Fill Up Your Cup Quotes

Fill up your own cup, and let them fall in love with the overflow

You don’t have to give up your wealth and turn into saints in order to contribute to this planet. But there are ways through which you can fill an empty cup without emptying your kettle.

Do not seek to empty your cup as a way to avoid sin, but rather seek to fill it up with the Spirit of life, so there is no longer room for sin.

Shamus ordered half a cup of house brew. Then he proceeded to fill the cup up the rest of the way with milk and sugar. Lots of sugar. “Sure you got enough milk in your sugar?” I asked as we strolled out of the shop and headed south. He flipped me off. “You drink your coffee your way, and I’ll drink my coffee the right way.

You can't drink from the cup while you're filling it up.

emptied my cup to fill up yours until i learned that there’s no point in watering something that doesn’t want to grow

Money is like water, it’s everywhere. It’s in the ground, it’s in the sky, it’s in the air… it’s everywhere. If you’d like, your wallet or account can be like a rainwater pool where the money is filled up and always flowing. And where you can just put a cup in that pool and drink from it whenever you like and you always have more than enough money because the pool is always full. And there’s a prosperous ecosystem where the money clouds are always passing by and pouring more money in there. That’s a good relationship with money.

Now more than ever I wish I had a cup of oblivion. But there is no mercy for the people who have left the darkness for the light. The darkness lingers until you stand naked in the light and let it fill you up, in every corner of your soul.

A question is a cup you hold out to be filled, and there are those who will always fill it to the brim, pour in all the truth they can think of, until it overflows and spills out and spreads across the table. That's not me. Me, I'll give you what's precisely true and no more; I'll answer your question and shut up.

The secret to keeping your marriage filled with love in a cup Whenever you’re wrong, admit it, whenever you’re right, shut up

Gmorning from your favorite cup Fill ‘em up, fill yourself up Gnight from your favorite cup Fill ‘em up, fill yourself up

There is always a choice,' I whispered. Looking at the storm-flared sky, my heart filled up like a sinking boat, sadness welling up faster than I could ship it out with my cupped hands. 'You choose to come after me even though you knew it would cause you trouble.' 'I'll always be your friend,' replied Manjeet in a low voice. 'We just can't be friends. I'm sorry. I have to go.

Holy night, holy night! Peace on high held in the stars' yoke! All—that ever the Light had broke, Is rejoined now, Both flesh and brow Bleed sweetly in the red-dusk! Bjelbog's Spear, Bjelbog's Spear Sinks to the heart of the drunk earth, Which—with a sign of holy mirth A lone rose-bloom Within the womb Of the darkest desire dips. Spotless bride, spotless bride! Your sweet contrition—cover up, When the full-filled wedding cup Yet overflows. Thus also goes Into the fierce Night the Day!

Now the evening's at its noon, its meridian. The outgoing tide has simmered down, and there's a lull-like the calm in the eye of a hurricane - before the reverse tide starts to set in. The last acts of the three-act plays are now on, and the after-theater eating places are beginning to fill up with early comers; Danny's and Lindy's - yes, and Horn & Hardart too. Everybody has got where they wanted to go - and that was out somewhere. Now everybody will want to get back where they came from - and that's home somewhere. Or as the coffee-grinder radio, always on the beam, put it at about this point: 'New York, New York, it's a helluva town, The Bronx is up, the Battery's down, And the people ride around in a hole in the ground. Now the incoming tide rolls in; the hours abruptly switch back to single digits again, and it's a little like the time you put your watch back on entering a different time zone. Now the buses knock off and the subway expresses turn into locals and the locals space themselves far apart; and as Johnny Carson's face hits millions of screens all at one and the same time, the incoming tide reaches its crest and pounds against the shore. There's a sudden splurge, a slew of taxis arriving at the hotel entrance one by one as regularly as though they were on a conveyor belt, emptying out and then going away again. Then this too dies down, and a deep still sets in. It's an around-the-clock town, but this is the stretch; from now until the garbage-grinding trucks come along and tear the dawn to shreds, it gets as quiet as it's ever going to get. This is the deep of the night, the dregs, the sediment at the bottom of the coffee cup. The blue hours; when guys' nerves get tauter and women's fears get greater. Now guys and girls make love, or kill each other or sometimes both. And as the windows on the 'Late Show' title silhouette light up one by one, the real ones all around go dark. And from now on the silence is broken only by the occasional forlorn hoot of a bogged-down drunk or the gutted-cat squeal of a too sharply swerved axle coming around a turn. Or as Billy Daniels sang it in Golden Boy: While the city sleeps, And the streets are clear, There's a life that's happening here. ("New York Blues")

Sonnet I am no stranger in the house of pain; I am familiar with its every part, From the low stile, then up the crooked lane To the dark doorway, intimate to my heart. Here did I sit with grief and eat his bread, Here was I welcomed as misfortune’s guest, And there’s no room but where I’ve laid my head On misery’s accomodating breast. So, sorrow, does my knocking rouse you up? Open the door, old mother; it is I. Bring grief’s good goblet out, the sad, sweet cup; Fill it with wine of silence, strong and dry. For I’ve a story to amuse your ears, Of youth and hope, of middle age and tears.

Terence, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head: We poor lads, ’tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time Moping melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’ Why, if ’tis dancing you would be, There’s brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God’s ways to man. Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think: Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world’s not. And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past: The mischief is that ’twill not last. Oh I have been to Ludlow fair And left my necktie God knows where, And carried half way home, or near, Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: Then the world seemed none so bad, And I myself a sterling lad; And down in lovely muck I’ve lain, Happy till I woke again. Then I saw the morning sky: Heigho, the tale was all a lie; The world, it was the old world yet, I was I, my things were wet, And nothing now remained to do But begin the game anew. Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure, I’d face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good. ’Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale Is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scored the hand I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, The better for the embittered hour; It should do good to heart and head When your soul is in my soul’s stead; And I will friend you, if I may, In the dark and cloudy day. There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. He gathered all that springs to birth From the many-venomed earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store; And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, Sate the king when healths went round. They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up: They shook, they stared as white’s their shirt: Them it was their poison hurt. —I tell the tale that I heard told. Mithridates, he died old.

Are we running hot or something?" Peabody demanded. "So a person can't take a minute to have a cup of coffee and maybe a small bite to eat, especially when the person got off a full subway stop early to work off the anticipated bite to eat." "If you're finished whining about it, I'll fill you in." "A real partner would have brought me a coffee to go so I could drink it while being filled in." "How many coffee shops did you pass on your endless and arduous hike from the subway?" "It's not the same," Peabody muttered. "And it's not my fault I'm coffee spoiled. You're the one who brought the real stufff made from real beans into my life. You addicted me." She pointed an accusing finger at Eve. "And now you're withholding the juice." "Yes, that was my plan all along. And if you ever want real again in this lifetime, suck it up and do my bidding." Peabody stared. "You're like Master Manipulator. An evil coffee puppeteer." "Yes, yes, I am. Do you have any interest, Detective, in where we're going, who we're going to see, and why?" "I'd be more interested if I had coffee.

I know he’s right. An all-consuming love is incredible. That kind of love awakens you from the bones and keeps you smiling all your life. But eventually, life and kids and all the other bullshit that comes along with that love takes pieces of you. And if you don’t have anything to fill you back up, you’ll pour from an empty cup until you’re dry as the desert.

Matteo didn't lick a woman's pussy because he felt obligated, or at the very least not mine. I might have argued he enjoyed it more than I did if he wasn't so damn good at it. That talented tongue explored every part of me, thrusting in and out until I whimpered. When he turned his attention to my clit, it was so he could slide a finger inside me. I clenched around him on a cry, feeling the way he moaned in response vibrate through me. He withdrew that finger, only to add a second and curl them to stroke that spot inside me that made me quiver. "Teo," I whimpered, and the sound of his name seemed to push him over the edge. He wrapped his lips around the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thigh, sucking gently. My legs tightened around his head; my hand buried in his hair to hold him exactly where I wanted him as I shattered in a blinding orgasm that stole my ability to function. I laid there, panting and trying to regain my ability to move. When I opened my eyes, it was to Matteo shoving his own underwear down his legs and kicking them off. He pulled his fingers free of me and spread my legs wide from where they'd wrapped around his head. Sliding up my body, his hips lined up with mine so he could grind his length against my wet core. His lips found mine in a bruising, claiming kiss that seemed even more primal because he tasted like me. He reached down, sliding himself through my wet and notching his head at my entrance. Pulling away from my lips, he groaned, "Tell me you're mine." Still recovering from my orgasm, I nodded in a daze. "Words, Angel. Give me the words." "Yours," I murmured, cupping his cheek with a delirious smile and tugging him down to kiss him again. He slid inside me slowly, filling me until there wasn't a single inch that couldn't feel him. "Fuck," he groaned against my mouth. He reached down, wrapping my legs around his hips. Our foreheads pressed together; our mouths not quite touching as he started to move inside me. Even without his lips on mine, I could taste him, taste me in his breath on my face. One of his hands grabbed mine, our fingers intertwining while he wrapped his other under my shoulder to hold me where he wanted me. He slid in and out in slow, hard thrusts.

Let me wake up next to you, A cup of coffee together will do. Let’s go out somewhere far, Don’t let anyone know till we’re back. Grab your bike keys & my hand, Let’s wander holding hand in hand. To our secret spot up the hill we go, And we see the sunset & more. Under a magical sky filled with stars, Kiss me good night on my eyes. And we find out you don't have to be happy at all... Cause darling, I'm beside you holding your hand

Maria Montessori, the famous educator, said, “We send children to school, and we think they’re cups; we want them to fill up the cup. The truth is, the cups are already full.” All the knowledge, all the power, there ever was or ever will be is omnipresent. You’ve already got all the knowledge and power you’ll ever need. You don’t get energy, you release it, and you release it to desire. When you’ve got a desire, you’ve got the energy to do it.

Migraines are described as “one of the most common” pain syndromes, affecting as much as 12 percent of the population.63 That’s common? How about menstrual cramps, which plague up to 90 percent of younger women?64 Can ginger help? Even just one-eighth of a teaspoon of ginger powder three times a day dropped pain from an eight to a six on a scale of one to ten, and down further to a three in the second month.65 And these women hadn’t been taking ginger all month; they started the day before their periods began, suggesting that even if it doesn’t seem to help much the first month, women should try sticking with it. What about the duration of pain? A quarter teaspoon of ginger powder three times a day was found to not only drop the severity of menstrual pain from about seven down to five but decrease the duration from a total of nineteen hours in pain down to about fifteen hours,66 significantly better than the placebo, which were capsules filled with powdered toast. But women don’t take bread crumbs for their cramps. How does ginger compare to ibuprofen? Researchers pitted one-eighth of a teaspoon of powdered ginger head-to-head against 400 mg of ibuprofen, and the ginger worked just as effectively as this leading drug.67 Unlike the drug, ginger can also reduce the amount of menstrual bleeding, from around a half cup per period down to a quarter cup.68 What’s more, ginger intake of one-eighth of a teaspoon twice daily started a week before your period can yield a significant drop in premenstrual mood, physical, and behavioral symptoms.69 I like sprinkling powdered ginger on sweet potatoes or using it fresh to make lemon-ginger apple chews as an antinausea remedy. (Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve suffered from motion sickness.) There is an array of powerful antinausea

Unlike many at court, who tried to spend as much time in front of the king as they could, Destin valued his privacy. So, in addition to his apartment within the palace, he kept a suite of rooms at the Cup and Comfort Inn on the riverfront. Any kind of pleasure could be had at the Cup and Comfort for a price, but what Destin treasured most was anonymity. This was a place where he could be himself. So it was with not a little alarm that he unlocked the door to his rooms at the inn to find Lila Barrowhill sleeping in his fireside chair. He froze in the doorway, but she must have heard him, because she opened her eyes and smiled at him sleepily. “I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in. I didn’t want to draw attention by sitting outside your door.” Destin stepped inside and shut and locked the door behind him. Then turned to glare at her, his arms folded. Lila grinned when she saw his expression. “Blood and bones, Karn, I’m so glad you’re still alive. It always seems that I’m a lot happier to see you than you are to see me. Well, except for that time you came to Oden’s Ford. Then there was that time in King Gerard’s garden—” “How did you find this place?” “I needed a cup and some comfort, and this place was recommended,” she said. She held up a cup she’d no doubt filled down in the taproom. “It’s truly amazing. You really can get anything you want here.” She winked at him.

You’re not healed,” she warned Fitz. “You’re going to need another week of recovery for that. And you’ll need to drink a vile tea every morning.” “Did you say ‘vile’?” Della asked. “Oh yeah—it’s nasty stuff. But so is getting impaled by a giant bug.” She set a jar on the table filled with seven spiky red flowers. “Steep one hollowthistle into a cup of boiling water and make him down the whole thing in one gulp. Try not to throw it up,” she told Fitz. “And no getting out of this bed except for essential things.” “So, like, a few rounds of tackle bramble?” Keefe asked. “Very funny,” Physic said. “But seriously—no. Fitz will look worse before he gets better. Just know that’s part of the process. I promise he’ll be his old self by the seventh cup.” “Can’t I just down all seven cups right now?” Fitz asked. “Not unless you want your insides to liquefy.” “Am I the only one who thinks that would be kind of cool?” Keefe asked, earning another laugh from Physic.

She sees that your heart is filled with grief. You need to go to the ocean. Write the names of the things you’ve lost on stones you will find there and then cast them away into the waters. The ocean is big enough to take your grief and keep it safe for you, freeing up space in your heart for other things. The dreamseller says this is an important lesson for you to learn now and you must remember it. It will help you later in life.’ While we were having a cup of mint tea and some

He drew his fingers down over her collarbones drifting closer to her breasts. “The muscles here on our women are often as developed as ours.” Judging by the heated look in his eyes, he didn’t mind at all that she had breasts instead of muscular pecs. “And here.” Her pulse picked up as he cupped her breasts. “You’re rounder here. Softer. Fuller.” He squeezed them gently and drew his thumbs across the hard, sensitive peaks. Ava sucked in a breath as sensation shot through her. “Do that again.” He brushed his thumbs across the tight buds again., toyed with them and gave an experimental pinch. Ava jerked and arched against him. “You’re sensitive here,” he murmured. “Yes.” His lips captured hers once more, tasting and tempting as he explored her breasts and ratcheted up her need. She and Jak’ri had been nearly bare with each other countless times in their dreams as they swam and cavorted in Rounaka Sea, but they had been out in the open and the dreams had felt so real that she would never have thought of doing her lustful inclinations there for fear of being discovered. Now, however, they were alone. They were free and the cave enclosing them might has well have been a Honeymoon suite at a secluded resort. So there was no reason for her to hold back. She moaned. Jak’ri certainly wasn’t holding back. The women of Purvel might not have breasts like hers, but he sure as hell knew what to do with them, teasing and tweaking and squeezing until she squirmed against him. Her breath shortening. “Jak’ri,” she whispered, tunneling the fingers of one hand through his thick hair while she slid the other down his back and rocked against the thick, hard ridge concealed by his pants. “I want you.” Nodding he trailed heated kisses down her neck. “I want you too.” One of his big hands left her breast and cupped her ass, grinding her against him. “Are you ready to release your eggs?” Sensation shot through her. “Hmmm?” “Are you ready to release your eggs so I can fertilize them?” he murmured, clutching her closer. Her eyes flew open. “Wait, what?” She leaned back. “I assume your reproduce the same way Purveli’s do,” he said, dragging his eyes up from her breasts to meet hers. “You release your eggs, then I fertilize them.” She stared at him, stunned. Release her eggs? Did he mean like a…like a fish? Her gaze shot to the barely discernable scales that coated his broad chest and handsome face. Did Purveli’s not have sex the way humans and Lasaran’s did? His lips twitched as his eyes danced with mirth. Relief filled her. “Oh my gosh,” laughing Ava shoved one of his shoulders. “You are so bad.” He laughed. “Apologies, I couldn’t resist. My scales seemed to fascinate you.

