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The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

is only slightly refracted or reflected or indeed affected in any way. It is almost as invisible as a jet of coal gas or hydrogen is in air. And for precisely the same reason!" "Yes," said Kemp, "that is pretty plain sailing." "And here is another fact you will know to be true. If a sheet of glass is smashed, Kemp, and beaten into a powder, it becomes much more visible while it is in the air; it becomes at last an opaque white powder. This is because the powdering multiplies the surfaces of the glass at which refraction and reflection occur. In the sheet of glass there are only two surfaces; in the powder the light is reflected or refracted by each grain it passes through, and very little gets right through the powder. But if the white powdered glass is put into water, it forthwith vanishes. The powdered glass and water have much the same refractive index; that is, the light undergoes very little refraction or reflection in passing from one to the other. "You make the glass invisible by putting it into a liquid of nearly the same refractive index; a transparent thing becomes invisible if it is put in any medium of almost the same refractive index. And if you will consider only a second, you will see also that the powder of glass might be made to vanish in air, if its refractive index could be made the same as that of air; for then there would be no refraction or reflection as the light passed from glass to air." "Yes, yes," said Kemp. "But a man's not powdered glass!" "No," said Griffin. "He's more transparent!" "Nonsense!" "That from a doctor! How one forgets! Have you already forgotten your physics, in ten years? Just think of all the things that are transparent and seem not to be so. Paper, for instance, is made up of transparent fibres, and it is white and opaque only for the same reason that a powder of glass is white and opaque. Oil white paper, fill up the interstices between the particles with oil so that there is no longer refraction or reflection except at the surfaces, and it becomes as transparent as glass. And not only paper, but cotton fibre, linen fibre, wool fibre, woody fibre, and bone, Kemp, flesh, hair, nails and nerves, Kemp, in fact the whole fabric of a man except the red of his blood and the black pigment of hair, are all made up of transparent, colourless tissue. So little suffices to make us visible one to the other. For the most part the fibres of a living creature are no more opaque than water." "Great Heavens!" cried Kemp. "Of course, of course! I was thinking only last night of the sea larvae and all jelly-fish!" "Now you have me! And all that I knew and had in mind a year after I left London--six years ago. But I kept it to myself. I had to do my work under frightful disadvantages. Oliver, my professor, was

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

like an intruder. For the first time, the smaller woman seemed to notice her. Her smile brightened. “And this is your cousin, right? I didn’t know you had one.” “Third cousin.” Lore offered her hand, reciting the backstory she and Gabriel had come up with in their apartments while he buttoned the back of her dress and tried not to faint at the sight of feminine shoulder blades. “Distant and obscure, social climbing by way of my esteemed relative.” “Alie, meet Eldelore.” Gabe’s mouth twitched as he said the full name, almost a smirk. “Just Lore, if you please.” The wide skirt of her dress gave her cover as Lore slipped her foot over Gabe’s and pressed the heel of her shoe into his toe, just enough to make him jerk. Alienor smiled, taking Lore’s hand and giving her a tiny bow. “Lovely to meet you, Just Lore. And you must call me Alie, all my friends do.” Alienor’s face was open and kind, with no trace of artifice. Lore found herself desperately hoping it was real, though everything about the Citadel called for caution. “Alie,” she repeated. The three of them lapsed into uncomfortable silence. The music stopped, then swelled, going from a lively jig to something even more upbeat. Gabriel frowned. “This music,” he said, twisting his head. “It’s Kirythean.” “Is it?” Alie looked puzzled, but not disturbed. “Well. That’s interesting.” “If by interesting you mean traitorous.” “That seems a bit dramatic.” A new voice, from behind Lore—smooth, courtly, with an upturned edge like it was on the verge of a joke. “I prefer daring to traitorous,” the voice continued. Gabriel’s one visible blue eye was stormy, teeth clenched tight in his jaw. But Alie grinned, waving a glitter-dusted hand. “Speak his name and he appears.” Lore turned. The Sun Prince of Auverraine stood behind her, one brow arched over his domino mask. He’d been handsome from far away, clothed in gleaming white at his Consecration and seen from behind roses in the garden. But up close, wearing all black to match his hair and eyes, he was near to devastating. And the grin he gave her said he knew it. “The return of the Remaut family to the Court of the Citadel is a momentous occasion indeed,” Bastian Arceneaux said, clapping Gabe on the back; Gabe stiffened and didn’t move, a tree refusing to bend to a gale. “My father is very excited to have you here, and suggested most strongly that I make you welcome, though I doubt a masquerade was what he had in mind. Technically, we’re all supposed to be at evening prayers, but since I was just Consecrated, I think the Bleeding God will give me the evening off from piety.” “As if you’ve ever been pious,” Alie scoffed. “You wound me.” Bastian pressed a hand to his chest, then looked back at Gabe. “I must say, I’m thrilled that I beat out Apollius for your attentions this evening. Sorry about the mask, old friend. I wasn’t sure how it would interfere with…” He waved

Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt

and brushed his knuckle along the outside of her knee, which turned out to be a big mistake, because Lord God almighty, she was smooth and that kneecap would fit right into his palm. Focus. “Are you nervous because Ingram Meyer is going to be there? Because we’ve got this, Natalie. By the end of the night, he’s going to be so positive that we married for love, he’s going to send us a second wedding gift. Fingers crossed on a chocolate fountain.” She appeared to be on the verge of rolling her eyes, but cut him a sly look instead. “You know, the one from Williams Sonoma doubles as a fondue pot.” He smacked the steering wheel. “Are we positive no one bought us one of those?” “Hallie took our gifts home, and opened and arranged them. Not a single chocolate fountain that doubles as a cheese cauldron, but then again, I wouldn’t put it past Julian’s girlfriend to steal it for herself. She once robbed a cheese shop in broad daylight.” She nodded solemnly at his incredulous eyebrow raise. “How are you so confident we’ll convince Meyer?” Because if that man can’t see I’d die for you, he’s blind. “I’m great at dinner parties. Although in Kansas, we call them barbecues.” Her laughter was kind of dazed. “Dinner with my mother in her formal dining room is far from kicking back with a cold one in someone’s backyard.” “That bad, huh?” His stomach begged him not to ask the next question, but hell, he did it anyway. “Did you ever bring your ex-fiancé home for dinner?” “Morrison? No.” “Fuck yeah.” His fist pump was so involuntary, he almost punched a hole in the roof of the truck. Pull back, tiger. “I mean, I’m glad you didn’t have to go through the whole sticky process of detaching your family from the dude, as well. You know how that goes. You don’t just break up with someone, you break up with their family and friends. Such a mess.” Natalie stared. Any second now, she was going to call him on that fist pump and the bullshit that followed. Instead, she asked, “Do you . . . know how that goes? Have you had serious girlfriends?” Somehow, August got the sense that this was a dangerous topic. “My father used to say that women ask questions they don’t really want answered, and it’s our job to figure out which ones are safe and which ones aren’t. And we will always be wrong.” Natalie scoffed at that, readjusting the pie on her lap. “What are you implying? That I don’t really want to know about your past girlfriends?” “I can relate, princess. I want to hear about this Morrison prick about as much as I want a staple gun pointed at my nuts.” “You asked.” “I live with a woman now. Maybe she’s rubbing off on me.” “Whatever. Just answer the question.” She chuckled. Oh no. That chuckle was deceiving. Trust your gut, son. Or was it his dick? Because his dick said to

Love Theoretically.txt

someone dipped their post-gym crotch in a bucket of citrus disinfectant. There’s the pitter-patter of a dripping faucet, and my reflection in the full-body mirror is a lie: the slender woman in the sheath dress is too flustered, too livid, too red to be mild Elsie Hannaway of the accommodating ways. I turn around. Jack lingers by the door, as ever studying, appraising, vivisectioning me. I start a mental countdown. Five. Four. When I reach one, I’m going to explain the situation. In a calm, dignified tone. Tell him it’s a misunderstanding. Three. Two. “Congratulations,” he says. Uh? “On your Ph.D.” “W-what?” “A noteworthy accomplishment,” he continues, serious, calm, “given that less than twenty-four hours ago you weren’t even working on one.” I exhale deeply. “Listen, it’s not what you—” “Will you be leaving your post at the library, or are you planning on a dual career? I’d be worried for your schedule, but I hear that theoretical physics often consists of staring into the void and jotting down the occasional mathematical symbol—” “I—no. That’s not what theoretical physics is about and—” I screw my eyes shut. Calm down. Be reasonable. This can be fixed with a simple conversation. “Jack, I’m not a librarian.” His eyes widen in playacted surprise. “No way.” “I am a physicist. I got my Ph.D. about a year ago.” His expression hardens. He steps closer, and I feel like a garden gnome. “And I assume Greg has no idea.” “He does. I—” Wait. No. I never told Greg about my Ph.D.—because it was irrelevant. “Well, okay. He doesn’t know, but that’s only because—” “You’ve been lying to him.” I’m taken aback. “Lying?” “You’re playing a twisted game with my brother, pretending to be someone you’re not. I don’t know why, but if you think I’m going to let you continue—” “What? No. This isn’t . . .” I can’t believe that the conclusion he’s come to is that I’m catfishing Greg. As if. “I care about Greg.” “Is that why you hide things from him?” “I don’t!” “What about when you passed out in my arms and begged me not to tell him?” I wince. “It was not in your arms, just near your arms, and that was—I didn’t want to bother him!” “What about the fact that you didn’t know he was about to go on a trip.” Jack is icily, uncompromisingly furious at the idea of me mistreating his brother. “You don’t seem to care what his job entails. What his problems are. What his life is.” “Neither does the rest of your family!” “True.” He scowls. “But irrelevant.” I almost run a hand down my face before remembering Cece’s Ruin your makeup and I’ll skewer you like a shish kebab. God, I’m going to have to explain to Jack the concept of fake dating. He won’t believe it’s a real thing —men with nice baritones and hints of tattoos and perfectly scruffy fiveo’clock shadows are just not the target demographic of Faux. Jack probably has legions of women standing in line for the opportunity

Pineapple Street.txt

backpack to the ground, bucking back against the wall, crying so loud you have to clamp your glove over her mouth. She obviously can’t handle this, and so many lives would be collateral damage. Her own, too, though she doesn’t understand that. What life will she have if this gets out? What life will her parents have? There’s you, and Suzanne, and the kids. There’s Granby itself. Granby’s good at hushing things up, but only when everyone involved is determined to stay quiet. Thalia will scream about it, just like she’s screaming now, and it’s not hard for the hand over her mouth to turn to a hand that’s slamming her head back, two times, three times, not hard for your other hand to find her throat. As it turns out, it’s not so much that you’re capable of this, but that you’re capable, having started, of needing it to be over as quickly as possible. Your urgency becomes physical strength, and while you didn’t mean for her to bleed, just meant to knock her out and get her into the pool, your fingers find her neck slick. The blood tells you: This is final and real. The Rubicon crossed. You loved her once. The way you’ve moved on from that love means you can move on from anything. You excel at compartmentalizing. You stick to the rest of your plan, unlocking the back pool door you disarmed this morning, getting her into the extra suit you made sure was here, a large one that’s easy to slide onto her too-thin body. You roll her into the water, hold her head under with your gloved hand—although the blood won’t make sense, won’t fit the simple narrative you wanted. You watch the blood swirl from the wound, fade to pink, dissipate. A sign that everything about this will float away, become lighter in your life until it’s nothing. You arrange her backpack, her clothes, as if laying them out for your own daughter’s school day. When you get home, the print job is done. You stick your clothes in the washer, change into sweatpants and a T-shirt from the dryer, head up with your friend’s screenplay in hand. Suzanne opens her eyes. “I hope the printer didn’t keep you awake,” you say, waving the pages. It’s a particularly loud and crappy printer, and she’s complained before. She asks how the screenplay is. “This thing’s a mess,” you say. “It’s giving me a headache.” You shower, something you often do at night because you prefer to fall asleep with your hair wet like you did as a child. You return to bed, curl yourself around her body, hold her like a buoy. 59 Back at Granby, everything was still—a snow globe no one had shaken in days. No one crossed the quad, no one scuttled from Commons with an Eggo and a coffee. I was the only thing moving, because I was late; I’d texted Alder to tell the class to start without me. I left Fran’s car in the lot behind Quincy and

Quietly-Hostile.txt

you really wear something like that to just lie around the house? There’s a scene in which Carrie is sitting on the side of her bed, balancing her laptop on her knees, and her hair is up in this cascading ponytail, and she’s wearing the Robe, and I feel like it’s my duty to tell you that I am writing this book in an orthopedic chair I had to special order on the internet with a crocheted afghan in my lap, and I’m wearing a sweatshirt with a Detroit Coney dog printed on the front and a wear-’n’-tear hole in the elbow. I’m sure there are glamorous writers who sit down to their computers in outfits they’ve zippered and buttoned, with flawless makeup application and enviable hair, but I don’t know any! 7. THE BLUE MINI SHORTS AND OPEN-TOE HEEL SITUATION SHE CHASED A DOG THROUGH THE STREET IN I think there was a peasant blouse involved here, too? I just remember Carrie pounding the pavement, running for real, for real, in little strappy high-heeled sandals with these little shorties on and thinking to myself, “There is no fucking way.” This scene also reminds me of another huge nostalgia point for me while watching this show: life was so much more tricky and interesting before we all had cell phones. If I was writing that scene today, Carrie would run for half a block before coming to her senses and pulling out her phone to call someone with a car to scoop her up, but before we all had pocket computers, she was forced to run through New York City in short pants and high heels for hours in the rain. A nightmare, but she looked adorable as hell. 8. REMEMBER THAT TIME SHE WORE A RAGGEDY ROLLING STONES T-SHIRT? PLUS AN HONORABLE MENTION TO THOSE KNEE-HIGH RAINBOW GOSSIPING SOCKS As a Fat and a Poor, the clothing on this show was not aspirational to me, which is a very freeing margin in which to exist while watching something like Sex and the City. I didn’t ever have to worry about fitting into or being able to afford anything anyone wore at any time, so I could just let the beauty wash over me and soak into my eyeballs without feeling bad that I had no idea Barneys was the name of a store. I’m not even a purse guy, because I have always had the kind of life and needs that require a sturdy tote bag; I’m not saving up for a vintage Fendi baguette! Where would I put my Stephen King novel and super absorbent Always overnights? I need half a dozen lipsticks and an economy-sized bottle of extra-strength Advil on my person at all times! If I leave my house with only a teeny little purse, who’s gonna hold my charging brick and lightweight cardigan for when it might get cold?! That said, anytime Carrie was shown wearing something a normal person with no money could wear, I would be filled with delight, and no, I do not believe

We-Could-Be-So Good.txt

they were at fault.” “I know.” Nick throws his pen onto the desk. That evening, they filed a depressingly basic article stating the bare facts and repeating the police commissioner’s promises to get to the bottom of the missing evidence. “What kind of bullshit is it that they put this statement out at five on a Friday afternoon?” He gets to his feet and begins pacing. The newsroom is relatively quiet, only a handful of reporters on the night desk. Without the usual steady thrum of voices shouting into telephones and the clatter of typewriter keys, it seems deserted, eerily silent. Someone has turned off a few of the overhead fluorescent lights. He can hear the hum of a vacuum cleaner somewhere else on the floor. Nick knows that getting the NYPD’s hackles up is playing with fire. He already worries that any man he talks to is a plainclothes officer waiting for the right moment to arrest him—something that happens to queer men every goddamn day in this city. Nick would be done—fired from the Chronicle, exposed to his family, thirty days in jail. He doesn’t need to paint a target on his back by pissing off the force as a whole. The thing is that Nick hates the cops and he’ll happily play with fire if that’s what it takes to chase down a good lead. If Nick gets burned, it’s not like it’ll matter to anyone but himself. “Twenty cops were working in the office that day,” Nick says. “Twenty cops were working when the items were discovered to be missing,” Andy corrects, because he’s doggedly accurate about news for someone who, at any given moment, has about a fifty percent chance of being able to accurately tell you the date. Nick supposes it’s because he was basically raised in newsrooms, but maybe it’s in his blood. Now when they go out to cover a story together, Nick isn’t babysitting Andy. Andy’s pulling his weight and then some. Other reporters have started to refer to them as a single unit—NickandAndy or RussoandFleming—and Nick has to fight not to smile whenever he hears it. He has to remind himself that this is temporary, that soon Andy is either going upstairs to do whatever publishers do, or he’s going to leave to work somewhere else. He’s not spending the rest of his life covering minor police corruption stories with Nick, and the fact that Nick has any feelings about that whatsoever is a problem. “Right,” Nick agrees. “So we need to know the last time anyone noticed envelopes and guns in the safe, and also who was assigned to the office since then. Who gets assigned to the Property Clerk’s Office, anyway? What did they say?” Andy flips through their notes. “‘Officers assigned to light duty,’” he reads. “Okay. The first thing I want to know is whether that’s a fairy tale. Are these cops really too sick or injured for regular duty, or are they the problem cops that no captain wants to deal with? Usually light-duty officers do desk

Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

would call them in your language. They are a kind of faerie fox, black and golden together, which grow larger than horses. My brothers and sisters and I would crowd round the fire to watch him weave nets from brambles and spidersilk. And all the moorbeasts and hag-headed deer would cower at the sight of those nets, though they barely blinked at the whistle of our arrows.” He fell silent, gazing at them with his eyes gone very green. “Well,” I said, predictably at a loss for an answer to this, “I hope they are of use to you. Only keep them away from any garments of mine.” He took my hand, and then, before I knew what he was doing, lifted it to his mouth. I felt the briefest brush of his lips against my skin, and then he had released me and was back to exclaiming over his gifts. I turned and went into the kitchen in an aimless haste, looking for something to do, anything that might distract me from the warmth that had trailed up my arm like an errant summer breeze, and settled for preparing a light repast from the remains of our provisions. After we ate, I watched him play with the mirrors. When he touched them, strange things appeared—for an instant, I saw a green forest reflected back at me, boughs swaying. I blinked and it was gone, but some of its greenness lingered around the edges of the glass, as if a forest still lurked somewhere beyond the frame. “Are those the trees you would see in your kingdom?” I asked. He let out his breath and drew his hand away. “No,” he said quietly. “That was merely a shadow of my world.” I gazed at him a moment longer. His mourning was a tangible thing that hung in the air. I have never loved a place like he has, and felt its absence as I would a friend’s. But for a moment, I wished I had, and felt this as its own loss. A strange surety flowed through me like a swallow of cold water. “Of course.” He turned. “What?” But I was already moving. I fetched the faerie cloak from outside with trembling hands. The fire was high, as Bambleby liked it that way, and the cloak began its steady drip drip drip on the floorboards. I dug around in the pockets, fingers brushing against the edges of things that clanked or rustled. Focus. I drew a breath, plunged my hand inside again, putting every ounce of will and thought into imagining what I needed. And finally, my hand closed on something. I withdrew it. I was holding a doll. It was carved from whalebone and had hair of willow boughs. Its dress was of dirty, undyed wool the colour of snow, the old snow that is left behind in springtime. And yet the doll was clearly Folk, for it changed—just a little—from one moment to another, and in different lights. When I turned it to the firelight, it seemed to wash

