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96 | We-Could-Be-So Good.txt | 81 | either Emily or Andy, not exactly. It’s envy more than jealousy, he decides. It isn’t even that he wants someone to adore him the way they obviously adore one another. It isn’t even that he wishes he had a chance to fall in love. He remembers Andy’s hand on the small of Emily’s back as they walked out of the restaurant. That’s what he wants, and he doesn’t even know what to call it. He changes out of his suit and puts on a pair of jeans and a leather jacket, then heads out, up to Greenwich Avenue, where at least he can find someone to take the edge off. * * * July 1958 Nick is pretty sure that if he hadn’t first known his nephew—a fourteen-year-old who goes through life with untied shoes and perpetually skinned knees, surrounded by a chaotic cloud of comic books and pencils and baseball cards—he wouldn’t know what to think about Andy. In May, Andy gets stuck in the elevator at the criminal courts building for three hours, then turns up at the Chronicle looking mildly traumatized but bearing a box of doughnuts to apologize for cutting it so close to the filing deadline. In June, he’s nearly run down by a cab on Canal Street, only stopped by Nick’s hand darting out to grab his coat. In a single week in July, Andy bangs his head into the ladder of a fire truck while he and Nick are covering a warehouse fire, gets food poisoning from a chicken salad sandwich that Nick tells him looks bad, and is almost bitten by a guard dog at the scene of a robbery in the Bronx. When, one Monday morning, Andy emerges from the elevator leaning on a cane, Nick takes one look at him and shakes his head. “Christ. You need someone to follow you around. An ambulance or at least a medic. Maybe a Saint Bernard.” “Nice,” Andy says, looking like he’s trying not to smile. “This is how you treat the wounded?” “What was it this time? You already have elevators, fire trucks, and taxicabs. A helicopter? A hot-air balloon?” Andy looks like he’d rather do anything than answer. “A boat, actually.” Nick bursts out laughing. “This is a place of business, gentlemen,” shouts Jorgensen, the deputy city desk editor. “A boat,” Nick says, when he gets himself under control. “The decks are quite slippery, I’ll have you know,” Andy sniffs. “Even slipperier when you accidentally step on a fish.” Nick falls off his chair, which sets Andy off laughing, and Nick is so unprepared for the baritone rumble of laughter that he doesn’t even notice when he hits his head on the corner of a desk. “You’re bleeding,” Andy says, stricken. Nick brings his fingers to his temple and they come away red. Jorgensen rolls across the room on his chair, tosses the first aid kit onto the floor where it lands beside Nick with a metallic clank, and rolls back, muttering something about how it’s a dark day when reporters start acting | 0 |
60 | Divine Rivals.txt | 9 | were moving below. They’re a weapon Dacre likes to reserve for civilian towns and the railroad, I’m afraid.” Iris couldn’t hide her shiver. Lark noticed, and his voice mellowed. “Now then, the company will soon divide in the trenches, but you’ll trail my platoon. When we come to a stop, you may both also find a place to rest for the night. I’ll ensure you’re up before dawn, to move to the front. Of course, keep quiet and stay low and alert. Those are your imperatives. Should we be bombarded and Dacre’s forces overtake our trenches, I want the two of you to retreat to the town instantly. You may be deemed ‘neutral’ in this conflict, but I wouldn’t put it past the enemy to kill you both on sight.” Iris nodded. Roman murmured his agreement. She followed Lieutenant Lark’s Sycamore Platoon down into the trenches, Roman close behind her. So close, she could hear his breath, and the way it skipped, as if he were nervous and struggling to conceal it. A few times, he inadvertently stepped on her heel, jarring her. “Sorry,” he whispered with a fleeting touch to her back. It’s all right, she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat. She didn’t really know what she had expected, but the trenches were well constructed, with wood planks laid on the ground to ward off mud. They were wide enough for two people to walk shoulder to shoulder comfortably. Sticks were woven along the walls, which curved like the path of a snake. Winding left and then right, and then splitting into two pathways before splitting yet again. She passed artillery stations, where huge cannons sat on the grass like sleeping beasts. A few low points had sandbags piled up, to provide additional coverage, and the deeper she went into the channels, the more she began to see the bunkers Lark had mentioned. Stone shelters were hollowed out of the earth, with dark, open doorways. There was nothing inviting about them, almost as if they were frozen maws, waiting to swallow soldiers, and Iris hoped she didn’t have to shelter in one. Cool air touched her face. It smelled of dank soil with a touch of rot from the decaying wood. A few times, Iris caught the stench of refuse and piss, all threaded with cigarette smoke. She imagined she saw the scurrying of a rat or two, but perhaps the shadows were teasing her. Her shoulders sagged in relief when the Sycamore Platoon came to a halt for the night, in a stretch of trench that was relatively dry and clean. Iris let her bag slip from her shoulders, choosing a spot beneath a small, hanging lantern. Roman mirrored her, sitting across the path from her, his long legs crossed. Lark came by to check on them just as the stars began to dust the sky overhead. He smiled with a cigarette clamped in his teeth, settling down not too far from them, just within Iris’s sight. The silence felt thick and strange. She was | 0 |
33 | The Age of Innocence.txt | 75 | so natural-- however tragic--that money ill-gotten should be cruelly expiated, that his mind, hardly lingering over Mrs. Beaufort's doom, wandered back to closer questions. What was the meaning of May's blush when the Countess Olenska had been mentioned? Four months had passed since the midsummer day that he and Madame Olenska had spent together; and since then he had not seen her. He knew that she had returned to Washington, to the little house which she and Medora Manson had taken there: he had written to her once--a few words, asking when they were to meet again--and she had even more briefly replied: "Not yet." Since then there had been no farther communication between them, and he had built up within himself a kind of sanctuary in which she throned among his secret thoughts and longings. Little by little it became the scene of his real life, of his only rational activities; thither he brought the books he read, the ideas and feelings which nourished him, his judgments and his visions. Outside it, in the scene of his actual life, he moved with a growing sense of unreality and insufficiency, blundering against familiar prejudices and traditional points of view as an absent-minded man goes on bumping into the furniture of his own room. Absent--that was what he was: so absent from everything most densely real and near to those about him that it sometimes startled him to find they still imagined he was there. He became aware that Mr. Jackson was clearing his throat preparatory to farther revelations. "I don't know, of course, how far your wife's family are aware of what people say about--well, about Madame Olenska's refusal to accept her husband's latest offer." Archer was silent, and Mr. Jackson obliquely continued: "It's a pity--it's certainly a pity--that she refused it." "A pity? In God's name, why?" Mr. Jackson looked down his leg to the unwrinkled sock that joined it to a glossy pump. "Well--to put it on the lowest ground--what's she going to live on now?" "Now--?" "If Beaufort--" Archer sprang up, his fist banging down on the black walnut-edge of the writing-table. The wells of the brass double-inkstand danced in their sockets. "What the devil do you mean, sir?" Mr. Jackson, shifting himself slightly in his chair, turned a tranquil gaze on the young man's burning face. "Well--I have it on pretty good authority--in fact, on old Catherine's herself--that the family reduced Countess Olenska's allowance considerably when she definitely refused to go back to her husband; and as, by this refusal, she also forfeits the money settled on her when she married--which Olenski was ready to make over to her if she returned--why, what the devil do YOU mean, my dear boy, by asking me what I mean?" Mr. Jackson good-humouredly retorted. Archer moved toward the mantelpiece and bent over to knock his ashes into the grate. "I don't know anything of Madame Olenska's private affairs; but I don't need to, to be certain that what you insinuate--" "Oh, I don't: it's Lefferts, for one," Mr. Jackson interposed. "Lefferts--who | 1 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 52 | He’s dealing with the final things. “What letter?” she asked, at length. His eyes flickered at that. He still had it: the taste for a game, the nose for a tease. “Find it,” he said, “and you’ll know, won’t you?” She yearned to move toward him, and she wanted to creep away, all at the same time. As if blood spoke to blood, repelling and seeking in equal measure. “Are you comfortable?” she said, at last. She asked because she was curious. She wondered what it felt like to be there, right on the brink. Because surely this was the end? Surely they were very near it now? You only had to measure the shrinking line of his neck, see the way the weight had fallen away from his cheeks. His movements were growing slower and slower, the degradation unstoppable. He let out a shallow breath. His eyes moved toward the blur of the medicine cabinet, the bowls, the pillboxes. “I’m bored,” he whispered. She loathed him in that moment, but she wanted to laugh, too. I would be bored, she thought. Oh, I would be so bored by it, dying. Straightening, she said, “Tell me about this letter.” “It’s about your poor mother,” he replied, barely a whisper. Mrs. King felt her body turn quite still. It was extraordinary, wasn’t it, how easily people could shock you? Even if she counted up all the years she’d been here, all the hours and minutes and seconds—and she could count them, she felt sometimes that she simply held them all in her mind, like little slots marked up with luggage labels—then she still couldn’t think of a time he’d mentioned Mother. In his house, in his world, this world that she had entered, Mother didn’t exist. Lockwood had impressed as much upon her, the first day she arrived. She felt a frisson pass through her skin. “What on earth do you mean?” she said, voice low. There was something building in her chest, something dangerously akin to fear. Because she knew how games worked. There had to be a delicious little bit of irony, a slice of pain. Someone had to lose for someone else to win. Mrs. King knew she was a bastard, an indiscretion, a stain. She’d folded that away inside herself long ago. This had to be something different. “This is yours,” he said. He lifted a finger, barely half an inch. “All this.” To Mr. de Vries, an inch could cover oceans, prairies, great sweeping tracts of land. Silver. Gold. Mountains, studded with diamonds. So many possessions, held under his name, in his empire. She should have been confused. Dizzy with the scope of it, uncomprehending. But she felt only nausea, deep in her gut. She understood at once. Ha-ha, she thought, dully. A twist, a ruse, right at the end. “You were married to Mother.” He didn’t nod. He didn’t shake his head. He just stared at her. Mother always said she was a widow. Mrs. King never gave it any credence. She’d imagined Mother as a nervy, | 0 |
15 | Frankenstein.txt | 54 | affection, and his many letters; we are sincerely grateful. Adieu! my cousin; take care of your self; and, I entreat you, write! Elizabeth Lavenza. Geneva, March 18, 17--, "Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed, when I had read her letter: "I will write instantly and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel." I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave my chamber. One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the subject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement, to the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my five those instruments which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide in him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply. M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. "D--n the fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years | 1 |
59 | Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt | 24 | challenge you to fight me, here and now. If you win, you will keep making decisions for the merchants. If I win, you will take your orders from your queen.” He frowns. “Surely you don’t want to fight a man as low as me.” “The strongest one rules, you said. So let us discover who is stronger.” She downs the wine and places the empty cup on the table. The other traders step back toward the wall. The small man looks panicked, like a field mouse. A thought crosses his mind and he speaks. “What about the king?” “The king will never know of this,” she says. “He will be spared from your vile behavior.” She has just stopped speaking when the man jumps forward, his fists clenched. She moves to the side without effort. He is slow, unbalanced, weak—a man who has never wrestled in his life. And still he wishes to command her. When he moves in her direction again, she takes his arm and bends it behind his back. He falls to his knees, gasping. She punches his head, and he drops to the floor like a sack of wheat. She turns to the other men. They are wide-eyed, gaping. “He has lost consciousness,” she says. “But he will revive in a moment. He no longer commands you. I do. And from now on, every time you hear someone complain that they have to take orders from a queen, remind them of what happened to the small trader.” They nod. It is hard to tell if they are frightened or just in awe. What is the difference anyway? Her brother used to say that there is none. 18 The Favorite Daughter IT IS AUTUMN, and the land is painted in yellow and orange shades. Envoys come and go from the palace, bringing news of trade, marriages, alliances. Warriors and villagers ask for an audience in the megaron, each with their own request: My king, my son is born a cripple, my wife lay with another man, the merchants wouldn’t sell me their wine. My queen, the neighbor stole my bread, insulted the gods, spoke of treason. Their words fill the room like songs, and Clytemnestra looks at the painted walls as she listens. Beside her, Aileen sits on a low stool, organizing piles of clay tablets filled with inventories: sheep and rams, axes and spears, wheat and barley, horses and war prisoners. Many commoners come to speak to the queen. They walk into the bright light of the hall, kneel in front of the king, then turn to Clytemnestra with their requests on land disputes and marriage portions. They know that she listens calmly to every plea and that she gives her help to those who respect her. They also know that it is better to have her as an ally than as an enemy. Everyone in the citadel remembers when a villager’s daughter was raped and killed by a nobleman’s son after she cried out her defilement. The dead girl’s father had come to the megaron, a small, | 0 |
65 | Hedge.txt | 16 | see a picture of him. See what he looked like again.” “And can you tell your mom why?” “Why should I have to?” Her hands moved faster, the clicking louder. “You don’t have to, but I think she’ll worry if you don’t.” Rita tilted her head at Maud. “Is that right?” “Yes,” Maud said. She felt a gratitude for Rita that was close to adoration. “Because I don’t understand why I liked him so much,” Ella said bluntly. “At Montgomery Place, he didn’t seem so old. Or disgusting.” “Why disgusting?” Maud said. Ella shrugged. “He just is.” “Could I have a quick word with your mom?” Rita asked. After Ella had left for the waiting room, Maud said, “Disgusting sounds alarming.” “She knows she had a little crush on him,” Rita said. “She’s said that to you?” “Not in so many words. He listened to her when she was vulnerable. That gave him power. And she understands that his keeping their meetings a secret was inappropriate.” “I keep wondering if more happened with him,” Maud said. “I feel she’s not saying something. It’s this worry that won’t go away.” “Maud,” Rita said, “if I had any suspicion that more had happened, I wouldn’t only tell you and Peter, I’d tell the authorities. Ella is trying to let what happened last summer go. I’m not surprised that she looked him up.” “I can’t let it go,” Maud said. She had pieces of evidence that no one else did. Gabriel had said that he loved her and slept with her, while meeting her daughter in secret over and over. But if she told Rita all this, she would eventually have to tell Peter. And he’d be enraged by her lies. Their marriage wouldn’t survive the blow. “It’s going to be hard to trust Ella again.” Rita leaned forward in her chair, her face both tough and sympathetic. “Self-harm does that. But you’ll have to, eventually. For both your sakes.” Two months later, Maud sat with Peter in the waiting room at Lone Pines as he typed on the laptop balanced on his knees. It had been nine months since Ella was first admitted to the hospital, and they were at their monthly family session with Rita. Soon they would walk down the hall to Rita’s office, where Ella would talk to Peter and barely say a word to Maud. “I need to start working again,” she said. Peter glanced up from his laptop. “Are you looking?” “No. But Ella hasn’t relapsed in a long time. I’ll do something part-time until she’s out of treatment. I’ve been reading more about the landscape here. I think I’ll be more marketable now.” “She may never be out of treatment.” Peter went back to typing. “So I shouldn’t go back to work? Ever?” “I didn’t say that.” “You implied it.” “No,” he said. “You inferred it.” He sighed. “We said we wouldn’t have those old fights.” “I know,” Maud said. “We won’t. But I’m finding a job.” Rita came to the door, and Maud got up from the | 0 |
61 | Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt | 8 | or perhaps my presence. “And, of course, most of my interactions have been confined to the common fae. I’ve studied the enchantments left behind by the courtly fae—the tall ones—as well as numerous firsthand accounts, but I’ve never met one.” Besides Bambleby, perhaps. “May I ask if you’ve encountered the Hidden Ones yourself?” She picked up her knitting. “My money is on a month. Krystjan gave me poor odds. Please don’t disappoint me—I need a new roof.” “Here we are,” Finn said, setting a bottle of mulled wine on the table. “I hope this will do, Amma.” “Idiot,” Thora said. “Ulfar’s stuff tastes like piss. How many times have I told you?” Finn only sighed and turned to me. “Aud would have me ask if everything is to your liking.” “Thank you, yes,” I said, though I had not yet tasted the stew. “Thora is your grandmother?” “She’s grandmother to half the village, give or take.” Thora made that rude sound again. The door swung open, admitting a swirl of cold, and a dishevelled figure stood framed against the darkness. It appeared roughly woman-shaped, but it was difficult to tell given the many layers of coats and shawls. The figure did not proceed further, but simply stood upon the threshold with the night billowing at her back. “Auður,” called Aud, then she went to the stranger’s side, murmuring something. The firelight fell upon her face, revealing a young woman in her middle twenties, her mouth slack, her eyes darting ceaselessly without appearing to see. She gripped Aud’s arm tightly, and when Aud directed her to a chair, she sat in a boneless slump. Curious, I drifted to the woman’s side. “Is she well?” Aud stiffened. “As well as can be expected.” Ulfar set a bowl of stew before the girl. Auður did not look at it, or him. “Eat,” Aud said in Ljoslander. Auður picked up her spoon and mechanically filled her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Drink,” Aud said. Auður drank. I watched them with growing confusion. There was something both uncanny and abhorrent about the way in which Auður responded to Aud’s instructions, like a puppet on strings. Aud saw me watching, and her face darkened. “I would ask that you refrain from including my niece in your book,” she said. I understood, and gave a slight nod. “Of course.” I know of several species of Folk who are in the habit of abducting mortals for the thrill of breaking them. In truth, it is something most of the courtly fae are given to on occasion. I once met a Manx man whose daughter had taken her own life after a year and a day spent in some horrific faerie kingdom so lovely that its beauty became as addictive as opiates. Others have endured torments and returned so changed their families barely recognize them. But in Auður’s manner and expression, its scrubbed-clean quality, I found something I’d never encountered before. And for all my expertise, it sent a shiver of foreboding through me, a sense that perhaps, for the first time | 0 |
98 | Yellowface.txt | 34 | is that I’m greasing the gears; I’m getting back into the zone. I’ve sparked a flame that I haven’t felt in a very long time. I have to be patient with myself, to give that flame time and space to grow. On my way back to the dormitory, I glimpse my students through the window of Mimi’s, one of the many bubble tea cafés near campus. The twelve of them are crowded around a table meant for six; so many chairs pulled up that they each get only a little bit of table space. They seem totally comfortable around one another, hunched over their laptops and notebooks. They’re writing—perhaps working on my homework assignment. I watch as they show one another snippets of work, laughing at funny turns of phrase, nodding appreciatively as they take turns reading out loud. God, I miss that. It has been so long since I thought of writing as a communal activity. All the published writers I know are so cagey about their writing schedules, their advances, and their sales numbers. They hate divulging information about their career trajectories, just in case someone else shows them up. They hate even more to share details about their works in progress, terrified that someone will scoop their ideas and publish before they can. It’s a world of difference from my undergraduate days, when Athena and I would crowd around a library table late at night with our classmates, talking over metaphors and character development and plot twists until I couldn’t tell anymore where my stories ended and theirs began. Perhaps that’s the price of professional success: isolation from jealous peers. Perhaps, once writing becomes a matter of individual advancement, it’s impossible to share with anyone else. I stand by the window of Mimi’s perhaps longer than I ought to, watching wistfully as my students joke around. One of them—Skylar—glances up and almost sees me, but I duck my head down and stride quickly off toward the dorms. I’M A FEW MINUTES LATE TO CLASS THE NEXT MORNING. THE LINE AT the campus Starbucks was moving at a glacial pace, and I discovered why when I got to the counter, where a girl with pink hair and two nose piercings struggled for nearly five minutes to input my very simple order. When I finally reach the classroom, all my students are crowded around Skylar’s laptop, giggling. They don’t notice as I walk in. “Look,” says Skylar. “There’s even a sentence-by-sentence comparison of the first few paragraphs of both stories.” Christina leans forward. “Noooo.” “And there’s an NLP comparison—look, here.” I know without asking: they’ve found Adele Sparks-Sato’s blog report. “They think all of The Last Front is stolen, too,” says Johnson. “Look, the paragraph right after. There’s a quote from a former editorial assistant at Eden; she says it always felt fishy—” “You think she took it right out of her apartment? Like, the night she died?” “Oh my God,” says Skylar, delighted and horrified. “That’s diabolical.” “Do you think she killed her?” “Oh my God, don’t—” I clear my | 0 |
79 | Quietly-Hostile.txt | 3 | and gouged my cheek on the faucet, skating and slipping and sliding around in my own liquid waste. I’m not sure that I mastered a technique, but I did figure out how to sort of get some pee near his body once out of every third try? That’s a decent success rate! Early one pitch-black winter morning I pissed on him before I went to work (undiluted morning pee was his favorite), and he jumped up to turn the shower on and grabbed my hand like he wanted us to take a shower together, which is an activity I do not believe in. I really had to get to work, i.e., go upstairs to my own apartment where all my bath products lived in close proximity to my many forks and cups. As I started to step out of the shower, he pulled me back in to kiss me goodbye. That’s romantic, isn’t it? From a man who told me that kissing on the lips “wasn’t really his thing.” Super nice, huh? That is, until he proceeded to discharge a mouthful of urine down my unsuspecting throat. I should’ve known, man. I should’ve heard it collecting in his mouth! Aren’t your other senses supposed to be heightened in the dark? Only a chaotic evil person would hold someone else’s piss in his mouth for like two real minutes before expectorating it down that someone’s throat. And I know you’re thinking you would’ve beat that dude’s ass, and that’s easy to say because no one is piss-snowballing you right now. But at the time, I just stood there, in bewildered surprise, thinking about how I’d just swallowed three tablespoons of my own salted uric acid. I tried to spit some out, but he’d vomited it into me with such force. Needless to say, our relationship sort of dried up after that. And I made myself a new golden rule. (Piss onto others as you would have them piss onto you.) * * * — Now, I am forty-three years old, and I no longer have control of my bladder. Twenty years ago, I was at this club called Slicks in Chicago on two-dollar-Corona night, and even back then in my “youth,” my party strategy was to get there by nine so no one takes the good chairs. This is what I liked to tell my friends when they scoffed at the idea of arriving at a nightclub while it was still light out, but the truth is that if I sit too still between the hours of 7:00 and 8:30 p.m., I will clinically die until noon the next day, so if I’m gonna go out, I need to have a bra and shoes on by 6:55 at the very latest or that shit’s not fucking happening. Okay, anyway, it was deep house night, and I had been guzzling lukewarm water-beers for four hours straight in a pair of unforgiving jeggings when my kidneys started pulsing in time to the beat. It was already too late. I looked in the general direction of | 0 |
87 | The Foxglove King.txt | 30 | few steps before leveling out into a tunnel. The Sainted King offered a courtly hand. “Come along.” Lore took the King’s hand and let him lead her into the gloom. She hated tunnels. Thankfully, this one was short. Up ahead, a lone bloodcoat guard stood at the lip of where the tunnel opened up into what looked like full sunlight. Not just any bloodcoat, Lore noticed as they approached. Gold lapels gleamed on his red jacket, the bayonet and sword by his side polished to a high shine. He made no indication that he noticed them at all, but when August approached, he inclined his head and stepped aside. “The Sacred Guard,” August said as they passed. “A highly sought-after position, only granted to those who show themselves worthy both physically and spiritually, and whose loyalty I can be assured of.” He gave her a sidelong look. “They don’t get much chance to use their weapons, but they certainly know how.” If she wasn’t so completely distracted by the sight of the vaults, Lore might’ve wondered if that was a threat. The room at the end of the tunnel was wide and circular, but the ceiling soared miles above their heads, topped with a cut-glass skylight that filtered the morning sun into faceted shards. It must’ve been what Lore had seen gleaming in the center of the Citadel yesterday. The skylight was impressive, but not nearly as impressive as the vaults themselves. They climbed like stone towers, stretching nearly all the way to the glass above. Stairs were cut into the sides of the vaults, twisting upward, broken by platforms that led to small doors—the only way to get to the bodies inside. At the tops of the vaults, overgrown rosebushes reached for the sun. The roses were the only living things inside the vaults, other than August and Lore and the guard in the tunnel. Lore took a moment to concentrate on her mental wall, all those trees blocking out the awareness of Mortem. Trunks and leaves and blue sky beyond. Some of the doors in the towering vaults were closed, but most remained open, small windows into the darkness inside. Those were empty. Even nobles couldn’t always afford a Citadel vault. Most of the open doors were near the top—those were for the Arceneaux family only. “We’ve tried to keep one body from every village,” August said. He strode purposefully toward the nearest tower and the closed door at its base. Of course. No one would waste a top vault on a villager, no matter how strange their death. “The rest are destroyed.” “How much does one of those run?” Lore asked quietly, still staring at the vaults. The King looked up, snorted. “More than you’ve ever seen or ever will, girl. Keep your sights set on one of the body boxes outside the city.” He rapped on the stone wall. “Anton? We’re here.” The Priest Exalted opened the door, squinting against the light. He didn’t say anything, merely stood to the side to let his brother enter. He gave | 0 |
74 | Kristy-Woodson-Harvey-The-Summer-of-Songbirds.txt | 68 | off. “I always think about it,” June said. “I’m fifty years old and every wedding is a reminder of the parents I lost.” I nod. “Well, every wedding is a reminder of the parent I lost. But Ray I never had.” That was true. When I moved in with Ray, a part of me had been hopeful that we would find a way to connect. That was a pipe dream. Bryce approaches and nods for me to come over to him, and I wonder what sort of father he’ll be. “I’m going to grab some water,” I call, but everyone is having so much fun they barely notice. “What do you want?” I ask, quietly, coldly, once I’m off in the corner of the pool deck with him. “I handed off all my jobs,” he says. “I’m going to go work for my mother.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “O-kayyyy… Why?” “Because those were her conditions. She helps me dig my way out of this mess, I come work for the family business.” I shake my head. “What?” “I just don’t get it, Bryce. You have the world at your fingertips. You have the money and the family and the fiancée and everything. What else did you need?” He looks out at the dance floor at Lanier, then back at me. “I grew up in this perfect family of these uber-successful people and I didn’t want to be handed everything. Do you have any idea the pressure I have been under my entire life to make it big on my own?” I cross my arms. “Bryce, for most of my life I didn’t have anyone who cared whether I ate dinner, let alone became successful in business, so you aren’t going to out–sob story me.” “Okay, fine. But do you know how utterly humiliating it was to have to run to my mother, to have to beg her to save me because it was all smoke and mirrors? Because I lost it all?” I do feel the tiniest bit bad for him. “Do you know who will understand the need for personal success bringing out your worst colors?” He rolls his eyes. “Your fiancée. Because wanting to prove herself made her do some dumb things when she was younger. But you owe it to her to tell her. And even if you don’t think she deserves the truth, Cape Carolina is tiny. She will find out.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” “Why in the hell not?” “Everyone has to sign an NDA before they get their first payment. And who wouldn’t want their money?” That was, I suspected, Bryce’s latest in a long line of incorrect thoughts. I was certain there was someone who would rather make him—or his family—pay. Local media made a lot of enemies. “Have they all signed?” He bit his lip. “No. But I’m hopeful they will.” So there were still a million reasons Bryce wasn’t in the clear. He had to know that all the vendors and subs were pretty tight in Cape | 0 |
47 | Ulysses.txt | 19 | Mr Dedalus asked. --The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Reuben of that ilk. I'm just waiting for Ben Dollard. He's going to say a word to long John to get him to take those two men off. All I want is a little time. He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging in his neck. --I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Poor old bockedy Ben! He's always doing a good turn for someone. Hold hard! He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant. --There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets. Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. He came towards them at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails. As he came near Mr Dedalus greeted: --Hold that fellow with the bad trousers. --Hold him now, Ben Dollard said. Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben Dollard's figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered sneeringly: --That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a summer's day? --Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw. He stood beside them beaming, on them first and on his roomy clothes from points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying: --They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow. --Bad luck to the jewman that made them, Ben Dollard said. Thanks be to God he's not paid yet. --And how is that BASSO PROFONDO, Benjamin? Father Cowley asked. Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring, glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club. Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth, gave forth a deep note. --Aw! he said. --That's the style, Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its drone. --What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not too dusty? What? He turned to both. --That'll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also. The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the old chapterhouse of saint Mary's abbey past James and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended by Geraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of hurdles. Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them forward, his joyful fingers in the air. --Come along with me to the subsheriff's office, he said. I want to show you the new beauty Rock has for a bailiff. He's a cross between Lobengula and Lynchehaun. He's well worth seeing, mind you. Come along. I saw John Henry Menton casually in the Bodega just now and it will cost me a fall if I don't ... Wait awhile ... We're on the right lay, Bob, believe you me. --For a few days tell him, Father Cowley said anxiously. Ben Dollard halted and stared, his loud orifice open, a dangling button of his coat wagging brightbacked from its thread as he wiped away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright. --What few days? he boomed. Hasn't your | 1 |
