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The Silmarillion.txt

Eldar and reverence for the Valar; and as the Shadow grew they aided the Faithful as they could. But for long they did not declare themselves openly, and sought rather to amend the hearts of the lords of the Sceptre with wiser counsels. There was a lady Inzilbth, renowned for her beauty, and her mother was Lindri, sister of Erendur, the Lord of Andni in the days of Ar-Sakalthr father of Ar-Gimilzr. Gimilzr took her to wife, though this was little to her liking, for she was in heart one of the Faithful, being taught by her mother; but the kings and their sons were grown proud and not to be gainsaid in their wishes. No love was there between Ar-Gimilzr and his queen, or between their sons. Inziladn, the elder, was like his mother in mind as in body; but Gimilkhd, the younger, went with his father, unless he were yet prouder and more wilful. To him Ar-Gimilzr would have yielded the sceptre rather than to the elder son, if the laws had allowed. But when Inziladn acceded to the sceptre, he took again a title in the Elven-tongue as of old, calling himself Tar-Palantir, for he was far-sighted both in eye and in mind, and even those that hated him feared his words as those of a true-seer. He gave peace for a while to the Faithful; and he went once more at due seasons to the Hallow of Eru upon the Meneltarma, which Ar-Gimilzr had forsaken. The White Tree he tended again with honour; and he prophesied, saying that when the Tree perished, then also would the line of the Kings come to its end. But his repentance was too late to appease the anger of the Valar with the insolence of his fathers, of which the greater part of his people did not repent. And Gimilkhd was strong and ungentle, and he took the leadership of those that had been called the King's Men and opposed the will of his brother as openly as he dared, and yet more in secret. Thus the days of Tar-Palantir became darkened with grief; and he would spend much of his time in the west, and there ascended often the ancient tower of King Minastir upon the hill of Oromet nigh to Andni, whence he gazed westward in yearning, hoping to see, maybe, some sail upon the sea. But no ship came ever again from the West to Nmenor, and Avalln was veiled in cloud. Now Gimilkhd died two years before his two hundredth year (which was accounted an early death for one of Elros' line even in its waning), but this brought no peace to the King. For Pharazn son of Gimilkhd had become a man yet more restless and eager for wealth and power than his father. He had fared often abroad, as a leader in the wars that the Nmenreans made then in the coastlands of Middle-earth, seeking to extend their dominion over Men; and thus he had won great renown as a captain both by land and by

We-Could-Be-So Good.txt

hug you, are you going to pass out?” Nick brings a hand up to cover his eyes. “You’re the worst.” “It’s against all the rules for you to be the worried one, Nick. Come here.” Andy steps closer and puts his arms around Nick’s neck. Nick lets his hands settle on Andy’s back, their chests flush together. He breathes in the unfamiliar scent of Andy’s hair. He must have used different shampoo at the hotel. Nick wants to put him in the shower and scrub him down, and just the thought of that scenario is more than his mind can handle. Or, well, more than his dick can handle, because it’s hard and pressing into Andy’s stomach. “Sorry,” Nick says. “Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up.” Andy turns his head, pressing his face into Nick’s neck, and Nick can feel his breath, warm on his skin. “I want this. Do you?” “Jesus Christ.” “That’s not an answer.” “Yes.” “You always smell so good.” As Andy speaks, his lips brush against Nick’s throat, and Nick wants to groan. Andy’s mouth is moving now, up and over, toward Nick’s mouth. When he finally slides his lips over Nick’s, Nick involuntarily grips Andy’s shirt. “Hi, Nick,” Andy says, and Nick can feel the smile against his mouth. “Hi yourself,” Nick mumbles, and he pulls Andy closer. He feels the wiry muscles of Andy’s arms tighten around him at the same time Nick opens his mouth, just a little. Andy’s hands go up to cradle Nick’s face, cool against the flaming heat of Nick’s cheeks. They’re pressed together now, chest to chest, no space between them, but Nick wants more, so he backs Andy up against the wall and presses him there. “Oh shit,” Andy gasps. He’s hard now, too (Thank God, thank God, whispers the part of his brain that still needs reassurances), and Nick lets out a groan at the feel of him. “Stop?” “God no, don’t stop.” Andy twists them around so it’s Nick’s back against the wall, which is not a position he’s ever spent much time in, but with Andy it’s fine. Andy can shove him into however many walls he pleases. “You want this,” Nick says, his lips moving against Andy’s. “You really do.” Andy pulls back, just enough to give Nick a severely unimpressed look. “I told you.” “I know, I know. You know what—” Here, Nick swears that he means to say You know what you want, but what comes out is “You know what gets your dick hard.” “Nick,” Andy says, half laughing, but with this shuddering little rasp in his voice that makes Nick glad he has the wall to prop him up. Andy moves one hand so it’s braced on the wall beside Nick’s head and the other goes to Nick’s throat. He presses a kiss to the divot of Nick’s collarbone. “You have no idea,” Andy murmurs. Nick isn’t thinking clearly enough to understand what Andy’s talking about, so he dips his head for another kiss. He bites Andy’s lower lip and

Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt

hallway and stopped. “You didn’t do anything to the shower, did you?” “What could someone do to a shower?” she asked innocently, sitting back down at her laptop. “I’m going back to work.” Eyes narrowed into slits, August turned again and, a second later, closed the bathroom door. Natalie bit down hard on her lower lip, listening to him open cabinets and slowly pull back the shower curtain, as if wary of a snake jumping out. She even heard him uncapping the shampoo bottle and taking a big sniff of the contents, which she had to admit was pretty wise. Just too predictable. Calmly, she stood up from the table, opened the drawer containing the plastic wrap, tore off a long piece, and attached it across the hallway entrance. She squinted an eye to judge August’s exact height and left the plastic there, waiting. That was when she heard the shower start, the pelting spray interrupted by his large frame. And the resounding “What the fuck?” that carried though the house, sending the cat skidding from one dark hole to another. Ready to explode from excitement, Natalie sat down at the table and pretended to type, but kept one eye on the hallway. Sure enough, August burst out of the bathroom a moment later, towel wrapped haphazardly around his hips, blinded by the chicken bouillon cube she’d hidden in the shower nozzle. And just like a dream, he walked straight into the plastic wrap, the film clinging to his slimy features until he tore it off. “Something wrong, honey?” she asked with mock concern. “You’re . . .” he sputtered, turning in the direction of her voice while searching the immediate area for something he could use to wipe his face. “You’re a criminal.” Natalie gasped. “That’s no way to speak to your bride.” “Fine. You’re a criminal bride. Coming to CBS this fall.” All right, that deserved a paper towel. When was the last time she’d laughed this hard? Or didn’t feel like the uncertainty of the future was hanging above her head like a hundred-pound sack of fish guts? “Here,” she said a little breathlessly, standing up and handing August the paper towel roll he kept on the counter. “I think you’ve had enough. For now.” “You, on the other hand . . .” He swiped at his face hastily, cleaning his eyes off enough to pin her with a predatory look. “Haven’t even begun to feel the wrath.” “Oooh, look at me. I’m shaking.” “You should be.” There had to be something terribly wrong with Natalie that she’d never been more attracted to anyone in her life—and he was currently wearing chicken-flavored slime and his mouth probably tasted like mint hell. Yet if he kissed her in that moment, she would have been moaning for him to take her to chicken town in a heartbeat. Gulping through the humiliation of that, she swiped the screwdriver off the counter where she’d left it, handing it over. “For the showerhead.” She shrugged. “I don’t think they make a tool big enough

In the Lives of Puppets.txt

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

Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt

how to put the ‘civil’ in civil ceremony? Because Corinne has been busy—” “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, following her with a wink. “But I’m leaving my shirt off. You’re welcome.” “My God.” She waved her hand frantically. “The stench of you.” “Hard work comes with a price. You’d know that if you ever tried it.” “You mean, like, digging a hole big enough for your grave? Because I’d be willing to try that.” “Bury me with a six-pack of—” August halted mid-stride on his way out of the barn, cold washing down his insides and hardening into ice. Simultaneously, his eyes started to burn and his body snapped to attention, hand whipping to his forehead in a salute. It wasn’t necessary. Not in this setting. He wasn’t even in uniform. But muscle memory performed the action at the sight of his commanding officer walking toward him across the lawn. “Sir.” “At ease, Cates.” His arm dropped. He forced himself to look the man in the eye, even though a hole was being torn straight down his middle. “I didn’t know you were coming.” The barest flash of amusement. “You know I like to have the element of surprise on my side.” August forced a laugh but it came out rusted. Nearly three years had passed since the last time he’d seen his commanding officer, and it had been under the worst circumstances possible. The funeral of his son and August’s best friend, Sam. Though looking Commander Zelnick in the eye was extremely difficult, August didn’t allow his gaze to falter as the man tread closer, his attention drifting out over the vineyard with open curiosity. August became acutely aware of Natalie behind him. Having her present for this reunion was the equivalent of making an incision from throat to belly and letting her see everything on the inside. Totally exposed, utterly vulnerable, nowhere to hide. He turned slightly, meeting Natalie’s interested gaze and holding out his hand to her. He wasn’t sure why. Only that it seemed natural to reassure her that the unexpected appearance of a stranger wasn’t a threat of any kind. Or maybe he needed to feel the warmth of her against his suddenly clammy palm. She didn’t hesitate for a single second before taking his hand and squeezing it. Skirmish forgotten. Interesting how they could flip that switch so quickly. What did that mean? “So this is the place you’ve built for my son.” Commander Zelnick stopped, clasped his hands behind his back. His tone was brisk as ever, but warmth seeped through. “Had a week off and finally decided to come see it for myself.” Christ. He’d almost left it behind two days earlier. Out of necessity, sure, but this man would have arrived and found an abandoned vineyard. If it weren’t for Natalie. He pulled her closer without thinking. “Yes. For Sam. It’s a work in progress,” he managed around the object in his throat. “Sir, I would like you to meet Natalie Vos. My fiancée.” Perpetuating the phony relationship to his CO didn’t exactly feel

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

labor. “This wasn’t your fault. It was mine.” “You mustn’t blame yourself—” She shakes her head vehemently. “You have it all wrong,” she blurts. “I was taking a formula made by Doctor Wong. What I took was meant for you. My selfishness protected you.” My body draws up, confused. “What do you mean? Doctor Wong prescribed nothing for me.” “But he did.” I wait, feeling that if I press her, she’ll retreat back into silence. But once she begins to speak again, I wish beyond all wishing that I couldn’t hear the words. “Lady Kuo asked Doctor Wong to make his best formula to protect you and your baby in the final stage of pregnancy,” she stammers. “She gave me no such thing.” “Because she probably knew you wouldn’t take it.” Another long silence. Then, “She gave the herbs to Poppy.” “Poppy?” “She was to make the formula and give it to you when you entered your seventh month. I stole the ingredients and made them into a brew for me instead.” Meiling drops her head so I can’t see her eyes. “So many sayings cover my greed and envy. The sight of treasure provides the motive… A plan is born when a man is desperate… But none is more apt than Carelessness in putting things away teaches others to steal. I knew where the ingredients were, and I took them. I wanted a baby so badly, but I lost the one thing I wanted as punishment for stealing what was meant for you.” Her confession doesn’t make the waters any clearer. “Why would you take something meant for me, Meiling? Why?” “I thought if it was good enough for you, then why shouldn’t I take it?” She begins to weep. “Remember when my mother said that a Metal Snake can have an envious streak? I paid a price for my envy. My baby died.” I shake my head. “Something’s wrong here. Doctor Wong and I may have different ideas about Blood-warming and Blood-cooling during pregnancy—and his prescription could have counteracted what I gave you—but that wouldn’t have resulted in a miscarriage. Do you still have any of the ingredients? I want to see what he used.” With effort, Meiling rises from the bed, goes to one of her bags, digs through the contents, and returns with a silk pouch tied with woven cord. I open it and pour the contents on the quilt. As my fingers go from item to item, my heart feels as though it’s dropping to the pit of my stomach. “Well?” Meiling asks. “Ox knee is often used to expel old monthly moon water or clear the child palace of lingering blood after birth,” I answer, my throat tightening around my words. “But it can also be used on wives thought too sickly to carry a baby to term. Expelling the embryo gives the woman a chance to live.” Meiling draws a hand across her mouth as she takes this in. I can hardly get the next words out. “And here are peach kernels.” “Yes. So?” “They’re

Things Fall Apart.txt

years Okonkwo had been in exile. The church had come and led many astray. Not only the low-born and the outcast but sometimes a worthy man had joined it. Such a man was Ogbuefi Ugonna, who had taken two titles, and who like a madman had cut the anklet of his titles and cast it away to join the Christians. The white missionary was very proud of him and he was one of the first men in Umuofia to receive the sacrament of Holy Communion, or Holy Feast as it was called in Ibo. Ogbuefi Ugonna had thought of the Feast in terms of eating and drinking, only more holy than the village variety. He had therefore put his drinking-horn into his goatskin bag for the occasion. But apart from the church, the white men had also brought a government. They had built a court where the District Commissioner judged cases in ignorance. He had court messengers who brought men to him for trial. Many of these messengers came from Umuru on the bank of the Great River, where the white men first came many years before and where they had built the centre of their religion and trade and government. These court messengers were greatly hated in Umuofia because they were foreigners and also arrogant and high-handed. They were called kotma, and because of their ash-coloured shorts they earned the additional name of Ashy Buttocks. They guarded the prison, which was full of men who had offended against the white man's law. Some of these prisoners had thrown away their twins and some had molested the Christians. They were beaten in the prison by the kotma and made to work every morning clearing the government compound and fetching wood for the white Commissioner and the court messengers. Some of these prisoners were men of title who should be above such mean occupation. They were grieved by the indignity and mourned for their neglected farms. As they cut grass in the morning the younger men sang in time with the strokes of their machetes: "Kotma of the ashy buttocks, He is fit to be a slave. The white man has no sense, He is fit to be a slave." The court messengers did not like to be called Ashy-Buttocks, and they beat the men. But the song spread in Umuofia. Okonkwo's head was bowed in sadness as Obierika told him these things. "Perhaps I have been away too long," Okonkwo said, almost to himself. "But I cannot understand these things you tell me. What is it that has happened to our people? Why have they lost the power to fight?" "Have you not heard how the white man wiped out Abame?" asked Obierika. "I have heard," said Okonkwo. "But I have also heard that Abame people were weak and foolish. Why did they not fight back? Had they no guns and machetes? We would be cowards to compare ourselves with the men of Abame. Their fathers had never dared to stand before our ancestors. We must fight these men and drive them

Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt

social awareness. You know when I’m winding you up.” She punches me in the arm. Well, punch is a strong word, but the point is, her fist meets my bicep. Then she props herself up on one elbow and leans over me, and I realize she’s going to punch my other arm too. She’s going to help me feel balanced, the way she used to. One of her braids brushes my neck. Something weird and tight and up and down happens in my chest. Her eyes meet mine. They’re so dark I can see myself and I look winded. “Um,” she whispers. “Is not a word,” I whisper back. Her hesitation dissolves into a reluctant tilt of the lips and she does it. She punches my other arm to even out the sensations. Then she lies back down beside me, and I try not to have feelings and monumentally fail. Celine used to do anything I asked her to do. We’re lying here like different coins, but for years of my life we were two sides of the same. She had my back and I had hers. “I…” I clear my throat, fumbling for words. “I don’t usually…need that anymore.” Her eyes shift away from mine to stare up at the ceiling. “Sorry,” she says lightly, as if it doesn’t matter, which means it does. She’s embarrassed. “No, I—” liked it. The words get tangled at the back of my throat, and then Sophie speaks to me, and the moment is gone. “Brad, what about you?” “What?” Her, Aurora, and Raj are all sitting up, looking at me expectantly. I sit up too. We all do. The too-soft, too-close feeling dissolves and this time, when she moves, Celine doesn’t touch me again. “What do you want the scholarship for?” Sophie asks, nudging my shoulder with hers. “Oh. Er…law.” Or rather, for solo housing while I study law. Aurora seems interested. “Really? What field?” Is that the sort of thing you’re meant to know at seventeen? I haven’t really thought about it. I bet Celine knows. I plaster on my best and brightest smile and hold up a hand. “Whoa, hold on a second—I want to know about you. What do you want it for?” Aurora’s nose turns red. “Oh, um,” she says, “I want to go to art school. So does Raj.” “Graphic design,” he says, “and marketing. Aurora’s doing fine art.” “If I get in,” she mutters. “Of course you’ll get in,” Sophie says firmly. “You’re very talented—” Aurora blinks. “But you haven’t seen any of my—” “And you’re a BEP Explorer. Done deal.” Have I mentioned how much I like Sophie? “What about you?” I ask her. She smiles almost shyly and adjusts the scarf covering her hair. “Oh, well, I want to study politics and international relations. Not sure what I’ll do with it yet, but…” It’s a good degree, I think. Stable job opportunities. “The world is at a crossroads,” she says. “Nation-states can’t effectively combat global problems, but climate change and waning resources are some of the

Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt

Chine again. Miss de Vries hadn’t sent for her all day. Alice hounded the other servants with inquiries: had Madam given word as to when she next wanted to be fitted? Had she left any message, any instructions for Alice at all? She needed some assurance that she was still doing well, that she was excelling, that she was safe. The weaselly-looking errand boy was lugging a bucket of coal in for the range. “Whatchoo asking so many questions for?” he said, staring at Alice without compunction. Alice rounded on him. “Bugger off, little rat,” she said, showing her teeth. His eyes widened, startled, and he scuttled off across the yard, his ragged coat flapping in the breeze. Alice had startled herself. She put her hands to her crucifix. By any measure it was too late for Miss de Vries to still be eating her dinner. Evidently, she was preoccupied, absorbed in business. Alice lingered in the front hall, trying to invent excuses to enter the dining room. William, the head footman, came out and spotted her. “You’d better make yourself scarce before Shepherd sees you,” he said, eyes narrowing. And then, voice gentle: “What’s got you in a twist?” “Nothing,” she said, anguished. “Hmm,” he said, turning his gaze away from her. “Do I sense a tragedy?” She blushed at that and scurried outside, crossing the garden, then the yard. Mr. Doggett and his boys were playing Racing Demon outside the mews house, flicking cigarette ash behind the ornamental urns. They didn’t notice Alice, or else she supposed they didn’t care to acknowledge her presence, taking her to be a plain and stupid girl, with no purpose in this house, nothing at all to recommend her. The dress was calling silently to her, summoning her back. She wanted to avoid it. She needed a break. She marched to the mews door, as if she had an errand to run, as if she were on a mission of great import. As the clocks chimed the quarter hour she stepped out through the mews door into the lane. She froze. Two men, wearing rich, silk-lined overcoats, were standing under the streetlamp. The air smelled of gardenias. She recognized the scent, and then their faces, at once. They came to the gate. The taller of the two lifted his hat, tilted it toward her, perfectly courteous. He had a smile on his face that Alice knew by instinct, that she would have known even if she were a babe in arms. Danger, danger, danger. The debt collectors had found her, after all. Perhaps they didn’t think she was going to run. Or if she did, they didn’t care. They continued to smile at her, eyes steady, as if to say, We’ll track you anyway. They had one message, and they handed it over on a piece of paper. She opened it once she was inside the house, in the kitchen passage, back to the wall. Breathing hard, she made out the words under the flickering lamplight: One week. 15 Twelve days to go It

After Death.txt

want to order a pizza?” Amused by his joke, Durand laughs, but the geezer doesn’t even smile. He says, “Don’t.” This is a test, a challenge, and if Durand passes it, he will be something super, not right away but later, something amazing. He moves around to the head of the gurney. The old fart rolls his head side to side, tries to tip it back to see what’s happening, but he can’t. He says, “No.” Durand says, “Oh, yes. I know what you really are,” because he sees now what he’s got to do to prove he’s special, to show that nothing scares him. He must prove himself to the secret masters of the universe, who work in mysterious ways. The overhead fluorescent panels bleach the elderly man still whiter, and Durand cups his right hand under the respected guest’s stubbled chin, forcing the mouth shut. The man lacks the strength to resist. With his left hand, Durand pinches the nostrils tight. The quadriplegic can move nothing other than his head; he rolls it side to side, and for a minute he is vigorous in defense of his life, but he is not able to break his assailant’s grip. The rightness of the boy’s intention is confirmed for him when, as the light grows and the room blurs into a smooth sphere of whiteness, his pajamas seem to become a richer shade of yellow, shifting from saffron to lemon, and the hands that are instruments of suffocation flush with the color of life that a booming heart delivers. The man’s resistance grows feeble. The boy’s pajamas are now the yellow of an egg yolk, and his flesh is yet more darkly bronzed with urgent life, the blood vessels in his hands swollen to match his excitement, fingernails as pink as if they have been painted. When the geezer finishes dying, the blue of his eyes is a bleak frost, but Durand has become more vivid and colorful even than he has been in his most feverish night dreams of superpowers and violent adventures. His clamping hand relaxes, and his pinching fingers open. The blinding whiteness relents. Details of the cold-holding room return. He has passed the test. The challenge has been met. He’s afraid of nothing. Nothing. Not even of a man returned from the dead—or of some demon possessing a corpse. Having proved he is special, he will eventually have the super future of which he dreams. He needs only to be patient and grow into his greatness. Patience is another test he must pass. He arranges the shroud as it was when he came here. After turning off the lights and stepping into the hall and closing the door, he switches on the penlight. He makes his way back to his room. In bed, in the post-Halloween dark, as he flirts with sleep yet resists surrendering to it, the events in the basement rerun in his mind until he is trembling in remembered ecstasy. In time, he knows beyond doubt that the old man was not mistakenly declared dead

Yellowface.txt

admits. “As it stands, the copyright issue is quite easily contained. Athena’s next of kin—that would be her mother, Patricia Liu—has expressed no desire to sue for damages, and as long as we take out or rewrite the opening paragraph of Mother Witch, there’s no problem with the bulk of the work . . .” I feel a glimmer of hope. Mrs. Liu’s decision not to sue is news to me—here I thought I’d be on the hook for thousands of dollars in payments. “So we’re all right, then?” “Well.” Daniella clears her throat. “There remains a problem of perception. We need to be clear on what our story is. That’s what we’re trying to do here: get all the facts straight, so we’re all on the same page. So if June could repeat, for clarity, precisely her account of how she wrote The Last Front and Mother Witch . . .” “The Last Front is entirely my original work, inspired by my conversations with Athena.” My voice keeps steady. I’m still terrified, but I feel like I’m on more solid footing, now that I know I’m not getting dropped by my publisher. They’re trying to help me. I just have to give them the right spin, and we can make this work. “And Mother Witch takes the first paragraph from one of Athena’s unpublished drafts, but otherwise it is entirely original to me as well. I write my own stuff, you guys. I promise.” A brief pause. Daniella glances at Todd, her left eyebrow arched high. “All right, then,” Todd says. “We’ll want this in writing, of course, but if that’s all you did, then . . . this is fairly containable.” “So can we make this go away?” Brett asks. Todd hesitates. “That’s really a question for publicity . . .” “Maybe I could put out a statement,” I say. “Or do, like, an interview. Clear everything up. Most of this is all misunderstandings—maybe if I just . . .” “I think what’s best for you right now is to focus on your next work,” Daniella says crisply. “Eden will put out a statement on your behalf. We’ll send it over for your approval this afternoon.” Emily chips in. “We all feel that in the meantime, it’s best that you, personally, stay off social media. But if you wanted to announce a new project, something you’re currently working on . . .” She trails off. I get the idea. Shut up, stay out of the spotlight, and prove you’re capable of writing your own books. Preferably something that has nothing to do with Athena fucking Liu. “What are you working on now?” Daniella prods. “Brett, I know it’s not under contract with us, but we do have the first look, so if there’s anything you can share with us . . .” “I’m working on it,” I say hoarsely. “Obviously this whole thing has been very distressing, so I’ve been distracted . . .” “But she’ll have something new soon,” Brett jumps in. “I’ll be in touch when she does.