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

people listed in these pages on this topic, but perhaps none were more important or more poignant than the ones I had with Marina Bokelman, folklorist, healer, family friend, and second mother to me. In our last conversation before she decided to leave this life, she spoke at length about Hildegard von Bingen, a Catholic nun born in 1098, who became an abbess, composer, writer, and medical practitioner. In her medical texts, Physica and Causae et Curae, she described herbs and provided recipes that would regulate menses, offer contraception, end unwanted pregnancies, and see a woman through pregnancy and birth. A few comments on medical terms and issues I addressed in the novel: The term child palace dates to the first or second century C.E. and is still used in contemporary Chinese for the uterus. Today we can recognize infant-cord rigidity as tetanus presumed to have been contracted while squatting on straw to give birth or sitting on wet ground during or after labor. (Tetanus is still one of the main causes of death for postpartum women in the third world.) In her book, Tan wrote of her treatment of scrofula lumps and sores in Cases 5, 7, and 16. Today medical professionals would understand these symptoms as mycobacterial cervical lymphadenitis related to tuberculosis. She treated these patients with moxibustion, which was recognized in China as a successful remedy for the condition since ancient times, as well as herbal remedies. Last, I’d like to recommend a fascinating article, “On the Origins of the Midwife” by Sarah Bunney in New Scientist, in which she explains why childbirth is more dangerous for humans than for any other primate. I was also inspired during the creation of this story by Brian E. McKnight’s translation of The Washing Away of Wrongs by Sung Tz’u (Song Ci in pinyin). This is known to be the first book of forensics in the world and is datable to 1247. It precedes similar works in the European Renaissance by nearly four hundred years. (That said, state-ordered forensic records in China date back to the second century C.E.) The Washing Away of Wrongs continued to be used by forensic scientists in China well into the twentieth century. Maybe that’s not all that remarkable. The indicators of death by drowning, hanging, stabbing, or poison have not changed through time. I have followed Sung Tz’u’s practices for inquests, including revealing a naked body for all to see, the accused standing to face the corpse, examining the spot where a victim drowned, and the concept that the family and the accused must have the opportunity to face each other. I’ve always taken great pride in going to every place I write about. I couldn’t do that for this book. (As I write this, China continues to have lockdowns in major cities, and the quarantine period for visitors is three weeks.) However, when I researched Peony in Love, I went to several water towns in the Yangzi delta. I was confident about writing about a water town, but I still felt sad that I wasn’t

USS-Lincoln.txt

it with confidence … with bluster.” “Embedded within the human warships’ EMP discharges, recently discovered and unbeknownst to us, lay a form of electromagnetic radiation known as resonance emissions. This particular frequency holds a unique property: it has the ability to interact with the intricate energy fields that power Liquilid Empire ships, shields, weapon systems, even our micro-nanite technology. “Again, Commander, these energy fields are characterized by specific resonant frequencies that are exclusive to Liquilid technology. As the human warships directed their EMP discharges, their weapons were, I suspect unknowingly, augmented with these resonance emissions. The consequences … Their electromagnetic waves penetrated our energy fields, instigating the unforeseen chain of events.” Remote Operator #2 jumped back into the mix. “The admiral will be most concerned about his red ships, the pride of Liquilid Celestial Forces. He’ll see how these resonance emissions could disrupt the delicate equilibrium of his ships’, his armada’s energy fields, causing nothing less than catastrophic results.” Lu-puk ventured a smile. This was good, no … This was very good. “The admiral will need to know the science; anyone can bark off vague theories, ambiguous suppositions …” Remote Operator #2, momentarily stymied, glanced nervously to Operator #5. Operator #5 took the ball and ran with it. “The electromagnetic radiation interferes with the Liquilid Empire’s intricate energy matrices, triggering failures within power systems and subsystems. As the resonance emissions infiltrate the energy fields of our assets, they create destructive interference patterns. Liquilids’ energy fields oscillate wildly, resonating with the incoming electromagnetic waves and effectively shattering their structural integrity. This disruption would spread throughout Liquilid vessels, cascading from one system to another. The Liquilid Empire, caught off guard by this unforeseen phenomenon, would struggle to regain control of their, our, ships. The destabilization of our energy fields would lead to catastrophic power surges, crippling vital systems, including propulsion, weapons, and shields. With our technology compromised and ships in disarray, our Liquilid forces would be left defenseless against any subsequent human warships’ onslaught.” “Well put, #5 … Well put indeed. This information may be of use to me … We shall see. For now, you shall be rewarded with a ration of a Billet’s hindquarters.” In truth, #5 might have just handed Lu-puk a promotion and a means of getting off this desolate rock post once and for all. A sudden, all-too-familiar tingle flared within his head, an indication that Admiral Plu-tik would soon, all too obtrusively, be entering his mind. Admiral Plu-tik said, “You have failed me for the last time, Commander Lu-puk.” And there he was, the arrogant gas bag, his smug expression in need of a little payback. Ignoring the reprimand, Lu-puk dove right in, “Ah … Admiral, you have contacted me at a very important juncture. If I might speak freely,” Lu-puk said, stealing from #5’s recent phrasing, “You are on the verge of making a mistake of epic proportions. One, I fear your vaunted career would not survive.” “You dare speak to me in such a manner? I will have you torn limb from limb and fed to—”

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt

ten CENTS back, I'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst." "Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're going to be rich again some time or other." "Yes; en I's rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I's wuth eight hund'd dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn' want no mo'." CHAPTER IX. I WANTED to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island that I'd found when I was exploring; so we started and soon got to it, because the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide. This place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot high. We had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it, and by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side towards Illinois. The cavern was as big as two or three rooms bunched together, and Jim could stand up straight in it. It was cool in there. Jim was for putting our traps in there right away, but I said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there all the time. Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island, and they would never find us without dogs. And, besides, he said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I want the things to get wet? So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there. Then we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took some fish off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner. The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on one side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good place to build a fire on. So we built it there and cooked dinner. We spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in there. We put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern. Pretty soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was right about it. Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider- webby; and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and

In the Lives of Puppets.txt

any machines Vic had ever seen before. They were squat and uniform, metal boxes on wheels dripping with oil and crusted with flecks of rust. Their arms looked like versions of Rambo’s spindly limbs, though far bigger, their pincers capable of crushing. Each was numbered. Vic saw TLK-97A and TLK-97B and TLK-97D4G. They moved back and forth, unloading crates off floating pallets and stacking them in what looked like a large warehouse. The Coachman turned in his chair, eyeing them all. Nurse Ratched and Rambo looked as they always did. Vic had donned his disguise once more, the vest with the battery, the helmet securely fastened to his head, the strap digging into his chin. The Coachman had given Hap a new coat, one with a hood that covered his head. Hap wasn’t happy about it, but he wore it with minimal complaint. The Coachman said it would help to keep him from getting recognized. “If you’re discovered,” he said, “you can say that you’re transporting the other three to the Benevolent Tower. Just try and avoid that if at all possible. You don’t have the barcode—” Hap held up his hand, palm toward the ceiling. He grunted, fingers twitching. Vic watched in awe as the skin of his palm parted, a little shiny knob poking through. A small light poured from the knob, and a barcode appeared, floating above his hand. The Coachman’s jaw dropped. “How … did you…” Hap glared at him. “I p-p-practiced. If I’m l-like them, then I c-can d-do what they can.” The Coachman recovered. “But you were decommissioned. Tossed away like scrap. Which means they will know that if your barcode gets scanned. For appearance’s sake, it works, but only if you don’t allow them to scan it.” The barcode disappeared as Hap dropped his hand. He glanced at Vic. “What?” Vic shook his head. “You … you’re amazing.” A complicated expression crossed Hap’s face. His lips twitched as his eyebrows rose. “I am?” “You are,” Rambo said. “Hysterically Angry Puppet is the best puppet!” Hap seemed pleased, though he tried to hide it. “I am H-hap. I am amazing.” “Damn right!” Rambo cried. “And I’m Rambo! Prepare yourself, City of Electric Dreams. We’re coming for you, and we’re going to save the day!” “This is going to end badly,” Nurse Ratched said. “I cannot wait.” They stepped out of the house onto the sand. The air was much warmer than it’d been, even in the Land of Toys. Not even a hint of snow. Vic began to sweat almost immediately, the weight of his disguise more noticeable than it’d been even the day before. The metal vest rubbed irritatingly against his chest, and the helmet kept sliding to the side of his head because of the sweat. Nurse Ratched told him to say he had a coolant leak if anyone asked. “Stay back,” the Coachman muttered as they walked toward the working machines. “Let me do the talking. If anyone tries to address you, let Nurse Ratched speak for you. She’s the smartest of all

The Secret Garden.txt

out o' th' black earth after a bit." "What will they be?" asked Mary. "Crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. Has tha' never seen them?" "No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India," said Mary. "And I think things grow up in a night." "These won't grow up in a night," said Weatherstaff. "Tha'll have to wait for 'em. They'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. You watch 'em." "I am going to," answered Mary. Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. He was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a question. "Do you think he remembers me?" she said. "Remembers thee!" said Weatherstaff indignantly. "He knows every cabbage stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. He's never seen a little wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. Tha's no need to try to hide anything from him." "Are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?" Mary inquired. "What garden?" grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again. "The one where the old rose-trees are." She could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know. "Are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the summer? Are there ever any roses?" "Ask him," said Ben Weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the robin. "He's the only one as knows. No one else has seen inside it for ten year'." Ten years was a long time, Mary thought. She had been born ten years ago. She walked away, slowly thinking. She had begun to like the garden just as she had begun to like the robin and Dickon and Martha's mother. She was beginning to like Martha, too. That seemed a good many people to like--when you were not used to liking. She thought of the robin as one of the people. She went to her walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she could see the tree-tops; and the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and exciting thing happened to her, and it was all through Ben Weatherstaff's robin. She heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her. But she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little. "You do remember me!" she cried out. "You do! You are prettier than anything else in the world!" She chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and twittered. It was as if he were talking. His red

The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt

said. ‘Only…’ Fergal took another slurp. ‘Only, I was very grateful after you made the Sunday dinner for me… I really enjoyed myself.’ ‘I enjoyed it too,’ Josie admitted. ‘And the barbecue – I had a nice time there too… apart from the business with Dangerous Dave, and that was really to do with him having drunk too much beer and being protective of Florence.’ ‘The less said about that incident the better,’ Josie agreed. ‘So, I wondered whether you and I might go out somewhere one night, a dinner perhaps, or bring a takeaway on the barge.’ Josie sipped white wine as the sun sparkled through the glass and the drink was crisp and sharp on her tongue. ‘Fergal, I’m not looking for romance.’ ‘Company, Josie, just company.’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Think about it.’ ‘I will.’ There was a cough behind them and Josie glanced over her shoulder. Dangerous Dave was there, arms folded humbly, looking uncomfortable. ‘Dangerous,’ Fergal said by way of a greeting. ‘Josie, Fergal – I’m glad I found you both together…’ Dave began. ‘I wanted to apologise for embarrassing myself at the barbecue.’ ‘Oh, there’s no need…’ Josie said kindly. ‘There is,’ Dave insisted. ‘I was out of order. I drank too much Hooky and I saw your Devlin, Fergal, with my Florence and the red mist came down.’ Fergal frowned deeply. ‘Devlin’s not the father of Florence’s baby, Dangerous – I asked him straight when I got home. He wouldn’t lie to his da.’ ‘I know. Florence told me off too. She knows I’m only being caring – that girl is all I have.’ Josie patted his arm. ‘Won’t you come and join us?’ Dave nodded. ‘I might – but I only came out for a swift half.’ ‘Me too – I was on my way to see Cecily,’ Josie admitted. ‘Then I bumped into Fergal.’ Dave’s brow creased. ‘I’m not sure you should go to see Cecily today, not after what I’ve just been told in the pub.’ ‘Gossip?’ Fergal asked. ‘I usually find it’s best avoided.’ ‘No, it’s something that Dickie and Jimmy overheard in the bar the other day. They were completely bowled over by it. I have to admit, I didn’t believe it at first but – well!’ Dangerous Dave shook his head. ‘Incredible, really, but I suppose in this day and age, anything goes.’ ‘Is Cecily all right?’ Josie was concerned. ‘Why can’t I go and see her?’ ‘Well, the thing is…’ Dave sat down next to her, folding his arms, making himself comfortable. ‘I’d say she won’t want any visitors – she’s too busy with other things…’ ‘What have you heard?’ Josie asked. ‘She has a lover.’ Dave opened wide goggling eyes. ‘That’s daft.’ Fergal reached for his pint. ‘Cecily can do what she likes,’ Josie retorted. ‘She’s her own woman, a free spirit.’ ‘Free spirit is completely right,’ Dave chortled. ‘Carrying on with a young man like that at her age. I still can’t get my head around it.’ ‘Young man? What young man?’ Fergal asked suspiciously. ‘Well,’ Dangerous

The Age of Innocence.txt

the sexton, had come out of the vestry and placed himself with his best man on the chancel step of Grace Church. The signal meant that the brougham bearing the bride and her father was in sight; but there was sure to be a considerable interval of adjustment and consultation in the lobby, where the bridesmaids were already hovering like a cluster of Easter blossoms. During this unavoidable lapse of time the bridegroom, in proof of his eagerness, was expected to expose himself alone to the gaze of the assembled company; and Archer had gone through this formality as resignedly as through all the others which made of a nineteenth century New York wedding a rite that seemed to belong to the dawn of history. Everything was equally easy--or equally painful, as one chose to put it--in the path he was committed to tread, and he had obeyed the flurried injunctions of his best man as piously as other bridegrooms had obeyed his own, in the days when he had guided them through the same labyrinth. So far he was reasonably sure of having fulfilled all his obligations. The bridesmaids' eight bouquets of white lilac and lilies-of-the-valley had been sent in due time, as well as the gold and sapphire sleeve-links of the eight ushers and the best man's cat's-eye scarf-pin; Archer had sat up half the night trying to vary the wording of his thanks for the last batch of presents from men friends and ex-lady-loves; the fees for the Bishop and the Rector were safely in the pocket of his best man; his own luggage was already at Mrs. Manson Mingott's, where the wedding-breakfast was to take place, and so were the travelling clothes into which he was to change; and a private compartment had been engaged in the train that was to carry the young couple to their unknown destination--concealment of the spot in which the bridal night was to be spent being one of the most sacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual. "Got the ring all right?" whispered young van der Luyden Newland, who was inexperienced in the duties of a best man, and awed by the weight of his responsibility. Archer made the gesture which he had seen so many bridegrooms make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!" he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump

Robyn-Harding-The-Drowning-Woman.txt

connected with this guy and he helped me. I had to go on the dark web!” She sounds thrilled, even proud. “We have to send passport-quality photos. It’s not cheap but they’ll be totally legit.” “I don’t have much money,” I say, thinking of the stash in my trunk that never seems to grow. “It’s fine,” she says, handing me a small plastic bag filled with cinnamon-scented oats, nuts, and seeds. “I sold some jewelry. By the time Benjamin notices, I’ll be long gone.” “I’m sorry you had to do that.” “I was glad to get rid of it,” she says, venom in her voice. “They were makeup gifts, all of them. After Benjamin took things too far. After he hurt me. There was always some shiny expensive trinket.” “I’ll pay you back,” I say around a mouthful of sweet granola. It will take time, but I will not welch on any more debts. She waves her hand dismissively. “You saved my life, Lee. You’re still saving my life. It’s the least I can do.” I smile, embarrassed by the compliment but also relieved. I need to save every penny. “Have you ever been to Panama?” It comes out of left field. “No. Why?” “Benjamin will expect me to go to Europe. France, probably, because I speak a little French. Or Italy. Somewhere he’s taken me before. He won’t look for me in Central America.” I swallow the cereal, now a tasteless paste in my mouth. “Why Panama?” “I’ve heard that if you have cash, you can build a life there. No questions asked.” “Sounds like a good place to disappear.” “I think so, too.” My voice is hoarse. “When will you go?” “The passport will take a couple of weeks. And then I need to plan my escape. It’s not going to be easy with the security guard at our front gate. And the cameras.” “Right.” My throat hurts now, raw with emotion. “I’ll miss you,” I mutter. “I’ll miss you, too.” Her smile is sad. “I wish you could come with me.” She’s being flip, of course. We barely know each other. And my presence would surely complicate her getaway. And then there’s Jesse. Our future may be uncertain, but I’m not ready to give up on it yet. “I wish,” I say with a chuckle. “I could use some sunshine.” We move on to the logistics of obtaining our new identities. Hazel tells me about a nearby drugstore where I can get my photo taken. I’m to deliver it to her in the morning; she’ll take care of the rest. I don’t ask her how she’ll do it when she is under constant surveillance. She’s clearly adept at fooling Benjamin. “I’ve got to get back.” Hazel stands. “Stay. Finish the coffee. I’ll pick up the thermos tomorrow.” I thank her, watch her slim form skip across the rocks to the mouth of the trail. She looks lighter than I’ve ever seen her before, more carefree. I realize she’s excited for her future, anticipating a life of freedom and opportunity.

The-Lost-Bookshop.txt

We all have crap parts and good parts inside, but when you meet someone who makes you realise that it’s all okay, you think, what in God’s name did I do to deserve it? All of my life I’ve been searching for hidden treasure, fortunes outside of myself. But Martha, she found them in me. I’m not perfect, by any means, but I know I want to spend the rest of my life making her smile. So I’m damned if I will let her go without a fight.’ She swallowed audibly. I was almost shaking with the conviction I felt in that moment. For the first time, I had heard myself speak the truth straight from my heart and it sounded as clear and bright as a bell. After a pause, she raised her glass and, with a grin, clinked it against mine. ‘You might just do, I suppose.’ ‘Thank you. I know Martha is still married but—’ The look on her face made me stall my glass mid-air. ‘You might want to take a seat.’ Chapter Thirty-Four OPALINE Dublin, 1923 Secrets are all very well and good, but having a fake name, a hidden pregnancy, a forgotten manuscript and forbidden feelings were all making for a very complicated and lonely existence. What compounded my isolation was the constant background fear of Lyndon coming to take everything away from me. It felt as though I were only living a half-life, shrouded in subterfuge. Every time I looked at Emily’s manuscript (which was often!) I ruminated over the unfairness of my situation. The most amazing moment in my life and I realised there wasn’t a soul I could share it with. Perhaps I could trust Mr Hanna, but how could I be sure he wouldn’t let it slip to the wrong person? It was the loneliness I felt at that moment that spurred me to do something rash. I snatched a piece of paper from the drawer and wrote a hurried letter to Sylvia in Paris. I didn’t want to take the usual precaution of sending it through Armand. It felt wonderful and exhilarating to relay my news and I knew she would not tell a soul without my consent. I’m going to be a mother! I wrote before signing off, knowing that this would not be as exciting to her as the Brontë find. I told her to respond immediately, jotting down my phone number. I sealed the envelope and left it on my desk until I found a chance to walk to the postbox. Just knowing the excitement that Sylvia would share in my news gave me the strength to carry on with my day as normal and delay my decision on what action to take. I had a busy afternoon and found myself tiring easier than usual. A group of students stopped by looking for a publication by a pioneering new writer, Virginia Woolf. When I bent down to find a copy of Night and Day on the lower shelf, I felt faint. The atmosphere was heavy and humid, yet