Slowly, his hands coasted down to my hips, tracing my panties before he tugged them down. He looked up at me, even as his hand eased between my thighs. Ice-green eyes burned bright. "I've never wanted anyone as much as I want you." The calloused tips of his fingers slid along my swollen, slick sex. "Now that I have you, I don't know where to start." My lids fluttered, hands clutching at his shoulders as he rubbed back and forth. "Right there works for me." His smile was sin and promise. "You like that, honey?" "Yes." He toyed with the entrance to my sex, pausing there to push just enough for me to feel it, to want it. "How about here?" "There is..." My breath caught. He pushed in, long strong fingers filling me. "Is what?" he murmured darkly, those talented fingers slowly fucking me, as though he had all the time in the world. The blunt end of his thumb found my puffy clit and circled it. I whimpered again, falling against him, my arms wrapping around his neck. "So fucking good." He made a noise, possessive and greedy, his mouth finding my nipple, his long fingers pushing up into me. "God, you're perfect. So perfect for me." The slight curl of his fingers hit a spot, and that was it. I came in waves, shaking with it, heat swamping me. His eyes held mine as he coaxed me along, drawing my pleasure out. With a groan that sounded almost pained, Lucian slid to the floor, his wide shoulders edging between my legs. He palmed my thighs in his big hands to hold me steady. And then, with an impatient grunt, he leaned in and kissed my throbbing clit. Kissed it like he kissed my mouth, greedy and deep, licking and sucking, nibbling with firm lips. I cried out again, my knees so weak he had to hold me up. He ate me like a dessert, lapping at my slit before thrusting his tongue inside me. I couldn't take it. It was too much. I came again, writhing against his mouth. "That's it," he said between frantic kisses. "That's it, Em. Work that sweet pussy on my mouth." Oh, hell. I crumpled, dislodging myself before falling onto his lap. I cupped the thick column of his nape and kissed him, drawing in his breath as he groaned and devoured me.

BULLETPROOF POACHED EGGS WITH SAUTÉED GREENS Poaching is a great Bulletproof method of cooking eggs to retain their nutrients and avoid damaging the proteins. This is a great weekend lunch meal that could easily be substituted for dinner. Try buying an assortment of fresh organic greens and prewash them when you get home so they’re ready when you need them for easy cooking. 2 to 3 cups greens of your choice (kale, collards, chard, etc.) 2 tablespoons grass-fed unsalted butter or ghee Sea salt 2 tablespoons sliced raw cashews or almonds 2 poached eggs Fill a pan with an inch or two of water and add the greens to cook. Once the greens are tender, drain the water and add the butter or ghee. Toss the greens in the butter or ghee until covered. Remove the greens from the heat and sprinkle with salt and nuts. You should poach your eggs so your yolks are runny and the nutrition from the yolks is intact. The restaurant tricks to poaching eggs are to add 2 tablespoons of apple cider vinegar to the water and then swirl the water around before cracking the eggs so they stay in the center of the whirlpool.

COMMITMENT is like rain in Oregon. You wake up every morning and there it is. It cups your house in its liquid hands and fills your gutters to overflowing. It makes green things grow tall and lush, rivers run deep and invincible. On sunny days it seeps up through petals and pine needles, roots and aqueducts. Other days, it makes mud too thick for walking, and you cannot leave the house. You pace the house, restless and lonely. Then you smell its perfume in a dry, empty room and part the curtains, watch it finger the window with long, slow rivulets. From 'A Compendium of Miniatures

and drew her strength directly from our magickal Oklahoma earth. “U-we-tsi-a-ge-ya, it seems I need help at the lavender booth. I simply cannot believe how busy we are.” Grandma had barely spoken when a nun hurried up. “Zoey, Sister Mary Angela could use your help filling out cat adoption forms.” “I’ll help you, Grandma Redbird,” Shaylin said. “I love the smell of lavender.” “Oh, honey, that would be so sweet of you. First, could you run to my car and get into the trunk. There is another box of lavender soaps and sachets tucked back there. Looks like I’m going to sell out completely,” Grandma said happily. “Sure thing.” Shaylin caught the keys Grandma tossed to her and hurried toward the main exit of the school grounds which led to the parking lot, as well as the tree-lined road that joined Utica Street. “And I’ll call my momma. She said just let her know if we get too busy over here. She and the PTA moms will be back here in a sec,” said Stevie Rae. “Grandma, do you mind if I give Street Cats a hand? I’ve been dying to check out their new litter of kittens.” “Go on, u-we-tsi-a-ge-ya. I think Sister Mary Angela has been missing your company.” “Thanks, Grandma.” I smiled at her. Then I turned to Stevie Rae. “Okay, if your mom’s group is coming back, I’m gonna go help the nuns.” “Yeah, no problem.” Stevie Rae, shielding her eyes and peering through the crowd, added, “I see her now, and she’s got Mrs. Rowland and Mrs. Wilson with her.” “Don’t worry. We can handle this,” Shaunee said. “’Kay,” I said, grinning at both of them. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I left the cookie booth and noticed Aphrodite, clutching her big purple Queenies cup, was right on my heels. “I thought you didn’t want a lecture from the nuns.” “Better than a lecture from PTA moms.” She shuddered. “Plus, I like cats more than people.” I shrugged. “Okay, whatever.” We’d only gotten partway to the Street Cats tent when Aphrodite slowed way down. “Seriously. Effing. Pathetic.” She was muttering around her straw, narrowing her eyes, and glaring. I followed her gaze and joined her frown. “Yeah, no matter how many times I see them together, I still don’t get it.” Aphrodite and I had stopped to watch Shaunee’s ex-Twin BFF, Erin, hang all over Dallas. “I really thought she was better than that.” “Apparently not,” Aphrodite said. “Eeew,” I said, looking away from their way too public display of locked lips. “I’m telling you, there’s not enough booze in Tulsa to make watching those two suck face okay.” She made a gagging sound, which changed to a snort and a laugh. “Check out the wimple, twelve o’clock.” Sure enough, there was a nun I vaguely recognized as Sister Emily (one of the more uptight of the nuns) descending on the too-busy-with-their-tongues-to-notice couple. “She looks serious,” I said. “You know, a nun may very well be the direct opposite of an aphrodisiac. This should be entertaining. Let’s watch.” “Zoey! Over here!” I looked from the train wreck about to happen to see Sister Mary Angela waving me over to her.

NORMAN’S EGG SALAD 4 cups peeled and chopped hard-boiled eggs.*** (That’s about a dozen extra large eggs—measure after chopping) 1/2 cup crumbled cooked bacon (make your own or use real crumbled bacon from a can—I used Hormel Premium Real Crumbled Bacon) 1 Tablespoon chopped parsley (it’s better if it’s fresh, but you can use dried parsley flakes if you don’t have fresh on hand) 1/4 cup grated carrots (for color and a bit of sweetness) 4 ounces cream cheese 1/4 cup sour cream 1/2 cup mayonnaise (I used Best Foods, which is Hellmann’s in some states) 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder (or 1/2 teaspoon freshly minced garlic) 1/2 teaspoon onion powder (or 1 teaspoon freshly minced onion) salt to taste freshly ground black pepper to taste   Peel and chop the hard-boiled eggs. Add the crumbled bacon, the parsley, and the grated carrots. Mix well.   Put the cream cheese in a small bowl and microwave for 30 seconds on HIGH to soften it. If it can be easily stirred with a fork, add the sour cream and mayonnaise, and mix well. If the cream cheese is still too solid, give it another 10 seconds or so before you add the other ingredients.   Stir in the garlic powder and onion powder.   Add the cream cheese mixture to the bowl with the eggs and stir it all up. Add salt and freshly ground pepper to taste, and chill until ready to serve.   Serve by itself on a lettuce leaf, as filling in a sandwich, or stuffed in Hannah’s Very Best Cream Puffs for a fancy luncheon.   Yield: Makes approximately a dozen superb egg salad sandwiches.

All these thoughts flashed through Amelia’s mind in one searing mass. But as she stiffened and waited for the ax to fall, Rohan came to her in two long strides. And before Amelia could move, or think, or even breathe, he had jerked her full length against him, and pulled her head to his. Rohan kissed her with an indecent frankness that sent her reeling. His arms were firm around her, keeping her steady while his mouth caught hers at just the right angle. Her hands moved in tentative objection, her palms encountering the tough muscles of his chest, the catch of his shirt buttons. He was the only solid thing in a kaleidoscopic world. She stopped pushing as her body absorbed the arousing details of him, the hard masculine contours, the fresh outdoors scent, the sensuous probing of his mouth. She had relived his kiss a thousand times in her dreams. She just hadn’t realized it until now. Graceful fingers cupped around her neck and jaw, turning her face upward. The tips of his fingers found the fine skin behind her ears, where it met the silken edge of her hairline. And all the while he continued to fill her with concentrated fire, until the inside of her mouth prickled sweetly and her legs shook beneath her. He used his tongue delicately, exploring without haste, entering her repeatedly while she clung to him in bewildered pleasure. His mouth lifted, his breath a hot caress against her lips. He turned his head as he spoke to whoever had entered the room. “I beg your pardon, my lord. We wanted a moment of privacy.” Amelia turned crimson as she followed his gaze to the doorway, where Lord Westcliff stood with an unfathomable expression. An electric moment passed while Westcliff appeared to marshal his thoughts. His gaze moved to Amelia’s face, then back to Rohan’s. A smile flickered in his dark eyes. “I intend to return in approximately a half hour. It would probably be best if my study were vacated by then.” Giving a courteous nod, he took his leave. As soon as the door closed behind him, Amelia dropped her forehead to Rohan’s shoulder with a groan. She would have pulled away, but she didn’t trust her knees to hold. “Why did you do that?” He didn’t look at all repentant. “I had to come up with a reason for both of us to be in here. It seemed the best option.

Softly, he said, “Why are you crying?” His words made the tears flow faster. “Kestrel.” She drew a shaky breath. “Because when my father comes home, I will tell him that he has won. I will join the military.” There was a silence. “I don’t understand.” Kestrel shrugged. She shouldn’t care whether he understood or not. “You would give up your music?” Yes. She would. “But your bargain with the general was for spring.” Arin still sounded confused. “You have until spring to marry or enlist. Ronan…Ronan would ask the god of souls for you. He would ask you to marry him.” “He has.” Arin didn’t speak. “But I can’t,” she said. “Kestrel.” “I can’t.” “Kestrel, please don’t cry.” Tentative fingers touched her face. A thumb ran along the wet skin of her cheekbone. She suffered for it, suffered for the misery of knowing that whatever possessed him to do this could be no more than compassion. He valued her that much. But not enough. “Why can’t you marry him?” he whispered. She broke her word to herself and looked at him. “Because of you.” Arin’s hand flinched against her cheek. His dark head bowed, became lost in its own shadow. Then he slipped from his seat and knelt before hers. His hands fell to the fists on her lap and gently opened them. He held them as if cupping water. He took a breath to speak. She would have stopped him. She would have wished herself deaf, blind, made of unfeeling smoke. She would have stopped his words out of terror, longing. The way terror and longing had become indistinguishable. Yet his hands held hers, and she could do nothing. He said, “I want the same thing you want.” Kestrel pulled back. It wasn’t possible his words could mean what they seemed. “It hasn’t been easy for me to want it.” Arin lifted his face so that she could see his expression. A rich emotion played across his features, offered itself, and asked to be called by its name. Hope. “But you’ve already given your heart,” she said. His brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Oh. No, not the way you think.” He laughed a little, the sound soft yet somehow wild. “Ask me why I went to the market.” This was cruel. “We both know why.” He shook his head. “Pretend that you’ve won a game of Bite and Sting. Why did I go? Ask me. It wasn’t to see a girl who doesn’t exist.” “She…doesn’t?” “I lied.” Kestrel blinked. “Then why did you go to the market?” “Because I wanted to feel free.” Arin raised a hand to brush the air by his temple, then awkwardly let it fall. Kestrel suddenly understood this gesture she’d seen many times. It was an old habit. He was brushing away a ghost, hair that was no longer there because she had ordered it cut. She leaned forward, and kissed his temple. Arin’s hand held her lightly to him. His cheek slid against hers. Then his lips touched her brow, her closed eyes, the line where her jaw met her throat. Kestrel’s mouth found his. His lips were salted with her tears, and the taste of that, of him, of their deepening kiss, filled her with the feeling of his quiet laugh moments ago. Of a wild softness, a soft wildness. In his hands, running up her thin dress. In his heat, burning through to her skin…and into her, sinking into him.