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

to free herself, but she’s small in stature and weak from all she’s been through. From outside the room come cries of distress—the shrill tones from the eunuchs easily distinguishable from those of the midwives and wet nurses. Meiling’s legs give out, and she sags in the guards’ arms. The burlier of the two men motions to me and Miss Zhao. “You’re coming too.” I can barely breathe, my fear is so great. Miss Zhao and I support each other as we’re herded outside to two waiting palanquins instead of the usual carriage. Lin Ta stands with his hands hidden in his sleeves, his eyes averted. Meiling is pushed into the first palanquin. I’m about to follow her when one of the guards grabs my arm and holds me back. I don’t dare try to shake myself loose, but I won’t be separated from Meiling. “Lin Ta,” I say with a deep bow. “Please…” He releases a hand from his sleeve and wordlessly waves away the guard. Before he can change his mind, I climb in next to Meiling, who’s slumped against a corner of the palanquin. My body pulses, alive with an energy I’ve never experienced before, but Meiling is barely conscious. By now I’m quite familiar with the journey that leads to the Great Within. This time we go in a different direction. “Where are they taking us?” Meiling’s voice is as insubstantial as a blossom left on a stone under the summer sun. I shake my head. The ride is extremely rough, with bumps and lurches, as if the bearers have intended to add to our suffering. When the palanquin lands with a hard thump, Meiling is nearly thrown from the seat. The door swings open, and a pair of hands reaches in and yanks her out. When I exit, I see we’re in a courtyard before the entrance to a hall unknown to me. Miss Zhao descends from her palanquin and joins me as we follow the guards dragging Meiling. The back of her sleeping gown is blotted with fresh blood. She’s too feeble to walk on her own, and the bare tops of her feet drag along the paving stones with her soles facing skyward. None of the men even bothers to glimpse at this profound nakedness, which tells me just how grave the situation is. We enter the hall. Men in formal robes stand lined against the walls. In front of us on a raised platform are two thrones, one of which is occupied. The emperor… Miss Zhao and I are pushed forward. When the man holding my shoulder lets go, I drop to the ground—Miss Zhao beside me—in total submission. “I have striven to make the palace a place of good thought and proper acts.” The emperor’s voice is not at all what I might have imagined, if I’d ever given a moment’s thought to it. He sounds like a regular man—like my husband or my grandfather—only the words he forms with his ordinary voice make my body shiver. “I have but one wife. Empress

Frankenstein.txt

inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from the mainland, which was about five miles distant. On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession, an incident which would doubtless have occasioned some surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave, so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men. In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky, and when troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean. In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived, but as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days, and at other times I toiled day and night in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process in which I was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands. Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow creatures lest when alone he should come to claim his companion. In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already considerably advanced.

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

creak as it sat up. The dead body opened his eyes, and Lore couldn’t help but meet them, no matter how awful—her gaze was drawn there, even as terror set deep in her bones, even as the power that made this possible kept her eyes opaque and her veins inky, looking just as dead as he did. The child’s eyes were wholly black—no white, no iris. Darkened veins stood out around them, like the veins around her own, like the scars around Gabe’s eye patch. The child opened an empty, yawning mouth. And though his lips didn’t move, he began to whisper. CHAPTER THIRTEEN To reach for power beyond what has been given to you is the greatest sin. —The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 78 At first, the whispering was just a soft susurrus, the bare suggestion of language without any detail filled in. The sound reminded Lore of flies buzzing, of suffocating dirt, the soft fall of flesh rotted from bone. But after a moment, words conjured themselves from the shapeless noise. Just one phrase, over and over and stopping abruptly, stuck in a replicating loop. The words started slurred, then grew sharper edges, became crisp as an elocution exercise despite the stillness of dead tongue, dead lips. “They’ve awakened,” the unmoving corpse whispered. “They’ve awakened they’ve awakened they’ve awakened—” The King’s face was pale. He looked surprised, almost, surprised and nervous, like he hadn’t entirely expected this to work. His head swung to his twin. “Does that mean—” Anton held up a hand, and his brother closed his mouth, swallowing the end of his sentence. The Priest Exalted’s gaze flickered from the corpse to Lore’s face, calculating. Lore stared into the not-dead child’s black eyes, the gape of that unmoving, whispering mouth. “Stop,” she rasped. “Please stop.” The body fell back, eyes still open, limbs slack. She snapped her hands closed, just like she’d done with Horse, just like she’d done with Cedric, breaking the threads of Mortem that bound her to the corpse. Then Lore bolted. August’s voice chased her out the door, echoing in all that stone, but Lore paid the King no mind. She tripped over her hem, hit her knees, skinning them beneath her skirt. A heaving breath in and another out, trying her best to keep the bile in her throat from surging. The white, necrotic skin on her fingers slowly leached back to living warmth, the gray of her veins fading with each breath. Her heart lurched in her chest, beating so hard it almost hurt. “Get up, girl.” Anton’s voice was as cold as the stone against her palms. Lore rubbed the back of her wrist over her mouth, deliberately taking her time before she straightened and glared up at the Priest Exalted. The sun through the skylight blazed his gray hair into a halo, obscured his features. “Ready for round two?” Lore nearly spat it. As humanity suffused her again, chasing out death, so did a righteous anger she couldn’t totally explain—the thought of that child, of how she’d disturbed his

Kika-Hatzopoulou-Threads-That-Bi.txt

her the chance to refuse, practically dragging her to safety. Now she sat on the floor of his living room, having washed in his shower, wearing his girlfriend’s warm clothes while hers dried. On the short table in front of her sat a gorgeous tea set, steaming its sweet aroma in the room. Koshary shai from Sumi, he had said as he prepared it. I added a few mint leaves. On the countertop, his knife sliced back and forth rhythmically. He was making her dinner. Edei Rhuna, her fated thread, was making her dinner. “Do you eat spicy food?” he asked over his shoulder. “I eat everything,” Io replied. She didn’t like everything, but she ate it all the same. Knees tucked under her chin, fingers running through her wet hair, Io watched him chop and mix and grind things into the pan. He was favoring his right side. “How is your shoulder?” “It’s fine. Hurts, but I can take it.” The statement pretty much summed up their lives, didn’t it? A hundred different things tumbled to the tip of her tongue. You told Nico to watch after me. You came running to the Docks. You had a hunch, but it’s not a hunch. We have a fate-thread, she could say. That’s what you felt earlier. But how obnoxious would it be to confess that, in the home he shared with his girlfriend, wearing her woolen kaftan? She already felt rotten that this thread existed, that it still existed even though she had known for years that the right thing to do was cut it. Instead, she said, “I’m so sorry. It was my fault.” “Did you aim the gun and pull the trigger?” He leaned against the counter and raised his eyebrows at her. “Then it’s not your fault.” Io almost sighed in awe. Gods, he was beautiful. Dark eyebrows, cheekbones that could slice your palm open, the shadow of stubble on his cheeks. He wore a soft shirt a little too loose around the neckline and no shoes. Seeing him in his socks felt intimate. Heat gathered in her cheeks. For several minutes, neither of them spoke. Io studied his apartment: the multicolored rugs, the low table and plush pillows, the beaded curtain leading to what she assumed was their bedroom. The whole place was Sumazi in style, which was surprising. Imported furniture and fabrics were costly. They must have saved up for months to decorate it. It was worth it, though, a small pocket of home away from home. On a shelf across from her, more than a dozen little bees were laid in a neat formation based on size. Some were made of glass, some of clay or stone. Most were painted in bright colors, but a couple were wooden carvings weathered by age. From the stove, Edei followed her eyeline and explained, “When I was young, I thought honeybees were mythical creatures. Ra’s maidens, carrying good fortune and growth, like lore says. Honeybees in Sumi are nearly extinct. I saw one in real life my first spring

The-Housekeepers.txt

a gentle smile. “Do.” “I had some papers,” she said. “Expenses. The menus for the ball.” She paused. “Letters.” Shepherd had watched her do it. He’d been with her, in her housekeeper’s room. He’d watched her throw them on the fire. And with them, folded with the order bills and receipts and notes for the ball, were the letters to Mother. The letters she never sent. The ones saying sorry, sending love, things impossible to say in person. Had the packet felt heavier than before? Even fractionally? Had someone put another letter in beside them, tucked away? She’d burned it all. She remembered the ribbon dissolving, turning to ash. “What do you mean? What letters?” said Winnie, puzzled. Mrs. King did something she’d never done before. She leaned forward, arms rigid at her side, and laid her head on Winnie’s shoulder. She felt as if she could not sit up straight any longer. “Dinah,” said Winnie, as if frightened for her. “Oh, Dinah.” The night loomed vast and black around them. Three days later The lawyers were emerging from an office in the City, near Middle Temple. Mrs. King had gone with William to keep them under observation. Offers had started coming in overnight. Mrs. Bone’s spies reported that there had been several bids made to take over the de Vries empire. All the major magnates were naming hideously low sums, promising to mop up the de Vries family debts—sweeping the Kimberley mines under their control, divesting the gold holdings and the North American territories, selling off the shipping positions. It would ruin everything that Mr. de Vries had left behind. It would leave hardly anything to inherit. Mrs. King sounded the order silently in her head: Find the letter. Madam didn’t arrive; she didn’t object. Nobody knew where she’d gone. Some said the country, some said to jail. The house on Park Lane was swarming with detectives, men in trench coats with any number of questions, examining the locks and windows, trying to fathom the biggest burglary they’d ever seen in their lives. One or two were there on more sensitive business. Looking for the kitchen maids, to ask the most delicate questions. But most of the servants had scattered, giving up any hope of getting their wages. “You were right,” William said. “About getting out.” Mrs. King tilted her hat. “Now you tell me.” He sighed. “I’ve been pigheaded.” She remembered the moment he’d offered her that ring. Cut grass, the park, the stink of the house lingering on them as she told him: “No.” It should have happened at night. By the river, in their secret corners of the city. “So have I,” she said. A crowd of gentlemen came hurtling past, papers under their arms. Mrs. King lowered the brim of her hat. He put his hand out to her. She stood there, and looked at him, and then she took it. She squeezed his fingers. Not an answer, but something. “When?” he said. He meant, When will we see each other again? There was an enormous motor

Yellowface.txt

of movement, a clue, anything. “What would you say is your greatest inspiration?” Athena asks suddenly. Inspiration? What game is this? But I know the right answers. I know what will lure her out. “It’s you,” I shout. “You know that. It’s obviously you.” Athena bursts into a peal of laughter. “So I guess my question is, why?” There’s something off about her voice. I’ve only just noticed. It’s not the voice you use with your friends. It’s pitchy and artificial, like she’s putting on a performance. It’s the voice you hear from celebrities on game shows, right before they have to describe their first sexual encounter or eat a boiled monkey brain. Is she okay? Is she being held hostage? Does someone have a gun to her head? She asks again, in precisely the same intonation, prefacing her question with the same tinkling laughter. “So I guess my question is, why?” “There’s no reason why,” I yell. “I took your pages, I read them, and I thought they were so brilliant—and I’ve always envied you, Athena, I just wanted to know what it was like, and I didn’t even think about it, it just happened—” “You didn’t think you were stealing my work?” Now her voice echoes from somewhere above me. It’s strangely garbled this time, like she’s speaking underwater. It doesn’t sound at all like her. “You didn’t think it was a crime?” “Of course it was. I know that now. It was wrong—” More tinkling laughter. That same question as before, voiced in an identical manner. “So I guess my question is, why?” “Because it’s not fair,” I shout, frustrated. She’s made her point. She doesn’t have to keep toying with me. “You know what kind of stories people want to hear. No one cares about my stories. I wanted what you have—had—but I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never have hurt you, I just thought—” Her voice rises in pitch again, turns girlie and twee. “I’m a lucky girl, aren’t I?” “I thought you were the luckiest person I’d ever met,” I say miserably. “You had everything.” “So you’re sorry?” Garbled, distorted, once again. “Are you sorry, June?” “I’m sorry.” My words feel so small, so tinny against the howling wind. My throat aches from holding back sobs. I don’t care about maintaining the line anymore. I just want this to be over. “Fuck, Athena—I’m so sorry. I wish every day I could take it back. I’ll do anything to make it right—I’ll tell your mom, I’ll tell my publisher, I’ll donate everything, every cent—just tell me you’re all right. Athena, please. I can’t do this anymore.” A long pause. When she at last responds, her voice has changed once again. It’s lost its pitchy, artificial timbre. It sounds human, and yet completely unlike her. “That’s a confession?” “I confess,” I gasp. “I’m sorry, Athena. I’m so sorry, please—come talk to me.” “I see.” A pause. I hear footsteps again, and this time they match the direction of her voice. She’s standing right behind me. “Thank

Divine Rivals.txt

too long. She rushed to the stairs, and she half ran, half tripped down them, trembling so violently that she barely made it out the lobby doors before she vomited into a potted plant on the marble steps. Straightening, Iris wiped her mouth and began to walk to Station Nine, which wasn’t far from her home. It’s not her, she told herself over and over, with each step that drew her closer. It’s not her. But Iris hadn’t seen her mother in over twenty-four hours. She hadn’t been sprawled on the sofa that morning, like she had been the dawn before. Iris had assumed she was in her bedroom with the door closed. She should have checked, to make sure. Because now this doubt was piercing her. When Iris reached the station, she paused, as if not entering would keep the truth from happening. She must have stood on the front stairs for a while, because the shadows were long at her feet and she was shivering when an officer approached her. “Miss? Miss, you can’t stand on the stairs like this. You need to move.” “I’m here to identify a body,” she rasped. “Very well. Follow me, please.” The station corridors were a blur of cream-colored walls and crooked hardwood floors. The air was astringent and the light harsh when they made it to an examination room. Iris came to an abrupt halt. The coroner was standing with a clipboard, dressed in white clothes and a leather apron. Beside him was a metal table, and on the table was a body. Aster looked like she was sleeping, save for the crooked way she rested beneath a sheet and the gash on her face. Iris stepped forward, as if taking her mother’s hand would make her stir. She would feel her daughter’s touch, and it would pull her back from whatever chasm that wanted her, from whatever nightmare they were trapped within. “Miss?” the coroner was saying, and his nasal voice reverberated through her. “Can you identify this woman? Miss, can you hear me?” Iris’s hand froze in the air. Stars began to dance at the edges of her sight as she stared at her mother. Dead and pale and in a place so far away, Iris would never be able to reach her. “Yes,” she whispered before she collapsed, into the embrace of darkness. {11} The Vast Divide It was dark and cold and long past midnight when Iris walked home from the station, carrying a box of her mother’s belongings. A mist spun in the air, turning lamplight into pools of gold. But Iris could hardly feel the chill. She could hardly feel the cobblestones beneath her feet. Her hair and clothes were beaded with moisture by the time she stepped into her flat. Of course, it was full of quiet shadows. She should be used to it by now. And yet she still peered into the darkness for a glimpse of her mother —the spark of her cigarette and the slant of her smile. Iris strained against the roar

treasure island.txt

38 39 then I could see them pause, and hear speeches passed in a lower key, as if they were surprised to find the door open. But the pause was brief, for the blind man again issued his commands. His voice sounded louder and higher, as if he were afire with eagerness and rage. “In, in, in!” he shouted, and cursed them for their delay. Four or five of them obeyed at once, two remaining on the road with the formidable beggar. There was a pause, then a cry of surprise, and then a voice shouting from the house, “Bill’s dead.” Chapter 5. But the blind man swore at them again for their delay. The Last of the Blind Man. “Search him, some of you shirking lubbers, and the rest of you aloft and get the chest,” he cried. MY curiosity, in a sense, was stronger than my fear, for I I could hear their feet rattling up our old stairs, so that the could not remain where I was, but crept back to the bank house must have shook with it. Promptly afterwards, fresh again, whence, sheltering my head behind a bush of broom, I sounds of astonishment arose; the window of the captain’s might command the road before our door. I was scarcely in room was thrown open with a slam and a jingle of broken position ere my enemies began to arrive, seven or eight of glass, and a man leaned out into the moonlight, head and them, running hard, their feet beating out of time along the shoulders, and addressed the blind beggar on the road below road and the man with the lantern some paces in front. Three him. men ran together, hand in hand; and I made out, even through “Pew,” he cried, “they’ve been before us. Someone’s turned the mist, that the middle man of this trio was the blind beg- the chest out alow and aloft.” gar. The next moment his voice showed me that I was right. “Is it there?” roared Pew. “The money’s there.” Contents “Down with the door!” he cried. “Aye, aye, sir!” answered two or three; and a rush was made The blind man cursed the money. upon the Admiral Benbow, the lantern-bearer following; and “Flint’s fist, I mean,” he cried. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 40 41 “We don’t see it here nohow,” returned the man. “There’s Dirk again,” said one. “Twice! We’ll have to “Here, you below there, is it on Bill?” cried the blind man budge, mates.” again. “Budge, you skulk!” cried Pew. “Dirk was a fool and a At that another fellow, probably him who had remained coward from the first—you wouldn’t mind him. They must below to search the captain’s body, came to the door of the be close by; they can’t be far; you have your hands on it. Scat- inn. “Bill’s been overhauled a’ready,” said he; “nothin’ left.” ter and look for them, dogs! Oh, shiver my soul,” he cried, “if “It’s these people of the inn—it’s that boy. I wish I had

Love Theoretically.txt

fuck you everywhere, Elsie.” He licks the hollow of my throat. “Between today and the day we die, I’m going to fuck you everywhere.” I nod. Let him know that he can. There is a tight, liquid pool blooming inside my stomach, twitches of pleasure making their way down my limbs, surging up my spine. I reach for Jack again, pull him to me for the kisses I want, but it doesn’t work. We’re too raw, too new at this, too desperate to catch every drop of this. Our lips press together, then they pause, forgotten by both of us. “Can you come like this?” he asks, his breath a hot wash against my ear. I’m drifting away. I’ll never hear his voice and not think of this. Of the deep, rough bite of it sinking inside my brain. Of the whispered Yes and This way and Perfect and— “Elsie.” His body trembles around mine. On the verge of tipping over. “Can you come this way?” “I don’t know. I—maybe?” I’m close, I think. About to snap. It’s phenomenal, the way he hits everywhere inside me at once, a masterpiece of biology that something could work so gloriously, and I just need a little more —just a little more— “Shit.” His thrusts quicken, he buries his face in my throat, and I think he’s getting close. I think he didn’t expect it. He doesn’t want to come, not yet, but this might be fully out of his control. And it’s what I want. To see him lost in something. “You’re good. This is good,” I urge him, and the word is such a paltry substitute when what I mean is This is the best thing I’ve ever felt and Thank you and Whatever you want, really, whatever you want, just take it. “Fuck,” he says again, and I see it in his face, the second it’s all over for him. His hand closes around my hip, holding me to him while he presses as far as he can go, and then I feel his cock jump in quick, jerky movements. “Elsie.” I’m moaning. He’s gasping. His skin slides against mine, sweaty, and my body clamps down on him. His back tenses into a slab, and I hold him while his hips turn erratic, then stop, then— The heat spreading inside me comes to a halt. I watch Jack’s eyes go blank, feel him bite my collarbone like I’m his anchor, like he wants to be reminded that I’m really here. The grunts he lets out come from somewhere deep inside him, somewhere I doubt he himself knows, and I hold him to myself until his orgasm dies down to a few clumsy, involuntary thrusts. I’m still buzzing with thrumming, unsnapped tension. And it should be frustrating—it is frustrating that he came and I didn’t, that there’s heat pushing against the seams of me, simmering from within. But it was good anyway. And after a moment he pulls out, breaths rapid and choppy, and looks down at me. His expression is shaken, a