The Silmarillion.txt

fruits of Yavanna from the Earth, which under Eru they had made. Therefore Yavanna set times for the flowering and the ripening of all things mat grew in Valinor; and at each first gathering of fruits Manw made a high feast for the praising of Eru, when all the peoples of Valinor poured forth their joy in music and song upon Taniquetil. This now was the hour, and Manw decreed a feast more glorious than any that had been held since the coming of the Eldar to Aman. For though the escape of Melkor portended toils and sorrows to come, and indeed none could tell what further hurts would be done to Arda ere he could be subdued again, at this time Manw designed to heal the evil that had arisen among the Noldor; and all were bidden to come to his halls upon Taniquetil, there to put aside the griefs that lay between their princes, and forget utterly the lies of their Enemy. There came the Vanyar, and there came the Noldor of Tirion, and the Maiar were gathered together, and the Valar were arrayed in their beauty and majesty; and they sang before Manw and Varda in their lofty halls, or danced upon the green slopes of the Mountain that looked west towards the Trees. In that day the streets of Valmar were empty, and the stairs of Tirion were silent; and all the land lay sleeping in peace. Only the Teleri beyond the mountains still sang upon the shores of the sea; for they recked little of seasons or times, and gave no thought to the cares of the Rulers of Arda, or the shadow that had fallen on Valinor, for it had not touched them, as yet. One thing only marred the design of Manw. Fanor came indeed, for him alone Manw had commanded to come; but Finw came not, nor any others of the Noldor of Formenos. For said Finw: 'While the ban lasts upon Fanor my son, that he may not go to Tirion, I hold myself unkinged, and I will not meet my people.' And Fanor came not in raiment of festival, and he wore no ornament, neither silver nor gold nor any gem; and he denied the sight of the Silmarils to the Valar and the Eldar, and left them locked in Formenos in their chamber of iron. Nevertheless he met Fingolfin before the throne of Manw, and was reconciled, in word; and Fingolfin set at naught the unsheathing of the sword. For Fingolfin held forth his hand, saying: 'As I promised, I do now. I release thee, and remember no grievance.' Then Fanor took his hand in silence; but Fingolfin said: 'Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart will I be. Thou shalt lead and I will follow. May no new grief divide as.' 'I hear thee,' said Fanor. 'So be it.' But they did not know the meaning that their words would bear. It is told that even as Fanor and Fingolfin stood before Manw there came the mingling of the lights,

USS-Lincoln.txt

her thin. She craved a respite from the perpetual chaos. Yet, even as she pondered leaving, she questioned her own resolve. Could she truly walk away from him, from this life she had forged here? “Sir Calvin, resume the message.” “I’ll just leave you with this, Vivian. No matter what you do, I am so proud of you … how hard you’ve worked and how you’ve followed your dreams.” Griffin’s go-to smile was replaced with a wistful smirk. “Talk soon.” “Sir Calvin, stop the transmission.” As the holo-image of Griffin began to melt away, the blue light gave way to the soft amber glow emanating from a crystal dome-light positioned in the middle of the deckhead—the diffused illumination matching her somber mood. Closing her eyes, relaxing, Viv let the silence envelop her. She knew that whatever choice she made, it would carry profound consequences. It wasn’t just a matter of choosing between two men; it was about deciding who she wanted to become, the life she yearned to lead. The minutes ticked by, each second laden with the weight of her indecision. Finally, Viv opened her eyes. Rolled out of bed and teeter-tottered to a stand. She’d take a hot shower. Water had a way of making the convoluted clear, like untangling a giant knot of cables. So, shower—then decide, she thought. As her dear departed mother used to say when she was agonizing over a decision, “Come on, Vivian—make a sandwich or get out of the kitchen.” Chapter 43 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Captain Galvin Quintos The hour was late, the weight of exhaustion settling upon my shoulders. Yet, I couldn’t surrender to the enticing embrace of slumber just yet. Not when there was unfinished business, that haunting story waiting to unfold before my eyes. The captain’s ready room enveloped me in a cocoon of dim light, the soft glow of the halo display casting an ethereal glow across the compartment. My gaze was fixed upon the three-dimensional projection, a window into the past, as it played the fateful log entries of Captain Glenn Stone, commander of the ill-fated USS Lincoln. The lost ship, adrift here in the merciless expanse of space, held the secrets of a tragedy that only now was becoming evident. Glenn Stone’s weathered face appeared before me, his voice filled with a mix of resignation and determination. “The red ships, colossal monstrosities of alien origin, have descended upon us … an overwhelming force. The magnitude of their presence, their sheer size dwarfing any vessel in our own fleet, is a testament to the danger that lurked beyond the stars.” My eyes traced the haunted contours of Stone’s features, the evidence of his desperate struggle etched into every line on his face. Stained and tattered, his uniform bore witness to the relentless battles fought on Lincoln. The weariness in his eyes mirrored my own, a shared burden of responsibility and loss. As Stone’s raspy voice filled the room, a shiver coursed down my spine. “The Liquilids, the alien menace, have breached Lincoln’s hull. Now, beetle-like nanite

Jane Eyre.txt

and riven; the trunk, split down the center, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken from each other, for the firm base and strong roots kept them unsundered below; though community of vitality was destroyed the sap could flow no more; their great boughs on each side were dead, and next winter's tempests would be sure to fell one or both to earth; as yet, however, they might be said to form one tree a ruin, but an entire ruin. "You did right to hold fast to each other," I said; as if the monster-splinters were living things, and could hear me. "I think, scathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there must be a little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion at the faithful, honest roots; you will never have green leaves more never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs; the time of pleasure and love is over with you; but you are not desolate: each of you has a comrade to sympathize with him in his decay." As I looked up at them, the moon appeared momentarily in that part of the sky which filled their fissure; her disk was blood-red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep drift of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield; but far away over wood and water, poured a wild, melancholy wail; it was sad to listen to, and I ran off again. Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples with which the grass round the tree-roots was thickly strewn; then I employed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them into the house and put them away in the store-room. Then I repaired to the library to ascertain whether the fire was lit; for, though summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester would like to see a cheerful hearth when he came in; yes, the fire had been kindled some time, and burned well. I placed his arm-chair by the chimney-corner; I wheeled the table near it; I let down the curtain, and had the candles brought in ready for lighting. More restless than ever, when I had completed these arrangements I could not sit still, nor even remain in the house; a little timepiece in the room and the old clock in the hall simultaneously struck ten. "How late it grows!" I said; "I will run down to the gates; it is moonlight at intervals; I can see a good way on the road. He may be coming now, and to meet him will save some minutes of suspense." The wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates; but the road as far as I could see, to the right hand and the left, was all still and solitary, save for the shadows

Pride And Prejudice.txt

Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. -- Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet?'' ``A little.'' ``Oh! then -- some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably superior to -- You shall try it some day. -- Do your sisters play and sing?'' ``One of them does.'' ``Why did not you all learn? -- You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as your's. -- Do you draw?'' ``No, not at all.'' ``What, none of you?'' ``Not one.'' ``That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.'' ``My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London.'' ``Has your governess left you?'' ``We never had any governess.'' ``No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without a governess! -- I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your education.'' Elizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she assured her that had not been the case. ``Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess you must have been neglected.'' ``Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as wished to learn, never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle, certainly might.'' ``Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and it was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe's calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. "Lady Catherine," said she, "you have given me a treasure." Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?'' ``Yes, Ma'am, all.'' ``All! -- What, all five out at once? Very odd! -- And you only the second. -- The younger ones out before the elder are married! -- Your younger sisters must be very young?'' ``Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be much in company. But really, Ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and amusement because the elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early. -- The last born has as good a right

The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt

and he feeds her chocolate. She’s devoted to him. She comes indoors at night-time and sits on the rug by the fireside.’ Lin was confused. ‘The pig?’ ‘Yes. I’m not exaggerating, Lin, he’ll have her sleeping in our bed soon.’ ‘A pig in the bed?’ Lin wasn’t listening properly – she wasn’t sure if Penny was joking. Penny was still ranting. ‘It’s so difficult up at the farmhouse. My son Tom just does the accounts all day, shirking all the hard farm work. His wife’s the worst cook in the world; Natalie talks of nothing but wedding dresses; Bobby is out every evening and now George is in love with a pig.’ ‘No, I’m the worst cook in the world,’ Lin mumbled sadly. Penny frowned. ‘Goodness knows what will happen when we take Nadine to the slaughterhouse. It’s never a good idea to give an animal a name, especially when it will eventually end up on the butcher’s slab.’ Lin shook her head. ‘You’re going to kill Nadine?’ ‘She’s a pig, Lin.’ ‘Yes, but…’ Lin was suddenly full of sympathy. ‘That will be so hard for poor George.’ ‘It will teach him not to get so attached,’ Penny announced, then it was her turn to be served at the till. Lin sighed; she was looking forward to seeing Josie. There was a lot she needed to confide in her. Ten minutes later, she was wandering down Orchard Way, the neat rows of allotments on one side. She could see Tina Gilchrist, Minnie’s sister, weeding the soil, her pale hair over her face. Lin called out a cheery hello, but Tina was out of earshot. She passed the recreation ground, where an older man sat on a swing drinking something from a can. Lin was sure it was Kenny Hooper. She raised a hand in a wave, but he didn’t see her. She wondered if she was invisible. Then she arrived level with Gerald Harris’s house. Devlin and Finn Toomey were working in the garden, raking and digging, sorting out the mess, while Gerald rushed around flapping his hands anxiously. Devlin raised a hand. ‘Mornin’, Lin. How are ye?’ Finn looked up and grinned. ‘Full of the joys of spring?’ ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Lin nodded. Both Toomeys were without shirts, their skin glistening as they worked. Gerald was red faced and anxious. He turned to Lin. ‘George Ledbury has offered to pay for the garden. I told him it’s all very well but that pig ought to be locked up.’ ‘Nadine,’ Lin said. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Gerald asked, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Nadine – after a Chuck Berry song.’ ‘Ah, we know the one, don’t we, Dev?’ Finn laughed and he and his brother joined in a jig, miming playing a guitar, kicking out a leg Chuck Berry-style, screaming, ‘Na-deeeeen!’ Gerald was perplexed. ‘I told George I want the garden just as it was before the pig attacked it.’ ‘It’ll be lovely when the lads have finished,’ Lin soothed, then she was on her way. She was still thinking about George’s pig

The Da Vinci Code.txt

only his silhouette visible. "Good evening," Langdon called up. "Sir Leigh, may I present Sophie Neveu." "An honor." Teabing moved into the light. "Thank you for having us," Sophie said, now seeing the man wore metal leg braces and used crutches. He was coming down one stair at a time. "I realize it's quite late." "It is so late, my dear, it's early." He laughed. "Vous n'tes pas Amricaine?" Sophie shook her head. "Parisienne." "Your English is superb." "Thank you. I studied at the Royal Holloway." "So then, that explains it." Teabing hobbled lower through the shadows. "Perhaps Robert told you I schooled just down the road at Oxford." Teabing fixed Langdon with a devilish smile. "Of course, I also applied to Harvard as my safety school." Their host arrived at the bottom of the stairs, appearing to Sophie no more like a knight than Sir Elton John. Portly and ruby-faced, Sir Leigh Teabing had bushy red hair and jovial hazel eyes that seemed to twinkle as he spoke. He wore pleated pants and a roomy silk shirt under a paisley vest. Despite the aluminum braces on his legs, he carried himself with a resilient, vertical dignity that seemed more a by-product of noble ancestry than any kind of conscious effort. Teabing arrived and extended a hand to Langdon. "Robert, you've lost weight." Langdon grinned. "And you've found some." Teabing laughed heartily, patting his rotund belly. "Touch. My only carnal pleasures these days seem to be culinary." Turning now to Sophie, he gently took her 153 hand, bowing his head slightly, breathing lightly on her fingers, and diverting his eyes. "M'lady." Sophie glanced at Langdon, uncertain whether she'd stepped back in time or into a nuthouse. The butler who had answered the door now entered carrying a tea service, which he arranged on a table in front of the fireplace. "This is Rmy Legaludec," Teabing said, "my manservant." The slender butler gave a stiff nod and disappeared yet again. "Rmy is Lyonais," Teabing whispered, as if it were an unfortunate disease. "But he does sauces quite nicely." Langdon looked amused. "I would have thought you'd import an English staff?" "Good heavens, no! I would not wish a British chef on anyone except the French tax collectors." He glanced over at Sophie. "Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle Neveu. Please be assured that my distaste for the French extends only to politics and the soccer pitch. Your government steals my money, and your football squad recently humiliated us." Sophie offered an easy smile. Teabing eyed her a moment and then looked at Langdon. "Something has happened. You both look shaken." Langdon nodded. "We've had an interesting night, Leigh." "No doubt. You arrive on my doorstep unannounced in the middle of the night speaking of the Grail. Tell me, is this indeed about the Grail, or did you simply say that because you know it is the lone topic for which I would rouse myself in the middle of the night?" A little of both, Sophie thought, picturing the cryptex hidden beneath the couch. "Leigh," Langdon said, "we'd

Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

demanded. “Dear Emily,” he said, stretching like a cat and rubbing Shadow’s ears. “How was your day?” “Delightful.” As he showed no evidence of bestirring himself, I grudgingly seated myself on the grass. “Our friend in the village was no wight, but a changeling of the courtly fae. I had to interrogate the creature with iron. Unassisted.” “I’m sure you held your own, as you always do.” The hat slid back down his forehead. I took it from him, and he blinked in the sudden sunlight. “Oh dear. What have I done to earn that basilisk stare?” “We have agreed to work together. Yet now I hear that you have seen fit to trample on my research. The brownie by the spring, whose trust I have spent days in cultivating, would barely speak to me after your visit.” “What?” He looked genuinely baffled. “I brought the little one peppermints and asked a few questions. Nothing more.” “He seemed frightened of you.” I added quickly, “Though he would not say why. In any case, you cannot go there again.” “Your wish is my command, Em.” He regarded me with amusement. “Is that all that has upset you? Surely there are other brownies in this wood for you to pester if that one has soured on you.” I thought quickly, hiding it behind a frown. It had become clear to me, in a way that it never had before, that it would be wise for me to be frightened of Bambleby. And if I could not muster fear—a dubious proposition, to be sure—I should at least attempt wariness, if for no reason other than that he is Folk. My suspicion is suspicion no more, but fact. “You have done nothing since your arrival but laze about,” I told him. “As well as jeopardize the only meaningful connection I have established with the Hidden Ones. You don’t realize how hard I have been working, Wendell, or how important this is to me.” “I do, though,” he said, and I was alarmed by how earnest he became. “And I’m sorry, Em, if I’ve given you reason to think otherwise. I assure you that I have been working quite hard today.” He looked down at his sprawled self. “More or less. I walked a great deal of the Karrðarskogur. I even discovered a small lake high upon the mountain with evidence of kelpie habitation. Well, whatever they call such creatures in this blasted cold country.” “Kelpie?” My mouth fell open. “What lake? I saw no lakes.” He looked far too pleased with himself. “That’s because you missed it, my dear. It was about half a mile beyond the extent of your map.” “Show me.” He groaned. “But I just came from there. You are far too vigorous for a scholar. Another day, please. Why don’t you tell me about your interview with our new changeling friend?” He was changing the subject, but I admit I had little energy for climbing up into the peaks after the day I’d had, and so gave him a summary of my

We-Could-Be-So Good.txt

bothered by it. Most of his friends were in constant conflict with their fathers, and not having one in the picture seemed to be a net gain. It hadn’t ever occurred to Andy that his father might want more to do with him. It’s too late for that, isn’t it? Andy’s sure that he ought to think so, that if his father really wants to open this door, then Andy ought to shut it in his face, just on principle. But he already knows that he won’t do that. His father is the only family he has, and while Andy isn’t sure he ought to care about that, the fact is that he does. * * * When Andy gets back to his desk, there’s a manila interoffice mail envelope sitting on it. Absently, he unwinds the cord and pulls out the paper within. How are you feeling? the sheet of yellow-lined paper reads. It isn’t signed, but it doesn’t need to be. On the same paper, Andy writes fine, crosses off his name on the envelope and writes Nick’s, then puts the note inside before handing it to his secretary. Maybe half an hour later the envelope returns, this time brought by a copyboy who’s carrying a brown paper bag. “Mr. Russo said you’re to eat this,” says the copyboy, plopping the bag onto Andy’s desk. “Let me guess,” Andy says, opening the bag to reveal a white cardboard container of soup. He’s too congested to smell what kind of soup. “He also told you to stick around until I’ve finished it.” He gestures expansively at his barely furnished office. “Make yourself at home.” He opens the envelope. This time there isn’t anything written on the paper, but it’s been folded up small. When he unfolds it, two chalky white aspirins spill out. It’s just like Nick to assume that Andy doesn’t have his own bottle of aspirin in his desk—he doesn’t, of course, but Nick can’t possibly know that. He swallows the tablets and opens the container of soup—it’s chicken noodle, boiling hot, and likely from the deli downstairs. Along with a plastic spoon, there’s a little cellophane packet of oyster crackers, which he opens and crumbles into the soup. Even before his first mouthful, the heat and steam from the broth seem to work some kind of magic on his poor abused sinuses, and he momentarily feels like he can breathe a little. As he eats, he writes a reply to Nick. Thanks. Do you want me to stay at my old apartment tonight so you don’t catch whatever this is? Later, when the empty soup container is in the trash and Andy’s sinuses are stuffed up again, a reply comes. Don’t be stupid. I’d only worry that you were lying dead in a pool of your own snot. Besides, I’m already going to catch whatever you’ve got. Nick’s probably right. They spent the weekend in bed together, and even if they hadn’t, they’re forever taking bites of one another’s food and stealing sips of one another’s coffee. Suddenly

Kika-Hatzopoulou-Threads-That-Bi.txt

horus-born,” said Io. “When we arrived in Alante, the lady at immigration insisted on listing Samiya as asclepies-born and not horus-born. Told us it’d help her land a job. They do the same thing, she said, but Alantians like their own word better.” Io wanted to keep this conversation going but was unsure what the right questions were. Tentatively, she asked, “Why would your father throw a fit?” He spoke in a whisper, bent over the kitchen counter. “He is against intermixing. Thinks cultures should keep themselves separate, that other-born should stay in their home city-nation. He believes the gods punish defectors by taking away their powers.” “Is he other-born?” Edei replied bluntly, “No. He’s a Separatist.” Sometime after the Kinship Treaty, when the civil rights of other-born were established, people started migrating across the city-nations in search of a better job and living conditions. At the same time, a wave of conservatism swept through the world: people like Edei’s father who believed other-born should remain in their city-nation of origin to honor and serve the gods that gifted them with powers. It was called Other-Born Separatism. “My father’s beliefs,” Edei went on, “are part of the reason we had to leave Sumi. His sect wanted Samiya to stop performing abortions. She refused.” “That’s very brave.” “For a while, it was. But then her family started receiving death threats. Things escalated so badly that we were forced to leave Sumi and seek entry to another city-nation.” Sadness swept over his features, shadowing his eyes. Then his lips curved in a soft smile. “At least my exile gave me the chance to experience little yellow legends buzzing all around me.” Io’s heart melted a little bit at his lovely face, his lovely words, his smile that glimmered like starlight breaking through a raging night storm. She wanted to go to him, pinch his chin between her fingers and bring his lips down to meet hers— The thought startled her. Not just the intimate nature of it, but the easiness with which it had arrived. Like it had been lodged in the conduits of her mind for a long time, and it had finally loosened free, a plop followed by a current of longing. Edei cleared his throat and returned to the stove. Io realized, too late, that she had been staring at him. Heat bloomed on her cheeks; she pulled her damp hair over one shoulder, forming a curtain between them. Get it together. He had a girlfriend. Samiya wasn’t here now, but there was evidence of her everywhere. The combs and beauty products in the bathroom. The delicate shoes by the door. A silver ring on the short table in front of Io. The encyclopedias and anatomy books, the bees on the shelf, the sweetness in Edei’s voice when he spoke of her. Edei had followed her halfway across the world. Gods, Io was making herself feel even worse. Settle, Thais always said when a bout of anxiety overwhelmed Io. Name your feeling. Find the thought behind it, the reason. Breathe in