I didn’t answer, occupied in dissolving the penicillin tablets in the vial of sterile water. I selected a glass barrel, fitted a needle, and pressed the tip through the rubber covering the mouth of the bottle. Holding it up to the light, I pulled back slowly on the plunger, watching the thick white liquid fill the barrel, checking for bubbles. Then pulling the needle free, I depressed the plunger slightly until a drop of liquid pearled from the point and rolled slowly down the length of the spike. “Roll onto your good side,” I said, turning to Jamie, “and pull up your shirt.” He eyed the needle in my hand with keen suspicion, but reluctantly obeyed. I surveyed the terrain with approval. “Your bottom hasn’t changed a bit in twenty years,” I remarked, admiring the muscular curves. “Neither has yours,” he replied courteously, “but I’m no insisting you expose it. Are ye suffering a sudden attack of lustfulness?” “Not just at present,” I said evenly, swabbing a patch of skin with a cloth soaked in brandy. “That’s a verra nice make of brandy,” he said, peering back over his shoulder, “but I’m more accustomed to apply it at the other end.” “It’s also the best source of alcohol available. Hold still now, and relax.” I jabbed deftly and pressed the plunger slowly in. “Ouch!” Jamie rubbed his posterior resentfully. “It’ll stop stinging in a minute.” I poured an inch of brandy into the cup. “Now you can have a bit to drink—a very little bit.” He drained the cup without comment, watching me roll up the collection of syringes. Finally he said, “I thought ye stuck pins in ill-wish dolls when ye meant to witch someone; not in the people themselves.” “It’s not a pin, it’s a hypodermic syringe.” “I dinna care what ye call it; it felt like a bloody horseshoe nail. Would ye care to tell me why jabbing pins in my arse is going to help my arm?” I took a deep breath. “Well, do you remember my once telling you about germs?” He looked quite blank. “Little beasts too small to see,” I elaborated. “They can get into your body through bad food or water, or through open wounds, and if they do, they can make you ill.” He stared at his arm with interest. “I’ve germs in my arm, have I?” “You very definitely have.” I tapped a finger on the small flat box. “The medicine I just shot into your backside kills germs, though. You get another shot every four hours ’til this time tomorrow, and then we’ll see how you’re doing.” I paused. Jamie was staring at me, shaking his head. “Do you understand?” I asked. He nodded slowly. “Aye, I do. I should ha’ let them burn ye, twenty years ago.

How it must break His heart when we walk around so desperate for a love He waits to give us each and every day. Imagine a little girl running with a cup in her hand sloshing out all it contains. She thinks what will refill her is just ahead. Just a little farther. She presses on with sheer determination and clenched teeth and an empty cup clutched tight. She keeps running toward an agenda He never set and one that will never satisfy. She sees Him and holds out her cup. But she catches only a few drops as she runs by Him, because she didn’t stop long enough to be filled up. Empty can’t be tempered with mere drops. The tragic truth is what will fill her—what will fill us—isn’t the accomplishment or the next relationship just ahead. That shiny thing is actually a vacuum that sucks us in and sucks us dry … but never has the ability to refill. I should know, because that’s where I was. There’s no kind of empty quite like this empty: where your hands are full but inside you’re nothing but an exhausted shell.

With a sudden strike of inspiration, she blurted, “Why don’t you write a novel? I know you have enough life experiences to fill a whole room with books, and with you as the main character.” She placed the coffee cup back into Havok’s hands before reaching down to grab the bottom of her shirt, pulling it over her head, and balling it up in her hands. Standing naked, she brought the shirt to her nose and closed her eyes. “I can be one of your characters,” she purred, her eyes still closed. “A sexually frustrated homemaker whom you rescue from a boring marriage and ravage anytime you wish.” “I couldn’t tell you the difference between a split infinitive and a sentence fragment. Besides, the protagonists in most novels are supposed to be some sort of good-looking and chivalrous knights in shining armor who, at no time, sleeps with another man’s wife, always knows how to work a toilet seat, cooks the perfect eggs, and never burns the toast.” Havok shrugged his shoulders. “I have a habit of burning toast.” With the shirt still against her nose, June opened her eyes. “Somehow, I think that you make it a habit of burning your toast.

the rhythm which was barely intricate to most ears in the commons was to him painful because it was timed to the processes of his body, to jar and strike against them…and she was surprised he had held up this long. “All right, Cord, to be lord of this black barrack, Tarik’s, you need more than jackal lore, or a belly full of murder and jelly knees. Open your mouth and your hands. To understand power, use your wit, please. Ambition like a liquid ruby stains your brain, birthed in the cervixed will to kill, swung in the arc of death’s again, you name yourself victim each time you fill with swill the skull’s cup lipping murder. It predicts your fingers’ movement toward the blade long laid against the leather sheath cord-fixed to pick the plan your paling fingers made; you stayed in safety, missing worlds of wonder, under the lithe hiss of the personafix inflicting false memories to make them blunder while thunder cracks the change of Tarik. You stick pins in peaches, place your strange blade, ranged with a grooved tooth, while the long and strong lines of my meaning make your mind change from fulgent to frangent. Now you hear the wrong cord-song, to instruct you. Assassin, pass in…

Covenant Woman Covenant woman got a contract with the Lord Way up yonder, great will be her reward Covenant woman, shining like a morning star I know I can trust you to stay where you are And I just got to tell you I do intend To stay closer than any friend I just got to thank you Once again For making your prayers known Unto heaven for me And to you, always, so grateful I will forever be I’ve been broken, shattered like an empty cup I’m just waiting on the Lord to rebuild and fill me up And I know He will do it ’cause He’s faithful and He’s true He must have loved me so much to send me someone as fine as you And I just got to tell you I do intend To stay closer than any friend I just got to thank you Once again For making your prayers known Unto heaven for me And to you, always, so grateful I will forever be Covenant woman, intimate little girl Who knows those most secret things of me that are hidden from the world You know we are strangers in a land we’re passing through I’ll always be right by your side, I’ve got a covenant too And I just got to tell you I do intend To stay closer than any friend I just got to thank you Once again For making your prayers known Unto heaven for me And to you, always, so grateful I will forever be

Stormy lived more life in one night than most people do their whole lives. She was a force of nature. She taught me that love--” My eyes well up and I start over. “Stormy taught me that love is about making brave choices every day. That’s what Stormy did. She always picked love; she always picked adventure. To her they were one and the same. And now she’s off on a new adventure, and we wish her well.” From his seat on the couch, John wipes his eyes with his sleeve. I give Janette a nod, and she gets up and presses play on the stereo, and “Stormy Weather” fills the room. “Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky…” After, John shoulders his way over to me, holding two plastic cups of fruit punch. Ruefully he says, “I’m sure she’d tell us to spike it, but…” He hands me a cup, and we clink. “To Edith Sinclair McClaren Sheehan, better known as Stormy.” “Stormy’s real name was Edith? It’s so serious. It sounds like someone who wears wool skirts and heavy stockings, and drinks chamomile tea at night. Stormy drank cocktails!” John laughs. “I know, right?” “So then where did the name Stormy come from? Why not Edie?” “Who knows?” John says, a wry smile on his lips. “She’d have loved your speech.” He gives me a warm, appreciative sort of look. “You’re such a nice girl, Lara Jean.

And were you immediately taken with Charlotte, when you found her?" "Who wouldn't be?" Gentry parried with a bland smile. He drew a slow circle on Lottie's palm, stroking the insides of her fingers, brushed his thumb over the delicate veins of her wrist. The subtle exploration made her feel hot and breathless, her entire being focused on the fingertip that feathered along the tender flesh of her upper palm. Most disconcerting of all was the realization that Gentry didn't even know what he was doing. He fiddled lazily with her hand and talked with Sophia, while the chocolate service was brought to the parlor and set out on the table. "Isn't it charming?" Sophia asked, indicating the flowered porcelain service with a flourish. She picked up the tall, narrow pot and poured a dark, fragrant liquid into one of the small cups, filling the bottom third. "Most people use cocoa powder, but the best results are obtained by mixing the cream with chocolate liquor." Expertly she stirred a generous spoonful of sugar into the steaming liquid. "Not liquor as in wine or spirits, mind you. Chocolate liquor is pressed from the meat of the beans, after they have been roasted and hulled." "It smells quite lovely," Lottie commented, her breath catching as Gentry's fingertip investigated the plump softness at the base of her thumb. Sophia turned her attention to preparing the other cups. "Yes, and the flavor is divine. I much prefer chocolate to coffee in the morning." "Is it a st-stimulant, then?" Lottie asked, finally managing to jerk her hand away from Gentry. Deprived of his plaything, he gave her a questioning glance. "Yes, of a sort," Sophia replied, pouring a generous amount of cream into the sweetened chocolate liquor. She stirred the cups with a tiny silver spoon. "Although it is not quite as animating as coffee, chocolate is uplifting in its own way." She winked at Lottie. "Some even claim that chocolate rouses the amorous instincts." "How interesting," Lottie said, doing her best to ignore Gentry as she accepted her cup. Inhaling the rich fumes appreciatively, she took a tiny sip of the shiny, dark liquid. The robust sweetness slid along her tongue and tickled the back of her throat. Sophia laughed in delight at Lottie's expression. "You like it, I see. Good- now I have found an inducement to make you visit often." Lottie nodded as she continued to drink. By the time she reached the bottom of the cup, her head was swimming, and her nerves were tingling from the mixture of heat and sugar. Gentry set his cup aside after a swallow or two. "Too rich for my taste, Sophia, although I compliment your skill in preparing it. Besides, my amorous instincts need no encouragement." He smiled as the statement caused Lottie to choke on the last few drops of chocolate.

STUFFIN’ MUFFINS Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 4 ounces salted butter (1 stick, 8 Tablespoons, ¼ pound) ½ cup finely chopped onion (you can buy this chopped or chop it yourself) ½ cup finely chopped celery ½ cup chopped apple (core, but do not peel before chopping) 1 teaspoon powdered sage 1 teaspoon powdered thyme 1 teaspoon ground oregano 8 cups herb stuffing (the kind in cubes that you buy in the grocery store—you can also use plain bread cubes and add a quarter-teaspoon more of ground sage, thyme, and oregano) 3 eggs, beaten (just whip them up in a glass with a fork) 1 teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon black pepper (freshly ground is best) 2 ounces (½ stick, 4 Tablespoons, pound) melted butter ¼ to ½ cup chicken broth (I used Swanson’s) Hannah’s 1st Note: I used a Fuji apple this time. I’ve also used Granny Smith apples, or Gala apples. Before you start, find a 12-cup muffin pan. Spray the inside of the cups with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray OR line them with cupcake papers. Get out a 10-inch or larger frying pan. Cut the stick of butter in 4 to 8 pieces and drop them inside. Put the pan over MEDIUM heat on the stovetop to melt the butter. Once the butter has melted, add the chopped onions. Give them a stir. Add the chopped celery. Stir it in. Add the chopped apple and stir that in. Sprinkle in the ground sage, thyme, and oregano. Sauté this mixture for 5 minutes. Then pull the frying pan off the heat and onto a cold burner. In a large mixing bowl, combine the 8 cups of herb stuffing. (If the boxed stuffing you bought has a separate herb packet, just sprinkle it over the top of the mixture in your frying pan. That way you’ll be sure to put it in!) Pour the beaten eggs over the top of the herb stuffing and mix them in. Sprinkle on the salt and the pepper. Mix them in. Pour the melted butter over the top and mix it in. Add the mixture from your frying pan on top of that. Stir it all up together. Measure out ¼ cup of chicken broth. Wash your hands. (Mixing the stuffing is going to be a lot easier if you use your impeccably clean hands to mix it.) Pour the ¼ cup of chicken broth over the top of your bowl. Mix everything with your hands. Feel the resulting mixture. It should be softened, but not wet. If you think it’s so dry that your muffins might fall apart after you bake them, mix in another ¼ cup of chicken broth. Once your Stuffin’ Muffin mixture is thoroughly combined, move the bowl close to the muffin pan you’ve prepared, and go wash your hands again. Use an ice cream scoop to fill your muffin cups. If you don’t have an ice cream scoop, use a large spoon. Mound the tops of the muffins by hand. (Your hands are still impeccably clean, aren’t they?) Bake the Stuffin’ Muffins at 350 degrees F. for 25 minutes. Yield: One dozen standard-sized muffins that can be served hot, warm, or at room temperature. Hannah’s 2nd Note: These muffins are a great accompaniment to pork, ham, chicken, turkey, duck, beef, or . . . well . . . practically anything! If there are any left over, you can reheat them in the microwave to serve the next day. Hannah’s 3rd Note: I’m beginning to think that Andrea can actually make Stuffin’ Muffins. It’s only April now, so she’s got seven months to practice.

Cakes: Microwave milk, water, oil, and butter for two minutes. Make certain it is not too hot to touch (90–100 degrees. We don’t want to kill off our little hardworking yeast, do we? No. We are not killers). Crack eggs into liquid. In the mixing bowl of a standing mixer, combine 1 ½ cups of flour, the salt, sugar, and yeast. Add the liquid and stir thoroughly. Add remaining 2 cups of flour one cup at a time, stirring between each addition. With mixer on low and using the bread paddle or hook, mix dough for 4 minutes. If you don’t have a standing mixer for some strange reason, which I cannot fathom because they are the most useful things ever, you can knead it by hand for 8 minutes instead. Scrape dough into a greased and floured mixing bowl. Let rise for one hour in a warm place. (I preheat my oven to 100 degrees and then turn it off before putting the dough inside, covered with a towel. This is a Great Way to Not Kill Your Yeast.) After one hour, remove the dough and place on a floured cutting board. Gently roll it out to a 12 x 20 inch(ish) rectangle. Combine 3 tablespoons melted butter and ¼ teaspoon orange extract for the filling. Spoon the filling to cover the rectangle, then roll it up. It will be . . . slimy. Delicious, but slimy. Use a sharp knife to cut the log into 12 rolls. (They should be swirled like cinnamon rolls.) Place each roll cut side up in a greased muffin tin and let rise for a half hour covered with the towel. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees, then bake rolls (remove the towel first, flames are such a pain in the kitchen) for 14 minutes. Let them cool in the pan for a few minutes, then tip them out onto a large plate for the next step.

1. TO YOU HE WHO SPOKE and wrote this message will be greatly disappointed if it does not lead many to the Lord Jesus. It is sent forth in childlike dependence upon the power of God the Holy Ghost, to use it in the conversion of millions, if so He pleases. No doubt many poor men and women will take up this little volume, and the Lord will visit them with grace. To answer this end, the very plainest language has been chosen, and many homely expressions have been used. But if those of wealth and rank should glance at this book, the Holy Ghost can impress them also; since that which can be understood by the unlettered is none the less attractive to the instructed. Oh that some might read it who will become great winners of souls! Who knows how many will find their way to peace by what they read here? A more important question to you, dear reader, is this- Will you be one of them? A certain man placed a fountain by the wayside, and he hung up a cup near to it by a little chain. He was told some time after that a great art-critic had found much fault with its design. "But," said he, "do many thirsty persons drink at it?" Then they told him that thousands of poor people, men, women, and children, slaked their thirst at this fountain; and he smiled and said, that he was little troubled by the critic's observation, only he hoped that on some sultry summer's day the critic himself might fill the cup, and he refreshed, and praise the name of the Lord. Here is my fountain, and here is my cup: find fault if you please; but do drink of the water of life. I only care for this. I had rather bless the soul of the poorest crossing-sweeper, or rag-gatherer, than please a prince of the blood, and fail to convert him to God. Reader, do you mean business in reading these pages? If so, we are agreed at the outset; but nothing short of your finding Christ and Heaven is the business aimed at here. Oh that we may seek this together!