In the Lives of Puppets.txt

to a table with a glass tumbler set upon it, half filled with dark liquid. A machine sat in the chair, all metal and wires, though it had the shape of a human. A man stood above it, circling the chair. He wore only an apron, frilly and pink, cinched tightly above his bare bottom. “You’ve had such a rough day, my love,” the man purred, his fingers trailing over the machine’s shoulders with nails painted red. “Let me take care of you. You work so hard to provide for me. I am forever grateful.” “Yes,” the machine said, almost sounding like it was panting. “I need this. My boss at the factory crawled up my ass again. I wish he was dead.” “We could kill him,” the man said, lowering himself onto the machine’s lap, feet flat against the floor, back arched. “Would you like that? Would you like to discuss the plan to murder your boss?” The machine nodded. “Tell me how we’d do it.” The man leaned forward, pressing a kiss against the metal curve of the machine’s jaw. It left behind a sticky imprint of his lips. “That will cost extra.” “Anything,” the machine said. The man reached between them and— “Enough,” Vic said hoarsely. “Stop. I don’t want to see any more.” The door solidified once more. “Is there a problem?” the Doorman asked, arching an eyebrow. “It’s merely fantasy. An outlet for the weary. It isn’t real.” “I don’t care,” Vic said through gritted teeth. “It’s private.” The Doorman shook his head. “I often heard the humans were strange when it came to sex and intimacy. I suggest you keep your thoughts on the subject to yourself here. The Blue Fairy’s work will not be shamed.” “What were they doing?” Rambo whispered to Nurse Ratched. “Playing a game,” Nurse Ratched said. “Nothing to worry your little microchip about.” “But I like games!” The Doorman looked down at him with interest. “You do? We could always use someone like you, if you’d like to stay. Tell me: How strong is your suction?” “Really strong!” Rambo said. “Nope,” Nurse Ratched said, picking Rambo back up and setting him on top of her. “Nope, nope, nope. Rambo stays with us.” Her screen filled with the words BACK OFF, BUB surrounded by flashing red. The Doorman shrugged. “Just a thought. Let us continue.” He led them down the hall that never seemed to end. The paintings continued to move. The sounds from behind the doors rose and fell. Vic felt cold, the sweat drying and causing him to shiver. The helmet dug into his head, and the metal on his arms and legs felt as heavy as it had when they’d first left the forest. He jumped, startled, when a hand brushed against his own. He looked over to see Hap frowning at him. “D-don’t listen to him,” Hap said in a low voice. “I’m h-here. I’ve g-got you.” Vic nodded, grabbing Hap’s hand once more, holding it as tightly as he dared. The Doorman stopped in front of another

In the Lives of Puppets.txt

his mustache. “I promise to make it as pleasant as possible.” “You old flirt,” Nurse Ratched said in her flat voice. “I know your type.” The Coachman grinned at her. “I bet you do.” He grunted as he tipped her over, her screen facing the ceiling. “Do protect him, won’t you? He’s … precious.” “I know,” Nurse Ratched said. “Coachman?” “Yes, my sweet?” “If we are betrayed, if Bernard attempts to notify anyone of our presence in the city, I will find a way out. I will come for him first. And when I have finished with him, I will find you. There is nowhere in the world you can run. Every day, for the rest of your life, you will have to look over your shoulder. When you least expect it, I will be there. I will stick my drill so far inside you that you will taste it. And then I will turn it on and scramble everything that makes you who you are.” “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” the Coachman said. He pressed his hand against her screen. “If that happens, I will wait for you with open arms.” “Seriously,” Rambo said. “This is really gross.” Hap shoved the Coachman out of the way, setting Rambo on top of Nurse Ratched’s casing. “No t-talking,” he warned them. “Hap?” Rambo asked. “What.” “I love you.” Hap scowled at him. He turned to stalk away, but paused at the last second, face twisting. He turned back around again and bent over Rambo. Vic was stunned when he said, “I t-tolerate your existence.” He took one of Rambo’s pincers in his hand and moved it up and down. “Whoa,” Rambo whispered as Hap let go. “Nurse Ratched, did you hear that? He loves me too!” “Th-that’s not what I said.” “It is. And you can’t take it back!” “I am going to die in this box,” Nurse Ratched said. Bernard stepped forward, extending an arm toward the screen. He tapped it once more, and the crate walls rose around Nurse Ratched and Rambo. The last Vic saw of them was Rambo waving frantically. “Goodbye,” Vic said quietly as the lid closed over them. Bernard motioned toward another crate set farther back. “This one is yours.” “And it’ll allow for air to move freely through it?” the Coachman asked. Bernard frowned. “Yes. As discussed. It’s meant for transporting florae and faunae.” He looked at Vic and Hap before his head spun toward the Coachman. “Why is that necessary? Are they transporting something alive?” “What?” the Coachman said, sounding outraged. “I take umbrage with your tone, sir. I would never allow something so—” “You look familiar,” Bernard said to Hap. “Have we met before?” Hap lowered his head, his hood falling around his face. “N-no.” “Hmm,” Bernard said. “Coachman, this better not come back on me.” “Of course it won’t,” the Coachman said. “There is nothing to come back on you. I don’t know what’s going through that circle you call a head, but I am an upstanding citizen. Everything I do is aboveboard,

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

think. I believe in something, anyway. But in all honesty, the idea of the myriad hells makes more sense to me than the Shining Realm does. I think that whatever comes after this, it’s of our own making. Whatever we sowed in life is what we reap in death, good or bad.” “The worst part of the myriad hells would be the loneliness,” Gabe said quietly. “Being trapped in the world your own sins made, and utterly alone. I understand your point, but I can’t believe that someone who lived piously would be alone in death. And it wouldn’t make sense for anyone else to be caught up in the place your own actions made.” She trailed her hand along a bank of stone geraniums. “I don’t know. But if Mortem feels empty—lonely—doesn’t it make sense that death would be, too?” They lapsed into silence. Voices called in the distance, courtiers at play in the inner walls of the Citadel, sowing things they must eventually reap. “I don’t think how Mortem feels and how death feels are the same,” Gabe said finally, almost to himself. “One is twisted magic leaking from the body of a dead goddess, and one is something that awaits us all. The first comes from the second, but they aren’t the same.” “Why is Her magic called twisted?” If it weren’t that they were alone, that the hushed stone garden felt like a place removed from reality, Lore wouldn’t have spoken. But as it was, the words came tumbling from her mouth nearly dripping venom. “She and Apollius were equals. Her magic might’ve been dark and night and death, but it wasn’t twisted, not any more than His was, or any of the elemental minor gods you like to forget existed. It was just different.” Gabe made a hmm sound, brows drawn thoughtfully down. “Do you know the Law of Opposites?” A Tract teaching, a simple one that children were taught soon after learning to walk. Well, children that weren’t Lore. Still, she knew of the law and gave him a curt nod. “If something is good, then its opposite must be evil.” Gabe shook his head. “I don’t believe that.” “You don’t believe in something from the Tracts? You’re rapidly careening toward a vacation on the Burnt Isles.” It was his turn to knock into her shoulder. “I believe the Tracts are up for interpretation,” he said. “And in this, I feel like our interpretation has to be wrong. Opposites are not always in opposition; the day and night are equals. One isn’t good and the other bad.” He paused, mouth pursed. “But one does illuminate things, while the other obscures. And that has to mean something, too, I think.” Lore didn’t respond. She crossed her arms, stared at her feet as they walked over the cobblestones. “I don’t think Nyxara is evil,” Gabe continued. It sounded like he had to push it through his teeth, though, like calling the Buried Goddess Her actual name was a difficult task. “She made a mistake by trying to kill

1984.txt

they carefully scraped away the cinders; and also in waiting for the passing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were known to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted over the bad patches in the road, sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake. When his father disappeared, his mother did not show any surprise or any violent grief, but a sudden change came over her. She seemed to have become completely spiritless. It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for something that she knew must happen. She did everything that was needed--cooked, washed, mended, made the bed, swept the floor, dusted the mantelpiece--always very slowly and with a curious lack of superfluous motion, like an artist's lay-figure moving of its own accord. Her large shapely body seemed to relapse naturally into stillness. For hours at a time she would sit almost immobile on the bed, nursing his young sister, a tiny, ailing, very silent child of two or three, with a face made simian by thinness. Very occasionally she would take Winston in her arms and press him against her for a long time without saying anything. He was aware, in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness, that this was somehow connected with the never-mentioned thing that was about to happen. He remembered the room where they lived, a dark, close-smelling room that seemed half filled by a bed with a white counterpane. There was a gas ring in the fender, and a shelf where food was kept, and on the landing outside there was a brown earthenware sink, common to several rooms. He remembered his mother's statuesque body bending over the gas ring to stir at something in a saucepan. Above all he remembered his continuous hunger, and the fierce sordid battles at mealtimes. He would ask his mother naggingly, over and over again, why there was not more food, he would shout and storm at her (he even remembered the tones of his voice, which was beginning to break prematurely and sometimes boomed in a peculiar way), or he would attempt a snivelling note of pathos in his efforts to get more than his share. His mother was quite ready to give him more than his share. She took it for granted that he, 'the boy', should have the biggest portion; but however much she gave him he invariably demanded more. At every meal she would beseech him not to be selfish and to remember that his little sister was sick and also needed food, but it was no use. He would cry out with rage when she stopped ladling, he would try to wrench the saucepan and spoon out of her hands, he would grab bits from his sister's plate. He knew that he was starving the other two, but he could not help it; he even felt that he had a right to do it. The clamorous hunger in his belly seemed to justify him. Between meals, if his mother did not stand guard, he was constantly pilfering at the wretched

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt

have not eyes to see nor ears to hear withal; for the heathen in the far islands of the sea; and closed with a supplication that the words he was about to speak might find grace and favor, and be as seed sown in fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest of good. Amen. There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down. The boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only endured it -- if he even did that much. He was restive all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously -- for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman's regular route over it -- and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. In the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat-tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom's hands --------------------------------------------------------- -62- itched to grab for it they did not dare -- he believed his soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the prayer was going on. But with the closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal forward; and the instant the "Amen" was out the fly was a prisoner of war. His aunt detected the act and made him let it go. The minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod -- and yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be hardly worth the saving. Tom counted the pages of the sermon; after church he always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew anything else about the discourse. However, this time he was really interested for a little while. The minister made a grand and moving picture of the assembling together of the world's hosts at the millennium when the lion and the lamb should lie down together and a little child should lead them. But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great spectacle were lost upon the boy; he only thought of the conspicuousness of the principal character before the on-looking nations; his face lit with the thought, and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if

The-Housekeepers.txt

hadn’t slept. Cook broke into Mrs. Bone’s thoughts, breath hot in her ear. “And where are those two?” she said. “Eh?” “Them Janes.” Cook had been stewing on the Janes for days, the indignity of them, their very existence. She’d whipped herself into a frenzy about it. It was the peculiarity of them, she said—their odd looks, those daft expressions. The fact that they were allowed to share their own room. Cook didn’t like this one jot. Sisters could cause trouble if they weren’t separated, she said. “Who let them get away with that? Not Mr. Shepherd. I doubt he even knows about it. I should tell him.” “Go on, then,” said Mrs. Bone, and flicked a bit of dry skin away under the table. “I should ask him what he means by it. He ought to be ashamed of himself. And so should they! Not that they will be, for all the trouble they give me, staring at me all day, marching around like they’re the ladies and we’re the skivvies, as if I weren’t the single most necessary person in this household, specially—” “Hush, Cook,” whispered Mrs. Bone. “Who is talking?” said Mr. Shepherd. “There must be silence!” I’ll silence you, thought Mrs. Bone. I’ll stick flaming pokers in your eyes. Cook waved her hand, voice pious. “It’s them Janes, Mr. Shepherd. We was just saying they’re not here. They’re missing all the orders.” Shepherd seemed annoyed. “But they must join us at once. Someone must fetch them.” “I’ll go,” said Mrs. Bone, unpeeling herself from the wall. She knew exactly where the Janes were. They were sweeping the guest suites, which never had any guests, hauling the contents into packing crates. They’d suggested to Mr. Shepherd that it would be sensible to put things in safekeeping before the ball. Clever girls. Getting a nice head start on the job. Eminently sensible. She caught William’s eye as she scuttled past. He didn’t just look gray—he looked as if he’d had the blood entirely drained out of him. He was more handsome when he was unhappy. It was almost interesting. She held his gaze for half a second and raised her eyes, just a fraction, to jolt him, to say, What’s got your goat? He merely frowned, lost in thought. A bell tinkled in the distance. All eyes went to the bell board, an intake of breath. They were picturing Madam, no doubt. Wispy, wreathed in black muslin, cooking up orders. Shepherd looked quite white in the face. Lovely, thought Mrs. Bone. She wanted everyone nice and rattled. She ignored her own nerves as they scampered all over her skin. * * * Sunday afternoon arrived. The Park Lane servants went off duty, meeting their sisters and cousins and gentlemen callers, and the women gathered to go over the plan together for the final time. They squeezed into a six-seater pleasure boat, two giant wheels crashing through the water, the Janes pumping hard on the pedals. Mrs. King sat in the front seat, studying the horizon. Alice had pulled her hat

Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt

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

Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt

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

The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt

of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the conversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than ever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity into fits of deep musing, and there was, sometimes, an unaffected melancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke. St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, they perceived a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at some distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached it, he saw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. He looked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys told him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was gone down into the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood, considering what was further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael's voice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately answered the call, and endeavoured to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles and precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to be silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distance from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could not easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent, by the way he had himself passed. Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should return. The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols, and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, and their lamented mother; and he sunk into a thoughtfulness, which Emily observing, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the most captivating sweetness. St. Aubert

Yellowface.txt

recently laid off half its staff, including all but one senior editor, and whether the writers in their stable should try their luck in the imminent shuffle or try to get their rights reverted and jump ship to another house. Publishing gossip, it turns out, is a lot of fun when you’re speculating about other people’s misfortune. “So what got you interested in the Chinese Labour Corps?” Marnie asks me. “I’d never heard of them before your book.” “Most people hadn’t.” I preen, flattered that Marnie knows what my book is about at all. I won’t inquire further about her thoughts—it’s good etiquette among writers not to ask if someone has read your work or is just pretending. “I took a course on East Asian history at Yale. A professor referenced it in a discussion section, and I thought it was surprising that there weren’t any novels in English about it, so I thought I’d make that necessary addition to the canon.” The first part is true; the rest is not—I spent most of that class reading about Japanese art history, meaning tentacle porn, but it’s been a convenient cover story for questions like this. “That’s precisely my approach,” Heidi exclaims. “I look for the gaps in history, the stuff no one else is talking about. That’s why I wrote an epic fantasy romance about a businessman and a Mongolian huntress. Eagle Girl. It’s out next year. I’ll have Daniella send you a copy. It’s so important to think about what perspectives aren’t embraced by Anglophone readers, you know? We must make space for the subaltern voices, the suppressed narratives.” “Right,” I say. I’m a little surprised Heidi knows the word “subaltern.” “And without us, these stories wouldn’t get told.” “Precisely. Precisely.” Near the end of the party, I run into my former editor while standing in line at the coat check. He comes in for a hug like we’re best friends, like he didn’t butcher my very first book baby, set it up to fail, and then leave me out in the cold. “Congratulations, June,” he says, smiling broadly. “It’s been wonderful to watch you succeed.” I’ve wondered often for the past year what I would say to Garrett if I ever came across him again. I always held my tongue while I was his author; I was terrified of burning bridges, of him spreading the word that I was impossible to work with. I’ve wished I could say to his face how small he made me feel, how his curt, dismissive emails made me convinced the publisher had already given up on my work, how he nearly made me quit writing with his indifference. But the best revenge is to thrive. Garrett’s imprint has been struggling. He hasn’t landed anything on a bestseller list aside from titles from the literary estates of famous, deceased authors that he’s clinging to like a lifeboat. When the next economic contraction comes, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s out of a job. And I know what the whisper networks are saying behind his back—Garrett

A-Living-Remedy.txt

felt as responsible for them as they were for me. But had I been wrong to feel that way? They certainly never saw their burdens as mine to share, instead choosing to shield me from them for as long as they could. They were my parents: they looked after me, not the other way around. * * * The lack of air-conditioning in my childhood home was bearable because we could open our windows at night—except during wildfire season, when we might occasionally suffer and sweat in the hot, tightly sealed rooms of our house. The fires rarely threatened more densely populated areas, and I never worried about them reaching our house. From time to time, we would hear that a friend who lived much farther out from town had to evacuate, but I didn’t know anyone who had lost their home to fire. I can remember only a few late summer or early fall days when smoky air settled in the hills and hollows around us, making it impossible to go outside and play. The land, the climate, and the housing patterns have all changed in the years since I left home. Four months after my mother died, a fire started fifteen minutes from her neighborhood. High winds carried the sparks far afield, allowing the blaze to grow and fan out for miles. Unlike the wildfires I remember from childhood, this one roared parallel to some of the busiest roads in the area, ravaging parkland, businesses, and thousands of homes. I was shocked to see news of the runaway destruction, although California wildfires had been in the news for weeks, and I’d heard about the terrible air quality in the Bay Area, Seattle, Portland, Vancouver. My home region lacks a major urban center and rarely draws outside media attention. But the damage was too vast to be ignored, and terrifying headlines and images from my parents’ tiny town of a few thousand residents soon filled my social media feeds. I checked on friends and acquaintances and tried to call my aunt, who had inherited my parents’ house after my mother died. When I didn’t get an answer, I texted Paula, who confirmed that she, her husband, and my aunt were safe—and so was Buster. They were all hunkered down at Paula’s, in sight of the flames but hoping they wouldn’t need to evacuate. They couldn’t say whether my parents’ home had survived. Dan and I scoured the internet for local news reports, searching for the name of my parents’ park and other nearby landmarks. We watched shaky video footage shot by local residents; paused and zoomed in on aerial video shared by local news outlets, trying to identify my parents’ neighborhood. When I stumbled over an article about entire groves of ponderosa pines lost to wildfire, I felt another kind of grief. What if the cemetery had been leveled, too? I pictured the peaceful graveyard, with its hundred-year-old oaks and pines, bare and smoking; my parents’ gravestones scorched and illegible. I thought again of their house, their windows facing the mountains,

Pineapple Street.txt

trainer at the prestigious boarding school. He was the only official suspect in the case. Evans falsely confessed under extraordinary pressure after fifteen hours of interrogation, a confession he recanted the next day. He was a victim of an inexperienced and racist small-town police force and a racist school that wanted to close the case quickly. Omar Evans was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to sixty years. He has now been imprisoned nearly twenty-three years for a murder he did not commit. This is the story of two stolen lives: those of Thalia Keith and Omar Evans.” Lola whistled. Alder said, with no apparent irony, “Oh, snap.” Jamila said, “You really just called us prestigious?” I said, “That was well done, Britt. I have a small correction, which is that the case was handed to the State Police. They might’ve been racist, I don’t know, but they weren’t inexperienced. I like how you’ve laid out not just the subject but a thesis statement, too. One danger with that—” I sipped my coffee, buying time. I felt adrenal, wondered what on earth I’d started. “One danger is that if you lay out your theories at the beginning, and then change your mind as you investigate, you’ll be stuck.” “I won’t change my mind,” Britt said. “I’ve already done a ton of research. The case was so flaky.” I assumed she meant flimsy. She asked if I’d seen the Diane Sawyer interview with Omar’s mother. I hadn’t; she told me she’d send it. “When you hear her speak you’ll understand,” she said. I was sure his mother believed with every cell of her body that he was innocent. I was sure that came through on camera. I said, “Maybe there were flaws in the case. But they had his DNA on her swimsuit. One of his hairs was in her mouth. They had him in the building when she died, and they can’t put anyone else there. They had a confession. They had the motive, at least according to her friends. They had that noose he drew in the directory. People get convicted on much less.” I heard myself, a parrot. But Britt was only parroting the Reddit boards. I didn’t want her to swing into obstinacy in either direction. I wanted her to do a good job, to wake all the sleeping tigers and ask all the questions I couldn’t wrap my own head around. Because there were things I could never quite reconcile. In real life, you don’t get the murderer telling you exactly what he did and why he did it. Even Omar’s confession, taken at face value, left major gaps. What I wanted, but could never get, was to go back and see it happen. Not the grisly parts, not the death, but every step leading up to it, every moment when fate could have stepped just an inch to the side and left Thalia intact. “What does everyone think?” I asked the group. “In general, is it better to go in asking questions, or positing answers?” “But I

The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt

it still reflected the sun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade. At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk, and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather were seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and which still gleamed with the evening light. The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of public reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquire for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubert returned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so near, he would alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the carriage. On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in the chase. 'Not much, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I am pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among its scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game. This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me that respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonely stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.' 'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man, should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours-- I go in search of health, as much as of amusement.' St. Aubert sighed, and paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: 'If I can hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can, perhaps, give me information on the subject.' The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon. They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a cottage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which they entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father's countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted of six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds

What-Dreams-May-Come.txt

in and day out,” Simon said, shaking his head. Forester smirked. “By necessity, my friend. Purely by necessity. You don’t think I envy your little hamlet here? But a man needs a partner in life, and I am not going to find her in the countryside.” How was Nick Forester still single? As far as Simon knew, he was one of the most sought-after men outside of the peerage, and he could have had his pick of a wife. Simon envied him that, just as Forester apparently envied Simon his home. Perhaps, if he had the time, Simon might have met Lucy under different circumstances, and things would have been different. There he went, thinking about Lucy again. Forester didn’t help matters when he said, “Speaking of women in the countryside, we should talk about Lucy.” Simon groaned. “Why would we need to do that?” “Because you were alone with her yesterday. Or you would have been, if I hadn’t followed you. And Olivia mentioned finding the two of you along that same path the other day. Unchaperoned, I should add.” A sense of foreboding settled in Simon’s gut as he considered that. Whenever trapped in London, he was always careful to avoid any situation that might compromise himself or a lady. But here at home? He didn’t usually given much thought to Society’s rules. “Calloway, she is to be your sister-in-law.” It was too much to hope Forester had said that as a reason to think nothing untoward had happened. “I know that,” Simon said slowly. “Do you?” “Nothing happened, Forester.” Simon couldn’t fully believe himself, however. At the pond yesterday, something had nearly happened, stopped only by Forester. Simon had temporarily lost his mind when he fell into that water. “How long were you there?” he asked warily. For once, Forester didn’t smile. “Long enough. Have you discovered something about our Lucy, or is your brother going to have to call you out when he rises from his deathbed?” “Nothing happened,” Simon repeated. “I haven’t compromised Miss Staley, and I have no plans to.” “Good, because you’re a decent fellow, Calloway, and I would hate to think less of you.” Thankfully, he smiled a little at that. “I wanted this conversation less than you did, you know.” Simon had a hard time believing that. “Then, why bring it up?” “Because you’re one of my closest friends, and if someone else had discovered you—” “On my own grounds?” Forester shrugged. “Experience has taught me that no one is safe from the prying eyes of the world. I only wish to see you content in life, and the extent to which you like Lucy could get you into trouble.” Simon’s stomach twisted. “Who said I like her?” One eyebrow lifting, Forester made it clear without speaking that it would take a fool not to see the way Simon’s eyes were drawn to her whenever they were in the same room. “We all like Lucy,” he said simply. Desperate to get out of the house and do something before his thoughts ran away