8 | David Copperfield.txt | 41 | I won't allow it. Go away! Janet, turn him round. Lead him off!' and I saw, from behind my aunt, a sort of hurried battle-piece, in which the donkey stood resisting everybody, with all his four legs planted different ways, while Janet tried to pull him round by the bridle, Mr. Murdstone tried to lead him on, Miss Murdstone struck at Janet with a parasol, and several boys, who had come to see the engagement, shouted vigorously. But my aunt, suddenly descrying among them the young malefactor who was the donkey's guardian, and who was one of the most inveterate offenders against her, though hardly in his teens, rushed out to the scene of action, pounced upon him, captured him, dragged him, with his jacket over his head, and his heels grinding the ground, into the garden, and, calling upon Janet to fetch the constables and justices, that he might be taken, tried, and executed on the spot, held him at bay there. This part of the business, however, did not last long; for the young rascal, being expert at a variety of feints and dodges, of which my aunt had no conception, soon went whooping away, leaving some deep impressions of his nailed boots in the flower-beds, and taking his donkey in triumph with him. Miss Murdstone, during the latter portion of the contest, had dismounted, and was now waiting with her brother at the bottom of the steps, until my aunt should be at leisure to receive them. My aunt, a little ruffled by the combat, marched past them into the house, with great dignity, and took no notice of their presence, until they were announced by Janet. 'Shall I go away, aunt?' I asked, trembling. 'No, sir,' said my aunt. 'Certainly not!' With which she pushed me into a corner near her, and fenced Me in with a chair, as if it were a prison or a bar of justice. This position I continued to occupy during the whole interview, and from it I now saw Mr. and Miss Murdstone enter the room. 'Oh!' said my aunt, 'I was not aware at first to whom I had the pleasure of objecting. But I don't allow anybody to ride over that turf. I make no exceptions. I don't allow anybody to do it.' 'Your regulation is rather awkward to strangers,' said Miss Murdstone. 'Is it!' said my aunt. Mr. Murdstone seemed afraid of a renewal of hostilities, and interposing began: 'Miss Trotwood!' 'I beg your pardon,' observed my aunt with a keen look. 'You are the Mr. Murdstone who married the widow of my late nephew, David Copperfield, of Blunderstone Rookery! - Though why Rookery, I don't know!' 'I am,' said Mr. Murdstone. 'You'll excuse my saying, sir,' returned my aunt, 'that I think it would have been a much better and happier thing if you had left that poor child alone.' 'I so far agree with what Miss Trotwood has remarked,' observed Miss Murdstone, bridling, 'that I consider our lamented Clara to have been, in all essential respects, a | 1 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 95 | as a warning. Esper says he had to tell the Trump aide that such an action would be a war crime. (Miller denied that the episode occurred.) The no-holds-barred attitude applied to the border more than anything. Aides would go to whatever lengths were necessary to fulfill Trump’s pledge to secure the territorial line with Mexico. That included a willingness to explore lethal drone strikes against innocent civilians. The border symbolizes the wider aims of the MAGA movement. In order to make America great again, adherents believe Washington must curb the influx of foreigners who are ruining America. Everything MAGA leaders reject about the existing order—the “globalist” promotion of free trade, the “establishment” story of America as a nation of immigrants, the “woke elites” whose internationalist views are destroying Western culture—is embodied by the situation at the border. Politics aside, the crisis is real. The United States is unable to control the flow of people and contraband across its territory, which has reached unprecedented levels. Drugs and dangerous individuals infiltrate America easily because of inadequate security, creating a volatile situation for border communities and the wider country. But the situation is also unfair to migrants seeking a better life. America’s porous border has incentivized a spike in human trafficking, cartel activity, and violence, which makes the journey dangerous for these would-be Americans. When they arrive, a broken immigration system forces them into years of uncertainty in the shadows before they’re given a final answer about whether or not they can stay here. Polls show a majority of Americans support tougher border security and immigration reform. Whether it’s a path to citizenship for undocumented immigrants living in the United States or a faster process for aspiring Americans to become citizens, the solution is uncomplicated in theory. In practice, political polarization has put a legislative solution well out of reach for every recent U.S. president who tried. Donald Trump saw only one side of this equation: security. To him, this was the primary mission of DHS—deporting undocumented immigrants, punishing those who made it to the border, and making it harder for any others to follow their path. Everything else was secondary or irrelevant. He conveyed this to DHS leaders in some form or fashion weekly. Kristen Marquardt, who served as a Trump-appointed counterterrorism leader at DHS, compared the president’s obsession with the border to the strong desert winds she experienced as a CIA officer overseas. “You know those ‘shamals’ in the Middle East—those sandstorms that block out the sun? That’s what immigration did to the Department of Homeland Security during the Trump administration,” she explained. “There was no light, no air, no room for anything else.” Another far-right president would create the same environment, with potentially dire consequences. I raised the possibility with an advisor who was appointed by Trump to manage national security programs. She saw what happened to DHS under her former boss. “If MAGA comes back,” the woman told me, “the department created to stop 9/11 will be willfully closing its eyes to the next big attack, cyber breach, you name | 0 |
95 | USS-Lincoln.txt | 37 | demanded. “How do we do that?” Resnick smiled. “We just need to be in the right place before the right time.” “That makes no sense,” Aubrey grumbled. “Maybe not to you, newbie,” Doogan said, not smiling at all. “Quiet, Doogan,” Captain Church said. “Orders, General?” “Stay here,” said Resnick. “I need them thinking you are just as trapped as they are, and to help them until they don’t need help anymore.” “Will we see you again?” Lieutenant Chan asked. “If things go as expected, we will come back after the next mission,” Resnick said. “Pristy, Derrota, Aubrey, with me.” Pristy followed Resnick into the passageway, the others trailing behind them. She stepped up beside the general and asked, “Do you really believe this will work?” “Check your historical timeline stability score,” Resnick said. Pristy looked at her ChronoLink. “53.4 percent.” “So we’re doing something right,” Resnick said. “Now we just have to keep doing it right, and fast. Because in an hour and a half, Stratham Hold is going to be overrun. And then we’ll all have much bigger problems to deal with.” Chapter 26 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Sonya Winters Running, walking, then running some more—did she know she was being impetuous? Of course she did. At the ripe old age of sixteen, almost seventeen, she figured if one couldn’t be impulsive, impassioned, hell, unbridled—whatever adjective you wanted to throw at it—as a teenager, then when? Only now, as she hurried down a rarely used Adams maintenance passageway, did she start to have second thoughts concerning her most recent actions. Her arm, more accurately, her shoulder, blazed with pain with each jarring step. Having hacked the nurse station’s work schedule, she’d timed her escape from HealthBay during the shift change. Did she feel bad, having to pilfer Nurse Donna’s locker, the only nurse equally petite and having a similar shape? Not really. Donna was bitchy, and beyond lazy. When wasn’t the woman on bathroom break? So no, screw her. But she had to hand it to her—Donna had nice civvies. Now, wearing a smart-looking black sweatshirt, stylish navy-blue leggings, and a pair of high-top running shoes that must have cost the dawdling nurse a pretty penny, Sonya was somewhat adequately dressed for the mission at hand. “Stop with the scolding, Tina … What are you, my mother?” she said, scowling up at the circling glimmer of gold near the deckhead. “I’ll return all her shit later. Maybe …” She could barely hear the fairy’s high-pitched reply above the echoes of her footfalls within the narrow passageway. “I’m Iris! Iris Iris Iris Iris Iris! Not Tina!” “Okay, okay, got it; you’re also beyond annoying!” Cringing as she hurried down what seemed an endless stairwell from hell, she stabilized her left arm, still in a sling, with her opposite hand. She thumb-tapped her Jadoo ring, bringing up the projected 3D menu, which subsequently showed the countdown timer she’d set prior to leaving HealthBay. She’d miscalculated; this was taking much longer than anticipated. Flight Bay was still two flights down and she | 0 |
94 | Titanium-Noir.txt | 64 | clothes, they’re offerings laid out for her, in this secret and unwanted temple. I walk across the hall: guest room. I don’t know what I expect to find. Did Maurice take lovers, from time to time? Did he feel the need either for sex or just contact? Did they look like Elaine, or as little like her as possible. No answers here. If he did, he purged the apartment of them after they left. I sit down at the terminal in his office and open it up. There are no passwords: the door only opens to Maurice or Stefan, or now, to me, because Stefan says so. I open his bank accounts and look through. There’s the payment to Denton that Orhan told me about, clear as day. I look for Mullen, and there’s nothing there. I open up the correspondence file, and do the same, searching for Mullen’s name. There’s nothing there, but I wouldn’t expect anything. That’s a hit. You pay for that a little more discreetly. I search for my own name and find Maurice’s broadly expressed opinion to Elaine, to Denton, to Athena. I already knew he didn’t like me. I find his arguments with Athena about the Tonfamecasca company, the way she’s doing his job. They are polite, but she let him know she was in charge. I search for Susan Green, Roddy Tebbit, Peter Antonin, for Lillian. If Maurice had anything about any of them, he didn’t have it here. Maybe he kept all that in his head. I search for Elaine, and find her everywhere. Drafts of letters, notes, lists of gifts. I wonder if he killed Roddy to impress her. But it doesn’t really make sense. * * * — Say you’re Maurice Tonfamecasca and you just found out that Peter Antonin is teaching at the university as if he wasn’t a monster. Maurice probably doesn’t much care about monsters generally—he sort of is one—but this monster is different. Maurice just tried to kill me because he thinks I upset Elaine. What would he do to Peter Antonin, if he could? Figure he’d put on his executive tactical and go ninja the little motherfucker to the point of death. But that makes for a crime scene that does not look like our crime scene. If Maurice broke into Roddy’s place and beat him to death with a stapler, how did Roddy end up shot just once in the side of the head? That is a controlled, quiet sort of crime, not a crime of rage. It’s almost merciful. It doesn’t have anything like the flavour of the man who broke down the door to my office. But all right, that man and the man who lived in this apartment are not the same, and we all contain multitudes. Picture Maurice, in that moment of discovery. He has time to be colder than he was with me, he plans it out. Peter’s sins are so appalling that they merit thought. He drugs his target—let’s assume, even though it doesn’t show up later on Musgrave’s machines—and | 0 |
28 | THE SCARLET LETTER.txt | 69 | astray, mistaken, seriousness, misery, resentment, sloth, inaction, inertia, faineance, erroneous. uncheerfulness, solemnity, lethargy, idlesse. ANTONYMS: (n) energy, subsisting: (adj) extant, living. bleakness, gravity, gloominess. activity, bustle, liveliness, sunless: (adj) cloudy, dark, cheerless, decapitated: (adj) decollated, headless. responsibility. clouded, lightless, gloomy, excused: (adj) privileged, immune. seething: (v) ebullient; (adj) irate, tenebrous, mentally disordered, figurative: (adj) metaphorical, figural, raging, enraged, spitting mad, beside blurred. emblematic, representative, florid, yourself, teed off, packed; (n) toils: (n) net, cobweb, meshes, mesh. 42 The Scarlet Letter beyond the grave. Peace be with all the world My blessing on my friends My forgiveness to my enemies For I am in the realm of quiet The life of the Custom--House lies like a dream behind me. The old Inspector--who, by-the-bye, l regret to say, was overthrown and killed by a horse some time ago, else he would certainly have lived for ever--he, and all those other venerable personages who sat with him at the receipt of custom, are but shadows in my view: white-headed and wrinkled images, which my fancy used to sport with, and has now flung aside for ever. The merchants-- Pingree, Phillips, Shepard, Upton, Kimball, Bertram, Hunt--these and many other names, which had such classic familiarity for my ear six months ago,--these men of traffic, who seemed to occupy so important a position in the world--how little time has it required to disconnect me from them all, not merely in act, but recollection It is with an effort that I recall the figures and appellations of these few. Soon, likewise, my old native town will loom upon me through the haze of memory, a mist brooding over and around it; as if it were no portion of the real earth, but an overgrown village in cloud-land, with only imaginary inhabitants to people its wooden houses and walk its homely lanes, and the unpicturesque prolixity of its main street. Henceforth it ceases to be a reality of my life; I am a citizen of somewhere else. My good townspeople will not much regret me, for--though it has been as dear an object as any, in my literary efforts, to be of some importance in their eyes, and to win myself a pleasant memory in this abode and burial-place of so many of my forefathers--there has never been, for me, the genial atmosphere which a literary man requires in order to ripen the best harvest of his mind. I shall do better amongst other faces; and these familiar ones, it need hardly be said, will do just as well without me.% It may be, however--oh, transporting and triumphant thought I--that the great-grandchildren of the present race may sometimes think kindly of the scribbler of bygone days, when the antiquary of days to come, among the sites memorable in the town's history, shall point out the locality of THE TOWN PUMP. Thesaurus abode: (n) dwelling, house, residence, genial: (adj) cheerful, bright, affable, ANTONYM: (n) conciseness. place, domicile, lodge, abidance, cordial, amiable, nice, friendly, ripen: (v) grow, ripe, age, season, mansion, lodging, address, seat. convivial, warm, agreeable, suave. fructify, elaborate, cultivate; | 1 |
58 | Confidence_-a-Novel.txt | 76 | party I’d missed out on in high school: crowded, sweaty, full of dangerous alcohol consumption. I made myself a gin and tonic and got a can of Coke for Orson, who immediately downed two gulps. “You can just hang out in the kitchen or the living room,” Tony Jr. called to us over the noise of the crowd. “But don’t go into the dining room. My parents have a piano in there.” I could see over his shoulder the shape of a small player piano. I imagined it probably had stained keys and foot pedals whose brass shine had been worn dull. The idea that Tony Jr. was protecting this piano made me both sad for and proud of him. We passed through the kitchen, saying hi to our coworkers and politely ignoring the people we didn’t know, Orson insisting that we sit down by the food in the living room. Wanting to sit was unlike Orson, but wanting food was, so we wound our way into the living room and found a seat on the couch, from where we watched the sad dramas of the party. Arguments, almost-hookups, drunken hellos. “Are you bored?” he asked after a while. The question made me giddy. He could read my mind. “Yeah, I am, actually,” I said. “Do you want to go?” “No, no. I think I want to get you another drink and me another Coke.” This hadn’t been what I was expecting, but I pretended it had been. “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks. That’s cool.” I watched him disappear into the crowd and waited under the dim lights. More people crowded through the door and Tony Jr. welcomed them, instructed them to throw their coats on the sofa adjacent to the one I was sitting on. Eventually a girl in a jean skirt and tank top approached me and perched herself on the sofa’s arm. “Hey,” she said. I responded in kind. “Are you, like, a friend of Tony Jr.’s?” “I work with him,” I said. “I don’t know him that well.” She nodded thoughtfully. I saw that her red Solo cup was nearly full to the brim. “He’s really nice.” I agreed that he was really nice. “So I saw you walking in with this guy. Is he your friend?” “Orson?” I wanted to say that he was my best friend, but this felt like too intimate a fact to share with the girl. “Yeah, he is.” “That’s cool.” She smiled. “Is he single?” I drank the last of my gin and tonic. “He actually has a girlfriend,” I said. “Do you know Ingrid?” The girl’s eyes went flat. She had lost all interest in me. “No.” “Yeah, she works at Tony’s, too.” “That’s cool,” she said, and then looked across the room to someone who clearly wasn’t calling her name. “It was nice to meet you.” It occurred to me that it was taking Orson an unusually long time to get us drinks. I abandoned my cup on the coffee table and pushed through the crowd in the living room, where | 0 |
72 | Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt | 1 | not hustling quite as much now as I used to be because I’m no longer quite as broke. That night of the contest? When my painting got zero votes from the judges? It really was an ugly duckling. A scout from a fine art gallery named Ellery Smith was there that night, and she loved my painting. In fact, the very thing that the judges and the other artists and the patrons all disliked about it—namely, the face—was the thing that she liked the most. She liked the mystery of it. How hard it was to read. How full of emotion it all was. She said it left her fascinated. She could never get tired of looking at it. It raised more questions than it answered. She got in touch a week or so later to see if she could represent me, and six months after that I was doing a show in her gallery of ten similar portraits. All of which sold for three thousand dollars a pop. Seriously. Mr. and Mrs. Kim got a bargain. They did hang the painting in the lobby, by the way. And when I saw it hanging there for the first time, I decided it didn’t look like Gong Yoo or John Denver or Danny DeVito. It didn’t look exactly like Joe, either, to be honest. But it felt like him. It felt like my experience of trying to see him. It looked like all the mysteries and emotions that surrounded the man I fell in love with—before I had any idea who he was. Artistically, it was good. And it made me wonder if maybe these were the kinds of paintings I should have been doing all along. If I’d been trying so hard to be exactly like my mother that I hadn’t left room to explore or to play or to be a little more like me. The experience of painting the portraits is different now, of course. Because it doesn’t take that long before the faces of strangers come into view. I’ve got only about three impressions before I see them like everyone else does. I draw the face first and try to capture all that mystery. And I view that early time as a chance to see the world like no other artist I know does. The superpower lady? From Facebook? Now I know exactly what she means. Seeing the world differently helps you see things not just that other people can’t—but that you yourself never could if you weren’t so lucky. It lets you make your own rules. Color outside your own lines. Allow yourself another way of seeing. Most of the time now, if I see someone I know, the face comes together pretty fast. But not always. If it’s been a while since I’ve seen that person. Or if I’m tired or preoccupied. I’ve walked up to Joe in Maria’s grocery store more than once and put my arms around him—only to realize I’ve just freaked out a total stranger. It happens. But I find the antidote to | 0 |
59 | Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt | 74 | aside and yanks the sword from the wounded man. The guards are behind her, and Odysseus is in front, unarmed. On her right, his man and Leon are thrashing, moving together on the ground. Leon is choking, kicking the floor. “Let him go,” Clytemnestra says. The men behind her attack. Their swords close in around her. Clytemnestra keeps them off, swinging hers, but they are too many. She feels the blade of one cutting her leg and she stumbles. They take her down while she shouts, still waving the sword. Someone’s blood spurts on her face. They tie her hands and feet with thick rope. When they try to gag her, she bites their hands and they scream. But soon even her mouth is tied, the knot so tight her head throbs. She can’t see Leon. In front of her, the figures of Odysseus’s men waver before they walk away, outside the tent. She sees Odysseus’s serious face as he kneels in front of her and waits for him to speak, but he says nothing. He places a hand on her knee as though he were soothing a dog, then he leaves too. She is alone. * * * The rope cuts into her wrists, and her arms are numb. They must have tied her to the chair, because however she moves, she feels a weight against her back. She tries to think, to ignore the pain, but the heat makes it impossible. The gag in her mouth is so tight that she can’t feel any liquid in her mouth. She needs water. She needs something sharp. When she was young and disobedient, Leda would leave her alone in her room without food or water. When her throat started to scorch, she would convince herself that her mind was tricking her, her body really didn’t need water, and thus she would endure. Now she wills herself to do the same. She must think first, then do something. Her mistake was to trust. It is always the worst mistake to commit. She trusted a man who is a master of exploits. And he tricked her. The many-minded, Odysseus is called, but he is just a traitor. Unless he wanted to keep her here to protect her? But that seems impossible. Where is Iphigenia? Someone must be harming her daughter, or they wouldn’t have brought Clytemnestra here, to Odysseus’s tent. Iphigenia needs protection, and as long as she’s safe, Clytemnestra is safe too. So no. Odysseus has betrayed her, though she still doesn’t know how. Something moves behind her. A pained mumble, then a struggled breath. Biting into the gag, she turns, the chair scraping. Leon is lying on the opposite side of the tent. He seems alive, barely. His face is almost purple, and he is gasping for air. They have tied and gagged him too. Clytemnestra moves in his direction, pushing the weight of her body forward with her legs. A jug lies on the floor. It came down with the table when Leon was thrown against it, but there is still | 0 |
11 | Emma.txt | 74 | beautiful charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good." "Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should not write it into your book." "Oh! but those two lines are"-- --"The best of all. Granted;--for private enjoyment; and for private enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know, because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its meaning change. But take it away, and all appropriation ceases, and a very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can be no possible reflection on you." Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree of publicity. "I shall never let that book go out of my own hands," said she. "Very well," replied Emma; "a most natural feeling; and the longer it lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him so much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any thing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us all!-- You must let me read it to him." Harriet looked grave. "My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.--You will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over this charade." "Oh! no--I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please." Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of "Well, my dears, how does your book go on?--Have you got any thing fresh?" "Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A piece of paper was found on the table this morning--(dropt, we suppose, by a fairy)-- containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied it in." She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every part as she proceeded-- and he was very much | 1 |
86 | Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt | 90 | smooth. Somehow still appealing. “I can’t believe what you just did for me,” he said between heavy breaths, reaching down to haul her up against his chest. “Natalie, the way you . . .” He shook his head, plowed his left hand through his hair, looking totally and utterly dazed. “Damn, woman.” She preened, testing a palm on his chest, her head on his shoulder. Just temporarily. Until they caught their breath. “Look, I’ve got about three point eight seconds before I’m unconscious, thanks to you. So I’m going to use it to tell you to stay. Sleep right here. On me.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead hard, his lips remaining there for a few seconds. “It’s the safest place you’ll ever be.” She ignored the flutter trapped in her throat. “Maybe it’s tradition.” “Tradition,” he agreed. They passed out cold less than ten seconds later. Chapter Sixteen August rolled out of bed with a smile on his face. It took every ounce of strength in his body to ignore the impulse to whistle while pulling on his drawers. Damn. Now that was how two people kicked off a marriage. An oral sex competition where there were no losers. The sun hadn’t yet risen in the sky, but he was an early bird out of practice. He’d throw some eggs down his gullet, catch a workout behind the barn, and get started on production. But first he stopped at the foot of the bed and admired the view. Watching people sleep was creepy as hell. No one would blame him for stopping to check out his own wife’s ass, though, right? It was in plain view. No panties or anything. “What am I? A monk?” he muttered under his breath, turning at the door for one final, prolonged peek before closing it behind him and heading into the kitchen. As quietly as possible, he poured himself a glass of orange juice and scrambled up five eggs, eating them in as many bites. He paused in the act of chewing, his lips twitching when a snore reached him from the bedroom. He didn’t remember any snoring from last night. Then again, he’d been passed out cold after the best blow job of his entire life. Natalie snored. Good. They’d drown each other out. He’d once been told by his teammates that he sounded like a grizzly with a cold. With a smile on his face, August set his egg bowl in the sink and rinsed out the empty glass that had held his orange juice. He high-fived himself and slipped into the front yard, locking the door and testing it twice, now that he had a woman to protect. Stretching an arm across his chest to loosen up the muscle, he strode toward his makeshift workout area, reaching into the barn to flip on the rear light. Then he got to work on the pullup bar. Day one as a married man. Their sexual chemistry was fire. More than life itself, he wanted to go crawl back into that bed with | 0 |
52 | A-Living-Remedy.txt | 94 | able to work at all. As fortunate as I have been compared to many, my creative career path is a difficult one for me to recommend. Stable editorial and writing jobs can be scarce, and I spent many years in low-paying roles with nice titles, working long hours for independent publishers with limited budgets. At times, I think my background made me more reluctant to negotiate—I was earning more than my parents had ever made; shouldn’t I just be grateful to have this dream of a job, working with fellow writers, helping them tell the stories that mattered most to them? Shouldn’t I feel glad to be in the room at all, especially when so few people in that room looked like me? It feels important to acknowledge that any financial strain my husband and I have experienced has been born of our own luck, choices we were privileged to make. Our “broke” bore no resemblance to my parents’ “broke,” because ours was finite and because we always had other options: we could have quit our graduate programs, avoided having children, tried to pursue more lucrative careers. But when you have no savings and your debt is increasing, your anxious brain doesn’t care that you chose the situation. Each month that we were a little short of what we needed, each year that I couldn’t afford to fly my parents out to see us or go see them in turn, I felt a terrible, squeezing guilt—not only because I was failing them, but because I had yet to make the most of all the opportunities I’d been given. We’re often told that we will rise, reap the rewards, if only we work hard, have faith, wait our turn. What I wish I’d understood sooner is that my family didn’t have time to wait. I will always be thankful that a substantial raise and my first book royalty check finally allowed me to help my mother. It all came too late to be of any use to my father. * * * I am still anxious when making a big purchase, whether it is necessary or not, and usually have to work myself up to justifying it. The car is fifteen years old, the air conditioner can’t be repaired, it’s too small for all of us to be comfortable on long road trips → expenditure reluctantly approved. I tend to choose smaller, less important things—sneakers, nightstands, the number of streaming services we pay for—to be stingy about, as if that will compensate for money I’m forced to spend elsewhere. If I want to splurge on something, I will tell myself that I have to take on a freelance assignment or speaking engagement, earn additional income, to make up for it. And yet I feel an undeniable thrill when I buy “nice things” for myself or for others, because to me it will always seem like a luxury to spend money on something I want but don’t strictly need. In contrast, my husband’s approach to finances is rational, evenhanded, devoid of fear or strong | 0 |
42 | The Silmarillion.txt | 70 | by Mm. There many of Trin's company were slain as they slept; but some fleeing by an inner stair came out upon the hill-top, and there they fought until they fell, and their blood flowed out upon the seregon that mantled the stone. But a net was cast over Trin as he fought, and he was enmeshed in it, and overcome, and led away. And at length when all was silent again Mm crept out of the shadows of his house; and as the sun rose over the mists of Sirion he stood beside the dead men on the hill-top. But he perceived that not all those that lay there were dead; for by one his gaze was returned, and he looked in the eyes of Beleg the Elf. Then with hatred long-stored Mm stepped up to Beleg, and drew forth the sword Anglachel that lay beneath the body of one that had fallen beside him; but Beleg stumbling up seized back the sword and thrust it at the Dwarf, and Mm in terror fled wailing from the hill-top. And Beleg cried after him: 'The vengeance of the house of Hador will find you yet!' Now Beleg was sorely wounded, but he was mighty among the Elves of Middle-earth, and he was moreover a master of healing. Therefore he did not die, and slowly his strength returned; and he sought in vain among the dead for Trin, to bury him. But he found him not; and then he knew that Hrin's son was yet alive, and taken to Angband. With little hope Beleg departed from Amon Rdh and set out northward, towards the Crossings of Teiglin, following in the track of the Orcs; and he crossed over the Brithiach and journeyed through Dimbar towards the Pass of Anach. And now he was not far behind them, for he went without sleeping, whereas they had tarried on their road, hunting in the lands and fearing no pursuit as they came northward; and not even in the dreadful woods of Taur-nu-Fuin did he swerve from the trail, for the skill of Beleg was greater than any that have been in Middle-earth. But as he passed by night through that evil land he came upon one lying asleep at the foot of a great dead tree; and Beleg staying his steps beside the sleeper saw that it was an Elf. Then he spoke to him, and gave him lembas, and asked him what fate had brought him to that terrible place; and he named himself Gwindor, son of Guilin. Grieving Beleg looked upon him; for Gwindor was now but a bent and fearful shadow of his former shape and mood, when in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad that lord of Nargothrond rode with rash courage to the very doors of Angband, and there was taken. For few of the Noldor whom Morgoth captured were put to death, because of their skill in forging and in mining for metals and gems; and Gwindor was not slain, but put to labour in the mines of the North. By secret | 1 |