She looked down at the man. His face appeared different than the first time she had seen him, as if he'd fought some battle and won. A peacefulness stole over her, causing her to take a deep breath. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. His scent filled her mind and her fingers began to glide through his hair, exploring the shape of his head, then his temples, then down to the sharp plain of his cheekbones. "Come back, my duke," she whispered. "I have need to see thee fattened up and shouting orders." Suddenly she felt a touch on her cheek. Caught in the dreamlike spell, she turned into the hand without opening her eyes. As she had done, he caressed her cheek. Now his thumb ran along the line of her jaw. When fingers touched her lips, her eyes fluttered open. "Your voice saved me." His own was raspy and deep, but gratitude glowed in the dark pools that were his eyes. And he was even more devastatingly attractive with them open. Serena drew a sharp breath, wanting to get up, both trapped beneath his weight and that of his words. "Thou hast been very sick." She strained to right her senses. When she started to slide out from under his head, he grasped her hand with surprising strength. "Stay." "I must not. My father will be back soon." "Have we reached Philadelphia then?" "Yes. The others have already been sold. 'Tis fortunate thee wert so ill and escaped the soul-drivers, sir." As she spoke, she slid out from beneath his head and refilled his cup. "Here, have another drink, and thou wilt hear the tale." He smiled at her with such a look that she thought she might melt into the wood f the floor. "A long story, I hope. I would listen to your voice forever." Heat surged to her cheeks, her gaze dropping to the floor. Her mind told her how inappropriate it was to behave like this with a complete stranger. And yet, it was as if other parts of her- her heart, her soul, her very skin- knew him as deeply as she knew herself.

KATHLEEN: I think I’m falling for Garner Bradford. ROSE: What! Hang on a minute. Let me pass the baby to Henry so I can concentrate on this conversation. One sec. Okay. I’m in my bedroom with the door closed. You’re falling for Garner Bradford? KATHLEEN: I’ve been trying hard not to and I’ve been doing an okay job of it, but the company held one of its family barbecue picnics this afternoon. I went and he was there with his girls and it melted me. Seeing him with them. ROSE: More details, please. KATHLEEN: I was talking with one of the women from accounting when I spotted him getting into the food line with the girls. I excused myself and hurried over because it looked like he could use an extra hand. He can’t very well hold three plates at once, right? ROSE: Right. KATHLEEN: I ended up filling his daughter Willow’s plate. ROSE: Which one is Willow? KATHLEEN: The older one. She’s four. Nora, the younger one, is two. After I carried Willow’s plate to their table, Garner was sort of honor-bound to invite me to join them. So I sat down, and when I looked across the table, I saw that Garner had a burger exactly like mine. We both chose the bun with sesame seeds. We both put tomatoes and pickles and grilled onions and ketchup and mustard on ours. ROSE: Let me guess. Neither one of your burgers had lettuce. KATHLEEN: Exactly! No lettuce. ROSE: It sounds like fate. KATHLEEN: That’s what I thought. It felt more and more like fate the longer I sat there. Willow is serious and quiet. Nora is sweet and busy. They’re gorgeous little girls, Rose. ROSE: I’m sure they are. KATHLEEN: And Garner was wonderful with them. He used a wet wipe to clean their hands. He cut their hot dogs into tiny pieces. He brought their sippy cups out of his bag. He redid Willow’s ponytail when it started to sag. The girls look at him like he hung the moon. ROSE: And by the time you finished your lettuce-free hamburger, you were looking at him like he hung the moon, too. KATHLEEN: Yes. ROSE: Mm-hmm. KATHLEEN:

For years now I have heard the word “Wait!” It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This “Wait” has almost always meant “Never.” We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that “justice too long delayed is justice denied.” We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God-given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jet-like speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, “Wait.” But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick, and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she can’t go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son who is asking: “Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross-county drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger,” your middle names becomes “boy” (however old you are), and your last name becomes “John,” and your wife and mother are never given the respected title “Mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodiness”—then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait.

CUPPA’S ‘TO DIE FOR’ CINNAMON ROLLS Did the description of Cuppa’s amazing cinnamon rolls make your mouth water? Every time I described them in this book I thought about my family’s favorite recipe for cinnamon rolls, and I’ve included it here for you. I think Tory and Meg would approve. All measurements/temperatures are in US units. Makes 12 wonderfully large rolls Dough: 2 packages active dry yeast 1 cup warm water 2/3 cup plus 1 teaspoon granulated sugar, divided 1 cup warmed milk (I microwave this and then stir to be sure there are no hot spots) 2/3 cup softened butter 2 teaspoons salt 2 eggs, beaten 7 to 8 cups all-purpose flour Filling of Deliciousness: 1 cup melted butter, divided (that’s 2 sticks) 1-3/4 cups dark brown sugar, divided 3 Tablespoons ground cinnamon 1 teaspoon ground nutmeg (fresh, if possible) 1 to 2 cups chopped pecans (optional) 1-1/2 cups dark raisins (optional) Frosting: 1/2 cup melted butter 3 cups powdered sugar 1 and a half teaspoons real vanilla 5 to 8 Tablespoons hot water   DIRECTIONS: To make dough combine yeast, warm water and 1 teaspoon sugar in a cup and stir. Set aside. In a large bowl mix warmed milk, remaining 2/3 cup sugar, butter, salt, and eggs. Stir well and add yeast mixture. Add half the flour and beat until smooth. Stir in enough of the remaining flour to make a slightly stiff dough. It’s okay for the dough to be sticky. Turn out onto a well-floured board and knead for 5 to 10 minutes. Place in a well-buttered glass bowl. Cover loosely and let rise in a warm draft-free place until doubled in bulk, about 1 to 1-1/2 hours. When doubled, punch down dough and let it rest for 5 minutes. Roll out onto floured surface into a 15 x 20-inch rectangle. Filling: Spread dough with ½ cup melted butter. Mix together 1/-1/2 cups brown sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Sprinkle over buttered dough. Sprinkle with pecans and raisins, if you want. Sometimes I go really crazy and add a cup of finely-chopped apples, too. Roll up jellyroll-fashion and pinch the edges together to seal. Cut into 12 slices. Coat bottom of a 13”’x 9” and a square 8” pan with the last ½ cup of melted butter, and sprinkle remaining ¼ cup of sugar mixture on top. Place slices close together in pans. Let rise in warm, draft-free place until doubled in bulk (about 45 minutes). Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until nicely browned. Let cool slightly and spread with frosting. Share with others, and be prepared to get marriage proposals ;) Frosting: Mix melted butter, powdered sugar, and vanilla. Add hot water a tablespoon at a time, mixing after each, until frosting is of desired consistency. Spread or drizzle over slightly-cooled rolls.

When an ovulating woman offers herself to you, she's the choicest morsel on the planet. Her nipples are already sharp, her labia already swollen, her spine already undulating. Her skin is damp and she pants. If you touch the center of her forehead with your thumb she isn't thinking about her head—she isn't thinking at all, she's imagining, believing, willing your hand to lift and turn and curve, cup the back of her head. She's living in a reality where the hand will have no choice but to slide down that soft, flexing muscle valley of the spine to the flare of strong hips, where the other hand joins the first to hold both hip bones, immobilize them against the side of the counter, so that you can touch the base of her throat gently with your lips and she will whimper and writhe and let the muscles in her legs go, but she won't fall, because you have her. She'll be feeling this as though it's already happening, knowing absolutely that it will, because every cell is alive and crying out, Fill me, love me, cherish me, be tender, but, oh God, be sure. She wants you to want her. And when her pupils expand like that, as though you have dropped black ink into a saucer of cool blue water, and her head tips just a little, as though she's gone blind or has had a terrible shock or maybe just too much to drink, to her she is crying in a great voice, Fuck me, right here, right now against the kitchen counter, because I want you wrist-deep inside me. I hunger, I burn, I need. It doesn't matter if you are tired, or unsure, if your stomach is hard with dread at not being forgiven. If you allow yourself one moment's distraction—a microsecond's break in eye contact, a slight shift in weight—she knows, and that knowledge is a punch in the gut. She will back up a step and search your face, and she'll feel embarrassed—a fool or a whore—at offering so blatantly what you're not interested in, and her fine sense of being queen of the world will shiver and break like a glass shield hit by a mace, and fall around her in dust. Oh, it will still sparkle, because sex is magic, but she will be standing there naked, and you will be a monster, and the next time she feels her womb quiver and clench she'll hesitate, which will confuse you, even on a day when there is no dread, no uncertainty, and that singing sureness between you will dissolve and very slowly begin to sicken and die. The body knows. I listened to the deep message—but carefully, because at some point the deep message also must be a conscious message. Active, not just passive, agreement. I took her hand and guided the wok back down to the gas burner. Yes, her body still said, yes. I turned off the gas, but slowly, and now she reached for me.

newer marshals,” Newman added. “I was glad when they invited them to teach you new guys. That much field experience shouldn’t go to waste.” “A lot of them are stake-and-hammer guys though,” Newman said. “Old-fashioned doesn’t begin to cover their methods.” “The hunter that taught me the ropes was like that.” “I thought Forrester was your mentor. He’s known for his gun knowledge,” Livingston said. “You get that off his Wikipedia page?” I asked. “No, he worked a case that a buddy of mine was on. My friend is a gun nut, and he loved Forrester’s arsenal. He said that Forrester even used a flamethrower.” “Yep, that’s Ted,” I said, shaking my head. “So, he wasn’t your first mentor?” “No, Manny Rodriguez was. He taught me how to raise zombies and how to kill vampires.” “What happened to him?” Newman asked. “His wife thought he was getting too old and forced him to retire from the hunting side of things.” “It is not a job for old men,” Olaf said. “I guess it isn’t, but I wasn’t ready to fly solo when Manny retired. I was lucky I didn’t get killed doing jobs on my own at first.” “When did Forrester start training you?” Livingston asked. “Soon enough to help me stay alive.” “Ted spoke highly of you from the beginning,” Olaf said. “He does not give unearned praise. Are you being humble?” “No, I don’t . . . I really did have some close calls when Manny first retired, or maybe I just missed having backup.” Hazel brought our coffee and my Coke. “I’ll be back to fill those waters up, and with the juice,” she said before she left again. I so wanted to start questioning her, but this was Newman’s warrant and everyone else besides Olaf was local. They knew Hazel. I didn’t. I’d let them play it for now. The coffee was fresh and hot and surprisingly good for a mass-produced cup. I did add sugar and cream, so it wasn’t great coffee, but I didn’t add much, so it wasn’t bad either. Olaf put in way more sugar than I did, so his cup would have been too sweet for me. He didn’t take cream. I guessed we could be snobby about each other’s coffee habits later. “But it was Forrester who taught you how to fight empty hand?” Livingston asked. “I had some martial arts when we met, but he started me on more real-world training that worked outside of a judo mat or a martial arts tournament.” “I thought he was out of New Mexico,” Livingston said. “He is.” “And you’re in St. Louis, Missouri.” “I am.” “Hard to train long-distance.” “I have people I train with at home.” “How often do you train?” Kaitlin asked. “At least three times a week in hand-to-hand and blade.” “Really that often?” Newman asked. “Yeah. How often do you train?” “I go to the range two, three times a month.” “Any martial arts?” I asked. “I go to the gym three times a week.

STRAWBERRY SHORTBREAD BAR COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position.   Hannah’s 1st Note: These are really easy and fast to make. Almost everyone loves them, including Baby Bethie, and they’re not even chocolate! 3 cups all purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) ¾ cup powdered (confectioner’s) sugar (don’t sift un- less it’s got big lumps) 1 and ½ cups salted butter, softened (3 sticks, 12 ounces, ¾ pound) 1 can (21 ounces) strawberry pie filling (I used Comstock)*** *** - If you can’t find strawberry pie filling, you can use another berry filling, like raspberry, or blueberry. You can also use pie fillings of larger fruits like peach, apple, or whatever. If you do that, cut the fruit pieces into smaller pieces so that each bar cookie will have some. I just put my apple or peach pie filling in the food processor with the steel blade and zoop it up just short of being pureed. I’m not sure about using lemon pie filling. I haven’t tried that yet. FIRST STEP: Mix the flour and the powdered sugar together in a medium-sized bowl. Cut in the softened butter with a two knives or a pastry cutter until the resulting mixture resembles bread crumbs or coarse corn meal. (You can also do this in a food processor using cold butter cut into chunks that you layer between the powdered sugar and flour mixture and process with the steel blade, using an on-and-off pulsing motion.) Spread HALF of this mixture (approximately 3 cups will be fine) into a greased (or sprayed with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray) 9-inch by 13-inch pan. (That’s a standard size rectangular cake pan.) Bake at 350 degrees F. for 12 to 15 minutes, or until the edges are just beginning to turn golden brown. Remove the pan to a wire rack or a cold burner on the stove, but DON’T TURN OFF THE OVEN! Let the crust cool for 5 minutes. SECOND STEP: Spread the pie filling over the top of the crust you just baked. Sprinkle the crust with the other half of the crust mixture you saved. Try to do this as evenly as possible. Don’t worry about little gaps in the topping. It will spread out and fill in a bit as it bakes. Gently press the top crust down with the flat blade of a metal spatula. Bake the cookie bars at 350 degrees F. for another 30 to 35 minutes, or until the top is lightly golden. Turn off the oven and remove the pan to a wire rack or a cold burner to cool completely. When the bars are completely cool, cover the pan with foil and refrigerate them until you’re ready to cut them. (Chilling them makes them easier to cut.) When you’re ready to serve them, cut the Strawberry Shortbread Bar Cookies into brownie-sized pieces, arrange them on a pretty platter, and if you like, sprinkle the top with extra powdered sugar.