The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt

on the 7th of November, the eve of his own thirty- second birthday, as he often remembered afterwards. He was walking home about eleven o'clock from Lord Henry's, where he had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast, and with the collar of his gray ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. He recognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for which he could not account, came over him. He made no sign of recognition, and went on slowly, in the direction of his own house. But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping, and then hurrying after him. In a few moments his hand was on his arm. "Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for you ever since nine o'clock in your library. Finally I took pity on your tired servant, and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am off to Paris by the midnight train, and I wanted particularly to see you before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as you passed me. But I wasn't quite sure. Didn't you recognize me?" "In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can't even recognize Grosvenor Square. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don't feel at all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not seen you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?" "No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend [78] to take a studio in Paris, and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture I have in my head. However, it wasn't about myself I wanted to talk. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something to say to you." "I shall be charmed. But won't you miss your train?" said Dorian Gray, languidly, as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his latch-key. The lamp-light struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his watch. "I have heaps of time," he answered. "The train doesn't go till twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan't have any delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I have with me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes." Dorian looked at him and smiled. "What a way for a fashionable painter to travel! A Gladstone bag, and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will get into the house. And mind you don't talk about anything serious. Nothing is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be." Hallward shook his head,

Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt

in suits were whispering their incantations. The creature shook its head and rushed forward, showing innumerable gleaming teeth and letting out a screech that made Tristán slam his back against the cold metal of the car. From the angle where Tristán stood he did not have a view of López’s face, nor could he hear what he was saying; the snatches of words that reached him were senseless blabbering that were muffled by the dog’s screech as it lurched forward and then took one monstrous leap, landing on López and knocking him to the ground. The dog-thing growled, fixing its eyes on Tristán, and Tristán felt Montserrat’s fingers digging into his shoulder, holding him in place even though his first instinct was to run. Then López kicked or elbowed the thing, and the creature snarled, opened its mouth with too many teeth, intent on tearing through the man’s throat, but this must have been what López had expected, for he shoved the cane into the dog’s open mouth. There was a sudden, incredible splintering of flesh, as if the cane had been acid instead of wood, corroding the creature’s body. The dog’s head became a spray of black liquid that fell on the ground, on Tristán’s shoes, and even on the car. The rest of the dog dissolved, becoming rivulets of blackness that began to smoke and disperse. López was trying to stand up, and Tristán helped him to his feet. The man leaned on him, gripping his cane with his left hand and holding it up, as if he were about to brandish a sword. The two men in suits stared at them but did not move from the spot on the sidewalk where they had stood, impassive, watching the dog-things. Their mouths were closed in two firm, angry lines. “The keys to the car are in my raincoat,” López said. “I would appreciate it if you’d drive.” Montserrat unlocked the car, and Tristán helped López into the back, sitting next to him. The men in suits started slowly walking toward the car. The leashes were wrapped around one hand, and their mouths opened, whispering a word. López rolled down the window, reached into his messenger bag, and tossed out a handful of feathers and nails. The men in suits stumbled and glared at them. As Montserrat sped away, López sprinkled more nails out the window, then coughed and fell heavily back against the seat, his hand resting on the messenger bag. “Where are we going?” Montserrat asked. “Near the Pemex tower in the Anzures,” López muttered. “My house has safeguards.” On a window there was a Garfield plush toy with sucker cups, and three air fresheners in the shape of pines dangled from the rearview mirror. Tristán stared at them with incongruous wonder, astounded by the sight of these ordinary trinkets. He was unable to suppress a laugh, which earned him a glare in the rearview mirror from Montserrat. He reached for the cigarettes in his jacket pocket and turned to López. “Smoke?” he asked. 22 José López’s home was

Emma.txt

those, who, having once begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure just to meet with him, or just to miss him, just to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, just to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!-- his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love! Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit. How that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary-- and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance!-- After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than Harriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave

A-Living-Remedy.txt

my armor at my new school, where I would finally be just another Asian girl among hundreds, my peacoat spun-wool proof that I belonged. * * * My mother used to proclaim loudly and often that there was nothing she missed about Ohio. Despite his pride in “getting out,” I know there were things about it that my father felt nostalgic for, like attending the Region 4 Boy Scout camp every summer with his dad and brother, or cheering on Cleveland’s sports teams with people who cared about them as much as he did. Our family couldn’t afford to travel, and many of our relatives, especially those in Ohio, thought of Oregon as another planet, so I grew up knowing them as voices on the other end of a phone passed around at holidays. A born-and-bred New Englander once told me that if you picked up the country and shook it, people without deep roots anywhere else would fall to the West Coast. But my parents’ roots in Cleveland ran deep, and even as a child I understood how easy it would have been for them to stay and build a life their families would have understood, surrounded by all that was familiar. Instead, the earliest choices they made together took them far from home, a move they never regretted—they leaped without hesitation, much as they did when they decided to become parents through adoption, though they had little guidance from the child welfare system and no model for how to raise a Korean child as white parents. Perhaps it’s no surprise that when they let me go, it was not with the grudging wonder of my father’s family when they left Ohio, nor the secret shame of the birth parents who gave me up as a baby—they encouraged me because their priority was my happiness, even if the pursuit of it took me away from them. That they frequently saw promise where others might have seen only risk is something I cannot help but admire. Sometimes I wonder if being their child, a product of their choices and their faith if not their genes, is what made me believe that another life might be within my reach. I also wonder if I would have felt the same need to uproot myself had I been one more white girl with good grades, my presence secure and unquestioned in the place I’d been planted. It would be simpler, less discomfiting, to embrace the notion that luck and drive, the desire to get an education and help my family, were the only factors in my flight; I would prefer not to give my racial isolation as an adoptee, or my early experiences with bigotry and bullying, any more weight. But I was a Korean girl, the only Korean girl I knew, growing up in a place where no one seemed to know quite what to make of me, and where others were quick to let me know that I was not wanted. I understood that I would leave long before I knew how I

Pineapple Street.txt

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

Dracula.txt

said Arthur warmly. "I shall in all ways trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are Jack's friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like." The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to speak, and finally said, "May I ask you something now?" "Certainly." "You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?" "No, poor dear. I never thought of it." "And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy's papers and letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which, be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch them, no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep them, if I may. Even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost, and in the good time I shall give them back to you. It is a hard thing that I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for Lucy's sake?" Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self, "Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I am doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you with questions till the time comes." The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly, "And you are right. There will be pain for us all, but it will not be all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too, you most of all, dear boy, will have to pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!" I slept on a sofa in Arthur's room that night. Van Helsing did not go to bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patroling the house, and was never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic flowers, which sent through the odor of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night. MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL 22 September.--In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping. It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and no news of him, and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may ask me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand, see what unexpected prosperity does for us, so it may be as well to freshen it up again with an exercise anyhow.

Maame.txt

feet, she takes up the two pieces of papers and lowers her glasses to read through them. “These look good, especially the diary one.” She smiles; her mouth is closed but it reaches her eyes. “Thank you for coming in, Maddie.” As I shake her hand, Penny says, “You should hear back very soon.” * * * I’m back home an hour before Cam is and by then I’ve unpacked my kitchen and bathroom things and half of my bedroom. I linger upstairs because Cam’s gone straight to her room and her door is shut. I wonder if I should make myself known, but maybe she wants to be alone and decompress after a day filled with schoolchildren. Google: Should you knock on the door of a new flatmate? Demi: No let me come 2 you. You don’t know what kind of day I’ve had and maybe I want to be left alone Margaret: Bedrooms are off limits so only knock if you need something. Keep socializing restricted to communal areas like the kitchen Tally: OMG of course! If you want to chat that’s so nice! Chris: Don’t bother me. I’m here to get away from family/be closer to work, not to make new friends I decide to leave Cam to it and continue unpacking until Jo is home two hours later. “Hi, girls!” she shouts from downstairs. Cam’s door opens and they both end up in the kitchen. I’ve waited too long to shout “Hi!” so I go down. My pulse jumps as I do. I live with these people, and they’re technically strangers. I should have googled: “How to get flatmates to like you.” I don’t know how to make new friends. “I was thinking maybe that new pizza place,” I hear Jo say. “The one in—Oh, here she comes, I think. Maddie?” Jo has a bright smile when I enter the kitchen. “Welcome!” Cam rolls her eyes and says, “Please don’t mistake my failure to match her enthusiasm as a comment on you moving in. You’ll find Jo and I are slightly different people.” “Whatever,” Jo sings. You couldn’t dampen this girl’s mood if you tried. “So!” she says. “We were thinking the new pizza place in Clapham Common for dinner. You got our message about not eating, right?” “Yes.” For goodness’ sake, say something else. How was your day, maybe? “Good.” Jo claps. “It’s not far, but Cam said she’d drive us.” Say literally anything. “You drive, Cam?” “Yeah,” she says. “Parking’s shit round here, so my car’s on the other side of the road.” “Thirty minutes and then we’ll go?” Jo says. “Let me just freshen up and get the stench of capitalism off me.” Doesn’t she work in the charity sector? “Which reminds me, Maddie, did an Amazon package arrive for me by any chance?” * * * Dinner out with my flatmates, with the girls … On my way home from CGT, I used to walk past the West End restaurants and see tables of girls laughing, talking, eating, and drinking. An hour from now,

Their Eyes Were Watching God.txt

folks. If it wuzn’t 166 Zora Neale Hurston for so many black folks it wouldn’t be no race problem. De white folks would take us in wid dem. De black ones is holdin’ us back.” “You reckon? ’course Ah ain’t never thought about it too much. But Ah don’t figger dey even gointuh want us for com- p’ny. We’se too poor.” “’Tain’t de poorness, it’s de color and de features. Who want any lil ole black baby layin’ up in de baby buggy lookin’ lak uh fly in buttermilk? Who wants to be mixed up wid uh rusty black man, and uh black woman goin’ down de street in all dem loud colors, and whoopin’ and hollerin’ and laughin’ over nothin’? Ah don’t know. Don’t bring me no nigger doc- tor tuh hang over mah sick-bed. Ah done had six chillun— wuzn’t lucky enough tuh raise but dat one—and ain’t never had uh nigger tuh even feel mah pulse. White doctors always gits mah money. Ah don’t go in no nigger store tuh buy nothin’ neither. Colored folks don’t know nothin’ ’bout no business. Deliver me!” Mrs. Turner was almost screaming in fanatical earnestness by now. Janie was dumb and bewildered before and she clucked sympathetically and wished she knew what to say. It was so evident that Mrs. Turner took black folk as a personal affront to herself. “Look at me! Ah ain’t got no flat nose and liver lips. Ah’m uh featured woman. Ah got white folks’ features in mah face. Still and all Ah got tuh be lumped in wid all de rest. It ain’t fair. Even if dey don’t take us in wid de whites, dey oughta make us uh class tuh ourselves.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 167 “It don’t worry me atall, but Ah reckon Ah ain’t got no real head fur thinkin’.” “You oughta meet mah brother. He’s real smart. Got dead straight hair. Dey made him uh delegate tuh de Sunday School Convention and he read uh paper on Booker T. Washington and tore him tuh pieces!” “Booker T.? He wuz a great big man, wusn’t he?” “’Sposed tuh be. All he ever done was cut de monkey for white folks. So dey pomped him up. But you know whut de ole folks say ‘de higher de monkey climbs de mo’ he show his behind’ so dat’s de way it wuz wid Booker T. Mah brother hit ’im every time dey give ’im chance tuh speak.” “Ah was raised on de notion dat he wuz uh great big man,” was all that Janie knew to say. “He didn’t do nothin’ but hold us back—talkin’ ’bout work when de race ain’t never done nothin’ else. He wuz uh enemy tuh us, dat’s whut. He wuz uh white folks’ nigger.” According to all Janie had been taught this was sacrilege so she sat without speaking at all. But Mrs. Turner went on. “Ah done sent fuh mah brother tuh come down and spend uh while wid us. He’s sorter outa work now. Ah wants yuh tuh

Wuthering Heights.txt

should let them in that night. The household went to bed; and I, too anxious to lie down, opened my lattice and put my head out to hearken, though it rained, determined to admit them in spite of the prohibition, should they return. In a while, I distinguished steps coming up the road, and the light of a lantern glimmered through the gate. I threw a shawl over my head and ran to prevent them from waking Mr. Earnshaw by knocking. There was Heathcliff, by himself; it gave me a start to see him alone. "Where is Miss Catherine?" I cried hurriedly. "No accident, I hope?" "At Thrushcross Grange," he answered, "and I would have been there too, but they had not the manners to ask me to stay." "Well, you will catch it!" I said, "you'll never be content will you're sent about your business. What in the world led you wandering to Thrushcross Grange?" "Let me get off my wet clothes, and I'll tell you all about it, Nelly," he replied. I bid him beware of rousing the master, and while he undressed, and I waited to put out the candle, he continued-- "Cathy and I escaped from the wash-house to have a ramble at liberty, and getting a glimpse of the Grange lights, we thought we would just go and see whether the Lintons passed their Sunday evenings standing shivering in corners, while their father and mother sat eating and drinking, and singing and laughing, and burning their eyes out before the fire. Do you think they do? Or reading sermons, and being catechised by their man-servant, and set to learn a column of Scripture names, if they don't answer properly?" "Probably not," I responded. "They are good children, no doubt, and don't deserve the treatment you receive, for your bad conduct." "Don't you cant, Nelly" he said. "Nonsense! We ran from the top of the Heights to the park, without stopping--Catherine completely beaten in the race, because she was barefoot. You'll have to seek for her shoes in the bog to-morrow. We crept through a broken hedge, groped our way up the path, and planted ourselves on a flower-plot under the drawing-room window. The light came from thence; they had not put up the shutters, and the curtains were only half closed. Both of us were able to look in by standing on the basement, and clinging to the ledge, and we saw--ah! it was beautiful--a splendid place carpeted with crimson, and crimson-covered chairs and tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered by gold, a shower of glass-drops hanging in silver chains from the centre, and shimmering with little soft tapers. Old Mr. and Mrs. Linton were not there. Edgar and his sister had it entirely to themselves; shouldn't they have been happy? We should have thought ourselves in heaven! And new, guess what your good children were doing? Isabella--I believe she is eleven, a year younger than Cathy--lay screaming at the farther end of the room, shrieking as if witches were running red hot needles into her.

Ulysses.txt

misconception of the shallowest character, was not the case at all. The individual whose visual organs while the above was going on were at this juncture commencing to exhibit symptoms of animation was as astute if not astuter than any man living and anybody that conjectured the contrary would have found themselves pretty speedily in the wrong shop. During the past four minutes or thereabouts he had been staring hard at a certain amount of number one Bass bottled by Messrs Bass and Co at Burton-on-Trent which happened to be situated amongst a lot of others right opposite to where he was and which was certainly calculated to attract anyone's remark on account of its scarlet appearance. He was simply and solely, as it subsequently transpired for reasons best known to himself, which put quite an altogether different complexion on the proceedings, after the moment before's observations about boyhood days and the turf, recollecting two or three private transactions of his own which the other two were as mutually innocent of as the babe unborn. Eventually, however, both their eyes met and as soon as it began to dawn on him that the other was endeavouring to help himself to the thing he involuntarily determined to help him himself and so he accordingly took hold of the neck of the mediumsized glass recipient which contained the fluid sought after and made a capacious hole in it by pouring a lot of it out with, also at the same time, however, a considerable degree of attentiveness in order not to upset any of the beer that was in it about the place. The debate which ensued was in its scope and progress an epitome of the course of life. Neither place nor council was lacking in dignity. The debaters were the keenest in the land, the theme they were engaged on the loftiest and most vital. The high hall of Horne's house had never beheld an assembly so representative and so varied nor had the old rafters of that establishment ever listened to a language so encyclopaedic. A gallant scene in truth it made. Crotthers was there at the foot of the table in his striking Highland garb, his face glowing from the briny airs of the Mull of Galloway. There too, opposite to him, was Lynch whose countenance bore already the stigmata of early depravity and premature wisdom. Next the Scotchman was the place assigned to Costello, the eccentric, while at his side was seated in stolid repose the squat form of Madden. The chair of the resident indeed stood vacant before the hearth but on either flank of it the figure of Bannon in explorer's kit of tweed shorts and salted cowhide brogues contrasted sharply with the primrose elegance and townbred manners of Malachi Roland St John Mulligan. Lastly at the head of the board was the young poet who found a refuge from his labours of pedagogy and metaphysical inquisition in the convivial atmosphere of Socratic discussion, while to right and left of him were accommodated the flippant prognosticator, fresh

Jane Eyre.txt

I now repined! Yes, just as much good as it would do a man tired of sitting still in a "too easy chair" to take a long walk; and just as natural was the wish to stir, under my circumstances, as it would be under his. I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced backward and forward on the pavement; the shutters of the glass door were closed; I could not see into the interior; and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the gloomy house from the gray hollow filled with rayless cells, as it appeared to me to that sky expanded before me a blue sea absolved from taint of cloud; the moon ascending it in solemn march; her orbs seeming to look up as she left the hill-tops, from behind which she had come, far and farther below her, and aspired to the zenith, midnight-dark in its fathomless depth and measureless distance; and for those trembling stars that followed her course; they made my heart tremble, my veins glow when I viewed them. Little things recall us to earth; the clock struck in the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon and stars, opened a side door, and went in. The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-hung bronze lamp; a warm glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak staircase. This ruddy shine issued from the great dining-room, whose two-leaved door stood open, and showed a genial fire in the grate, glancing on marble hearth and brass fire-irons, and revealing purple draperies and polished furniture, in the most pleasant radiance. It revealed, too, a group near the mantel-piece; I had scarcely caught it, and scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling of voices, among which I seemed to distinguish the tones of Adle, when the door closed. I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax's room; there was a fire there too, but no candle, and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the rug, and gazing with gravity at the blaze, I beheld a great black and white long-haired dog, just like the Gytrash of the lane. It was so like it that I went forward and said: "Pilot," and the thing got up and came to me and snuffed me. I caressed him, and he wagged his great tail; but he looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and I could not tell whence he had come. I rang the bell, for I wanted a candle; and I wanted, too, to get an account of this visitant. Leah entered. "What dog is this?" "He came with master." "With whom?" "With master Mr. Rochester he is just arrived." "Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?" "Yes, and Miss Adle; they are in the dining-room, and John is

Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

real life—I mean, she shows us what she wants us to see. She seems playful and funny and adventurous, but a reality show doesn’t seem like something she’d do. There must be a reason she’s considering it, and if she called you out for seeming less than enthusiastic, you’d better get your attitude squared away.” Natalia looks at me straight on. “You’re a wonderful guy, Conn, but you’ve been acting a little snobby, like this is beneath you.” I turn back to the puzzle. “How is it snobby if it’s accurate? I would never do this if Blaine wasn’t forcing me to.” I know it’s a mistake as soon as the last word is out of my mouth. Even Stevie pushes a somber whistle through her teeth. Natalia stares at me. “Connor, do you think I’m dumb?” “What?” I say, horrified. “Of course not. You’re the smartest person I know.” “Well, I watch reality TV. I read romance. And when you say stuff like that, it’s belittling.” She tilts her head toward Stevie, and the unspoken Especially when you do it in front of our daughter lands like a mallet. “I just meant that it’s not my bag. Of course it’s cool if it’s yours.” Her eyes go round. “Wow. Thank you.” “That is not at all—” She waves this off. “Have you watched any dating shows or read any of her books since you agreed to take this project on?” “I ordered them.” She looks unimpressed. “And,” I continue proudly, “I had Brenna do write-ups on Felicity’s five top sellers.” Stevie shakes her head again. Natalia gives me a disappointed frown. “Okay, I hear how that sounded,” I say. “I’m the arsehole executive pawning my work off onto my assistant, that was shitty. But, Nat, the show isn’t even about Felicity’s books. It’s about her. About how charismatic she is, how good she is in front of people. It’s about the audience rooting for her.” “Are you really so thick not to see that her audience roots for her because of what she gives us in her books?” Before I can answer, she continues. “If you told me you didn’t like Wonderland’s music, I’d say, ‘Fine, to each their own.’ You’ve heard all their songs at least a hundred times, so you would be making an informed opinion. But you’ve never even read a romance novel or watched a reality show and have formed this opinion based on what you think they are.” I slip another piece into place, bridging a large elephant ear to its head. “C’mon, Nat, you’ve got to admit romance novels are a touch predictable.” “Why? Because the couple ends up together?” “Exactly.” “That’s a rule of the genre, Connor,” she says. “Which you would know if you’d bothered to even google it.” I wave her on, hearing the way she’s frothing up over this. “Go on. Get it all out.” “You describe them as my ‘guilty pleasure.’ Do you have any idea how condescending that is?” “Well, don’t they bring you pleasure?” I ask, confused. “How