46 | To Kill a Mockingbird.txt | 54 | jury could convict on what we heard-" "Now don't you be so confident, Mr. Jem, I ain't ever seen any jury decide in favor of a colored man over a white man...." But Jem took exception to Reverend Sykes, and we were subjected to a lengthy review of the evidence with Jem's ideas on the law regarding rape: it wasn't rape if she let you, but she had to be eighteen- in Alabama, that is- and Mayella was nineteen. Apparently you had to kick and holler, you had to be overpowered and stomped on, preferably knocked stone cold. If you were under eighteen, you didn't have to go through all this. "Mr. Jem," Reverend Sykes demurred, "this ain't a polite thing for little ladies to hear..." "Aw, she doesn't know what we're talkin' about," said Jem. "Scout, this is too old for you, ain't it?" "It most certainly is not, I know every word you're saying." Perhaps I was too convincing, because Jem hushed and never discussed the subject again. "What time is it, Reverend?" he asked. "Gettin' on toward eight." I looked down and saw Atticus strolling around with his hands in his pockets: he made a tour of the windows, then walked by the railing over to the jury box. He looked in it, inspected Judge Taylor on his throne, then went back to where he started. I caught his eye and waved to him. He acknowledged my salute with a nod, and resumed his tour. Mr. Gilmer was standing at the windows talking to Mr. Underwood. Bert, the court reporter, was chain-smoking: he sat back with his feet on the table. But the officers of the court, the ones present- Atticus, Mr. Gilmer, Judge Taylor sound asleep, and Bert, were the only ones whose behavior seemed normal. I had never seen a packed courtroom so still. Sometimes a baby would cry out fretfully, and a child would scurry out, but the grown people sat as if they were in church. In the balcony, the Negroes sat and stood around us with biblical patience. The old courthouse clock suffered its preliminary strain and struck the hour, eight deafening bongs that shook our bones. When it bonged eleven times I was past feeling: tired from fighting sleep, I allowed myself a short nap against Reverend Sykes's comfortable arm and shoulder. I jerked awake and made an honest effort to remain so, by looking down and concentrating on the heads below: there were sixteen bald ones, fourteen men that could pass for redheads, forty heads varying between brown and black, and- I remembered something Jem had once explained to me when he went through a brief period of psychical research: he said if enough people- a stadium full, maybe- were to concentrate on one thing, such as setting a tree afire in the woods, that the tree would ignite of its own accord. I toyed with the idea of asking everyone below to concentrate on setting Tom Robinson free, but thought if they were as tired as I, it wouldn't work. Dill | 1 |
92 | The-Scorched-Throne-1-Sara-Hashe.txt | 31 | The raw quality of my laugh scraped my ears. “Safer to wager my magic would intervene for Sefa than Marek.” Arin’s gaze slid to mine. Had my magic even affected him? His dangerous mood hadn’t changed, and I steeled my nerves against the urge to retreat. “What if you were wrong? What if you had miscalculated?” “Pointless questions are best left to the poets,” Arin said. He forced me a step backward. I locked my jaw, glaring up at him. Motion in my periphery signaled a newly animated Marek and Sefa. Arin struck in a burst of movement, slamming the heel of his hand against the inside of my wrist and sending the dagger flying. The Nizahl Heir’s eyes were shards of lethal promise. “Point a dagger at me again, and it will be your last.” The fragile peace Arin and I had fostered disappeared. To my consternation, his gamble paid off. Now that he knew my magic reacted to threats against Sefa or Marek, he found creative ways to ensure I felt genuine fear for them every session. He had Vaun take them for a walk to Essam, and my magic hurled a spade into the board. Another session, he described exactly how a tribunal would condemn Sefa for assaulting the High Counselor, and the methods they might choose to put her to death. I managed to levitate one of the war chests. Only for a second, while magic burned my cuffs and fear for Sefa tightened my gut. Today, the war chest flew across the room, cracking against the image of Niyar. It flickered, revealing the white wall behind the animated painting, before re-forming. Instead of rejoicing in this development, Arin seemed to grow grimmer. “Are you eating?” I was thrown. “Yes?” Though the quality of food had improved from the milky wheat nonsense of the first week, the guards’ talent for cooking had not improved with it. I had used Wes’s bread as a weapon the other day. “Jasadi magic is a well that replenishes at unpredictable speeds. If you reach the bottom of your well too quickly, you might be left powerless until it refills. You are scraping stone.” “I’m moving the chests.” The rest was irrelevant. I had been weak and weary before. I could work through it. I thought of Marek’s body strung across the Citadel’s gates. The pulse at my wrists didn’t sting this time. The weapons Arin arranged on top of the chest hovered in the air for a millisecond, then flew into the wall on the far side of the center with deadly accuracy. The perimeters of my vision blurred. When I opened my eyes, the fake sky greeted me. Arin’s head moved over the sun. He glowered at me. “I’ll need a moment,” I said casually. “You need more than a moment.” He reached down, and the room spun again as I was hauled upright. My traitorous legs buckled. Arin caught me with an arm around my waist, his frown deepening. Plastered to his side and weightless, I opened my mouth to | 0 |
70 | Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt | 16 | to do when you have guests, you know. Offer food, drinks. I’m a little rusty. Don’t have many visitors but I have some lemonade.” Javier stifles a gag. “I think we’re good.” “Ah well.” Ms. Keane sighs as she sits down in a rocking chair directly across from us. She rests the butt of the gun on the floor. “You’re the kids from the camp.” She sucks her teeth. Her ragged salt-and-pepper hair is hanging around her face like a shroud, but her eyes, black as coal, stand out. “I don’t like it. Not one little bit. It’s not the way things should be.” “I don’t know what you mean, but I want to,” I say. I try sucking up to her again. “I’m looking for my friends. They came out here to talk to you about the camp, about its history. We really want to understand, and they figured you’d be the best person to ask.” Her beady eyes narrow and her mouth turns down. “Its history?” Her unkempt brows push up. “What do you know about it? Can’t be too much or you wouldn’t be here.” I try to judge how quickly I can get to the door, but Ms. Keane is positioned almost directly between it and us. “Well, that’s what my friends came here to find out,” I say as I fight to keep my voice steady. “I heard what you said, Ms. Keane. You said we should be ashamed of ourselves, that if we knew what you know, it might mean something. What did you mean by that?” Ms. Keane rocks back and looks up at the ceiling but keeps her fingers curled around the barrel of the shotgun. “That camp is an abomination. Distasteful if you ask me.” She raises her face to the ceiling again. “How?” I ask. “We don’t know what you mean.” I glance at Javier, who looks down into his lap. Bezi slides her hand onto my leg and squeezes it. Hard. Her eyes are wide, and I realize she’s trying to get me to look at something in her line of sight. I follow her gaze to a window at the front of the house. Kyle’s shadowy silhouette is hovering behind the glass. He’s wildly gesturing to the side of the house, but I can’t make out what he’s trying to tell me. Ms. Keane raises her head and I immediately lower my gaze to the floor. “Did you know that this place is special?” she asks. Her voice has a hollow, faraway tone, like she’s completely disconnected from the fact that she’s holding us hostage. “It’s old. Used to be a glacier lying over the whole place. That’s why you have all these lakes. After the ice melted, the ground opened up like a bunch of starving mouths.” She pauses for a moment before continuing. “Don’t think they were out here when the land was all ice and snow, but the land was here. Sleeping under the ice.” I glance at Bezi, who has a look of utter confusion plastered | 0 |
90 | The-Lost-Bookshop.txt | 7 | why we were there. We were led into a narrow office on the first floor with a thin brown carpet and a flickering light overhead. There were rows upon rows of steel-grey filing cabinets. ‘Sharon normally takes care of the admin,’ the woman explained, immediately absolving herself and again checking her watch. ‘Not to worry Ms …?’ ‘Mrs Hughes.’ ‘Mrs Hughes,’ I said, ‘this won’t take long. Any chance of a cup of tea in the meantime?’ ‘No.’ With that, she left the room and we both waited until her footsteps were far enough down the hall. ‘What the hell was that, Angela Lansbury?’ I whisper-shouted. ‘I don’t know! It just … happened.’ ‘I can’t believe it worked.’ ‘Nor can I.’ She was giddy with excitement. We didn’t know how to celebrate so in the end we just high-fived. ‘Okay, we better start looking.’ We didn’t have much time and our task was daunting. Admissions files were categorised by date, but then some records were filed under the resident doctor’s name and others still were filed under the patient’s name. It was basically a mess. We agreed to begin at opposite ends of the room. I was searching the dates – mid-1920s onwards – and Martha was searching for Carlisle. We hardly spoke, apart from the occasional ‘I still can’t believe you did that’ coming from me. I was pleasantly surprised by how much she wanted to help me. Or perhaps that was conceited. If what she said turned out to be the case and she had found herself in possession of Opaline’s book, then it made sense that she had her own connection to this intriguing woman. After all, as I’d told her on the bus, you didn’t need a qualification on paper to make a big discovery. Knowing my luck, she’d probably find the manuscript before me. The thought hit me like a sucker punch. I looked across at her and watched as her fingertips picked their way through the hanging manila files. Had I been played all along? Was she using me? ‘Henry. What are you doing?’ ‘What?’ ‘We don’t have much time,’ she said. ‘Right. Yes. Sorry.’ I pulled open another drawer and flicked through the files. They were all too recent. We were about to meet at the middle filing cabinet when I heard footsteps coming quickly down the hall. ‘Shit!’ ‘Stall her,’ Martha said. I didn’t think, I simply did what she said and met the woman just outside the doorway. ‘I’ve been on to the department, and they’ve never heard of a Dr Field. In fact, they said there was no spot-check arranged. So now, would you care to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?’ ‘I would like to tell you, Mrs Hughes. But if I did, I’d have to kill you.’ ‘Excuse me?’ Jesus, what was I saying? ‘Candid camera,’ Martha smiled, coming out of the room. ‘See, I have a camera in my bag,’ she explained, pointing to what looked like a badge on her rucksack. ‘I don’t—’ ‘Oh, | 0 |
95 | USS-Lincoln.txt | 44 | only recently discovered this sixteen-year-old kid, and I had a familial genetic connection with her. I now thought of her, even if it wasn’t totally true, as my niece. She was special to me. Seeing her now, lying there looking broken and helpless, well, the guilt was weighing heavy on my shoulders. She wasn’t a soldier; she wasn’t one of Max’s Marines. She’d been insistent; nothing new there, but I should never have allowed her onto that Ziu mother ship. This was on me. I watched as Sonya’s chest rose and fell in a slow and steady rhythm. “Are you going to just stand there and watch me? Creepy comes to mind.” Her words had come out just above a whisper. Her eyes fluttered open. “And King Kong over there, can’t you find something for him to do?” I took a seat at the side of her bed. “How do you feel, kid?” She didn’t answer right away, and I thought she might have fallen back to sleep. “I feel like one of those monster Ziu fuckers pulled my arm off, then tossed me around like a big chew toy.” “I’m sorry, Sonya. This is my fault.” She turned her head just enough to look at me. She made a face. “Oh God … you’re getting all sappy and mushy. Hardy, find me a bucket; my uncle’s making me want to ralph.” “Knock it off. I’m allowed to be worried about you. You gave all of us, gave me, quite a scare.” “Whatever … I’m fine. When can I get out of here? I need to check on the Symbios. Both Reggie and Sadon were injured.” Symbio-Poths were bio-robotic facsimiles of various Earth lifeforms. Produced by Empress Shawlee’s incredible creative people—like an onboard modern-day Disney Imagineering team—they had originally created an entire group of townspeople on USS Hamilton, so real, so lifelike, it was virtually impossible to distinguish them from actual human beings. I momentarily flashed back to Lori and Carl Quintos, my Symbio parents within the mock town of Clairmont. Typically situated on a ship’s upper R&R decks, over the years, that same creativity had evolved into recreational games such as Convoke Wyvern and Caveman Glory games and the subsequent creation of immense dragons, prehistoric dinosaurs, even tiny flying fairies. Needless to say, the crew, hell, I myself, had gotten more than a little attached to these seemingly all-too-real creatures. But just as I had put Sonya in harm’s way, I’d been forced to utilize many of the Symbio-Poths for the defense of one ship or another. Just one more thing to weigh heavy on my shoulders. Hardy said, “Ensign Plorinne’s on top of all that. No worries in that regard.” She raised her head. “Where is Plorinne? He hasn’t come to see me.” I wasn’t thrilled with the budding relationship between the Pleidian Weonan twenty-something ensign and my niece. But the two did seem to care for one another. Who was I to stand in the way of young love, if that was what this was? Hell, my own love | 0 |
33 | The Age of Innocence.txt | 73 | in the room: the voice was as near by and natural as if he had been lounging in his favourite arm-chair by the fire. The fact would not ordinarily have surprised Archer, for long-distance telephoning had become as much a matter of course as electric lighting and five-day Atlantic voyages. But the laugh did startle him; it still seemed wonderful that across all those miles and miles of country--forest, river, mountain, prairie, roaring cities and busy indifferent millions--Dallas's laugh should be able to say: "Of course, whatever happens, I must get back on the first, because Fanny Beaufort and I are to be married on the fifth." The voice began again: "Think it over? No, sir: not a minute. You've got to say yes now. Why not, I'd like to know? If you can allege a single reason--No; I knew it. Then it's a go, eh? Because I count on you to ring up the Cunard office first thing tomorrow; and you'd better book a return on a boat from Marseilles. I say, Dad; it'll be our last time together, in this kind of way--. Oh, good! I knew you would." Chicago rang off, and Archer rose and began to pace up and down the room. It would be their last time together in this kind of way: the boy was right. They would have lots of other "times" after Dallas's marriage, his father was sure; for the two were born comrades, and Fanny Beaufort, whatever one might think of her, did not seem likely to interfere with their intimacy. On the contrary, from what he had seen of her, he thought she would be naturally included in it. Still, change was change, and differences were differences, and much as he felt himself drawn toward his future daughter-in-law, it was tempting to seize this last chance of being alone with his boy. There was no reason why he should not seize it, except the profound one that he had lost the habit of travel. May had disliked to move except for valid reasons, such as taking the children to the sea or in the mountains: she could imagine no other motive for leaving the house in Thirty-ninth Street or their comfortable quarters at the Wellands' in Newport. After Dallas had taken his degree she had thought it her duty to travel for six months; and the whole family had made the old-fashioned tour through England, Switzerland and Italy. Their time being limited (no one knew why) they had omitted France. Archer remembered Dallas's wrath at being asked to contemplate Mont Blanc instead of Rheims and Chartres. But Mary and Bill wanted mountain-climbing, and had already yawned their way in Dallas's wake through the English cathedrals; and May, always fair to her children, had insisted on holding the balance evenly between their athletic and artistic proclivities. She had indeed proposed that her husband should go to Paris for a fortnight, and join them on the Italian lakes after they had "done" Switzerland; but Archer had declined. "We'll stick together," he said; and May's | 1 |
20 | Jane Eyre.txt | 90 | " I w i l l t h i n k w h a t y o u l i k e , s i r ; I a m c o n t e n t t o b e o n l y y o u r n u r s e , i f y o u t h i n k i t b e t t e r . " " B u t y o u c a n n o t a l w a y s b e m y n u r s e , J a n e t ; y o u a r e y o u n g y o u m u s t m a r r y o n e d a y . " " I d o n ' t c a r e a b o u t b e i n g m a r r i e d . " " Y o u s h o u l d c a r e , J a n e t ; i f I w e r e w h a t I o n c e w a s , I w o u l d t r y t o m a k e y o u c a r e b u t a s i g h t l e s s b l o c k ! " H e r e l a p s e d a g a i n i n t o g l o o m . I , o n t h e c o n t r a r y , b e c a m e m o r e c h e e r f u l , a n d t o o k f r e s h c o u r a g e ; t h e s e l a s t w o r d s g a v e m e a n i n s i g h t a s t o w h e r e t h e d i f f i c u l t y l a y ; a n d a s i t w a s n o d i f f i c u l t y w i t h m e , I f e l t q u i t e r e l i e v e d f r o m m y p r e v i o u s e m b a r r a s s m e n t . I r e s u m e d a l i v e l i e r v e i n o f c o n v e r s a t i o n . " I t i s t i m e s o m e o n e u n d e r t o o k t o r e h u m a n i z e y o u , " s a i d I , p a r t i n g h i s t h i c k a n d l o n g u n c u t l o c k s ; " f o r I s e e y o u a r e b e i n g m e t a m o r p h o s e d i n t o a l i o n , o r s o m e t h i n g o f t h a t s o r t . Y o u h a v e a ' f a u x a i r ' o f N e b u c h a d n e z z a r i n t h e f i e l d s a b o u t y o u , t h a t i s c e r t a i n ; y o u r h a i r r e m i n d s m e o f e a g l e ' s f e a t h e r s ; w h e t h e r y o u r n a i l s a r e g r o w n l i k e b i r d ' s c l a w s o r n o t , I h a v e n o t y e t n o t i c e d . " " O n t h i s a r m I h a v e n e i t h e r h a n d n o r n a i l s , " h e s a i d , d r a w i n g t h e m u t i l a t e d l i m b f r o m h i s b r e a s t , a n d s h o w i n g i t t o m e . " I t i s a m e r e s t u m p a g h a s t l y s i g h t ! D o n ' t y o u t h i n k s o , J a n e ? " " I t i s a p i t y t o s e e i t ; a n d a p i t y t o s e e y o u r e y e s a n d t h e s c a r o f f i r e o n y o u r f o r e h e a d ; a n d t h e w o r s t o f i t i s , o n e i s i n d a n g e r o f l o v i n g y o u t o o w e l l f o r a l l t h i s ; a n d m a k i n g t o o m u c h o f y o u . " " I t h o u g h t y o u w o u l d b e r e v o l t e d , J a n e , w h e n y o u s a w m y a r m , a n d m y c i c a t r i z e d v i s a g e . " " D i d y o u ? D o n ' t t e l l m e s o l e s t I s h o u l d s a y s o m e t h i n g d i s p a r a g i n g t o y o u r j u d g m e n t . N o w , l e t m e l e a v e y o u a n i n s t a n t , t o m a k e a b e t t e r f i r e , a n d h a v e t h e h e a r t h s w e p t u p . C a n y o u t e l l w h e n t h e r e i s a g o o d f i r e ? " " Y e s ; w i t h t h e r i g h t e y e I s e e a g l o w a r u d d y h a z e . " " A n d y o u s e e t h e c a n d l e s ? " " V e r y d i m l y e a c h i s a l u m i n o u s c l o u d . " " C a n y o u s e e m e ? " " N o , m y f a i r y ; b u t I a m o n l y t o o t h a n k f u l t o h e a r a n d f e e l y o u . " " W h e n d o y o u t a k e s u p p e r ? " " I n e v e r t a k e s u p p e r . " " B u t y o u s h a l l h a v e s o m e t o - n i g h t . I a m h u n g r y : s o a r e y o u , I d a r e s a y , o n l y y o u f o r g e t . " S u m m o n i n g M a r y , I s o o n h a d t h e r o o m i n m o r e c h e e r f u l o r d e r ; I p r e p a r e d h i m , l i k e w i s e , a c o m f o r t a b l e r e p a s t . M y s p i r i t s w e r e e x c i t e d , a n d w i t h p l e a s u r e a n d e a s e I t a l k e d t o h i m d u r i n g s u p p e r , a n d f o r a l o n g t i m e a f t e r . T h e r e w a s | 1 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 51 | 166 gun violence issue and, 78, 79, 80, 145 hasty and careless military proposals of, 64, 66, 71, 133, 146–47, 217, 219, 220, 225–27 hostility to careerists of, 83, 84, 85 hurricane threat response and relief of, 62–63, 83–84, 126, 127 illegal and potentially illegal proposals of, 9, 10, 107, 141–42, 151–52, 167–68, 172, 173, 178–79, 180, 182, 183, 190, 191, 217 immigration and border obsession of, 9, 10, 31, 44, 51, 52, 79–80, 86, 97–98, 100–101, 106, 107–9, 120, 133, 141–42, 145, 151, 162–63, 166–83, 187, 188, 189–90, 191–92, 217, 225, 235 inability to focus of, 58, 61, 62, 63–64, 127, 135 inciting of violence by, 3, 254, 257–58, 261 Insurrection Act invocation efforts of, 9, 225–26, 263 ISIS threat and, 56, 58, 59, 66, 146 isolationist positions of, 20, 60, 64, 220 judges resented and feared by, 9, 23, 94, 109, 121–22, 180 justice system tampering by, 58, 111, 112, 113, 118–20, 123–24, 137, 271 lawsuits used as weapons against political adversaries by, 117, 124, 192, 271 London attacks (2017) and, 50–51, 52 looming midterm elections as check on, 133 loyalty demanded by, 28, 36, 69, 70, 74, 76, 80–82, 102, 112, 153 McCain’s death and, 131–32 media targeted by, 99, 157 militia groups and, 115–16, 192, 261, 263 “Muslim ban” and travel restrictions of, 22–23, 29, 31, 32, 50, 91–94, 122, 170, 205, 206 Nielsen’s tense relations with, 107, 172, 173–74, 175, 178–81, 182–83 North Korea threat and, 96, 97, 98 officials as protecting “Doomsday Book” from, 185, 186, 194 officials as wary of sharing sensitive information with, 56, 218–19 and outsourcing warfare to private contractors proposal, 226–27 in 2017 Oval Office meeting with Russian officials, 59–60, 66 paranoia and mental instability of, 81, 101, 111–12, 119, 129, 135, 136, 139, 142, 211 pardons offered by, 10, 182, 183 post-2016 election transition period of, 27–29 proliferation of leaders modeled after, 10, 11, 34, 35, 41 Puerto Rico/Greenland swap proposal of, 126–27 Putin and, 9, 25, 52, 60, 80, 135, 136, 141, 224 rallies of, 2–3, 173, 243, 254 Russian election interference denied by, 23, 24, 25, 31, 119, 133, 140–41 Russian investigation and, 58–59, 99, 111, 119, 140 sexism of, 10, 25, 103 “Sharpiegate” and, 83–84 thin skin of, 60, 102, 110 in trip to southern border (2019), 176, 177, 181–83 tweeting by, 5, 42, 53, 59, 60, 67, 68, 71, 83, 96, 112, 124, 136, 137, 145, 146, 170, 171, 213, 257–58, 271, 288 in 2016 election, 19, 20, 21–26, 34, 35, 37, 49, 53, 169, 285 2019 State of the Union Address of, 225 in 2020 election, 38, 42, 231–32, 235, 272, 275, 276, 277, 280 in unlawful and unethical management of government funds, 126, 127, 128, 130, 133, 151–52, 167–68, 190, 193 unrealistic proposals of, 60, 100, 126–27, 141–42, 169, 173, 176, 178 VA targeted by, 72–74 in Warning response, 207, 210–11 on weaponized drones, 127–28 Wolf’s Correspondents’ Dinner comments on, 104 Trump, Donald, Jr., 210 Trump, Ivanka, 10, 27, 103, 104 Trump, Melania, 143, 148 Trump administration, 6, 8, 48, 58–59, 60, 75, 76, 85, | 0 |
56 | Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt | 3 | of money.” My jaw is on the floor. “No kidding.” Remembering something, I look over at Ash. “GeneticAlly—isn’t that how you and Ella met?” He nods. “We’re a Gold Match.” A couple to our right has just taken their seats. The vibe between them is heavy with disappointment. A bad first date. They glance at each other only when they think the other isn’t looking, and an accidental brush of hands leads to bursting apologies but no shy smiles. No spark. It’s presumptuous of me, but I could walk over there right now and tell them they’ve got no chemistry, no chance. Couldn’t we all? I’m not overly familiar with GeneticAlly, but I know they developed a system that matches people for compatibility based on signatures in their DNA. I’d give this couple a zero. Lifting my chin, I say to Ash, “Think they’re a Gold Match?” He glances over and watches for a handful of seconds before raising his drink to his lips. “Nope. No way.” I look back up at the TV and an idea tickles the edge of my brain. I’ll have to make a few calls. Maybe having time to kill will be a good thing after all. three CONNOR Two hours later, I pull up in front of Natalia’s house. It’s a beautiful place—I should know; I cosigned the loan. The Realtor called it Spanish Colonial Revival, with white stucco walls, a low-pitched tile roof, and a gated courtyard Nat always goes all out decorating for Halloween. But where there was once a tricycle in the yard and pastel chalk animals scribbled on the sidewalk, now there’s a ten-speed and a row of potted orchids leading up to the front door. Natalia took up gardening after our divorce. Post-divorce she’s thriving, and so are the orchids. Waiting for me on the front step is Stevie’s chocolate-brown labradoodle, Baxter. We are absolutely those parents who got their kid a consolation divorce dog. He barks cheerily to alert the house that an intruder has entered the premises and, tail still wagging, promptly rolls over for belly rubs. “All that money for puppy camp and you are still a terrible guard dog,” I say, bending to pet him. “Where is everybody? Where’s Stevie? Can you go fetch her?” The door is slightly open and Baxter nudges it with his nose and goes up the stairs. “Hello?” I call out. It’s cool and quiet inside. Stevie’s homework is spread out on the coffee table and a basket of folded laundry sits on the couch. The walls are filled with photographs, some of Stevie and Natalia, a few with me. We’ve taken photos of Stevie in the same location and in the same pose on her birthday every year, and seeing them grouped together is like a time lapse of her childhood. She’s tall for a ten-year-old, and rail thin. She has her mum’s olive complexion and dark hair, but her eyes—my eyes—are as green as they’ve ever been. Footsteps pound on the stairs and a second later, a body collides into | 0 |
3 | Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt | 55 | what I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it agin." So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching under- neath. I didn't know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore -- and then I was pretty soon comfortable again. Tom he made a sign to me -- kind of a little noise with his mouth -- and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a dis- turbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome. As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches be- witched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other | 1 |
79 | Quietly-Hostile.txt | 29 | second-guessing both myself and my interpretation of whatever it is we’re talking about: “Oh so what you’re trying to say is that I’m not supposed to think Mission: Impossible—Fallout is intellectually stimulating and the greatest film of all time?” This then devolves into an even more embarrassing apology: “I’m so sorry for not understanding what ‘good acting’ is!” And that continues until I shrivel into a husk and die, vowing with my dying breaths to never again publicly express joy or excitement. Some friend of my wife’s said to me—who am I, a balding stand-up comic in 1987??—after using the dry cleaner recommendation she’d asked me for a week earlier, “That strip mall where you told me to get my pants hemmed is so depressing. I can’t believe you go there.” I leaned against my open front door, in a fraying hoodie and soiled pajama bottoms, blinking at her over my first Diet Coke of the day. What did she want from me? What was I supposed to say? “I can’t believe you go there!” she repeated, and it became clear to me that she wanted…an explanation. An apology. Unfortunately, I was in no mood to be forced to atone for a place I: did not conceptualize. did not build. do not own. do not live in. do not profit from. frequently use with satisfaction. told her about as a courtesy because she asked me! Wanting to keep this early-morning interaction as brief as possible, my brain cycled through the possibilities of how to respond. I could: apologize for, uhh, helping her and solving her problem? apologize for having poor taste in local shopping plazas? apologize for being alive? apologize, then snarkily ask how her dry cleaning turned out, and then immediately and reflexively apologize for being snarky? Imagine me saying, “I’m sorry that the home of Bill’s Greeting Card Hut and Lucy’s Luxury Lashes wasn’t up to your exacting standards, and I apologize for making you look at dull brown bricks.” I would rather live inside the Value City that’s next door to Glamour Nails! But I didn’t say anything, and she chuckled again, saying, “It’s so ugly!” followed by an anticipative pause. And I dunno, man, the smoothie spot is pretty good and the out-of-business DVD store is oddly comforting to me, so I arranged my face into something resembling cheerfulness and said, in my highest octave, “I like it!” Gotcha, bitch. I watched as she searched for something to say next since I’d dodged the trap she’d set and whatever further insults she had prepared to hit me with. “I like it!” I chirped again. “I like it! I like it a lot!” I don’t remember if I slammed the door in her face or kicked her backward down my concrete steps, but what I do know is, that day a new person was born, an upgraded version of myself that no longer felt shamed by some smarty-pants making fun of the John Grisham novel poking out of my backpack. I’d need a sociology degree to write about this | 0 |
93 | The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt | 19 | sidled out of bed to take a cup of tea in the garden alone, to their evening together after he came back from the Playhouse. They’d drink beer and sit outside, breathing in night-scented stock and talking about the classics until the stars were high diamonds in the midnight sky. Now they were sitting in the deer park in Magdalen College, surrounded by gold and russet trees. They had wandered through old cloisters, past the quadrangle bursting with the rising voices of new students, and he was excitedly pointing at the roe deer. Minnie smiled indulgently; she had seen it all before, although to her it was much more than a tourist attraction. Oxford was lodged deep in her heart; it had changed her life and she felt bound to it. Jensen took her hand in his, almost speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘The tranquillity, the beauty, Minnie – it’s just breathtaking, the way this place exudes culture and tradition. It’s almost impossible to think that it’s normal for you to live in such an incredible place, and this is your home.’ ‘It is,’ Minnie said. ‘I love it.’ ‘You came to Magdalen as a student?’ Minnie was impressed that he’d pronounced it correctly, Mawdlin. ‘Oh, no – women weren’t allowed here in those days. I was at St Hilda’s. I had a couple of boyfriends who were students here. I won’t tell you their names. One’s quite infamous, in the House of Lords now, I believe.’ Jensen smiled. ‘You’ve lived an incredible life, Minnie.’ ‘I’m still living it…’ Minnie gazed at a deer that had wandered from the group, moving towards them. ‘There’s so much more I want to do…’ ‘There is.’ Jensen’s eyes glowed behind the gold-rimmed glasses. ‘You know, Minnie, I never thought I’d meet anyone I felt this way about.’ ‘After your wife?’ Jensen shook his head. ‘Pamela and I were close, we had the kids, and now she’s gone, I miss her. But you and I are different.’ ‘How different?’ ‘We connect completely.’ Jensen ruffled his white hair. ‘Mind, body and spirit – I mean, look at you. There’s no one like you.’ Minnie gazed down at herself in the floral dress and green Doc Martens. It all seemed quite ordinary. She smiled. ‘So, the day is entirely ours. What do you want to do?’ Jensen leaned forward eagerly. ‘When can I meet your friends in the village – Josie and Lin and your sister Tina?’ ‘Why would you want to meet them?’ Minnie was puzzled. ‘Middleton Ferris is nothing like Oxford.’ Jensen laughed. ‘These people are part of your life – I want to know all there is to know about you.’ ‘You’re interested in my murky backstory in a small Oxfordshire village?’ Minnie was amused. ‘I can’t imagine that you’d enjoy going there.’ ‘But you go there – you care about these people.’ ‘I do,’ Minnie agreed. ‘It’s my past. But you’re my present.’ ‘And future, I hope?’ Jensen said hopefully. ‘We should go…’ Minnie stood up and brushed grass from her dress. ‘Let’s walk down | 0 |
