, admired as a supreme survivor of the cold having endured four hundred and ninety-seven days on the ice with primitive equipment and, most crucially of all, losing none of his team. Built nearly a hundred years ago, the house was among the oldest manmade structures anywhere in Antarctica, evocative of ancient Icelandic fishing cottages, ducked low out of the winds, the walls made from the reclaimed timbers of abandoned whaling stations in the Antarctic tradition of repurposing everything and wasting nothing. Once located on Winter Island, several hundred miles north, the ancient structure had been dismantled and carried south, too valuable to leave behind, reconstructed as part of Hope Town as a symbol of survival and intended to inspire. Situated outside the city sprawl, at night the house had a fairy-tale feel, framed against the stars with a piglet curl of smoke from the chimney. All accommodation allocations were decided by the Housing Committee at Hope Town’s Parliament, the authority which sought to best match families and their homes. Since accommodation was in short supply, almost everyone shared, and if the combination of occupants was judged correctly, this act of sharing was found to improve the quality of people’s lives. No one was ever alone, conversation and interests were carefully balanced, and if someone fell sick, the others looked after them. If any groupings of people fell short of those standards, if there was friction or tension, they were quickly rearranged. Liza and Atto had been given the honour of living in this house as a celebration of their love story, people who’d found each other during the Exodus, a love story that had known only a single week of warmth and twenty years of cold. This historic house was assigned to them as a celebration of Liza’s achievements as a doctor in the most

Emma.txt

her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.-- Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.-- Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could

David Copperfield.txt

Traddles, as if he desired to have his opinion. 'Why, the plain state of the case, Mrs. Micawber,' said Traddles, mildly breaking the truth to her. 'I mean the real prosaic fact, you know -' 'Just so,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'my dear Mr. Traddles, I wish to be as prosaic and literal as possible on a subject of so much importance.' '- Is,' said Traddles, 'that this branch of the law, even if Mr. Micawber were a regular solicitor -' 'Exactly so,' returned Mrs. Micawber. ('Wilkins, you are squinting, and will not be able to get your eyes back.') '- Has nothing,' pursued Traddles, 'to do with that. Only a barrister is eligible for such preferments; and Mr. Micawber could not be a barrister, without being entered at an inn of court as a student, for five years.' 'Do I follow you?' said Mrs. Micawber, with her most affable air of business. 'Do I understand, my dear Mr. Traddles, that, at the expiration of that period, Mr. Micawber would be eligible as a Judge or Chancellor?' 'He would be ELIGIBLE,' returned Traddles, with a strong emphasis on that word. 'Thank you,' said Mrs. Micawber. 'That is quite sufficient. If such is the case, and Mr. Micawber forfeits no privilege by entering on these duties, my anxiety is set at rest. I speak,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'as a female, necessarily; but I have always been of opinion that Mr. Micawber possesses what I have heard my papa call, when I lived at home, the judicial mind; and I hope Mr. Micawber is now entering on a field where that mind will develop itself, and take a commanding station.' I quite believe that Mr. Micawber saw himself, in his judicial mind's eye, on the woolsack. He passed his hand complacently over his bald head, and said with ostentatious resignation: 'My dear, we will not anticipate the decrees of fortune. If I am reserved to wear a wig, I am at least prepared, externally,' in allusion to his baldness, 'for that distinction. I do not,' said Mr. Micawber, 'regret my hair, and I may have been deprived of it for a specific purpose. I cannot say. It is my intention, my dear Copperfield, to educate my son for the Church; I will not deny that I should be happy, on his account, to attain to eminence.' 'For the Church?' said I, still pondering, between whiles, on Uriah Heep. 'Yes,' said Mr. Micawber. 'He has a remarkable head-voice, and will commence as a chorister. Our residence at Canterbury, and our local connexion, will, no doubt, enable him to take advantage of any vacancy that may arise in the Cathedral corps.' On looking at Master Micawber again, I saw that he had a certain expression of face, as if his voice were behind his eyebrows; where it presently appeared to be, on his singing us (as an alternative between that and bed) 'The Wood-Pecker tapping'. After many compliments on this performance, we fell into some general conversation; and as I was too full of my desperate intentions

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

off. --O by the way, said Heron suddenly, I saw your governor going in. The smile waned on Stephen's face. Any allusion made to his father by a fellow or by a master put his calm to rout in a moment. He waited in timorous silence to hear what Heron might say next. Heron, however, nudged him expressively with his elbow and said: --You're a sly dog. --Why so? said Stephen. --You'd think butter wouldn't melt in your mouth said Heron. But I'm afraid you're a sly dog. --Might I ask you what you are talking about? said Stephen urbanely. --Indeed you might, answered Heron. We saw her, Wallis, didn't we? And deucedly pretty she is too. And inquisitive! AND WHAT PART DOES STEPHEN TAKE, MR DEDALUS? AND WILL STEPHEN NOT SING, MR DEDALUS? Your governor was staring at her through that eyeglass of his for all he was worth so that I think the old man has found you out too. I wouldn't care a bit, by Jove. She's ripping, isn't she, Wallis? --Not half bad, answered Wallis quietly as he placed his holder once more in a corner of his mouth. A shaft of momentary anger flew through Stephen's mind at these indelicate allusions in the hearing of a stranger. For him there was nothing amusing in a girl's interest and regard. All day he had thought of nothing but their leave-taking on the steps of the tram at Harold's Cross, the stream of moody emotions it had made to course through him and the poem he had written about it. All day he had imagined a new meeting with her for he knew that she was to come to the play. The old restless moodiness had again filled his breast as it had done on the night of the party, but had not found an outlet in verse. The growth and knowledge of two years of boyhood stood between then and now, forbidding such an outlet: and all day the stream of gloomy tenderness within him had started forth and returned upon itself in dark courses and eddies, wearying him in the end until the pleasantry of the prefect and the painted little boy had drawn from him a movement of impatience. --So you may as well admit, Heron went on, that we've fairly found you out this time. You can't play the saint on me any more, that's one sure five. A soft peal of mirthless laughter escaped from his lips and, bending down as before, he struck Stephen lightly across the calf of the leg with his cane, as if in jesting reproof. Stephen's moment of anger had already passed. He was neither flattered nor confused, but simply wished the banter to end. He scarcely resented what had seemed to him a silly indelicateness for he knew that the adventure in his mind stood in no danger from these words: and his face mirrored his rival's false smile. --Admit! repeated Heron, striking him again with his cane across the calf of the leg. The stroke was playful

The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt

knew you had the sort of friendship that would withstand the changing years.’ ‘Come and sit down with us, Miss.’ Minnie patted the seat next to her, gazing at the teacher as she had done over sixty years ago. ‘I’d love to.’ Miss Hamilton eased herself slowly towards the table. ‘The scooter is parked outside. I don’t get around as well as I used to: my arthritis is very annoying, but I have a good doctor and she keeps an eye on me. That’s why I’ve moved here. I’ve just bought a nice bungalow on Tadderly Road.’ She sat down carefully, Minnie pushing out the chair, extending a hand. ‘Well, how pleasant. Just like old times.’ ‘You’re most welcome.’ Odile offered a wide smile. ‘What can I get you?’ ‘Tea…’ Miss Hamilton ignored the menu that Odile offered. ‘And did I overhear someone say carrot cake? A slice of that would be wonderful. With a dollop of cream, if you have it.’ She turned to the three former pupils who sat at the table looking at her, their eyes shining. ‘This is nice, isn’t it? It’s been quite a while…’ She leaned forwards, her voice soft with warmth. ‘Well, you must tell me about everything you’ve been doing over the last sixty years. It will be good to catch up with all the news.’ Then she stared across the café and she was suddenly stern. ‘Please do close your mouth, Jimmy Baker. You’re staring again, and you know it’s impolite to stare.’ ‘Yes, Miss,’ Jimmy replied automatically, and Dangerous Dave dug him in the ribs and began to laugh. Jimmy hung his head and Kenny looked around nervously. Miss Hamilton turned to the three friends at the table. ‘So, my girls,’ she purred. ‘I want to hear all about your lives since we last met. Every detail.’ She patted her silver hair. ‘Oh, I know so much has changed, but it’s good to be back in Middleton Ferris. I can’t wait to settle in and become part of the village. I know it’s going to be wonderful.’ 9 Florence sat on the edge of her bed fiddling with a bracelet, still in the green dress she had worn for work. Malia huddled next to her, legs crossed, shoes off, and Florence noticed how well she looked, all smiles and wild hair and torn jeans, her life open in front of her like an unwritten page. She sighed. ‘So, you’re going to London?’ ‘I want to work for a publisher – I’d love a marketing role.’ Malia leaned forwards. ‘It doesn’t take long from here to London by train.’ Florence nodded. ‘London’s a big place…’ ‘I’d love the bustle. I don’t want to be like Adam, living here, working with my dad. Or teaching forever, like poor Mum.’ Florence wasn’t sure what to say, so she took a breath. ‘Does Adam like living at home?’ ‘He’s saving for a mortgage; he’ll get a flat in Tadderly.’ Malia met her friend’s eyes. ‘He asked about you before I came out. He said to send

The-Housekeepers.txt

clear off.” “Did you take her last delivery, Mr. Champion?” said Mrs. King. His eyes swiveled to meet hers. A sneer. “I doubt it.” Winnie appeared troubled. “That’s not correct, Mr. Champion. I gave you my very best stock.” “I daresay you might have off-loaded some old handkerchiefs on me. I really can’t recall.” “I’m sure you have the receipts,” said Mrs. King. “I’m sure I don’t.” He looked like suet, a sick-making color. “Might I check?” she said. “Might you...” He paused, taking a breath, reddening further. “No, you may not. You can show yourself out.” His eyes rattled back and forth between them. “Here, what is this? Some job you’ve worked up between you? I said to clear off!” Winnie lifted her hands, alarmed. “Mr. Champion...” “Five guineas, Mr. Champion,” said Mrs. King. He stared at her. “What?” “Five guineas for the Navy. Or I want to see your order book.” Mr. Champion let out a scornful laugh. “Don’t make me send for the constable.” “Be my guest,” Mrs. King said in a congenial tone. “I’ll report exactly what I can see occurring here. You’re cheating ladies out of their dues.” “Say that again,” he said, voice dropping, “and you won’t be able to sell a stitch to any living body in town.” “Order book, please,” said Mrs. King, pressing her palms to the table. There was a long silence. Winnie was holding her breath. “Three guineas,” Mr. Champion said. Mrs. King sometimes wondered, How do I do it? How did she get people to capitulate, to bow? She didn’t exactly like it. It made her feel chilly and contemptuous of the world. But of course it was necessary. Somebody had to put things right in life. “Done,” she said, keeping her distance from Mr. Champion. He made a lot of noise, a lot of fuss, counting out the change. “You’re nothing more than a thief. You won’t be coming around here again. They’ll lock the doors on you two, that I can tell you for sure and certain—” But they got their three guineas. Winnie shoved the pram out into the road. “For heaven’s sake.” Mrs. King closed the shop door with a bang. “Here,” she said gravely, counting out shillings. Winnie gave her a long look, as if deciding whether to say thank you or not. She pressed her lips together. “I need a sherry,” she said. “Lead the way,” said Mrs. King, reaching for the perambulator. “I’ll mind Baby.” * * * They quick-marched to Bethnal Green, the perambulator listing and keeling all the way, men throwing them filthy looks as it ran over their toes. Mrs. King watched the sky changing. The sun drained away, as if giving up. It stirred her, the dusk: it put her in the hunting mood. And she was hungry for a very particular object. Mrs. King wasn’t the only housekeeper ever employed in that house on Park Lane. Winnie had held that illustrious title herself, only three years before. And she still held a most useful item in her possession.

Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt

nod sympathetically. I too spend many nights alone in my marriage bed. “May I listen to your pulse?” I ask. I’ve been studying medicine and treating women for years now. I feel confident, but I take my time, palpating to reach the three levels on both her wrists. Her pulse is as I expect. Thin, like fine thread, yet distinct and clear. I mull over her symptoms—the constant spotting, especially—and possibilities for treatment, knowing I can never ask Grandmother’s advice on this case. “You’re suffering from Spleen qi deficiency and injured Kidney yin caused by taxation from toil,” I offer. “This type of deep fatigue can come from too much work or from extreme mental doings like studying too hard.” “I sleep—” “A single night of sleep will not allow your body to catch up. Taxation from toil is deep. Look what it has already done to you. If I write you a prescription, will you be able to fill it?” “Oriole can go where she wants,” Meiling answers on behalf of the brickmaker. “Then here is what I would like you to do. First, please have the herbalist make you a Decoction to Supplement the Center and Boost Qi.” I don’t know if any of this will matter to Oriole, but I take the time to explain anyway. “This is a classic remedy from a book called Profound Formulas. My grandmother says she has the last copy in existence.” Oriole’s eyes widen as she absorbs this information. “The most important ingredient is one that we women rely on. Astragalus will help your fatigue and Blood prostration. I’m adding my own ideas to your prescription. Skullcap root purges Fire and inflammation. Nut grass rhizome not only has cooling properties, but it is well known to help with moon-water problems, weight loss, and sleep disorders. Japanese thistle is one of the best substances to stop runaway bleeding.” “Will it be expensive?” Oriole asks. “There are no extraordinary ingredients here,” I answer. “You will be fine,” Meiling adds soothingly. “When you’ve finished this remedy, I want you to take Pill to Greatly Supplement Yin,” I go on. “It includes among its many ingredients freshwater turtle shell and cork-tree bark.” “And I’ll get better?” “You will,” I answer. “I’ll send Young Midwife to make sure you’re recovering. If you have other problems, she will bring me here.” I make this offer because I’m confident enough in my treatment plan to be sure I won’t need to return. The pill is one I’ve used before. While it’s known to quell Fire in the yin and supplement the Kidney, it also helps with turbulent emotions. Oriole is polite and hospitable, but her bitterness about her life radiates from her as the entire brickyard radiates heat. Her anger is far more deep-seated and difficult to treat than her weeping womb, but my remedy will work on this too. Meiling and I say goodbye and retrace our steps to her home, where we’re able to sneak back upstairs unobserved. I’m exhausted, and my feet are in more pain than

The-Lost-Bookshop.txt

to mine until our lips touched. To say that I saw fireworks would have been an exaggeration, but to say that I felt fireworks in my entire network of blood vessels would have been one hundred per cent accurate. I bent my head and kissed her as though it was the first time I had ever kissed anyone. It felt brand-new. We fit perfectly together. Her fingertips skated from my chest up along my jawline and then through my hair. I pulled her hips closer to mine and heard her sigh. I stopped for a moment and spoke, my own voice hardly recognisable as it had dropped to the husky octave of Barry White. ‘Is this okay?’ She nodded and then her lips were back on mine. I don’t know how long we stood there, it could have been twenty minutes or twenty seconds, before a customer came in and cleared his throat loudly. While silently vowing to murder him in his sleep, I found Martha’s hand and curled mine around it. ‘Do you want to come back to mine?’ ‘There’s something I have to do first,’ she said and she dragged me out of the shop, making a run for it. ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Trinity. I have five minutes left to register for my course!’ Chapter Twenty-Two OPALINE England, 1922 My trip began as planned, with a visit to the Brontë Society. Merely to stand where the Brontë sisters had stood, to look out at the moors that inspired Emily’s writing, was such a touching experience. The house itself stood like a fortress, its grey brick tempered by the large sash windows. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to live there, daughters of a fervently religious man, pressed up against the wilds of such an unyielding landscape. Young women, spinsters like myself, ignored by the world of men and literature, pouring their heart and passion into their writing and taking on the male pseudonyms of Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. I stood there in Mr Fitzpatrick’s trousers and a long overcoat, similarly at odds with the constraints of our gender. It was also a disguise, in case Lyndon had his spies out. After Patrick Brontë’s death, the entire contents of the house were either auctioned off or gifted to those who worked at Haworth. The Society was fortunate enough to have acquired much of these effects and their archives were quite impressive. I came across poems by Emily, annotated by elder sister Charlotte, immediately giving me the impression of a sibling power struggle, albeit a loving one. It was common knowledge that Charlotte was critical of her younger sister’s masterpiece. In the preface to the 1850 edition of Wuthering Heights, where Emily’s authorship was finally recognised, Charlotte wrote: Whether it is right or advisable to create beings like Heathcliff, I do not know: I scarcely think it is. Wuthering Heights was hewn in a wild workshop, with simple tools, out of homely materials. Charlotte was the only one of the sisters to marry. She married Arthur

I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt

he wanted a glass of water.” She explained that she’d felt herself to be a child, she was a child, she was naïve, so young. And Jerome, aged thirty-six, had been a full-fledged adult. Having married Jerome when he was thirty-nine, I can attest that he was still in most ways a child, as he continues to be. At thirty-nine, the only dinner he could make was eggplant parmesan. He would ruin suede sneakers in the washing machine. He’d never registered to vote. I’m wary of the narrative that suggests men mature so slowly that they pair best with younger women; I just mean that Jerome in particular was not terribly grown-up in his thirties. Jerome took an interest in her work, Jasmine said to the next person who sat down, a woman with a squirmy toddler. He asked Jasmine about her own art over dinner, told her it sounded exciting. They began sleeping together, he introduced her to friends in the art world, he was a shitty boyfriend. For instance: He broke up with her on her birthday, begged her forgiveness the next morning. He left used condoms on her floor. He told her he hated wearing condoms at all. He ordered a pizza for them, but it had pepperoni, because he’d forgotten she didn’t eat pork. He told her he couldn’t be monogamous. She didn’t like having sex in the morning, but he did, so she agreed to it but didn’t enjoy it as much, and he knew she didn’t enjoy it as much but he still asked for it, and she obliged. Once, he woke her at four in the morning and they had sex because he asked, but she kept drifting off and so he stopped. I kept waiting for the bombshell, the moment when he would pin her down or hit her or threaten to ruin her career—the thing I wouldn’t recognize as Jerome, that would forever change my sense of him; the thing that would make me divorce him for good and get custody of the kids; the thing that would derail his career and lead to his unanimous public censure. But forty-five minutes in, she was wrapping things up (circling the bench again like a lioness) and it had gotten no worse than undesirable—but consensual—morning sex. She looked at the camera for the first time, and she said, “Have you ever lost something somewhere, a book or a necklace, and you—it feels like you left an arm back there, or an ear? You’re missing a part of yourself, and—I left a part of myself in Denver in 2003. I left parts of myself all over this country. What I left back there, it was—” And here she made a fist in front of her stomach, and I understood it as a pit, a missing pit in her core. “—I can’t ever find it.” Fair enough. Her trauma was real. (This was, incidentally, what so many of the Twitter comments said. I see you, Jasmine, and I see your trauma.) I felt ancient, from some elderly

In the Lives of Puppets.txt

through the trees. It hadn’t, and he moved on to the chest and back. The cheek. He saved the leg for last. Hap sat on the table, legs hanging down, watching Vic’s every move. He’d removed his clothing at Vic’s request, questioning why Vic had placed a blanket over his bare lap. Vic lifted Hap’s leg, extending it, hearing the metal bones underneath the wood creak. The knee joint locked, and Vic soon saw why. On the inner part of his knee, the piece of wood was slightly too large. An easy mistake, but also an easy fix. He lifted a small tool from his work bench, lifting it so Hap could see. “This is a short bent.” Hap frowned. “What is it f-for?” “Shaving wood. Your knee is catching. It’s why you keep stumbling. I can fix it if you want.” “Does the patient need to be sedated?” Nurse Ratched asked. “I can help, if need be.” “No,” Victor said, and turned in time to see her slowly retracting a metal mallet back inside her. “It won’t hurt.” “H-hurt,” Hap repeated. “You w-will not h-hurt me unless I d-do something to make you.” What Dad had said, not quite word for word, but close enough. Then, “What is h-hurt?” “Ow,” Vic cried after Nurse Ratched thumped him on the head. “What was that for?” “You know what,” she said. “Hap, that was a demonstration of pain.” Hap scowled at all of them. “Fine. Do it. I n-need to have full range of mmotion. It’s a hazard if I d-don’t have it because you are f-fragile.” “He is,” Nurse Ratched said as Vic glared at her. “So breakable. It really is a flawed design, if you think about it. Humans are so squishy.” Vic rolled his eyes, and then sank to his knees in front of Hap. He motioned for Nurse Ratched to hold Hap’s leg in place as he wiped the sweat away from his brow. He thanked Rambo when the vacuum pulled down the magnifying glass, flipping through the different sizes until he found the right one. “Ready?” he asked Hap. Hap didn’t respond. Vic lowered the tool, pressing it against the side of the knee joint, ready to shave off a small piece until it fit better. “Ow,” Hap said. Vic startled. He looked up, eyes wide. Hap stared down at him. “Ow,” he said again. “That h-hurt.” Vic was incredulous. “What? It did? How can it—I don’t understand. That shouldn’t have—” “P-practice,” Hap said. “I was p-practicing. Ow. Pain. Hurt.” He grimaced, face twisting before smoothing out. “You can’t do that,” Vic said. “Wh-why?” “Because it didn’t hurt. I hadn’t even started yet.” Hap nodded. “I w-will wait until you s-start.” Vic sat back up on his knees, grabbing the short bent. “That’s not how I— just hold still. Don’t move.” Hap froze. He didn’t blink. His mouth hung open slightly. “What happened?” Vic asked. He raised his hand up and waved it in front of Hap’s face. No reaction. “Is he dead?” Rambo whispered nervously. “Did we

Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt

gently on the cheek. Her sister didn’t feel like marble anymore. She had warm skin, warm as any other human’s, warm as Alice’s own. “You’re marvelous,” she said, solemnly, meaning it. Mrs. King laughed, startled. “Heavens,” she said. “I’m not.” Something shifted in her expression, something dark. “How can I be? Knowing who I come from?” She meant her father. Alice hesitated. The women were skirting around it, avoiding it. This topic felt too enormous, too dangerous, to discuss. They were both waiting for Mrs. King to set it out for them, explain what it meant, tell them what they were supposed to think. And yet she hadn’t done so. She seemed to have turned inward, growing fretful, as if there were something constantly on her mind. Alice was still trying to compose the right reply when Mrs. King pulled away. Her eyes were on the gravestones behind Alice. A small temple had been erected there, a flashy memorial. “What is it?” Alice said. Mrs. King closed her eyes. “I need to see Mr. Shepherd.” 41 Winnie had to tell the conductor to stop at her station. It was hardly a station at all—it was more like a halt. The train would have steamed right through otherwise. It took nearly two hours to get there from London. “I want the slow train,” she told them in the ticket office. She wanted to watch the countryside unfolding at its own pace. She wanted to be sure that she’d picked the right spot. She took a seat in a first-class carriage. Important journeys deserved suitable investment. They also deserved expensive millinery. I can’t make a good hat, she told herself stolidly, but I can buy one. She purchased a slanted-cartwheel hat with magenta tips, a big boxy centerpiece, and rosettes all around the brim. It made her look a little like a banker and a little like a prize pony. It was quite something. She wondered if they would treat her differently at the station and, of course, they didn’t. She could have stood in the middle of the terminus throwing banknotes up into the air, and people would have ignored her. She was still herself. She wasn’t the queen. “All right, madam?” said the conductor as she stepped down onto the platform. “Yes, thank you,” she said, feeling her rosettes flapping, but he was back up on his plate, raising his hand to the guard, and the train was already huffing into motion. When the last carriage had turned the corner the noise suddenly died away, and there was only birdsong left behind. Winnie unpinned her hat and felt the sun on her neck. “This is the right place,” she said out loud, testing the fact. She’d copied out the particulars, but she didn’t need to check them: she’d committed them to memory. Take a right at the station, follow the road till it comes to a fork, then head uphill. I trust myself, she thought, setting off down the lane. I know where I’m going. A horse chestnut stood sentinel at the

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned -- but nothing happened until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced -- all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I got in here -- they thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me my toad." On Harry's other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione were talking about lessons ("I do hope they start right away, there's so much to learn, I'm particularly interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning something into something else, of course, it's supposed to be very difficult -- "; "You'll be starting small, just matches into needles and that sort of thing -- "). Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy, looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin. It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Quirrell's turban straight into Harry's eyes -- and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead. "Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head. "What is it?" asked Percy. "N-nothing." The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher's look -- a feeling that he didn't like Harry at all. "Who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?" he asked Percy. "Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he's looking so nervous, that's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't want to -- everyone knows he's after Quirrell's job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape." Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn't look at him again. At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent. "Ahem -- just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. "First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins. "I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. "Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch. "And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of

Titanium-Noir.txt

fire up an anagram maker and try that. Go carpophore hobo And so on. I fall asleep again there, in the chair, and if I dream again, when I wake I don’t remember. * * * — Standing in the lobby of Roddy’s building waiting for the elevator. “Jerelyn?” “Yes, my darling.” “Roddy ever talk about old movies with you? The Marx Brothers?” “I don’t think so.” Someone’s holding the elevator on floor six. Jerelyn says the Millers are going away for a long weekend. “Mr. Miller never learned to pack light.” The light doesn’t move. “How about Rufus?” “How about him, what?” “You think he could have done it?” “Why would you think so?” I tell Jerelyn about the hair. She makes a face. “That is disgusting.” “It is, isn’t it?” “That man.” “You think he did it?” “Yes. Absolutely. Arrest him.” “You think?” “No, but now I absolutely wish that I did. Hair. Oh my god. My hair?” “Everyone’s hair. But probably women he finds attractive.” “Now I’m offended as well as revolted. Personally and on behalf of the sisterhood.” “You don’t need to take a vote?” “There is a mystical democratic connection which binds all women together. Also: do you hear what you just told me?” She shudders, then laughs. “Collecting hair. Eeeeyuch.” The elevator arrives, and I step in. * * * — I walk into Roddy Tebbit’s apartment and look around. I look for old media: discs and optical storage, even tape. I look for a backup hard drive. Something more accessible than the genetic stash, something for every day. Usually when you do this you’re looking for the disreputable collection, the ordinary things someone doesn’t want you to know. The cheap bikini snaps, the long-cherished personal nudes with old lovers. Sometimes it’s a fetish. Sometimes it’s darker than that. Roddy Tebbit doesn’t have much of anything to be nervous about, that I can find. I go into the bric-a-brac again looking for pictures, for history. Postcards from Italy: a bronze boar from Florence, the Vatican in Rome. An appallingly erotic Psyche and Eros. Three or four of Canova’s Perseus Triumphant, holding Medusa’s head in one hand and that weird hooked sword in the other. I remember the picture of Roddy in Susan Green’s sketchbook. I was wrong: not Achilles. And not Medusa, in Susan’s drawing, but a bearded Zeus. Figure it’s a stand-in for Stefan. We’ve all felt like that from time to time. Roddy Tebbit had lost his wife. Everyone says so. You’d think he’d keep something. But when someone dies—especially when someone dies and their spouse is going to live for a whole other lifetime—often the survivor doesn’t need or want to be reminded. You think of widows’ houses as full of pictures of the dead, but many times they’re not. Many times they look towards the future as if the past is just last winter’s snow. I keep looking. Some arthouse snaps of another city, could be anywhere, just as easily Istanbul as Denver. Come to that it could be both: holiday snaps

1984.txt

the sheltering in Tube file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (88 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt stations, the piles of rubble everywhere, the unintelligible proclamations posted at street corners, the gangs of youths in shirts all the same colour, the enormous queues outside the bakeries, the intermittent machine-gun fire in the distance--above all, the fact that there was never enough to eat. He remembered long afternoons spent with other boys in scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps, picking out the ribs of cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes even scraps of stale breadcrust from which they carefully scraped away the cinders; and also in waiting for the passing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were known to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted over the bad patches in the road, sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake. When his father disappeared, his mother did not show any surprise or any violent grief, but a sudden change came over her. She seemed to have become completely spiritless. It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for something that she knew must happen. She did everything that was needed--cooked, washed, mended, made the bed, swept the floor, dusted the mantelpiece--always very slowly and with a curious lack of superfluous motion, like an artist's lay-figure moving of its own accord. Her large shapely body seemed to relapse naturally into stillness. For hours at a time she would sit almost immobile on the bed, nursing his young sister, a tiny, ailing, very silent child of two or three, with a face made simian by thinness. Very occasionally she would take Winston in her arms and press him against her for a long time without saying anything. He was aware, in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness, that this was somehow connected with the never-mentioned thing that was about to happen. He remembered the room where they lived, a dark, close-smelling room that seemed half filled by a bed with a white counterpane. There was a gas ring in the fender, and a shelf where food was kept, and on the landing outside there was a brown earthenware sink, common to several rooms. He remembered his mother's statuesque body bending over the gas ring to stir at something in a saucepan. Above all he remembered his continuous hunger, and the fierce sordid battles at mealtimes. He would ask his mother naggingly, over and over again, why there was not more food, he would shout and storm at her (he even remembered the tones of his voice, which was beginning to break prematurely and sometimes boomed in a peculiar way), or he would attempt a snivelling note of pathos in his efforts to get more than his share. His mother was quite ready to give him more than his share. She took it for granted that he, 'the boy', should have the biggest portion; but however much she gave him he invariably demanded more. At every meal she would beseech him not to be selfish and to remember that his little sister was sick and also

Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt

asking is ... has the big Z finally flipped? Beeblebrox, the man who invented the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, ex-confidence trickster, once described by Eccentrica Gallumbits as the Best Bang since the Big One, and recently voted the Wort Dressed Sentinent Being in the Known Universe for the seventh time ... has he got an answer this time? We asked his private brain care specialist Gag Halfrunt ..." The music swirled and dived for a moment. Another voice broke in, presumably Halfrunt. He said: "Vell, Zaphod's jist zis guy you know?" but got no further because an electric pencil flew across the cabin and through the radio's on/off sensitive airspace. Zaphod turned and glared at Trillian - she had thrown the pencil. "Hey," he said, what do you do that for?" Trillian was tapping her fingers on a screenful of figures. "I've just thought of something," she said. "Yeah? Worth interrupting a news bulletin about me for?" "You hear enough about yourself as it is." "I'm very insecure. We know that." "Can we drop your ego for a moment? This is important." "If there's anything more important than my ego around, I want it caught and shot now." Zaphod glared at her again, then laughed. "Listen," she said, "we picked up those couple of guys ..." "What couple of guys?" "The couple of guys we picked up." "Oh, yeah," said Zaphod, "those couple of guys." "We picked them up in sector ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha." "Yeah?" said Zaphod and blinked. Trillian said quietly, "Does that mean anything to you?" "Mmmmm," said Zaphod, "ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha. ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha?" "Well?" said Trillian. "Er ... what does the Z mean?" said Zaphod. "Which one?" "Any one." One of the major difficulties Trillian experienced in her relationship with Zaphod was learning to distinguish between him pretending to be stupid just to get people off their guard, pretending to be stupid because he couldn't be bothered to think and wanted someone else to do it for him, pretending to be outrageously stupid to hide the fact that he actually didn't understand what was going on, and really being genuinely stupid. He was renowned for being amazingly clever and quite clearly was so - but not all the time, which obviously worried him, hence the act. He proffered people to be puzzled rather than contemptuous. This above all appeared to Trillian to be genuinely stupid, but she could no longer be bothered to argue about it. She sighed and punched up a star map on the visiscreen so she could make it simple for him, whatever his reasons for wanting it to be that way. "There," she pointed, "right there." "Hey ... Yeah!" said Zaphod. "Well?" she said. "Well what?" Parts of the inside of her head screamed at other parts of the inside of her head. She said, very calmly, "It's the same sector you originally picked me up in." He looked at her and then looked back at the screen. "Hey, yeah," he said, "now that is wild. We should

Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt

The girl with auburn hair was indeed beautiful, and the young man had a cheery smile on his face. Montserrat did a little math in her head and realized Urueta was now sixty-one. It surprised her. He looked older, worn down. The booze had carved his face with a rough hand. Tristán peered down at the pictures. “You were awfully young to be directing movies at that age,” he said. Montserrat could recognize the note of rehearsed admiration in her friend’s voice, but Urueta was immediately taken by the compliment. “They called me ‘The Kid.’ I had three movies under my belt by then. It runs in the family. My mother was a script girl, my father was a cinematographer. I grew up playing around the prop department. I knew anyone there was to know in the movie business.” “Including Alma Montero?” “She was a friend of the family.” “Was Ewers a friend of the family, too?” Montserrat turned the page of the album. There were more pictures of Urueta, some alone, others with people she did not recognize. Her fingers drifted across the edges of the photographs. “No. I met Ewers through Alma. In 1960, I had shot three films. Yes, low-budget horror films, but I knew I’d get bigger projects soon enough. Unfortunately, I had developed what you’d call a little bit of a credit problem. I owed money, and it kept me awake at night. Alma heard about this and told me she was going to be financing a film and wanted to shoot the following year. She would pay me a decent salary, and when the movie was done she’d get me in touch with her old Hollywood friends so I could try my luck there. Turn three more pages and you’ll see him,” Urueta said, pointing at the album. Montserrat did as he said. She turned those three pages and there he was. The picture startled her, not because there was anything unusual about Ewers’s appearance, but because his face had been half hidden in the other picture she’d seen, as if he feared the camera. But there was nothing shy about Ewers in this photograph. In fact, the photo dripped with self-possession. Ewers was seated with his hands resting on his thighs, and he was leaning forward. His legs were spread wide. His face might have been bland if it hadn’t been for his firm mouth and the piercing blue eyes that stared at the viewer. Something in the tightness of the jaw, in the sharp slope of the eyebrows, demanded attention. There was a trace of rancor in those features. This was a hungry man. “He looks like a dude who would stab you in an alley and go through your pockets for spare change,” Tristán said, peering down at the picture. “He looks pissed.” “I don’t think I ever thought that exactly, but he made a vivid impression on everyone who met him, although in the beginning I admit I assumed he was a garden-variety gigolo.” “How come?” “Ewers changed his biography and age

Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt

how easy it is to talk to him, this guy I didn’t know only an hour and a half ago. “I guess I just thought I’d be . . . well, more successful by now,” I say, brushing this off with a hollow laugh. “So there it is. It’s not that I want to be famous or anything. I just want to create something I can be proud of. You know?” “I do,” he says quietly, his eyes heavy on mine, the soft creases on either side of them making him seem weary for the first time all evening. We finish our pizza and continue wandering. As his self-appointed tour guide, I go deep into Seattle lore, pointing out the Jimi Hendrix statue on the intersection of Broadway and Pine, the movie theater that used to be a Masonic temple. At one point, he holds out his phone, beckoning me closer to see what’s on the screen. “I googled ‘dearly beloved.’ You can say it at a funeral, too.” I exaggerate a groan. “I hate being wrong.” “Would a churro make it better?” he asks, gesturing to a food truck on the next block, and I instantly brighten. We take our churros to a bench in Cal Anderson Park, which even this late is full of people picnicking, drinking, dancing to music blaring from phones and mini speakers. “I’m kind of glad that bartender’s guinea pigs were such agents of chaos,” I say. “Or we might not have met.” “God bless Ricardo and Judith.” Drew nudges his churro out of the paper to take a bite. As he does this, his jeans brush against mine, our hips just barely touching. My lungs catch on an inhale, and when I finally let out a breath, I can sense the heat of him not just along my thigh but in the tips of my toes, the back of my neck. He’s half a foot taller than I am, but all night, he’s carried his height with a quiet kind of grace I’m not used to. He doesn’t slouch, but he doesn’t lord it over those of us who are vertically challenged. We could spread out if we wanted to; the bench is big enough. It quickly becomes evident that neither of us wants to. This whole thing is surreal. There’s no desire to check my phone for the time or chart an escape route, the way I might if I’m at a gathering that’s gotten too people-y. When I’m on deadline, I’m laser-focused, but I sent off a final revision of the personal trainer’s book last week, and now I’m waiting for my agent to submit me to other gigs, browsing job websites, sitting in that strange void of what’s next. This is the first time since that mistake with Wyatt that I’ve felt at home in my own skin. Maybe since before then, if I’m being honest. “Seattle is winning me over,” Drew says. “I might even be a little sad to leave tomorrow.” When he says it, there’s an inexplicable twinge in

Romantic-Comedy.txt

in the studio, we’d spoken only when necessary. But I neither longed for nor resented him, as I’d always sensed he believed. Though I’d been hurt and humiliated by his rejection, it had, I soon realized, freed me and offered clarity. I would never again risk poisoning TNO for myself by falling for or trying to date anyone there. And this decision made me see that there was a different way I wrote when, even subconsciously, I was seeking male approval, male sexual approval: a more coy way, more reserved, more nervous about being perceived as angry or vulgar. It was the syntactical equivalent of dressing up as a sexy zombie for Halloween. From my third season on, I’d embraced my anger and vulgarity. I’d been a gross zombie. I began writing about ostensibly female topics—camel toe and wage inequity, polycystic ovary syndrome and Jane Austen, Do-si-dos and Trefoils and mammograms and shapewear and Dirty Dancing and the so-called likeability of female politicians. By October of that year, I’d written my first viral sketch, Nancy Drew and the Disappearing Access to Abortion, in which Henrietta played the amateur detective. By December, I’d written my second, My Girlfriend Never Farts, which was a digital short that interspersed men at a bachelor party remarking on how their girlfriends and wives always smelled great and were hairless interspersed with shots of the women grunting and sweating as they moved a couch up a staircase, writhing on the toilet with explosive diarrhea, and giving instructions to an aesthetician who was waxing their buttholes. I didn’t try to be disgusting for the sake of being disgusting, but I didn’t try not to be disgusting. A few years after not reciprocating my feelings, Elliot appeared to develop an almost identical friendship with another new female writer except that I had the impression they were hooking up, but it didn’t last. The same season that Elliot became head writer, Nicola Dornan was a musical guest on the show, they began dating, and a year after that, they got married. This development did seem to vindicate his apparent belief that he shouldn’t have settled for me. Quite a few people from TNO had been invited to the wedding, and I hadn’t been one of them. All of which was to say, as we stood in the hallway outside his office, below a framed photo of a legendary TNO alum from the first season dressed as the Easter bunny—many such photos adorned the halls—I knew that Elliot was saying he hoped someday I could get over him. I tried to sound persuasively non-defensive as I said, “Really and truly, Elliot, the Danny Horst Rule sketch isn’t about you. It’s not revenge for you marrying Nicola.” The expression on his face was sympathetic and disbelieving, which made me realize I’d have vastly preferred unsympathetic and believing. Somberly, he said, “You have good qualities, Sally. You’re not out of the game unless you think you are.” I was filled with such loathing for him that it almost retroactively tainted the wise yet not

The Silmarillion.txt

gathered together and set as signs in the heavens of Arda: Wilwarin, Telumendil, Soronm, and Anarrma; and Menelmacar with his shining belt, that forebodes the Last Battle that shall be at the end of days. And high in the north as a challenge to Melkor she set the crown of seven mighty stars to swing, Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar and sign of doom. It is told that even as Varda ended her labours, and they were long, when first Menelmacar strode up the sky and the blue fire of Helluin flickered in the mists above the borders of the world, in that hour the Children of the Earth awoke, the Firstborn of Ilvatar. By the starlit mere of Cuivinen, Water of Awakening, they rose from the sleep of Ilvatar; and while they dwelt yet silent by Cuivinen their eyes beheld first of all things the stars of heaven. Therefore they have ever loved the starlight, and have revered Varda Elentri above all the Valar. In the changes of the world the shapes of lands and of seas have been broken and remade; rivers have not kept their courses, neither have mountains remained steadfast; and to Cuivinen there is no returning. But it is said among the Elves that it lay far off in the east of Middle-earth, and northward, and it was a bay in the Inland Sea of Helcar; and that sea stood where aforetime the roots of the mountain of Illuin had been before Melkor overthrew it Many waters flowed down thither from heights in the east, and the first sound that was heard by the Elves was the sound of water flowing, and the sound of water falling over stone. Long they dwelt in their first home by the water under stars, and they walked the Earth in wonder; and they began to make speech and to give names to all things that they perceived. Themselves they named the Quendi, signifying those that speak with voices; for as yet they had met no other living things that spoke or sang. And on a time it chanced that Orom rode eastward in his hunting, and he turned north by the shores of Helcar and passed under the shadows of the Orocarni, the Mountains of the East. Then on a sudden Nahar set up a great neighing, and stood still. And Orom wondered and sat silent, and it seemed to him that in the quiet of the land under the stars he heard afar off many voices singing. Thus it was that the Valar found at last, as it were by chance, those whom they had so long awaited. And Orom looking upon the Elves was filled with wonder, as though they were beings sudden and marvellous and unforeseen; for so it shall ever be with the Valar. From without the World, though all things may be forethought in music or foreshown in vision from afar, to those who enter verily into E each in its time shall be met at unawares as something new and unforetold. In the

The-Last-Sinner.txt

to happen. And if it did, he’d overpower her. That wouldn’t be a problem. She was a weakling. Easy prey. And a temporary release. But there was still more to come, the ultimate triumph. His heart began pounding at the thought of it, of ending Samantha’s life. His blood tingled with anticipation at the image of watching her fight tooth and nail, then, of course, lose the battle, and as she realized her death was not just imminent but fated, the fear overcoming her. Then, oh, then she would begin to plead, to beg, to bargain with him. Her fingers would twist in the fold of his cassock as she cried and swore that she would do anything—absolutely anything—he wanted if he just spared her and— “Where are you taking me?” the whore’s voice—Luna’s tinny little whine—interrupted his fantasy. He snapped back to the present and caught a glimpse of the speedometer. What!?! The needle was hovering near ninety! If he wasn’t careful he’d blow through a speed trap and catch the notice of a roadside cop lying in wait. No, no, no! Everything would be ruined! Starting to sweat, he eased off the gas as they reached the far end of the bridge. Calm down. Take it slow. Enjoy the moment. “I asked you where the fuck are you taking me?” the whore demanded in a show of defiance he hadn’t expected. She was facing him, her terror still evident, but some other emotion—anger?—burning in those round eyes. So she was tougher than he’d thought. Good. He liked a little fight in them and up to this point she’d been a nearly petrified, weak little sniveling creature. But maybe not. Maybe there was a little grit deep inside that tiny body. He felt the thrumming deep inside, the anticipation racing through his blood, the thought of what was coming, the beads of the home-made rosary, cut glass strung on piano wire, pressing into the soft flesh of her throat. His cock hardened a bit at the thought of what was to come and the glorifying, spiritual act that was still just a precursor to his final, ultimate sanctification. That could only come with Samantha. And it would. Soon. “Very soon,” he whispered under his breath, though he hated this departure from his regular routine. Though necessary as they had to get out of the city quickly, it didn’t feel right, like a scratchy sweater that rubbed and chafed. “What?” his terrified captive asked, quaking in her fear again as the lights of the city disappeared behind them. She was twisting in her seat, looking back through the rear window as New Orleans faded into darkness. “What will come very soon?” “You will see, my child,” he said, telling himself that a change of plan, an altering of routine was good, would keep those who would thwart him guessing. He just had to get his mind around it and he would. They were close now and he could feel that special little thrum in his veins, the twitching of his cock as