Fahrenheit 451.txt

cheeks and his hair was white and his eyes had faded, with white in the vague blueness there. Then his eyes touched on the book under Montag's arm and he did not look so old any more and not quite as fragile. Slowly his fear went. "I'm sorry. One has to be careful." He looked at the book under Montag's arm and could not stop. "So it's true." Montag stepped inside. The door shut. "Sit down." Faber backed up, as if he feared the book might vanish if he took his eyes from it. Behind him, the door to a bedroom stood open, and in that room a litter of machinery and steel tools was strewn upon a desk-top. Montag had only a glimpse, before Faber, seeing Montag's attention diverted, turned quickly and shut the bedroom door and stood holding the knob with a trembling hand. His gaze returned unsteadily to Montag, who was now seated with the book in his lap. "The book-where did you-?" "I stole it." Faber, for the first time, raised his eyes and looked directly into Montag's face. "You're brave." "No," said Montag. "My wife's dying. A friend of mine's already dead. Someone who may have been a friend was burnt less than twenty-four hours ago. You're the only one I knew might help me. To see. To see. ." Faber's hands itched on his knees. "May I?" "Sorry." Montag gave him the book. "It's been a long time. I'm not a religious man. But it's been a long time." Faber turned the pages, stopping here and there to read. "It's as good as I remember. Lord, how they've changed it- in our `parlours' these days. Christ is one of the `family' now. I often wonder it God recognizes His own son the way we've dressed him up, or is it dressed him down? He's a regular peppermint stick now, all sugar-crystal and saccharine when he isn't making veiled references to certain commercial products that every worshipper absolutely needs." Faber sniffed the book. "Do you know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land? I loved to smell them when I was a boy. Lord, there were a lot of lovely books once, before we let them go." Faber turned the pages. "Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward. I saw the way things were going, a long time back. I said nothing. I'm one of the innocents who could have spoken up and out when no one would listen to the `guilty,' but I did not speak and thus became guilty myself. And when finally they set the structure to burn the books, using the, firemen, I grunted a few times and subsided, for there were no others grunting or yelling with me, by then. Now, it's too late." Faber closed the Bible. "Well--suppose you tell me why you came here?" "Nobody listens any more. I can't talk to the walls because they're yelling at me. I can't talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone

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

came to love each of those women in return. As Miss Zhao raises a hand to wave, I consider the path my life has taken. I remember my mother on her deathbed, saying, “Human life is like a sunbeam passing through a crack.” I remember when my grandmother visited me in a dream and her prophecy that I would live to reach seventy-three years. If this is to be, then I have lived two-thirds of my life. But who knows, really, how many days might be left for a woman such as myself, and what yet I might do when surrounded by so much beauty and love? POSTSCRIPT TO THE REPRINT OF MISCELLANEOUS RECORDS OF A FEMALE DOCTOR My grandfather’s sister was a woman doctor named Lady Tan Yunxian, a wife, mother, and daughter-in-law of high standing. I remember when I was a boy and still losing my milk teeth, seeing my great-aunt treat patients in the Mansion of Golden Light, where I lived and still reside, and in her marital home, the Garden of Fragrant Delights. She was beyond reproach, and she achieved fame in her lifetime for her medical skills, which she applied to rich and poor as a humanitarian art. She lived to be ninety-six, outliving long-believed predictions for an earlier death. She died in the thirty-fifth year of the Jianjing emperor’s reign [1556], having survived the reigns of five emperors and proving she must have been a very good doctor. It is said that the descendants of a person who saves lives will prosper and thrive, but such did not transpire in this instance. Lady Tan’s son, Yang Lian, died at a young age. Many years later, Lady Tan’s only grandson, Yang Qiao, was beheaded for crimes of a political nature. All his descendants were killed in this purge as well, leaving her without any male heirs to make offerings to her in the Afterworld. Without them, there was no one to see to the preservation of her work either, and her book slowly disappeared from book purveyors. I searched until I met a man who had a copy in his personal library. He lent it to me so I might transcribe her words and have new woodblocks made, allowing the book to be printed and distributed again. Mysteries remain for this great-nephew. The cures Lady Tan formulated in her old age were said to have been even more inspired than the ones found in her book. Many believe she achieved the wondrous abilities of the greatest practitioners of the past, who could simply look at a person—could see through a person—to discern what was wrong. But if Lady Tan had reached these heights, why did she not record those cases? Did she write them down but choose not to share them? If so, where are those writings now? I worry that a servant or lesser wife in the Garden of Fragrant Delights may have found her notebooks, thought them worthless, and used the pages to cover pickle and sauce jars. Now, at the time of this new

Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt

and Somers were standing right outside Somers’s office, coffee cups in hand, deep in conversation. Tommy headed straight to them, and they both smiled widely at first, but then caught sight of Marion and exchanged a quick glance. “Tommy, shouldn’t you be out finding pickpockets or whatever you do these days?” said Somers. Even though he was teasing, there was a warmth in his voice. Everyone loved Tommy. “I’ve caught them all, if you can believe it.” “I certainly can. Nice to see you downtown. And I see you have an entourage this morning.” Tommy stood tall. “That’s right. Can I have a minute of your time?” Somers gestured for him to come into his office, and Tommy indicated that Marion and Peter should wait outside. The door didn’t close completely behind them, so Tommy’s words carried out into the hallway. “I know you’ve already met Marion Brooks,” said Tommy. “She’s like family to me. I was hoping you could give her a little more of your time although I know you have your hands full. Can you do that for me?” A moment later, Tommy came out and pointed with his thumb back to where Somers and Ogden waited. “They’re all yours. I love ya, kid. Reach out if there’s anything else I can do.” “Thank you, Tommy.” She squeezed his arm and headed in. “I owe you one.” She and Peter entered, and each took a seat opposite the desk. Ogden stood near the windowsill, a coffee cup in one hand. “It’s good to see you, Miss Brooks,” said Somers, leaning back in his chair. “And I see you brought a friend.” “That’s right. You’re kind to see us.” “I assume this is the shrink you were talking about last week?” “I’m a resident doctor at Creedmoor, in Queens,” interjected Peter. “You look like you recently graduated from high school, if you don’t mind me saying,” said Somers. “I’m in the second year of my residency.” “Right.” This wasn’t off to a great start. “He went to Harvard,” added Marion. “He’s been profiling people who are insane, and I really think he could help us figure out who the Big Apple Bomber is.” “Profiling?” asked Somers. “What’s that?” At least he hadn’t dismissed them outright. Peter cleared his throat. “I ask patients questions about their past, their upbringing, what sort of experiences were seminal in their childhoods and early adulthood. At Creedmoor I have access to thousands of patients—” “Six thousand,” interrupted Marion. “Six thousand. So yes, I’m able to compare patterns. From that, I can tell to a fairly accurate degree whether a patient will be a danger to others during his stay at Creedmoor, or if he can be provided certain freedoms. I try to predict how someone who’s mentally unfit might react to a certain situation, like a conflict with his doctor or an argument with another patient. Whether he’ll lash out in anger or not.” “Well, I can tell you right now that our guy likes to lash out in anger,” said Ogden. “Case closed.” “But

After Death.txt

I’d keep a promise I made. I believe now she’ll tell you the rest.” John is good-looking, with large brandy-brown eyes that seem to be lit from within. Michael cannot read minds or discern the quality of anyone’s character with a divining rod, but judging by what Nina has said and what the teachers at Saint Anthony’s School have written in their student reports, he believes this is a smart and steady kid, a fine man in the making. John’s posture, the inclination of his head, his quiet voice, and a hesitant manner suggest a healthy vulnerability that will inoculate him against the psychotic degree of self-esteem that shapes other boys into gangsters like Aleem. He reminds Michael of Shelby. “You’re younger than I thought,” John says. By one calculation, Michael is forty-four, but in another sense, he is only four days old. To the boy, he says, “And I suspect you’re older than your years.” Nina confirms, “He’s that, all right,” and the boy ducks his head, shying away from the praise. “It won’t be easy leaving your friends.” “What friends?” the boy asks. “I know you have them.” “You mean school friends.” “A hard thing for most kids.” “School friends aren’t forever. Everyone grows up and moves on. That’s how it is.” Impressed, Michael says, “I know you’ll help your mother through this.” If John is ever capable of looking at his mother without his intense love being apparent, this is not one of those moments. He clearly adores her. “We’re always all right.” “Always,” she says. “Stay home from school,” Michael advises. “I’m not afraid,” the boy says. “It’s not about being afraid. It’s about being smart.” His mother says, “You can help me pack, sweetheart.” “So we’re going.” “If we really hustle,” she says, “we can be out of here tomorrow afternoon.” “To where?” “Wherever we want. We have resources.” “The sooner the better,” Michael reminds her. He smiles at John, and the boy responds to the smile with a sober expression that says he has been aware of the stakes for most of his life. THE ARM OF THE STATE The declared purpose of the sprawling Internal Security Agency is to seek, discover, monitor, and eliminate every threat to the nation that might arise within its borders, and the ISA actually does some of that. As the agency has evolved, however, its primary purposes are to guarantee the perpetuation of the labyrinthine and unelected bureaucracy that in truth runs the country, ensure the prerogatives of the ruling class, and to monitor that only the right kind of people are gorging themselves at the public trough. With the tens of billions of dollars in its annual budget, the ISA is a vast wasp’s nest that can dispatch swarms of agents to every real, fabricated, and imagined crisis. Among those busy hornets of the law, Durand Calaphas is unique. While some other agents might be dedicated to the job, Calaphas is obsessed with it. He has no wife, no children, no significant other. His mother and father are living,

Lord of the Flies.txt

and even the tiniest child joined in. For the moment the boys were a closed circuit of sympathy with Piggy outside: he went very pink, bowed his head and cleaned his glasses again. Finally the laughter died away and the naming continued. There was Maurice, next in size among the choir boys to Jack, but broad and grinning all the time. There was a slight, furtive boy whom no one knew, who kept to himself with an inner intensity of avoidance and secrecy. He muttered that his name was Roger and was silent again. Bill, Robert, Harold, Henry; the choir boy who had fainted sat up against a palm trunk, smiled pallidly at Ralph and said that his name was Simon. Jack spoke. "We've got to decide about being rescued." There was a buzz. One of the small boys, Henry, said that he wanted to go home. "Shut up," said Ralph absently. He lifted the conch. "Seems to me we ought to have a chief to decide things." "A chief! A chief!" "I ought to be chief," said Jack with simple arrogance, "because I'm chapter chorister and head boy. I can sing C sharp." Another buzz. "Well then," said Jack, "I--" He hesitated. The dark boy, Roger, stirred at last and spoke up. "Let's have a vote." "Yes!" "Vote for chief!" "Let's vote--" This toy of voting was almost as pleasing as the conch. Jack started to protest but the clamor changed from the general wish for a chief to an election by acclaim of Ralph himself. None of the boys could have found good reason for this; what intelligence had been shown was traceable to Piggy while the most obvious leader was Jack. But there was a stillness about Ralph as he sat that marked him out: there was his size, and attractive appearance; and most obscurely, yet most powerfully, there was the conch. The being that had blown that, had sat waiting for them on the platform with the delicate thing balanced on his knees, was set apart. "Him with the shell." "Ralph! Ralph!" "Let him be chief with the trumpet-thing." Ralph raised a hand for silence. "All right. Who wants Jack for chief?" With dreary obedience the choir raised their hands. "Who wants me?" Every hand outside the choir except Piggy's was raised immediately. Then Piggy, too, raised his hand grudgingly into the air. Ralph counted. "I'm chief then." The circle of boys broke into applause. Even the choir applauded; and the freckles on Jack's face disappeared under a blush of mortification. He started up, then changed his mind and sat down again while the air rang. Ralph looked at him, eager to offer something. "The choir belongs to you, of course." "They could be the army--" "Or hunters--" "They could be--" The suffusion drained away from Jack's face. Ralph waved again for silence. "Jack's in charge of the choir. They can be--what do you want them to be?" "Hunters." Jack and Ralph smiled at each other with shy liking. The rest began to talk eagerly. Jack stood up.

Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt

pushes his empty plate away, irritated. I gaze at him. “Please. You’re driving me crazy.” I swallow and try to subdue the panic rising in my throat. I take a deep steadying breath. It’s now or never. “I’m pregnant.” He stills, and very slowly all the color drains from his face. “What?” he whis- pers, ashen. “I’m pregnant.” His brow furrows with incomprehension. “How?” How . . . how? What sort of ridiculous question is that? I blush, and give him a quizzical how-do-you-think look. His stance changes immediately, his eyes hardening to flint. “Your shot?” he snarls. Oh shit. “Did you forget your shot?” I just gaze at him unable to speak. Jeez, he’s mad—really mad. “Christ, Ana!” He bangs his fist on the table, making me jump, and stands so abruptly he almost knocks the dining chair over. “You have one thing, one thing to remember. Shit! I don’t fucking believe it. How could you be so stupid?” Stupid! I gasp. Shit. I want to tell him that the shot was ineffective, but words fail me. I gaze down at my fingers. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Sorry? Fuck!” he says again. “I know the timing’s not very good.” “Not very good!” he shouts. “We’ve known each other five fucking minutes. I wanted to show you the fucking world and now . . . Fuck. Diapers and vomit and shit!” He closes his eyes. I think he’s trying to contain his temper and losing the battle. “Did you forget? Tell me. Or did you do this on purpose?” His eyes blaze and anger emanates off him like a force field. “No,” I whisper. I can’t tell him about Hannah—he’d fire her. I know. “I thought we’d agreed on this!” he shouts. “I know. We had. I’m sorry.” He ignores me. “This is why. This is why I like control. So shit like this doesn’t come along and fuck everything up.” 401/551 No . . . Little Blip. “Christian, please don’t shout at me.” Tears start to slip down my face. “Don’t start with waterworks now,” he snaps. “Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it as he does. “You think I’m ready to be a father?” His voice catches, and it’s a mixture of rage and panic. And it all becomes clear, the fear and loathing writ large in his eyes—his rage is that of a powerless adolescent. Oh, Fifty, I am so sorry. It’s a shock for me, too. “I know neither one of us is ready for this, but I think you’ll make a wonder- ful father,” I choke. “We’ll figure it out.” “How the fuck do you know!” he shouts, louder this time. “Tell me how!” His gray eyes burn, and so many emotions cross his face. It’s fear that’s most prominent. “Oh fuck this!” Christian bellows dismissively and holds his hands up in a gesture of defeat. He turns on his heel and stalks toward the foyer, grabbing his jacket as he leaves the great room. His footsteps echo off the wooden floor, and

Titanium-Noir.txt

than after.” “Well, that’s nice.” “Very occasionally.” “But other than that it’s a shitty job.” “Yeah.” “Why d’you do it?” “I don’t know. I fell into it, now I’m here.” I know just fine, but I don’t want to talk about Athena with Felton. Felton looks at me a while longer. “I don’t like it, but I get it now. I can deal with it.” He puts his hand out. I shake it. We both look like we’d rather be anywhere but here. “Okay. Thank you.” “You want any more about the gun?” “You think it’s important?” “In my cop judgement? Fuck, no. It is not.” “You get anything off the security tape yet?” “Take out the residents, there’s fourteen people come in that evening. So far we got a racketball teacher, four dinner guests and a massage therapist.” “Like massage massage or the other kind?” “All I can tell you is expensive. That kind of expensive, it’s honestly a little hard to tell. Then there’s a few more we don’t know yet. No faces, no one’s owned up to them. You know there’s going to be two or three we can’t get, right? People doing things they shouldn’t do.” “Yeah.” “You gonna share? Did you get anything?” I’m about to say I’m only supposed to tell Gratton, but I can still feel his handshake. “Janitor collects hair. Like, he gathers it up and colour-matches it.” He stares at me. “The hell?” “He says it’s commercial. I don’t think it’s a thing.” “Oh, it’s a thing I’m gonna think about when I can’t sleep nights. Jesus, Sounder. Anything that isn’t freaky as shit and might be relevant?” “Not yet. You want me to call if I do?” He nods and we look at each other like we’re ten years old and trying to share a pushbike. I walk out before one of us fucks it up. * * * — Twenty minutes with a cup of bad street coffee in my hand gets me to Mick’s Guns on Highdown Road. Mick’s is a militia-aspected executive hipster venue catering to nervous senior vice presidents and Doc Holliday wannabes with deep pockets. They carry the Armani Armour range as a cheap option and head north into bespoke Dyneema, Dragonscale and monofilament. There’s impact cloth ballgowns in the ladies’ section: bulletproof so long as the shooter doesn’t aim for the décolletage, but they solve that with a shawl which’ll take a direct hit at ten feet and keep the contessa standing to return fire with a range of purse-carry accessories. The same pepperpot gun Roddy bought comes in a thigh holster and ships with a selection of replaceable grips in non-slip pearl or abalone. There are no cash registers, so you’d think these items change hands as a courtesy, but in the middle of the room there’s a tall woman—ordinary tall, not Titan tall—in what I’m guessing is about twenty grand’s worth of ballistic spidersilk formal wear. She says her name is Celine. The accent is French with a trace of somewhere else, maybe Bangkok

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

different sizes, different genders, but in death they appeared uniform. All of them were covered in dark fabric. All of them looked like they were merely sleeping, as long as you didn’t get close enough to notice their pallor, the waxy texture of their skin. And all of them looked nearly the same age. No children, no elderly. These corpses would be in the primes of their lives, if they weren’t dead. Bastian moved first. Tentatively, still holding the lit torch, though now they didn’t really need it. “Where are the rest of them?” No children. No elders. It itched at the back of her neck, some formless apprehension she wasn’t sure how to parse. “They could be in another chamber, couldn’t they? Kept apart?” “I guess.” Bastian’s brows slashed down. “But why?” Slowly, Lore approached the nearest slab. Femme, muscular, maybe a handful of years older than her. Reddish hair, a smooth, unlined face. And not a hint of rot. The last attack had been two days ago. Two days, with seventy-five victims. But there were far more than seventy-five bodies in this room, so these had to be corpses from all four attacked villages. But why were they divided by age? And how had they been so well preserved? “Lore.” Bastian’s voice was quiet, like he was afraid to disturb the dead. “Their palm.” One of the corpse’s hands had fallen from the plinth. Lore didn’t want to touch it; instead, she crouched and craned her neck to look. An eclipse was carved into the meat of the corpse’s palm. A sun across the top, its curve running beneath the fingers, rays stretching to where they began. A crescent moon across the bottom, completing the sun’s arc. “I don’t understand,” she murmured, straightening, closing her own scarred hand into a fist. “What does that mean?” “Only one way to find out,” Bastian said. Lore placed her fingers lightly on the stone plinth before her. She closed her eyes and found the death hiding deep in the body, tugged on it gently. The breath she took and held tasted of emptiness and mineral cold. Her fingertips grew cold and pale as strands of darkness eased from the corpse and into her, the world losing its color again. Something didn’t look right. She could see her own body, white light and gray and the mass of dark in her center. Bastian next to her, a light so bright it nearly throbbed. But right above the heart of every corpse, there was a knot of darkness, thickly tangled, the color of a sky devoid of moon or stars. It reminded her of the leak, of the door. Anton, again. What had the Priest Exalted done? Her heartbeat came slow, slower. Her limbs felt heavy. She’d taken in nearly as much Mortem as she could, and she slammed her palms down on the plinth, channeling it into the rock, feeling it grow porous and brittle. Her veins were sluggish; her lungs couldn’t pull in enough air to satisfy. She’d taken in more death than

The Foxglove King.txt

below. “You said you wanted to help,” he rasped, “so help.” The air still smelled sour. Her feet still felt wobbly. Anton was still knitting Mortem into some unfathomable tangle, shaping it in a way Lore didn’t understand. But Gabe was right, and it was clear from the pathetic wisps of Mortem curling up from the leak that the Presque Mort wouldn’t be able to channel all of this away on their own. So Lore raised her hands, closed her eyes. Held her breath, let the world go black-and-white, and called death into her. Her vision grayed out, but something was different. She could see the knot Anton had made, pulsing in the air above the leak. Lore tried to avoid it as she reeled in threads of death, but she wasn’t sophisticated enough for that, hadn’t learned how to be careful. As she pulled in Mortem, Anton’s knot unraveled, the dark threads curling free into the stagnant air. She anticipated him shouting at her, doing something to stop her, trying to gather up that magic into its tangle again. But the Priest Exalted merely stepped aside, the corona of white light around him turning to face her. Lore tried to stop, but the instinct was too strong now, and she was caught in its current like sand in the tide. The threads of Mortem that Anton had altered flowed to her hands, breached her skin, found her heart. It felt different. Stronger, somehow, slithering through her veins in a torrent. And it didn’t come back out. Panicking, Lore planted her feet and flexed her fingers, trying to hold up against the onslaught— That’s when the screaming started. Her body wouldn’t obey when Lore tried to close her hands, frozen like the corpse she undoubtedly resembled. Everything in her was cold, a deep, numbing wave coursing from her outstretched fingers and all the way down her spine, her heart stopped and stilled as if a giant fist had closed around it. And still, the screaming. The screaming that, somehow, was her fault. But it was hard to hear over the voice in her head. This isn’t something you can escape. Haven’t you figured that out by now? It echoed in every one of her bones, danced on every icy nerve. The voice was alien and familiar at once, and sounded strange, like two throats twined together and speaking as one, harmonizing with itself. One of those voices sounded like Lore’s. Every day, it grows stronger. Growing in you like rot as you come nearer to ascension. The voice felt like oil poured over the grooves of her brain, slipping into every empty surface. It reminded her of the voice that had told her to use her power, that day in the square with Horse, but stronger, more sure. You can’t flee from what you are, daughter of the dark. Death is the one thing that will always find you, and you are its heir. The seed of the apocalypse, end-times walking. You are the wildfire necessary for the forest to grow, the