A-Living-Remedy.txt

her why we had never talked about her cancer. She and I talked about most everything else, after all. I don’t know what I expected her to say. Perhaps it wasn’t fair of me to ask, even after a year. My mother was rarely cold and never aloof, so I knew it was something else that made her instantly withdraw, her expression a firmly closed door. Even before she spoke, I understood that my question was an intrusion on her hard-won peace, a knock she wasn’t ready to answer. “I don’t need to talk about having cancer, Nicole,” she told me. “I lived through it.” She did live through it. The breast cancer never returned. But her illness, the first serious one of her life, was a turning point for our family, an upheaval from which there would be no lasting recovery. * * * Once, while visiting my parents, I asked my father what he was proudest of in life. “You,” he said. I’d walked right into that one. “Besides me.” When he paused, I wondered if he would say something sarcastic, or tell me that he couldn’t think of anything. But the answer he gave was confident, his face as serious as I’d ever seen it. “I’m pretty proud,” he said, “of getting out of Ohio.” Dad was thirteen years old when he was told that his mother’s kidneys were failing. The first successful living kidney transplant had been performed a decade earlier, in 1954, but the procedure was risky and far from common. Hemodialysis treatment for patients with acute renal failure had recently become available, and a home dialysis machine was soon installed in his mother’s bedroom. His parents enjoyed entertaining, and their home in Euclid had been a gathering place for parties and family holiday celebrations. Now the household settled into a state of hushed anxiety. Their father’s habitual jokes, usually made at someone else’s expense, took on a hard, cutting edge. Dad, his brother, and his three sisters all quickly learned what was expected of them: They couldn’t play or roughhouse after school. They couldn’t invite friends over. The first hint of an argument would land all of them in trouble. What the hell’s the matter with you? They walked themselves to school and to church on Sunday and kept the house as tidy as they could. My father’s most deeply loathed chore was cleaning the dialysis machine. His grades were never stellar—my mother used to wonder whether he had undiagnosed dyslexia—but he was a hard worker, adept at solving technical problems. He also found it easy to talk with people and make them laugh; his sense of humor, unlike his father’s, was warm and rarely bitter. He won graphic arts and lithography awards for his work in his high school print shop, and by his senior year he’d secured a part-time training-with-pay job in the city printing department, where he spent fifteen hours a week generating interdepartmental memos, civic work orders, and official town correspondence for $1.49 an hour. He wasn’t sure that college was for

Kika-Hatzopoulou-Threads-That-Bi.txt

growing louder, as the people in the courtyard celebrated. She wondered, momentarily, if Thais was among the crowd, bleary-eyed and ecstatic at the impossibility of her dreams coming true. Saint-Yves had just won the elections. * * * Io heaved under Bianca’s weight, her back and neck drenched with sweat. They had woken Bianca as gently as they could, with soothing words and explanations of their plan to help her. It made no difference. The mob queen thrust like a frenzied leviathan, kicking, elbowing, and screaming nonsense at the top of her lungs. It took both Io and Edei to get her wrists bound and her mouth gagged. “I hate this,” Edei mumbled, looking miserably at his former boss, as they slipped through the abandoned northern gates—every police officer in the Plaza must be celebrating Saint-Yves’s success at the police headquarters. “I should have helped the gang break her out of here. It’s my fault.” “We’ll fix it,” Io answered through her silent sniffles. She wasn’t sure when she had started crying. She had been focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on holding the whip-thread securely, on keeping Bianca from escaping—when, suddenly, she felt the neckline of her sweater sticking to her neck, soaked by the constant flow of soundless tears down her cheeks. The world used to be ten blocks wide—her apartment, Amos’s café, the rest of the Silts—and now it had bubbled in all directions: dark cities and fury-born, severed threads and sinister manipulators. She was terrified. The House of Nine appeared through the smog like a beautiful mirage. There were no admirers gathered around it now, no paparazzi; they must all be covering the election. The security guards were having a cigarette, perched on the gate steps. Above them, the garden lights of the house were lit, a constellation of rectangle-shaped stars through the gray haze. A hare-serpent chimerini dashed by, paws pattering and tail slithering across the street. Io stopped a safe distance away from the guards, who were pointedly ignoring her. Her voice came out like a croak in the deserted district. “Tell the Nine that Io Ora is here to see them. Tell them I’ll do anything they ask.” A security woman with a swirly tattoo sleeve retreated to the small cubicle by the gates and spoke in hushed whispers to whatever device linked them to the main house. A few moments later, she beckoned for the three other security guards to fall around Io, Edei, and Bianca, and the seven of them started on an awkward procession to the mansion. A gravel path curved around the building and ended in a domed greenhouse overlooking the West Canal. A dozen lamps bathed the greenhouse in white light, which reflected like snowfall on the indigo marble floor and indigo-and-gold furniture. Dark blue gossamer curtains embroidered with stars mushroomed in the soft breeze coming through the open panels. The Nine were positioned statuesquely around the room in their elegant gowns and gleaming brown skin, fuzzy chimerini furs draped on their necks and arms. Calliope

Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

in the comfortable way she said it that made me feel easier. I split the log in only two strokes. I managed to hit one of the cracks in the next piece, and it divided with a single blow. Margret clapped. “Well done!” Lilja exclaimed, beaming as if I’d completed a marathon. In truth, I did feel rather proud of myself. It’s funny how the practice of such simple, ancient skills can put one at ease. My progress, though, was rather uneven. My aim began to improve under Lilja’s instruction, but I did not have her strength, and I could not be comfortable swinging something so deadly about, particularly after the fiasco with Wendell. After we’d accumulated a little pile between us, she and Margret helped me cart it inside, and I found myself inviting them to stay for tea, though my notes scowled accusingly at me from the table. “How cosy!” Margret said, and they both looked around the cottage admiringly. For some reason, I did not inform them that the cosiness was all Wendell’s making. Not once have I been complimented on my apartments at Cambridge. Well, I spend most of my time in the library or my office, so what does it matter? Lilja asked if Wendell was in, and both looked relieved when I shook my head. “Surely you aren’t frightened of him?” I enquired. “Oh, no!” Margret said a little too quickly. “We’re very grateful to him for helping us.” “Yes,” Lilja said, and I understood then that they were afraid of Wendell, very much so, and eager to avoid offending him. I sensed Margret wanted to pursue the subject of Wendell somehow, but she said nothing more as I made tea. I was relieved they hadn’t mentioned the tavern again—I doubt I will ever be easy in such places, particularly when all in attendance insist on approaching you for a warm-hearted sort of chat, full of praise and gratitude that I have no more idea what to do with than one of Thora’s skeins of yarn and some knitting needles. We chatted about my research and my forthcoming ICODEF presentation with Bambleby, and then as I poured the tea, Margret said in a bit of a rush, “Then you and Wendell are not—an item?” I blinked at her. “I—no. Of course not. We are colleagues. And friends, I suppose,” I added grudgingly. “I didn’t think so,” Lilja said, giving Margret a just as I said sort of look. “What with how he carries on with the village girls.” But Margret’s brow was furrowed. “I only thought— The way he looks at you—” The way he looks at me? I thought about the way Wendell looked at me sometimes, particularly when he thought I wasn’t aware of it, and then I felt hot, then cold, then hot again. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said, turning away to conceal my blush. Good grief, you’d think I was a girl of sixteen. Lilja kicked Margret. “She probably has someone back home, you goose.” “Do you?” Margret said.

The-One.txt

her face. “You never had any intention of that, did you?” She purses her lips together. “Brody wasn’t ever going to leave me alone. He would’ve ruined our lives.” Ethan recalls the look in Carr’s eyes in his final moments. Sloane screaming at Ethan to shoot. Carr’s final words as he swung the pistol toward Ethan, before Ethan silenced him with a bullet to the head. She’s the one. Carr was trying to defend himself is all. His jaw falls open. “So, you killed him?” She frowns. “No, Ethan. You did.” A fresh wave of horror flows through his veins. “You tricked me into believing I was saving your life.” She sighs as if the conversation is irritating her. Ethan feels his eyes narrow. “You let him take the gun from you.” He steps toward the island. “You wanted me to shoot him. You planned it.” She slides off her barstool. “I knew you would never go along with it if I told you.” Ethan throws his hands in the air. “Because it’s murder!” Her face hardens. “It was what needed to be done.” Ethan stares at her in disbelief. “He was a murderer, Ethan. He killed his wife and used his wealth to prey on young girls and get away with it. He was going to ruin us.” Sloane moves around the island. “Us, Ethan. I did it for us. Our marriage.” She reaches for him, but Ethan pulls his arm away. “You knew it was Brody Carr coming down the aisle at the Kirkland Market on our anniversary. You ran into him on purpose. You planned that, too.” Sloane stiffens. “I had to take action, Ethan. I couldn’t stay with you as the poor, pitied wife who got cheated on. We would never have made it if I hadn’t done what I did.” “I don’t even know you.” He marches past her and storms up the stairs, hearing Sloane trailing behind him when he pulls a suitcase out of the storage closet in the upstairs hallway. After tossing the suitcase onto their bed, he moves to the closet. When he comes out with an armful of clothes, Sloane stands at the edge of their bed, looking between him and the suitcase. “What are you doing?” “I’m leaving.” He tosses the clothes into the suitcase. “No, you’re not.” “Oh, no?” He takes a step toward her. “What are you going to do? Kill me, too?” Her lips meld into a hard line. “That’s not fair.” He closes the suitcase. “It’s not?” The sound of his voice shakes the windows. He’s breathing like he needs to escape the room. “I’ve been trying to tell you something ever since you came home.” She lays a pregnancy test on top of his bag. Ethan stares at the blue cross in the middle of the stick. Chapter 52 Ethan’s eyes remain fixed on the pregnancy test for nearly a minute before he lifts his gaze to meet hers. “Is it mine?” “Of course, it is.” He looks unconvinced. “I got my period after getting back

Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt

diner. Her ex-fiancé’s Instagram. She hesitated briefly before tapping enter—and then there he was in all his suited, boyish charm. Her stomach turned sour at the memory of him calmly asking for her engagement ring back. He’d been even calmer while explaining that while he might love her, he couldn’t let their relationship cost him a career he’d worked so hard for. Calmer still while he asked her to leave. August wouldn’t break up with her that way—that is, if they were actually together, instead of merely pretending. There would be shouting and door slamming and insults from both of them. They would bring the house down. Why was she even thinking about this? Moreover, why was she suddenly taking note of Morrison’s shoulders and musing that they could fit into her fake fiancé’s shoulders three times? It wasn’t a competition— Natalie drew in a breath as a new image popped up on the screen. Just posted. A picture of Morrison on the balcony where she used to have her coffee overlooking Central Park South. Beside him was a familiar blonde in a white bathrobe sipping green juice from a glass, rolling her eyes over having the photo taken. That blonde . . . Krista, right? Natalie knew her. One of their board member’s daughters. He’d traded up. Feeling out of breath, Natalie smacked the laptop shut. She stood up and walked a half circle around the bed. Her heart wasn’t breaking. That damage had already been done and, if she was being honest, it had been the easiest part to mend. But her confidence? That was a different story—and it took another pounding now, an invisible mallet flattening her like a chicken cutlet between two sheets of wax paper. “Deep breath,” she murmured to herself, stretching her arms up over her head and letting them float down slowly. Back up, back down. She could spin this jarring discovery that her fiancé was already moving on into something positive. What didn’t kill her would make her stronger. The fact that her ex was sleeping with a billionaire’s beautiful daughter would only make her comeback more satisfying. She’d belong again. Not exactly as before, but with a similar life. She’d get back that sense of . . . being wanted. Being seen. Deciding to grab a cup of coffee before getting in the shower, Natalie opened the guest room door as quietly as possible and crept out, not wanting to disturb Julian and Hallie, who were sleeping on the other side of the kitchen. God forbid she wake them up. The bed would be creaking in ten seconds flat and honestly, bearing witness to someone else’s orgasm quest was the last thing she needed this morning. She stuck a pod in the coffee maker, placed a mug under the spout, and pulled the lever down, selecting the strongest setting. And waited. Why was August’s face the first image to pop into her head literally five minutes after finding out her ex was dating someone new? She didn’t know. But it was definitely a

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

red hair, do you think he blushes everywhere? chapter fifteen DENVER, CO Finn with you? Just got a call from con staff and he was supposed to check in twenty minutes ago. Not picking up his phone, either. I frown down at the text from Joe Kowalczyk, Finn’s manager. I’m in the hotel lobby, waiting for Finn to come downstairs so we can head to the convention center for Rocky Mountain Expo. He hasn’t answered the text I sent earlier this morning, either, the one about how apparently at this hotel, continental breakfast means plain yogurt and an unripe banana. I just assumed he ignored it because it wasn’t exactly thrilling commentary. Despite my debilitating millennial fear of phone calls, I call him. No answer. That’s odd. When we checked in last night, his room was right across the hall from mine. He seemed tired, which was fair, given we’d opted to go up five flights of stairs to our floor. A reasonable trade-off for waiting behind a family getting onto the elevator with their eight suitcases. He said he was turning in early, and I guess it wouldn’t be strange if he slept in, even unintentionally. Although my anxiety helpfully informs me there are a number of accidents that could befall him alone in a hotel room, several of which are now parading through my mind. The elevator isn’t fast enough, so I take the stairs again. Out of breath, I knock on the door gently at first. Probably too gently. “Finn?” I say, and then wait. Nothing. Surely, he’s just in the bathroom. Or still sleeping. Definitely not lying on the floor unconscious. No need to panic. Except the not-panic pitches my voice even higher as I start banging on the door. “Finn? Are you in there?” I must be knocking so loudly that I don’t hear anyone come to the door, and when it gives beneath me, I stumble forward. It takes a few moments for me to regain my balance as I bring my eyes up to his. And there he is, face half-hidden by the comforter he’s draped around himself like some kind of sad wizard. “Just need a few more minutes,” he rasps out before turning around and plodding back to the bed. The room is a mess, his suitcases spilling over in the middle of it. “Oh—you’re sick,” I say quietly. “I’m fine. Like I said, I just need a few more minutes.” At that, he lets out a full-body shiver. “Is it cold in here, or is it just me?” A laugh gets stuck in my throat because he is very much not fine. “Yeah, no. We’re going to cancel. You should get some rest.” He glances back at me, hair askew, face ashen. He really does look miserable. Stars: they’re just like us! “But all those people . . . they’re counting on me. I made a commitment.” “They’ll understand,” I say. “These things happen. Don’t tell me you’ve never taken a sick day before.” The way he looks at me, I wonder

Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt

deep condition, then detangle it. I’m sans hair dryer in the summer months, so I pack on a bunch of leave-in and let it air-dry. I feel like a brand-new person as I swap places with Bezi and Paige so they can wash up. Soon as we’re all done, I make a beeline to the edge of Mirror Lake. I lead Bezi and Paige all the way around the east side of the lake. “They were right here,” I say, glancing back at the distance to my cabin. “I swear we saw something.” “Maybe it was a bear?” Bezi says. “No. No way,” I say. “It was standing up.” “Bears stand up sometimes,” Bezi says. “You serious?” I ask. “We were looking right at it.” “I didn’t have the best view,” Bezi says. “And it was dark.” I huff and move closer to the murky water. I peer down into it. I’d heard footsteps and a distinct splash not once but twice. I saw someone. I know I did. “Check it out,” Paige says. She’s wandered a little way from us and is staring down at the ground. I join her and peer at the path that circles the lake. There is a long track in the dirt like something heavy was dragged across its surface. The marks in the dirt stop at the lake’s edge. “You really did see something, didn’t you?” Paige asks. I nod. I know Paige believes me. It goes against all her rules to try and make an excuse for this. Bezi crouches low to the ground. “You see this?” she asks. She grabs a stick from the nearby brush and pokes around in the dirt, uncovering a wide piece of gnarled gray plastic. On the ends are reinforced holes, and looped through each one is a short length of rusted chain, caked with dirt. “What is it?” Paige asks. “Trash?” Bezi shakes her head. “I think it’s a swing seat. Like the kind we used to have on the playground in elementary school.” I take the beat-up piece of plastic from her and turn it over in my hands. “Was there a playground out here?” Bezi asks. I shake my head. “No. Never. You can’t even be up here if you’re younger than sixteen.” Mr. Lamont had relayed that information to me at some point, but I can’t remember the specifics. A high-pitched clang cuts through the air. I glance across the lake and see Kyle standing on the front steps of the Western Lodge. He’s banging a wooden spoon against a pot lid and waving at us. “Breakfast!” he calls. I toss the shard of plastic and rusty chains into a trash can as we make our way back to the lodge. Kyle put together some waffles—the frozen kind—and Porter is setting out orange juice and sliced apples on the big wooden coffee table. Everybody looks as exhausted as I feel. I think I got fifteen minutes of sleep after what we’d seen on the shoreline, and when I woke up with Paige’s foot in

The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt

muleteer to stop. St. Aubert bade him proceed as fast as possible; but either Michael, or his mules were obstinate, for they did not quit the old pace. Horses' feet were now heard; a man rode up to the carriage, still ordering the driver to stop; and St. Aubert, who could no longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able to prepare a pistol for his defence, when his hand was upon the door of the chaise. The man staggered on his horse, the report of the pistol was followed by a groan, and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined, when in the next instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt. He now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name of Valancourt, was answered in a voice, that no longer suffered him to doubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to his assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding profusely, and appearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured to soften the terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not materially hurt, the wound being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with the muleteer, assisted him to dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the road, where St. Aubert tried to bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so excessively that he could not accomplish it; and, Michael being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which, on being disengaged from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between the distress of this circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her, and called to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the road, but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt, who heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly understood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his own condition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he reached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him had occasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled, but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. While he said this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was still bleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formed some handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of the blood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquired repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it was at two leagues' distance, his distress increased, since he knew not how Valancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the carriage, and perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood. When he mentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would not suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for

Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 by Heather Fawcett All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. DEL REY and the CIRCLE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Names: Fawcett, Heather (Heather M.), author. Title: Emily Wilde’s encyclopaedia of faeries / Heather Fawcett. Description: New York: Del Rey, [2023] Identifiers: LCCN 2022000431 (print) | LCCN 2022000432 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593500132 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593500149 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593597620 (international edition) Subjects: LCGFT: Magic realist fiction. | Romance fiction. | Novels. Classification: LCC PR9199.4.F39 E45 2023 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.F39 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220218 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022000431 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022000432 Ebook ISBN 9780593500149 randomhousebooks.com Book design by Virginia Norey, adapted for ebook Cover design: Vera Drmanovski ep_prh_6.0_142226817_c0_r0 Contents Cover Title Page Copyright 20th October, 1909 20th October—Evening 21st October 21st October—Evening 22nd October 23rd October 28th October 29th October 29th October—Evening 30th October 31st October 12th November 14th November 15th November 16th November 17th November 18th November 19th November —? November 20th November 22nd November 23rd November 26th November 26th November—Late 2nd December (?) 3rd December (?) 4th December (?) 17th December (?) 22nd December (?) 23rd December (?) 25th December (?) 30th January 30th January—Later (Presumably) 3rd February 4th February 13th February Chapter 37 Acknowledgments About the Author 20th October, 1909 Hrafnsvik, Ljosland Shadow is not at all happy with me. He lies by the fire while the chill wind rattles the door, tail inert, staring out from beneath that shaggy forelock of his with the sort of accusatory resignation peculiar to dogs, as if to say: Of all the stupid adventures you’ve dragged me on, this will surely be the death of us. I fear I have to agree, though this makes me no less eager to begin my research. Herein I intend to provide an honest account of my day-to-day activities in the field as I document an enigmatic species of faerie called “Hidden Ones.” This journal serves two purposes: to aid my recollection when it comes time to formally compile my field notes, and to provide a record for those scholars who come after me should I be captured by the Folk. Verba volant, scripta manent. As with previous journals, I will presume a basic understanding of dryadology in the reader, though I will gloss certain references that may be unfamiliar to those new to the field. I have not had reason to visit Ljosland before, and would be lying if I said my first sighting this morning didn’t temper my enthusiasm. The journey takes five days from London, and the only vessel to get you there is a weekly freighter carrying a great variety of goods and a much smaller variety of passengers. We ventured steadily north, dodging icebergs, whilst I paced the deck