95 | USS-Lincoln.txt | 42 | is creepy as fuck,” Grip said. “The ship held what? Thousands? Where the hell is everyone?” No one answered him. Hardy slowed, taking notice of new signs of struggle: dried blood streaks on a bulkhead, weapons damage to the corridor, and other marks he’d yet to decipher. They turned a corner, seeing more blood, a lot more blood, and indications of far more weapons fire. Charred plasma craters pocked virtually every surface. Max said, “Looks like the alien fuckers came through here like a meatgrinder … Ship’s crew fought hard.” They followed the increasing signs of carnage, eventually coming up to one of the ship’s main lower deck holds, some twenty meters up ahead. The entrance hatch doors, extra wide to enable the movement of cargo, had been left open. Max signaled for his crew to take up a stacked line formation. Hardy checked his readings. Although there were signs of “life,” motion sensors detected very little movement. He looked to Max. “No time like the present; it’s time to party, boys.” Hardy breached the compartment at a full run, ready to confront whatever hostiles were present. Weapons raised, fingers on triggers, Max and crew were close on his six. Once inside, they spun, ready to target the enemy. Most of the overhead lighting had previously been shot out. Hardy took in the grisly sight. Despite being fully trained and battle hardened, he watched as the Marines wavered, weapons lowered. Ham was making gagging noises over the open channel. Max said, “Don’t you dare lose it in your helmet, Ham! If you have to spew, leave, and do it out in the passageway.” “I’m good, boss …” Hardy was somewhat surprised they didn’t all lose their collective lunch. The compartment was packed with what was left of the crew members. He counted several hundred poor souls lying prone on their backs. “Looks like they were … what? Tortured … mutilated?” Max commented. “This is bad, real fucking bad,” Grip said under his breath. The hold was half the size of a football field, and the scope of the horror was breathtaking. Max said, “Let’s clear this hold, just in case there are any bad guys lurking back there around those tall shelves.” Staying on high alert, they separated and moved out. Meanwhile, Hardy walked among the rows of bodies—each lying within a kind of metal, high-lipped pan. He tried to comprehend who, what, had done this to them. He tried to make sense of the alien “technology” apparent within each of the carcasses. Whatever it was, it was allowing these bodies to remain alive. Several minutes later, Max was back at his side. “I think some of these people are … still alive.” “No, Max … All of them are still alive.” “Good mother of God.” Grip joined them and knelt next to one body, a woman. “Uh … are those bite marks I’m seeing?” In the dimly lit hold, a light flickered above, casting eerie, strobing shadows upon the uniformed crew member—one that Hardy was certain once bore the visage of | 0 |
73 | Kika-Hatzopoulou-Threads-That-Bi.txt | 89 | closest one and immediately shut the curtains. Io and Edei mimicked her. Io’s pod was wide enough to fit her comfortably even cross-legged. In the Quilt, she glimpsed Aris and the two other men climbing onto the roof of the building. Rosa’s plan was brilliant: even if they got in the pod area, the moira-born would think they were just other guests. Up ahead, the hatch groaned open. Wet footsteps sounded on the staircase. Wet! Gods, what if the men noticed the wet traces of their boots on the floor? Io stuck her head outside. Sure enough, their footprints gleamed on the linoleum floor of the corridor. Grabbing the blanket from her pod, she slipped out and furiously swiped at the wetness. She followed their prints out of the room to the corridor, breathing hard, one eye to the winding staircase. She could see the phobos-born’s calves, his knees, his torso— An arm came around her waist. Edei pulled her back into the pod room. They lunged into his pod, crawling in side by side. Edei dragged the curtain closed and covered them with the blanket in one smooth move. A second later, a figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the beige curtain. Io clapped a hand over her mouth. Edei’s face was close; his rapid breath stroked her cheek; their bodies pressed tight against each other. In the darkness, she could only make out the silhouette of his face: the ridge of his nose, his heavy eyebrows. “Are they here?” the phobos-born asked. Io’s breath staggered through her chest in a dry sob. Edei wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight against his chest. His chin tucked over her head. His heart thundered beneath her cheek. “Check all rooms,” Aris Lefteriou said. “All pods.” Io squirmed, an infinitesimal, involuntary movement. “Did you hear that?” Edei pressed his mouth against her forehead, clasping her so tight that she couldn’t move even if she wanted to. Io shut her eyes. She heard the curtain to their pod fly open. Edei breathed slowly—in, out, in, out. She focused on his breathing, on his fingers on her head, his lips on her forehead, the line of his body fitting into hers. Don’t open your eyes. Don’t move. The curtain fell back. Her heart was beating fast, her breath raspy and hitched. She didn’t dare move. Only listened. Footsteps, curtains dragged, a sleepy complaint. Then silence. “It’s only the displaced here, boss,” one of the men said. “In the other rooms, too,” said the other man. “Cori, stay here in case they hid somewhere,” whispered Aris. He must have been standing right outside their pod because Io could hear him perfectly. “Jude, you’re with me. We need to find them immediately. They were at the Nine. They know about the women.” “I recognized the big one, boss,” the second man spoke again. “Edei Rhuna. He works at the Fortuna.” Io shifted back to look at Edei’s face. Their eyes locked in the half-light. He did that thing again, his gaze shifting rapidly between | 0 |
59 | Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt | 94 | thinks. I was a princess of Sparta and queen of Maeonia . . . Now I am married to the man who murdered my family. * * * They arrive in Mycenae in the late sunlight, the hilltops colored in violet and purple shades. Shrubs and rocks are scattered for miles and miles on the land around her, and in front of her, the citadel stands on a rocky outcrop, massive. The limestone blocks of the outer walls are bigger than bulls, pale against the dark mountains behind. The road to the citadel is steep and unprotected, each approaching visitor at the mercy of the guards stationed on the walls. Clytemnestra wonders how Agamemnon and Menelaus ever managed to retake the city. It looks impregnable. The suburbs stretch like cobwebs, traders and other workers running their last errands of the day. As Agamemnon and Clytemnestra ride through, the people stop and kneel. They look filthy and strangely thin, like helots. They are not soldiers, Clytemnestra can tell. Her horse steps on some bread crusts on the pebbles, and guards ride on both sides of her as if to protect her from the people. Two soldiers are waiting for them by the gate, holding a bright banner—a golden lion on purple. The banner flaps in the wind, and Clytemnestra follows its dance. Behind it, the gate is unlike anything she has ever seen. Perched above the posts and lintel, two carved lions stand on their hind legs, their front paws on each side of a column. Their heads are turned to look straight at her. They bathe in the light, quiet and watchful. The guards let them through. Inside the walls, they follow streets that become narrower and narrower as they draw closer to the palace. At the summit of the citadel, she can make out a small temple. One of the guards talks to Clytemnestra in a low voice. “Here on the right is one grave circle,” he whispers as they pass a massive stone construction guarded by two soldiers. “Those are warriors’ houses.” Tall buildings along a paved path. And then a barn. A blacksmith’s forge. Bakers passing with loaves. Slaves carrying fruit and meat for their masters. The smell of honey and spices coming out of an orange-painted store. Naked little boys and girls playing with sticks. The stone steps are worn smooth in the fading sun. They climb until they reach the top and the palace—big and glowing, each terrace surrounded by fire-red columns. Once inside, Agamemnon disappears with some counselors and Clytemnestra is taken along shadowy colonnades and perfectly lit corridors. The windows have been covered, and the light comes from golden torches hung every few steps. They pass hall after hall, each leading to a corridor lined with painted chambers. She glimpses deep-blue ceilings and columns ringed with roaring lions, griffins, and fearful deer. As they reach her quarters, the air feels still, cooler. Two slaves are waiting for her in her bedroom. The younger one has dark-red hair and wide eyes, the older a crooked nose | 0 |
99 | spare.txt | 3 | with a copy of the New English Bible.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">The hardback version. It is indeed, I always thought, a very hard back.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Getting hit with it made me feel bad about myself, bad about the teacher, and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">bad about the Bible. Nevertheless, the next night I’d go right back to flouting<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">the rules.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">If I wasn’t roaming the corridors, I was roaming the school grounds,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">usually with my best mate, Henners. Like me, Henners was officially a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Henry, but I always called him Henners, and he called me Haz.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Skinny, with no muscles, and hair that stood up in permanent surrender,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Henners was all heart. Whenever he smiled, people melted. (He was the only<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">boy who mentioned Mummy to me after she disappeared.) But that winning<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">smile, that tender nature, made you forget that Henners could be quite<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">naughty.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">A huge “pick your own” farm lay beyond the school grounds, on the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">other side of a low fence, and one day Henners and I hopped over, landing<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">face-first in carrot furrows. Row after row. Nearby were some fat, juicy<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">strawberries. We went along, stuffing our mouths, popping up now and then<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">like meerkats to make sure the coast was clear. Whenever I bite into a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">strawberry I’m there again, in those furrows, with lovely Henners.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Days later we went back. This time, after we’d eaten our fill and hopped<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">over the fence, we heard our names.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We were heading along a cart track in the direction of the tennis courts<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">and slowly we turned. Coming straight for us was one of the teachers.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">You there! Stop!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Hello, sir.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">What are you two doing?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Nothing, sir.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">You've been to the farm.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">No!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Open your hands.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">41<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.:me/Afghansalarlibrary<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We did. Busted. Crimson palms. He reacted as if it were blood.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I can’t remember what punishment we received. Another clout with the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">New English Bible? Detention? (Often called det.) A trip | 0 |
89 | The-Last-Sinner.txt | 51 | Go! Go on. Get out. Go home.” She made shooing motions with her hands. “Hole up in your house by yourself if that’s what you want.” “I do. It is exactly what I want.” “Fine!” Then Bella calmed a bit. “Look, you just survived a horrific attack and lost your husband, watched him die in your arms, for God’s sake. That’s . . . that’s unthinkable. Horrific. The worst! But even so, there’s so much to life, so much to live for.” Kristi’s eyes grew hot. She thought of the baby. Her baby. Jay’s. Growing inside her. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted, and her voice sounded rough. “I know I’ve got some things to work through, but . . . but I’ll be fine.” She was on the edge of telling her friend about her pregnancy, but didn’t. It seemed traitorous somehow, that Bella Lyons would know the truth and Jay wouldn’t. Not ever. Of course she would have to tell Bella—or someone—soon enough, she thought as she pulled her debit card from her wallet. But not today. Definitely not today. “Look, Jess and Sarah and I, we’re thinking of starting jogging. Like at least once a week, maybe more. You already run, right? So why don’t you join us?” “I’ll think about it,” she lied. Right now, she couldn’t think of anything worse than getting together with her friends and doing anything where there would be hours to talk about their lives, their husbands, their children, their joy. Not yet. “And you know, if you ever want to do a show, promote your next book or whatever? The producer at the station is interested.” Bella looked hopeful, as she always did. Though she sold ads for the station, she seemed to think it her mission to find guests for the local talk shows. This wasn’t the first time Bella had suggested Kristi make herself available for a television interview. Today, Kristi wasn’t in the mood. “Another time.” “Promise?” Kristi shot her a look. “No. But if I ever consider it, you’ll be the first to know.” “Cool,” she said, though the way Bella muttered it, Kristi was pretty sure her response to the offer was anything but chill with her friend. They split the bill and hugged good-bye, but there was definitely a stiffness to the embrace that had never been there before. “You take care of yourself, okay?” Bella asked as she released her. “And you call me, or text, if you need anything. I mean it. Anything.” “Sure. You got it,” Kristi lied, and holding her jacket tight against the wind, hurried back to the spot where she’d parked her car, just off the French Quarter. She passed open-air shops and galleries and eyed the neon sign for a psychic. Glowing yellow letters over a blue crescent moon. She paused for a second, considered making an appointment for a session, then dismissed the thought. “Afraid of what you’ll find out?” Jay’s voice asked. “Never,” she said loudly, and an older man in a hat and overcoat walking in the | 0 |
34 | The Call of the Wild.txt | 88 | Crickets sang in the nights, and in the days all manner of creeping, crawling things rustled forth into the sun. Partridges and woodpeckers were booming and knocking in the forest. Squirrels were chattering, birds singing, and overhead honked the wild-fowl driving up from the south in cunning wedges that split the air. From every hill slope came the trickle of running water, the music of unseen fountains. All things were thawing, bending, snapping. The Yukon was straining to break loose the ice that bound it down. It ate away from beneath; the sun ate from above. Air-holes formed, fissures sprang and spread apart, while thin sections of ice fell through bodily into the river. And amid all this bursting, rending, throbbing of awakening life, under the blazing sun and through the soft-sighing breezes, like wayfarers to death, staggered the two men, the woman, and the huskies. With the dogs falling, Mercedes weeping and riding, Hal swearing innocuously, and Charles's eyes wistfully watering, they staggered into John Thornton's camp at the mouth of White River. When they halted, the dogs dropped down as though they had all been struck dead. Mercedes dried her eyes and looked at John Thornton. Charles sat down on a log to rest. He sat down very slowly and painstakingly what of his great stiffness. Hal did the talking. John Thornton was whittling the last touches on an axe-handle he had made from a stick of birch. He whittled and listened, gave monosyllabic replies, and, when it was asked, terse advice. He knew the breed, and he gave his advice in the certainty that it would not be followed. "They told us up above that the bottom was dropping out of the trail and that the best thing for us to do was to lay over," Hal said in response to Thornton's warning to take no more chances on the rotten ice. "They told us we couldn't make White River, and here we are." This last with a sneering ring of triumph in it. "And they told you true," John Thornton answered. "The bottom's likely to drop out at any moment. Only fools, with the blind luck of fools, could have made it. I tell you straight, I wouldn't risk my carcass on that ice for all the gold in Alaska." "That's because you're not a fool, I suppose," said Hal. "All the same, we'll go on to Dawson." He uncoiled his whip. "Get up there, Buck! Hi! Get up there! Mush on!" Thornton went on whittling. It was idle, he knew, to get between a fool and his folly; while two or three fools more or less would not alter the scheme of things. But the team did not get up at the command. It had long since passed into the stage where blows were required to rouse it. The whip flashed out, here and there, on its merciless errands. John Thornton compressed his lips. Sol-leks was the first to crawl to his feet. Teek followed. Joe came next, yelping with pain. Pike made painful efforts. Twice he | 1 |
66 | Hell Bent.txt | 18 | piled by the slot. A minute later, he saw Car’s shadow appear in the front window and heard the loud thud thud thud of his fist pounding on the door. A pause. No sounds from the house. Then again, thud thud thud. “New Haven PD!” Car bellowed. Nothing. No scramble of feet, no window sliding open above. Then Car kicked the door in. “New Haven PD!” he shouted again. Turner stared at Car through the window. The hell was he doing? They hadn’t actually been summoned here by a landlord. There was no reason for them to smash their way in. Car gestured for Turner to follow. “Fuck it,” said Turner. What else were they going to do this morning? King Tut was their only lead, and no way Big Car was getting jammed up on an illegal search. Turner drew his weapon, took a few steps back, then slammed his shoulder into the door, feeling it give way. Before he could even ask Car what they were doing, Car had a finger to his lips and was pointing up the stairs. “There’s someone up there. I heard it.” “Heard what?” Turner whispered. “Could have been a cat. Could have been a girl. Could have been nothing.” The prickle spread from the back of Turner’s neck. Not nothing. “Clear the ground floor,” said Car. “I’m going up.” Turner did as he was told, but there wasn’t much territory to cover. A living room with a stained mattress and dirty clothes heaped on top, a bare kitchen where nearly every cupboard was open, as if someone had searched it. Two empty bedrooms, a bathroom with a rotting floor where it looked like a pipe had burst. “Clear,” he shouted. “I’m coming up!” He had one foot on the bottom step when he heard Car shout. A shot rang out, then another. Turner sprinted up the steps, weapon drawn. He felt it squirm in his hand, looked down, and saw nothing but the hard black shadow of his sidearm. Fear was messing with his head. Not fear for himself. Fear for what he might do, who he might hurt, his brother’s voice in his head: You like that badge and gun. Turner always said the same prayer. Please, God. Don’t let it be a kid. Don’t let it be one of us. “Carmichael?” he called out. No answer came. No sound. The layout of the second floor was almost identical to the floor below. Turner spoke into his radio. “Detective Abel Turner. I am at 372 Orchard. Shots fired, request backup and medical.” He didn’t wait for the response, sweeping through the first bedroom, the bathroom. As he entered the second, he saw a body on the floor. Not Carmichael. His mind took a minute to understand. The man on the ground, a boy really, couldn’t be older than twenty, a hole in his chest, a hole in the floorboards beside him. Carmichael standing over him. Turner recognized Delan Tuttle from his file. King Tut. Bleeding out on the ground. “Shit,” said Turner kneeling | 0 |
87 | The Foxglove King.txt | 10 | things considered. “Clearly, I’ve been remiss in not consulting another scholar.” The peacock feather apparently itched; Bastian pulled it from his ear and twirled it between his fingers instead. “No one else I’ve discussed this with has been as learned as you.” Lore gave him a small, shy smile, conjuring country cousin, conjuring no threat and don’t take me too seriously. “There isn’t much to do at home. I find my amusements where I may.” He cocked a brow and looked pointedly at the grass stains again. Lore pinched his arm, fighting a genuine laugh. “Lore!” Gabriel walked hurriedly down the path, like he’d been trying to catch up without running. Still, he was slightly out of breath when he reached them. His eye darted to Bastian, then to her, brow rising as if he was annoyed that she was following her orders so closely. “Remaut, nice of you to join us.” Bastian took the peacock feather from behind his ear and swiveled it flirtatiously beneath Gabe’s chin. “I was just taking your cousin to the stables. Don’t worry, she already had the grass stains when I found her.” Gabe’s eyebrow climbed farther. Lore gave him a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Come along.” Bastian tightened the bend of his arm, trapping Lore’s hand. “I have a curious new acquisition. You two will be the first I’ve shown it to.” He gave Lore a brilliant smile. “Honestly, between this and inviting you to the masque last night, I’ve been quite the social director. Perhaps I should hire myself out to the mothers of spinsters.” “I’m sure August would love that.” Gabe fell into step on Lore’s other side. It felt somewhat like being escorted by two abnormally tall cats, twitchy and standoffish. “Probably as much as Anton loves you coming back to court. I’m sure he wasn’t pleased about losing his star channeler for a season.” Gabe said nothing, arms politely behind his back, though those polite arms ended in fists. Lore thought of the conversation she and Bastian had as they danced, about how Bastian had attempted to orchestrate Gabe’s freedom for the summer, not knowing that Anton had planned it already. But the awkward transition gave her an opening, a place to speak about the two ruling brothers of Auverraine with someone who would know more about their relationship than most. “August and Anton…” she began, feeling out how she wanted to word it. “They don’t seem to get along. Why is that?” “Anton didn’t become the Priest Exalted until after his vision.” Gabe jumped in to answer, though he had to know she’d meant the question for Bastian. The man was apparently incapable of not immediately rising to Anton’s defense. “But August has been the heir since he was born, Apollius’s chosen. Naturally, it led to some tension.” “Like children fighting over being Father’s favorite,” Bastian scoffed. “Anton’s vision was certainly convenient.” Gabe shot him a dark look. “Are you implying it wasn’t true?” “Remaut, I don’t even know what the vision was, and neither does anyone | 0 |
94 | Titanium-Noir.txt | 17 | do okay with detective work—actually pretty good—but the reason you’re there is so cops don’t get fired over Titans.” “You coulda said it a little nicer, but yeah, that’s a big part of it.” “What’s another part of it?” “Very occasionally I get to stop something bad happening before it happens, rather 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 | 0 |
72 | Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt | 84 | from Mr. Kim. Nothing. Fine. Eat first, worry later. I glanced over to see if I should make a plate of linguine for Peanut, but he was fast asleep, a little pile of blow-dried fur. “So,” I said, settling onto a kitchen stool and gesturing around at this empty warehouse of an apartment. “What’s the story here?” “What story?” I looked around again. “You know you don’t have any furniture, right?” “Ah,” Joe said. “That’s true.” No sense in pretending. “This is the saddest apartment I’ve ever seen,” I said. “It’s worse than my place, and I live in a hovel.” “A penthouse hovel,” Joe pointed out. “A rooftop hovel,” I corrected. “But it’s surprisingly nice.” “It’s much nicer than this sad…”—I looked around—“empty warehouse.” Then I had to ask. “How long has it been like this?” “A year.” I choked on a noodle. “A year?” Joe crunched on his salad and gave me a shrug. “Do you…” I tried to imagine any kind of reason at all why a grown man would live in an empty apartment for a whole year. “Are you … anti-furniture?” “Not really,” Joe said, like that was all he was going to say on that. Then he added, “I just gave it all to Goodwill when my wife left me.” Ah. Okay. He went on, “I wanted to burn it in a gasoline-fueled bonfire, but that’s against city regulations. Apparently.” Wow. Joe had a past. And maybe some anger issues. Why did that suddenly make him sexier? “You checked with the city before torching your ex-wife’s furniture?” He nodded. “It’s all on the municipal website.” Then he tilted his head like he was noticing my point. “I’m very law-abiding.” “Fair enough.” “She must have done something really horrible to you,” I said then, all casual, hoping he’d spill it all. “Yep.” “For you to want to burn everything.” “Yep.” “And then for you to just … live in a mausoleum.” Joe stopped chewing and assessed me. Then he made a decision. “She cheated on me. With a guy from work. And then she left me and moved in with him. And now they’re getting married.” I squeezed my whole face up like that really smarted. “Oh god.” “Yeah.” “How did you find out?” I asked. “I surprised her on a work trip and found them together at her hotel. Naked. In her private hot tub.” “Oof.” “She got home from the trip, packed a suitcase without a word, and went to a hotel. She came back a few days later to get the rest of her stuff … and brought him with her. She brought him with her. To our apartment. She kept saying, ‘I thought you’d be at work,’ like that made it better. And then—long story short—I wound up beating the crap out of him.” He paused, like I might think that was a bad idea. “Good,” I said, holding up my hand for a high five. “Yeah, well. I’m not normally violent. Just so you know.” I looked at his forkful of linguine, | 0 |
13 | Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt | 72 | and in health, to stand by your side in good times and in bad, to share your joy as well as your sorrow,” I murmur. He freezes. His only movement is to open wide his fathomless eyes and gaze at me as I continue my wedding vows. “I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals and dreams, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you, to share my hopes and dreams with you, and bring you solace in times of need.” I pause, will- ing him to talk to me. He watches me, his lips parted, but says nothing. “And to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.” I sigh. “Oh, Ana,” he whispers and moves again, breaking our precious contact so that we’re lying side by side. He strokes my face with the back of his knuckles. “I solemnly vow that I will safeguard and hold dear and deep in my heart our union and you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse . “I promise to love you faithfully, forsaking all others, through the good times and the bad, in sickness or in health, regardless of where life takes us. I will protect you, trust you, and respect you. I will share your joys and sorrows and comfort you in times of need. I promise to cherish you and uphold your hopes and dreams and keep you safe at my side. All that is mine is now yours. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love from this moment on for as long as we both shall live.” Tears spring to my eyes. His face softens as he gazes at me. “Don’t cry,” he murmurs, his thumb catching and dispatching a stray tear. “Why won’t you talk to me? Please, Christian.” He closes his eyes as if in pain. “I vowed I would bring you solace in times of need. Please don’t make me break my vows.” He sighs and opens his eyes, his expression bleak. “It’s arson,” he says simply, and he looks suddenly so young and vulnerable. Oh fuck. 77/551 “And my biggest worry is that they are after me. And if they are after me—” He stops, unable to continue. “. . . They might get me,” I whisper. He blanches, and I know that I have fi- nally uncovered the root of his anxiety. I caress his face. “Thank you,” I murmur. He frowns. “What for?” “For telling me.” He shakes his head and a ghost of a smile touches his lips. “You can be very persuasive, Mrs. Grey.” “And you can brood and internalize all your feelings and worry yourself to death. You’ll probably die of a heart attack before you’re forty, and I want you around far longer than that.” “Mrs. Grey, you’ll be the death of me. The sight of you on the Jet Ski—I nearly had a coronary.” He flops back on the bed and puts his hand over his eyes, and I feel him shudder. “Christian, it’s a Jet | 1 |
63 | Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt | 97 | was even more luxurious than the outside. Knaves set into the walls held small icons of Apollius, sun rays over their arched tops breaking gold on the rich mahogany. The ceilings were painted with lush garden scenes, nude figures reclining among green trees and beside rushing blue streams, interrupted occasionally by the gold chains of heavy chandeliers, light catching the hanging gems and splashing rainbows across the walls. The iron crossbars bisecting the floor seemed brutally out of place. The bars were flush to the marble, but Lore still didn’t want to step on them. She lengthened her stride as much as the too-tight dress would allow. “Interesting décor decision.” Something about all this opulence made her want to keep her voice quiet. “They’re symbolic,” Gabriel murmured back. “Supposed to remind everyone that the Citadel is here to keep Mortem contained, and that the Arceneaux line rules through divine right.” “Gaudy.” “Quite.” A huge tapestry hung on the wall to her left, nearly wide enough to span the length of the hallway. In the top corner, the pale, chestnut-haired figure of Apollius hovered, wings of light spread behind His back, one hand thrust forward into the chest of a dark shape careening toward the ground. Just like the tapestry in the Church, the figure was vague, more smoke and shadow than concrete lines, but the crescent crown on Her brow was clear. Below, azure thread was interrupted by circles of brown and green, seven stylized islands in a stormy sea. The one at the end of the archipelago, farthest from the viewer, was the biggest by far. The Golden Mount. Where Apollius and Nyxara had lived before this moment. This was the Godsfall, how the Burnt Isles had gotten their name. Apollius cast down Nyxara when She tried to kill Him and take His place, creating a deep crater in the second island and rupturing the others. According to the Book of Holy Law, that was why so many gemstones and precious metals could be mined from them. Gods bled riches, apparently. Convenient. Lore stopped for a moment, studying the tapestry. It was strange to see all seven islands depicted. The smoke from the Godsfall obscured all but the first two from view, now, and the Golden Mount was functionally a myth, with countless voyagers lost as they searched for it in the smog. Five hundred years, and the ash still hadn’t cleared. A soft touch on her elbow. Gabriel nodded forward, where Malcolm and Anton were about to turn a corner. Lore lurched forward to follow, tearing herself away from Apollius and Nyxara. Around the corner, a huge set of double doors appeared, even more gilt-and-jewel-encrusted than the Citadel’s main entrance. Bloodcoat guards lined the hall, all of them inclining their heads in a bow when Anton appeared. The Priest Exalted paid them no mind, facing forward as the bloodcoats at the end of the line pushed the double doors open. The throne room beyond was even more impressive than the rest of the Citadel, large enough to hold a ball. | 0 |
43 | The Turn of the Screw.txt | 13 | eyes, and the uncovering of his little teeth shine to me in the dusk. "If I tell you why, will you understand?" My heart, at this, leaped into my mouth. WOULD he tell me why? I found no sound on my lips to press it, and I was aware of replying only with a vague, repeated, grimacing nod. He was gentleness itself, and while I wagged my head at him he stood there more than ever a little fairy prince. It was his brightness indeed that gave me a respite. Would it be so great if he were really going to tell me? "Well," he said at last, "just exactly in order that you should do this." "Do what?" "Think me--for a change--BAD!" I shall never forget the sweetness and gaiety with which he brought out the word, nor how, on top of it, he bent forward and kissed me. It was practically the end of everything. I met his kiss and I had to make, while I folded him for a minute in my arms, the most stupendous effort not to cry. He had given exactly the account of himself that permitted least of my going behind it, and it was only with the effect of confirming my acceptance of it that, as I presently glanced about the room, I could say-- "Then you didn't undress at all?" He fairly glittered in the gloom. "Not at all. I sat up and read." "And when did you go down?" "At midnight. When I'm bad I AM bad!" "I see, I see--it's charming. But how could you be sure I would know it?" "Oh, I arranged that with Flora." His answers rang out with a readiness! "She was to get up and look out." "Which is what she did do." It was I who fell into the trap! "So she disturbed you, and, to see what she was looking at, you also looked--you saw." "While you," I concurred, "caught your death in the night air!" He literally bloomed so from this exploit that he could afford radiantly to assent. "How otherwise should I have been bad enough?" he asked. Then, after another embrace, the incident and our interview closed on my recognition of all the reserves of goodness that, for his joke, he had been able to draw upon. XII The particular impression I had received proved in the morning light, I repeat, not quite successfully presentable to Mrs. Grose, though I reinforced it with the mention of still another remark that he had made before we separated. "It all lies in half a dozen words," I said to her, "words that really settle the matter. 'Think, you know, what I MIGHT do!' He threw that off to show me how good he is. He knows down to the ground what he `might' do. That's what he gave them a taste of at school." "Lord, you do change!" cried my friend. "I don't change--I simply make it out. The four, depend upon it, perpetually meet. If on either of these last nights you | 1 |