Fahrenheit 451.txt

Granger nodded. "They're faking. You threw them off at the river. They can't admit it. They know they can hold their audience only so long. The show's got to have a snap ending, quick! If they started searching the whole damn river it might take all night. So they're sniffing for a scape-goat to end things with a bang. Watch. They'll catch Montag in the next five minutes! " "But how--" "Watch." The camera, hovering in the belly of a helicopter, now swung down at an empty street. "See that?" whispered Granger. "It'll be you; right up at the end of that street is our victim. See how our camera is coming in? Building the scene. Suspense. Long shot. Right now, some poor fellow is out for a walk. A rarity. An odd one. Don't think the police don't know the habits of queer ducks like that, men who walk mornings for the hell of it, or for reasons of insomnia Anyway, the police have had him charted for months, years. Never know when that sort of information might be handy. And today, it turns out, it's very usable indeed. It saves face. Oh, God, look there!" The men at the fire bent forward. On the screen, a man turned a corner. The Mechanical Hound rushed forward into the viewer, suddenly. The helicopter light shot down a dozen brilliant pillars that built a cage all about the man. A voice cried, "There's Montag ! The search is done!" The innocent man stood bewildered, a cigarette burning in his hand. He stared at the Hound, not knowing what it was. He probably never knew. He glanced up at the sky and the wailing sirens. The cameras rushed down. The Hound leapt up into the air with a rhythm and a sense of timing that was incredibly beautiful. Its needle shot out. It was suspended for a moment in their gaze, as if to give the vast audience time to appreciate everything, the raw look of the victim's face, the empty street, the steel animal a bullet nosing the target. "Montag, don't move!" said a voice from the sky. The camera fell upon the victim, even as did the Hound. Both reached him simultaneously. The victim was seized by Hound and camera in a great spidering, clenching grip. He screamed. He screamed. He screamed! Blackout. Silence. Darkness. Montag cried out in the silence and turned away. Silence. And then, after a time of the men sitting around the fire, their faces expressionless, an announcer on the dark screen said, "The search is over, Montag is dead; a crime against society has been avenged." Darkness. "We now take you to the Sky Room of the Hotel Lux for a half-hour of Just-Before-Dawn, a programme of-" Granger turned it off. "They didn't show the man's face in focus. Did you notice? Even your best friends couldn't tell if it was you. They scrambled it just enough to let the imagination take over. Hell," he whispered. "Hell." Montag said nothing but now, looking back, sat with his

spare.txt

class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">SHIPPED OFF TO RAF Shawbury and discovered that helicopters were much<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">more complex than Fireflys.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Even the preflight checks were more extensive.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I stared at the galaxy of toggles and switches and thought: How am I<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">going to memorize all this?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Somehow I did. Slowly, under the watchful eyes of my two new<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">instructors, Sergeant Majors Lazel and Mitchell, I learned them all.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">In no time we were lifting off, rotors beating the frothy clouds, one of the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">great physical sensations anyone can experience. The purest form of flying,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">in many ways. The first time we ascended, straight vertical, I thought: I was<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">born for this.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">But flying the helicopter, I learned, wasn’t the hard part. Hovering was.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">At least six long lessons were devoted to this one task, which sounded easy<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">at first and quickly came to seem impossible. In fact, the more you practiced<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">hovering, the more impossible it seemed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">The main reason was a phenomenon called “hover monkeys.” Just above<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">the ground a helicopter falls prey to a fiendish confluence of factors: air<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">flow, downdraft, gravity. First it wobbles, then it rocks, then it pitches and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">yaws—as if invisible monkeys are hanging from both its skids, yanking. To<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">land the helicopter you have to shake off those hover monkeys, and the only<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">way to do that is by...ignoring them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Easier said. Time and time again the hover monkeys got the better of me,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">and it was small consolation that they also got the better of every other pilot<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">training with me. We talked among ourselves about these little bastards,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">these invisible gremlins. We grew to hate them, to dread the shame and rage<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">that came with being bested by them yet again. None of us could work out<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">how to restore the aircraft’s equilibrium and put it on the deck without<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">denting the fuselage. Or scraping the skids. To walk away from a landing<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">with a long, crooked mark on the tarmac behind you—that was the ultimate<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">humiliation.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Come the day of our first solos we were all basket cases. The hover<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">monkeys, the hover monkeys, that was all you heard around

The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

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

Five On A Treasure Island.txt

get away." It was a great disappointment. The children were almost ready to cry. After Dick's marvellous rescue of George and Julian, it had seemed as if everything was going right- and now suddenly things were going wrong again. "We must think this out," said Julian, sitting down where he could see at once if any boat came in sight. "The men have gone off- probably to get a ship from somewhere in which they can put the ingots and sail away. They won't be back for some time, I should think, because you can't charter a ship all in a hurry- unless, of course, they've got one of their own." "And in the meantime we can't get off the island to get help, because they've got our oars," said George. "We can't even signal to any passing fishing-boat because they won't be out just now. The tide's wrong. It seems as if all we've got to do is wait here patiently till the men come back and take my gold! And we can't stop them." "You know- I've got a sort of plan coming into my head," said Julian, slowly. "Wait a bit- don't interrupt me. I'm thinking." The others waited in silence while Julian sat and frowned, thinking of his plan. Then he looked at the others with a smile. "I believe it will work," he said. "Listen! We'll wait here in patience till the men come back. What will they do? They'll drag away those stones at the top of the dungeon entrance, and go down the steps. They'll go to the store-room, where they left us- thinking we are still there, and they will go into the room. Well, what about one of us being hidden down there ready to bolt them into the room? Then we can either go off in their motor-boat or our own boat if they bring back our oars- and get help." Anne thought it was a marvellous idea. But Dick and George did not look so certain. "We'd have to go down and bolt that door again to make it seem as if we are still prisoners there," said George. "And suppose the one who hides down there doesn't manage to bolt the men in? It might be very difficult to do that quickly enough. They will simply catch whoever we plan to leave down there, and come up to look for the rest of us." "That's true," said Julian, thoughtfully. "Well- we'll suppose that Dick, or whoever goes down, doesn't manage to bolt them in and make them prisoners- and the men come up here again. All right- while they are down below we'll pile big stones over the entrance, just as they did. Then they won't be able to get out." "What about Dick down below?" said Anne, at once. "I could climb up the well again!" said Dick, eagerly. "I'll be the one to go down and hide. I'll do my best to bolt the men into the room. And if I have to escape I'll climb up the

Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

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

The Silmarillion.txt

fell beasts of the North filled them with great fear, as the Naugrim declared to King Thingol in Menegroth. Therefore Denethor, the son of Lenw, hearing rumour of the might of Thingol and his majesty, and of the peace of his realm, gathered such host of his scattered people as he could, and led them over the mountains into Beleriand. There they were welcomed by Thingol, as kin long lost that return, and they dwelt in Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers. Of the long years of peace that followed after the coming of Denethor there is little tale. In those days, it is said, Daeron the Minstrel, chief loremaster of the kingdom of Thingol, devised his Runes; and the Naugrim that came to Thingol learned them, and were well-pleased with the device, esteeming Daeron's skill higher than did the Sindar, his own people. By the Naugrim the Cirth were taken east over the mountains and passed into the knowledge of many peoples; but they were little used by the Sindar for the keeping of records, until the days of the War, and much that was held in memory perished in the ruins of Doriath. But of bliss and glad life there is little to be said, before it ends; as works fair and wonderful, while still they endure for eyes to see, are their own record, and only when they are in peril or broken for ever do they pass into song. In Beleriand in those days the Elves walked, and the rivers flowed, and the stars shone, and the night-flowers gave forth their scents; and the beauty of Melian was as the noon, and the beauty of Lthien was as the dawn in spring. In Beleriand King Thingol upon his throne was as the lords of the Maiar, whose power is at rest, whose joy is as an air that they breathe in all their days, whose thought flows in a tide untroubled from the heights to the deeps. In Beleriand still at times rode Orom the great, passing like a wind over the mountains, and the sound of his horn came down the leagues of the starlight, and the Elves feared him for the splendour of his countenance and the great noise of the onrush of Nahar; but when the Valarma echoed in the hills, they knew well that all evil things were fled far away. But it came to pass at last that the end of bliss was at hand, and the noontide of Valinor was drawing to its twilight. For as has been told and as is known to all, being written in lore and sung in many songs, Melkor slew the Trees of the Valar with the aid of Ungoliant, and escaped, and came back to Middle-earth. Far to the north befell the strife of Morgoth and Ungoliant; but the great cry of Morgoth echoed through Beleriand, and all its people shrank for fear; for though they knew not what it foreboded, they heard then the herald of death. Soon afterwards Ungoliant fled from the north

Dracula.txt

and asked her to come in and sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay down beside me. She did not take off her dressing gown, for she said she would only stay a while and then go back to her own bed. As she lay there in my arms, and I in hers the flapping and buffeting came to the window again. She was startled and a little frightened, and cried out, "What is that?" I tried to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay quiet. But I could hear her poor dear heart still beating terribly. After a while there was the howl again out in the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a crash at the window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor. The window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in, and in the aperture of the broken panes there was the head of a great, gaunt gray wolf. Mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a sitting posture, and clutched wildly at anything that would help her. Amongst other things, she clutched the wreath of flowers that Dr. Van Helsing insisted on my wearing round my neck, and tore it away from me. For a second or two she sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange and horrible gurgling in her throat. Then she fell over, as if struck with lightning, and her head hit my forehead and made me dizzy for a moment or two. The room and all round seemed to spin round. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a whole myriad of little specks seems to come blowing in through the broken window, and wheeling and circling round like the pillar of dust that travellers describe when there is a simoon in the desert. I tried to stir, but there was some spell upon me, and dear Mother's poor body, which seemed to grow cold already, for her dear heart had ceased to beat, weighed me down, and I remembered no more for a while. The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I recovered consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling. The dogs all round the neighborhood were howling, and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a nightingale was singing. I was dazed and stupid with pain and terror and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort me. The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too, for I could hear their bare feet pattering outside my door. I called to them, and they came in, and when they saw what had happened, and what it was that lay over me on the bed, they screamed out. The wind rushed in through the broken window, and the door slammed to. They lifted off the body of my dear mother, and laid her, covered up with a sheet, on

Anne of Green Gables.txt

down over the water and away out over that lovely blue all day; and then at night to fly back to one's nest? Oh, I can just imagine myself doing it. What big house is that just ahead, please?" "That's the White Sands Hotel. Mr. Kirke runs it, but the season hasn't begun yet. There are heaps of Americans come there for the summer. They think this shore is just about right." "I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer's place," said Anne mournfully. "I don't want to get there. Somehow, it will seem like the end of everything." 6. Marilla Makes Up Her Mind Get there they did, however, in due season. Mrs. Spencer lived in a big yellow house at White Sands Cove, and she came to the door with surprise and welcome mingled on her benevolent face. "Dear, dear," she exclaimed, "you're the last folks I was looking for today, but I'm real glad to see you. You'll put your horse in? And how are you, Anne?" "I'm as well as can be expected, thank you," said Anne smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended on her. "I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the mare," said Marilla, "but I promised Matthew I'd be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there's been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come over to see where it is. We send word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a boy ten or eleven years old." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say so!" said Mrs. Spencer in distress. "Why, Robert sent word down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted a girl-didn't she Flora Jane?" appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps. "She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert," corroborated Flora Jane earnestly. I'm dreadful sorry," said Mrs. Spencer. "It's too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness." "It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly. "We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?" "I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she'd sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. Anne will be the very girl for you. I call it positively providential." Marilla did not look as if she

Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt

could make grown men weep. Alice had never been able to credit it. And yet now, as Mrs. King stepped quickly toward the debt collector, she understood. It was like watching a demon, a soft-footed sort of devil. Mrs. King sheathed her knife and came at him without a hint of fear. She drove into him, white gloves balled into fists. “Ah—” said the man. He flailed, righting himself, reaching into his pocket. Alice saw the dull gleam of silver, the black eye facing her. A pistol. The park swayed, a gust of wind roaring through the trees. Mrs. King staggered. Calmly, breathing fast, the man centered himself. His arm was steady. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said. He lifted his pistol. “I’ve got the money!” Alice’s voice was strangled. She drew out a fistful of banknotes from her apron, keeping her eyes only on the gun. “Here, here. See? You can count it. Take what I owe.” Slowly, he came to her. He smelled ripe, as if he needed to bathe, but his overcoat still carried the faintest whiff of gardenias. “Show me.” He kept the pistol on Mrs. King and Alice unfolded banknotes with shaking hands. He sniffed, held out his hand. Folded it all away in the lining of his coat. “This was a bad business,” he said, staring her in the eye. “You’re lucky.” He swiveled the pistol away. Tipped a finger to Mrs. King. “Good day to you.” Alice didn’t watch him trudging away through the trees. She felt no relief. She closed her eyes. The plane trees were whispering, worrying, overhead. She heard Mrs. King’s voice, tight, and from a distance. “Alice,” she said. “Are you safe?” “Dinah,” she said. “I’ve been in trouble.” * * * At last, Miss de Vries got out of bed. It was a sound that did it. An echo of something, crystalline and pure, at the outermost edges of her consciousness. A cry. She ran a hand across the rippled surface of her sheets, instincts stirring. When she rolled the bedroom doors back, the air around her felt as if it had been hollowed out, immeasurably expanded. The lights were burning, same as always, in the passage. But she saw the wrongness at once. The floor: glossy black paint, obsidian smooth. It made her dizzy. Someone had taken up her splendid carpets. They’d left only the bare, stained boards underneath. She touched the floor with a toe. Cold. Movement below. Footsteps, hundreds of them, unmistakable. But no voices. She stepped out into the passage. 38 3:00 a.m. Winnie surveyed the courtyard. It was still filled with water, the abandoned rafts bobbing worriedly on the surface of the Nile. The garden was alive with activity, and she could hear a racket building in the mews: coaches and wheelbarrows and pony traps and boys with panniers over their shoulders. Cart after cart after cart was rattling away from Park Lane, out of sight of Hyde Park, taking the side streets and mews lanes and alleys of Mayfair. Enormous motors stood at

Five On A Treasure Island.txt

could hear men calling to one another. There sounded to be more than two men this time. Then the men left the inlet and went up the low cliff towards the ruined castle. Julian crept behind the rocks and peeped to see what the men were doing. He felt certain they were pulling away the slabs of stone that had been piled on top of the entrance to prevent Dick and Anne going down to rescue the others. "George! Come on!" called Julian in a low tone. "I think the men have gone down the steps into the dungeons now. We must go and try to put those big stones back. Quick!" George, Julian and Anne ran softly and swiftly to the old courtyard of the castle. They saw that the stones had been pulled away from the entrance to the dungeons. The men had disappeared. They had plainly gone down the steps. The three children did their best to tug at the heavy stones to drag them back. But their strength was not the same as that of the men, and they could not manage to get any very big stones across. They put three smaller ones, and Julian hoped the men would find them too difficult to move from below. "If only Dick has managed to bolt them into that room!" he said to the others. "Gome on, back to the well now. Dick will have to come up there, because he won't be able to get out of the entrance." They all went to the well. Dick had removed the old wooden cover, and it was lying on the ground. The children leaned over the hole of the well and waited anxiously. What was Dick doing? They could hear nothing from the well and they longed to know what was happening. There was plenty happening down below! The two men, and another, had gone down into the dungeons, expecting, of course, to find Julian, George and the dog still locked up in the store-room with the ingots. They passed the well-shaft not guessing that an excited small boy was hidden there, ready to slip out of the opening as soon as they had passed. Dick heard them pass. He slipped out of the well-opening and followed behind quietly, his feet making no sound. He could see the beams made by the men's powerful torches, and with his heart thumping loudly he crept along the smelly old passages, between great caves, until the men turned into the wide passage where the storecave lay. "Here it is," Dick heard one of the men say, as he flashed his torch on to the great door. "The gold's in there- so are the kids!" The man unbolted the door at top and bottom. Dick was glad that he had slipped along to bolt the door, for if he hadn't done that before the men had come they would have known that Julian and George had escaped, and would have been on their guard. The man opened the door and stepped inside. The second

Of Human Bondage.txt

two over for food I never bother. Life wouldn't be worth living if I worried over the future as well as the present. When things are at their worst I find something always happens." Soon Philip grew in the habit of going in to tea with her every day, and so that his visits might not embarrass her he took in a cake or a pound of butter or some tea. They started to call one another by their Christian names. Feminine sympathy was new to him, and he delighted in someone who gave a willing ear to all his troubles. The hours went quickly. He did not hide his admiration for her. She was a delightful companion. He could not help comparing her with Mildred; and he contrasted with the one's obstinate stupidity, which refused interest to everything she did not know, the other's quick appreciation and ready intelligence. His heart sank when he thought that he might have been tied for life to such a woman as Mildred. One evening he told Norah the whole story of his love. It was not one to give him much reason for self-esteem, and it was very pleasant to receive such charming sympathy. "I think you're well out of it," she said, when he had finished. She had a funny way at times of holding her head on one side like an Aberdeen puppy. She was sitting in an upright chair, sewing, for she had no time to do nothing, and Philip had made himself comfortable at her feet. "I can't tell you how heartily thankful I am it's all over," he sighed. "Poor thing, you must have had a rotten time," she murmured, and by way of showing her sympathy put her hand on his shoulder. He took it and kissed it, but she withdrew it quickly. "Why did you do that?" she asked, with a blush. "Have you any objection?" She looked at him for a moment with twinkling eyes, and she smiled. "No," she said. He got up on his knees and faced her. She looked into his eyes steadily, and her large mouth trembled with a smile. "Well?" she said. "You know, you are a ripper. I'm so grateful to you for being nice to me. I like you so much." "Don't be idiotic," she said. Philip took hold of her elbows and drew her towards him. She made no resistance, but bent forward a little, and he kissed her red lips. "Why did you do that?" she asked again. "Because it's comfortable." She did not answer, but a tender look came into her eyes, and she passed her hand softly over his hair. "You know, it's awfully silly of you to behave like this. We were such good friends. It would be so jolly to leave it at that." "If you really want to appeal to my better nature," replied Philip, "you'll do well not to stroke my cheek while you're doing it." She gave a little chuckle, but she did not stop. "It's very wrong of me,

We-Could-Be-So Good.txt

passed on to him,” Mr. Fleming says smoothly enough that it takes Nick a moment to realize it’s a refusal. “Don’t worry about it.” He starts to get to his feet. “I’ll see him when he gets back.” “Mr. Russo. Drink your coffee.” Mr. Fleming’s voice is mild, and in it Nick can hear echoes of Andy. But there’s an edge in the older man’s voice. Something that speaks of decades of hard decisions and disappointment. “My son called me at five o’clock yesterday morning asking for the first flight to Washington. I doubt he even knew what hotel he’d be staying at.” Now Nick is alarmed. “Someone met him at the airport, didn’t they? Andy’s plenty smart, you know that, but if he’s left to navigate a strange city on his own, I don’t like to think of what kind of hotel he’d find himself in.” Mr. Fleming stares at him. “A driver picked him up at the airport, Mr. Russo.” “Good,” Nick says, relieved. He isn’t going to ask where this driver took Andy. Andy will either get in touch with him or he won’t. And even if he doesn’t, they can talk when Andy gets home. He just needs time or space, hence the last-minute trip to Washington. Nick understands that. He gets to his feet. “Thanks for the coffee, Mr. Fleming. And it was nice talking to you.” “Likewise, Mr. Russo. I’m glad you stopped by.” Dimly, Nick notices that Mr. Fleming doesn’t get to his feet when Nick leaves, which is odd because he seems like the sort of man to stick by his manners even when obliquely accusing someone of having caused his son to flee the city before dawn. * * * When Andy’s around, he and Nick either go out to lunch or sit together in the Chronicle cafeteria, usually joined by whatever junior reporters are having lunch at the same time. But without Andy, Nick feels like it’s his first day at a new school, despite the fact that he’s been working here for four years and Andy’s only been here for one of them. The day before, he had lunch by himself at the Automat, but today he bites the bullet and goes to the cafeteria. He gets a chicken salad sandwich (which makes him miss Andy, because he is ridiculous) and finds an empty table, thinking he’ll scarf down his food and go back to work. But no sooner has he sat than Mark Bailey comes over and pulls out a chair across from him. “Thought you might want some company,” he remarks. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nick asks, too defensive. “Just that you’re wandering around like a lost dog without Fleming.” Nick almost hisses at him to be quiet, but he hasn’t really said anything too pointed. The fact is that Nick is kind of moping around and Bailey isn’t the first person to notice. Everyone in the newsroom is giving him a wide berth, and Nick would be embarrassed if his brain weren’t busy with about half a

A-Living-Remedy.txt

needed an agenda when she visited us, never needed them to do anything or be anything other than themselves. When I was at my most anxious, fretting about one or both of my kids, Mom would always tell me to relax, take a deep breath, stop worrying. The girls are going to be okay. It was no empty, unthinking reassurance she offered; she believed it, every time. I couldn’t understand her certainty, and sometimes, I admit, resented it—she was a parent, too, and as anxious as I was. Didn’t she understand that it was impossible for me to let go of my fears, lay down my burdens? Now I would give almost anything to hear her tell me not to worry again. In my dream the other night, as I talked with her about my daughter, I could feel her hand pressing down on mine, the warmth of her fingers, the grain of the wooden table at which we sat. I could hear her voice, as clear as it was in life. You can tell me all about it, she said. And then you’ll figure out how to help her, like you always do. When I woke, it occurred to me that perhaps my mind is trying to mother me, now that my mother is gone. 25 At around eight by ten, my office is the smallest of our small bedrooms, squished between the master bedroom and my older daughter’s room. I claimed it as my work space when we moved into this, the first residence of my adult life that has felt semipermanent. I pushed an old table up against the room’s only window, pleased to find that during the day, at least, there is no need for a lamp. We painted the walls a soft blue green that reminds me of sea glass, and I hung up original art and carefully arranged the bookshelves. I hadn’t had a dedicated writing space all to myself, with a door I could close, since I took over the spare bedroom in my childhood home. For our first two years in the house, the study was my primary work space, the backdrop for all my video meetings, the place where I went to brainstorm and to write. Then we got a dog, and I pretty much stopped working there altogether. For years, whenever one of our children asked us if we could get a puppy, Dan or I would offer up a vague response: Maybe someday, when you’re old enough to help. Several friends who also had autistic children had gotten them therapy dogs—mostly Labradors or goldendoodles—and we had thought about doing the same. Both of us had grown up with dogs and cats and were generally pro-pets, but we also knew how much extra work it would mean. Then came the pandemic. Sometime between my mother’s funeral in the spring and back-to-school that never quite happened in the fall, maybe gave way to yes and someday became as soon as possible. Saying yes to the dog was very much about saying yes to