The-Lost-Bookshop.txt

of, and yet something felt incomplete. ‘The tree!’ ‘I’m awake, I’m awake,’ Henry responded to my scream, one eye still shut, his hair standing on end. ‘It’s gone.’ ‘Okay. The very fact of the tree growing here was odd in the first place, but this is just … what are you doing?’ I was getting dressed. Fast. ‘Well, aren’t you coming?’ Henry blinked, then reluctantly pulled on his jeans. I ran up the stairs ahead of him. ‘Martha? Were these words always here on the stairs? Strange things are found …’ he shouted up, but I had found something stranger still. I had expected to find the hallway of number 12 Ha'penny Lane at the top of the stairs, where it always was. Instead, I found myself standing in a place I had never fully believed existed up to that point – Opaline’s Bookshop. Daylight streamed in through the glass shopfront, creating rays of sunshine, glittering with dust motes falling like confetti. I hardly dared breathe in case the whole thing would evaporate. Slowly, I let my eyes readjust to what was in front of me. There were wooden bookcases from floor to ceiling lined with soft green moss and with ivy creeping along the edges. Fallen leaves swept silently across the tiled floor, and floating overhead were toy hot-air balloons. It felt as though the place had just woken up from a long slumber, like Rip Van Winkle, and was shaking off the years of hibernation. I blinked, but it did not disappear. The scent of warm wood and paper filled the air, along with a sweetness like a golden September apple. It was full of brightly coloured antique books and curiosities, all waiting for our arrival. I’d come home. Henry bumped into me at the top of the stairs and then took in the view. ‘Please tell me you’re seeing this and I’m not having an episode.’ ‘It’s real, Henry.’ I turned to look at him and smiled. ‘I’m seeing it, but I can’t believe it,’ he whispered. ‘How is this possible?’ I took a long, deep breath and tried to think of the last lines in Opaline’s book. ‘Maybe it was I who was lost all along and not the bookshop.’ I reached out for Henry’s hand and he clasped it tightly. ‘We did it,’ I said. ‘We found the bookshop.’ His smile was beautiful and unguarded, like that of a little child. ‘Look at this,’ he said, pointing to the stained-glass panels at the top of the windows that were like nothing I’d ever seen and yet inexplicably familiar. ‘Is that—?’ Henry stepped closer and pointed to a design at the very edge. A woman, wearing a long coat and trousers, with very short hair, holding hands with a soldier. Epilogue The rain had eased off outside and the bank of grey clouds that had huddled over the city like a lumpy duvet was breaking apart and revealing small, irregular windows of blue sky. ‘Is all of that really true?’ asked the little boy, openly stuffing a teacake

Pride And Prejudice.txt

it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not, but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and assistance would be every thing in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.'' ``Oh! where, where is my uncle?'' cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself enough to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation, hastily exclaimed, ``I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not a moment to lose.'' ``Good God! what is the matter?'' cried he, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, ``I will not detain you a minute, but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; -- you cannot go yourself.'' Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly. On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, ``Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take, to give you present relief? -- A glass of wine; -- shall I get you one? -- You are very ill.'' ``No, I thank you;'' she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. ``There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received

The House of the Seven Gables.txt

and at every moment being aware of it. Men of strong minds, great force of character, and a hard texture of the sensibilities, are very capable of falling into mistakes of this kind. They are ordinarily men to whom forms are of paramount importance. Their field of action lies among the external phenomena of life. They possess vast ability in grasping, and arranging, and appropriating to themselves, the big, heavy, solid unrealities, such as gold, landed estate, offices of trust and emolument, and public honors. With these materials, and with deeds of goodly aspect, done in the public eye, an individual of this class builds up, as it were, a tall and stately edifice, which, in the view of other people, and ultimately in his own view, is no other than the man's character, or the man himself. Behold, therefore, a palace! Its splendid halls and suites of spacious apartments are floored with a mosaic-work of costly marbles; its windows, the whole height of each room, admit the sunshine through the most transparent of plate-glass; its high cornices are gilded, and its ceilings gorgeously painted; and a lofty dome--through which, from the central pavement, you may gaze up to the sky, as with no obstructing medium between--surmounts the whole. With what fairer and nobler emblem could any man desire to shadow forth his character? Ah! but in some low and obscure nook, --some narrow closet on the ground-floor, shut, locked and bolted, and the key flung away,--or beneath the marble pavement, in a stagnant water-puddle, with the richest pattern of mosaic-work above,--may lie a corpse, half decayed, and still decaying, and diffusing its death-scent all through the palace! The inhabitant will not be conscious of it, for it has long been his daily breath! Neither will the visitors, for they smell only the rich odors which the master sedulously scatters through the palace, and the incense which they bring, and delight to burn before him! Now and then, perchance, comes in a seer, before whose sadly gifted eye the whole structure melts into thin air, leaving only the hidden nook, the bolted closet, with the cobwebs festooned over its forgotten door, or the deadly hole under the pavement, and the decaying corpse within. Here, then, we are to seek the true emblem of the man's character, and of the deed that gives whatever reality it possesses to his life. And, beneath the show of a marble palace, that pool of stagnant water, foul with many impurities, and, perhaps, tinged with blood,--that secret abomination, above which, possibly, he may say his prayers, without remembering it,--is this man's miserable soul! To apply this train of remark somewhat more closely to Judge Pyncheon. We might say (without in the least imputing crime to a personage of his eminent respectability) that there was enough of splendid rubbish in his life to cover up and paralyze a more active and subtile conscience than the Judge was ever troubled with. The purity of his judicial character, while on the bench; the faithfulness of his public service in subsequent

Happy Place.txt

Mr. Armas’s upgrade to the cottage: he had the old stone cellar converted to a top-of-the-line vault for his immense and immensely expensive wine collection. It’s password protected and everything, though Sabrina always leaves it open so any of us can run down and grab something. Too quickly I find a bottle whose label matches the one on the table. I’m guessing that means it’s not a thousand-dollar prosecco, but with Sabrina, you never know. She might’ve pulled out all the stops for us, regardless of whether our unrefined palates are able to appreciate said pulled stops. It makes my heart twinge, thinking of this perfect final week she’s planned for us and my utter inability to enjoy it. One day. Let them have one perfect day, and tomorrow we’ll come clean. By the time I get back upstairs, everyone’s laughing, the very picture of a laid-back best friends’ trip. Wyn’s gaze snags on mine, and his dimpled smile doesn’t fall or even falter. He’s fine! No big deal that his ex-fiancée’s here, or that we’re essentially staying in a honeymoon suite with an extreme every-surface-here-is- specifically-designed-with-fucking-in-mind vibe! No discernible reaction to my presence. This time, the zing that goes down my spine feels less like a zipper undone and more like angry flame on a streak of gasoline. It’s not fair that he’s fine. It’s not fair that being here with me doesn’t feel like having his heart roasted on a spit, like it does for me. You can do this, Harriet. If he’s fine, you can be too. For your friends. I set the wine bottle on the table as I round it and come to stand behind Wyn, sliding my hands down his shoulders to his chest, until my face is beside his and I can feel his heartbeat in my hands, even and unbothered. Not good enough. If I’m going to be tormented, so is he. I burrow my face into the side of his neck, all warm pine and clove. “So,” I say, “who’s up for a swim?” Goose bumps rise from his skin. This time, the zing feels like victory. • • • “I’M STARTING TO suspect,” Kimmy says, “that we might be a wee bit in-bree- biated. In-bee-biatred.” “Who? Us?” I say, slowly trying to push myself to my feet on the slippery stand-up paddle mat as Kimmy crouches on the far end. Wife Number Five bought the mats for “aqua yoga” a couple of years back, and I’d forgotten all about them until tonight. Kimmy screams, and Parth dives out of the way as the mat flips over, dumping us back into the pool for easily the sixth time. The three of us pop out of the water. Kimmy flicks her head back to get her matted red-gold hair out of her face. “Us,” she confirms. “All of us.” “Well,” I say, jerking my head toward the patio table, where Cleo, Sabrina, and Wyn are deep in a game of poker, “maybe not them.” “Oh, no,” Parth says. “Sabrina absolutely is. But competition sobers

Love Theoretically.txt

quickly after.” His tone is wary, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Why didn’t she go back?” He exhales. “There were . . . issues. With the lead researcher of her group.” “Why?” “They had some . . . disagreement over their joint research. He was intensely controlling. She refused to abide. You can imagine the rest.” His face is blank. “Her diaries are . . . She wasn’t well when she found out that she wouldn’t be allowed back.” “That’s bullshit. How dare he cut her out of her own research group?” Jack doesn’t respond. His pause feels a little longer than normal. “Her work was on semiconductors.” My eyes widen. It’s not my field, but I know a bit about it, because it’s one of the topics my mentor works on. I wonder if I read Jack’s mom’s papers years ago without even realizing it. An invisible string, tying us together. “Good stuff?” “Very solid, yes.” “I bet she was great. I mean, she was a theoretical physicist.” “True. On the other hand, she did marry my dad.” “Good point. Maybe he used to be more . . . engaged with his surroundings?” “Maybe. Maybe she needed a green card? Or the Smith money.” “She was a grad student. It’s a move I can respect.” “For sure.” His smile is fond. And has me asking, “Do you miss her?” A long pause. “I don’t think you can miss someone you’ve never met, but . . .” He organizes his thoughts. Orders his feelings. “It’s easy to look at how dysfunctional my family is and laugh it off now that I have my own life. But when I was in my teens, there were times when things got really bad at home. And I’d read her diaries and think that maybe if she’d been around, everything could have been . . .” His throat works. “But she wasn’t.” I’ve felt out of place my entire life, and nothing anyone ever said made me feel any less so. So I stay silent and just lean forward, hide my face in Jack’s throat, press a kiss to his Adam’s apple right as it moves. His hand comes up to cup my head, keep it there, and I feel him turn to the screen again. Bella’s pregnancy complications are getting alien-like, and he groans into my hair. “Elsie. I can’t watch this.” “But it’s the best part. The emotional roller coaster of her transformation. The inappropriate Jacob plotline. Her face when she drinks blood.” “No way.” “Fine. You may amuse yourself otherwise. But stay close, because you’re a space heater disguised as an organic life-form.” “Perfect.” He lifts me like I’m a pliant little thing, flips us around, braces himself over me. I can only watch him in confusion while he lowers himself down my body with a concentrated frown between his brows and then lifts my hoodie as though . . . Is he . . . He’s not . . . Is he actually? “What are you doing?” “You told me to