31 | The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt | 77 | my intention to charge him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to be a private matter, but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet was national property. I was determined that the law should have its way in everything. "'At least,' said he, 'you will not have me arrested at once. It would be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house for five minutes.' "'That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you have stolen,' said I. And then, realizing the dreadful position in which I was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my honor but that of one who was far greater than I was at stake; and that he threatened to raise a scandal which would convulse the nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell me what he had done with the three missing stones. "'You may as well face the matter,' said I; 'you have been caught in the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.' "'Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,' he answered, turning away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for any words of mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A search was made at once not only of his person but of his room and of every portion of the house where he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no trace of them could be found, nor would the wretched boy open his mouth for all our persuasions and our threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and I, after going through all the police formalities, have hurried round to you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter. The police have openly confessed that they can at present make nothing of it. You may go to any expense which you think necessary. I have already offered a reward of 1000 pounds. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my honor, my gems, and my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!" He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond words. Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire. "Do you receive much company?" he asked. "None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of Arthur's. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one else, I think." "Do you go out much in society?" "Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it." "That is unusual in a young girl." "She is of | 1 |
71 | Kate-Alice-Marshall-What-Lies-in-the-Woods.txt | 79 | had survived. People had told me over the years that I’d been blessed, brave, determined, fierce. I hadn’t felt like any of those things. Survival had never even crossed my mind as a possibility or a concept. I’d crawled across the forest floor because in my blood loss–addled brain, I was trying to get away from the pain, like I could leave it behind if I got far enough. One of the stab wounds had nicked the side of my heart, not quite puncturing the atrial wall. If it had been a millimeter deeper or farther to the right, I would have escaped the pain after all. The door opened. Mitch crept in with a hangdog shuffle. “I’m sorry,” he said, sinking down cross-legged beside me on the carpet. “You’re right. I’m an asshole. Completely useless. Can you forgive me?” “Okay,” I said, and then I flashed him a quick smile. If I sounded half-hearted, he’d keep up the Please forgive me groveling as long as it took. “You’re not useless, and you’re not an asshole.” “Yes, I am. I’m a horrible boyfriend.” He leaned his head against my shoulder. I sagged. I didn’t have the energy to make him feel better right now, but if I didn’t he would keep this up all night, berating himself for his supposed failures. “It’s okay,” I soothed. “You’re so stressed out, and I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” “I’m sorry,” he said again. His fingertips trailed down my arm and played across my palm, and I shut my eyes. What was wrong with me? Mitch loved me. He wanted the best for me. Why couldn’t I love him like I used to? “Who’s Persephone?” Mitch asked. I jerked, startled, and realized that Mitch was looking at my hand—at the bracelet wrapped around my fingers. It had been in the bottom of the box. I hadn’t even known that I’d picked it up. It was simple: a discolored nylon string, knotted into a loop and strung with plastic alphabet beads that had faded and chipped until the letters were almost unreadable. But not quite. “No one,” I said. I tossed the bracelet back in the box, disturbed that I’d picked it up without noticing. I can’t tell you more. Not over the phone, Liv had said. “Then why do you have her bracelet?” he asked with a little laugh. “Let me guess. Elementary school crush. Your BFF. Your babysitter.” “I don’t even know why that thing is in there,” I said. I should have gotten rid of it a long time ago. I crammed the binder and the cards and the quilt back in the box. The things in that box were the very last possessions I’d taken with me when I left Chester. “Maybe I should throw it all out. Move on.” “You know, I don’t think I’ve told you how fucking amazing you are,” Mitch said. “You were eleven years old and you put a serial killer away. They had jack shit on Stahl without your testimony. You were a pint-sized badass, and | 0 |
62 | Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt | 90 | that you really didn’t want children after all. I would have hated myself if you had given that up for me and then eventually regretted it.” That same afternoon he’d talked of illnesses that were passed down from generation to generation. I hadn’t put it together until now that he was talking about us, our future. He was trying to protect me. What a terrible waste, to have given each other up for some future tragedy that never even happened. When I speak, there’s a chill in my voice. “I never had children. My life was too peripatetic for that. But I suppose I appreciate the sentiment. You seem to have made it through your thirties unscathed.” “I have.” “I’m glad. Very glad.” “I considered reaching out, once I knew I was in the clear, but at that point I was with someone. After we broke up, I was on a work trip in Los Angeles when I saw that one of your shows was doing an out-of-town tryout there. I went to the opening—it was marvelous, by the way—but as I was buying my ticket I saw you with someone . . .” He trails off, but I know exactly who he’s referring to. It was a whirlwind romance with the assistant director, all glitter but no substance, one that fizzled out before we even got back to New York. I remember that night, though, when I was still in the midst of the initial heady spell of finding oneself in love. I hate that Peter witnessed it and walked away. “It wasn’t anything, just an on-the-road romance with an assistant director. You were there?” He nods and flinches a little, as if remembering the moment. My heart goes out to him then. My heart has always been with him. What terrible timing we’ve had. “The important thing is that you’re healthy,” I say. “I can only imagine what it was like waking up day after day, wondering if this was it, wondering if what you were thinking and feeling was reality or something else.” “That’s exactly what it was like.” “I’m afraid I didn’t escape the family curse so easily. You saw me earlier, I can’t even walk up to the stage without help. Like father, like daughter.” “I’m sorry, Marion. You seem better now.” “The medicine helps. For a time. I’m doing fine, actually. Better than expected.” He moves toward me. “I was excited that you’d be here tonight, that we’d see each other. I wanted a chance to explain, finally.” He pauses. “Although I admit I was worried that there was some assistant director in the picture.” I laugh, and he does as well. But he’s still looking at me like he’s serious. Good Lord. The man is caught up in the moment, not thinking straight. “No, no assistant director. But it’s too late, Peter, although I appreciate the sentiment.” My heart is thudding in my chest. “Come with me. We need a do-over.” “What?” Back inside we grab our coats and awards at the coat check—he refuses | 0 |
34 | The Call of the Wild.txt | 59 | advertising plainly that when his desire was met, he would come in and be good. Francois sat down and scratched his head. Perrault looked at his watch and swore. Time was flying, and they should have been on the trail an hour gone. Francois scratched his head again. He shook it and grinned sheepishly at the courier, who shrugged his shoulders in sign that they were beaten. Then Francois went up to where Sol-leks stood and called to Buck. Buck laughed, as dogs laugh, yet kept his distance. Francois unfastened Sol-leks's traces and put him back in his old place. The team stood harnessed to the sled in an unbroken line, ready for the trail. There was no place for Buck save at the front. Once more Francois called, and once more Buck laughed and kept away. "T'row down de club," Perrault commanded. Francois complied, whereupon Buck trotted in, laughing triumphantly, and swung around into position at the head of the team. His traces were fastened, the sled broken out, and with both men running they dashed out on to the river trail. Highly as the dog-driver had forevalued Buck, with his two devils, he found, while the day was yet young, that he had undervalued. At a bound Buck took up the duties of leadership; and where judgment was required, and quick thinking and quick acting, he showed himself the superior even of Spitz, of whom Francois had never seen an equal. But it was in giving the law and making his mates live up to it, that Buck excelled. Dave and Sol-leks did not mind the change in leadership. It was none of their business. Their business was to toil, and toil mightily, in the traces. So long as that were not interfered with, they did not care what happened. Billee, the good-natured, could lead for all they cared, so long as he kept order. The rest of the team, however, had grown unruly during the last days of Spitz, and their surprise was great now that Buck proceeded to lick them into shape. Pike, who pulled at Buck's heels, and who never put an ounce more of his weight against the breast-band than he was compelled to do, was swiftly and repeatedly shaken for loafing; and ere the first day was done he was pulling more than ever before in his life. The first night in camp, Joe, the sour one, was punished roundly-- a thing that Spitz had never succeeded in doing. Buck simply smothered him by virtue of superior weight, and cut him up till he ceased snapping and began to whine for mercy. The general tone of the team picked up immediately. It recovered its old-time solidarity, and once more the dogs leaped as one dog in the traces. At the Rink Rapids two native huskies, Teek and Koona, were added; and the celerity with which Buck broke them in took away Francois's breath. "Nevaire such a dog as dat Buck!" he cried. "No, nevaire! Heem worth one t'ousan' dollair, by Gar! Eh? Wot you say, | 1 |
61 | Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt | 57 | tempted to make some remark to answer his library dust comment, but in truth, I was a little humbled by his thoughtfulness. “Thank you,” I said finally. “I will—I will confine my reading to the indicated entries only.” He was only partly listening to me, his attention absorbed by the mirror that hung by my bed, in which he was frowning at his reflection and tugging his cloak this way and that. “I thought you had only a little common fae ancestry,” I said, trying to suppress my amusement—though not very hard, I admit. He scowled. “It is a little. I have three other grandparents, all highborn, including a king and queen.” I nodded, pretending to ponder this. Then I said, “There’s a bump in your nose now.” He glared at me. “There is not.” “Your mouth is lopsided.” He opened his mouth to argue, but then he just let out a weary groan. “What is the point? I am hideous. I can’t wait to change myself back again.” “Don’t. I prefer you like this.” He looked surprised, then he began to smile. “Do you?” “Yes,” I said. “You blend into the background. I could almost forget about you entirely. It’s refreshing.” Naturally, he found a way to twist this into a compliment. “And am I ordinarily a distraction to you, Em?” He rose to leave, flicking his fingers at the servant, who grumbled and began to stir. “Your attendants will become suspicious if I tarry much longer,” he said. “I will send you a note with your veil to clarify your role in tomorrow’s events. Perhaps it will soothe your conscience to know that it is a small one.” As he retreated, he seemed to melt into the grey daylight shadows, and I felt a sudden stab of terror. I didn’t want him to leave. Actually, I wanted him to stay, which was almost but not quite the same thing. I realized with a horrible sort of clarity that I had missed him. “What is the date?” I said. He paused, and told me. “A month,” I murmured. “I was off by a month.” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s not bad. Most mortals can watch years slip by in Faerie and think them mere days.” “Wendell,” I said. “I should—I mean, everything you’ve done for me, I —” “Oh dear,” he said. “That’s how I know you’ve really and truly been enchanted—you are getting mushy. You will kill me later if I enjoy the moment, so I’ll leave you to profess your gratitude to the walls. And anyhow, I must finish your dress.” I did not see him and Shadow leave the room, though I knew they were gone. My servant propped herself up on one elbow, blinking her frosty eyelashes in confusion. Before she had a chance to open her mouth, I berated her for falling asleep and bid her to send in my next visitor. 30th January—later (presumably) It was some time before I was able to escape from visitors and their interminable questions about my nuptials —which I | 0 |
75 | Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt | 20 | nod, she says simply, “Good.” She opens drawers and cabinets, pulling out things I don’t recognize. “This is special large-head atractylodis from Hangzhou,” she says, holding up something brown and dried. “We’re going to soak it in rice water, which will help the healing properties enter Lady Huang’s body through her Spleen and Stomach meridians to dry the Damp, harmonize the Stomach, and prevent miscarriage. Here’s another herb that we’ll prepare in vinegar. It helps to remove toxic Heat, invigorate Blood, and control pain.” I don’t fully comprehend the things she says, but I’m able to follow her directions. She lets me pour the rice water and later the vinegar. She shows me how to gaze into the liquid to judge its strength by the depth of the color. She asks me to hold the sieve as she pours both mixtures into an earthenware pot. I’d like her to tell me more about what the different roots and herbs are and their purpose, but her thoughts are elsewhere. “Having babies is central to every woman’s life,” she says. “But every pregnancy is a crisis of life or death. Will the mother survive and continue to run the household? Will the baby survive to become a descendant?” When we’re done and Inky has taken the formula to Lady Huang, Grandmother directs me to sit across from her. “Your grandfather has spoken about teaching you his medicine. I look at it differently. Your mother died because no male doctor could properly examine or treat her.” She silently taps her fingertips on her thighs, seemingly struggling with what to say. “It is not the custom to teach hereditary medicine to a daughter, who will eventually marry out and take her knowledge with her. Your grandfather’s type of medicine is different. It can be learned from a book, by anyone.” “But you learned, and you married out.” “I did,” she admits, but doesn’t expand on how that came to pass. Her fingers give a decisive thump on her thighs. “I cannot say if you will be a good student or not, but I am willing to teach you my medicine. Doctors, whether male or female, call it fuke—medicine for women. Are you interested?” My mouth spreads into a wide smile. “Yes, Grandmother Ru.” She hands me a small book. “This volume contains formulas and treatments more than two hundred years old. Start by memorizing the first three formulas. Once you can recite them without mistake, you will come to me ready to enumerate the problems for which they are most efficacious and how best to employ them.” I take the book and read the title: Excellent Prescriptions for Women by Chen Ziming. Still beaming, I draw the volume to my chest. “Thank you, Grandmother.” “Don’t thank me yet. When I was your age, I was already helping my parents in their practice. We have much work to do, so stop grinning! Nothing is assured. We will have to see how well you learn. Ultimately, I will decide if you are worthy of absorbing all I know.” | 0 |
89 | The-Last-Sinner.txt | 5 | with it. I mean, what’re ya gonna do? Know what I mean?” He wore an orange T-shirt and battered jeans held up by suspenders that stretched over a protruding belly. His beard was gray and thin, his feet slipped into moccasins that had stretched and looked a size too big. As they stepped into the office, he closed the door quickly behind them, pulled down the shade, and with the click of a switch killed the vacancy sign. “We need a little privacy,” he explained, “and some of my guests, well, they get a little squirrely around cops, if ya know what I mean.” Montoya did. The office itself was small with low ceilings and smelled of tobacco, fish, and dust. A counter ran along one side of the room, a refrigerated case on the opposite wall stacked with cold drinks—soda, beer, water, refrigerated snacks that included processed cheese and sausage, and bait. Next to the cold drink case was a chest freezer stuffed with frozen waffles, pizza, corn dogs, ice cream sandwiches, and more bait. Nuts, pretzels, M&M’s, cigarettes, and chewing tobacco were also available and displayed beneath the glass top of the counter, while behind the register was a wall-to-ceiling display of hard liquor bottles and packages of ammunition, all tightly locked behind Plexiglas doors. A bulletin board held curled and yellowed business cards, photos of hunters with dead alligators or deer, or fishermen with their catches, along with a piece of paper offering CU’s cabins for rent with his phone number on tabs at the bottom. The paper was missing four or five slips where potential customers had torn off the information. Not exactly high-tech, the kind of advertising one did in local grocery stores. “Come on back to the livin’ room,” Cyrus suggested. They followed him down a short hallway where supplies nearly blocked the path to an area that was a rustic studio apartment, a bed pushed into one corner, couch and recliner stretched across the opposite wall, television on a swiveling stand so that it could face the recliner or bed. The kitchen was an alcove with a microwave, mini fridge, and hot plate, and over the scents of mildew and dust, the smell of recently fried fish still lingered. Sliding doors opened to a large deck built over the water of the swamp and decorated with hanging lights and another couple of bug zappers. “So tell us about the priest,” Bentz suggested after letting CU know the interview was being recorded. “I’m not sure he was a priest.” CU settled into his recliner and stared out the window to the darkness beyond. “What made you think he was?” Montoya asked. “He was dressed all in black, no collar—just black pants and shirt, which isn’t all that odd these days, but there was something about him that made me think . . .” He let his voice fade off for a minute. “It was all odd. He called, asking about a cabin, which isn’t weird, of course, said he’d heard that I had one from a | 0 |
87 | The Foxglove King.txt | 60 | it in, rather than pull it out. Around the slab, Gabe and Bastian didn’t move. Instinct was all she had to follow here. Lore thinned that forest in her mind, loosening its protection. She took a breath, then held it until her vision began to white out, until everything faded to the muted gray of dead matter or the blazing white of something living. Gabe and Bastian were smudges of light, the body on the slab the color of charcoal—something between, something that should be dead, but with the death spooled out of it. Mortem was easy to find—it lived in the rock, in the glass solarium above, slowly turning pink with incoming dawn. But it was hard for her to grasp, hard to get a handle on. Bastian. Bastian was here. Lore opened her eyes, fixed them on him. “Bastian. You have to go.” Incredulity crossed his face first, then a blaze of rage. “Absolutely not. I thought we established that—” “I can’t get a grip on Mortem while you’re here.” She was too tired to argue. Gods, how long had it been since she’d slept? “I don’t know why, but if I’m going to do this, I need you to leave the vault.” To his credit, Gabe didn’t look smug. He didn’t look at Bastian at all, only at Lore, his brow furrowed. Channelers could see Mortem, but nonchannelers couldn’t—they could only see the effects it left on a person. Gabe had seen her reach for Mortem, seen her fail to grasp it. She watched him a moment, saw him hold his breath, his fingers go white and cold. Testing to see if he could grab hold of Mortem when she couldn’t. No dark threads attached to his fingers—he couldn’t grasp the magic of death when Bastian was around, either. Lore couldn’t decide if that was comforting or alarming. Bastian stared at her, not quite a glare, his arms crossed over his still-bare chest, his full mouth pressed into a white line. He nodded, just once, and stalked from the vault. Gabe didn’t ask questions. Didn’t do anything but wait. She was thankful for that. Lore closed her eyes, held her breath, lowered her mental defenses until she could sense Mortem again. She reached for it, twirled a thread of it around her necrotic fingers, her veins sludgy and blackened as her blood just barely moved. The Mortem worked its way through her, death crowding her cells but not taking over. Slowly, it gathered in her palms, and slowly, Lore raised her hands and pushed it out. It trailed across the vault, a viscous, dark line. It entered the corpse’s slack mouth, the gaping nostrils, the open black eyes. And as it did, the body slowly sank back down, the unnatural bend of the waist lessening by incremental degrees. She fed death to the corpse and laid it slowly to rest again. Lore slumped on the floor, pins and needles sweeping down her whole body as her blood quickened again, itchy and uncomfortable. Her breath heaved, her heart working overtime | 0 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 0 | of my well-honed compartmentalization skills. “He saw through the bad grades and the rec letters that said I was flaky. Told me I had potential. Accepted me into grad school. Everything I’ve accomplished, I owe to him.” Jack scans my face for a long time. Then he exhales slowly and nods once, as if coming to an arduous decision. “Elsie—” “My turn to ask a question,” I interrupt. I’m done talking about J.J. and Dr. L. “Since we’re on the topic.” Jack hesitates, like he’s not ready to let go of the subject. “What is it?” “Olive also said something else. That when you do go out with women, it’s usually to . . .” I can’t bring myself to utter the words. But it doesn’t matter, because Jack looks like he knows exactly what I want to say. I point back and forth between us. “Is that what you want?” He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he studies me, stern, unreadable, impenetrable as he hasn’t been in a while. And then, after a long beat of choosing words carefully, he slowly says, “You and I won’t be having sex—” “You guys ready to order?” The waitress interrupts us. We don’t go back to the topic. And I wonder why the knot of relief in my belly feels so much like disappointment. 18 FLUX M Y MAIN SENTIMENT GOING INTO LUNCH WITH G REG IS FEAR —closely followed by self-loathing, guilt, and an uncontrollable impulse to run back home and feed myself to Hedgie. Does he hate me? Does he hold me responsible for outing him? Does he want his money back? He deserves it. I’ll sell a cornea. Or a foot. Whatever goes for highest. As it turns out, I shouldn’t have worried. Because Greg grins widely the moment he sees me, and then asks suggestively, “You and my brother, huh?” “Oh, no. No, I . . .” We’re at our usual café, but even though today I could use some diversions, there are no screaming toddlers or projectile vomiting or tragic mishearings. Just the barista in a “Breathe If You Hate Tom Brady” shirt, me, and Greg’s winky face. I silently wish for a tectonic earthquake, to no avail. “We—Jack and I are just . . . hanging out.” There was dinner last Thursday, of course, which ended when he drove me home and answered my “Do you want to do this again?” with an infuriating “Do you?” And then the Saturday afternoon spent hunting down the Murder, She Wrote novelization for Millicent and bickering about the validity of string theory. (“It has produced no testable experimental predictions.” “We are working on the math!” “Work away, but until you come to me with a substantial breakthrough, the multiverse is as scientific as the Great Pumpkin.”) And last night, of course, when he drove me to a Northeastern lecture I was going to attend anyway. (“Or you can take the subway and we can meet there, if you enjoy watching people masturbate to Tropicana ads.”) Afterward we spent one hour in his | 0 |
62 | Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt | 69 | off. The police are stymied, and it’s been sixteen years, which is more than long enough for this man to terrorize the city. I thought you might be able to help.” He looked at her like she was nuts, which really made perfect sense. She was a Rockette, kicking and dancing for her weekly wage. Not the typical pursuer of sociopaths. She continued. “When you were at the restaurant, you were able to analyze that man who was abusing the staff and put him straight. I thought you might have some insights into who this bomber is.” “Without having met him?” “Why not? I mean, I’m sure they have notes he’s left—that sort of thing—that you can look at. Maybe there’s a pattern, like with the project you’re doing.” He leaned forward, picked up a pen, and then put it back down. “Because it’s more involved than that. What I do is science, not some parlor trick.” “That’s exactly what the investigation needs: science. The police are stuck, and maybe you can help them out of it, give them some ideas to go on. You have to.” “Why?” He looked genuinely confused. “Why are you here?” “I am here because . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence. “Look, if the police want help with their investigation, they’re going to approach a doctor with a long history in psychoanalysis, not me. Is there something else you’re not telling me?” She couldn’t answer his question honestly. If she did, she’d end up bursting into tears and he’d dismiss her as some hysterical, grieving relative. “I saw the bomber,” she finally said. “That day.” He looked at her, eyes wide. “You did? Have you told the police?” “Yes. Not that it did much good.” “What did he look like?” “A balding man in his forties, with glasses, wearing a trench coat and carrying a black leather briefcase.” She was pleased with how many details she’d come up with. But Peter didn’t seem impressed at all. He sat back in his chair. “That describes thousands of men in the city.” “That’s what the police said.” “And they’re right.” He checked his watch. “I’m sure you are very upset by what happened. It must’ve been quite frightening. But it’s not your job to figure out who the Big Apple Bomber is. You stick with what you do best, and let the police do their job.” His patronizing tone sent her over the edge; her entire body sizzled with rage. “Just because I dance doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.” “I didn’t say that, not at all.” “I’m a citizen of this city, as you are, and my taxes help pay for the police. If they can’t figure out who this guy is, after sixteen years, then maybe they should be looking outside the box. I plan on making them do that. There cannot be another death. There simply cannot.” He put his hands up. “I didn’t know there was a death. I thought most of these bombs didn’t go off, or if they did, the injuries were | 0 |
57 | Cold People.txt | 41 | the seabed, in between the forests of kelp, was a disco floor of orange sea stars and shimmering sea urchins. Spider crabs hastily retreated from her, no doubt scared that she might be hunting them since they were a popular delicacy in Hope Town. A large silver octopus took no evasive action, passing close by, staring at her with enigmatic, bulbous eyes, entirely unafraid even though they, too, were regularly caught, their flesh fried to a tempura crisp in salty seal-fat oil. Echo, normally so measured in her reactions, couldn’t be in the same room when they were being eaten – she found the sight distressing, and from this visceral reaction her mother had deduced that her biological composition must take some genetic element from the octopus. This mystery had puzzled Echo until she saw her own blood for the first time. With tough skin and excellent co-ordination, she’d never experienced the kind of scratches and grazes that were part of an ordinary-born human’s childhood. The first time she saw her blood was when her period began and she’d discovered that her blood was blue – little spots of sky dotted across her white-scale skin. Antarctic octopus blood was also blue, from the high concentration of the copper-based protein hemocyanin, which enabled it to continue transporting oxygen even at freezing temperatures. Though the genetic mystery was solved, the sight of her blue blood had troubled Echo – an expression of how alien she really was, as if being human meant that your blood ran red. The only person she’d confided in was Tetu, hoping he’d be nerdish and academic about it. To her surprise he’d reacted emotionally, and she realized in that moment that he’d been contemplating their compatibility as sexual partners or, to put it less scientifically, that he might be in love. He’d tried to cover his feelings by joking that ‘blue blood’ used to be a phrase denoting royalty, that she was a member of Antarctica’s royal family, an Ice Princess, and he was a humble peasant on this land, a man who should bow before her. Even his attempt at humour was revealing, the joke touching upon the belief that he didn’t feel that he was worthy of her, that the biological barriers between them couldn’t be bridged by affection alone. Swimming along the seabed towards the flickers of alien light ahead, Echo thought about asking these difficult questions when she arrived at McMurdo City. She would meet her creators, stand before them, ask a long series of questions and listen as her place in this world became clear. It was for this reason that she admired Tetu so much. He had no wise creators he could quiz for answers, he had no family, he had nothing except the wisdom he’d worked for and the ambition to be more than a survivor. Though she rarely paid him a compliment, she decided it was time to tell him, when she handed him this alien fragment, not that she loved him – she wasn’t confident of using that word – | 0 |
82 | Robyn-Harding-The-Drowning-Woman.txt | 3 | vacuum. Just like your zombie of a mother.” The words were cruel enough on their own, but I knew there was more abuse to come. If we were in a true BDSM relationship, the repercussions would have been agreed upon in advance. But Benjamin was not a dominant. He was a bully. A manipulator. An abuser. “Go to the room.” “But the steak…,” I said weakly. His plate flew at me, the cutlery clattering to the table. I brought my forearm up to protect myself, the plate glancing off it sharply. The bloody piece of meat landed in my lap. “Go!” he roared. I stood and stumbled obediently down the stairs. 30 “WE HAVE TO LEAVE,” I said. “Soon.” Jesse’s eyes remained on the road ahead as he piloted the Audi through sparse Saturday morning traffic. “What happened?” “This.” I twisted in my seat to reveal my lower back, black and blue from the beating. Benjamin used a leather cat-o’-nine-tails, a common instrument of BDSM play. But the way he used it was not playful. It was brutal. “Christ,” Jesse muttered. “And I’m only allowed to go to the gym for one hour now. It’s not long enough for us to be together.” I saw his jaw clench. “That fucking prick.” “I have to get away from him, Jesse. He’s going to kill me one day.” “I can’t get the boat. It’s chartered for the next month.” “Shit.” I swiped at my eyes and the tears welling there. His voice was gentle. “Don’t cry, Hazel.” But I couldn’t stop. The hopelessness of my situation was overwhelming me. I hated and feared my husband, but I couldn’t leave him. He would find me, and he would kill me. And then he’d go after my mother. I winced as my bruised backside brushed against the seat belt buckle. Jesse’s voice cut through my meltdown. “I met her,” he said without looking over. “Who?” “Lee. The homeless woman.” Something in my chest clutched as he continued. “She works at a diner in Beacon Hill. It’s a dive. Full of illegal workers. I sort of know the owner.” “But why did you want to meet her?” “There’s a strange woman living in the park near your house, Hazel. And she has a knife.” “She wouldn’t hurt me,” I said quickly. “She’s harmless. She’s nice actually.” “I’m not worried about her hurting you.” Fat raindrops began to mottle the windshield and Jesse flicked on the wipers. “I think we could use her.” An unpleasant tremor ran through me. “Use her how?” Jesse turned the Audi down a random side street. We were driving aimlessly. There wasn’t time to go to his apartment. “This is going to sound like a lot but hear me out.” He glanced over at me. I kept my face blank, receptive, but my heart rabbited in my throat. “We could get rid of Benjamin. For good. You could keep everything: the house, the money, the cars. And we could be together.” The school system, my peers, and most of all my husband had | 0 |