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

I wanted to scream at him. One was the fact that he clearly had put Robbie ahead of Omar. Another was that he didn’t even seem concerned about justice for Thalia, about the fact that maybe she wasn’t resting in peace, and maybe the person who did this had gone on to hurt more people. Instead of screaming, I tucked a bolster pillow between my shoulder blades, stretched my shoulders back and pushed my boobs out. I wondered whether Mike would testify to any of this—whatever his professional convictions, his personal ethics. My phone had been recording the whole time, just in case. I’m not an idiot. “It makes so much sense, then, that you’d all get your stories straight. He was vulnerable.” I swallowed all the spit in my mouth and said, “Even if Robbie had shown up a little late at the mattresses, you’d have to say he was there from the beginning, right? Otherwise they’re off on some rabbit chase. Maybe they’d fully pin it on him.” I expected Mike to look alarmed, but he shrugged. “He was there, though.” “You remember walking with him?” “After all this time, I mean—but he was in the pictures from the beginning. That’s rock-solid.” “Oh, right,” I said. “He’s in the first one. Knowing him, it was probably his idea to take photos in the first place.” “Right? If we were kids now he’d be the Instagram king. He always wanted everyone to remember how much fun they’d had.” “That’s really sweet,” I said. “He’s a sweet guy.” “He’s a sap. He used to listen to Phantom of the Opera. I could never figure it out, how does a guy get away with listening to Phantom of the Opera and not get ragged on? No one questioned his sexuality.” “So if they asked you on the stand,” I said, “whether he was there from the beginning, you’d be positive? Because I’m having this crisis of confidence about testifying. Like, how do you remember things? It was so long ago.” “I think for us, it helped that we talked about it right away. We’re sitting around listing who all was in the woods, we’re making sure we know what time we got there.” “Was that all from Robbie? It seems like he was so smart about it, developing the photos and everything.” I sipped my whiskey and intentionally spilled some down my chin, onto my tank top, so I had to paw myself dry. Mike kept his eyes studiously above my head. “Yeah, actually,” he said. “He was the one who gathered a bunch of us. Or maybe—I guess we were in his room to check on him. It was the day after they found her. He started writing everything down in a notebook, who was there and what time we left the theater. It helped him process it all.” The motherfucker. That entitled little floppy-haired motherfucker. “For sure,” I said. “And I bet he was terrified. Of being blamed. I mean, what if he hadn’t been there? Or what if he’d joined

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.txt

down, sir, please!" "Very well, then, I will--on one condition. Having brought you here to this out-of-the-way place, I feel myself responsible for your safe-conduct home, whatever you may yourself feel about it. As to your getting to Trantridge without assistance, it is quite impossible; for, to tell the truth, dear, owing to this fog, which so disguises everything, I don't quite know where we are myself. Now, if you will promise to wait beside the horse while I walk through the bushes till I come to some road or house, and ascertain exactly our whereabouts, I'll deposit you here willingly. When I come back I'll give you full directions, and if you insist upon walking you may; or you may ride--at your pleasure." She accepted these terms, and slid off on the near side, though not till he had stolen a cursory kiss. He sprang down on the other side. "I suppose I must hold the horse?" said she. "Oh no; it's not necessary," replied Alec, patting the panting creature. "He's had enough of it for tonight." He turned the horse's head into the bushes, hitched him on to a bough, and made a sort of couch or nest for her in the deep mass of dead leaves. "Now, you sit there," he said. "The leaves have not got damp as yet. Just give an eye to the horse--it will be quite sufficient." He took a few steps away from her, but, returning, said, "By the bye, Tess, your father has a new cob today. Somebody gave it to him." "Somebody? You!" D'Urberville nodded. "O how very good of you that is!" she exclaimed, with a painful sense of the awkwardness of having to thank him just then. "And the children have some toys." "I didn't know--you ever sent them anything!" she murmured, much moved. "I almost wish you had not--yes, I almost with it!" "Why, dear?" "It--hampers me so." "Tessy--don't you love me ever so little now?" "I'm grateful," she reluctantly admitted. "But I fear I do not---" The sudden vision of his passion for herself as a factor in this result so distressed her that, beginning with one slow tear, and then following with another, she wept outright. "Don't cry, dear, dear one! Now sit down here, and wait till I come." She passively sat down amid the leaves he had heaped, and shivered slightly. "Are you cold?" he asked. "Not very--a little." He touched her with his fingers, which sank into her as into down. "You have only that puffy muslin dress on--how's that?" "It's my best summer one. 'Twas very warm when I started, and I didn't know I was going to ride, and that it would be night." "Nights grow chilly in September. Let me see." He pulled off a light overcoat that he had worn, and put it round her tenderly. "That's it--now you'll feel warmer," he continued. "Now, my pretty, rest there; I shall soon be back again." Having buttoned the overcoat round her shoulders he plunged into the webs of vapour which by

The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

the table to Wadgers, who acted as goal-keeper for the offensive, so to speak, and then stepped forward as Jaffers and the stranger swayed and staggered towards him, clutching and hitting in. A chair stood in the way, and went aside with a crash as they came down together. "Get the feet," said Jaffers between his teeth. Mr. Hall, endeavoring to act on instructions, receiving a sounding kick in the ribs that disposed of him for a moment, and Mr. Wadgers, seeing the decapitated stranger had rolled over and got the upper side of Jaffers, retreated towards the door, knife in hand, and so collided with Mr. Huxter and the Siddermorton carter coming to the rescue of law and order. At the same moment down came three or four bottles from the chiffonier and shot a web of pungency into the air of the room. "I'll surrender," cried the stranger, though he had Jaffers down, and in another moment he stood up panting, a strange figure, headless and handless--for he had pulled off his right glove now as well as his left. "It's no good," he said, as if sobbing for breath. It was the strangest thing in the world to hear that voice coming as if out of empty space, but the Sussex peasants are perhaps the most matter-of-fact people under the sun. Jaffers got up also and produced a pair of handcuffs. Then he started. "I say!" said Jaffers, brought up short by a dim realisation of the incongruity of the whole business. "Darm it! Can't use 'em as I can see." The stranger ran his arm down his waistcoat, and as if by a miracle the buttons to which his empty sleeve pointed became undone. Then he said something about his shin, and stooped down. He seemed to be fumbling with his shoes and socks. "Why!" said Huxter, suddenly, "that's not a man at all. It's just empty clothes. Look! You can see down his collar and the linings of his clothes. I could put my arm--" He extended his hand; it seemed to meet something in mid-air, and he drew it back with a sharp exclamation. "I wish you'd keep your fingers out of my eye," said the aerial voice, in a tone of savage expostulation. "The fact is, I'm all here: head, hands, legs, and all the rest of it, but it happens I'm invisible. It's a confounded nuisance, but I am. That's no reason why I should be poked to pieces by every stupid bumpkin in Iping, is it?" The suit of clothes, now all unbuttoned and hanging loosely upon its unseen supports, stood up, arms akimbo. Several other of the men folks had now entered the room, so that it was closely crowded. "Invisible, eigh?" said Huxter, ignoring the stranger's abuse. "Who ever heard the likes of that?" "It's strange, perhaps, but it's not a crime. Why am I assaulted by a policeman in this fashion?" "Ah! that's a different matter," said Jaffers. "No doubt you are a bit difficult to see in this light,

Blowback.txt

jobs in Washington because I was more interested in sitting in secure briefing rooms, digging into intelligence gathered overseas by U.S. spies, than sitting in classrooms. I trained my strengths—and anxieties—toward supporting national leaders, from preparing research memos at the White House and Pentagon to briefing CIA directors and Homeland Security secretaries. The stainless boy from a Midwest flyover state was awestruck at having a top-secret security clearance. I grew up fast and learned to stay in the background safeguarding information, knowing that lives were in the balance and that I was responsible for protecting the “sources and methods” of our spy agencies. Just as the kid inside me had yearned, I was working alongside the good guys to fight the bad ones, or so I thought. Washington changed in the years after 9/11. After spending time in the executive branch, the private sector, and grad school, I returned to Capitol Hill in my late twenties and found a very different place. Some of the people I looked up to had turned out to be not-so-good guys (including House Speaker Dennis Hastert, who’d been arrested, charged, and later convicted in a hush-money scheme related to sexual misconduct with minors). The spirit of unity had also worn off, giving way to fermenting animosity. The Republican Party was focused on undermining Democratic President Barack Obama, while a confrontational Tea Party movement sought to take over the GOP by launching an insurgency. I tried to ignore the partisan rancor that followed me up the career ladder. As the national security advisor on the House Homeland Security Committee, I told people I was focused on policy, not politics. Then Donald Trump emerged. “I want a Trump inoculation plan.” In early 2016, a small group of Republican congressmen and aides, myself included, huddled around a conference table inside the U.S. Capitol. Afternoon sunshine illuminated untouched cookies and sodas in front of us. The faces around the table hung low. “I want a Trump inoculation plan,” House Speaker Paul Ryan demanded, making eye contact with each of us. Paul Ryan had been elected Speaker only months earlier and was eager to move the GOP toward a big tent, hopeful, ideas-driven party. I was a fan for this reason. We millennials prided ourselves on being fiscally conservative and socially liberal, and Ryan was going to be our figurehead. Trump was putting it all at risk in his unexpected quest for the GOP presidential nomination. “We can’t let him trash the GOP,” Ryan fumed, noting that Donald Trump was not representative of the policies or the people in the Republican Party. House majority leader Kevin McCarthy nodded in agreement. When it was his turn, McCarthy joked that Trump had switched parties so many times he couldn’t tell a donkey from an elephant. Party leaders had failed to knock out Trump early, so now they were trying to coalesce around someone who could stop him. In the meantime, Paul Ryan wanted House Republicans to distance themselves from the New York businessman, who they all expected would lose anyway. It wasn’t just

The-Last-Sinner.txt

as I understand it, this whole area”—she motioned to the area where paths wound through the trees—“was gifted to the church, the archdiocese, I think, but she specifically wanted it to be attached to Our Lady, which makes sense.” “Who gifted it? Beverly?” “No, no, Marjorie, she was a widow, Beverly’s mother-in-law.” Her lips pursed in disapproval. “Of course that was before he divorced her to marry that little tart Helene . . . Oh!” As if she realized she’d devolved into gossiping, she stopped suddenly, sketched the sign of the cross over her chest. “Yes. You’re probably here because of, um, Helene’s death as well. Poor dear.” Opal cleared her throat. “Helene wasn’t an active member of the church, and Hugo, he stopped attending mass years ago, but—” She held her hands up and waggled them as if to disperse any remnants of her words that might be hanging in the air. “I—I didn’t really know Helene and what happened to her was just awful.” “But the Laroche family is still a part of the congregation?” Bentz asked. “I—I really don’t know. I don’t see them but, you know, I’m not here twenty-four/seven. I really should get back to work.” She stood quickly. Bentz knew the interview was over, so he handed Opal his card, asking her to call him if she thought of anything else that might be relevant. “Oh, I will,” she promised, then ran a hand lovingly over the bench as she stood and added, “I guess I’d better get going. Those pews won’t polish themselves and I promised Father Anthony that I’d be finished today.” Again, Bentz saw the gardener, farther away, casting a wary look over his shoulder. And then it hit him. The man in the flannel shirt was none other than Ned Zavala. Older than Bentz remembered, but definitely the man who had been named the Bayou Butcher by the press. He saw that Mrs. Guidry, too, had noticed the man with the rake. “Do you know him?” he asked. “The gardener? Ned?” She shook her head. “Not really. His mother is a member and I think she got him the job.” Her lips curled over her teeth. “And you don’t need to ask. I know what he was accused of years ago.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “But that’s all in the past and he was proved innocent. Right?” “His mother recanted her testimony.” “Yes, yes, I know.” She cleared her throat. “Whatever Mr. Zavala did—what happened—God will cast His own judgment.” And at that she crossed herself. “You know Ned’s mother?” Bentz pressed as she took a step toward the church. “Not really. I mean, I see her around. Or I did; she came to mass every once in a while. But she’s sick, in bed for the most part. Cancer, I think.” Again she sketched a quick sign of the cross over her chest and cast another furtive look over her shoulder, but Ned had moved through the trees to the small cemetery. “How long has Ned worked here?” “Um .

Dune.txt

He leaped upward, planting his feet against that wall, leaning out against the clinging barbs. This was the true instant of the testing: if he had planted the hooks correctly at the leading edge of a ring segment, opening the segment, the worm would not roll down and crush him. The worm slowed. It glided across the thumper, silencing it. Slowly, it began to roll -- up, up -- bringing those irritant barbs as high as possible, away from the sand that threatened the soft inner lapping of its ring segment. Paul found himself riding upright atop the worm. He felt exultant, like an emperor surveying his world. He suppressed a sudden urge to cavort there, to turn the worm, to show off his mastery of this creature. Suddenly he understood why Stilgar had warned him once about brash young men who danced and played with these monsters, doing handstands on their backs, removing both hooks and replanting them before the worm could spill them. Leaving one hook in place, Paul released the other and planted it lower down the side. When the second hook was firm and tested, he brought down the first one, thus worked his way down the side. The maker rolled, and as it rolled, it turned, coming around the sweep of flour sand where the others waited. Paul saw them come up, using their hooks to climb, but avoiding the sensitive ring edges until they were on top. They rode at last in a triple line behind him, steadied against their hooks. Stilgar moved up through the ranks, checked the positioning of Paul's hooks, glanced up at Paul's smiling face. "You did it, eh?" Stilgar asked, raising his voice above the hiss of their passage. "That's what you think? You did it?" He straightened. "Now I tell you that was a very sloppy job. We have twelve-year-olds who do better. There was drumsand to your left where you waited. You could not retreat there if the worm turned that way." The smile slipped from Paul's face. "I saw the drumsand." "Then why did you not signal for one of us to take up position secondary to you? It was a thing you could do even in the test." Paul swallowed, faced into the wind of their passage. "You think it bad of me to say this now," Stilgar said. "It is my duty. I think of your worth to the troop. If you had stumbled into that drumsand, the maker would've turned toward you." In spite of a surge of anger, Paul knew that Stilgar spoke the truth. It took a long minute and the full effort of the training he had received from his mother for Paul to recapture a feeling of calm. "I apologize," he said. "It will not happen again." "In a tight position, always leave yourself a secondary, someone to take the maker if you cannot," Stilgar said. "Remember that we work together. That way, we're certain. We work together, eh?" He slapped Paul's shoulder. "We work together," Paul agreed. "Now," Stilgar said,

Silas Marner.txt

the sake of it, but he can't get the easygoing butcher to fight. Mr. Snell ends this pig-headed quarrel and shifts the topic to the Lammeter family, who owned the cow. He calls on the parish-clerk Mr. Macey, who sparks another quarrel with his new deputy Mr. Tookey. In this ongoing dispute, not only do Macey and Tookey know exactly what they're arguing about, others such as the wheelwright Ben Winthrop butt in, too. The whole community cares about how Tookey does his job. They also care about music and the ritual of the church service. Originally, George Eliot wanted to write Silas Marner in verse. (You can be glad she didn't--her poetry was usually stilted and boring.) She changed to prose because she felt the story would need humor. This chapter demonstrates the kind of humor she meant--based on funny personalities rather than wisecracks. Part of you may be laughing at these yokels, like the pompous farrier with his thick-headed arguments. But another part of you may laugh with them--at the interplay of characters, the teasing banter, and the droll understatements, like Mr. Macey's comment that there are two opinions about every man. The ribbing is good-natured (notice how out-of-place Ben Winthrop's harsh insults sound) and someone like Mr. Snell always restores harmony. NOTE: DIALECT Although everyone in Raveloe probably spoke with a country accent, Eliot distinguishes the lower classes by writing their speeches in dialect. This was unusual in Victorian novels, although Shakespeare's comic "rustic scenes" provided a model for her. Eliot's dialect is just thick enough to give you the flavor of a rural world. Notice the several techniques she uses. She spells a word as it is pronounced ("allays," "nat'ral"). She uses ungrammatical constructions ("it's no better nor a hollow stalk"). She has her characters use countrified sayings ("I'd keep him in liver and lights for nothing"). Occasionally she uses unusual dialect words ("throstle"). Snell smoothes everyone's feelings and then prods Mr. Macey once more to tell his story about Mr. Lammeter. This story's been told many times before--probably in the same words--but everyone enjoys hearing it again. It's like hearing your favorite comedian do a routine that you know by heart. Eliot wrote this long anecdote for another reason--to show how people in Raveloe regard aliens. The first Mr. Lammeter, like Silas, came from the outside world, which to Raveloers seems like another planet. But Mr. Lammeter fit in with their values. He brought good sheep with him, and he "know'd the rights and customs o' things." As Macey traces the Lammeter family tree, you see how much these people feel connected with the past. Mr. Macey finally tells his story about the Lammeters' wedding, when the minister that day mixed up the questions and responses in the ceremony. Mr. Macey was afraid the marriage wouldn't be legal. (Note how outward forms and rituals are important.) The minister, however, being an authority figure, set Macey's mind at ease. The next story Macey tells is in direct contrast. Another outsider, a man named Cliff from London, owned the

Emma.txt

"and they cannot forgive me." He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he only said, "I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections." "Can you trust me with such flatterers?--Does my vain spirit ever tell me I am wrong?" "Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.--If one leads you wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it." "I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a series of strange blunders!" "And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the justice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has chosen for himself.--Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl-- infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected." Emma was extremely gratified.--They were interrupted by the bustle of Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again. "Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all doing?-- Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy! Every body is asleep!" "I am ready," said Emma, "whenever I am wanted." "Whom are you going to dance with?" asked Mr. Knightley. She hesitated a moment, and then replied, "With you, if you will ask me." "Will you?" said he, offering his hand. "Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper." "Brother and sister! no, indeed." CHAPTER III This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.-- From Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.--Harriet rational, Frank

Blowback.txt

peering at above were thousands of years old. When I look at art, I don’t want to be thinking about the artist, but it’s not the same way with nature. Mysticism is for people who can’t make sense of the world. I spent two years directly coming to terms with my own impermanence and finally accepted it. The conclusion caused me to treat my life with greater care than ever before and to better understand its foundations, which made me grateful for—and almost reverent of—the pain that it took to get there. I wasn’t mourning past losses. Tonight was a celebration. I got up from my chair and walked across the leafy park back to the car. In the trunk, there was a briefcase. The metal box was cold to the touch as I scrolled the combination on two separate dials. The password was the answer to a math problem from school—why I still remembered it, I didn’t know. I slid the buttons to the side and popped open the latches with a soft click. I lifted the lid. Inside, there were several loose papers, a few charging cords, and the corners of cash peeking out from beneath it all. What I wanted was on top. A newspaper clipping yellowed with age, and a hardback book with a sparse white cover. I pulled them out and closed the lid, snapping the latches shut. I walked back over and told my fellow traveler what they were. She asked if I was sure about it. I said I was, and she smiled. I placed the only copy of the newspaper clipping that I had into the fire pit and watched it curl up and disappear within seconds. The second item took longer. I set it on top of the pyre, and for a moment it didn’t catch. A thin circle of flame lazily enveloped the cover. Like the border of a closing wound, it shrank toward the center until the words were gone. The blaze caught hold of the spine and consumed the book from within, causing the pages to flutter in the heat like butterflies. They fell away in charred flakes. “Nobody ever tells you that books burn so pretty,” she said. The remaining pages became fire, and after a while, the last wooden support collapsed into the heap. Briefly, the embers blended with the stars as they drifted into the night sky. A NOTE ON SOURCES The anecdotes and analysis contained in this book are based on interviews with dozens of current and former U.S. government officials, personal recollections, contemporaneous notes, emails and text messages, public records, and other sources. Where notes or records did not exist for a particular conversation, I have reconstructed the exchange to the very best of my recollection and/or in consultation with subjects who were involved in or aware of those conversations. Some names and identifying characteristics have been changed. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Miles Taylor is a national security expert who works in Washington, D.C. Taylor previously served as chief of staff at the U.S. Department of