Romantic-Comedy.txt

a fantastic idea, he texted back. On July 31, a FedEx package arrived at Jerry’s house: the twelve-count case of protein bars, an eleven-by-sixteen-inch spiral-bound road atlas, and a gray T-shirt that said California in a yellow 1980s font. In the accompanying note, he’d written, Sally, I can’t wait to see you! Your pen pal, Noah. I had never seen his handwriting, and even that seemed touching, and filled me with yearning: the way the S in Sally connected from its base to the a, the unadorned capital I, the straight unlooped line jutting down from the y in you. But was pen pal intended to be read as an inside joke or a reference to our platonic status? That night, we ended our conversation at midnight, meaning early, and I set the alarm on my phone for 6:15 a.m. Though I’d told Jerry he didn’t need to get up in the morning, he did; in his white-and-blue seersucker bathrobe, he carried my box of protein bars and masks outside and set it on the passenger side in the front seat, then he embraced me and said, “Some states let you drive eighty, but I think a bit slower is safer.” Sugar frolicked at our feet, and I crouched to pet her. I had explained to Jerry that I was going to visit a friend in L.A. for a week or two, and his sister, my aunt Donna, whom I’d been grocery shopping for when I shopped for Jerry and me, had offered her car; she’d said since she and my uncle Richard hardly went anywhere these days, they didn’t need two. It was strange to leave Jerry’s house; it was strange not to know how long I’d be in California; it was strange, even after five years, to live in the world without my mother; it was strange to be a person during a global pandemic. I started the engine and backed out of the driveway, waved goodbye to Jerry and Sugar from the street, and turned up the volume on the folky women satellite radio station, and a Mary Chapin Carpenter song I knew all the words to filled the car. I was both excited and melancholy as I drove south on State Line Road, through the early morning summer light, and my melancholy lifted some as I reached the Shawnee Mission Parkway and by the time I passed through Olathe, Kansas, half an hour later, it was almost completely gone, or at least eclipsed by giddiness and nervousness and sheer horniness. The highway in front of me was long and mostly flat, and I realized that I had been this excited and terrified only one other time in my life; it had been when I interviewed at TNO. * * * — The Albuquerque Hampton Inn was four stories flanked by a mostly empty parking lot of bleak concrete, with the Sandia Mountains visible in the east. Sitting on the bed in my room, I ate dinner at 8:15 mountain time: two protein bars, a banana, and an orange

Dune.txt

"Hey!" the pilot laughed. "Cub's got a bark. Ain't got no bite, though." And Jessica thought; Paul's pitching his voice too high. It may work, though. They flew on in silence. These poor fools, Jessica thought, studying her guards and reviewing the Baron's words. They'll be killed as soon as they report success on their mission. The Baron wants no witnesses. The 'thopter banked over the southern rim of the Shield Wall, and Jessica saw a moonshadowed expanse of sand beneath them. "This oughta be far enough," the pilot said. "The traitor said to put'em on the sand anywhere near the Shield Wall." He dipped the craft toward the dunes in a long, falling stoop, brought it up stiffly over the desert surface. Jessica saw Paul begin taking the rhythmic breaths of the calming exercise. He closed his eyes, opened them. Jessica stared, helpless to aid him. He hasn't mastered the Voice yet, she thought, if he fails . . . The 'thopter touched sand with a soft lurch, and Jessica, looking north back across the Shield Wall, saw a shadow of wings settle out of sight up there. Someone's following us! she thought. Who? Then: The ones the Baron set to watch this pair. And there'll be watchers for the watchers, too. Czigo shut off his wing rotors. Silence flooded in upon them. Jessica turned her head. She could see out the window beyond Scarface a dim glow of light from a rising moon, a frosted rim of rock rising from the desert. Sandblast ridges streaked its sides. Paul cleared his throat. The pilot said: "Now, Kinet?" "I dunno, Czigo." Czigo turned, said: "Ah-h-h, look." He reached out for Jessica's skirt. "Remove her gag," Paul commanded. Jessica felt the words rolling in the air. The tone, the timbre excellent--imperative, very sharp. A slightly lower pitch would have been better, but it could still fall within this man's spectrum. Czigo shifted his hand up to the band around Jessica's mouth, slipped the knot on the gag. "Stop that!" Kinet ordered. "Ah, shut your trap," Czigo said. "Her hands're tied." He freed the knot and the binding dropped. His eyes glittered as he studied Jessica. Kinet put a hand on the pilot's arm. "Look, Czigo, no need to . . . " Jessica twisted her neck, spat out the gag. She pitched her voice in low, intimate tones. "Gentlemen! No need to fight over me." At the same time, she writhed sinuously for Kinet's benefit. She saw them grow tense, knowing that in this instant they were convinced of the need to fight over her. Their disagreement required no other reason. In their minds, they were fighting over her. She held her face high in the instrument glow to be sure Kinet would read her lips, said: "You mustn't disagree." They drew farther apart, glanced warily at each other. "Is any woman worth fighting over?" she asked. By uttering the words, by being there, she made herself infinitely worth their fighting. Paul clamped his lips tightly closed, forced himself to be silent. There

Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt

in front of the canvas. I wanted to see the colors. I wanted to watch the brushstrokes happen. I wanted to see the painting appear in front of my eyes. No matter what else might happen with this painting, the process of making it was bliss. That counted for something. At last, when I finally worked up the courage to sketch his face, I didn’t try to make it make sense. I wasn’t thinking, What would Norman Rockwell do? I was thinking about what I would do. What I needed to do—with each mark and each line—to render my experience of Joe’s face. I was following my own compass. Wherever it would lead. And it turned out, Sue was right. That was a win in itself. * * * I PAINTED—AND TOUCHED, and painted and touched—Joe for two solid hours that night. He was endlessly patient. Didn’t check his phone or fall asleep or even ask for a glass of water. He just stayed with me the whole time, taking it all in. When I’d done everything I could do for the night and I had a pretty full, dynamic early painted sketch, I thanked him, like he could go. “Anyway,” I said, washing my hands at the sink. “I really appreciate you doing this for me. Congratulations. You’re almost free.” “Free from what?” Joe asked. “From me. Once the art show is over, we won’t have to see each other anymore.” “Why wouldn’t we see each other?” “I’m just saying. I’ve taken up a lot of your time.” “I was hoping you’d give me roller-skating lessons.” “But how would Dr. Michaux feel about that?” Joe frowned. “Why would Dr. Michaux feel anything about that?” “Aren’t you … you know?” “What?” Joe took a swig of water. “Didn’t we talk about this?” “You said you weren’t dating. But I figured you must be hooking up.” Joe coughed. “What?” “You’re always … coming out of her apartment,” I said. And a bunch of others. “Yeah? So?” “So aren’t you guys … together?” “Wait—you thought we were—what?” My fingers were still tingling from touching him. I shrugged. Joe started laughing then, but I didn’t think it was funny. He leaned his head back and let out a big sigh. “I’m not dating Dr. Michaux. I am pet-sitting her snakes.” Now it was my turn to be befuddled. “You’re what-sitting her whats?” “Her snakes,” Joe confirmed. “Remember? Herpetologist? She has a whole den of snakes in there. Even an Indonesian flying snake. It’s pretty complicated, keeping them healthy.” Okay. I could freak out about a penthouse full of flying snakes later. First things first. I needed to get this straight: “You’re … a snake sitter?” “Pet sitter,” Joe corrected. “Why do you think I was feeding Parker’s cat?” “That’s what you do for a living?” I could feel Joe frowning, like that question was really odd. “It’s one of the things I do for a living,” he said. “All that time … you were going in there to feed snakes?” Joe nodded. “ “And so

Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt

My courageous, kindhearted mom. She would have given anything to go to this exact show fourteen years ago. She would give anything to be here right now, fully alive, facing whatever life threw at her, and just cherishing it all. Maybe the best way to hold on to her wasn’t to obsess over her paintings or wear her skates or listen to her music or copy her style or worry over what would happen when I finally lost Peanut. Maybe the best way to keep her with me was to embrace her spirit. To emulate her courage. To bring the warmth and love to the world that she always—fearlessly—had. She had loved us without reservation. She adored us wildly. And laughed. And danced. And soaked it all up—every atom of her life—every moment of her time She felt it all. She lived it all. That’s what I loved about her. Not just that she was a great mom or a great wife or a great dog rescuer. She was a great person. She knew some divine secret about how to open up to being alive that the rest of us kept stubbornly missing. She’d wanted me to know it, too. She’d wanted me to say yes to everything. She’d wanted me to go all in. But when she died, I went the other way. I’m not judging myself. I was a kid. I didn’t know how to cope with losing her—or any of the hardships that followed. But I guess that’s the great thing about life—it gives you chance after chance to rethink it all. Who you want to be. How you want to live. What really matters. I did want to go to the art show. I’d earned my right to be there. I didn’t, of course, want to be humiliated. But it was looking like I couldn’t have one without the other. And I just wasn’t going to let the things I was afraid of hold me back anymore. I had no idea how that decision would turn out, but I knew one thing for sure: My mom would approve. As the time approached, I zipped myself into her pink dress—much tighter and slinkier now. Sue had gifted me a makeover from her cousin who worked at Macy’s and a hair blowout from her cousin’s roommate. I did it all. If I had to go to this art show all alone, I would do my damnedest to look good. There was, of course, still a chance that Joe might show up in a surprise twist and whisk me off like Cinderella. But as I clanked down the metal stairs from the rooftop in a set of gorgeous but actively painful heels, he was running out of time. I walked down our long hallway, hoping to see him. I rode down in the elevator, hoping to see him. I walked out to the street in front of our building to meet my Uber, still hoping to see him. Waiting there in the late-afternoon light—my hair done, a daisy behind my ear

Hell Bent.txt

been a contrary town. The good Reverend John Davenport steps up to the pulpit and preaches, ‘Hide the outcasts. Bewray not him that wandereth.’ And hide the outcasts they do. When the British come snooping around, the townspeople keep their secrets and the judges hide out near West Rock.” “At Judges Cave?” “It’s technically just a cluster of big rocks, but yes. Their names were Whalley, Goffe, and Dixwell.” Alex hadn’t lived in New Haven long, but she knew those names. They were streets that branched off of Broadway. Follow Whalley long enough and you’d end up in West Rock. Three streets. Three judges. Three murders. There will be a third. That was what Darlington had meant. He’d been trying to make the connection for them even as his demon half had been toying with them, enjoying the riddle the killer had set. “What happened to the judges?” Alex asked. “Did they get caught?” “Lived to a ripe old age. Two of them ended up somewhere in Massachusetts, but Dixwell changed his name and lived out his days in New Haven. His ashes are interred beneath the New Haven Green. British troops used to travel here just to piss on his gravestone, one hundred years after he died. That’s how big a deal these guys were. Martyrs to liberty and all that. And now they’re a footnote, a bit of trivia for me to try to impress you with over lunch.” Alex wasn’t sure whether to be uncomfortable or flattered at the idea of Anselm trying to impress her. “Have you ever wondered why the death words work?” He leaned forward. “Because we all amount to nothing in the end and there is nothing more terrifying than nothing.” Alex hadn’t really cared why they worked so long as they did. “You know a lot about this place.” “I like history. But there isn’t any money in it.” “Not like the law?” Anselm lifted a shoulder. “Lethe makes a lot of promises, so does Yale, but none of them come true in New Haven. This is a place that will never repay your loyalty.” Maybe not much like Darlington after all. “And Lethe?” “Lethe was an extracurricular. It’s silly to think of it as anything else. Dangerous even.” “You’re warning me.” Just as Michelle Alameddine had. “I’m just talking. But I don’t think you came here to listen to me pontificate about Cromwell and the perils of growing old in Connecticut.” So this was it. “You said you read my file. My mom … my mom isn’t doing great.” “She’s ill?” Was chasing after any whiff of a miracle diagnosable? Was there a name for someone doomed to seek invisible patterns in gemstones and horoscopes? Who thought life’s mysteries might be revealed by eliminating dairy from your diet? Or gluten or trans fats? Could Los Angeles be called an illness? “She’s fine,” Alex said. “She’s just not a realist and she’s not good with money.” That was putting it mildly. “Does she embarrass you?” The question startled her, and Alex wasn’t ready for