86 | Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt | 22 | straightforward about money. A little longer, he kept thinking. I’ll tell her about the investment once some time has passed since my last fuckup. Really, it had been just over a week since he’d sent her running to the other side of the country. They were so happy. He’d just wanted more things about their marriage in the pro column before he added deceptive about money to the con side. “Of course, go greet your wife,” the CO answered, laughing. “Didn’t recognize her at the flower stand. She looks different. Good different. Happier.” “Thank you,” August managed, pulse rollicking. “Did you . . . you didn’t mention the investment, did you? I haven’t told her yet.” The man only looked confused. “Why not?” “It’s complicated.” August sort of just doubled over, catching himself with hands on his knees, releasing an unsteady exhale. “You did tell her. She knows.” “It came up, yes.” “Oh fuck.” “Cates?” “Sorry. Oh fuck, sir.” This was bad. This was very bad. His spleen was seconds from erupting, and he didn’t even know where his spleen was located. Or its function. Fix it. Fix it now. “I need some time with Natalie, sir,” he said, winded. “If you hear glass breaking or doors slamming, don’t worry, that’s normal around here.” “Should I come back later?” August took a deep breath on his journey toward the house. “That’s probably a good idea, sir.” With a brisk nod, the commanding officer strode to his car, as if a battle awaited. And it did. The big one. Why the hell had August kept this from her for so long? Didn’t he know better by now? August paused with his hand on the doorknob, then opened the door carefully, waiting a beat, just in case a plate or frying pan came flying at his head. “Princess?” No answer. Shit. I’m screwed. Silent treatment from Natalie was so much worse than arguing, because he didn’t get to hear her voice and it meant her feelings were injured. Utter torture. “Natalie,” he said, easing himself inside the house, “I’m sorry. I was going to . . .” August stopped short just inside the door, because a sight greeted him that he wasn’t expecting. Natalie was standing in the middle of the kitchen, wringing her hands. She appeared to be . . . nervous? Why? Did people get nervous before they asked for a divorce? Probably. Acid flooded his organs, so thick he could taste it in his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice in tatters. “I was going to tell you, but we’re so happy and I didn’t want you to lump me in with your father and Morrison and Savage. Listen to me, it’s not what you think. Yes, I accepted an investment from Sam’s father. But it wasn’t because I didn’t want your help with the bank loan. I wasn’t rejecting you, the way I did with making our wine. That wasn’t it at all, Natalie. I just wanted . . .” He strode forward and took her shoulders, stooping | 0 |
26 | Pride And Prejudice.txt | 47 | received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. -- If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. -- If it be so, if I have been misled by such error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert that the serenity of your sister's countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. -- That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain, -- but I will venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. -- I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; -- I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. -- My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. -- But there were other causes of repugnance; -- causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before me. -- These causes must be stated, though briefly. -- The situation of your mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly, betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. -- Pardon me. -- It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. -- I will only say farther that, from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me before to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. -- He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning. -- The part which I acted is now to be explained. -- His sisters' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. -- We accordingly went -- and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend, the certain evils of such a choice. -- | 1 |
19 | Hound of the Baskervilles.txt | 39 | that point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. TheFe was certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did -- some little distance off, but fresh and clear." "Footprints?" "Footprints. " "A man's or a woman's?" Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered: "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!" Chapter 3 The Problem I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill in the doctor's voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly interested. "You saw this?" "As clearly as I see you." "And you said nothing?" "What was the use?" "How was it that no one else saw it?" "The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them a thought. I don't suppose I should have done so had I not known this legend." "There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?" "No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog." "You say it was large?" "Enormous. " "But it had not approached the body?" "No." "What sort of night was it?' "Damp and raw." "But not actually raining?" "No." "What is the alley like?" "There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across." "Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?" "Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side." "I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?" "Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor." "Is there any other opening?" "None." "So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?" "There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end." "Had Sir Charles reached this?" "No; he lay about fifty yards from it." "Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer -- and this is important -- the marks which you saw were on the path and not on the grass?" "No marks could show on the grass." "Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?" "Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate." "You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the | 1 |
70 | Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt | 83 | appears. “No!” I scream. “Leave us alone! What do you want?” The two dudes cling to each other. Tears trail down Brandon’s face. The masked man stalks forward as I grip the metal entrance gate. I don’t move, even though my gut is telling me to run. He walks up and grabs the front of my shirt through the bars. I struggle in his grip, clawing at him, kicking against the bars. He glares down at me with eyes black as coal. I reach into the waistband of my jeans and pull out a butcher knife. I plunge it into the killer’s chest, and blood flows from the wound. He lets go of my shirt and staggers back. As he cries out, he drops his machete, falls flat on his back, and goes completely limp. It’s over. I slowly turn around and look the last two dudes directly in the eye. I smile. It’s never easy at the end. I’m trying so hard to hold in my laughter, I can’t help but chuckle a little as I make the announcement. “I am the final girl,” I say. The floodlights click on, washing the entrance in a bright white light. “And you two have survived a night at Camp Mirror Lake. You win!” The men stare slack-jawed at me as people descend on the scene. The other Camp Mirror Lake staff crowd around us, and the other guests who’d been eliminated earlier in the night reappear. Tasha resurrects herself and scrambles to her feet, the knife rig still attached to her body. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and the sickly sweet corn syrup sticks to my lips. Someone cues the music; the Halloween theme song blasts through the camp. Leslie, the chick who got snatched up by the Mason Lodge, pushes her way through the crowd, marches up to Brandon, and slaps him so hard that spit flies out of his mouth. The entire crowd goes silent. “You left me!” she screams. “You ran away!” Kyle, the masked killer who is actually a classmate of mine at Groton High School, reemerges sans mask holding a T-shirt that says, I Survived the Night at Camp Mirror Lake. It’s the prize for “winning” the game, but when he hands it to Brandon, Leslie snatches it away and throws it on the ground, stomping on it until it’s covered in mud. She breaks up with Brandon on the spot with the entire staff looking on. Kyle leans in close to me, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him. “Charity, we knocked this one out of the park.” I eye the dark-red stain on his chest. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? I saw you wince. I’m so sorry.” He shakes his head and hands me back my retractable butcher knife. “It didn’t collapse into the handle all the way. Thought you stabbed me for real for a minute.” He chuckles. “I’m good. I hope you never actually get mad at me, though.” He rubs his chest | 0 |
22 | Lord of the Flies.txt | 7 | a harsh cry that seemed to come out of the abyss of ages. Jack himself shrank at this cry with a hiss of indrawn breath, and for a minute became less a hunter than a furtive thing, ape-like among the tangle of trees. Then the trail, the frustration, claimed him again and he searched the ground avidly. By the trunk of a vast tree that grew pale flowers on its grey bark he checked, closed his eyes, and once more drew in the warm air; and this time his breath came short, there was even a passing pallor in his face, and then the surge of blood again. He passed like a shadow under the darkness of the tree and crouched, looking down at the trodden ground at his feet. The droppings were warm. They lay piled among turned earth. They were olive green, smooth, and they steamed a little. Jack lifted his head and stared at the inscrutable masses of creeper that lay across the trail. Then he raised his spear and sneaked forward. Beyond the creeper, the trail joined a pig-run that was wide enough and trodden enough to be a path. The ground was hardened by an accustomed tread and as Jack rose to his full height he heard something moving on it. He swung back his right arm and hurled the spear with all his strength. From the pig-run came the quick, hard patter of hoofs, a castanet sound, seductive, maddening--the promise of meat. He rushed out of the undergrowth and snatched up his spear. The pattering of pig's trotters died away in the distance. Jack stood there, streaming with sweat, streaked with brown earth, stained by all the vicissitudes of a day's hunting. Swearing, he turned off the trail and pushed his way through until the forest opened a little and instead of bald trunks supporting a dark roof there were light grey trunks and crowns of feathery palm. Beyond these was the glitter of the sea and he could hear voices. Ralph was standing by a contraption of palm trunks and leaves, a rude shelter that faced the lagoon and seemed very near to falling down. He did not notice when Jack spoke. "Got any water?" Ralph looked up, frowning, from the complication of leaves. He did not notice Jack even when he saw him. "I said have you got any water? I'm thirsty." Ralph withdrew his attention from the shelter and realized Jack with a start. "Oh, hullo. Water? There by the tree. Ought to be some left." Jack took up a coconut shell that brimmed with fresh water from among a group that was arranged in the shade, and drank. The water splashed over his chin and neck and chest. He breathed noisily when he had finished. "Needed that." Simon spoke from inside the shelter. "Up a bit." Ralph turned to the shelter and lifted a branch with a whole tiling of leaves. The leaves came apart and fluttered down. Simon's contrite face appeared in the hole. "Sorry." Ralph surveyed the wreck with distaste. | 1 |
87 | The Foxglove King.txt | 73 | her lungs, letting instinct take over, drive her as it had before. She’d been born to this, to the magic and the dark, and every part of her but her mind was eager. One moment everything was bright and lurid, and the next she saw only the barest impression of her surroundings, the world cloaked in grayscale as her lungs began to burn, her body tipped toward death. The bloodcoats and Jean-Paul and the living bodies of the crowd were all surrounded in auras of white light. The outline around Horse’s corpse leaked slowly from white to black, life leaving as death took over. Threads of Mortem waved in the air like spider legs, the black corona of an inverted sun. Lore didn’t look down at herself as she slowly let her breath out, keeping her grip on Mortem strong, because she was in it now and the current of instinct had pulled her under. She knew what she looked like—her fingers cold and corpse-pale, her eyes shifting from hazel to opaque white. On her palm, the moon-shaped scar blazed like a beacon, a black glow that was the absence of light and yet so bright it hurt to look at. Over her heart, a knot of darkness swirled, a black star of emptiness hidden beneath her shirt. She knew what she looked like, and it was death walking. Her hands curled, pulling the dark matter that was the power of death inward, as if her Mortem-touched heart were a magnet. The threads waving over Horse’s body shuddered, then flowed toward her. They braided in the air and attached to her fingers, magic easily breaching the barrier of her skin. Horse’s death danced down her veins, swirled through her like tainted blood. Lore channeled the Mortem quickly through her system, pushing it through every vein like a half-frozen winter stream, fighting against her flagging heartbeat, her gone-shallow breath. Death magic circled her every organ, pausing them all, like frost on a bud at the edge of spring. This was the part that was supposed to make you live longer, freezing your insides so they moved slower in time, so the years touched you more gently. Those who took poison couldn’t channel the death it brought to them back out, couldn’t make it do anything but curdle them into twisted immortality as it awakened the dormant Mortem in their bodies. To channel Mortem, you had to embrace death like a lover and hope it let you go, and hardly anyone ever got that far, not on purpose. At least, that’s what Lore assumed. She’d been born with this. Born with death beside her like a shadow. Slowly, slowly, Lore pushed the Mortem she’d channeled through herself back to her hands, like gathering fistfuls of black thread. Then she thrust all the death she’d taken back out. Mortem arced from her fingers, death eager for a new home, and Lore had just enough presence of mind to direct it to a flower bed in the center of the road, already browned and limp from | 0 |
66 | Hell Bent.txt | 89 | know a lot about this place.” “I like history. But there isn’t any money in it.” “Not like the law?” Anselm lifted a shoulder. “Lethe makes a lot of promises, so does Yale, but none of them come true in New Haven. This is a place that will never repay your loyalty.” Maybe not much like Darlington after all. “And Lethe?” “Lethe was an extracurricular. It’s silly to think of it as anything else. Dangerous even.” “You’re warning me.” Just as Michelle Alameddine had. “I’m just talking. But I don’t think you came here to listen to me pontificate about Cromwell and the perils of growing old in Connecticut.” So this was it. “You said you read my file. My mom … my mom isn’t doing great.” “She’s ill?” Was chasing after any whiff of a miracle diagnosable? Was there a name for someone doomed to seek invisible patterns in gemstones and horoscopes? Who thought life’s mysteries might be revealed by eliminating dairy from your diet? Or gluten or trans fats? Could Los Angeles be called an illness? “She’s fine,” Alex said. “She’s just not a realist and she’s not good with money.” That was putting it mildly. “Does she embarrass you?” The question startled her, and Alex wasn’t ready for the rush of emotion that came with it. She didn’t want to feel small and naked, a child without protection, a girl alone. The semester had only just begun and she was already exhausted, worn down to nothing, the same girl who had arrived at Yale over a year ago, swinging at anyone and anything that might try to hurt her. She wanted a mother to keep her safe and give her good advice. She wanted a father who was something more than a ghost story her mother refused to tell. She wanted Darlington, who was here but who wasn’t, whom she needed to navigate all this madness. It all crashed in on her at once, and she felt the unwelcome ache of tears at the back of her throat. Alex took a sip of water, got herself under control. “I need to find a way to help her.” “I can get you a paid summer intern—” “No. Now. I need money.” That came out harsher than she’d meant it to, the real Alex jutting her chin out, tired of small talk and diplomacy. Anselm folded his hands as if bracing himself. “How much?” “Twenty thousand dollars.” Enough to get Mira out of her lease and settled somewhere new, enough to keep her going until she landed a new job. All of that was assuming Alex could convince her mother to leave Los Angeles. But Alex thought she could. She’d use compulsion if she had to, if it would save her mother’s life and hers. “That’s quite a loan.” “A gift,” she corrected. “I can’t pay something like that back.” “Alex, what you’re asking—” But it was time to be very clear. “You read my file. You know what I can do. I can see the dead. I can even speak | 0 |
41 | The Secret Garden.txt | 10 | `Once when I was givin' th' children a bit of a preach after they'd been fightin' I ses to 'em all, "When I was at school my jography told as th' world was shaped like a orange an' I found out before I was ten that th' whole orange doesn't belong to nobody. No one owns more than his bit of a quarter an' there's times it seems like there's not enow quarters to go round. But don't you--none o' you--think as you own th' whole orange or you'll find out you're mistaken, an' you won't find it out without hard knocks." `What children learns from children,' she says, 'is that there's no sense in grabbin' at th' whole orange--peel an' all. If you do you'll likely not get even th' pips, an' them's too bitter to eat.'" "She's a shrewd woman," said Dr. Craven, putting on his coat. "Well, she's got a way of saying things," ended Mrs. Medlock, much pleased. "Sometimes I've said to her, 'Eh! Susan, if you was a different woman an' didn't talk such broad Yorkshire I've seen the times when I should have said you was clever.'" That night Colin slept without once awakening and when he opened his eyes in the morning he lay still and smiled without knowing it--smiled because he felt so curiously comfortable. It was actually nice to be awake, and he turned over and stretched his limbs luxuriously. He felt as if tight strings which had held him had loosened themselves and let him go. He did not know that Dr. Craven would have said that his nerves had relaxed and rested themselves. Instead of lying and staring at the wall and wishing he had not awakened, his mind was full of the plans he and Mary had made yesterday, of pictures of the garden and of Dickon and his wild creatures. It was so nice to have things to think about. And he had not been awake more than ten minutes when he heard feet running along the corridor and Mary was at the door. The next minute she was in the room and had run across to his bed, bringing with her a waft of fresh air full of the scent of the morning. "You've been out! You've been out! There's that nice smell of leaves!" he cried. She had been running and her hair was loose and blown and she was bright with the air and pink-cheeked, though he could not see it. "It's so beautiful!" she said, a little breathless with her speed. "You never saw anything so beautiful! It has come! I thought it had come that other morning, but it was only coming. It is here now! It has come, the Spring! Dickon says so!" "Has it?" cried Colin, and though he really knew nothing about it he felt his heart beat. He actually sat up in bed. "Open the window!" he added, laughing half with joyful excitement and half at his own fancy. "Perhaps we may hear golden trumpets!" And though he laughed, Mary | 1 |
56 | Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt | 11 | when Ash’s hand absently paws at my collar in reaction to something on the screen. “What the— Ash.” “Get it… Get it!” he shouts. His expression crashes. “Noooo.” He slumps back into his chair. “I just lost five bucks.” He reaches into his pocket for his phone. “Five whole American dollars?” I ask, grinning. “You’d better watch that gambling habit.” “I don’t know how she does it, but Ella is a shark and never loses.” “You lost to your wife?” He looks up from where he’s typing her a message. “I’m considering taking her to Vegas.” “Definitely do it before the baby is born—pregnant ladies love smoky casinos.” He ignores this and slides his phone onto the table. “Let’s get back to your job crisis so I can go home. I know this will hurt your do-gooder soul, but I think you need to bite the bullet and do the reality show Blaine wants. Spend the rest of the year making candy, or whatever he called it, and if it’s successful, you’ll have leverage to make what you want after that.” I begin to protest, and he holds up a hand. “I know you hate this. I know your work matters to you. Thanks to you I haven’t thrown away a gum wrapper or used a plastic water bottle in two years. I’m going to be using cloth diapers, man.” “I must be a lot of fun at parties.” Ash steeples his fingers under his chin. “I say this because I know how much you want to stick to your principles here. You want to make stuff that matters. But I also know you can’t lose this job. You only missed a few hours with Stevie tonight. Imagine what you’d miss if you had to move back to LA.” I turn my gaze down to my beer. The thought alone makes my stomach twist. “Yeah.” “So do it and move on.” “I’m not sure it’s that easy.” “Come on. We’re smart guys. Bounce some sexy show ideas off me.” I press my fingers to my temples, trying to will a million-dollar idea into existence. “That’s the problem, I don’t have any. I’m certain the world doesn’t need another one of these things.” “Well, while the world may not need another, it certainly wants it: Ella watches every single one. What you need is a new angle.” He turns to glance around the bar, and when he does, I see the dry cleaning tag still attached to his collar. Has it been like this all day? With a sigh, I reach over and pluck it off. “Huh,” he says, examining it before placing it on the table and looking back to the TV. I follow his attention to where the game has finished and the nightly news is on. It’s too loud in the bar to hear the voiceover, but the captions inform me that GeneticAlly, the biggest dating app in the world right now, has been bought by Roche Pharmaceuticals. “Holy shit,” Ash murmurs, then narrows his eyes to read something on | 0 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 75 | as possible, purchasing semi-automatic rifles and ammunition to carry out the attack. The suspect had been ready to move forward. What he didn’t know was that he was under round-the-clock FBI surveillance. The Washington Field Office (WFO) where McCabe was chief would never have let him get close to the Capitol. “He didn’t stand a chance,” the seasoned FBI veteran explained. The suspect was arrested, convicted, and later sentenced to several decades in prison. McCabe was pulling near all-nighters to help disrupt attacks like this. But it was the plots that weren’t on his radar that kept him awake. He briefed us on a sweltering day in June 2015 at the WFO headquarters, near D.C.’s Chinatown neighborhood. I was working on Capitol Hill at the time, leading a bipartisan counterterrorism task force with a dozen members of Congress. We were reassured that McCabe was on the job. He was one of the most trusted officials in the Bureau and had handled sensitive cases—from massive organized crime to Chinese espionage on U.S. soil—under presidents of both parties. When the ISIS terror threat surged, FBI leaders put him in charge at WFO, where the best of the best investigate the worst of the worst. The members of Congress who were there with me that day thanked McCabe. His team’s work to protect the U.S. Capitol could have saved their lives, they said. He humbly deflected the praise. It was the only briefing I’ve ever been in where congressional representatives clapped at the end. He didn’t know it at the time, but some of these legislators would eventually turn against McCabe. After he left WFO, he became FBI deputy director, then acting director when Jim Comey was dismissed. (“You could have knocked me down with a finger,” he told me of his shock when he learned Comey was fired.) He had never imagined political interference at the Bureau—an institution regarded for its investigative autonomy—and certainly not from a president. Then he found himself on Trump’s enemies list. McCabe was instrumental in convincing DOJ leaders to appoint an independent special counsel to lead the Russia investigation so that the White House couldn’t interfere with efforts to get to the bottom of whether Moscow had somehow infiltrated Trump’s inner circle. The president was incensed. He accused Andy McCabe of being a Democratic mole inside DOJ and attacked the FBI leader on Twitter with regularity. Trump even singled out McCabe’s wife, drawing spurious connections between her personal political activities and her husband’s job. “We were under incredible pressure from the most powerful man in the country,” he reflected about his time in Trump’s DOJ. “He installed people who made it clear to us they were there to do what he wanted.” We reconnected before the 2020 election. McCabe was out of government and feared that if Trump won a second term, the White House would try to use DOJ, the FBI, and the justice system to prosecute the president’s rivals. “Could they succeed?” I asked. “Everyone at the Bureau—from deputy director down to the front desk—is there to | 0 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 51 | time, rising so early?” Alice had asked Mrs. King. Mrs. King had considered this, deciding whether it was a relevant question or not. “She reads,” she’d said, at last, voice stiff. “Oh? What does she read?” Alice had detected a tiny note of doubt in her sister’s voice. “Improving texts.” “What sort of topics?” Mrs. King had frowned. “War. Philosophy. The art of diplomacy. Chronicles of great kings.” Alice had laughed. “Not really?” Mrs. King had been quite serious. “What else?” Miss de Vries opened the door to the dressing room. It was a miniature copy of the bedroom, mirrored and gilded and festooned in silk. But it was much darker, and without windows. It contained only wardrobes and painted screens. Alice was here all the time, carrying bolts of fabric back and forth from the closets. “Tell me,” said Miss de Vries, and her voice lightened, as if she could talk frankly now that they were alone. She marched to the wardrobe, threw open the doors, rummaged quickly for something—and drew out a stack of papers. “Are these yours?” Alice flushed. Madam was holding the sketches, the ones Alice had made. She raised an eyebrow when Alice didn’t reply. “Well?” Alice reached for them. “Beg pardon, Madam,” she said. “I shouldn’t have left those there.” Miss de Vries smiled, a cold line. She lifted the sketches into the air, out of reach. “They’re good,” she said shortly, spreading them out on the dressing-room table, expression unreadable. “You’re a remarkable draftsman,” she said. “Or draftswoman, I suppose.” Alice shook her head. “I wouldn’t say that, Madam.” Miss de Vries’s eyes narrowed. “Nonsense. I can’t abide false modesty.” She pressed a finger to one of the pages. “This one. What would it take to make it?” Alice felt a prickle of unease. “Make it?” “Yes.” Miss de Vries tapped it with her nail. Alice went to the table, examined her own design. A gown with a waist strapped and laced, a fanciful and cloud-like train, shoulders that were mere skeins of thread, slipping off the skin. Something that would ripple when it moved. Something entirely unsuitable for a lady in mourning. Alice reached for the paper, to hide it. “I really shouldn’t have, Madam.” Miss de Vries placed her fist on the table, holding the page in place. “Shouldn’t have what? Imagined something nice for me to wear?” Alice shook her head. “They’re just scribbles, Madam. Silly drawings.” “My dress is ghastly. It won’t do at all—I see that now.” Miss de Vries stepped back. Up close, at this angle, it was perfectly possible for Alice to inspect Madam’s skin, the tiny freckles and wisps of hair on the back of her neck. It made her gentler, more human. “I want something like this. Could you do it?” “Me?” said Alice, in disbelief. “They can help you down at Bond Street, I’m sure,” said Miss de Vries. “I suppose it’s simply a matter of stitching it all together.” She nodded at the sketch. “You’ve got your pattern, after all.” Alice’s mind started ticking, | 0 |
33 | The Age of Innocence.txt | 36 | to have together!" XX. Of course we must dine with Mrs. Carfry, dearest," Archer said; and his wife looked at him with an anxious frown across the monumental Britannia ware of their lodging house breakfast-table. In all the rainy desert of autumnal London there were only two people whom the Newland Archers knew; and these two they had sedulously avoided, in conformity with the old New York tradition that it was not "dignified" to force one's self on the notice of one's acquaintances in foreign countries. Mrs. Archer and Janey, in the course of their visits to Europe, had so unflinchingly lived up to this principle, and met the friendly advances of their fellow-travellers with an air of such impenetrable reserve, that they had almost achieved the record of never having exchanged a word with a "foreigner" other than those employed in hotels and railway-stations. Their own compatriots-- save those previously known or properly accredited-- they treated with an even more pronounced disdain; so that, unless they ran across a Chivers, a Dagonet or a Mingott, their months abroad were spent in an unbroken tete-a-tete. But the utmost precautions are sometimes unavailing; and one night at Botzen one of the two English ladies in the room across the passage (whose names, dress and social situation were already intimately known to Janey) had knocked on the door and asked if Mrs. Archer had a bottle of liniment. The other lady--the intruder's sister, Mrs. Carfry--had been seized with a sudden attack of bronchitis; and Mrs. Archer, who never travelled without a complete family pharmacy, was fortunately able to produce the required remedy. Mrs. Carfry was very ill, and as she and her sister Miss Harle were travelling alone they were profoundly grateful to the Archer ladies, who supplied them with ingenious comforts and whose efficient maid helped to nurse the invalid back to health. When the Archers left Botzen they had no idea of ever seeing Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle again. Nothing, to Mrs. Archer's mind, would have been more "undignified" than to force one's self on the notice of a "foreigner" to whom one had happened to render an accidental service. But Mrs. Carfry and her sister, to whom this point of view was unknown, and who would have found it utterly incomprehensible, felt themselves linked by an eternal gratitude to the "delightful Americans" who had been so kind at Botzen. With touching fidelity they seized every chance of meeting Mrs. Archer and Janey in the course of their continental travels, and displayed a supernatural acuteness in finding out when they were to pass through London on their way to or from the States. The intimacy became indissoluble, and Mrs. Archer and Janey, whenever they alighted at Brown's Hotel, found themselves awaited by two affectionate friends who, like themselves, cultivated ferns in Wardian cases, made macrame lace, read the memoirs of the Baroness Bunsen and had views about the occupants of the leading London pulpits. As Mrs. Archer said, it made "another thing of London" to know Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle; | 1 |
57 | Cold People.txt | 26 | things they do. I’m interested in the story of people, that’s why I became a director. How a person stands, how a person looks, how they touch each other. Let me tell you my observation. You’re in love.’ ‘I’m in love?’ ‘You are in love. Yes, you are, my friend, you’re in love. With that man, that new species, that Cold Person, that creation you call Eitan. I’ll go further. The soldier you were in love with? I’ll bet his name was Eitan.’ Yotam sat back in his chair, impressed with her brilliance. ‘That was his name, yes. Eitan.’ ‘Why did you call this new species Eitan?’ ‘Perhaps it is a kind of love. It’s admiration. They’re extraordinary. They’re our future.’ ‘I’m not talking about admiration or appreciation for the species. You are in love with the creature you’ve called Eitan. Not the whole colony. It’s not generalized. It’s individual. You’re in love with him. Why can’t you say it?’ ‘What if I was? In love with him?’ ‘There’s beauty in his body, for sure, that torso like armour. That face is like a work of art. The way he moves. The way he thinks. When he spoke to me in French, I felt something, a connection – it was intimate, like he wanted to know me, to understand me as deeply as I’ve been understood by anyone. In a few minutes, I felt close to him.’ ‘Does it matter what my feelings are?’ ‘You say that because you’ve spent your whole life believing your feelings don’t matter. But they do. Right now, you’re the bridge between that species and us. I’m looking at you, thinking, What kind of bridge is this man?’ ‘And what did you decide?’ ‘Honestly?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘That you are an unreliable one.’ ‘Unreliable in what way?’ ‘In the way that all people who are in love are unreliable. What do you imagine will happen when those creatures are released?’ ‘They’ll live alongside us.’ ‘No, my friend. Eitan was acting. When we watched the movie. I wasn’t sure at first. Because it has no facial expressions. But after a while I became sure. The way it moves its arms and hands. The way it holds its body. It’s seducing you so that you will release it. It is pretending. Playing a part, trying to convince us that it’s safe.’ ‘There’s no way you can know that.’ ‘Some part of you already knows this to be the truth. That you’re in love and no longer thinking clearly. That is why you broke the rules and brought me to see the creature. You wanted me to intervene, to save you from yourself. You’re going to be angry with me. It will feel like a betrayal, and I’m very sorry for that.’ ‘What have you done?’ The door to the bar opened and security officials entered. Their presence was such a rare occurrence that the entire bar fell silent as they surrounded Yotam’s table. It took a moment for him to comprehend that he was being arrested. Zariffa squeezed his hand. | 0 |