Gray burst into the galley. “Miss Turner is not eating.” The cramped, boxed-in nature of the space, the oppressive heat-it seemed an appropriate place to take this irrational surge of resentment. If only his emotion could dissipate through the ventilation slats as quickly as steam. “And good morning to you, too.” Gabriel wiped his hands on his apron without glancing up. “She’s not eating,” Gray repeated evenly. “She’s wasting away.” He didn’t even realize his knuckled cracked. He flexed his fingers impatiently. “Wasting away?” Gabriel’s face split in a grin as he picked up a mallet and attacked a hunk of salted pork. “Now what makes you say that?” “Her dress no longer fits properly. The neckline of her bodice is too loose.” Gabriel stopped pounding and looked up, meeting Gray’s eyes for the first time since he’d entered the galley. The mocking arch of the old man’s eyebrows had Gray clenching his teeth. They stared at each other for a second. Then Gray blew out his breath and looked away, and Gabriel broke into peals of laughter. “Never thought I’d live to see the day,” the old cook finally said, “when you would complain that a beautiful lady’s bodice was too loose.” “It’s not that she’s a beautiful lady-“ Gabriel looked up sharply. “It’s not merely that she’s a beautiful lady,” Gray amended. “She’s a passenger, and I have a duty to look out for her welfare.” “Wouldn’t that be the captain’s duty?” Gray narrowed his eyes. “And I know my duty well enough,” Gabriel continued. “It’s not as though I’m denying her food, now is it? I’m thinking Miss Turner just isn’t accustomed to the rough living aboard a ship. Used to finer fare, that one.” Gray scowled at the hunk of cured pork under Gabriel’s mallet and the shriveled, sprouted potatoes rolling back and forth with each tilt of the ship. “Is this the noon meal?” “This, and biscuit.” “I’ll order the men to trawl for a fish.” “Wouldn’t that be the captain’s duty?” Gabriel’s tone was sly. Gray wasn’t sure whether the plume of steam swirling through the galley originated for the stove or his ears. He didn’t care for Gabriel’s flippant tone. Neither did he care for the possibility of Miss Turner’s lush curves disappearing when he’d never had any chance to appreciate them. Frustrated beyond all reason, Gray turned to leave, wrenching open the galley door with such force, the hinges creaked in protest. He took a deep breath to compose himself, resolving not to slam the door shut behind him. Gabriel stopped pounding. “Sit down, Gray. Rest your bones.” With another rough sigh, Gray complied. He backed up two paces, slung himself onto a stool, and watched as the cook grabbed a tin cup from a hook on the wall and filled it, drawing a dipper of liquid from a small leather bucket. Then Gabriel set the cup on the table before him. Milk. Gabriel stared it. “For God’s sake, Gabriel. I’m not six years old anymore.” The old man raised his eyebrows. “Well, seeing as how you haven’t outgrown a visit to the kitchen when you’re in a sulk, I thought maybe you’d have a taste for milk yet, too. You did buy the goats.

BACON, EGG, AND CHEDDAR CHEESE TOAST CUPS Preheat oven to 400 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 6 slices bacon (regular sliced, not thick sliced) 4 Tablespoons (2 ounces, ½ stick) salted butter, softened 6 slices soft white bread ½ cup grated cheddar cheese 6 large eggs Salt and pepper to taste Cook the 6 slices of bacon in a frying pan over medium heat for 6 minutes or until the bacon is firmed up and the edges are slightly brown, but the strips are still pliable. They won’t be completely cooked, but that’s okay. They will finish cooking in the oven. Place the partially-cooked bacon on a plate lined with paper towels to drain it. Generously coat the inside of 6 muffin cups with half of the softened butter. Butter one side of the bread with the rest of the butter but stop slightly short of the crusts. Lay the bread out on a sheet of wax paper or a bread board butter side up. Hannah’s 1st Note: You will be wasting a bit of butter here, but it’s easier than cutting rounds of bread first and trying to butter them after they’re cut. Using a round cookie cutter that’s three and a half inches (3 and ½ inches) in diameter, cut circles out of each slice of bread.   Hannah’s 2nd Note: If you don’t have a 3.5 inch cookie cutter, you can use the top rim of a standard size drinking glass to do this. Place the bread rounds butter side down inside the muffin pans, pressing them down gently being careful not to tear them as they settle into the bottom of the cup. If one does tear, cut a patch from the buttered bread that is left and place it, buttered side down, over the tear. Curl a piece of bacon around the top of each piece of bread, positioning it between the bread and the muffin tin. This will help to keep the bacon in a ring shape. Sprinkle shredded cheese in the bottom of each muffin cup, dividing the cheese as equally as you can between the 6 muffin cups. Crack an egg into a small measuring cup (I use a half-cup measure) with a spout, making sure to keep the yolk intact. Hannah’s 3rd Note: If you break a yolk, don’t throw the whole egg away. Just slip it in a small covered container which you will refrigerate and use for scrambled eggs the next morning, or for that batch of cookies you’ll make in the next day or two. Pour the egg carefully into the bottom of one of the muffin cups. Repeat this procedure for all the eggs, cracking them one at a time and pouring them into the remaining muffin cups. When every muffin cup has bread, bacon, cheese and egg, season with a little salt and pepper. Bake the filled toast cups for 6 to 10 minutes, depending on how firm you want the yolks. (Naturally, a longer baking time yields a harder yolk.) Run the blade of a knife around the edge of each muffin cup, remove the Bacon, Egg, and Cheddar Cheese Toast Cups, and serve immediately. Hannah’s 4th Note: These are a bit tricky the first time you make them. That’s just “beginner nerves”. Once you’ve made them successfully, they’re really quite easy to do and extremely impressive to serve for a brunch. Yield: 6 servings (or 3 servings if you’re fixing them for Mike and Norman).

Chris smiled at me, showing two ridiculously cute dimples and a few feet away a waitress dropped an empty cup she had cleared from a table. Blushing, she muttered an apology and hurried inside. I scowled at him, refusing to be swayed by his charm. “I see,” he murmured, nodding slightly as if he had just solved a puzzle. “See what?” Ignoring my question, he pulled out a cell phone, hit a number and held the phone out to me. I hesitated for a few seconds then took the phone and put it to my ear. “What’s up, Chris?” said a familiar deep voice on the other end. “Good question,” I responded tersely. “I told Chris you’d recognize him if he got too close.” Was that amusement in his tone? “Great. You won the bet. Buy him a beer or whatever.” I glanced at Chris, saw that he looked amused now, too and I grew even more agitated. “I thought we had an understanding when you left here last week.” “And what understanding would that be?” I gritted my teeth. “The one where you go your way and I go mine and we all live happily ever after.” “I don’t recall that particular arrangement,” he replied in his infuriatingly easy manner. “I believe I told you I’d be seeing you again.” I opened my mouth but words would not come out. People say ‘I’ll be seeing you’ all the time when they say good bye. It doesn’t mean anything. It certainly doesn’t mean they will send their friends to stalk you. “Sara?” “What do you want from me, Nikolas? I told you I just want to be left alone.” There was a brief silence then a quiet sigh on the other end. “We got word of increased activity in Portland and we have reason to believe the vampire might be searching for you.” It felt like an icy breath touched the back of my neck. Eli’s face flashed through my mind and my knees wobbled. Roland stepped close to me. “What’s wrong, Sara? What is he saying to you?” I smiled weakly at Roland and put up a hand to let him know I’d fill him in when I got off the phone. “I don’t know anyone in Portland so there is no way he can trace me here, right?” “There is more than one way to track someone.” Nikolas’s voice hardened. “Don’t worry, we will keep you safe. Chris will stay close by until we handle this situation.” Great, I was the ‘situation’ again. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’m not a child.” “No you’re not,” he replied gruffly and warmth unfurled in my stomach. “But you are not a warrior either. It is our duty to protect you even if you don’t want it.” I felt like stomping my feet like a two year old. Didn’t I get any choice in this? My eyes fell on Chris as I spoke. “How close is he planning to stay? He’s kind of conspicuous and I can’t have my uncle or anyone else asking questions.” Chris peered in confusion down at his form-fitting blue jeans and black sweater as Nikolas said, “Conspicuous?” I looked heavenward. “If you guys wanted to blend in you shouldn’t have sent Dimples here. The way some of the women are staring at him, I might end up having to protect him instead.” There was a cough on the other end and Nikolas sounded like he was grinning when he said, “Ah, I’m sure Chris can take care of himself. He will be in town in case we suspect any trouble is coming that way.

Montreal October 1704 Temperature 55 degrees Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.” Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl. “I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.” Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.” “I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.” They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission? “My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.” Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.” The Indians rather enjoyed being French allies one day and difficult neighbors the next. Lorette Indians might find this a fine way to stab a French soldier in the back without drawing blood. They would need Father Meriel. He could arrange anything if he chose; he had power among all the peoples. But he might say no, and so might Eben’s Indian family. Mercy translated what was going on for Nistenha and Snow Walker. “They want to get married,” she told them. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She couldn’t help laughing from the joy and the terror of it. Ransom would no longer be the first word in Sarah’s heart. Eben would be. Mercy said, “Eben asked her right here in the street, Snow Walker. He wants to save her from marriage to a French soldier she doesn’t want. He’s loved Sarah since the march.” The two Indians had no reaction. For a moment Mercy thought she must have spoken to them in English. Nistenha turned to walk away and Snow Walker turned with her. If Nistenha was not interested in Sarah and Eben’s plight, no Indian would be. Mercy called on her memory of every speech in every ceremony, every dignified phrase and powerful word. “Honored mother,” she said softly. “Honored sister. We are in need and we beg you to hear our petition.” Nistenha stopped walking, turned back and stared at her in amazement. Sarah and Eben and Snow Walker stared at her in amazement. Sam can build canoes, thought Mercy. I can make a speech. “This woman my sister and this man my brother wish to spend their lives together. My brother will need the generous permission of his Indian father. Already we know that my sister will be refused the permission of her French owners. We will need an ally to support us in our request. We will need your strength and your wisdom. We beseech you, Mother, that you stand by us and help us.” The city of Montreal swirled around them. Eben, property of an Indian father in Lorette; Sarah, property of a French family in Montreal; and Mercy, property of Tannhahorens, awaited her answer. “Your words fill me with pride, Munnunock,” said Nistenha softly. She reached into her shopping bundle. Slowly she drew out a fine French china cup, undoubtedly meant for the feast of Flying Legs. She held it for a moment, and then her stern face softened and she gave it to Eben. Indians sealed a promise with a gift. She would help them. From her bundle, Snow Walker took dangling silver earrings she must have bought for Mercy and handed them to Sarah. Because she knew that Sarah’s Mohawk was not good enough and that Eben was too stirred to speak, Mercy gave the flowery thanks required after such gifts. “God bless us,” she said to Sarah and Eben, and Eben said, “He has.

My boy is painting outer space, and steadies his brush-tip to trace the comets, planets, moon and sun and all the circuitry they run in one great heavenly design. But when he tries to close the line he draws around his upturned cup, his hand shakes, and he screws it up. The shake’s as old as he is, all (thank god) his body can recall of the hour when, one inch from home, we couldn’t get the air to him; and though today he’s all the earth and sky for breathing-space and breath the whole damn troposphere can’t cure the flutter in his signature. But Jamie, nothing’s what we meant. The dream is taxed. We all resent the quarter bled off by the dark between the bowstring and the mark and trust to Krishna or to fate to keep our arrows halfway straight. But the target also draws our aim - our will and nature’s are the same; we are its living word, and not a book it wrote and then forgot, its fourteen-billion-year-old song inscribed in both our right and wrong - so even when you rage and moan and bring your fist down like a stone on your spoiled work and useless kit, you just can’t help but broadcast it: look at the little avatar of your muddy water-jar filling with the perfect ring singing under everything.

Spread over the extravagant supper table was a silk tapestry of moons and stars and the six symbols of death. Talis couldn’t help but stare at the design, for the weavings glowed and the drawing was animated with a nefarious life of its own. A frightful illustration that seemed to follow his eyes as they perused the tapestry. Etched along the tassels flowed a river of blood, the river leading into the Underworld. Farther up, layers of bodies were piled high, their vicious fumes rising as incense to the lesser demons above, who devoured the mortals’ flesh. Then above them were the taskmasters of the Underworld, great demons with spiked whips. They endlessly struck the lesser demons as punishment for the act of consuming the mortals’ flesh. Arranged around the center of the tapestry were the gods themselves. At the head stood Zagros, the Lord of the Underworld, then Ractan, the Lord of the Dragons, and Ishta, the Lord of the Genie Sorcerers. At the other side hovered Nestria, the Goddess of the Sky, and Nacrea, the Goddess of the Sun, and opposite her was Satvis, the God of Darkness. Between both sets of gods sat two mythological heroes: Nyx the Destroyer and Lord Heti of Calabastria. Here were the triumphant gods, playing with the lives and flesh of all mortals. Talis stifled a groan. Atop the tapestry were glass jars filled with what looked like trapped souls. Their ghastly faces peered out, eyes desperate and longing for freedom. How did they get inside? He felt a sickness rising in his stomach. The dark sorcerers studied him with grave looks, as if they glimpsed something distasteful inside. He could tell they were suspicious of him. He was too young, from a strange land untouched by their power, and to their murmuring voices, unsuitable to attend this grand feast. Now, all he could think about was leaving this wretched city. Whatever danger lay ahead, he’d rather face it than fester here in the insidious poison seeping through the black and gold walls of Darkov. “To your charmed fortune.” A sorcerer raised a crystal vial filled with some bubbling substance. The man appeared to be hundreds of years old. Deep, harsh wrinkles lined his eyes and forehead, and yet his hands were perfectly smooth. He wore a black silk cloak fastened around his neck with a gold broach, ornately designed like the sun. He drank the vial and after a while, he appeared as youthful as a young man. Talis was taken aback at the man’s sudden transformation. He steadied his wine cup with his other hand. “Fortune smiles on you...” “Every day.” The sorcerer frowned at Talis. “You’d be wise to remember that. Without fortune shining on you daily”—he leaned in close to Talis—”your life is at risk.” Turning, the man whisked away and disappeared behind another group of sorcerers mingling in the corner of the room. Talis tried to discover where he’d gone, but the man had vanished. Just then Talis felt a cold hand settle on his right shoulder. He turned, glimpsed the eyes of Aurellia, and resisted the desire to flee. “I see you’ve finally joined us here in our illustrious

Taking a deep breath, Sailor decided to lay himself at her feet. "I was imagining the future and thinking of how if everything went according to plan, I'd have a very successful business with a high turnover." He made sure his hands were locked behind Ísa's back--just in case she decided to leave him in her dust a fourth time. "And since I'd be rich, I'd be able to buy houses and other nice things for my family." Ísa frowned. "I don't think your family expects that." "They don't exactly need my largess either," Sailor muttered. "But in my future fantasy, I'm buying everyone fancy cars and houses. Go with it." Ísa's lips twitched. "Okay, big spender. What else is fantasy Sailor doing?" "He's building a ginormous mansion. Swimming pool, tennis court, the works." "Is he hiring a buff personal masseuse named Sven?" "Hell no." He glared at her. "The masseuse is a fifty-year-old forner bodybuilder named Helga. Now, can I carry on?" Pretending to zip up her lips and throw away the key, Ísa made a "go on" motion. "Future Sailor is also creating a huge walk-in closet for you and filling it with designer shoes and clothes. He's giving you everything your heart desires." A flicker of darkness in Ísa's gaze, but she didn't interrupt... though her hands went still on his shoulders. "And there's a tricked-out nursery too," he added. "Plus a private playground for our rug rats." Throat moving, Ísa said, "How many?" It was a husky question. "Seven, I think." "Very funny, mister." "I'm not done." Sailor was the one who swallowed this time. "And in this fantasy house, future Sailor walks in late for dinner again because of a board meeting, and he has a gorgeous, sexy, brilliant wife and adorable children. But his redhead doesn't look at him the same anymore. And it doesn't matter how many shoes he buys her or how many necklaces he gives her, she's never again going to look at him the way she did before he stomped on her heart. Ísa's lower lip began to quiver, but she didn't speak. "I'm so sorry, baby." Sailor cupped her face, made sure she saw the sheer terror he felt at the thought of losing her. "I've been so tied to this idea of becoming a grand success that I forgot what it was all about in the first place--being there for the people I love. Sticking through the good and the bad. Never abandoning them." Silent tears rolled own Ísa's face. "But that great plan of mine?" he said, determined not to give himself any easy outs. "It'd have mean abandoning everyone. How can I be there for anyone when all I do is work? When I shove aside all other commitments? When the people I love hesitate to ask for my time because I'm too tired and too busy?" Using his thumbs, he rubbed away her tears. More splashed onto the backs of his hands, her hurt as hot as acid. "Spitfire, please," he begged, breaking. "I'll let you punch me as many times as you want if you stop crying. With a big red glove. And you can post photos online." Ísa pressed her lips together, blinked rapidly several times. And pretended to punch him with one fist, the touch a butterfly kiss. Catching her hand, he pressed his lips to it. "That's more like my Ísa." He wrapped his arms around her again. And then he told her the most important thing. "I realized that I could become a multimillionaire, but it would mean nothing if my redhead didn't look at me the way she does now, if she expected to have to take care of everything alone like she's always done--because her man was a selfish bastard who was never there." Ísa rubbed her nose against his. "You're being very hard on future Sailor," she whispered, her voice gone throaty. "That dumbass deserves it," Sailor growled. "He was going to put his desire to be a big man above his amazing, smart, loving redhead.