The-Lost-Bookshop.txt

you were too wrapped up in their own pain to see it.’ We hugged tightly, right by the bannister where Shane had fallen. I began to cry. I didn’t just cry, I sobbed in her arms. She held me and shushed away the bad memories, rocking me from side to side. The wooden staircase creaked like the bough of a tree beside us and I could hear a soft rustling. ‘It sounds like this old house is trying to tell us something,’ she said in a playful voice, as though she were telling a fairy tale to a child. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ I smiled, wiping my eyes with my sleeves. ‘I think that too sometimes. Maybe next time you can stay for longer?’ ‘I’d like that,’ she said, then turned to step down on to the pavement. She turned and waved again and called up to me. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting Madame Bowden too!’ I waved and then registered the strangeness of what she had just said. She had already met Madame Bowden. Chapter Forty-Eight HENRY ‘Are you aware that you have a great big bloody tree root growing out of your ceiling?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And the branch sticking out of the gable?’ ‘That too.’ ‘Oh good. Not just me then.’ I’d decided to visit 12 Ha'penny Lane by my old entrance, the basement window, but found a very large branch growing out through one of the broken panes. We decided I should probably come through the front door instead. I held the folder with Opaline’s papers aloft, theatrically making it clear that I had a proper reason for visiting. ‘The lady of the residence is out having her hair set,’ Martha said and I was relieved to hear it. She could be a bit overpowering, even if she was technically rooting for me. ‘I think it’s trying to tell me something,’ she said, plucking one of the leaves from the branches that formed an arc over her bed. She seemed bizarrely unfazed by it. ‘Yes, I think it is trying to tell you something very important about the unsound foundations of the house. You really need to have this looked at.’ She batted my concerns aside and put on the kettle for tea. I moved in for a closer look at the tree. ‘Did you do this?’ ‘What?’ ‘What you seek is seeking you.’ It was carved on to the bark of the tree. She stepped behind me and leaned over my shoulder. ‘No?’ I turned around to see her face. She looked different, somehow. As though the shadows she carried inside of her had been replaced by an iridescent light. She looked happy. Despite the tree. Or perhaps because of it. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Nothing. You look well, that’s all.’ She smiled and tilted her head to the side. It felt like a moment where one of us should say something, but neither of us could even begin putting our feelings into words. ‘Tea?’ I nodded. She brought two mugs over to the small table and grabbed

Yellowface.txt

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

Maame.txt

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

Hound of the Baskervilles.txt

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

Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt

actor. “I warned you we were getting his hopes up,” she said. “Last night he phoned, and he spent thirty minutes telling me about Ewers.” “Hmm,” Tristán said distractedly. He was trying to pick a tie and regarded the choices he’d laid on the bed with skepticism. “What about the little sorcerer boy?” “Ewers had to leave Germany in 1941, after Hitler passed a law kicking out practitioners of ‘secret doctrines.’ ” “What exactly is a secret doctrine?” he asked, his interest stoked for a second. “Anything to do with magnetic healers, astrologists, faith healers, all that stuff. But occultism was fine for military applications, so some people were able to escape punishment by working for the Nazis. And even though Ewers sometimes said he had left Germany before the end of the war, he also said he practiced radiesthesia to save his neck.” “You’ve lost me,” Tristán admitted. “Swinging pendulums around to locate Allied ships and sink them.” “That could be useful background for your story.” “Maybe it would be, if I could believe it and confirm it. Urueta has several different background stories for Ewers: he left in 1941; no, he stayed; no, he wasn’t working for the Navy and maybe he’d been conscripted by them.” Montserrat shook her head. “Besides, that’s not the point. Abel’s talking magic and counting the days until the spell begins to work,” she said, pointing up at the ceiling, presumably at Abel’s apartment. “You enjoy chatting with him!” “Seven days since we dubbed the film and seven days of calls. He’s even calling me at my job. He phones more than once. Yesterday he called three times. This is serious.” Tristán sighed and tried to maneuver her out of the bedroom, but Montserrat stood her ground. She practically hissed at him. So she was going to be in that kind of mood today. “What are you going to do about this?” “We didn’t promise him results.” “No, but that’s what he wants. He’s asked twice if I did the dubbing correctly. He even wants me to screen the nitrate print again, and he keeps calling me. You told me you’d phone him.” “I’ve been busy.” “He’s drinking too much. Double whiskey hour is turning into double whiskey evening.” “Oh, Abel downs a drink or two, but it’s no big deal.” “I guess you’re not one to judge.” Tristán frowned, prickled by the implication. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Montserrat met his eyes. “Talk with Abel.” “I’ll have a chat with him.” “When?” “I don’t know, tonight or tomorrow. Sometime next week,” he said, his irritation mounting. He hated it when people pressured him, most of all Montserrat, because she was aware that he hated it. He also hated reminders, he hated veiled threats, and he hated the way she was pursing her lips at him. “He called at eleven p.m. last night.” “I need to finish getting ready. Can I have my suits?” “The bill wasn’t paid, and I had to cover it myself. Let me find the receipt,” she muttered, as she tried

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

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

Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt

“I don’t know—I’ve never known. It’s... She was...” “What?” “She was always friends with them. With the girls in the house.” “Friends?” “Yes, friends.” Winnie reached for Mrs. King. “You remember what it was like up there, in the schoolroom, before Madam came out. Just the tutors, and the governesses, and the dance mistress. Mr. de Vries let her make friends below stairs.” She closed her eyes again. “I thought it was such a kindness,” she whispered. “Friends?” said Mrs. Bone. Winnie nodded, voice strained. “It seemed...natural. That a girl would want to make friends with other girls. To learn about their lives. Understand where they came from. Share a little schooling.” “Earn them an afternoon off,” said Mrs. King quietly. “And those girls took liberties. Grew cheeky. Felt they were favored. I always chalked it up to a lapse in discipline. The master allowing indulgences, just to favor Miss de Vries.” Mrs. Bone dragged her gaze back from the house. “Clever, really. A neat way to put the girls at ease. I daresay he needed them to be comfortable upstairs.” Mrs. Bone felt a shudder pass through her. “Does Miss de Vries know?” Winnie simply shook her head. “It’s like I said. You can’t...you can’t tell. It’s not spoken of.” “Who was the man, then? The man in the gray coat.” “I never found out.” “Never asked, you mean.” “He would have been a gentleman of means,” said Mrs. King. “He would have paid well for the visit.” “Danny didn’t need more money.” “Money isn’t everything,” said Mrs. King. “It isn’t influence.” Mrs. Bone knew that. She understood patronage. A corkscrew chain of favors. Tastes, pleasures, likes, fancies. Powders, perfumes, poppies. And in the night, behind rich drapes, with oil lamps: girls. Dancing girls, chorus girls, waifs and strays. You had to know where to find them, how to train them, how to get rid of them. Mrs. Bone didn’t just avoid that business. She took in plenty of those girls, over the years. All those Janes. She suddenly addressed Mrs. King. “No one ever came for you, did they?” Winnie straightened, her eyes fierce. “Never. I shared a room with her the whole time. I wouldn’t have let them. I looked after you.” There was something heated, something desperate, in the way she said it. Mrs. King said, voice grave. “And you, Winnie? You were all right?” Winnie’s eyes flickered back and forth. “Yes,” she said, quickly. “Yes, I was fine.” “What about our fine lady duchess?” said Mrs. Bone, quietly. “Hephzibah?” said Mrs. King. Her eyes widened at that, shocked. It was rare to ever see that look upon her face. Winnie opened her mouth, shut it again. Shook her head. Mrs. Bone crossed her arms. “That’s clear enough to me.” Mrs. King said soberly, “And me.” They looked at one another. “Something needs to be done about this,” said Mrs. Bone. “Something needs to be done?” Winnie’s voice went up a notch. “You think I haven’t tried? I went to Shepherd. I went to the master.” “What happened?”

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt

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

The Da Vinci Code.txt

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

Hedge.txt

“and now she thinks the doctor molested her?” “She doesn’t think that.” “No, but she feels it.” It was the closest they’d come to mentioning Gabriel since Peter had asked her months ago whether anything more had happened with him. He looked spent. Maud felt a surge of resolve. She put her hand on his knee. “Come to bed?” she said. In their room, they stripped off each other’s clothes, and she climbed on top of him. Peter didn’t open his eyes, and eventually she closed her eyes too. Neither of them made a sound. Finally, Peter came with a sigh. With a quick kiss on her shoulder, he turned toward his nightstand. Maud lay next to him until he fell asleep, then got up and went to the kitchen. She took an ice cube from the freezer and held it to her cheek until it melted. The ice burned, but it felt good to withstand the pain. 17 Once again, she and Peter went through the house, gathering scissors, knives, and razors and putting them sharp-side down in an empty oatmeal tin that they locked in Peter’s desk drawer. The fidget basket returned to Ella’s room, full of plastic tangles and tins of putty to keep her hands busy. Every day that week when Ella got in the car after school, Maud asked her if she’d self-harmed, and then she’d ask again every night before Ella went to sleep. Finally, Ella said the question was triggering. “It’s like asking an alcoholic if they’d wanted a drink today. Just ask me in therapy instead.” Maud was back to watching for signs, inspecting Ella’s exposed skin—arms, neck, ankles—worrying whenever she left the room. She tried to sleep next to Peter, then went down the hall to check on Ella several times during the night. Friday, she realized that she hadn’t told Alice about not coming Wednesday to hike, but then how would she have told her when Alice didn’t have a phone? Two more appointments with Rita staggered by. Both times when Maud came into the office at the end, Ella’s eyes were red and her voice stuffy. “Anything you’d like to discuss?” Rita said to Maud. “Did you do it again?” Maud asked Ella. “No.” Louise was still thrown by the relapse. Maud caught her watching Ella with her lower lip sucked in. Maud bought two boxes of sugar cubes, and they spent an afternoon building a Taj Mahal because, Louise said, a new Sphinx would never be the same. That night, Annette dropped off CBD gummies meant to help Maud sleep, but they didn’t work any better than the melatonin she’d tried. Lights off, the house creaked around her as she wandered from room to room, looked in on Ella, went outside to the deck, and, shivering, sought the glow of the city in the fog. The following Wednesday, she drove to Esperanza. She was still sleeping poorly, bolting awake several times during the night, and she felt so fuzzy-headed and loose-limbed that she couldn’t imagine going on a hike. But

Pineapple Street.txt

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

THE SCARLET LETTER.txt

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

Blowback.txt

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

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

fists looked like it swam with gold, trails of soft sun-glow following the path of his skin. Another dagger glinted silver as the scarred man pulled it from his belt, breaking her concentration on all that odd gold. Bastian didn’t seem to notice it, and she opened her mouth to warn him, but a slam of stars exploded in her temple before she could. The scarred man had knocked the hilt into her head. Lore hit her knees, bones aching against the bite of cobblestone. Then—something cold and sharp on her neck, and a boot between her shoulder blades, holding her down. Time slowed. Her ears rang, making everything crystal clear and muffled at once. Lore had been in plenty of situations where the loss of life or limb was a possible outcome, but she’d never been held at knifepoint, never been in a place where the possibility of help was next to none. The sharp edge of the knife almost vibrated with Mortem, her fingers tingling in time. But she still couldn’t grasp it. Lore’s eyes met Bastian’s. She didn’t know what kind of look she gave him, whether it was pleading or defiant. He’d asked why she was here, what his father wanted; those were the answers that mattered, and he had them. The questions about her, about her magic—those were mere curiosity, and curiosity wasn’t reason enough to save her, not when there was a perfectly plausible excuse for her death holding a dagger to her neck. Bastian could let her die and leave her here. He could kill her without even touching her. “More expensive than just your losses, now,” the scarred man rasped, digging his knee further into Lore’s back. “You’ll pay double for making a fuss. Think how much belladonna I can buy with that, eh?” Lore watched the calculations spin behind Bastian’s eyes. Watched him weigh and measure. Then the prince reached into his pocket. The movement took his concentration away from the fight, and the smaller man landed a punch to his stomach. At the moment Bastian bowed forward, hunched over his middle, he thrust out his hand, the thick gold of a signet ring gleaming in the dark. “If you please,” Bastian said, somehow managing to barely sound winded. “Unhand my friend.” The smaller man looked at the ring. Paled. “Milo. Let the lady up.” But the scarred one—Milo—paid no heed. “Don’t care who he is. He owes, and my stash is nearly done for.” The dagger bit in, just enough to sting, and Lore pulled in a ragged breath. Bastian straightened, stalked across the alley. His hand fisted in Milo’s hair and wrenched the man’s neck backward, pointing his blade at the vulnerable artery. They made a deranged chain of threats, Bastian’s knife at Milo’s throat, Milo’s at Lore’s. “I’m the Sun Prince of Auverraine, Apollius’s chosen heir,” Bastian hissed. “And you will unhand the lady.” A pause. Then Milo’s bulk was gone; Bastian shoved his shoulder, forcing him to his knees beside his smaller friend. Lore dragged in a deep breath

Anne of Green Gables.txt

roof." "I don't believe it," said Josie flatly. "I don't believe anybody could walk a ridgepole. YOU couldn't, anyhow." "Couldn't I?" cried Anne rashly. "Then I dare you to do it," said Josie defiantly. "I dare you to climb up there and walk the ridgepole of Mr. Barry's kitchen roof." Anne turned pale, but there was clearly only one thing to be done. She walked toward the house, where a ladder was leaning against the kitchen roof. All the fifth-class girls said, "Oh!" partly in excitement, partly in dismay. "Don't you do it, Anne," entreated Diana. "You'll fall off and be killed. Never mind Josie Pye. It isn't fair to dare anybody to do anything so dangerous." "I must do it. My honor is at stake," said Anne solemnly. "I shall walk that ridgepole, Diana, or perish in the attempt. If I am killed you are to have my pearl bead ring." Anne climbed the ladder amid breathless silence, gained the ridgepole, balanced herself uprightly on that precarious footing, and started to walk along it, dizzily conscious that she was uncomfortably high up in the world and that walking ridgepoles was not a thing in which your imagination helped you out much. Nevertheless, she managed to take several steps before the catastrophe came. Then she swayed, lost her balance, stumbled, staggered, and fell, sliding down over the sun-baked roof and crashing off it through the tangle of Virginia creeper beneathall before the dismayed circle below could give a simultaneous, terrified shriek. If Anne had tumbled off the roof on the side up which she had ascended Diana would probably have fallen heir to the pearl bead ring then and there. Fortunately she fell on the other side, where the roof extended down over the porch so nearly to the ground that a fall therefrom was a much less serious thing. Nevertheless, when Diana and the other girls had rushed frantically around the house-except Ruby Gillis, who remained as if rooted to the ground and went into hysterics-they found Anne lying all white and limp among the wreck and ruin of the Virginia creeper. "Anne, are you killed?" shrieked Diana, throwing herself on her knees beside her friend. "Oh, Anne, dear Anne, speak just one word to me and tell me if you're killed." To the immense relief of all the girls, and especially of Josie Pye, who, in spite of lack of imagination, had been seized with horrible visions of a future branded as the girl who was the cause of Anne Shirley's early and tragic death, Anne sat dizzily up and answered uncertainly: "No, Diana, I am not killed, but I think I am rendered unconscious." "Where?" sobbed Carrie Sloane. "Oh, where, Anne?" Before Anne could answer Mrs. Barry appeared on the scene. At sight of her Anne tried to scramble to her feet, but sank back again with a sharp little cry of pain. "What's the matter? Where have you hurt yourself?" demanded Mrs. Barry. "My ankle," gasped Anne. "Oh, Diana, please find your father and ask him to take

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt

a little of it?' said the Mock Turtle. `Very much indeed,' said Alice. `Come, let's try the first figure!' said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. `We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?' `Oh, YOU sing,' said the Gryphon. `I've forgotten the words.' So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- `"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance? "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance. `"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"' `Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,' said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: `and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!' `Oh, as to the whiting,' said the Mock Turtle, `they--you've seen them, of course?' `Yes,' said Alice, `I've often seen them at dinn--' she checked herself hastily. `I don't know where Dinn may be,' said the Mock Turtle, `but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like.' `I believe so,' Alice replied thoughtfully. `They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs.' `You're wrong about the crumbs,' said the Mock Turtle: `crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they HAVE their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--' here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--`Tell her about the reason and all that,' he said to the Gryphon. `The reason is,' said the Gryphon, `that they WOULD go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all.' `Thank you,' said Alice, `it's very interesting. I never

Casino Royale.txt

of the Secret Service concerned with the Soviet Union) was so keen on his plan for the destruction of Le Chiffre, and it was basically his own plan, that he took the memorandum himself and went up to the top floor of the gloomy building overlooking Regent's Park and through the green baize door and along the corridor to the end room. He walked belligerently up to M's Chief of Staff, a young sapper who had earned his spurs as one of the secretariat to the Chiefs of Staff committee after having been wounded during a sabotage operation in 1944, and had kept his sense of humour in spite of both experiences. 'Now look here, Bill. I want to sell something to the Chief. Is this a good moment?' 'What do you think, Penny?' The Chief of Staff turned to M's private secretary who shared the room with him. Miss Moneypenny would have been desirable but for eyes which were cool and direct and quizzical. 'Should be all right. He won a bit of a victory at the FO this morning and he's not got anyone for the next half an hour.' She smiled encouragingly at Head of S whom she liked for himself and for the importance of his section. 'Well, here's the dope, Bill.' He handed over the black folder with the red star which stood for Top Secret. 'And for God's sake look enthusiastic when you give it him. And tell him I'll wait here and read a good code-book while he's considering it. He may want some more details, and anyway I want to see you two don't pester him with anything else until he's finished.' 'All right, sir.' The Chief of Staff pressed a switch leant towards the intercom on his desk. 'Yes?' asked a quiet, flat voice. 'Head of S has an urgent docket for you, sir.' There was a pause. 'Bring it in,' said a voice. The Chief of Staff released the switch and stood up. 'Thanks, Bill. I'll be next door,' said Head of S. The Chief of Staff crossed his office and went through the double doors leading into M's room. In a moment he came out and over the entrance a small blue light burned the warning that M was not to be disturbed. * Later, a triumphant Head of S said to his Number Two: 'We nearly cooked ourselves with that last paragraph. He said it was subversion and blackmail. He got pretty sharp about it. Anyway, he approves. Says the idea's crazy, but worth trying if the Treasury will play and he thinks they will. He's going to tell them it's a better gamble than the money we're putting into deserting Russian colonels who turn double after a few months' "asylum" here. And he's longing to get at Le Chiffre, and anyway he's got the right man and wants to try him out on the job.' 'Who is it?' asked Number Two. 'One of the Double O's - I guess 007. He's tough and M thinks there may be trouble

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

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

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

you a message: Get in your car and drive. Change your last name, too. Don’t look back. 21 I tried to distract myself with a movie, but since the Calvin Inn wi-fi was too fatigued to continue the day, I was beholden to the offerings on my room’s bulky Panasonic. Here was Bus Stop, a movie I hated. Bus Stop is what happens when no women were involved in the writing process. We get, for instance, a woman who, when Marilyn Monroe sidles up to her on the bus and says she’s been kidnapped, replies: “It wouldn’t be so bad if you were in love with him.” I turned the TV off and checked email. Someone I didn’t know had sent a clip from a Boston station—part of an interview with Brad Keith, Thalia’s half brother. He’d gone gray in a thick-haired, dignified way. He wore a powder blue sweater. Last I knew, Brad Keith was a commodities trader. “But in the interest of justice—” the reporter across from him said. “Justice was served. He got his day in court, he got it again on appeal. I understand the right to a fair trial, but three trials? Four? Five? Where does it end? You can’t just keep rolling the dice till you get what you want.” The reporter didn’t point out the difference between a hearing and a trial. She said, “There’s been new evidence. We know now th—” “Nothing’s new. We have her old roommate with some baloney about dots. We have blood evidence that just moves the assault a few feet to the left. Omar Evans ruined all our lives, not just Thalia’s. And every time we get dragged back, he destroys us again. We’ve been through enough.” “Your sister Vanessa disagrees.” He shook his head, resigned. “She was so young when this happened.” Below the video link, the email read: Look what you’re doing you unconscionable bitch. 22 Geoff had ordered pizza for dinner, and we ate at the little table in his room. Geoff, who used to accept dares to mix chocolate milk, hot sauce, ranch dressing, and orange juice in a dining hall cup and drink it down, had ended up with sophisticated taste. He’d managed to order a very specific herb pizza via Grubhub from Hanover and get it delivered still hot, along with a bottle of excellent Syrah from a completely different place. We were planning to go through the hoarded Granby junk he’d brought for Britt and Alder. But first, carbs and cheese and wine. I decided to let myself eat as much as I wanted. He said something I didn’t get about the Calvin Inn being the place where you got whatever you deserved, and then had to explain that it was a joke about Calvinism. “Oh, one of those,” I said. “I love a good Calvinism joke.” He asked if I thought Carlotta was going to make it, and the cheese turned gluey in my throat. Alder joined us at nine. I’d decided to give up on staying away from him—what difference