6 | Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt | 78 | not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you. Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant, then, that you seek to count him as a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he does support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if I find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser. Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: “I find these chambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require your services. I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another place.” He made no reply, and nothing more was said. On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers, and having but little furniture, every thing was removed in a few hours. Throughout, the scrivener remained standing behind the screen, which I directed to be removed the last thing. It was withdrawn; and being folded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of a naked room. I stood in the entry watching him a moment, while something from within me upbraided me. I re-entered, with my hand in my pocket—and—and my heart in my mouth. “Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going—good-bye, and God some way bless you; and take that,” slipping something in his hand. But it dropped upon the floor, and then,—strange to say—I tore myself from him whom I had so longed to be rid of. Established in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door locked, and started at every footfall in the passages. When I returned to my rooms after any little absence, I would pause at the threshold for an instant, and attentively listen, ere applying my key. But these fears were needless. Bartleby never came nigh me. I thought all was going well, when a perturbed looking stranger visited me, inquiring whether I was the person who had recently occupied rooms at No.—Wall-street. Full of forebodings, I replied that I was. “Then sir,” said the | 1 |
90 | The-Lost-Bookshop.txt | 23 | I took her ashtray and emptied it into the fireplace. ‘I’ll tell you a little story,’ she began, crossing her feet on a cushioned footstool in front of her. ‘When I was the grand dame of Ha'penny Lane in the eighties … ah, the parties we used to have. That was with my third husband, Vladimir. He was a Russian mathematician, which sounds boring, but, my girl, he was anything but! He served the best vodka and caviar. People came from every walk of life to our parties.’ I pulled a J-cloth from my pocket and began wiping some invisible dust from the mantlepiece. I’d hardly had any interest in listening to her stories when I first arrived, but now I was curious. It was possible that both of us were softening a little at the edges. We had nothing in common, but we were starting to realise that maybe we weren’t such bad company. ‘Anyway, there was one particular evening, midsummer, or was it midwinter? Well, either way … no, it was winter. I remember there was frost on the pavement. One of the guests arrived late and she was very shaken indeed. As she warmed her posterior by the fire, she told us of how she had got out of the taxi and walked into what she thought was our house. But when she got inside, she realised that it was a bookshop – a small, old-fashioned little place, full of charming old books and knick-knacks. Anyway, she came back out on to the street, turned around and poof! The shop was gone and there was my front door again. Of course, we all thought she was on something – so many people were in those days. But isn’t that funny how it happened again?’ I felt a chill run through me. I didn’t like ghost stories and this was starting to sound like one. ‘Well, not exactly. He just said he was looking for one.’ What had he said? This house must have been attached to it or something. I shook my head vigorously and got up to prepare her dinner. When Henry had asked for help, it reminded me of the person I used to be – open, giving. I should probably tell him this story; maybe it would help him in his search, or at least give him a clue. But helping people only seemed to lead to trouble and regret these days. So I decided I would keep it to myself and keep my blinds closed. It’s funny how people complain about boredom. God, how I ached for a boring day when I was living with Shane and his unpredictable moods. A day where the worst thing you could expect was that nothing much would happen. But now that I had it, I wasn’t sure what to do with it. My routine was taking up less and less time as I grew more accustomed to it and I found myself with some free time in the afternoons. Madame Bowden, not being one for tact, dropped as | 0 |
87 | The Foxglove King.txt | 47 | No Arceneaux has ever actually channeled Spiritum. It’s all around us, just like Mortem is, but it’s not something that can be grasped.” “Neither was Mortem, until Nyxara died,” Lore said. Malcolm pointed at her. “Precisely.” Clearly, he didn’t get many opportunities to debate theories of magic; he seemed nearly giddy at the prospect, his dour manner from earlier forgotten as he finished his plant tending and retrieved his gloves. “So if you subscribe to the idea that Apollius isn’t dead, just waiting in the Shining Realm, it makes sense why no one can use Spiritum. There isn’t a body for it to leak from.” “If you subscribe to the idea?” Gabe looked up incredulously from the book he’d been reading through the glass. “You did say your research would be heretical.” Malcolm shrugged, pulling his gloves back on. “I’m just living up to your example.” He gestured with one hand, then the other, indicating one thing following another. “Whoever has the power has to die—or, for the sake of pious sensibilities, we’ll just say experience a change of state—in order for someone else to use it.” Even with the concession, Gabe didn’t seem terribly pleased by the direction the conversation had taken. With a furrow of his brow so deep it shifted his eye patch, he looked back at his book. “Now,” Malcolm said, still addressing Lore, “theoretically, you could pull Spiritum from a living thing, much like taking Mortem from a rock or deadwood. But living things cling fiercely to life; they don’t give it up easily.” Lore wandered over to one of the shelves of books Malcolm actually let her touch, bound copies of lecture notes from the university in Grantere, a smaller city farther north. “I would imagine taking Spiritum from a living thing would leave it dead.” “That does logically follow, yes,” Gabe said drily. She ignored him. “And you’d have to pull from something large, like a person or a big animal or a shit-ton of flowers to get enough Spiritum to do anything.” She hadn’t the foggiest what someone might attempt to do with Spiritum, but Mortem wasn’t exactly the most useful thing, either. “If we follow the theory that it works similarly to Mortem, yes.” Malcolm leaned back against the table, crossed his arms. “But note: No human has ever actually channeled Spiritum, so we don’t really know if it works the same way. This is all conjecture.” “Then why is it mentioned in the first place?” Lore moved on from the lecture notes and instead grabbed one of the non-rare copies of the Book of Holy Law. She flipped to the notation, memorized now. “The Book of Holy Law, Tract Two Hundred Fourteen. ‘To my chosen, I bequeath my power— Spiritum, the magic of life.’” Malcolm grinned. Lore eyed him over the edge of the book’s cover. “You have some fiddly little scholarly fact about this passage, don’t you?” “Not fiddly, thank you very much, just a translation dispute.” His grin widened. “Tell me; is chosen singular or plural?” Her mouth opened to | 0 |
32 | The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt | 49 | they sped by some outlying cottages that lay near the village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give wings to their feet. "If we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!" whispered Tom, in short catches between breaths. "I can't stand it much longer." Huckleberry's hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it. They gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered: "Huckleberry, what do you reckon'll come of this?" "If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon hanging'll come of it." "Do you though?" "Why, I know it, Tom." Tom thought a while, then he said: "Who'll tell? We?" "What are you talking about? S'pose something happened and Injun Joe didn't hang? Why, he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we're a laying here." "That's just what I was thinking to myself, Huck." "If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he's fool enough. He's generally drunk enough." Tom said nothing -- went on thinking. Presently he whispered: "Huck, Muff Potter don't know it. How can he tell?" "What's the reason he don't know it?" "Because he'd just got that whack when Injun Joe done it. D'you reckon he could see anything? D'you reckon he knowed anything?" "By hokey, that's so, Tom!" "And besides, look-a-here -- maybe that whack done for him!" "No, 'taint likely, Tom. He had liquor in him; I could see that; and besides, he always has. Well, when pap's full, you might take and belt him over the head with a church and you couldn't phase him. He says so, his own self. So it's the same with --------------------------------------------------------- -111- Muff Potter, of course. But if a man was dead sober, I reckon maybe that whack might fetch him; I dono." After another reflective silence, Tom said: "Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?" "Tom, we got to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn't make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him. Now, look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one another -- that's what we got to do -- swear to keep mum." "I'm agreed. It's the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear that we -- " "Oh no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little rubbishy common things -- specially with gals, cuz they go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff -- but there orter be writing 'bout a big thing like this. And blood." Tom's whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it. He picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in | 1 |
21 | Little Women.txt | 92 | for the lesson he had taught me." "Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy," said Jo, after a minute's silence. Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this little audience for many years, and knew how to please them. "Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented." (Here the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good and made many excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, `If only we had this,' or `If we could only do that,' quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said, `When you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'" (Here Jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.) "Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses, another that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady who couldn't enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman's advice." "Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!" cried Meg. "I like that kind of sermon. It's the sort Father used to tell us," said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo's cushion. "I don't complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more careful than ever now, for I've had warning from Susies's downfall," said Amy morally. "We needed that lesson, and we won't forget it. If we do so, you just say to us, as old Chloe did in UNCLE TOM, `Tink ob yer marcies, chillen! `Tink ob yer marcies!'" added Jo, who could not, for the life of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though she took it to heart as much as any of them. -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.5 Being Neighborly | 1 |
78 | Pineapple Street.txt | 95 | goo into my skin. I kept scrolling: Let’s not forget that Jerome Wager’s work is terrible + derivative. His Obama mural was racist AF. He’s just one of the many scum men who run the planet. What @wilde_jazz has done is ferocious and brave. If you’ve been harmed by Jerome Wager, DM me. I will protect your anonymity. Can someone explain to me how Jerome Wager still has a platform? He’s still on Twitter, and @CGRgallery has made NO statement denouncing his actions. This doesn’t seem like abuse to me. It seems like a shitty relationship. Are we canceling people now for being bad at dating? How on earth was his Obama mural racist? It’s sad this has to be explained to you. Lording power over someone, even “soft power,” is structural imbalance. Abuse does not have to equal rape. Still no statement from @msbodiekane. Hello, @starletpod? Even if #JeromeWager faces repercussions, the damage is done. How many gallery shows should have gone to other people? How much money has he made wielding his power and keeping others down? if you need to ask how that mural was racist you’re the problem. We have ONE law in this country about the age of consent, and it’s the age of 18. Someone 18 can screw someone 100, and I’m sorry but it’s PERFECTLY LEGAL. Actually some places it’s younger but this is not about the age of consent, you absolute dingbat. I was angry—I was shaking—and I was certain now that my anger had less to do with loyalty to Jerome or concern over his reputation than with the stunning contrast between this easy online outrage and the outrage any one of us should have felt for years over people like you, people like Dorian. It was like seeing someone hanged for stealing gum when down the street someone else was robbing a bank. I shouldn’t have done anything. Sober, I wouldn’t have done anything. But I was not sober. I typed out a thread of messages with my pruning thumbs, posting each after a quick scan for drunken typos: Has Jasmine Wilde even asked for repercussions? This is a work of art, not, as far as I know, a call to action. 1/ I’m no longer with Jerome Wager, but as a survivor of ACTUAL sexual assault, this all sits wrong with me. Age is not the only form of power. You could argue that working for the gallery, Jasmine had as much career power over him as he had over her. 2/ Are we talking here about the feminism of empowerment, or the feminism of victimhood? Either a 21-year-old woman is an adult who can make her own decisions or a helpless waif who needs our protection against big scary men. Which is it? It can’t be both. 3/ Are we saying a 21-year-old woman lacks sexual agency? Lacks the ability to make decisions about her own body? Whose permission does she need to date someone older? Her father’s? This is infantilizing. 4/ What age range WOULD be acceptable to all | 0 |
90 | The-Lost-Bookshop.txt | 37 | The decision was taken out of my hands when I saw her pulling the curtains at the front window. She looked out, disbelieving, and bent down to get a better look. Then her hand went to her mouth. I tried to wave with my good hand. She disappeared back into the shadows and reappeared at the front door. ‘What in God’s name has happened to you?’ ‘Um, I believe I had a disagreement of sorts.’ She gave me a look of pity, which, under these circumstances, I was willing to accept. She brought me inside and down the steps to the kitchen at the back of the house. She pulled out a chair for me at the kitchen table and then searched in a cupboard for some first-aid paraphernalia. ‘How did you end up here?’ ‘Honestly, I have no idea. I may have been slightly inebriated.’ She arrived back at the table with a bowl of warm water, cotton wool, a tub of some odd-smelling cream and plasters. Neither of us spoke while she went about her work. I let my eyes close and permitted myself, for these moments at least, to imagine that everything was okay. That she did still have feelings for me. That somehow, it would work out. ‘Will I live?’ I asked sheepishly as she began to clear the things away. It was torment to watch her lithe figure in simple leggings and a T-shirt, imagining how good it had felt when she was in my arms on the beach. I ached to hold her again. She looked back at me from the sink with a welcome grin. ‘I think so.’ ‘Thank you, for all of this,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve had … practice.’ I didn’t know what to say about her husband’s death. About any of it. So I did what we Field men did best. I changed the subject. ‘You know, before you came, I used to stand out there for hours,’ I said, gesturing up to the bare patch of land just visible from one of the kitchen windows. ‘I used to think that maybe I’d find some kind of clue, an imprint of the building. Like when there’s a drought in the summer and farmers find crop circles on the land. I dunno. I was just so sure.’ ‘I wonder if people are like that?’ she said, sitting back down at the table. I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘Like, if you can still see the outline of who they were, you know, before?’ ‘Wow. I don’t know. I hope so.’ I took her hand in mine and for a moment she let me hold it, before pulling it away. ‘I’m sorry, Henry, but I just can’t.’ ‘But if only you’d got my note, or if that idiot at the B&B had told you I was coming back—’ ‘It doesn’t matter now. Madame Bowden explained about the note, but it’s not even about that. I just, I can’t risk this.’ She pointed to the space between us. Whatever it was. ‘I have to | 0 |
53 | After Death.txt | 57 | apprehends the drumming cataracts, a sound that fills her with dread, as if a grievous and unstoppable fate is rumbling toward them on tracks from which it can’t be derailed. Aleem says, “Do them priests teach you it’s righteous to pop your own father, a good way you get to Heaven, see Jesus?” John is fixated on the gun that he holds. “Only future matters, boy, is here in this one world. You seen your future, Johnny?” Aleem waits, and John doesn’t respond, and Aleem says, “What kind of altar boy don’t got the courtesy to answer his own daddy? Tell me now—you seen your future?” “No.” “Well, I seen it clear. You drink Jesus poison at school, get womanized here in this shithole house, then the rest of your life, you be jammed and jacked up by every guy with balls, till you can’t take it no more, till you go on the pipe, maybe one you’re freebasin’ coke with, maybe one comes at the business end of a fuckin’ twelve-gauge, suckin’ buckshot to get outta your nowhere life. You hear me?” “Yes.” “You believe me?” After a hesitation, John says, “I don’t know.” “You don’t know.” “I don’t.” “You better think about it. Think real hard. Better get down for yours like I got down for mine. I’m holdin’ down this whole county, boy, holdin’ it down tight. I got the power to smooth you into the set, get you up on it, make you a Vig. By the time you’re sixteen, you be rollin’ high, makin’ bank big-time.” John raises his head and looks at his mother. He’s embarrassed for himself, for her. “Look at me, boy.” John looks at him. “Don’t be no pussy. Don’t be no trick. Tell me you won’t.” “All right.” “Tell me. Say it. Come on, boy, let me hear it.” “I won’t be a pussy.” “Say it all.” “I won’t be a trick.” “You know what a trick is?” “I guess so.” “A trick is a phony and a sissy.” John chews on his lower lip. “No son of mine gonna sit down to piss or get on his knees for anyone.” “Enough,” Nina says. The face Aleem turns on her isn’t his, but instead the face of something that lies curled eternally at the bottom of the pit of the world, waiting for its hour to devour. Such fury, such malevolence, such thirst for power, such an appetite for violence have never before so keenly whetted his stare and clarified in his features. “You want to keep your teeth, then shut your damn mouth.” He means it. He will badly hurt her. John issues a thin sound of pure torment. Although the pistol is still pointed at the floor, it swings back and forth like the pendulum in a grandfather clock, as if counting seconds toward a moment never to be forgotten or redeemed. To the boy, Aleem says, “You my own blood. I can’t but love my own blood. You know how much I love you?” John continues to make that | 0 |
97 | What-Dreams-May-Come.txt | 39 | his breath, but thankfully she didn’t hear him. She didn’t notice him at all, in fact, so focused was she on William. Simon’s eyes jumped around the room on instinct, and he relaxed somewhat when he found a maid dozing lightly in the corner. Though he wasn’t sure he approved of the familiarity between his brother and his intended, at least she had considered propriety and was not alone in the room with him. But at this early hour? Simon’s stomach twisted in his gut. So it was not to be a marriage of convenience, then, if she was so enamored of the man. There was one reason for the marriage disproved. Clearly it was a love match, and for some reason that made Simon’s uneasiness worse. Nothing about this made sense, and he hardly had control over his life to begin with. He did not need William making things even more difficult. At the moment, though, it didn’t matter why his brother and Miss Staley had gotten engaged. What mattered was Simon leaving before he was discovered; this was far from the sort of scene he should be witnessing. He took only one step back toward the door, however, when Miss Staley jumped and looked over at him. “Oh dear,” she whispered, as if she were the one in the wrong. “I thought no one else would be awake.” “You can be at your betrothed’s side if you choose,” Simon replied, which sounded ridiculous. Surely there was some sort of rule about being in a man’s room, particularly with a sleeping chaperone. To be honest, he had no idea, and though he was glad Miss Staley wasn’t alone, he hated that Society cared so much about following rules. He hated more that this was the sort of thing he should know and didn’t. “Forgive me,” he said. “I hoped to find William in better health this morning. How is he?” Even more ridiculous. She was no doctor, unless she had many talents hidden underneath that timid smile of hers. Glancing at William, Miss Staley gently put his hand back at his side and rubbed sleep from her eyes. “He hasn’t woken, but he does not seem to be in as much pain as yesterday,” she said softly. “Perhaps his fever is ebbing.” Simon hoped so, because he would not rest easy until he learned the full truth of this relationship in front of him. “That’s good to hear,” he said, and suddenly he had no idea how to stand. Where did he put his hands? He clasped them behind his back and felt absolutely ridiculous, like a schoolboy awaiting punishment. Miss Staley rose slowly to her feet, taking a moment to smooth the hair off William’s forehead, though she didn’t seem to realize she was doing it—as if she had done it many times before. How long had they been engaged, anyway? Mother hadn’t known, which was as suspect as the engagement itself. Had none of them asked Miss Staley, with William clearly unable to offer any clarity? “I must beg | 0 |
72 | Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt | 90 | “The point is—just get it done.” To be honest, I wasn’t going to fight him. My dad might be a complicated, difficult, overly formal, pathologically reserved, not-particularly-fond-of-me person … but he wasn’t stupid. He was, as Lucinda could verify, a “very prominent cardiothoracic surgeon.” He knew his shit. He understood—if nothing else—the workings of the human body. The point is: When Dr. Richard Montgomery, MD, FACS, FAHA, and chief of cardiothoracic surgery for UTMB, drags you down to a coffee shop in your mother’s bathrobe and tells you to go have brain surgery, you don’t argue. You just go have brain surgery. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do the surgery. After you tell me why Mom didn’t have hers.” “And I’ll tell you about Mom,” my dad shot back, “after you do the surgery.” Four THE BEST THING—and possibly the only good thing—about the day of the surgery was meeting my new Trinidadian neuropsychologist, Dr. Nicole Thomas-Ramparsad. When she first arrived, a nurse was beginning her third attempt at starting my IV. “The problem,” the nurse was saying, “is that you’re so tense.” She tapped my arm some more with the pads of her fingers as if to say, See? Nothing. “You’ve shrunk your blood vessels.” I peered at my arm like I might be able to help her find one. “You need to relax,” she told me. “I agree,” I said, trying to slow my breathing down from hummingbird rate. She added a second tourniquet. “When we get scared, our bodies pull all our blood into our core to protect the vital organs.” Relax, I commanded myself. Relax. “Look at these veins,” she called to another nurse, tapping around some more. Nurse Two came over for a peek, giving a little headshake at the sight. “They’re like quilting threads.” That did not sound like a compliment. “She can’t get this over with until you relax,” Nurse Two said to me, a little scoldy. “But I can’t relax until it’s over with,” I said, aware of the Catch-22. “Are you always a difficult stick?” Nurse One asked. I wasn’t loving that terminology. It made me sound uncooperative at best. But there was only one answer to that question. “Yes.” Nurses One and Two exchanged a look. I tried to defend myself. “This is just how needle situations usually end for me—with tears. Or dry heaving. Or fainting.” At the words dry heaving, I could feel my veins shrinking a little smaller. Relax, damn it. Relax! But that’s when my future new favorite person walked in. And let’s just say she brought a totally different energy to the room. Dr. Nicole Thomas-Ramparsad didn’t just walk in, she strode—greeting me loudly as she did, her voice warm and rich. “Hello,” she practically sang. “You’re Sadie Montgomery, and I’m so delighted to be working with you today.” And with that, she put a firm, comforting, totally-in-charge-of-the-moment hand on my shoulder, and said, “Please just call me Dr. Nicole”—pronouncing her name like Ni-call. Let’s just say her doctor voice sounded nothing like my dad’s. Which was a | 0 |
85 | Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt | 89 | She throws it back. Misses me. “Yes! I’m aware!” “Don’t throw my hat!” I shout, and pick it up from the mud, and then accidentally throw it again. “Fine!” Before I know it, she’s crouched down, scooped up a handful of wet mud and rotting leaves and God knows what else, and launched it my way. There’s a visceral splat as it hits my chest, and I see satisfaction on her face for about 0.2 seconds before the expression vanishes like a snuffed-out candle. Her jaw drops. Her eyes are wide. She’s a bit like that painting, the one with the scream. I look very, very slowly down at my filthy clothes. “Brad!” she says, like she doesn’t know what else to say. This outfit is pretty fucked now. From head to toe. It’s not as if I’ve never been muddy before—you should see me at Sunday matches—but this isn’t a wide-open, manicured field and I am not in uniform. God knows what’s hiding in this forest. I’ve seen mushrooms in here. Mushrooms are fungus. I am fully contaminated. “Oh my God,” Celine breathes. Accept the thought, my common sense reminds me. Right. Yes. On it. I officially accept that I am tragically doomed to contract rabies from the poop-infected unidentified forest mud Celine just threw, and promptly die. “I’m so sorry!” Check for distortions. Okay, fine: it’s entirely possible that my imminent death is not a reasonable conclusion to this story. It’s also possible that the rabies thing is inaccurate. Technically. I suppose. “Brad?” Refocus. I tip my head back and count all the branches above me. I must not fear. “Brad, please say something. I’m sorry.” I breathe out once, deliberately, through my mouth. Only I will remain. Okay. Okay. I’m fine. But Celine looks a bit like she’s going to cry. Or maybe that’s just the rain. “What?” I demand. Her eyes widen. “I…Do you need…Is it…” I bend down, scoop up my own handful of mud, and throw it right back. Splat. Now her coat is a mess too. She stares at me in astonishment for one second, two, three, before her shock fades and the mud fight officially starts. We abandon the compass and the photo of the map as we chase each other—I don’t know who’s doing the chasing so don’t ask—through the woods. Her aim is better than mine, probably because she played netball for so long. I’m faster than her. She’s sneakier, but she has asthma and I’m worried she might run out of oxygen and die in the woods and I’ll have to break the news to Neneh. By the time I bring myself to call a truce, we’re both caked in mud and I’m really hoping there’s a washing machine back at the cabin, or else we are absolutely screwed. Maybe Celine’s thinking the same thing because she leans against a tree and starts to laugh. A small colony of giggles is rushing to escape her chest; hiccups tumble over one another. It’s so ridiculous, I laugh, too, and next thing I | 0 |
90 | The-Lost-Bookshop.txt | 29 | pulling my heart southward. It was all too much to bear. I froze to the spot while the others shuffled around me. ‘Get in line!’ I ignored the order. I was too weak to move. ‘Carlisle, get a companion and walk.’ I wasn’t used to being given orders and refused to obey. ‘How many times must I tell you!’ To my utter shock, this order was administered with a slap on the ear. Suddenly, my life force came flooding back with rage. I was about to hit back, when I felt an arm slip through mine and almost drag me forward. ‘Best to do as they say,’ a voice whispered softly. I looked to my left and saw Mary, the young woman who had spoken up for me at the table. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ I said. ‘Do you think any poor creature should end up here?’ I shook my head, but, honestly, I didn’t care about anyone else in that moment. The other women frightened me, their naked faces, devoid of any normalcy. I pulled the shawl around me tightly. I was shivering so badly with cold that my teeth were chattering wildly. I could see the other women’s lips turning purple with cold. It was inhumane. ‘Carlisle, come here.’ It had been so long since I had used my real name that it took me a moment to realise that the nurse, Patricia, was speaking to me. Thank God, I thought to myself. They’ve realised that this is all a big mistake and will release me. I pulled my arm from Mary and thanked her for her kindness, feeling sure I would never see her again. I followed the nurse apace and once back inside, she led me to a room where I was weighed, measured and then approached by another nurse with scissors who cut my nails to the quick. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked. ‘You are to see Dr Hughes,’ she answered. I told myself that this made perfect sense – a final examination before letting me go. For administrative purposes. Surely that was all it was. After this perfunctory physical exam, I was led to another room. There, in a white coat, sat a man who introduced himself as Dr Hughes. Now was my chance to speak up for myself, but I found I did not know where to start. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, opening a cream-coloured folder and taking the lid off his pen. ‘I … my name is Opaline Gr—. I mean …’ ‘Oh, well, that’s hardly an auspicious start, is it?’ His ability to find humour in such desperate circumstances set me on edge. ‘My name is Opaline Carlisle, but I have been living under the pseudonym of Opaline Gray in order to protect my identity from my brother, who is a violent maniac.’ There. I was clear, coherent and concise. Surely this man would see that I was sane. ‘Where do you live?’ ‘Ha'penny Lane, Dublin. I run a small bookshop.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And you are pregnant?’ ‘Yes.’ | 0 |
89 | The-Last-Sinner.txt | 13 | loose around her face, and stepped into four-inch clear stilettos. Finally, she eyed her array of jewelry—most of it cheap costume stuff, but a few pieces much more expensive. She decided on a silver ankle bracelet and a slave-girl bracelet for her upper arm. Of course she’d wear her Apple Watch with its blingy band for the opposite wrist, add oversized hoop earrings, and just to spice things up a bit, a silver necklace with a bejeweled cross that settled seductively between her breasts. After the finishing touches, she checked the mirror again and smiled. Perfect! “Hello, Helen of Joy,” she said in a low whisper, and smiled, reveling in becoming her alter ego. This was her act, not just as if she were on stage, but a form of her own personal rebellion, and it felt good. So good. She was careful, of course she was. She had to be. She had too much to lose if her true identity was ever revealed. She eyed her reflection and liked what she saw. After all, she wasn’t in it for the money. As for the sex? It was okay—even exciting at times. But usually not. And secondary. Because all of this was for the thrill of getting away with this, her alter ego. She loved the little edge of danger that fueled an adrenaline rush, the heart-pumping excitement that was lost in her “real” life. Tap! Tap! She heard the knock on the door and pasted a sultry smile on her face, double-checking the mirror once more to see that every detail was just right, then pulled the curtain across her staging area and whispered under her breath, “showtime.” At the door she paused, took in a deep breath, and slid the dead bolt to peer into the darkened hallway. A tall man in a poncho stood waiting. “I’m here for Helen,” he said in a low voice that caused a little spark that started in her tailbone and sizzled up her spine. “You found her.” She let the door fall open and stepped back as he came inside. In that second she sensed something was wrong. He wasn’t what she’d expected from a john. This tall man in dark glasses was wearing a clerical collar beneath a poncho, a slash of white as if he were with the clergy. It was a little more than theatrical and she thought he was wearing thick face makeup—concealer of a sort—as if he were hiding acne, or some other facial imperfection, maybe even a tattoo? But why? For vanity’s sake? Or because he could be recognized? Warning bells clanged in her head. She’d read about some freak who’d dressed as a man of the cloth and had strangled women with a rosary. Surely this wasn’t the guy. No way. She couldn’t be that unlucky. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said, covering her case of nerves, which only increased as she watched him slowly slide the dead bolt into place. “I was expecting someone. Is there—” Was his hand in a pocket? Did he have a | 0 |