He produced a wide silver tray with wrought handles that was piled with sliced bread, grapes, apricots, oranges, apples, cheeses, and a goblet of red wine, and put it on the bed. "Wine?" I asked. I wanted a cup of tea. "Your blood needs its elements. Drink at least some of it." He sat on the bed next to me. "You must eat now. You will need your strength." At that moment, the pungent aroma of the cheeses, the sharp citrus of sliced oranges, and the yeasty smell of the bread overrode both my fear and my curiosity. I wanted to dive into the food like a hungry dockworker. With great discipline, I picked up a silver knife and spread soft butter across a slice of the warm bread and then daintily cut a piece of dark cheddar cheese. The food tasted exquisite, and I tried to chew slowly, as he was taking in my every move. We sat in silence for a while as I ate my fill and let the wine relax me.

Sitting in Atlantic St. grill downing early morning cup of prison-like coffee stale rolls of cinnamon while up above freeways headed for suburban slums Gold Coast dwellers/ruling class sass Goodwill truckdrivers for talkin’ simple talk. No comment on the front page news. Through painful hurt sought desperately the obit page in rage to see if was really true, ‘bout you. Winter come-togethers fill my every thought Billie sings the blues communication complete, Cable (spool) table replete w/french bread apples cheese rhineskeller wine imported elegant tabacco, discussion of ideas politculture peoples lit & art, marxist aesthetics, how best to serve. Now, savoring on Neruda’s notes i think of you & Jimmie/son savoring favorite chocolate M & M’s. Them’s the thoughts i had of you today. No lavish praise no mournful elegy, just one last Vashon Island ferry ride to pray and cast an orchid into Puget Sound to see you safely on your journey to the other side.

His hands were clumsy as he leaned back and started to remove my flannel pants. He growled in appreciation when he saw that I wasn’t wearing any panties. I said nothing as he angrily pulled at my shirt to get it off of me. “I want to see your skin. I need you,” he kept repeating. Leaning up, I quickly pulled my camisole over my head. Instead of his usual slow sexual way, he fell on top of me again and quickly entered me. It caught me so off guard that I gasped. My body easily accepted him, so there was no pain, but it was so unlike Devin that for a brief minute I felt fear. Once I looked up into his face my fear melted away and all I wanted to do was make whatever was hurting him go away. He looked down at me and although there were no tears on his cheeks, he looked like he was about to cry. He buried his face in my neck so that I couldn’t see him anymore. Something was definitely wrong. I held on to him and my heart broke as he rocked against me over and over again. The couch creaked with his every thrust and the sound of our bodies smacking echoed throughout the room. “I only want to feel you, nothing else, just you,” he whispered into my hair. His movement became jerky as he sped up. He thrust into me over and over again, harder each time. His hot breath pounded against the side of my neck. I said nothing as he found comfort in my body. I just held him close to me and every now and again, kissed the side of his neck. I felt his body tense up as he growled out his release and slammed into me one final time. His full body weight pressed against me when his arms went weak and he dropped onto me completely. When he finally removed his face from my neck and looked down at me I could see the realization in his eyes of what had just occurred. I never said no, but he never really asked. Quickly, I cupped his cheeks with my hands and kissed him softly. “Did I hurt you? I never want to hurt you,” he said with a thick slur. “It’s OK, I’m OK,” I whispered. He said nothing. He just stared back at me like he was afraid I’d push him away and run for my life. Then his expression changed, and tears filled his eyes. I’d never seen a grown man cry in my life and my heart crushed inside my chest as he buried his face in my neck once more. “I’m going to lose you. I am. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I’m going to lose you.

His hands were clumsy as he leaned back and started to remove my flannel pants. He growled in appreciation when he saw that I wasn’t wearing any panties. I said nothing as he angrily pulled at my shirt to get it off of me. “I want to see your skin. I need you,” he kept repeating. Leaning up, I quickly pulled my camisole over my head. Instead of his usual slow sexual way, he fell on top of me again and quickly entered me. It caught me so off guard that I gasped. My body easily accepted him, so there was no pain, but it was so unlike Devin that for a brief minute I felt fear. Once I looked up into his face my fear melted away and all I wanted to do was make whatever was hurting him go away. He looked down at me and although there were no tears on his cheeks, he looked like he was about to cry. He buried his face in my neck so that I couldn’t see him anymore. Something was definitely wrong. I held on to him and my heart broke as he rocked against me over and over again. The couch creaked with his every thrust and the sound of our bodies smacking echoed throughout the room. “I only want to feel you, nothing else, just you,” he whispered into my hair. His movement became jerky as he sped up. He thrust into me over and over again, harder each time. His hot breath pounded against the side of my neck. I said nothing as he found comfort in my body. I just held him close to me and every now and again, kissed the side of his neck. I felt his body tense up as he growled out his release and slammed into me one final time. His full body weight pressed against me when his arms went weak and he dropped onto me completely. When he finally removed his face from my neck and looked down at me I could see the realization in his eyes of what had just occurred. I never said no, but he never really asked. Quickly, I cupped his cheeks with my hands and kissed him softly. “Did I hurt you? I never wanted to hurt you,” he said with a thick slur. “It’s OK, I’m OK,” I whispered. He said nothing. He just stared back at me like he was afraid I’d push him away and run for my life. Then his expression changed, and tears filled his eyes. I’d never seen a grown man cry in my life and my heart crushed inside my chest as he buried his face in my neck once more. “I’m going to lose you. I am. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I’m going to lose you.

We ate at long trestle-tables out of permanently greasy tin pannikins, and drank out of a dreadful thing called a porrón. A porrón is a sort of glass bottle with a pointed spout from which a thin jet of wine spurts out whenever you tip it up; you can thus drink from a distance, without touching it with your lips, and it can be passed from hand to hand. I went on strike and demanded a drinking-cup as soon as I saw a porrón in use. To my eye the things were altogether too like bed-bottles, especially when they were filled with white wine. By

I am Sebastiano, and your name?” he asks. “Violet,” I say as we step over the threshold. “Violetta!” he says, throwing his arms wide. “English girl, Italian name!” And across the room, I see a dark head turn in our direction. That much taller than the rest of the boys, he stands out, his straight black silky hair falling over his face, his blue eyes as bright and cold as the water of the fjord next to my grandmother’s summer rental cottage. I was looking for him before and couldn’t see him anywhere; now that I’ve been distracted by dancing and a Chianti-drinking donkey, he’s spotted me. His gaze flicks like a knife between me and the boy, who’s at the gigantic wine bottle now, filling cups and handing me one. “Salute!” Sebastiano says, touching his cup to mine, and I glance up at Luca, seeing that he’s taking this in, too. A rush of confusion fills me as I toast. I’m glad that Luca’s seen me with someone else, that I haven’t been a wallflower at this party, that I’ve proved him wrong, even a little bit, because there’s a boy here who seems to like me, who’s talking to me, anyway, getting me a drink. In films, in books, flirting with a boy is a surefire way to get the one you actually like interested in you, draw him over to your side. They’re supposed to like competition, the challenge of going after a girl who’s popular. But maybe real life doesn’t quite work that way. Because Luca arches one black eyebrow, his mouth quirks up on one side in a sneer, and he turns pointedly away sliding a cigarette into his mouth, and lighting it with a flip of his Zippo. Disgusting habit, I think as firmly as I can. I’m glad he’s not coming over, smoking a nasty stinking cancer stick. It’s awful when you lie to yourself. I do think smoking is foul, but I’m also more than aware that if Luca strolled over to talk to me, with that cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, I wouldn’t walk away, complaining about the smoke; I’d stand there staring up at him, trying not to grin as widely as a five-year-old meeting Cinderella at Disneyland.

I squat to retrieve the pitcher but Bruno’s faster. He offers it to me and I make the mistake of looking him in the eye. My balance is thrown and I start to fall back. Bruno drops the pitcher and takes hold of both of my wrists to keep my butt from slamming into the ground. He uses my momentum, and in one swift movement, we’re both standing again, face-to-face. Too close. Way too close. He smells of wine. And basil. Bruno picks up the pitcher, slowly this time, and loops my fingers through the handle. “All right?” he asks, his smile big and hypnotizing. I nod. “You should wash this.” I nod again. “And refill it.” Nod. “You agree with everything I say?” Nod. “You like sleeping in my bed last night?” My face combusts, suddenly very aware of all the customers, especially the table of American hoochies not even five feet away. I steal a glance at them. The brunette’s mouth hangs open and the blond one looks me up and down, her expression simultaneously appalled and impressed. I’m mortified. And slightly thrilled. I run through the restaurant and into the kitchen without looking back. I blast the cold water into the sink, let it fill my cupped hands, and dip my face down into it again and again until I’m no longer on fire. When my eyes clear, I notice a hand towel dangling in front of me. Luca. I take it and quickly pat my face dry. “I--”…have no idea what to say. “Your brother…” Luca makes an understanding noise. “Bruno is”--he struggles for the world--“loud.” I would have said something else, but his definition is accurate too. Luca wasn’t even outside but he obviously knows his brother well. Bruno barging in on me while I was changing should have told me everything I needed to know about him.

Loretta’s shoulders slumped in defeat. With numb hands she lowered the rifle to the dirt. A nasty grin twisted Hunter’s mouth. “So it is a trade? You are my woman?” For once, she was glad she couldn’t talk. “You can make sign language, herbi.” His eyes locked with hers, glinting, watchful. Amy cried, “No, Loretta, no, don’t do it!” Lifting an eyebrow, the Comanche waited. The tension mounted, reminding Loretta of the lull right before a storm, thick, heavy, unnaturally quiet. She caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth and forced herself to nod. His eyes flickered with satisfaction. Nudging his mount forward, he closed the distance between them and leaned down to encircle her waist with a steely arm. With little effort he lifted her onto his horse, positioning her sideways in front of him so her shoulder pressed against his chest, her bottom wedged between him and the ridge of his stallion’s neck. Never had she felt such quivering, helpless fear. He was going to take her. The reality of it sank home now that he had her on his horse. “Tani-har-ro,” he said softly. She turned her head to find that he was sniffing her hair, his expression quizzical. The moment their eyes met, her insides tightened. Up close, his face seemed even harsher than it had the night before, features chiseled, lips narrowed to an uncompromising line, his skin baked brown by the sun. She could see in minute detail the tiny cracks in his grease paint, the thick sweep of his lashes, the knife scar that slashed his cheek. His eyes were without question the darkest blue she had ever seen and seemed to cut right through her. If she had been entertaining the thought of pleading with him, it fled her mind now. She remembered what he had said to her that first day. Look at me and know the face of your master. She supposed, by his standards, he had a right to smell her hair since he had paid dearly for every strand. A flush slid up her neck. In nothing but a nightgown, she would have been embarrassed in front of any man; with Hunter her humiliation was tenfold. He swept his gaze over her with no sign of guilt, no hesitation, his attention lingering on whatever drew his interest. When he traced her collarbone with a fingertip and gave her arm a squeeze, she felt like a head of beef at auction. “You are too skinny. Your father should feed you more.” Catching hold of her chin, he tipped her head back and forced her mouth open to check her teeth. “Hmph-hh,” he grunted, returning his arm to her waist. “This Comanche paid too many horses. Without your pitsikwina to cover you, you are all bones.” She flashed him a glare, only to discover that his eyes were filled with laughter. He slid a hand up her side, his fingers firm and warm where they hugged the curve of her ribs. She stiffened when he cupped the underside of her breast, but she didn’t resist his touch. “Maybe not all bones. What do you have there, herbi? Do you try to hide the sweet places your mother promised me?” He watched her for a moment, as if trying to predict what her reaction might be to such outrageous familiarity. Then his mouth twisted in a mocking smile. “You do not spit when your sister may suffer my wrath. I should keep her, I think. She is a brave warrior, no?

Think of yourself as a colander—a bowl filled with holes. When you experience a peak state, it’s like turning on the kitchen faucet and flooding that colander with water. If there’s enough volume, the colander fills up despite the leaks. As long as water keeps flooding in, you will, for a moment, experience what it’s like to be a cup. You’ll feel whole; if you’re really inspired, holy. Then the faucet turns off, the peak experience ends, and all that water leaks back out. In a matter of moments, you’ll settle back to where you started. The information recedes. The inspiration that was so easy to grasp moments ago slips away. And now you’ve got a decision to make. Do you engage the dull and repetitive work of plugging your leaks or do you go hunting for the next ecstatic faucet to tap?

Our misery and unhappiness, according to Rumi, is directly connected to our insolence and refusal to praise. Sadly, instead of thankfulness, we developed an ungrateful nature. Sa’adi strikes at our self-centered ego: The sun, the moon, the air, the water and theearth are all serving you, aiding life’s purpose,and preparing for your food. Yet, you regard allthis unthankfully, absorbed in your own littletroubles, which are as nothing before the greatforces of nature, always working, night and day. When our tongue desires to complain, we should go contrary to it and find a reason to be thankful instead. For anything that could be better, there is always something else that could be worse. If we overcome our culture of complaint and get in touch with gratitude, it will change the way we see everything. The thought of the self will vanish, and the thought of others will take root. Rather than always wanting, we will care more about giving. Instead of relying on our imperfect understanding, we will look up to find greater meaning. Even virtues, such as tolerance and forgiveness, will arise in our hardened hearts as they soften. Life will thus unfold itself more beautifully. Our half-empty cup will fill to the brim. So when I say, “I can’t complain,” you should understand what I truly mean: I choose not to.