Fahrenheit 451.txt

rushing by so quickly they had to stretch the advertising out so it would last." "I didn't know that!" Montag laughed abruptly. "Bet I know something else you don't. There's dew on the grass in the morning." He suddenly couldn't remember if he had known this or not, and it made him quite irritable. "And if you look"-she nodded at the sky-"there's a man in the moon." He hadn't looked for a long time. They walked the rest of the way in silence, hers thoughtful, his a kind of clenching and uncomfortable silence in which he shot her accusing glances. When they reached her house all its lights were blazing. "What's going on?" Montag had rarely seen that many house lights. "Oh, just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking. It's like being a pedestrian, only rarer. My uncle was arrested another time-did I tell you?-for being a pedestrian. Oh, we're most peculiar." "But what do you talk about?" She laughed at this. "Good night!" She started up her walk. Then she seemed to remember something and came back to look at him with wonder and curiosity. "Are you happy?" she said. "Am I what?" he cried. But she was gone-running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently. "Happy! Of all the nonsense." He stopped laughing. He put his hand into the glove-hole of his front door and let it know his touch. The front door slid open. Of course I'm happy. What does she think? I'm not? he asked the quiet rooms. He stood looking up at the ventilator grille in the hall and suddenly remembered that something lay hidden behind the grille, something that seemed to peer down at him now. He moved his eyes quickly away. What a strange meeting on a strange night. He remembered nothing like it save one afternoon a year ago when he had met an old man in the park and they had talked .... Montag shook his head. He looked at a blank wall. The girl's face was there, really quite beautiful in memory: astonishing, in fact. She had a very thin face like the dial of a small clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all certainty and knowing what it has to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses but moving also toward a new sun. "What?" asked Montag of that other self, the subconscious idiot that ran babbling at times, quite independent of will, habit, and conscience. He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were more often-he searched for a simile, found one in his work-torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own

Fahrenheit 451.txt

moment, and then Montag talked about the weather, and then the old man responded with a pale voice. It was a strange quiet meeting. The old man admitted to being a retired English professor who had been thrown out upon the world forty years ago when the last liberal arts college shut for lack of students and patronage. His name was Faber, and when he finally lost his fear of Montag, he talked in a cadenced voice, looking at the sky and the trees and the green park, and when an hour had passed he said something to Montag and Montag sensed it was a rhymeless poem. Then the old man grew even more courageous and said something else and that was a poem, too. Faber held his hand over his left coat-pocket and spoke these words gently, and Montag knew if he reached out, he might pull a book of poetry from the man's coat. But he did not reach out. His. hands stayed on his knees, numbed and useless. "I don't talk things, sir," said Faber. "I talk the meaning of things. I sit here and know I'm alive." That was all there was to it, really. An hour of monologue, a poem, a comment, and then without even acknowledging the fact that Montag was a fireman, Faber with a certain trembling, wrote his address on a slip of paper. "For your file," he said, "in case you decide to be angry with me." "I'm not angry," Montag said, surprised. Mildred shrieked with laughter in the hall. Montag went to his bedroom closet and flipped through his file-wallet to the heading: FUTURE INVESTIGATIONS (?). Faber's name was there. He hadn't turned it in and he hadn't erased it. He dialled the call on a secondary phone. The phone on the far end of the line called Faber's name a dozen times before the professor answered in a faint voice. Montag identified himself and was met with a lengthy silence. "Yes, Mr. Montag?" "Professor Faber, I have a rather odd question to ask. How many copies of the Bible are left in this country?" "I don't know what you're talking about! " "I want to know if there are any copies left at all." "This is some sort of a trap! I can't talk to just anyone on the phone!" "How many copies of Shakespeare and Plato?" "None ! You know as well as I do. None!" Faber hung up. Montag put down the phone. None. A thing he knew of course from the firehouse listings. But somehow he had wanted to hear it from Faber himself. In the hall Mildred's face was suffused with excitement. "Well, the ladies are coming over!" Montag showed her a book. "This is the Old and New Testament, and-" "Don't start that again!" "It might be the last copy in this part of the world." "You've got to hand it back tonight, don't you know? Captain Beatty knows you've got it, doesn't he?" "I don't think he knows which book I stole. But how do

THE SCARLET LETTER.txt

(n) parenthood, source, palliate: (v) mitigate, assuage, sitting room, front room, authorship, origin, beginning, alleviate, mollify, appease, allay, livingroom, room to meet guests, relationship, parentage, genesis, facilitate, relieve; (n, v) extenuate; parlours, parlors, salon, reception provenance, consanguinity, family (adj, v) gloze, smooth room, room relationship pallid: (adj) ghastly, wan, bloodless, parochial: (adj) insular, provincial, pathos: (v) emotion, inspiration, lurid, cadaverous, sickly, ashen, local, limited, finite, conventional, impression, affection; (n) poignancy, white, pasty, livid, watery. petty, narrow-minded, parish, pity, ruth, commiseration, grief, ANTONYMS: (adj) healthy, rosy, topical, confined. ANTONYMS: poignance, sympathy vivid (adj) cosmopolitan, broadminded pathway: (n) lane, road, path, pallor: (n) pallidness, wanness, particulars: (n) specification, data, footpath, course, trail, alley, complexion, achromasia, lividity, nicety, minutiae, terms, highway, way, tract, track lividness, luridness, pale, skin color, consideration, workings, fine points, patriarch: (n) forefather, whiteness, sallowness. ins and outs paterfamilias, father, head, chief, old ANTONYMS: (n) rosiness, parting: (n) adieu, division, leave, man, antediluvian, head of coloration, bloom departure, disunion, goodbye, household, elder, founder, senior. palsied: (adj) paralyzed, disabled, leaving, segregation, dying, rupture; ANTONYM: (n) matriarch motionless, unsteady, weak, (adj) valedictory. ANTONYMS: (n) patriarchal: (adj) family, ancestral, comatose, unconscious; (v) paralyse, joining, meeting, connection, linear, old, preadamite, patriarchic; paralyze, withered Reunion (adv) fatherly panelling: (n) paneling, lining, panel, partridge: (n) grouse, bobwhite, patriarchs: (n) forbears, forefathers dado, pane of glass, wainscot, bobwhite quail, wildfowl, pauper: (n) poor man, mumper, bum, wainscoting, fairing phasianid, quail, game bird, poor person, starveling; (adj) poor, pang: (n) pain, torture, ache, agony, tinamou, ruffed grouse indigent, penniless; (v) bust, fold twinge, affliction, sting, stab, passionately: (adv) fervently, peaches: (n) amphetamine sulfate distress, ailment, cramp vehemently, violently, fiercely, peal: (n) ding, noise, clang, dingdong, panoply: (n) stand of arms, show, eagerly, zealously, fervidly, fierily, blast; (v) chime, knell, toll, echo; parade, clothing, fanfare; (v) protect, enthusiastically, heatedly, stormily. (adj, n) swell; (n, v) bang clothe, defend, guard ANTONYMS: (adv) mildly, pealing: (n) axial motion, roll, coil, papist: (adj, n) Roman, Romanist; apathetically, calmly, halfheartedly, thunder, curl, curlicue, drum roll, (adj) Romish, popish, papistical, impassively, jokingly, gently gyre, paradiddle, cast; (adj) loud papistic, Roman Catholic; (n) passionless: (adj) frigid, indifferent, pearl: (adj, n) jewel; (n) gem, bead, Catholic, papalist emotionless, soulless, spiritless, dewdrop, ivory, bone; (adj) brilliant, papistry: (n) popery dispassionate, impassive, flower, bijou, satin etched, ruby. parable: (n) fable, comparison, tale, apathetical, unimpassioned, calm, ANTONYM: (n) dud proverb, myth, legend, fiction, story; unemotional pearls: (n) beads, jewelry, jewellery (adj, n, v) apologue; (adj) simile, passiveness: (n) inactivity, apathy, pebble: (n) boulder, crystal, flint, metalepsis inertia, indifference, inaction, rock, scree, cobblestone, calculus, paradise: (n) Elysium, bliss, Eden, resignation, submissiveness, crag, granite, pebblestone; (adj) Zion, promised land, Garden of passive, humility, listlessness, quartz Eden, Elysian Fields, ecstasy, torpidity pebbles: (n) shingle, grit, gravel, nirvana, Valhalla, utopia. passport: (n) permit, instrument, stones ANTONYM: (n) misery protection, identification, warrant, peculiarity: (n) idiosyncrasy, paramour: (n) love, courtesan, doxy, safeguard, method, means, license, distinction, particularity, oddness, mistress, lover, beau, sweetheart, device, key eccentricity, distinctiveness, favorite, odalisque; (adj) gallant, pastime: (n) game, avocation, abnormality, characteristic, leman entertainment, recreation, hobby, attribute, difference, individuality. parchment: (n) vellum, sheepskin,

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt

time heard of this thing succeeding but never of its failing before. It did not occur to him that he had tried it several times before, himself, but could never find the hiding-places afterward. He puzzled over the matter some time, and finally decided that some witch had interfered and broken the charm. He thought he would satisfy --------------------------------------------------------- -95- himself on that point; so he searched around till he found a small sandy spot with a little funnel-shaped depression in it. He laid himself down and put his mouth close to this depression and called -- "Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know! Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know!" The sand began to work, and presently a small black bug appeared for a second and then darted under again in a fright. "He dasn't tell! So it was a witch that done it. I just knowed it." He well knew the futility of trying to contend against witches, so he gave up discouraged. But it occurred to him that he might as well have the marble he had just thrown away, and therefore he went and made a patient search for it. But he could not find it. Now he went back to his treasure-house and carefully placed himself just as he had been standing when he tossed the marble away; then he took another marble from his pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying: "Brother, go find your brother!" He watched where it stopped, and went there and looked. But it must have fallen short or gone too far; so he tried twice more. The last repetition was successful. The two marbles lay within a foot of each other. Just here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came faintly down the green aisles of the forest. Tom --------------------------------------------------------- -96- flung off his jacket and trousers, turned a suspender into a belt, raked away some brush behind the rotten log, disclosing a rude bow and arrow, a lath sword and a tin trumpet, and in a moment had seized these things and bounded away, barelegged, with fluttering shirt. He presently halted under a great elm, blew an answering blast, and then began to tiptoe and look warily out, this way and that. He said cautiously -- to an imaginary company: "Hold, my merry men! Keep hid till I blow." Now appeared Joe Harper, as airily clad and elaborately armed as Tom. Tom called: "Hold! Who comes here into Sherwood Forest without my pass?" "Guy of Guisborne wants no man's pass. Who art thou that -- that -- " "Dares to hold such language," said Tom, prompting -- for they talked "by the book," from memory. "Who art thou that dares to hold such language?" "I, indeed! I am Robin Hood, as thy caitiff carcase soon shall know." "Then art thou indeed that famous outlaw? Right gladly will I dispute with thee the passes of the merry wood. Have at thee!" They took their lath swords, dumped their other traps on the ground, struck

Great Expectations.txt

of buttered toast, that I could scarcely see him over it as it simmered on an iron stand hooked on to the top-bar; while Miss Skiffins brewed such a jorum of tea, that the pig in the back premises became strongly excited, and repeatedly expressed his desire to participate in the entertainment. The flag had been struck, and the gun had been fired, at the right moment of time, and I felt as snugly cut off from the rest of Walworth as if the moat were thirty feet wide by as many deep. Nothing disturbed the tranquillity of the Castle, but the occasional tumbling open of John and Miss Skiffins: which little doors were a prey to some spasmodic infirmity that made me sympathetically uncomfortable until I got used to it. I inferred from the methodical nature of Miss Skiffins's arrangements that she made tea there every Sunday night; and I rather suspected that a classic brooch she wore, representing the profile of an undesirable female with a very straight nose and a very new moon, was a piece of portable property that had been given her by Wemmick. We ate the whole of the toast, and drank tea in proportion, and it was delightful to see how warm and greasy we all got after it. The Aged especially, might have passed for some clean old chief of a savage tribe, just oiled. After a short pause for repose, Miss Skiffins - in the absence of the little servant who, it seemed, retired to the bosom of her family on Sunday afternoons - washed up the tea-things, in a trifling lady-like amateur manner that compromised none of us. Then, she put on her gloves again, and we drew round the fire, and Wemmick said, "Now Aged Parent, tip us the paper." Wemmick explained to me while the Aged got his spectacles out, that this was according to custom, and that it gave the old gentleman infinite satisfaction to read the news aloud. "I won't offer an apology," said Wemmick, "for he isn't capable of many pleasures - are you, Aged P.?" "All right, John, all right," returned the old man, seeing himself spoken to. "Only tip him a nod every now and then when he looks off his paper," said Wemmick, "and he'll be as happy as a king. We are all attention, Aged One." "All right, John, all right!" returned the cheerful old man: so busy and so pleased, that it really was quite charming. The Aged's reading reminded me of the classes at Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt's, with the pleasanter peculiarity that it seemed to come through a keyhole. As he wanted the candles close to him, and as he was always on the verge of putting either his head or the newspaper into them, he required as much watching as a powder-mill. But Wemmick was equally untiring and gentle in his vigilance, and the Aged read on, quite unconscious of his many rescues. Whenever he looked at us, we all expressed the greatest interest and amazement, and nodded until he

Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt

have an actual conversation with her, or at least say thank you after she ditched her shift at McDonald’s to take me to the hospital. But I am in a foul mood because my left wrist is fractured (like, it’s in a cast! For six to eight weeks! Positive thinking hasn’t helped at all!) and that is not an item on my Steps to Success board. Quite the opposite, in fact. My Steps to Success board, which is pinned up by the side of my bed, has pictures of Katharine Breakspeare, advertising CEO Karen Blackett, and management consultant Dame Vivian Hunt—three of the most influential Black businesswomen in the UK—as well as a life plan that should take me from age seventeen to twenty-one: Maintain flawless school record. Keep up with TikTok (unique extracurricular, will stand out on applications, also someone in admissions might be a genius who understands the joy of a good conspiracy). Finish PERFECT Cambridge application and receive conditional offer. ACE EXAMS AND GET THE GRADES. Charm all Cambridge law staff members with sparkling wit and joie de vivre (also: find YouTube tutorials on sparkling wit and joie de vivre). Secure training position with Sharma & Moncrieff. Sharma & Moncrieff is the second-best corporate law firm in the East Midlands. My dad’s is the first, but that will change when I rise as a giant in the field and Luke Skywalker his arse with the spiked heel of my Louboutin. It’s going to be epic. Boardrooms will crumble. Empires will fall! He’ll— Oh, sorry, back to the point: clearly, a broken wrist is absolutely nowhere in my plan. I should sue Bradley for this because he definitely did it on purpose. I mean, I know I’m a hefty babe, but he’s supposed to be some kind of super sportsman and his biceps are the size of grapefruits. He had me. He did. And then he didn’t. Plus, I landed harder than I would’ve without his oh-so-helpful momentary pawing of my T-shirt because I was too stunned by his audacity to concentrate on falling well. In short, I would be well within my rights to demand blood. Or his firstborn. Or whatever I wanted, really, except his integrity, because he doesn’t have any. Giselle unfolds a never-ending arm and presses her finger between my eyebrows. “Stop scowling, baby. Or the wind will change, and you’ll be stuck like that.” “Good. It would suit my personality.” She rolls onto her back and laughs at the ceiling. My sister is twenty-four—seven years older than me—and when I was a kid, I wanted to be her. Maybe that’s why, even now, whenever she laughs, I do too. We’re still giggling when someone knocks on my door. I wait a second for Mum to breeze in without permission, plonk herself on the bed, and steal my phone to scroll through TikTok. When that doesn’t happen, I frown in confusion and Giselle grins in response. “Oh yeah. Forgot to mention: Bradley’s here.” “What?” It’s supposed to come out frosty and disgusted, but I accidentally squawk

The-Housekeepers.txt

Bone was always a very pragmatic sort of lady. She assessed trades coolly, dispassionately: she weighed them on the scales and picked the most lucrative ones every time. But there was one business she wouldn’t touch. She pictured Danny, the gleam of his curls. Felt her flesh crawling. “Sue’s sick,” she said. The boy frowned. “I was told to fetch her.” “Tell ’em she’s sick, and tell ’em I told you so, and tell ’em I said it was for the best.” She stared at him levelly. “Trust me.” He stared back. Calculating. “Fine,” he said. He didn’t waste time. He turned and ran away, back to whoever had sent him, heels echoing as he went. And he didn’t lock their door. Mrs. Bone closed the door. She leaned against it, hands behind her back, tightly clasped. “Anyone asked for you before?” Better to ask straight out, not to fudge the question. There was a silence. Sue shook her head. And then she spoke, in a voice that sounded hard, snapped off at the edges. “But he told me to get ready,” she said, nodding to the door, meaning the boy. “He said someone might ask for me tonight.” Mrs. Bone made her expression appear unruffled, unbothered. “Stuff and nonsense. What’s anyone going to want with a goose like you?” She went to the bed, fingers shaking, and wrenched down the covers. “You come to me if he speaks to you again.” She snapped her fingers. “Bed, Sue. Get in.” She looked again at the floorboards, the nicks and scratches and marks, and wondered how many girls had been dragging their bed across the floor to bar the door. 11:00 p.m. Alice felt an ache right in the middle of her back. It was radiating outward, all her muscles contracting. She was sitting half-stooped at the worktable, all the lights burning overhead, forcing herself to keep going. This was the hardest, fiddliest, most exhausting part of the job: doing the embroidery all along the bodice and the sleeves and the back. She could have finished it in a heartbeat if she didn’t care about the results, if she thought that hardly anyone would notice it. But she cared too much; she cared enormously. Madam had such excellent powers of observation. She’d see any faults at once. She’d see the best bits, too. “You’ll be handsomely rewarded,” she’d said. That was incentive enough to go on. She heard a footstep, the heavy sweep of the door as it opened. “Alice?” Alice started, dropping the thread. She ran a hasty hand through her hair, trying to smooth herself. She could only imagine how she looked: greasy faced and pinched. “Madam,” she said, pushing back her chair. “No, don’t get up.” Miss de Vries had dressed for compline in plain black satin, buttoned all the way up to the chin, her hair swept up under a coif. She wore a black veil tight to the face, so that the embroidery crawled all over her cheeks. She was holding on tight to her prayer book. She

Pride And Prejudice.txt

VI (6) THE ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit was returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on the good will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found to be intolerable and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest pleasure; but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of every body, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value, as arising in all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane united with great strength of feeling a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas. ``It may perhaps be pleasant,'' replied Charlotte, ``to be able to impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all _begin_ freely -- a slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better shew _more_ affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.'' ``But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If _I_ can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to discover it too.'' ``Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do.'' ``But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find it out.'' ``Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his attention. When she is