93 | The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt | 1 | ‘Nadine?’ ‘George Ledbury’s pig.’ Josie shook her head. ‘We were warned about her by Lin’s neighbour, Janice. Apparently, she likes to go on the rampage through the village – Nadine that is, not Janice.’ ‘Well, George Ledbury will pay for my plants…’ Gerald was furious. ‘This garden is my pride and joy.’ Josie nodded sympathetically. ‘We’re off to Odile’s. You could come with us.’ Gerald waved his arms again. ‘But just look at the mess. It’s like a… a pigsty.’ ‘Indeed,’ Lin said sadly. ‘I’ve no time for drinking tea.’ ‘I’ll have a word with the Toomey boys, if you like,’ Josie soothed. ‘I’m sure they’ll come over and help you sort it all out.’ She took Lin’s arm. ‘And if you need a cuppa to cheer you up, we’ll be at Odile’s.’ The following Sunday morning, Florence walked down to the river Cherwell to meet her friends. It was almost lunchtime – Florence could see The Sun Inn car park: Jack Lovejoy had taken up position not far from the entrance, wearing a colourful cap, playing his guitar. The chords were light on the wind. She thought about going over to him, holding her arms out for a hug: she could do with one. Then she saw Neil and Lin Timms arrive for Sunday lunch, pausing to put money in Jack’s baked beans collection tin. Her father would be there soon for his regular pint. Florence felt the breeze lift the hem of her dress and she smoothed it flat. In the distance, two figures were approaching from Orchard Way. They waved to her and Florence waved back. It was Malia, with Natalie Ledbury. In minutes, they were beside her. Malia threw an arm around Florence’s neck. ‘What are you up to?’ ‘Watching Jack busking.’ Florence sighed, gazing towards the pub. Natalie played with her hair. ‘I used to think he was gorgeous when we were at school, but not as gorgeous as Finn Toomey.’ Malia agreed. ‘Everyone had the hots for Finn Toomey.’ Florence shook her head sadly. It wasn’t a conversation she wanted to join in; talking about boys would eventually lead to secrets she didn’t really want Natalie to know, not yet. She cupped her hands over her belly. ‘You liked Finn, didn’t you, Florence?’ Malia smiled. ‘You liked Adam once too, and I’m sure he still likes you.’ ‘Apparently lots of girls like Bobby.’ Natalie wrinkled her nose. ‘Why anyone would like my moody brother I don’t know, but they do.’ Florence stared at her fingers folded in her lap. Malia asked, ‘What’s Bobby up to nowadays?’ ‘Apart from working? He’s always out late on his bike, goodness knows where. Grandad wants him to start taking more responsibility on the farm. He’s getting on a bit and Dad’s more interested in managing the accounts.’ Natalie waved her left hand, lifting a finger to show a sparkling diamond. ‘Brandon wants to work on the admin side. Grandad will let us have one of the little cottages when we’re married. Of course, the farmhouse is big enough for Grandad | 0 |
25 | Oliver Twist.txt | 20 | handkerchief--anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you. Good-night, good-night!' The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the gentleman to leave her, as she requested. The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased. The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs. 'Hark!' cried the young lady, listening. 'Did she call! I thought I heard her voice.' 'No, my love,' replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. 'She has not moved, and will not till we are gone.' Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and led her, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears. After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had descended. Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the Jew's house as fast as his legs would carry him. CHAPTER XLVII FATAL CONSEQUENCES It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn of the year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit. He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's. Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had | 1 |
77 | Maame.txt | 96 | and I love him for it. “Don’t spend it all at once.” I look down at the coin and suddenly remember myself back in my primary-school uniform. There was a day when I stole ten pounds out of my dad’s wallet whilst he was in the shower. I’d bought myself and my friends so much chocolate from the corner shop—it was cheap back then. The cashier gave me only a single pound change in exchange for a heavy blue and white striped bag. I remember being impressed that, in the days of thirty-nine-pence chocolate bars and forty-five-pence drink cans, I’d managed to reach a whole number. Somehow Dad knew it was me who had taken the money, and when he got home from work that evening, he didn’t say anything, just … looked around me when I was there. Things were back to normal the next morning and neither of us brought it up, but every now and again, I think about it. I realize only now that I never asked Dad for money after that, but rather waited for him to offer some instead. In the hallway, Mum greets me with a hug. The procession is leading into the living room, but I pause before the doorway, letting Mum walk into me. “Maddie?” she questions. I don’t answer and just carry on into the living room. Dad’s special chair is already gone. The dining table in the corner, previously used to house papers, stray carrier bags, and Dad’s medication, has been cleared. On top lie an assortment of snacks; Mum’s made rock buns and bofrot and tied them in individual bags: to-go. There are canned drinks, bottled water, and a crate of Carlsberg beer. I remember that beer from our first house, in Battersea. I was eleven, maybe twelve, and I opened the fridge for something to drink. I noticed Dad’s opened beer beside the milk and lifted it out. Dad, standing at the stove, looked over his shoulder, as I took a sip. He was going to tell me off, but before he could, I was spitting it out into the sink. Dad chuckled. “Now you know. Don’t waste my beer again, eh?” I rub my eyes hard because I’d never recalled that memory until today. * * * Once we’re all gathered in the living room we go around the circle retelling the story of how we found out Dad had died. James and Auntie Mabel (who’s joining us via video call) had both called Dad in the morning to wish him happy birthday, knowing they wouldn’t be visiting. They bond over that and my own jealousy is tinged with anger. Auntie Mabel I can understand, but why was James given the opportunity to speak to Dad before he died and I wasn’t? “He sounded fine,” Auntie Mabel says, her lips turned down. “A little off, just a little slow and tired, but sometimes that is how he would sound. How were we to know? How did he sound to you, Baaba?” My heart sinks and I open my | 0 |
95 | USS-Lincoln.txt | 26 | with far fewer casualties. He swiped at more salivary secretions. And replenishing of meat ration stores … That could be just the thing to hand him that promotion to sector chief. What was left within that cargo hold, after so many years, was inedible. He sat back, belched, allowing himself a few moments of self-congratulation. Lu-puk returned his attention to the squirming Bliddit, mouth agape, silently whimpering upon the table before him. Silently, because he’d instructed the nanomachines to shut off the Bliddit’s vocal functions. Bliddits were highly, he’d go so far as to say, remarkably, intelligent. You could see it in their beady little eyes. They had proven themselves to be. So watchful. So calculating. Still, sometimes when Lu-puk wasn’t actually eating, the sounds of the slippery little creatures would give him a throbbing headache. He glared at his meal for a moment, calculating if he should finish the work he’d begun on the Bliddit’s five-fingered left hand. Small, but so similar to those of a human. But humans were far tastier. Sentient creatures hated losing their fingers almost as much as their eyes. Probably because fingers and opposable thumbs were a hallmark of advanced civilizations. Lu-puk always began with the smallest, least useful of the digits. It gave them hope that perhaps if they could escape, they might just maintain some, even minimal, functionality. But inevitably, growing despair would fall upon them like a dark and heavy cloak as the creatures watched firsthand as digit after digit disappeared into their captor’s mouth. How delightful. He snickered at his phrasing. Firsthand … that and lasthand. Lu-puk, sated for the moment, stood, stretched, and approached the display. The humans were up to something … Causing trouble, huh? He glowered, seeing they’d recently deployed a small, rickety craft. Then he saw the addition of three fighters. Well, obviously they were exploring. No! He gasped; they’d found the other human vessel, the other dreadnought … USS Lincoln, another stupid human name. And with that, they’d soon discover their preserved, albeit ripening, food stores. Lu-puk slithered back to his dining table. He caught the Bliddit’s bleeding hand and, with a quick snip of his claws, cut off the second finger. The Bliddit silently shrieked. The small creature’s eyes begged for mercy. Like that would happen. After what you did our race. Lu-puk tossed the finger into his mouth, crunching hard. He wiped his claws on a blood cloth and returned to his post. So easily his ship’s sensors visually penetrated human vessels. The beings—three human pilots, a ginormous BattleBot, and a squad of heavily armed humans in body armor—were now stepping out of their craft there on USS Lincoln’s flight bay. Lu-puk continued to watch. Leaving the flight bay, they moved deeper into the ship. Then, after a quick discussion, the pilots seemed to decide to separate—taking a lift up to a higher deck, perhaps the ship’s bridge, while the robot and heavily armed group stuck together, moving forward within the lower corridors. It made sense. The robot was more dangerous than the rest of | 0 |
56 | Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt | 57 | somewhere. Romance is joyful. What brings you joy?” “My daughter. My work, historically speaking.” I dig around for something that makes me sound more dimensional, but sitting here with this bestselling author talking about joy and connection makes my life feel like a lather, rinse, repeat of arid routine. “Watching footie. Mountain biking. Exercise.” As I speak, I see her point: none of this really qualifies me to speak specifically to this audience. It’s true that, other than my time with Stevie, nothing in my life brings me outright joy anymore. Most of it, I realize, is a way to pass time when I’m alone, and none of it is about seeking connection. I think about the chapter in her book I read last night. It was a love scene where, afterward, the heroine admitted that she was afraid of how fast things were moving. It wasn’t that this type of conflict felt groundbreaking, but the way it was written with such vulnerability and self-awareness after the most scorching sex scene I’d ever read left me feeling pensive all night. Fizzy is the playful, wisecracking alter ego, but I’m beginning to see that Felicity Chen is smart—brilliant, clearly—and I must give her more than just a confident smile and measured responses. She reads people expertly, and right now she needs to be convinced she won’t be stuck with a two-dimensional Hollywood stereotype. “I sound like a boring git.” I laugh. “There’s something about reading your book that has made me hyperaware of the sterile banality of my current life. I am,” I admit, sifting through words because I rarely get personal with relative strangers, and never with colleagues, “a bit of a workaholic. But I am not an egomaniac. I brought you on because I know you are connected—literally and figuratively—to this audience. I want this to be a success.” “I want that, too.” Fizzy’s posture eases and she leans back. “Listen, Hot DILF. I need to confess something. I’m good friends with someone involved in the DNADuo technology. He’s not thrilled about this show happening, but because of the way the deal was structured, he doesn’t get a veto on media use.” “Will that be a problem?” I ask, ignoring for the time being that I think she’s just called me a Hot DILF, or the fact that I wouldn’t have understood that phrase a few weeks ago. “No. But this show needs to be smart. It needs to be delightful. It needs to be irreverent. It needs to be sexy, and real, and relatable.” “I agree.” An edge of vulnerability appears in her next words: “The problem is, even though I’ve just interrogated you, I must admit I am a little worried about whether I’m even the right person to do this.” Oh. The power in her posture, the shine in her eyes—both of those things have dimmed without me noticing. I sort through the words in my head. “I completely understand that you’d want to do right by this technology, given your personal connection to it, and I wouldn’t | 0 |
93 | The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt | 74 | looked up again and sniffed the air. ‘But I can smell meat cooking.’ ‘I told you she’d end up on a hog roast,’ Penny gasped. ‘Oh, I hope not.’ She was concerned now and George’s face was distraught. ‘I can smell it too…’ George pointed towards the riverbank. ‘Over by the Cherwell.’ The party scurried forward as one before Lin stopped suddenly. ‘It’s coming from the Toomeys’ barge, and it’s definitely roasting pork.’ ‘Surely they wouldn’t hurt Nadine,’ Josie said. Jimmy chuckled. ‘The Toomeys kill rabbits and pheasants and fish to eat on their barge. Why not a pig?’ ‘That pig’s a lot of bacon…’ Kenny protested. ‘You’re all being silly. They’d never turn a pig into rashers so quickly – I don’t know what the fuss is all about…’ Josie and Minnie led the way, Cecily on Lin’s arm, Charlotte next to George and Penny. She surged forward and clutched her husband’s arm, feeling suddenly troubled; losing the pig would break George’s heart and she was filled with an unspoken fondness for the animal that she hadn’t realised she had before. Nadine gave her something to grumble about and she enjoyed the banter that ensued between them. George gazed down towards her anxiously, looking for support. ‘Penny, you don’t think…’ ‘No, George, surely not…’ She took his hand. As they approached the Toomeys’ barge, smoke funnelled from the deck, and the smell of searing meat and fat. George gazed around, troubled. ‘They wouldn’t do that to Nadine.’ Devlin Toomey was sitting on the deck watching Finn splashing his feet in the river, forking a rasher into his mouth. Fergal held a large frying pan over the stove. He called out cheerily. ‘Anyone fancy a bacon roll?’ Everyone stared for a moment, then Josie called, ‘Fergal – have you seen Nadine?’ ‘Ah, yes…’ He waved his fork. ‘Come aboard.’ Penny squeezed her husband’s hand: George looked as if he would cry. Devlin was on his feet. ‘Are you looking for the pig? We’ve got her here. She came down an hour ago.’ Finn licked his lips. ‘Come and join us. There’s nothing like bacon, the way my da cooks it, with plenty of fat and a bit of ketchup.’ ‘Nadine!’ George groaned, putting his hand to his face. Penny wrapped an arm around him to comfort him. ‘Fergal…’ Josie put her hands on her hips. ‘Where is Nadine exactly?’ ‘Follow me…’ Fergal winked. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, though…’ ‘Oh, George,’ Penny moaned. Fergal led Josie down the steps as George and Penny followed, their faces nervous, searching for a glimpse of the pig, or what was left of her. Below, the accommodation was divided into sections, two bedrooms, three beds, a galley kitchen, a table, chairs. Fergal pointed to the smaller bedroom, where a double bed was pushed against a wall, wooden panels below, yellow paintwork above. On the bed was a grey duvet and lying on the duvet, snorting softly through a pink snout, was Nadine, her eyes closed, pointed ears and pale lashes, trotters sticking out and a smile | 0 |
28 | THE SCARLET LETTER.txt | 52 | faultily, unseemly, fuzzy. ANTONYMS: (adj) articulate, normality, agreement incongruously, illicitly, eloquent, fluent, distinct, talkative inconsistency: (n) disagreement, illegitimately. ANTONYMS: (adv) inasmuch: (adv) gradually, pro tanto, contradiction, incompatibility, suitably, morally, fittingly, correctly, so, since, as, that, because, inasmuch incoherence, incongruity, justifiably, perfectly, well, lawfully, as, seeing that, for discordance, disparity, variance, honestly, acceptably, decently inauspicious: (adj) unlucky, sinister, repugnance, contradictoriness; (adj, impropriety: (n) barbarism, adverse, untoward, ill, unfortunate, n) frivolity. ANTONYMS: (n) obscenity, indecorum, error, unfavorable, ill-omened, evil, bad, steadiness, equality, constancy, rudeness, indelicacy, incorrectness, threatening. ANTONYMS: (adj) concord, parity, predictability, solecism, wrongness; (adj) favorable, promising, lucky reliability immorality, inaptitude. incapable: (adj) impotent, inconvenient: (adj) inopportune, ANTONYMS: (n) decency, inadequate, unable, helpless, awkward, disadvantageous, correctness powerless, unqualified, inept, bothersome, improper, unfavorable, impulse: (n) pulse, urge, impulsion, insufficient, inapt, ineffectual, unfit. troublesome, hard, inapt, untoward, force, motive, whim, drive, goad, ANTONYMS: (adj) able, competent, unfortunate. ANTONYMS: (adj) motivation, momentum, incentive. strong, powerful, effective convenient, suitable, opportune, ANTONYMS: (n) aversion, incited: (adj) encouraged, impelled, timely, advantageous disincentive, disinclination driven incredulity: (n) doubt, unbelief, impulsive: (adj) capricious, hasty, inclement: (adj, n) harsh, rugged, skepticism, incredulousness, driving, rash, instinctive, boisterous; (n) austere; (adj) distrust, wonder, surprise, changeable, hotheaded, quick- turbulent, grim, bleak, rigorous, suspicion, suspiciousness, mistrust, tempered, impellent, headlong, bitter, rough, rigid. ANTONYMS: scepticism. ANTONYMS: (n) faith, passionate. ANTONYMS: (adj) (adj) mild, fine, nice, calm, pleasant understanding, belief cautious, considered, predictable, incoherent: (adj) disjointed, incumbency: (n) administration, unflappable, prepared, sensible, disconnected, delirious, rambling, benefice, office, duty, post, place, gradual, overdue, patient, placid, confused, disordered, incompatible, responsibility, chargeship, liability, premeditated wandering, muddled, inconsistent, living, situation impunity: (n) impune, come off, contradictory. ANTONYMS: (adj) incumbent: (adj, v) superimposed; freedom, immunity, permission, clear, articulate, eloquent, (n) functionary, official, forgiveness. ANTONYM: (n) intelligible, lucid, sound, concise, householder, occupant, parson, liability consistent locum tenens, sojourner; (adj) impute: (v) charge, attribute, ascribe, incomplete: (adj) faulty, deficient, compulsory; (v) supernatant, assign, accuse, blame, attach, credit, inadequate, imperfect, short, overlying lay, accredit, impeach lacking, unfinished, half, incurious: (adj) uninquisitive, inactive: (adj) dead, dull, inert, insufficient, sketchy; (adj, adv) uninterested, negligent, dormant, sluggish, slow, passive, halfway. ANTONYMS: (adj) unconcerned, casual, detached, still, stagnant, slack, torpid. finished, whole, entire, nonchalant, aloof, lackadaisical, ANTONYMS: (adj) active, lively, comprehensive, boundless, apathetic, vacant moving, dormant, extinct, working, adequate indefatigable: (adj) tireless, energetic, live, diligent, proactive, incomprehensible: (adj) assiduous, unflagging, untiring, creative inapprehensible, inscrutable, inexhaustible, energetic, inactivity: (n) lethargy, inaction, inarticulate, abstruse, cryptic, unremitting, indomitable, laborious, laziness, abeyance, indolence, unfathomable, puzzling, obscure, unwearying, unwearied. languor, passivity, phlegm, inexplicable, inconceivable, ANTONYMS: (adj) idle, feeble, sluggishness, doldrums; (adj, n) unaccountable. ANTONYMS: (adj) unrelenting, weary inertia. ANTONYMS: (n) action, comprehensible, explicable, indefeasible: (v) intransmutable, activeness, liveliness, energy, bustle understandable, intelligible, legible, reverseless, irretrievable, irresoluble, inalienable: (adj) untransferable, obvious, straightforward irreducible, inextinguishable; (adj) unassailable, absolute, inviolable, inconceivable: (adj, v) unbelievable, inalienable, irreversible, irrevocable, indefeasible, inseparable, inherent, hard to believe; (adj) impossible, undefeasible, incommutable. unassignable, unforfeitable; (v) implausible, incomprehensible, ANTONYM: (adj) defeasible incommunicable unimaginable, unthinkable, indescribable: (adj) indefinable, inanimate: (adj) defunct, dull, improbable, unintelligible, ineffable, unutterable, vague, breathless, inorganic, inactive, inscrutable, fabulous. ANTONYMS: beyond expression, nameless, lifeless, exanimate, deceased, (adj) conceivable, believable, likely, inexpressible, nondescript, terrible, | 1 |
80 | Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt | 27 | dumpster at the end of the street, just because I was terrified of my parents finding out.” “Jesus,” I say softly, because I hate the idea of a young Finn so scared, so uncertain. His brain working against him. “That can’t have been easy. I’m so sorry.” “I got good at it.” A rueful smile. “Of course, sometimes I’d have to wear gloves and shower immediately afterward. And of course, my parents eventually found out what I was doing. My dad was furious, and I think my mom was too scared of him to say anything otherwise. And he—he just told me to suck it up, that I was ‘acting fucking insane.’ And ‘don’t you dare let anyone see you doing that.’ ” Finn is breathing a little faster now, a fist clenching on top of the table. “So that’s what I did. My compulsions morphed, and most of my free time was dedicated to figuring out how to make myself feel safe and comfortable without anyone finding out. If there was a speck of something strange on a plate, I’d say I wasn’t hungry. I’d dispose of old sheets, old blankets at school and buy replacements with my Hanukkah money. I wanted to make my dad happy so badly, and that meant not being the fucked-up son he thought I was.” “Finn. You are absolutely not,” I say firmly, wishing I could do more to reassure him. He shakes his head. “It certainly felt that way, a lot of the time. I didn’t even have much of a relationship with my mom until after he left—and good riddance. The worst of it, though, was actually the last season of The Nocturnals, when we knew we weren’t getting renewed. I was so anxious about booking the next job because everyone else had things lined up and I didn’t. I was putting so much pressure on myself, and I’d just bought a house I didn’t know whether I’d be able to keep paying for, and the only thing it felt like I could control was how clean it was. I’d get stuck in these horrible cycles, scrubbing down the house, returning sets of dishes I’d just bought because I swore the box smelled weird when I opened it up, constantly running laundry because nothing ever seemed clean enough. And then my energy bill went way up and that only added to the stress. I knew I needed to do something, but I didn’t know where to start. It wasn’t until after the finale aired that I started getting help. Hallie was the one who suggested it, actually.” “That’s great,” I say, meaning it. “I’ve been in therapy, too. For generalized anxiety disorder. I think I’ve probably had it most of my life, but I didn’t start seeing someone until my midtwenties. I haven’t gone in a few months—though maybe I should?—but I fucking love therapy.” He nods. “So you get it.” “Not all of it—but some of it.” Then something occurs to me. “What about sex? If that’s okay to ask—since there’s obviously, | 0 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 88 | pinned to his arm forever. But he didn’t seem distracted. He lowered his chin, and for an extraordinary second she thought he was going to kiss her on the head. But he was only bowing to the Princess Victoria. “Forgive me,” said Lord Ashley with a smile, and slipped into his seat. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask her permission to join, didn’t thank her for the food. He grabbed his fork as if seated at his own table. The princess retreated into her own head, eyes down. The ladies all made a graceful turn left, and commenced conversation with their neighbors. Of course they all knew each other; it was effortless for them. Miss de Vries found herself seated beside a spindly and decrepit colonel, who was fussing with his handkerchief and inspecting the forks, saying not a word. Someone had altered the table plan without seeking her authority: someone from the royal household, perhaps. Or Lord Ashley. Miss de Vries stared at the wall in enforced silence, feeling a flush rising up her neck, suddenly out of her depth. The crowd stood panting at the door to the supper room. This is my triumph, she reminded herself firmly, feeling ravenous, eating nothing. * * * Meanwhile, the Janes were consulting the instruction labels ironed into their petticoats. This was the most delicate part of the operation: sweeping the rooms in the public parts of the house. They got to work on the library, with Hephzibah’s decoy guests stationed right outside, guarding the door. Mrs. Bone’s men, still dressed in their tunics, stood on extendable ladders, handing books down the line and stacking them in towers. It was taking longer than Winnie had calculated. “Come on,” muttered Jane-one, her eyes fixed on the clock. “What time is it?” said Jane-two. “Don’t ask.” The men heard. Fear, the first true prickle of it, shimmered across the room. Someone dropped a book. Jane-one saw it happen. It simply slipped from a man’s hand, toppling into a tower of leather-bound volumes already on the floor. She knew what would follow. Her mind unspooled it, several seconds ahead. The first tower fell into the next. Dominoes. The men looked on, aghast, as the towers crumbled. Jane-one felt the tremor as hundreds upon hundreds of books hit the bare floor. It was a rumble she could feel in all directions, passing through the walls. “Lock that door,” she said. “Right now.” A fist hammered on the library door. “Open up!” One of the footmen, thought Jane-one. They’d heard a commotion in the library and come running, pushing past Hephzibah’s actresses. She pressed her finger to her lips. The men all stared at her, pale and sweating. They were trapped. Books lay scattered on the floor around them. Silence outside. “Hello?” the footman said, uncertain. “Everything all right?” Jane-one pressed her finger to the keyhole so he couldn’t peer in. She used her other hand to point to the window. Mouthed to Jane-two. Perch act. Jane-two frowned. You’re not serious. Got another | 0 |
33 | The Age of Innocence.txt | 79 | the evening in a heated drawing-room, and in the combination of a muffled throat and bare arms; but the effect was undeniably pleasing. "Lord love us--three whole days at Skuytercliff!" Beaufort was saying in his loud sneering voice as Archer entered. "You'd better take all your furs, and a hot-water-bottle." "Why? Is the house so cold?" she asked, holding out her left hand to Archer in a way mysteriously suggesting that she expected him to kiss it. "No; but the missus is," said Beaufort, nodding carelessly to the young man. "But I thought her so kind. She came herself to invite me. Granny says I must certainly go." "Granny would, of course. And I say it's a shame you're going to miss the little oyster supper I'd planned for you at Delmonico's next Sunday, with Campanini and Scalchi and a lot of jolly people." She looked doubtfully from the banker to Archer. "Ah--that does tempt me! Except the other evening at Mrs. Struthers's I've not met a single artist since I've been here." "What kind of artists? I know one or two painters, very good fellows, that I could bring to see you if you'd allow me," said Archer boldly. "Painters? Are there painters in New York?" asked Beaufort, in a tone implying that there could be none since he did not buy their pictures; and Madame Olenska said to Archer, with her grave smile: "That would be charming. But I was really thinking of dramatic artists, singers, actors, musicians. My husband's house was always full of them." She said the words "my husband" as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "I do think," she went on, addressing both men, that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah," Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with | 1 |
22 | Lord of the Flies.txt | 82 | nodded like one boy. "Yes, that's right. Let's go up there in the morning." Ralph looked out and saw the sea. "We've got to start the fire again." "You haven't got Piggy's specs," said Jack, "so you can't.'' "Then we'll find out if the mountain's clear." Maurice spoke, hesitating, not wanting to seem a funk. "Supposing the beast's up there?" Jack brandished his spear. "We'll kill it." The sun seemed a little cooler. He slashed with the spear. "What are we waiting for?" "I suppose," said Ralph, "if we keep on by the sea this way, we'll come out below the burnt bit and then we can climb the mountain. Once more Jack led them along by the suck and heave of the blinding sea. Once more Ralph dreamed, letting his skillful feet deal with the difficulties of the path. Yet here his feet seemed less skillful than before. For most of the way they were forced right down to the bare rock by the water and had to edge along between that and the dark luxuriance of the forest. There were little cliffs to be scaled, some to be used as paths, lengthy traverses where one used hands as well as feet. Here and there they could clamber over wave-wet rock, leaping across clear pools that the tide had left. They came to a gully that split the narrow foreshore like a defense. This seemed to have no bottom and they peered awe-stricken into the gloomy crack where water gurgled. Then the wave came back, the gully boiled before them and spray dashed up to the very creeper so that the boys were wet and shrieking. They tried the forest but it was thick and woven like a bird's nest. In the end they had to jump one by one, waiting till the water sank; and even so, some of them got a second drenching. After that the rocks seemed to be growing impassable so they sat for a time, letting their rags dry and watching the clipped outlines of the rollers that moved so slowly past the island. They found fruit in a haunt of bright little birds that hovered like insects. Then Ralph said they were going too slowly. He himself climbed a tree and parted the canopy, and saw the square head of the mountain seeming still a great way off. Then they tried to hurry along the rocks and Robert cut his knee quite badly and they had to recognize that this path must be taken slowly if they were to be safe. So they proceeded after that as if they were climbing a dangerous mountain, until the rocks became an uncompromising cliff, overhung with impossible jungle and falling sheer into the sea. Ralph looked at the sun critically. "Early evening. After tea-time, at any rate." "I don't remember this cliff," said Jack, crestfallen, "so this must be the bit of the coast I missed." Ralph nodded. "Let me think." By now, Ralph had no self-consciousness in public thinking but would treat the day's decisions as though | 1 |
0 | 1984.txt | 53 | line. I could not help it!' he added almost indignantly, raising his face to look at Winston. 'It was impossible to change the line. The rhyme was "rod". Do you realize that there are only twelve rhymes to "rod" in the entire language? For days I had racked my brains. There WAS no other rhyme.' The expression on his face changed. The annoyance passed out of it and for a moment he looked almost pleased. A sort of intellectual warmth, the joy of the pedant who has found out some useless fact, shone through the dirt and scrubby hair. 'Has it ever occurred to you,' he said, 'that the whole history of English poetry has been determined by the fact that the English language lacks rhymes?' file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (125 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt No, that particular thought had never occurred to Winston. Nor, in the circumstances, did it strike him as very important or interesting. 'Do you know what time of day it is?' he said. Ampleforth looked startled again. 'I had hardly thought about it. They arrested me--it could be two days ago--perhaps three.' His eyes flitted round the walls, as though he half expected to find a window somewhere. 'There is no difference between night and day in this place. I do not see how one can calculate the time.' They talked desultorily for some minutes, then, without apparent reason, a yell from the telescreen bade them be silent. Winston sat quietly, his hands crossed. Ampleforth, too large to sit in comfort on the narrow bench, fidgeted from side to side, clasping his lank hands first round one knee, then round the other. The telescreen barked at him to keep still. Time passed. Twenty minutes, an hour--it was difficult to judge. Once more there was a sound of boots outside. Winston's entrails contracted. Soon, very soon, perhaps in five minutes, perhaps now, the tramp of boots would mean that his own turn had come. The door opened. The cold-faced young officer stepped into the cell. With a brief movement of the hand he indicated Ampleforth. 'Room 101,' he said. Ampleforth marched clumsily out between the guards, his face vaguely perturbed, but uncomprehending. What seemed like a long time passed. The pain in Winston's belly had revived. His mind sagged round and round on the same trick, like a ball falling again and again into the same series of slots. He had only six thoughts. The pain in his belly; a piece of bread; the blood and the screaming; O'Brien; Julia; the razor blade. There was another spasm in his entrails, the heavy boots were approaching. As the door opened, the wave of air that it created brought in a powerful smell of cold sweat. Parsons walked into the cell. He was wearing khaki shorts and a sports-shirt. This time Winston was startled into self-forgetfulness. 'YOU here!' he said. Parsons gave Winston a glance in which there was neither interest nor surprise, but only misery. He began walking jerkily up and down, evidently unable to keep still. Each time he | 1 |
Subsets and Splits