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt

will look! ALICE'S RIGHT FOOT, ESQ. HEARTHRUG, NEAR THE FENDER, (WITH ALICE'S LOVE). Oh dear, what nonsense I'm talking!' Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall: in fact she was now more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the little golden key and hurried off to the garden door. Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to look through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more hopeless than ever: she sat down and began to cry again. `You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' said Alice, `a great girl like you,' (she might well say this), `to go on crying in this way! Stop this moment, I tell you!' But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall. After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, `Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!' Alice felt so desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, `If you please, sir--' The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan, and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go. Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: `Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I? Ah, THAT'S the great puzzle!' And she began thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them. `I'm sure I'm not Ada,' she said, `for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all; and I'm sure I can't be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, SHE'S she, and I'm I, and--oh dear, how puzzling it all is! I'll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is--oh dear! I shall never get

Oliver Twist.txt

me that again--once again, just for him to hear,' said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. 'Tell yer what?' asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishy. 'That about--NANCY,' said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. 'You followed her?' 'Yes.' 'To London Bridge?' 'Yes.' 'Where she met two people.' 'So she did.' 'A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did--and to describe him, which she did--and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did--and where it could be best watched from, which she did--and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur--she did--did she not?' cried Fagin, half mad with fury. 'All right,' replied Noah, scratching his head. 'That's just what it was!' 'What did they say, about last Sunday?' 'About last Sunday!' replied Noah, considering. 'Why I told yer that before.' 'Again. Tell it again!' cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. 'They asked her,' said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, 'they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't.' 'Why--why? Tell him that.' 'Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before,' replied Noah. 'What more of him?' cried Fagin. 'What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that.' 'Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to,' said Noah; 'and so the first time she went to see the lady, she--ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did--she gave him a drink of laudanum.' 'Hell's fire!' cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. 'Let me go!' Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. 'Bill, Bill!' cried Fagin, following him hastily. 'A word. Only a word.' The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. 'Let me out,' said Sikes. 'Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!' 'Hear me speak a word,' rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. 'You won't be--' 'Well,' replied the other. 'You won't be--too--violent, Bill?' The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. 'I mean,' said Fagin, showing that he felt all

Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

fire, stoking the flames, and tossed the letter back in. It did not catch. The fire coughed smoke, as if the letter were an unpleasant obstacle lodged in its throat. “Damn you,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes at the heavy stationery staring insouciantly back at me from the flames. “Am I supposed to keep the bloody thing under my pillow?” I should, I suppose, mention here that I am perhaps ninety-five percent certain that Wendell Bambleby is not human. This is not the product of mere professional disdain; Bambleby’s impossible letter is not my first piece of evidence regarding his true nature. My suspicions were aroused at our initial meeting some years ago, when I noticed the sundry ways in which he avoided the metal objects in the room, including by feigning righthandedness so as to avoid contact with wedding rings (the Folk are, to a one, left-handed). Yet he could not avoid metal entirely, the event including a dinner, which invariably involved cutlery, sauce boats, and the like, and he mastered the discomfort well enough, which indicated that either my suspicions were unfounded or that he is of royal ancestry—they are the only Folk able to bear the touch of such human workings. Lest I appear credulous, I can attest that this was not enough to convince me. Upon subsequent encounters, I noted sundry suspect qualities, among them his manner of speaking. Bambleby is supposedly born in County Leane and raised in Dublin, and while I am no scholar of the Irish accents, I am expert in the tongue of the Folk, which is but one with many dialects, yet possessing a certain resonance and timbre that is universal, and which I hear whispers of in Bambleby’s voice in occasional, unguarded moments. We have spent a significant amount of time in each other’s company. If he is Folk, he likely lives among us in exile, a not uncommon fate to befall the aristocracy of the Irish fae—their kind rarely goes without a murderous uncle or power-mad regent for long. There are plenty of tales of exiled Folk; their powers are sometimes said to be restricted by an enchantment cast by the exiling monarch, which would explain Bambleby’s need to resign himself to an existence among us lowly mortals. His choice of profession may be part of some fae design I cannot guess at, or it may be a natural expression of Bambleby’s nature, that he should set his sights upon acquiring external affirmations of self-expertise. It remains possible that I am wrong. A scholar must always be ready to admit this. None of my colleagues seem to share my suspicions, which gives me pause, not even the venerable Treharne, who has been doing fieldwork for so long he likes to joke that the common fae no longer hide themselves away when he comes, seeing little difference between him and some old, lumpen piece of furniture. And for all the stories of exiled Folk, it’s not as if any have been discovered in our midst. Which lends itself to one of two

How to Sell a Haunted House.txt

to do that. Mom has a lot of art and I’m going to preserve every single piece of it, as per her final wishes, as stated in the Beneficiary Designations of her will, which I’m sure you agree we should both respect. It might take me a year, and in the meantime, you can’t sell the house.” “Fuck you,” Mark said. “I’m calling Brody.” “Be my guest,” she told him. She knew he’d have to hear it from someone who wasn’t her. She watched Mark’s back as he stormed off to the edge of the front yard, pressing his phone to one ear. Louise worked in a tech-adjacent field, which made her hyperaware of power dynamics. Waiting around for Mark to finish his call looked weak. She executed her alpha move and got started on the house. She went around back and reached through the broken pane of glass to let herself into the garage. Then she slapped the doorbell button that raised the garage door, which made a hideous shriek as it rumbled up, letting in daylight. Cold morning air flowed in around her. The Mark and Louise dolls stared dumbly at her from the shelf. She listened, trying to hear the TV, but all she heard was silence from the house. Next to the dolls she saw a lampshade her mom had painted with starfish, a set of Mom-made clay bookends shaped like pink seahorses, and a white kitchen garbage bag holding the papier-mâché masks her mom had made during her mask phase. Without even looking hard she spotted a stack of unframed canvases and realized they were the oil portraits her mom had painted of the entire family that everyone had deemed too hideous to hang inside the house. Mark’s was the only one that didn’t make him look like a prematurely aged gnome baring its teeth and snarling. Louise looked behind the portraits and saw another white bag of her mom’s needlepoint throw pillows and five cardboard boxes labeled Christmas, which she knew was only one stockpile of handmade ornaments. Normally, a job like this would prompt Louise to start a list, but today she had to fight her urge to organize. Today she’d be inefficient. Today she felt grateful for the enormous amount of stuff filling every corner of their house. Step one: do a walk-through and count the art. Don’t touch it. Just count it. She stood on the steps to the kitchen door and braced herself, then walked inside for the first time since the day she arrived, walked past the hammer on the counter and made herself go into the living room. The easy chair sat empty. The TV was still off. She ignored the rows and rows of silent dolls and focused on the art: the crewelwork Tree of Life over the sofa, the nine framed cross-stitches on the far wall (four of flowers, three Charleston scenes, one elephant balancing on its front legs, one juggling clown), the three more framed cross-stitches beside the doll cabinet, the yarn art Mount Fuji next to

Wuthering Heights.txt

"Black hair and eyes!" mused Linton. "I can't fancy him. Then I am not like him, am I?" "Not much," I answered; not a morsel, I thought, surveying with regret the white complexion and slim frame of my companion, and his large languid eyes--- his mother's eyes, save that, unless a morbid touchiness kindled them a moment, they had not a vestige of her sparkiing spirit. "How strange that he should never come to see mamma and me" he murmured. "Has he ever seen me? If he has, I must have been a baby. I remember not a single thing about him." "Why, Master Linton," said I, "three hundred miles is a great distance; and ten years seem very different in length to a grown-up person compared with what they do to you. It is probable Mr. Heathcliff proposed going from summer to summer, but never found a convenient opportunity; and now it is too late. Don't trouble him with questions on the subject; it will disturb him for no good." The boy was fully occupied with his own cogitations for the remainder of the ride, till we halted before the farmhouse garden gate. I watched to catch his impres- sions in his countenance. He surveyed the carved front and low-browed lattices, the straggling gooseberry bushes and crooked firs, with solemn intentness, and then shook his head. His private feelings entirely dis- approved of the exterior of his new abode. But he had sense to postpone complaining. There might be com- pensation within. Before he dismounted I went and opened the door. It was half-past six; the family had just finished breakfast; the servant was clearing and wiping down the table. Joseph stood by his master's chair, telling some tale concerning a lame horse, and Hareton was preparing for the hay-fleld. "Hullo, Nelly!" said Mr. Heathcliff when he saw me. "I feared I should have to come down and fetch my property myself. You've brought it, have you? Let us see what we can make of it. He got up and strode to the door. Hareton and Jo- seph followed in gaping curiosity. Poor Linton ran a frightened eye over the faces of the three. "Sure-ly," said Joseph, after a grave inspection, "he's swopped wi' ye, maister, an' yon's his lass!" Heathcliff, having stared his son into an ague of con- fusion, uttered a scornful laugh. "God! what a beauty! what a lovely, charming thing" he exclaimed. "Haven't they reared it on snails and sour milk, Nelly? Oh, damn my soul! but that's worse than I expected, and the devil knows I was not sanguine!" I bade the trembling and bewildered child get down and enter. He did not thoroughly comprehend the meaning of his father's speech, or whether it were in- tended for him; indeed, he was not yet certain that the grim, sneering stranger was his father. But he clung to me with growing trepidation; and on Mr. Heathcliff's taking a seat and bidding him "come hither," he hid his face on my shoulder and wept. "Tut, tut!" said Heathcliff,

A-Living-Remedy.txt

though I harbored a hope of one day retrieving my old dollhouse for my then-theoretical children to play with. When a friend asked if I minded that my parents were selling the home I’d grown up in, I scoffed. The last person to live in my childhood bedroom hadn’t even been me, but a friend of mine—my parents, with typical openhandedness, had let her stay with them rent-free for a year and a half after her own parents kicked her out. There were things about the house I’d been fond of: the sprawling, shady backyard that had once contained my rickety old swing set; my room with its blue walls and bursting bookshelves and my cat’s favorite scratching post; the minuscule spare bedroom that I was eventually permitted to turn into a writing space, nearly every square inch filled with our lumpy blue futon and the giant desk I had begged my mother to buy at a yard sale. But I was an adult now, and I couldn’t imagine being so attached to that childhood setting that I would fault my parents for moving. It was their home, not mine, and they had a right to sell it. They sounded upbeat about the change: they’d be closer to their church; they’d be in a quieter neighborhood; they’d have a much lower cost of living. Their house had tripled in value since they bought it in 1980, so they stood to make a nice profit. I was pleased for them, but did not entirely understand their decision. They had talked about relocating for as long as I could remember—first to a bigger city like Portland or Seattle, before they reversed course and said they’d like to live farther out in the country. Now they were finally moving, but not to own a patch of land, or to live in an area with more jobs; instead, they’d paid cash for a manufactured home in good condition in a fifty-five-and-over park fifteen minutes up the road. Why, I wondered, weren’t they purchasing a larger home with the windfall from the sale? Though their new house didn’t have the two-car garage or the back forty, it had higher ceilings and two full bathrooms instead of one, and the common spaces felt more comfortable and open. The first time Dan and I visited my parents after their move, my mother was almost giddy as she gave us a tour and pointed out the guest room we would be sleeping in. I knew how happy she was to see us, but there was something else in her smile, in the warmth in her voice, that took me a moment to recognize: it was pride. I’d never known her to feel that way about our old place, but she clearly liked this one; slightly cluttered and freshly cleaned for our visit, the house was arranged in a way that pleased her, and my parents owned it free and clear. * * * After my father died, I remember thinking it strange that I had so few objects to remember