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.txt

the uphill parts of the way, in order not to overload an animal of so little vigour. To cheer themselves as well as they could, they made an artificial morning with the lantern, some bread and butter, and their own conversation, the real morning being far from come. Abraham, as he more fully awoke (for he had moved in a sort of trance so far), began to talk of the strange shapes assumed by the various dark objects against the sky; of this tree that looked like a raging tiger springing from a lair; of that which resembled a giant's head. When they had passed the little town of Stourcastle, dumbly somnolent under its thick brown thatch, they reached higher ground. Still higher, on their left, the elevation called Bulbarrow or Bealbarrow, well-nigh the highest in South Wessex, swelled into the sky, engirdled by its earthen trenches. From hereabout the long road was fairly level for some distance onward. They mounted in front of the waggon, and Abraham grew reflective. "Tess!" he said in a preparatory tone, after a silence. "Yes, Abraham." "Bain't you glad that we've become gentlefolk?" "Not particular glad." "But you be glad that you 'm going to marry a gentleman?" "What?" said Tess, lifting her face. "That our great relation will help 'ee to marry a gentleman." "I? Our great relation? We have no such relation. What has put that into your head?" "I heard 'em talking about it up at Rolliver's when I went to find father. There's a rich lady of our family out at Trantridge, and mother said that if you claimed kin with the lady, she'd put 'ee in the way of marrying a gentleman." His sister became abruptly still, and lapsed into a pondering silence. Abraham talked on, rather for the pleasure of utterance than for audition, so that his sister's abstraction was of no account. He leant back against the hives, and with upturned face made observations on the stars, whose cold pulses were beating amid the black hollows above, in serene dissociation from these two wisps of human life. He asked how far away those twinklers were, and whether God was on the other side of them. But ever and anon his childish prattle recurred to what impressed his imagination even more deeply than the wonders of creation. If Tess were made rich by marrying a gentleman, would she have money enough to buy a spyglass so large that it would draw the stars as near to her as Nettlecombe-Tout? The renewed subject, which seemed to have impregnated the whole family, filled Tess with impatience. "Never mind that now!" she exclaimed. "Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?" "Yes." "All like ours?" "I don't know; but I think so. They sometimes seem to be like the apples on our stubbard-tree. Most of them splendid and sound--a few blighted." "Which do we live on--a splendid one or a blighted one?" "A blighted one." "'Tis very unlucky that we didn't pitch on a sound one, when there were so many more of

After Death.txt

room eases inward, admitting a narrow blade of light from the corridor. No one enters. After three seconds, the door opens wider. The hallway appears deserted. Perhaps the door wasn’t tightly closed and has swung open of its own weight. No. Now it swings shut and remains closed. Durand Calaphas is not a superstitious man, the furthest thing from it, but it seems to him that a specter opened the door, peered out to be sure no one was in the corridor, and then quickly exited the makeshift morgue. As one who believes this world has no great moment or meaning, that the Earth is little more than a killing ground to be enjoyed by those who have a taste for blood sport, he is not convinced to revisit his philosophy by these ghostly occurrences. Intrigued, he replays the forty-six seconds to exhaustion, straining for an explanation—until he sees a fourth thing that he has repeatedly overlooked. Because of the poor lighting and maybe because this particular camera produces video of a lesser quality than the others, he needs to review the evidence often before he notices three moments in the sequence when faint, pale plumes manifest out of nothing and quickly dissipate. For a few minutes, they mystify him, but just as he is prepared to attribute these manifestations to glitches in the stream of digital video, he remembers that the morgue is chilled to between thirty-four and thirty-six degrees. The plumes must be exhalations of the resurrectee, who somehow remains unseen by the camera. Ghosts do not respire. Neither can there be such a thing as an invisible man. Calaphas’s phone rings. The call is from Hugo Schummer, one of the agents securing research files and overseeing the pathologists who are performing the autopsies. All fifty-four cadavers have been identified. The one project-staff member on the duty roster not yet accounted for is the head of security, Michael Mace. TAKING A BREATHER The clouds thicken into a gray plain that in places folds into narrow tectonic valleys where gathered blackness gradually acquires a power that will crack the sky and loose a deluge. In Michael’s current mood, as his thoughts circle around Shelby Shrewsberry and the untimely end that befell that good man, he wonders if the current signs of Armageddon will soon bring the world to the real thing. He also wonders if he can delay the descent of that ultimate darkness with his gift. Perhaps, instead, he might unwittingly be the agent of the final great war and the subsequent Apocalypse. In Carter Woodbine’s Bentley, he is southbound on Pacific Coast Highway. The elegant car isn’t yet on the National Crime Information Center’s list of stolen vehicles. Michael has planted a data trigger in the NCIC computer system; he will be alerted when the Bentley’s license-plate number appears in that registry, and he’ll immediately remove it from there, and then trace backward to delete it from the files of any city, county, or state law-enforcement agency that provided it to the NCIC. No beat cop or highway patrolman

Pineapple Street.txt

that at all. You remember how dweeby he was.” I heard myself, heard how ridiculous that sounded. But it was true that I couldn’t wrap my head around the possibility. The idea of you sleeping with Thalia was already more than I’d wanted to consider. Fran said, “I know you were attached to him. I don’t mean in an inappropriate way. But he showed you a lot of attention. That’s what he was good at, right? He recognized people’s talents. And not big, obvious things like skiing.” My feet were too hot now in their double socks and snow boots. My Sangiovese, which the waiter had poured into a glass as big as my head, was already rendering my limbs both leaden and weightless. I said, “I don’t see what that has—” “Look, I didn’t want to put you through stuff, bringing you back. You’ve seemed so solid, and like—I’m sorry, I don’t want you to spiral.” “Who said I was spiraling?” “Bodie, you look like you haven’t slept since you got here. You’re still gorgeous, but you look like hell.” I was saved by our food arriving—steak for Fran, an oily vegetable terrine for me. I had a moment to collect myself, to remember that while I’d led twenty-three years of competent adult life since Granby, Fran had seen only a few weeks of me, total, in that time. She didn’t understand how far I was from the disaster I’d been senior year. I said, “I’ve had several things on my mind. I’m in an emotional swamp.” I wasn’t ready to talk about Jasmine Wilde’s video, so I opted to tell her instead about Yahav, at length. One of Fran’s best traits is that she genuinely wants to hear the whole mess of things. Her eyes light up like she’s rewatching her favorite movie. “The problem is,” I said, “it’s like I have no sexuality anymore except for Yahav, like other men might as well be old women. Look at me, excelling at monogamy when it’s least appropriate.” She asked if she could meet him on Saturday, at least arrange to cross paths with us on campus. Dana Ramos had left her table and her increasingly raucous group and was swaying toward us, a glass of yellow wine glowing in her hand. She said, too loudly, “You two catching up? What’s the latest?” Dana’s hair had become frizzier since she’d entered the restaurant. I could see Fran mentally rewinding to the last nonprivate thing we’d mentioned. She said, “We were talking about Denny Bloch. You remember him? He taught music?” “Sure, he was only here a year or two.” “Three years,” Fran said. “I remember because he came when we were sophomores, and he got some going-away prize at Senior Day.” I said, “They gave him a prize for leaving?” “Oh,” Dana said, “he was off to teach in Russia. No, Bulgaria. I’m sure they gave him a Granby scarf or something. That poor wife.” “Why?” “Oh, just—well, who wants to move to Bulgaria?” I’d somehow forgotten that you’d moved to

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.txt

not to know how the season was advancing; that the days had lengthened, that Lady-Day was at hand, and would soon be followed by Old Lady-Day, the end of her term here. But before the quarter-day had quite come something happened which made Tess think of far different matters. She was at her lodging as usual one evening, sitting in the downstairs room with the rest of the family, when somebody knocked at the door and inquired for Tess. Through the doorway she saw against the declining light a figure with the height of a woman and the breadth of a child, a tall, thin, girlish creature whom she did not recognize in the twilight till the girl said "Tess!" "What--is it 'Liza-Lu?" asked Tess, in startled accents. Her sister, whom a little over a year ago she had left at home as a child, had sprung up by a sudden shoot to a form of this presentation, of which as yet Lu seemed herself scarce able to understand the meaning. Her thin legs, visible below her once long frock now short by her growing, and her uncomfortable hands and arms, revealed her youth and inexperience. "Yes, I have been traipsing about all day, Tess," said Lu, with unemotional gravity, "a-trying to find 'ee; and I'm very tired." "What is the matter at home?" "Mother is took very bad, and the doctor says she's dying, and as father is not very well neither, and says 'tis wrong for a man of such a high family as his to slave and drave at common labouring work, we don't know what to do." Tess stood in reverie a long time before she thought of asking 'Liza-Lu to come in and sit down. When she had done so, and 'Liza-Lu was having some tea, she came to a decision. It was imperative that she should go home. Her agreement did not end till Old Lady-Day, the sixth of April, but as the interval thereto was not a long one she resolved to run the risk of starting at once. To go that night would be a gain of twelve-hours; but her sister was too tired to undertake such a distance till the morrow. Tess ran down to where Marian and Izz lived, informed them of what had happened, and begged them to make the best of her case to the farmer. Returning, she got Lu a supper, and after that, having tucked the younger into her own bed, packed up as many of her belongings as would go into a withy basket, and started, directing Lu to follow her next morning. L She plunged into the chilly equinoctial darkness as the clock struck ten, for her fifteen miles' walk under the steely stars. In lone districts night is a protection rather than a danger to a noiseless pedestrian, and knowing this Tess pursued the nearest course along by-lanes that she would almost have feared in the day-time; but marauders were wanting now, and spectral fears were driven out of her mind by thoughts of her

Emma.txt

the commendation that could be requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet's being obliged to say a word. This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant, having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece. "Oh! yes--Mr. Elton, I understand--certainly as to dancing-- Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was-- Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as any body can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying, `I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time for writing;' and when I immediately said, `But indeed we have, we had a letter this very morning,' I do not know that I ever saw any body more surprized. `Have you, upon your honour?' said she; `well, that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.'" Emma's politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest-- "Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I hope she is well?" "Thank you. You are so kind!" replied the happily deceived aunt, while eagerly hunting for the letter.--"Oh! here it is. I was sure it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a pleasure to her-- a letter from Jane--that she can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is, only just under my huswife--and since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she says;--but, first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter--only two pages you see-- hardly two--and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often says, when the letter is first opened, `Well, Hetty, now I think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work'-- don't you, ma'am?--And then I tell her, I am sure she

The-Last-Sinner.txt

SpongeBob, a flapper, and a variety of Disney princesses. Her favorite was a toddler bumble bee who was more preoccupied with her wings than the candy. As she finally turned off the light for the night, she smiled and patted her abdomen. Not this year, and probably not next, but in two years, watch out. There would be a new trick-or-treater in town. Baby McKnight would be ready for a candy grab! Her phone buzzed with a text from Bella asking about coffee. Want to meet for coffee? Please? My treat. Then several emojis of cups of java and ending with a happy face blowing hearts as kisses. Kristi and Bella had already had a short conversation about what Kristi had been through and Bella apologized again for setting her up with Hamilton Cooke and Reggie. “It’s just awful about them. Thank God you’re okay!” Was she? Would she ever be? Time would tell, she figured, and texted back: You got it. How about Magnolia’s? Saturday at 10:00? Maybe Sarah and Jess can join? It was time to mend some fences over a hot latte and the latest gossip. And Kristi would let her friends in on her little secret, that she would soon be a mother. She felt it was time. She was ready. Later that night, she curled in her bed and Dave whined to join her. “Sure, why not?” she said, “but let’s take this off.” She unhooked his collar so that she wouldn’t hear his ID tags rattle as he shifted around during the night. As she did, she felt a bulge in the leather collar. “Don’t tell me this is ruined already.” She gave the dog a glance of reproval as she turned the collar over and saw that it was marred. It had been sliced to create a small pocket and within the tiny space a minute thumb drive had been wedged. “What the—?” She had trouble retrieving the drive, it was wedged in so tight. “Who put this here?” And then she remembered Cruz Montoya’s final words to her: “Pet him for me.” And again, “for me,” as he’d stared at her with some unspoken message she hadn’t understood. Now, she thought, she might. She threw back the covers and quickly padded barefoot up the stairs. Dave was right on her heels, toenails clicking behind her. Once in her office, she switched on a light and fired up her laptop. “Now, what is this?” she asked the empty room, and when the computer was up and running, Kristi slipped the thumb drive into a port and hit play. For a second she didn’t understand what she was seeing, then she realized it was a night scape, near a river, a woman running along a river’s edge and someone, a big man, chasing after her before tackling her and dragging her deeper into the water. The woman fought, flailing and kicking up water, splashing and hitting, but the man just dragged her deeper into the river and held her head down until she was unmoving. Then

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt

remember, Huck, 'bout me saying that?" "Yes, that's so," said Huck. "That was the --------------------------------------------------------- -166- day after I lost a white alley. No, 'twas the day before." "There -- I told you so," said Tom. "Huck recollects it." "I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day," said Joe. "I don't feel sick." "Neither do I," said Tom. " I could smoke it all day. But I bet you Jeff Thatcher couldn't." "Jeff Thatcher! Why, he'd keel over just with two draws. Just let him try it once. He'd see!" "I bet he would. And Johnny Miller -- I wish could see Johnny Miller tackle it once." "Oh, don't I!" said Joe. "Why, I bet you Johnny Miller couldn't any more do this than nothing. Just one little snifter would fetch him ." "'Deed it would, Joe. Say -- I wish the boys could see us now." "So do I." "Say -- boys, don't say anything about it, and some time when they're around, I'll come up to you and say, 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke.' And you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll say, 'Yes, I got my old pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain't very good.' And I'll say, 'Oh, that's all right, if it's strong enough.' And then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just as ca'm, and then just see 'em look!" "By jings, that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was now!" --------------------------------------------------------- -167- "So do I! And when we tell 'em we learned when we was off pirating, won't they wish they'd been along?" "Oh, I reckon not! I'll just bet they will!" So the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow disjointed. The silences widened; the expectoration marvellously increased. Every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting fountain; they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues fast enough to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their throats occurred in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings followed every time. Both boys were looking very pale and miserable, now. Joe's pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers. Tom's followed. Both fountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing with might and main. Joe said feebly: "I've lost my knife. I reckon I better go and find it." Tom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance: "I'll help you. You go over that way and I'll hunt around by the spring. No, you needn't come, Huck -- we can find it." So Huck sat down again, and waited an hour. Then he found it lonesome, and went to find his comrades. They were wide apart in the woods, both very pale, both fast asleep. But something informed him that if they had had any trouble they had got rid of it. They were not talkative at supper that night. --------------------------------------------------------- -168- They had a humble look, and when Huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going to prepare theirs, they said

Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt

to the helmsman. For during the violence of the gale, he had only steered according to its vicissitudes. But as he was now bringing the ship as near her course as possible, watching the compass meanwhile, lo! a good sign! the wind seemed coming round astern; aye! the foul breeze became fair! Instantly the yards were squared, to the lively song of Ho! the fair wind! oh-he-yo, cheerly, men! the crew singing for joy, that so promising an event should so soon have falsified the evil portents preceding it. In compliance with the standing order of his commander -- to report immediately, and at any one of the twenty-four hours, any decided change in the affairs of the deck, --Starbuck had no sooner trimmed the yards to the breeze --however reluctantly and gloomily, --than he mechanically went below to apprise Captain Ahab of the circumstance. Ere knocking at his state-room, he involuntarily paused before it a moment. The cabin lamp --taking long swings this way and that --was burning fitfully, and casting fitful shadows upon the old man's bolted door, --a thin one, with fixed blinds inserted, in place of upper panels. The isolated subterraneousness of the cabin made a certain humming silence to reign there, though it was hooped round by all the roar of the elements. The loaded muskets in the rack were shiningly revealed, as they stood upright against the forward bulkhead. Starbuck was an honest, upright man; but out of Starbuck's heart, at that instant when he saw the muskets, there strangely evolved an evil thought; but so blent with its neutral or good accompaniments that for the instant he hardly knew it for itself. He would have shot me once, he murmured, yes, there's the very musket that he pointed at me; --that one with the studded stock; let me touch it --lift it. Strange, that I, who have .. <p 507 > handled so many deadly lances, strange, that I should shake so now. Loaded? I must see. Aye, aye; and powder in the pan; -- that's not good. Best spill it? --wait. I'll cure myself of this. I'll hold the musket boldly while I think. --I come to report a fair wind to him. But how fair? Fair for death and doom, -- that's fair for Moby Dick. It's a fair wind that's only fair for that accursed fish. --The very tube he pointed at me! --the very one; this one --I hold it here; he would have killed me with the very thing I handle now. --Aye and he would fain kill all his crew. Does he not say he will not strike his spars to any gale? Has he not dashed his heavenly quadrant? and in these same perilous seas, gropes he not his way by mere dead reckoning of the error-abounding log? and in this very Typhoon, did he not swear that he would have no lightning-rods? But shall this crazed old man be tamely suffered to drag a whole ship's company down to doom with him? --Yes, it would make him

Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt

believe that Helen wasn’t his child. He saw nothing of himself in her as she grew to become passionate about music and dancing and cried when she saw a wounded soldier. But Clytemnestra knows Helen is her sister. She knows that even though as a child Helen seemed frail and gentle, her will is as strong as Clytemnestra’s. When they were little, Helen would stand next to her and compare every tiny part of their bodies until she found a similarity and was satisfied. After all, as Helen used to say, their eyelashes were thick, their fingers skinny, their necks long. And when Clytemnestra replied that her own hair was darker, the color of dirt, Helen would scoff. “The boys will be here soon.” Clytemnestra looks up. The other girls have left, and Helen is gazing at her, her head tilted like that of a curious doe. Clytemnestra wants to ask her if she too is scared of the future, but somehow the words don’t come, so instead she stands. “Let’s go then.” * * * Tonight there are no men in the dining hall. The room is lively with the women’s laughter and the smell of roasted meat. When Clytemnestra and Helen walk in, their mother is seated at the head of the table, speaking to a few servants, while Timandra, Phoebe, and Philonoe, Clytemnestra’s younger sisters, fill their plates with flatbreads and olives. They smile as they chew, their hands and cheeks greasy with fat from the meat. Helen and Clytemnestra take the two empty seats at their mother’s sides. The hall is large and bare, its tall windows opening onto the plain. There are only a few old weapons hanging on the walls and a long table, dark wood scratched and faded, where men and women usually eat together. “Make sure no one has stolen from the grain stores,” Leda is telling the servants, “and leave some wine for the king when he comes back from his journey.” She dismisses them with a wave of the hand, and they slip out of the room, as silent as fish moving through water. Phoebe wipes her hands on her brown tunic and leans toward her mother. “When will Father be back?” she asks. She and Philonoe are still little, with their mother’s deep-green eyes and olive skin. “Your father and your brothers will return from the games tonight,” Leda says, savoring her cheese. Clytemnestra’s uncle has been hosting races in Acarnania, and young men have gathered from every Greek city to participate. “It will be as boring as an elders’ meeting, Sister,” Castor had told Clytemnestra before he left. “You will have more fun here, hunting and helping Mother to run the palace.” He had brushed his lips against her forehead and Clytemnestra had smiled at his lie. He knew how much she wanted to come. “Do you think Castor and Polydeuces have won anything?” Philonoe asks. “Of course they have,” Timandra says, her teeth sinking into the juicy pork flesh. She is thirteen, with stark, uninteresting features—she looks much like