You’re a tight fit but you’re going to take it all, aren’t you? Gonna fill you up to the top…my good little cup…

She settled down on the coffin-shaped couch against the wall, folding her hands in her lap. Jack held up a bony finger and retreated into an adjoining--- the kitchen, she realized as she took a peek--- then returned a moment later with a steaming cup of what turned out to be rotten mushroom tea. She took it from him gratefully, breathing in the salty scent before taking a long, deep swig. "So good," she murmured after she'd swallowed, then took a second sip. She hadn't realized how hungry and thirsty she'd been. The sugary snacks she'd eaten earlier hadn't filled her up. But this was the kind of cauldron concoction that stuck to your bones (if you had any, that was).

Peppermint-Patty Cupcakes (makes approximately 12 cupcakes) I love peppermint. It always wakes me right up! And when it’s mixed with chocolate … yum! INGREDIENTS: 1/2 cup milk 1/2 teaspoon apple cider vinegar 1 cup all-purpose flour 1/2 teaspoon baking powder 3/4 teaspoon baking soda 1/3 cup cocoa powder 1/4 teaspoon salt 1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips 1/4 cup yogurt 3/4 cup granulated sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 teaspoon peppermint extract 1/3 cup canola oil INSTRUCTIONS: Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with cupcake liners. In a large bowl, whisk together the milk and vinegar, and set aside for a few minutes to curdle. Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, cocoa powder, and salt into a large bowl, and mix together. In a double boiler, melt the chocolate chips until smooth, then remove and cool to room temperature. If you prefer, you can instead melt the chocolate chips in a small bowl in the microwave, heating it on high for a few seconds at a time, then stirring until smooth. (Repeat heating if necessary, but don’t overdo it!) Once the milk has curdled, add in the yogurt, sugar, vanilla extract, peppermint extract, and oil, and stir together. Then add the melted chocolate and stir some more. With a whisk or handheld mixer, add the dry ingredients to the wet ones a little bit at a time and mix until no lumps remain, stopping to scrape the sides of the bowl a few times. Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way and bake for 18–22 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting. With your (clean!) thumb, poke large holes into the center of each cupcake. Alternately, take a small knife and carve out a cone from the center of each cupcake to create a well. (You can discard the cones, or eat them.) Fill a pastry bag with the peppermint frosting. (You can also make your own pastry bag by cutting off a corner from a plastic Ziploc bag.) Insert the tip of the pastry bag into each cupcake, and squeeze it to fill the cavity you created. Then swirl the frosting on top of the cupcake to cover the opening. Peppermint Frosting INGREDIENTS: 1 cup margarine or butter 3-1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar 1-1/2 teaspoons peppermint extract 1–2 tablespoons milk INSTRUCTIONS: In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream the margarine or butter until it’s a lighter color, about 2–3 minutes. Slowly beat in the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches, adding a little bit of milk whenever the frosting becomes too thick. Add the peppermint extract and continue mixing on high speed for about 3–7 minutes, until the frosting is light and fluffy.

Raspberry Cupcakes (makes approximately 12 cupcakes) I top these with white-chocolate mint frosting. You could also just go with vanilla frosting … but why be normal? INGREDIENTS: 1 cup milk 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar 1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 3/4 teaspoon baking soda 1/2 teaspoon salt 3/4 cup granulated sugar 1/3 cup canola oil 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 6-ounce container fresh raspberries (or equal amount frozen raspberries, thawed), mashed into pulp INSTRUCTIONS: Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with cupcake liners. In a large bowl, whisk together the milk and vinegar, and set aside for a few minutes to curdle. In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Once the milk has curdled, add in the sugar, oil, vanilla extract, and raspberry pulp, and stir. Then slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet ones a little bit at a time, and combine using a whisk or handheld mixer, stopping to scrape the sides of the bowl a few times, until no lumps remain. Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way and bake for 20–22 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting. White-Chocolate Mint Frosting INGREDIENTS: 4-1/2 ounces white chocolate, finely chopped 6 tablespoons margarine or butter 2 cups confectioners’ sugar 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 teaspoon mint extract or minced fresh mint leaves (NOT peppermint) Up to 1/4 cup milk INSTRUCTIONS: In a double boiler, melt the white chocolate until smooth, then remove and cool to room temperature. If you prefer, you can instead melt the white chocolate in a small bowl in the microwave, heating it on high for a few seconds at a time, then stirring until smooth. (Repeat heating if necessary, but don’t overdo it!) In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream the margarine or butter until it’s a lighter color, about 2–3 minutes. Slowly beat in the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches, adding the vanilla extract and either mint extract or minced fresh mint leaves about halfway through. Add the melted white chocolate to the frosting and combine thoroughly. If the frosting seems too stiff and thick, add a little milk until the right consistency is reached. Continue mixing on high speed for about 3–7 minutes, until the frosting is light and fluffy. Place in the refrigerator until firm enough to frost, about 30 minutes.

Josephine placed the cloth back in the basin then filled a cup with cold water. Helping Laurin sit up to drink, she encouraged her to sip slowly. “Sister of my heart, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you awake and without the fever.” Laurin smiled and thanked her. Falling back against her pillows, she asked, “The Gladius?” “’ Tis safe with Graeme. And it will remain in his possession until we have a daughter of our own.” Laurin envied her friend, but not with spite or malice. “I be so verra glad that ye have found true love,” she told her. Josephine returned her smile, leaned in closely to whisper in her ear. “If you open your eyes and your heart , I believe you will discover you have found it as well.” Confused, her brow knotted. “What do ye mean?” Josephine pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “Look about the room, my sister, and you will find I speak the truth.” Laurin looked at Albert with a confounded expression. Josephine whispered one last thought before quitting the room. “He never left your side.

Thomasplitzchen Buns Mom always said these could make your enemies your friends or your friends your enemies. I put on five pounds every St. Thomas Day because of them, so I’d say they’re my friendly enemies. Too good to eat just one. 2 cups all-purpose flour ½ teaspoon salt ½ cup butter ½ cup sugar or brown sugar 2 teaspoons baking powder ½ cup milk Filling 3 teaspoons melted butter 1 cup currants, raisins, cranberries, or whatever small, dried fruit you have on hand ¼ cup sugar Icing 3 tablespoons melted butter Few drops vanilla extract 2 cups powdered sugar Mix up all the ingredients for the buns. Get a rolling pin and press out the dough to one-eighth-inch thick on a floured board. Mix together the filling: butter, dried fruit, and sugar. Spread it on the dough. Roll it up like a fat sausage, and make one-inch slices. Put them pinwheel side up on a greased cookie sheet and bake off in a pre-heated 350°F oven until barely suntanned on top. For me, that’s about 12 minutes on a hot day and 15 on a cold one. To make the icing, mix together butter, vanilla extract, and powdered sugar. When the buns are out of the oven, give them a good sugar smothering and let cool.

That’s not why I’m here. I’ve got a mission. I made a promise.” His chest expanded with a deep, ragged breath. “Ah, hell. Quit looking at me like you either want to shoot me or eat me up. I’m trying to do the right thing here.” Max’s rejection instantly sent her back to the times in her relationship with Richard when he’d rebuffed her advances. “I wasn’t very good, was I? I’m sor—” “Do not let that man come between us.” Max swiped his hand over his mouth and jaw and spun away. Just as quickly he faced her again and grabbed her wrist. “You call me whatever crass SOB you want to.” He pulled her hand to the front of his jeans and cupped it over the unmistakable warm bulge behind his zipper. “This is what you do to me. I don’t know why you and me fit together this good. If I could take you to bed right now and finish this, I would.” He released her and backed away, raising his hands in apology. “But that’s not what I’m here for. Neither one of us needs that kind of complication in our lives. I have to keep the mission in mind. I’m a cop. I have to think like a cop, not a...” “Not a what?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. But he didn’t fill in the blank. “It’s not your job to deal with me. I’m damaged goods, Rosie. You can do better than me.

I’m tired of sitting. I’m tired of watching everyone else work. I can set my own limits, Amelia. Let me do as I wish.” “No.” Incredulously Amelia watched as Win picked up a broom from the corner. “Win, put that down and stop being silly!” Annoyance whipped through her. “You’re not going to help anyone by expending all your reserves on menial tasks.” “I can do it.” Win gripped the broom handle with both hands as if she sensed Amelia was on the verge of wrenching it away from her. “I won’t overtax myself.” “Put down the broom.” “Leave me alone,” Win cried. “Go dust something!” “Win, if you don’t—” Amelia’s attention was diverted as she saw her sister’s gaze fly to the kitchen threshold. Merripen stood there, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. Although it was early morning, he was already dusty and perspiring, his shirt clinging to the powerful contours of his chest and waist. He wore an expression they knew well—the implacable one that meant you could move a mountain with a teaspoon sooner than change his mind about something. Approaching Win, he extended a broad hand in a wordless demand. They were both motionless. But even in their stubborn opposition, Amelia saw a singular connection, as if they were locked in an eternal stalemate from which neither wanted to break free. Win gave in with a helpless scowl. “I have nothing to do.” It was rare for her to sound so peevish. “I’m sick of sitting and reading and staring out the window. I want to be useful. I want…” Her voice trailed away as she saw Merripen’s stern face. “Fine, then. Take it!” She tossed the broom at him, and he caught it reflexively. “I’ll just find a corner somewhere and quietly go mad. I’ll—” “Come with me,” Merripen interrupted calmly. Setting the broom aside, he left the room. Win exchanged a perplexed glance with Amelia, her vehemence fading. “What is he doing?” “I have no idea.” The sisters followed him down a hallway to the dining room, which was spattered with rectangles of light from the tall multipaned windows that lined one wall. A scarred table ran down the center of the room, every available inch covered with dusty piles of china … towers of cups and saucers, plates of assorted sizes sandwiched together, bowls wrapped in tattered scraps of gray linen. There were at least three different patterns all jumbled together. “It needs to be sorted,” Merripen said, gently nudging Win toward the table. “Many pieces are chipped. They must be separated from the rest.” It was the perfect task for Win, enough to keep her busy but not so strenuous that it would exhaust her. Filled with gratitude, Amelia watched as her sister picked up a teacup and held it upside down. The husk of a tiny dead spider dropped to the floor. “What a mess,” Win said, beaming. “I’ll have to wash it, too, I suppose.” “If you’d like Poppy to help—” Amelia began. “Don’t you dare send for Poppy,” Win said. “This is my project, and I won’t share it.” Sitting at a chair that had been placed beside the table, she began to unwrap pieces of china.

One-Two-Three With eyes encompassing the world in a glance With chubby feet that beg to dance With hands that grasps ball with ease With wants now prefaced by a ‘Please’ Not only does his body quickly grow His crinkled puss can now say ‘No!’ And ‘gimme’s now precede his nouns As he outgrows his buster browns He soon won’t let you zip him up Or spoon-feed him or fill his cup Or lift him on the potty seat Or wipe his nose, or slice his meat He’ll have you up before sunrise He’ll take you out for exercise He’ll have you answer every ‘Why’ “Why did grandma have to die?” He’ll debate you why he needs a nap He’ll tell you all his toys are crap He’ll contradict your every plan —Your baby boy’s a little man

broken praise job Lyrics from Music Inspired by The Story If one more person takes my hand And tries to say they understand, Tells me there's a bigger plan that I'm not meant to see. If one more person dares suggest That I held something unconfessed, Tries to make the dots connect from righteousness to easy street… Well I, I won't deny that I've relied on some assumptions. A man's honest life entitles him to something, But who am I to make demands of the God of Abraham? And who are you that you would choose to answer me with mercy new? How many more will wander past To find me here among the ashes? Will you hold me? Will you stay So I can raise this broken praise to you? Who else will see my suffering As one more opportunity To educate; to help me see all my flawed theology? If one more well-intentioned friend tries to tie up my loose ends Hoping to, with rug and broom, sweep awkward moments from the room… But I, I can't forget that I have begged just like a madman For my chance to die and never have to face the morning. But you were the One who filled my cup And you were the One who let it spill. So blessed be your holy name if you never fill it up again. If this is where my story ends, just give me one more breath to say hallelujah.

Lucky for us, there wasn’t anyone in line. I ordered a cup of house brew, black. Shamus ordered half a cup of house brew. Then he proceeded to fill the cup up the rest of the way with milk and sugar. Lots of sugar. “Sure you got enough milk in your sugar?” I asked as we strolled out of the shop and headed south. He flipped me off. “You drink your coffee your way, and I’ll drink my coffee the right way.