The Silmarillion.txt

hill he made his dwelling and wrought there his sorcery, and all folk feared the Sorcerer of Dol Guldur, and yet they knew not at first how great was their peril. Even as the first shadows were felt in Mirkwood there appeared in the west of Middle-earth the Istari, whom Men called the Wizards. None knew at that time whence they were, save Crdan of the Havens, and only to Elrond and to Galadriel did he reveal that they came over the Sea. But afterwards it was said among the Elves that they were messengers sent by the Lords of the West to contest the power of Sauron, if he should arise again, and to move Elves and Men and all living things of good will to valiant deeds. In the likeness of Men they appeared, old but vigorous, and they changed little with the years, and aged but slowly, though great cares lay on them; great wisdom they had, and many powers of mind and hand. Long they journeyed far and wide among Elves and Men, and held converse also with beasts and with birds; and the peoples of Middle-earth gave to them many names, for their true names they did not reveal. Chief among them were those whom the Elves called Mithrandir and Curunr, but Men in the North named Gandalf and Saruman. Of these Curunr was the eldest and came first, and after him came Mithrandir and Radagast, and others of the Istari who went into the east of Middle-earth, and do not come into these tales. Radagast was the friend of all beasts and birds; but Curunr went most among Men, and he was subtle in speech and skilled in all the devices of smith-craft. Mithrandir was closest in counsel with Elrond and the Elves. He wandered far in the North and West and made never in any land any lasting abode; but Curunr journeyed into the East, and when he returned he dwelt at Orthanc in the Ring of Isengard, which the Nmenreans made in the days of their power. Ever most vigilant was Mithrandir, and he it was that most doubted the darkness in Mirkwood, for though many deemed that it was wrought by the Ringwraiths, he feared that it was indeed the first shadow of Sauron returning; and he went to Dol Guldur, and the Sorcerer fled from him, and there was a watchful peace for a long while. But at length the Shadow returned and its power increased; and in that time was first made the Council of the Wise that is called the White Council, and therein were Elrond and Galadriel and Crdan, and other lords of the Eldar, and with them were Mithrandir and Curunr. And Curunr (that was Saruman the White) was chosen to be their chief, for he had most studied the devices of Sauron of old. Galadriel indeed had wished that Mithrandir should be the Lead of the Council, and Saruman begrudged them that, for his pride and desire of mastery was grown great; but Mithrandir refused the office,

Riley-Sager-The-Only-One-Left.txt

sister did. Miss Hope was merely trying to please her.” Not knowing how to respond, I begin to smooth the skirt of my uniform. My tell. “What are you suggesting?” “That the culprit is you, dear,” Mrs. Baker says. “Why would I type this?” “Attention?” Jessie suggests while shooting a quick glance at Carter she probably doesn’t want me to notice. I glare at her. “I don’t need anyone’s attention.” “Then why are we all here?” Mrs. Baker tilts her head, staring directly at me, her blue eyes boring into me like the sunrise. “You’re the one who demanded we all come here so you could show us the words on that page and tell us Miss Hope claims it was her sister. Why go to all that trouble?” “Because I want whoever did it to stop,” I say. “Please. And stop sneaking into Miss Hope’s room at night.” Mrs. Baker’s body goes rigid. “Someone’s been doing that?” “Yes.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I did,” I say. “The morning after my first night here. I told you I heard footsteps in Miss Hope’s bedroom and you said it was just the wind. But I heard it again the next night. And saw someone at that window. And watched a shadow pass the door between our rooms. That wasn’t the wind. So it was either one of you or it was Lenora.” I stare at Mrs. Baker, silently daring her to chastise me for not saying “Miss Hope.” She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Tell me immediately if it ever happens again.” Then she leaves, thereby bringing an end to this melodramatic—and ultimately fruitless—household meeting. Archie is the first to follow her out. Then Carter, who gives me a we-need-to-talk-later look before slipping out the door. Jessie, however, lingers. Remaining on the divan, she says, “Sorry about that. I don’t really think you did it for attention.” “Gee, thanks.” Jessie stands, steps closer, touches my arm. “What I mean is that I don’t think you did it at all.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lenora pretending she isn’t paying attention to every single word. Before Jessie can say anything else, I pull her into my room and shut the adjoining door behind us. “Did you do it?” I ask her. “Did you type it and get Lenora to tell me it was her sister?” Jessie drifts away from me, toward the bookshelf. “No way. How could you, like, even think that?” Because she’s done this kind of thing before. In the ballroom. With a Ouija board. Like we’re in a goddamn game of Clue. “If it was some kind of prank, I’d—” “I told you it wasn’t me,” Jessie snaps. “How do you know it wasn’t Lenora? She can type, right?” “Not like this.” I glance at the page in my hand, filled with proper capitalization and punctuation. “And not without help.” “Maybe she can do more than you think.” Kenny said the same thing last night. And I thought it myself before that, as I fiddled with the

Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt

Zhao gently moves my mother’s leg so it dangles off the side of the bed and places her foot in the water. My mother stirs but doesn’t waken. “Go to Respectful Lady’s dressing table and bring me her ointments and powders.” I do as I’m told. My father’s concubine shakes some of the same astringent Poppy uses on my feet into the water. It’s made from ground mulberry root, tannin, and frankincense. By the time the doctor arrives, Miss Zhao and I have patted dry my mother’s foot, sprinkled alum between the toes and over the injury, and set it on a pillow. My mother has stirred each time we’ve moved her, but she has yet to open her eyes. “You stay here,” Miss Zhao says. “I’ll talk to your father to see how he wants to proceed. A male doctor may not see or touch a female patient. A go-between is needed. Often the husband is chosen, but I will volunteer.” As soon as she’s gone, my mother’s eyes flutter open. “I do not want that woman in my room,” she says weakly. “Go out there. Tell your father that she cannot be the go-between.” I step into the corridor. It’s still raining, and I gulp in the fresh air. Even so, the smell of my mother’s rotting flesh clings to the back of my throat. My father and Miss Zhao speak to a man who must be the doctor. I have now seen my seventh male. He wears a long robe in dark blue fabric. His gray hair laps at the curve of his stooped shoulders. I’m afraid to approach, but I must. I walk up to my father, pull on his sleeve, and say, “Respectful Lady is awake, and she asks that I be the go-between.” The man I take to be the doctor says, “Prefect Tan, it would be proper for you to do this duty.” But when my father’s eyes brim with tears, the doctor turns to Miss Zhao. “I suspect you have some experience with the ailments that afflict women.” I am only a girl, but I must honor my mother’s wishes. “Respectful Lady wants—” My father slaps the back of his hand against his other palm to stop me from saying another word. Silently he weighs the possibilities. Then he speaks. “Doctor Ho, you will use my daughter.” Father looks down at me. “You repeat exactly what the doctor says to your mother and what your mother says back to the doctor. Do you understand?” I nod solemnly. His decision reflects his love for my mother. I’m sure of it. The adults exchange a few more words, and then my father is led away by Miss Zhao. The doctor asks me a series of questions, which I take to Respectful Lady. She answers, “No, I have not eaten spicy foods. You can tell him my sleep is fine. I am not suffering from excessive emotions.” I go back and forth between Doctor Ho in the colonnade and my mother in her bed. The questions—and the

A Day of Fallen Night.txt

Mulsub in starlight. I never understood what that meant before now. What if she used the same magic as Canthe?’ Esbar looked at it, her expression resolving. ‘Hold the gate,’ she ordered their sisters. ‘I need higher ground.’ Tunuva ran towards the cliffs with her. Royal tombs were carved into their western face. In their wake, the gates cracked open to let out a flood of Ersyri soldiers, roaring as they made a last foray. Those operating the catapults went up and down the cliffs on a wooden platform, pulled by chains. Esbar and Tunuva climbed on to it. Feeling their weight, someone above began to hoist them up, and as the platform swayed above the tombs, they saw the whole city, on fire from one end to the other. Below, their sisters grew smaller, beating away the horde at the gates. ‘They’re coming from the north,’ Esbar said, watching. Tunuva nodded. She looked down at her cloak, once white, and found it soaked in blood. At the top, they stepped off the platform to find the city guard cranking down the arm of the largest catapult, Izi observing them. From here, starlight could be glimpsed through the smoke. ‘Izi, get to the tombs to recover,’ Esbar told her. ‘You’ve fought enough.’ ‘I’m fine, Prioress—’ ‘That was an order.’ With a nod of defeat, Izi went to the platform, holding her side. Tunuva craned her neck to see the catapults, which stood as tall as old bone towers. A stab at her senses drew her gaze north. ‘There,’ she announced, seeing the shape in the distance. ‘It’s coming.’ ‘Release on my command,’ Esbar called to the soldiers. ‘Not a moment before or after.’ Tunuva crouched on the edge of the cliff. When the great wyrm came into the glow of the burning city, she said, ‘It’s the one that killed Lalhar. The one that led the slaughter in Carmentum.’ ‘Dedalugun,’ Esbar said, as it moved closer and closer to the palace. ‘That is what the Ersyris have called it.’ Begetter of ashes. ‘It’s too near the Royal Fort,’ one of the soldiers warned. ‘We have to release, or—’ ‘Wait.’ Dedalugun lifted itself with a sweep of its wings, and Esbar bellowed, ‘Now!’ The soldiers pulled on a rope, releasing the weight. It hurtled downward, and the long arm of the catapult swung up to hurl the boulder high over Jrhanyam. It tumbled over and over before it struck its mark full in the flank, hard enough to obliterate a building. The soldiers roared in triumph. Dedalugun banked away from the Royal Fort with a sound that made the cliffs tremble. Below, the lesser wyrms and beasts echoed its cry. ‘They’re bonded,’ Tunuva murmured. ‘All of them. Dedalugun is the master, the sire.’ ‘Good.’ Esbar grasped the spear. ‘Let’s hope they all die together.’ Dedalugun had seen the threat. Its eyes brightened like a pair of red suns. ‘Move,’ Tunuva shouted to the soldiers, who ran for their lives just as the wyrm breathed explosive fire over the catapults, engulfing them in a