Cold People.txt

thinly veiled disgust, as if to say this thing couldn’t be the future of mankind. In contrast, Yotam had remarked with admiration: ‘It’s looking at us. It knows we’re here.’ It was born with four jointed legs arranged two on each side of the thorax, from which a clearly human torso rose, perfect in form. Nimbly the infant had left the birthing chamber, its clawed feet clicking like stiletto heels on the steel deck, climbing the vertical walls with no difficulty, settling on the refrigerator unit, absorbing the cold where it seemed to purr, contented. On the other side of the glass, a geneticist had declared: ‘Invaded by aliens, we have created aliens of our own.’ Adding: ‘We should kill it now. While we still can.’ MCMURDO CITY FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS ONE HUNDRED METRES BELOW THE ROSS ICE SHELF SAME DAY YOTAM DESCENDED THE STEEL LADDER, reaching the bottom of the enclosure. Rather than remain protected inside the observation cage, he opened the door, crossing a threshold into a chamber entirely devoid of furniture. There was no bed, no chairs, no table, not as an act of cruelty or deprivation; this species had been created so that it wouldn’t mimic human dependency on comfort or require the usual clutter of items manufactured with metals, plastics and fabrics. There were no more forests to be felled, no more steel to be mined or cotton to be picked. Although there were vast resources miles below the snow and ice, humankind was so diminished it didn’t have the capacity to reach them. There was only ice, snow and stone. The hope was that these new species would learn to exploit the elements of this continent and, sure enough, chunks of ice had been elegantly carved from the walls, shaved into tall tubular forms, complex sculptures which appeared abstract and baffling, more like an art gallery exhibit than anything of any practical use. Yotam shut the cage behind him and walked into the middle of the enclosure as helpless as a sacrificial offering, waiting to see what happened, the first ordinary-born person ever to share this creature’s space. Precisely engineering himself down from the ceiling, his four legs moving with pinpoint accuracy, demonstrating such supreme control even when suspended upside down that he gave off the impression of having been built rather than born, manufactured by masterful Swiss clock craftsmen with intricate cogs and springs, a creature incapable of even the slightest act of clumsiness. Arriving at the base of the cave he stood in front of Yotam, nearly twice his height, three metres tall with his legs at rest. His silhouette was largely unchanged since birth, a centaur figure from Greek mythology rendered into flesh and bone, with a human’s upper body supported by four legs rather than two. With each year of growth his appearance had become more formidable – a warrior species with a chest like the armour of a gladiator, cast from ivory rather than bronze. Combining a selection of the advantages of an exoskeleton with a selection of the advantages of

Titanium-Noir.txt

mind.” “You’d be amazed how often it does.” Bill leads the way down another little avenue of trees: Autumn Higan cherry, but I’m at least a week too late for the blossom. The bark is slick and black on either side of the path. “You should have seen them in October, Cal.” “I’m sure it was lovely.” And then, at last: “I gather I’m short a professor tomorrow.” “Yes, you are. You know him?” “Not well.” “Tell me. Off the top of your head.” “Absurdly tall, of course. Young, talented, shy to the point of rude. Marine biologist by training, synthetic biologist by career. Something something freshwater algae something. Very annoying, very fussy, but he publishes occasionally, teaches adequately, and doesn’t seduce the seniors. Or the staff. I do like the absence of emotional drama from my common rooms. Should I be concerned?” “You’re already concerned. That’s why we’re walking around with bats overhead rather than having coffee in your office tomorrow. I don’t have anything for you, Bill.” “But it’s nothing torrid? It’s just him dead, not him and a call girl, say?” “Was that his thing?” “Christ, I hope not. Not that I know of. And not that I’d know.” “No call girl. Although there is a woman in the picture. Two, actually, but one says it was over and I buy her denials for now.” “Good god. He hardly seems the type.” “What type did he seem?” “Brilliant, anti-social asshole. The boring kind.” “How’d he come to work here?” “Direct from the University of Burfleet. Achingly well credentialed, but to be honest he was foisted on us by the board—family connections, I suspected at the time. No doubt there’s a library somewhere that I wouldn’t have without him. And as I say, so long as I don’t actually have to deal with him, he’s a perfectly acceptable addition. A good one, even. And now I’ll have a hell of a time replacing him, I suppose.” “I’m going to need to see his office. All his correspondence. I need to know what he was working on and with whom. I’ll have to talk to anyone he was close to. There’s a student, a group of them, who visited his place. I need them as well.” Bill shakes his head. “I can get you into his room, of course. You’ll be discreet about any confidential research?” “Sure. Figure the black market for synthetic algae patents is a little slow this winter anyway.” “You’d be surprised. Slime sells. As for the students…that’s a red line, as far as the university is concerned. They are the fragile minds of tomorrow’s great possibility blah blah blah. So unless you’re looking for something very specific—no, actually, especially if you’re looking for something very specific—” He stops because I’ve stopped walking, and when he turns around he has to squint because I’m standing between him and one of the lamps. I wait for him to look uncomfortable and lift a hand to shade his eyes. “Bill, I’m sorry, I’m sure you’ve got a terrific speech about

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

say seventy-five, knowing I could be off by at least ten years in either direction. A pair of cat’s-eye glasses hangs from a chain around the woman’s neck. She brings them to her eyes and peers at me for a breath of a second—an instant appraisal. “Miss McDeere,” she finally says. “Welcome.” “Thank you,” I say, even though there’s literally nothing welcoming about the woman’s tone. It’s clear she’s the same person I talked to over the intercom. The disinterested voice is unmistakable. “I’m Mrs. Baker, the housekeeper.” The woman pauses to take in what I’m wearing, seemingly finding my coat lacking. It’s blue wool and pilled in too many places to count. I’ve had it for so long I can’t remember when or where I bought it. Or maybe Mrs. Baker’s apparent distaste is reserved for what’s under the coat. White blouse. Gray skirt. Black flats last worn at my mother’s funeral. If so, I can’t help it. These are the nicest clothes I own. After a moment of clear hesitation, Mrs. Baker adds, “Do come in.” I hesitate as well, hovering just outside. It’s the doorway that gives me pause. Almost as wide as it is tall and surrounded by more of that ubiquitous marble detailing, it sort of resembles an open mouth. Looking at it reminds me of something Carter said. This place can bite. I suddenly long for home. A complete surprise, considering how that house hasn’t felt like home since my mother died. But it had once been a happy place, full of equally happy memories. Snowy Christmases and birthday cakes and my mother in her silly floral apron making French toast on Sunday mornings. Does Hope’s End have any happy memories? Or did they all vanish that one horrible night? Is sorrow the only thing that remains? “Coming, dear?” Mrs. Baker says after an impatient clearing of her throat. Part of me doesn’t want to. The entire place—its size, its ostentatiousness, and especially its reputation—makes me want to turn around and head right back home. But then I think about my father, my bedroom, the dregs of cash in my savings account. None of that will change if I don’t do something about it. If I leave—which I desperately want to do—I’ll be stuck in the same limbo I’ve inhabited for the past six months. But working here, even for just a few weeks, could change everything. With that in mind, I take a deep breath, pass through the door, and allow Hope’s End to swallow me whole. FOUR The inside of Hope’s End is nicer than the outside, but only slightly. Just beyond the door is a grand foyer with marble tile, velvet drapes at the windows, and tapestries on the walls. The furnishings range from potted palms to fancy wooden chairs with dusty cushions under brocade pillows. Overhead, an oil-painted sky full of puffy-pink clouds adorns the arched ceiling. It all looks simultaneously fancy and shabby and stopped in time. Like the lobby of a four-star hotel that had been suddenly abandoned decades ago.

The Da Vinci Code.txt

He smiled. "Not your first visit to Rosslyn, I see." 292 The code, Langdon thought. He had forgotten that little bit of lore. Among Rosslyn's numerous mysteries was a vaulted archway from which hundreds of stone blocks protruded, jutting down to form a bizarre multifaceted surface. Each block was carved with a symbol, seemingly at random, creating a cipher of unfathomable proportion. Some people believed the code revealed the entrance to the vault beneath the chapel. Others believed it told the true Grail legend. Not that it mattered-cryptographers had been trying for centuries to decipher its meaning. To this day the Rosslyn Trust offered a generous reward to anyone who could unveil the secret meaning, but the code remained a mystery. "I'd be happy to show..." The docent's voice trailed off. My first code, Sophie thought, moving alone, in a trance, toward the encoded archway. Having handed the rosewood box to Langdon, she could feel herself momentarily forgetting all about the Holy Grail, the Priory of Sion, and all the mysteries of the past day. When she arrived beneath the encoded ceiling and saw the symbols above her, the memories came flooding back. She was recalling her first visit here, and strangely, the memories conjured an unexpected sadness. She was a little girl... a year or so after her family's death. Her grandfather had brought her to Scotland on a short vacation. They had come to see Rosslyn Chapel before going back to Paris. It was late evening, and the chapel was closed. But they were still inside. "Can we go home, Grand-pre?" Sophie begged, feeling tired. "Soon, dear, very soon." His voice was melancholy. "I have one last thing I need to do here. How about if you wait in the car?" "You're doing another big person thing?" He nodded. "I'll be fast. I promise." "Can I do the archway code again? That was fun." "I don't know. I have to step outside. You won't be frightened in here alone?" "Of course not!" she said with a huff. "It's not even dark yet!" He smiled. "Very well then." He led her over to the elaborate archway he had shown her earlier. Sophie immediately plopped down on the stone floor, lying on her back and staring up at the collage of puzzle pieces overhead. "I'm going to break this code before you get back!" "It's a race then." He bent over, kissed her forehead, and walked to the nearby side door. "I'll be right outside. I'll leave the door open. If you need me, just call." He exited into the soft evening light. Sophie lay there on the floor, gazing up at the code. Her eyes felt sleepy. After a few minutes, the symbols got fuzzy. And then they disappeared. When Sophie awoke, the floor felt cold. "Grand-pre?" There was no answer. Standing up, she brushed herself off. The side door was still open. The evening was getting darker. She walked outside and could see her grandfather standing on the porch of a nearby stone house directly behind the church. Her grandfather

Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt

asking my mother for money. I asked her to release my trust fund and I was denied.” His brows knit together as he processed that. “Trust fund. Shouldn’t that be released when you become a legal adult?” “In most cases, yes, but my father made certain . . . requirements.” “Such as?” Was she really going to tell him this? Yeah. Why not? Nothing could make today any worse. Not even his ridicule. “Not only am I obligated to be gainfully employed, I am required to be married in order for the trustee to release the assets. Julian, too.” A full five seconds ticked by. “You’re lying.” It wasn’t an accusation. He was . . . satisfyingly shocked. “Nope,” she said slowly, hoping she was reading him right. “My father lives in Italy now. Basically, he’s inflicting his will on me all the way from the motherland and his rules are circa 1930 old-school. Both my mother and I would rather stick our feet in a lake full of piranhas than reach out and ask him for a favor after a four-year silence. Imagine if he said no and we sacrificed that final shred of pride for nothing?” She shrugged. “Also, I think there is a part of my mother that enjoys Napa being my only option for a while longer.” “Your only option for what?” He reared back a little. “You’re not . . . broke.” “Not broke broke. But not flush enough to . . .” She paused to wet her dry lips. “I’m starting my own hedge fund in New York along with a colleague of mine, and we need capital to appear appealing to investors.” “That’s what you were doing before. Wall Street shit?” She rolled her eyes. “Yes. You know, the shit that powers the economy.” He snorted, waved that off. “You’d rather be in an overcrowded city than your family’s vineyard in Napa?” “It’s complicated.” “Sounds like you’re complicated.” “I’ll take complicated over simple.” She held her hands out for the keys, wiggling her fingers, but he ignored the gesture. “August.” “One second.” He folded his arms over his powerful chest, cleared his throat. “You don’t have any marriage prospects, right? You wouldn’t marry just to get that money, would you?” “I might,” she said, even though it wasn’t really an option she’d considered. Her prospects were nil. What was the point? Was it her imagination or did lightning strike in the depths of his eyes? “I don’t like it.” “I want the firm. I . . . need the firm. Otherwise I’m going to be known forever as a disappointment. A screw-up. A story they tell at cocktail hour.” She was saying too much now. That last part didn’t need to be aired. It was hers. But she couldn’t deny that the pressure in her chest eased on the tail end of the confession. “Can I please have my keys?” she said quietly. “I need to go.” August seemed to shake himself, but his attention never strayed from her face. “Sure. Yeah.” He handed them

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt

its claims; the children tried to pay attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time was grown to be so precious, moving, in some direction, in any direction, was at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down was to invite death and shorten its pursuit. At last Becky's frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat down. Tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends there, and the comfortable beds and, above all, the light! Becky cried, and Tom tried to think of some way of comforting her, but all his encouragements were grown threadbare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. Fatigue bore so heavily upon Becky that she drowsed --------------------------------------------------------- -289- off to sleep. Tom was grateful. He sat looking into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural under the influence of pleasant dreams; and by-and-by a smile dawned and rested there. The peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing into his own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone times and dreamy memories. While he was deep in his musings, Becky woke up with a breezy little laugh -- but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan followed it. "Oh, how could I sleep! I wish I never, never had waked! No! No, I don't, Tom! Don't look so! I won't say it again." "I'm glad you've slept, Becky; you'll feel rested, now, and we'll find the way out." "We can try, Tom; but I've seen such a beautiful country in my dream. I reckon we are going there." "Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and let's go on trying." They rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. They tried to estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was that it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not be, for their candles were not gone yet. A long time after this -- they could not tell how long -- Tom said they must go softly and listen for dripping water -- they must find a spring. They found one presently, and Tom said it was time to rest again. Both were cruelly tired, yet Becky said --------------------------------------------------------- -290- she thought she could go a little farther. She was surprised to hear Tom dissent. She could not understand it. They sat down, and Tom fastened his candle to the wall in front of them with some clay. Thought was soon busy; nothing was said for some time. Then Becky broke the silence: "Tom, I am so hungry!" Tom took something out of his pocket. "Do you remember this?" said he. Becky almost smiled. "It's our wedding-cake, Tom." "Yes -- I wish it was as big as a barrel, for it's all we've got." "I saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, Tom, the way grown-up people do with wedding-cake -- but it'll be our -- " She dropped the sentence where it

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

where the air tasted stale and mineral, where there was nothing soft. Lore knew she was dreaming—or something like it—but it didn’t stop the kick of fear against her ribs when she saw the tomb. It looked larger than she remembered, a block of obsidian gleaming night-sky dark. Looming like a slice of the earth itself, prepared to bury her beneath it, to crush her into itself and make her part of whatever waited inside. She moved with the thick slowness of dreams, the float that didn’t acknowledge arms or legs, made her a mass of thought and weightless matter. Lore tried to back away from Nyxara’s tomb, thinking that she crawled crablike, but she felt no bite of shale into her palms, no rasp of fabric over floor. No matter how far she moved, though, the tomb stayed the same distance from her, as if it were a dog and she the leash. As if they were shackled together, her and the tomb, her and the goddess buried inside it. Surfacing, just for a moment, her mouth breaking through black water long enough to breathe. “She’s alive.” A voice she knew in her bones, one that made her think inexplicably of fire, of incense, of rage held tight and trees burning. “She’s alive, but she isn’t waking up.” “She will.” The other voice she didn’t know, not like she knew the first. Low, muffled, speaking from far distance while the first had been chime-clear. “Give her time.” “It’s been three days—” “You saw what she did.” There was no real accusation in the tone, but the words still hung ax-bladed. “Something like that takes time to recover from.” Silence from the other voice, the one she knew. Lore went back under. Time passed. She didn’t know how much. She was suspended in inky darkness and saw nothing, felt nothing. Then, sand. Ocean. Sun and blue sky. She knew this dream, at least. The same figure sat next to her as always. Lore turned her head, wondering if this time she’d be able to see them clearly. For a brief moment, there was a spark of recognition, the smoky effluence solidifying into a shape she should know. But then it was gone, only shadows again. Something tugged at her chest. Lore didn’t like it, so she crossed her arms, hiding her heart away. The tug hurt, felt like it wanted to pluck the organ from her chest, but Lore kept it all to herself, something wholly her own. No smoke spilled into the sky. It was nothing but clear, shining blue. The figure seemed startled; at least, as startled as something essentially noncorporeal could be. “Curious,” murmured the empty voice, void of any emotion or texture. “It seems more power begets more control. But we have time. We’ll try again.” Lore wasn’t listening. She was drifting again. Surfacing. A sheen against her eyes, unbearably bright after so much darkness, the vague impression of a room that should be familiar. The sensation of her limbs, heavy and limp but present. This was the

Lord of the Flies.txt

other. Bill answered. "We don't want to go in the jungle." Ralph grimaced. "He--you know--goes." "He's a hunter. They're all hunters. That's different." No one spoke for a moment, then Piggy muttered to the sand. "Meat--" The littluns sat, solemnly thinking of meat, and dribbling. Overhead the cannon boomed again and the dry palm fronds clattered in a sudden gust of hot wind. "You are a silly little boy," said the Lord of the Flies, "just an ignorant, silly little boy." Simon moved his swollen tongue but said nothing. "Don't you agree?" said the Lord of the Flies. "Aren't you just a silly little boy?" Simon answered him in the same silent voice. "Well then," said the Lord of the Flies, "you'd better run off and play with the others. They think you're batty. You don't want Ralph to think you're batty, do you? You like Ralph a lot, don't you? And Piggy, and Jack?" Simon's head was tilted slightly up. His eyes could not break away and the Lord of the Flies hung in space before him. "What are you doing out here all alone? Aren't you afraid of me?" Simon shook. "There isn't anyone to help you. Only me. And I'm the Beast." Simon's mouth labored, brought forth audible words. "Pig's head on a stick." "Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!" said the head. For a moment or two the forest and all the other dimly appreciated places echoed with the parody of laughter. "You knew, didn't you? I'm part of you? Close, close, close! I'm the reason why it's no go? Why things are what they are?" The laughter shivered again. "Come now," said the Lord of the Flies. "Get back to the others and we'll forget the whole thing." Simon's head wobbled. His eyes were half closed as though he were imitating the obscene thing on the stick. He knew that one of his times was coming on. The Lord of the Flies was expanding like a balloon. "This is ridiculous. You know perfectly well you'll only meet me down there--so don't try to escape!" Simon's body was arched and stiff. The Lord of the Flies spoke in the voice of a schoolmaster. "This has gone quite far enough. My poor, misguided child, do you think you know better than I do?" There was a pause. "I'm warning you. I'm going to get angry. D'you see? You're not wanted. Understand? We are going to have fun on this island. Understand? We are going to have fun on this island! So don't try it on, my poor misguided boy, or else--" Simon found he was looking into a vast mouth. There was blackness within, a blackness that spread. "--Or else," said the Lord of the Flies, "we shall do you? See? Jack and Roger and Maurice and Robert and Bill and Piggy and Ralph. Do you. See?" Simon was inside the mouth. He fell down and lost consciousness. CHAPTER NINE A View to a Death Over the island the build-up of clouds continued. A

1984.txt

not certain whether his sister had been born then. Finally they had emerged into a noisy, crowded place which he had realized to be a Tube station. There were people sitting all over the stone-flagged floor, and other people, packed tightly together, were sitting on metal bunks, one above the other. Winston and his mother and father found themselves a place on the floor, and near them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by side on a bunk. The old man had on a decent dark suit and a black cloth cap pushed back from very white hair: his face was scarlet and his eyes were blue and full of tears. He reeked of gin. It seemed to breathe out of his skin in place of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he was also suffering under some grief that was genuine and unbearable. In his childish way Winston grasped that some terrible thing, something that was beyond forgiveness and could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the old man loved--a little granddaughter, perhaps--had been killed. Every few minutes the old man kept repeating: 'We didn't ought to 'ave trusted 'em. I said so, Ma, didn't I? That's what comes of trusting 'em. I said so all along. We didn't ought to 'ave trusted the buggers.' But which buggers they didn't ought to have trusted Winston could not now remember. Since about that time, war had been literally continuous, though strictly speaking it had not always been the same war. For several months during his childhood there had been confused street fighting in London itself, some of which he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history of the whole period, to say who was fighting whom at any given moment, would have been utterly impossible, since no written record, and no spoken word, ever made mention of any other alignment than the existing one. At this moment, for example, in 1984 (if it was 1984), Oceania was at war with Eurasia and in alliance with Eastasia. In no public or private utterance was it ever admitted that the three powers had at any time been grouped along different lines. Actually, as Winston well knew, it was only four years since Oceania had been at war with Eastasia and in alliance with Eurasia. But that was merely a piece of furtive knowledge which he happened to possess because his memory was not satisfactorily under control. Officially the change of partners had never happened. Oceania was at war with Eurasia: therefore Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia. The enemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and it followed that any past or future agreement with him was impossible. The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thousandth time as he forced his shoulders painfully backward (with hands on hips, they were gyrating their bodies from the waist, an exercise