Happy Place.txt

bit of morning, the freckles on his sculpted shoulders visible in the streaks of light. My train of thought is disappearing around a corner, leaving me alone with a half-naked Wyn Connor, when he says, “Just to be clear, you’re always welcome to touch me.” I become acutely aware of every place the cool silk sheets skim my legs. I shake the blankets out. “What an extremely generous offer.” “Not generous at all,” he says. “I’m voracious for physical touch. Can’t get enough.” “So I’ve gathered,” I say. “If I ever meet someone in need of casual physical touch, I’ll give them your business card.” The corner of his mouth tugs downward. “Remember what you told me about Sabrina?” “No, what?” “That she exaggerates,” he says. “So does Parth.” I pitch myself higher on my elbow. “So which were the exaggerations, Wyn? The hot TA who left her phone number on your last essay of the term? The flight attendant who bought all your drinks? The identical triplet Russian acrobats?” “The triplets,” he says, “were literally just some girls I met in a bar and talked to for thirty minutes. And for the record, they were gymnasts, not acrobats, and they were very nice.” “One can’t help but notice you didn’t protest about the TA and the flight attendant.” He sits up against the wall. The man cannot stay in one position for longer than forty or so seconds. “How about we discuss your romantic history?” “What about it?” I say. “Sabrina said you were dating another American while you were in London.” “Hudson,” I supply. “You never bring him up,” Wyn says. I don’t bring him up because he and I agreed our relationship was temporary, right from the start. We knew when we went home, we’d be too busy, too focused, for each other. Focus was the second biggest thing Hudson and I had in common. The first was a love of the same chip shop in London. Not the stuff of romantic legend, but it worked out okay, and no one got hurt. “I’m an open book,” I say. “What do you want to know?” Wyn’s teeth scrape over his bottom lip. “Is he a genius like you?” “I’m not a genius,” I say. “Fine,” Wyn says, “is he brilliant like you? Is he going to be a surgeon?” Brilliant. The word fizzes through me. “He wants to be a thoracic surgeon,” I say. “He goes to Harvard.” Wyn scoffs. “Tickle in your throat?” I say. “What’s he look like?” Wyn asks. As I consider, his grin twitches. “Can’t remember?” “Dark hair, blue eyes,” I say. “Like you,” he says. “Identical.” I sit up too. “Side by side, you couldn’t tell us apart.” Wyn’s eyes slink down me, then climb back to my face. “You’re a very lucky woman.” “The luckiest,” I say. “Once, when I was sick, he went to class as me.” “Can I see a picture?” Wyn asks. “Seriously?” “I’m curious,” he says. I lean over the bed and feel around for my phone on the

Titanium-Noir.txt

Santa’s Grotto in here, no trouble at all. I look at Maurice, his legs bandaged quite professionally by Zoegar. They haven’t bothered to restrain him in the leather high-back love seat because he can barely stay upright without holding on to the arms. “I suggest you start with sorry. ‘I am sorry I came to your office to kill you, Cal. It was personal and I understand you’re upset.’ I mean, I don’t imagine it gets said a lot in this situation. You could try an actual apology. They’re free.” Nothing. “Mr. Nugent, do people generally apologise at this point?” “You shock me, Mr. Sounder, with the implication that I would know such a thing. This experience is quite entirely new to me.” I look at him. He does the salamander smile again. Zoegar rolls his eyes. Apparently this is too fey even for him. I tell Doublewide I’m sorry I asked. He beams. “You are forgiven!” “You see, Maurice? That’s how it goes. You want to try it?” Maurice isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at Doublewide. Titans always think other Titans are in charge. They’re also almost always right about that, even when the appearance is against it. “Who are you?” “Lyman Nugent,” Doublewide says. “Beggar king. Big fan of your uncle, though perhaps that’s the wrong word. Let us say I admire his…reach.” He flexes one mantis arm, reaching two metres to lift an apple out of the fruit bowl and take a bite. He’s dainty with it, but half the fruit disappears into his mouth. Maurice watches him. They say that Stefan Tonfamecasca’s arm reaches anywhere in the world, but they haven’t met Lyman Nugent. Figure Maurice is right now thinking about that. Finally he looks at me and says “I’m sorry.” “Traditionally, there should be a ‘for.’ What are you sorry for?” “I am sorry I came to your office and tried to kill you.” “That is what you were doing?” “Yes.” I look at Doublewide. “That sound about right to you?” “I thought it palpably sincere. Shall we eat?” “By all means.” Maurice stares. “Why, yes, Mr. Tonfamecasca, you too. You are fallen among civilised thieves today. It is to everyone’s advantage that we resolve this matter without unpleasantness, yes?” “Sure.” Zoegar opens a door, and the same big woman who drove the truck comes in with a tray of barbecue and a syringe. Maurice looks warily at the last. “It’s a nausea shot,” she says primly. “So you don’t throw up my fine food. There’s anti-tetanus and a painkiller in there too, but don’t get the idea you can walk on those legs just because they stop hurting quite so much. You put weight on those, especially that knee? You’re going to experience all kinds of bad things. Now, hold still.” He does, hissing as the needle goes in, and then leaning back. The woman smiles. “All better. For a given value, I know. Lyman, he needs some time on my table soon, so nothing bad happens at the joint.” “Understood, Priscilla. Quite understood, and

The Age of Innocence.txt

lips. He was determined to put the case baldly, without vain recrimination or excuse. "Madame Olenska--" he said; but at the name his wife raised her hand as if to silence him. As she did so the gaslight struck on the gold of her wedding-ring, "Oh, why should we talk about Ellen tonight?" she asked, with a slight pout of impatience. "Because I ought to have spoken before." Her face remained calm. "Is it really worth while, dear? I know I've been unfair to her at times--perhaps we all have. You've understood her, no doubt, better than we did: you've always been kind to her. But what does it matter, now it's all over?" Archer looked at her blankly. Could it be possible that the sense of unreality in which he felt himself imprisoned had communicated itself to his wife? "All over--what do you mean?" he asked in an indistinct stammer. May still looked at him with transparent eyes. "Why-- since she's going back to Europe so soon; since Granny approves and understands, and has arranged to make her independent of her husband--" She broke off, and Archer, grasping the corner of the mantelpiece in one convulsed hand, and steadying himself against it, made a vain effort to extend the same control to his reeling thoughts. "I supposed," he heard his wife's even voice go on, "that you had been kept at the office this evening about the business arrangements. It was settled this morning, I believe." She lowered her eyes under his unseeing stare, and another fugitive flush passed over her face. He understood that his own eyes must be unbearable, and turning away, rested his elbows on the mantel- shelf and covered his face. Something drummed and clanged furiously in his ears; he could not tell if it were the blood in his veins, or the tick of the clock on the mantel. May sat without moving or speaking while the clock slowly measured out five minutes. A lump of coal fell forward in the grate, and hearing her rise to push it back, Archer at length turned and faced her. "It's impossible," he exclaimed. "Impossible--?" "How do you know--what you've just told me?" "I saw Ellen yesterday--I told you I'd seen her at Granny's." "It wasn't then that she told you?" "No; I had a note from her this afternoon.--Do you want to see it?" He could not find his voice, and she went out of the room, and came back almost immediately. "I thought you knew," she said simply. She laid a sheet of paper on the table, and Archer put out his hand and took it up. The letter contained only a few lines. "May dear, I have at last made Granny understand that my visit to her could be no more than a visit; and she has been as kind and generous as ever. She sees now that if I return to Europe I must live by myself, or rather with poor Aunt Medora, who is coming with me. I am hurrying back to Washington to

The Foxglove King.txt

can fix it. I did once before.” “You can’t this time,” Anton said gently. “It’s hundreds of bodies. Lore— even for you, channeling that much Mortem would be nearly impossible.” “You have to let me try!” She didn’t want to cry here, not in front of them, but she was so angry and overwhelmed and crying was always hardest to fight off when she was overwhelmed, thinking of the catacombs beneath them, full of screaming corpses who’d been people, just people— “So this is why you led us down there.” Bastian’s voice, calm and cold and cutting through her panic. His gaze was squared on Gabe. “This is why you came back and helped us. So that Lore would raise the dead, and there’d be no way to undo it.” Gabe didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The look on his face proved the accusation true. Bastian sat back, casual as if the chair and chains were a gilded throne. “Why are we supposed to believe you aren’t working with my father, again? After you just made us start up his undead army?” “Because August doesn’t control the army,” Anton said. “And if we’re successful, he never will.” “August wouldn’t be able to control it, anyway,” she said. “He can’t channel Mortem.” “Not yet,” Anton murmured. In the distance, bells began to toll. First Day. Somewhere, sunrise prayers were beginning. Gabe stood still as a statue in his place by the door, face stony, revealing nothing. Lore closed her eyes, turned her head. She didn’t want to look at him, but her eyes kept sliding his way, consistently drawn back into his gravity. “And what, exactly, made you both decide you couldn’t let this happen?” Bastian asked. “My father has been a tyrant for years. He’s sucked this country dry, let nobles—let you—grow richer while everyone outside the Citadel walls has less and less every year. So you only care when his mind turns to war? When it becomes something that might affect you?” “August cares nothing for Apollius.” Bellegarde’s expression wasn’t quite a sneer, but it was close. “He would attempt to change his role in history. To take a place that is not his, to try and avoid his own destiny. The Priest Exalted’s vision was clear. August cannot go to war with Kirythea. It would undermine everything.” It wasn’t an answer, not really, but it gave closure just the same. This wasn’t about protecting Auverraine. This was about power, and about using religion to secure it. Bastian’s sneer was much more obvious than Bellegarde’s. “None of this changes the fact that I don’t have any magic. I’m not the chosen.” “It clings to you like ink on paper.” There was a note of reverence in Anton’s voice; he looked at his nephew with a peaceful expression, as if the sight of him soothed some ache in his heart. “Whether you believe it or not, Bastian, you are the one we’ve been waiting for. The one Apollius has blessed. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it from the beginning.” Bastian

The House of the Seven Gables.txt

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

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt

I beat him when he sneezes; For he can thoroughly enjoy The pepper when he pleases!' CHORUS. `Wow! wow! wow!' `Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!' the Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. `I must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen,' and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her. Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer- shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, `just like a star-fish,' thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it. As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air. `IF I don't take this child away with me,' thought Alice, `they're sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn't it be murder to leave it behind?' She said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). `Don't grunt,' said Alice; `that's not at all a proper way of expressing yourself.' The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had a VERY turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at all. `But perhaps it was only sobbing,' she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. No, there were no tears. `If you're going to turn into a pig, my dear,' said Alice, seriously, `I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!' The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself, `Now, what am I to do with this creature when I get it home?' when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could be NO mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further. So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. `If it had grown up,' she said to herself, `it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

tar, or the odours of his own person among which he had made many curious comparisons and experiments. He found in the end that the only odour against which his sense of smell revolted was a certain stale fishy stink like that of long-standing urine; and whenever it was possible he subjected himself to this unpleasant odour. To mortify the taste he practised strict habits at table, observed to the letter all the fasts of the church and sought by distraction to divert his mind from the savours of different foods. But it was to the mortification of touch he brought the most assiduous ingenuity of inventiveness. He never consciously changed his position in bed, sat in the most uncomfortable positions, suffered patiently every itch and pain, kept away from the fire, remained on his knees all through the mass except at the gospels, left part of his neck and face undried so that air might sting them and, whenever he was not saying his beads, carried his arms stiffly at his sides like a runner and never in his pockets or clasped behind him. He had no temptations to sin mortally. It surprised him however to find that at the end of his course of intricate piety and self-restraint he was so easily at the mercy of childish and unworthy imperfections. His prayers and fasts availed him little for the suppression of anger at hearing his mother sneeze or at being disturbed in his devotions. It needed an immense effort of his will to master the impulse which urged him to give outlet to such irritation. Images of the outbursts of trivial anger which he had often noted among his masters, their twitching mouths, close-shut lips and flushed cheeks, recurred to his memory, discouraging him, for all his practice of humility, by the comparison. To merge his life in the common tide of other lives was harder for him than any fasting or prayer and it was his constant failure to do this to his own satisfaction which caused in his soul at last a sensation of spiritual dryness together with a growth of doubts and scruples. His soul traversed a period of desolation in which the sacraments themselves seemed to have turned into dried-up sources. His confession became a channel for the escape of scrupulous and unrepented imperfections. His actual reception of the eucharist did not bring him the same dissolving moments of virginal self-surrender as did those spiritual communions made by him sometimes at the close of some visit to the Blessed Sacrament. The book which he used for these visits was an old neglected book written by saint Alphonsus Liguori, with fading characters and sere foxpapered leaves. A faded world of fervent love and virginal responses seemed to be evoked for his soul by the reading of its pages in which the imagery of the canticles was interwoven with the communicant's prayers. An inaudible voice seemed to caress the soul, telling her names and glories, bidding her arise as for espousal and come away, bidding her look forth,

The-Scorched-Throne-1-Sara-Hashe.txt

his Heir. Mist sprayed my face as we crossed the last line of trees. The gush of Hirun had never sung so sweetly. I jogged ahead, abandoning my slippers behind me. The first splash of cool water against my ankles was heaven. I waded deeper. This river wound through every kingdom, and no one had ever traveled from one end to the other. Of all that had come and gone, Hirun remained unchanged. The only true axis in a land of shifting sands. “Sylvia!” Jeru shouted. His voice was far away. Water surged around my waist. My feet had carried me farther than I intended. A ball of tightly packed dirt hit the water and exploded in my face. A lump flew into my mouth. I hacked, pounding my chest, and lost my balance. Wes and Jeru’s shouts faded as the river catapulted my weightless body along. I flailed, struggling to keep my head above the murky water. A log bobbed ahead, directly in my path. Cheerfully waiting to behead me. I ducked. Frigid water swept over me. My skirt dragged, pulling me deeper. I kicked it off and pumped my legs. When the river curved, I used the momentum to launch myself toward shore. Hands reached forward, hauling me onto solid ground. I slapped them aside as soon as my knees were on dry earth and gagged. “How did you run so quickly?” I rasped. I shoved my dripping hair off my shoulders, shuddering in disgust at the green webs tangled in the strands. “I left you on the opposite bank.” The pair crouching in front of me were not Wes and Jeru. “Rovial’s horned heifer,” I groaned. “Are you two determined to die?” Marek grinned. “We missed you, too.” I shook my head, shoving aside my glee at the sight of my two favorite fools. “A whiff of sense, a drop. That’s all I ask. If the guards find you—” “They won’t,” Sefa reassured. “Unless you plan on lounging for much longer.” Belatedly, I remembered my legs were covered only by the thin white shift I’d worn beneath my skirt. My hair fell from its braid, hanging in wet waves around me. “Did you plan this?” Neither Marek nor Sefa attempted to touch me again, a gesture I appreciated now more than ever. “We’ve been searching for you since the waleema,” Marek said. Dread pooled in the pit of my stomach at the mention of that accursed celebration. A name knocked against my skull, politely asking to be let out. “Fairel. Is—did she—how is she?” I didn’t notice my hand had found my heart. I counted the beats in my head, my body strung tight like it was anticipating a blow. “She is still recovering,” Sefa said, and I almost keeled over in relief before she finished her sentence. She is. Fairel still existed, still lived, and the rest were details. “She and Rory are going to have matching canes,” Marek said. “She misses you, but she is excited to know a Champion.” I shook my head, a fond smile

Romantic-Comedy.txt

I said. Of course he meant this. “Yeah,” he said. Never had I wanted so badly to just smash myself against another person, to tear off another person’s clothes. And wasn’t he complicit, hadn’t he gotten about 13 percent of the way to naked? Or was I delusional and was he accustomed, as cast members were, to having his body exposed and handled? My fingertip was still touching his tattoo. I swallowed, unbending my other fingers, and pressed the rest of them to his perfect skin. Calmly, I said, “I wouldn’t worry about this one, either.” As I pulled my hand away, I added, “Although I do like the word pretextual. I might have to start using it.” He yanked down his shirt and when he turned around so we were facing each other, he said, “Help yourself. My dad’s a lawyer, and I learned it from him. I hope you didn’t just lose all respect for me because of the basicness of my tattoos. I got them within a couple years of each other, quite a while ago.” “I think I know something that will reassure you.” I was wearing an unzipped fleece jacket, which I shrugged off, then I lifted the right short sleeve of my T-shirt and angled my arm toward him, elbow out. Peering at my bicep, he said, “Is that a…mouse?” “In fourth grade, my class had a hamster named Barnaby who I loved so much that I told my mom I wanted a tattoo of him. She said if I promised to wait until I was twenty-one, if I still wanted it, she’d get one with me. Obviously, by the time I was twenty-one, the only reason I still wanted a hamster tattoo was to hold my mom to her end of the bargain.” Just as I had, he reached out his fingers—they, too, were perfect, long and slim and straight—and when they brushed against my skin, I thought that if I could live inside this moment forever, I would. But he withdrew them quickly. He said, “I take it that’s why it says Mom.” “Hers said Sally, but the amazing part is that we didn’t coordinate it. We did it separately, in different rooms, to surprise each other. And when we realized what we’d done—” I paused. This had been fifteen years before, at a place in downtown Kansas City, and afterward we’d gotten enchiladas for lunch. Because my mother hadn’t been an ostentatious or performative person, it had taken me a long time, until college really, to realize how smart and funny she was, and how generously compassionate. Whenever I described embarrassing things I’d done, she’d say, “Oh, I can imagine doing that,” or “I think most everyone feels that way.” To Noah, I said, “When we realized that she’d gotten her hamster to say Sally and I’d gotten mine to say Mom, I started laughing and she started crying. And she wasn’t one of those moms who cry all the time. But now, I understand why she did.” Noah’s expression had turned serious

Dune.txt

Duke's middle years. He was portrayed in matador costume with a magenta cape flung over his left arm. The face looked young, hardly older than Leto's now, and with the same hawk features, the same gray stare. She clenched her fists at her sides, glared at the painting. "Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!" she whispered. "What are your orders, Noble Born?" It was a woman's voice, thin and stringy. Jessica whirled, stared down at a knobby, gray-haired woman in a shapeless sack dress of bondsman brown. The woman looked as wrinkled and desiccated as any member of the mob that had greeted them along the way from the landing field that morning. Every native she had seen on this planet, Jessica thought, looked prune dry and undernourished. Yet, Leto had said they were strong and vital. And there were the eyes, of course -- that wash of deepest, darkest blue without any white -- secretive, mysterious. Jessica forced herself not to stare. The woman gave a stiff-necked nod, said: "I am called the Shadout Mapes, Noble Born. What are your orders?" "You may refer to me as 'my Lady,' " Jessica said. "I'm not noble born. I'm the bound concubine of the Duke Leto." Again that strange nod, and the woman peered upward at Jessica with a sly questioning, "There's a wife, then?" "There is not, nor has there ever been. I am the Duke's only . . . companion, the mother of his heir-designate." Even as she spoke, Jessica laughed inwardly at the pride behind her words. What was it St. Augustine said? she asked herself. "The mind commands the body and it obeys. The mind orders itself and meets resistance." Yes -- I am meeting more resistance lately. I could use a quiet retreat by myself. A weird cry sounded from the road outside the house. It was repeated: "Soo-soo-Sook! Soo-soo-Sook!" Then: "Ikhut-eigh! Ikhut-eigh!" And again: "Soo-soo-Sook!" "What is that?" Jessica asked. "I heard it several times as we drove through the streets this morning." "Only a water-seller, my Lady. But you've no need to interest yourself in such as they. The cistern here holds fifty thousand liters and it's always kept full." She glanced down at her dress. "Why, you know, my Lady, I don't even have to wear my stillsuit here?" She cackled. "And me not even dead!" Jessica hesitated, wanting to question this Fremen woman, needing data to guide her. But bringing order of the confusion in the castle was more imperative. Still, she found the thought unsettling that water was a major mark of wealth here. "My husband told me of your title, Shadout," Jessica said. "I recognized the word. It's a very ancient word." "You know the ancient tongues then?" Mapes asked, and she waited with an odd intensity. "Tongues are the Bene Gesserit's first learning," Jessica said. "I know the Bhotani Jib and the Chakobsa, all the hunting languages." Mapes nodded. "Just as the legend says." And Jessica wondered: Why do I play out this sham? But the Bene Gesserit ways were devious

Lord of the Flies.txt

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

Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

look like crap.” I grunt in response, though I know I should do better. Ash has the day off for a teacher development thing that doesn’t start until this afternoon, and instead of lounging in bed with his wife, he’s here with me at brunch, listening to me explain again how my life is in the toilet. I know it’s a good thing I ended my relationship with Fizzy, but a part of me was hoping Ash would say what I know deep down, that I needed to give her time to work through what was probably the hardest thing for her to hear me say. Unfortunately, after hearing the entire story—the hotel drama, Fizzy’s confession, and the situation with Trent’s show—Ash agrees that I probably did the right thing. But I’ve never, not once in my life, felt this way, never been so into a woman that I considered risking my livelihood to be with her. And I hate how last night went, hate that she now feels like she can’t be straight with me if she’s panicked, that she can’t fuck up, too. I hate most of all that none of it matters anyway after Blaine’s ultimatum this morning. Ash ducks, trying to catch my attention. “Conn.” Meeting his eyes, I give a small “Yeah?” “You know what Fizzy would say right now?” “I’m dying to hear it.” “It’s only hot for a hero to brood for, like, three-quarters of a book.” A real laugh bursts out of me. “That is exactly what she would say.” He grins at the compliment. “And you’re ignoring the very obvious silver lining,” he says brightly. “Which is?” “That now you know you’re ready for a relationship.” I laugh again, but it’s back to sardonic. I can’t blame him for trying. Finding Ella was the best thing to ever happen to Ash. “There’s not a solid batch of evidence, Ash. Fizzy and I had a seesaw fling for a few weeks and then it ended before it even began.” “But you were open to it.” I lift the spoon to my lips, murmuring, “I fell for her against my will,” before taking a bite. “But yeah. I suppose.” “Maybe this time you try DNADuo,” he says, slicing neatly into his omelet. “There are so many more users in the system now that it sounds like people are getting lots of good matches. A Gold Match isn’t rare anymore—one of the teachers at school even got two! He can meet them both, find the perfect fit. Can you imagine just being handed a list?” He takes a bite and stares at me with unmasked curiosity. “I’d love to see who your perfect fit is.” I shove Fizzy’s face out of my thoughts and give a noncommittal hum. A few months ago, I would have described her as loud and unrelenting. Now I can’t imagine using those qualities as insults. “Besides, now you’re a hot commodity, Connor.” He takes another bite and chews. I’m still daydreaming about Fizzy’s loud mouth and what she did with it,

Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt

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