Mr. Grattingly, while we might tarry in the conservatory in plain sight of the open door, the location you’ve chosen—ooph!” “The location I’ve chosen is perfect,” Grattingly said as he mashed his body against Louisa’s. He’d shoved her back against a tree, off the path, into the shadows. “Mr. Grattingly! How dare—” Wet lips landed on Louisa’s jaw, and the scent of wine-soured breath filled her head. “Of course, I dare. You all but begged me to drag you in here. With your tits nigh falling from your bodice, how do you expect a man to act?” He thrust his hand into the neckline of Louisa’s gown and closed his fingers around her breast. Louisa was too stunned for a moment to think, then something more powerful than fear came roaring forward. “You slimy, presuming, stinking, drunken, witless varlet!” She shoved against him hard, but he wasn’t budging, and those thick, wet lips were puckering up abominably. Louisa heard her brother Devlin’s voice in her head, instructing her to use her knee, when Grattingly abruptly shifted off her and landed on his bottom in the dirt. “Excuse me.” Sir Joseph stood not two feet away, casually unbuttoning his evening coat. His expression was as composed as his tone of voice, though even when he dropped his coat around Louisa’s shoulders, he kept his gaze on Grattingly. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.” “You’re not.” Louisa clutched his jacket to her shoulders, finding as much comfort in its cedary scent as she did in the body heat it carried. “Mr. Grattingly was just leaving.” “Who the hell are you,” Grattingly spat as he scrambled to his feet, “to come around and disturb a lady at her pleasures?” Somewhere down the path, a door swung closed. Louisa registered the sound distantly, the way she’d notice when rain had started outside though she was in the middle of a good book. Though this was not a good book. Instinctively Louisa knew she was, without warning or volition, in the middle of something not good at all. “I was not at my pleasures, you oaf.” She’d meant to fire the words off with a load of scathing indignation, but to Louisa’s horror, her voice shook. Her knees were turning unreliable on her, as well, so she sank onto the hard bench. “What’s going on here?” Lionel Honiton stood on the path, three or four other people gathered behind him. “Nothing,” Sir Joseph said. “The lady has developed a megrim and will be departing shortly.” “A megrim!” Grattingly was on his feet, though to Louisa it seemed as if he weaved a bit. “That bitch was about to get something a hell of a lot more—” Sir Joseph, like every other guest, was wearing evening gloves. They should not have made such a loud, distinct sound when thwacked across Grattingly’s jowls. Lionel stepped forth. “Let’s not be hasty. Grattingly, apologize. We can all see you’re a trifle foxed. Nobody takes offense at what’s said when a man’s in his cups, right?” “I’m not drunk, you ass. You—” “That’s not an apology.” Sir Joseph pulled on his gloves. “My seconds will be calling on yours. If some one of the assembled multitude would stop gawping long enough to fetch the lady’s sisters to her, I would appreciate it.” He said nothing more, just treated each member of the small crowd to a gimlet stare, until Lionel ushered them away. Nobody had a word for Grattingly, who stomped off in dirty breeches, muttering Louisa knew not what. Sir

The entire theater faded away, as did the whispers, titters, and if she wasn’t much mistaken, applause, as Bram continued kissing her before he drew back, cupped her face with his hands, and smiled. It was a wonderful smile, filled with love, hope, and maybe even, a dash of naughtiness and danger. “That’ll keep everyone talking for a while,” he said with a wink. “I’m sure it will, and . . . now that we’ve gotten ourselves engaged, I, my soon-to-be husband, have a scene to finish.” Bram turned his head and whistled, the whistle resulting in Sweet Pea being led onto the stage, pulling her pony cart. “That’s why I brought a horse.” “Sweet Pea is a mule, but even if she was a horse, there’s not a horse in The Lady of the Tower—which you know since you penned the play.” “True, but I brought Sweet Pea along because of the scene in my new novel, the scene where you cut me down, then hoist me over your horse’s back, and then we go galloping off into the night.” “I’m not sure if a heroine will actually have the strength needed to hoist the hero onto a horse, and . . . again, you brought Sweet Pea and a pony cart, so . . . I’m not exactly certain how I should proceed.” “I tried to bring Storm, but Ernie pointed out that if Storm doesn’t like graveyards he probably wouldn’t like the theater, and that’s when Ernie offered to loan me Sweet Pea, and . . . maybe I should just climb in the cart and you can join me.” With that, Bram took hold of her hand, stepped into the pony cart, pulled her in after him, and pulled her onto his lap as he settled against the seat. Picking up the reins, he gave them a flick, and Sweet Pea was off, prancing as she was wont to do across the stage, down the ramp, and straight out the back door that Mr. Skukman was already holding open for them. As they rode away into the night, with Bram’s arms wrapped tightly around her, Lucetta realized that Abigail had been right all along. Bram

She looks up at me, a soft smile on her lips as she sees me in the mirror. I walk up behind her and put my arms around her, resting my chin on her shoulder. “I’m sorry I made you cry,” I say. She shakes her head and talks to me in the mirror. “No one has ever done anything like that for me before,” she says. Her eyes fill up with tears again, and I’m sorry that I came out of the stall. I’ll go back in there if she’ll stop crying, but I’m not leaving her. I can see that now. I’m not leaving her, no matter what. “The lock?” I ask. She’s leaning back against me, and she wraps her arms over mine. She nods. She wipes her eyes with a paper towel, swiping the black makeup from under her eyes. Her face is splotchy, but she’s never looked more beautiful. For that one split-second, she isn’t hiding anything from me. “The minute I saw the tattoo I knew it needed to be changed. I’m sorry if I defiled your art.” She could take exception to my change, but I have a feeling she doesn’t. “It’s perfect,” she says. She lifts my arm from around her waist and looks down at it. “It’s perfect,” she repeats, sniffling. “I don’t know how to tell you what I’m feeling.” I’m the one with the hearing impairment, and she can’t tell me something? I laugh and lift her hair from her neck and press my lips there. “You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her. She turns around and cups my face in her palm, her hand stroking across my five-o’clock shadow. I take her hands in mine and lift them to my lips, kissing them one by one. Then I look into her eyes and open my mouth to ask her the one question I need to know the answer to. “What’s your name?” I ask. She freezes. It’s like there’s suddenly a wall between us, and I haven’t even let her go. “No,” she says. I feel like she’s kicked me in the gut. I let her go and take a step back. “Why not?” I ask. “I just can’t,” she says. I nod and let myself out of the bathroom. My legs are shaking. The waitress shoots me a glance as I walk back to the table. I sit down. Kit’s still in the bathroom, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s ever going to come out. Her guitar is still under the table. So, she has to come back, right?

What is it ye hope to gain from sharing my bed?” His voice stopped her. “You already have a bairn.” The creak of a stall door followed his question. Footsteps whispered on the packed-dirt floor. With her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw him as a towering shadow emerging into the broad aisle of the barn. He must have been checking on Rand. She frowned at his question. He made it sound like she had some ulterior motive besides being attracted to him. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she hedged. “You want to couple with me. Why?” She rolled her eyes; she’d understood that much of the question. It was the part where he seemed to have a problem with “sharing a bed” with her she didn’t get. Tamping down her offense was getting old. If he was going to be bold, she would be, too. “You’re easy on the eyes,” she clipped. “I’m attracted to you, and we’re married, so why not, right? Am I missing something here? Shouldn’t I be the one asking you why you don’t want to ‘couple’? Oh, wait, I did. And you wouldn’t give me a straight answer.” He moved closer, stopping a foot away, which meant his voice now came from high above her. “Are you a wanton woman?” The question had been dark. Dangerous. And it kicked her offense into full-on anger. “I’m knocked up and I want sex with my husband. If that makes a girl wanton, then I suppose I am. What of it?” She lifted her chin in challenge. “I’ll ask again. What is it ye hope to gain? The truth, Melanie.” Her heart sank to hear him call her by her given name, and this sudden edge of hostility confused her. It felt like he was accusing her of something, but what? She was also insanely aroused. Not only had her eyes adjusted to the dark well enough to see his serious and seriously handsome face, but his looming presence filled her with an irrational sense of security. Add to that his scent of leather and man, and her lips trembled for another kiss. She didn’t want to lash out any more. Anger released itself to the night like steam from a mug of cocoa. “Pleasure,” she whispered, her breasts reaching for him with her quickening breath. “That’s the truth. I want to feel your body under my hands. I want to feel you inside me as you make me your wife in more than just name. And I want pleasure for you, too. Especially for you. You’ve given up almost everything for me. Giving you pleasure is the only way I can think of to thank you.” He blinked with surprise. “I dinna expect your thanks. ’Tis not why I stole ye away from Steafan.” She rolled her eyes, but this time with affection instead of annoyance. “Duh, I know that. You’re so darned honorable you’d never do anything for something as paltry as my thanks. It’s not just about thanks. I love you, you stubborn Highlander.” She cupped her hand over her mouth. The ornery thing had just blurted that which she had yet to fully admit to herself. Considering how much it hurt to have Darcy reject her physical advances, she was in no mood to bear his inevitable rejection of her heart. Mortified, she turned to run away. But his arms went around her. He hadn’t lied when he’d claimed to be quicker. “Do ye mean that, lass?” he asked, bending over her back, holding her. “No,” she lied, trying to pry his arms away. “I’m out of my mind. Don’t listen to a thing I say. Let me go.” “No. I willna. And I think a confession spoken in ire is more trustworthy than one spoken in calm.” He turned her around and lifted her face to his. “I love you, too, lass.” He kissed her.

Harper, wait up!” He caught my arm and spun me around so I was facing him. “You’re not even going to say hi now?” “Hi.” My voice cracked and I kept my eyes to the ground. Chase gently placed his hand under my chin and lifted until I was staring at him through unshed tears. “Baby what’s wrong?” God I didn’t want to hear him call me that. Memories of our times together flashed through my mind and my cheeks instantly filled with heat. “Nothing,” I cleared my throat and blinked back the tears, “it’s just allergies or something.” His look told me he wasn’t buying that, but didn’t push that subject further. Stepping back he hung his head and sighed roughly, shifting his weight a few times, “I haven’t seen you around my house much. I know you don’t want to be with me, but don’t feel like you can’t be there, I won’t bother you and Brandon.” “That’s not why I haven’t been there. I um, I broke up with him.” Chase’s head snapped up, “You did? When, why didn’t you tell me?” He was failing miserably at trying to hide his elated smile. “A little over a week ago. But it hurt me more than I could ever explain to do it, and I need time to get over that. I can’t just rush back to you because Brandon and I aren’t together anymore.” He cupped my cheeks and hunched down so he was almost eye level, “I love you, I’ll give you all the time you need. Unless. Unless you don’t want me anymore?” I pressed my face harder into his left hand and closed my eyes, inhaling his clean masculine scent. “I’ve told you, I will always love you Chase, but I’m still not sure you won’t eventually leave me. Because of that fear, I don’t know if I can be with you. And some things have changed since we talked last, you might change your mind about me altogether.” “That’s not possible.” I pulled his hands off my face and wrapped his tattooed arms around my shoulders. After placing a kiss on his throat I buried my head in his chest, “I wish that were true.” My life had drastically changed in such a short amount of time. For obvious reasons, I’d had to break up with Brandon and now Chase and I were going to have a baby. Because of the turn of events, I found myself wanting a life with Chase more and more, I wanted him to be there for me and his baby. Here, wrapped up in his strong arms, I could almost let myself believe it might happen. But Chase was about to graduate college, he was a tattoo artist and spent most of his mornings surfing. I couldn’t see him settling down with me and our baby. “It is Harper,” his voice cracked when he said my name, and tears started falling down his face, “I love you so damn much, why can’t you see that?” Oh

That was ridiculous.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the wall of yogurts. “That was hilarious.” He corrected. “Yeah, except now they’re going to fantasize about you kissing them. Good job honey, I’m pretty sure they’re goners now.” His deep laugh made me shudder and bite my lip, “I’m not going to lie, that was fun. I make sure guys know that you’re mine all the time, it was fun to let girls know I’m taken.” “You do not.” I smacked his chest playfully. “I do. I thought guys stared at you too much when we first started dating, you should see it now. It’s frustrating the hungry looks in their eyes when they look at you.” “Liar.” “Harper,” he turned my chin so I was looking at his green eyes and talked soft and low, “Maybe me telling you you’re beautiful isn’t helping, so let me try another way. I know you think you look bad, but you’re sexy as hell. Pregnancy looks damn good on you. Trust me. It takes everything in me not to rip your clothes off and finally make you mine despite what the Doctor says. And when other guys look at you, I see that look on their faces, they’re fantasizing about the exact same thing.” I rolled my eyes but planted a quick kiss to his lips anyway. After filling up my cup with frozen yogurt, I leaned into him and whispered, “It was a little fun. I flashed my ring their way when you kissed me.” Brandon’s next laugh bounced off the walls, “That’s my girl.” A

Who do you think he was, Kash? Who the fuck do you think he is to me?” “Other than Candice’s cousin, I don’t know! I want you to explain what I saw.” He reached around me and tried to turn off the shower but I smacked his arm back. “No! I need to get clean, please!” “You can take a shower after we’ve talked this out.” “Think about it!” I shrieked, and whirled on him. “Did I look like I was enjoying seeing him? I couldn’t even look at him. Think about when Candice said I was ‘dating’ him. Think. About. It.” Steam was filling the tiny bathroom and again, I tried to go into the shower. I just needed to wash him away. “Please, let me get clean,” I cried. “Clean,” he whispered like that word had finally sunk in, and sucked in a quick gasp. “Oh my God, Rach—” “I hate him, Kash. I hate him with everything in me. If I never see or hear from him again, it will be too soon! He tried to ruin me. And today—he saw us kiss. He started texting me. He said I forgot who I belonged to.” Kash’s hand dropped from my arm and I cried in relief when my body hit the stinging water. I grabbed a loofah and poured shower gel on it before hastily scrubbing at my body. I was grabbing for more shower gel when Kash caught my wrist. I looked up at him and saw his horrified expression. “Baby, please—don’t . . . don’t tell me he was right there and I did nothing.” My jaw trembled and I blinked back the tears that began to cloud my vision. Kash’s face drained of color and his shoulders slumped. “Son of a bitch. You said he worked at UT, I thought—I thought he was a professor. I was expecting some old, sick bastard, not . . . that.” I shook my head quickly and began scrubbing myself again. “He’s a personal trainer there. He’s only twenty-six.” His body swayed before going rigid, his eyes wide. “And he’s Candice’s cousin? Her goddamn cousin raped you?!” Sobs filled the bathroom and I continued to scrub vigorously. “That’s why she didn’t believe me,” I explained when I could take a deep enough breath in. “She was so mad, said I was just accusing him because I didn’t want to date him.” “What the fuck? She—how could she—” “He’s her family. She loves him, I get it.” “There’s nothing to get. That shouldn’t make a difference. Rachel, I’m so sorry. I’m . . . I’m sorry.” He grabbed the loofah out of my hand and tossed it in the tub. Cupping his hands to catch the water, he tried to help wash the suds off me and turned the water off when I was soap free. “You don’t need to get clean, baby. You aren’t dirty. You’re okay.” He wrapped a large towel around my body and pulled me close as I trembled. “You’re okay. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize, I’m sorry I was upset with you.” I face-planted into his chest and let him lead me into my bedroom. Letting me go for a moment, he flipped off the lights, quickly undressed until he was only in his boxer-briefs, and walked back up to me. Grabbing the comforter off the bed, he had me let go of the wet towel and let it fall to the floor before wrapping me up in the comforter. I climbed onto the bed after him, and he got under the sheet and pulled me close to him, his arms tightening around my shaking body. “I’ve got you,” he whispered against the top of my head. “You’re safe.” My

Back in Beijing, it was 9:56 A.M.—four minutes before the race’s start—and Phelps stood behind his starting block, bouncing slightly on his toes. When the announcer said his name, Phelps stepped onto the block, as he always did before a race, and then stepped down, as he always did. He swung his arms three times, as he had before every race since he was twelve years old. He stepped up on the blocks again, got into his stance, and, when the gun sounded, leapt. Phelps knew that something was wrong as soon as he hit the water. There was moisture inside his goggles. He couldn’t tell if they were leaking from the top or bottom, but as he broke the water’s surface and began swimming, he hoped the leak wouldn’t become too bad.4.18 By the second turn, however, everything was getting blurry. As he approached the third turn and final lap, the cups of his goggles were completely filled. Phelps couldn’t see anything. Not the line along the pool’s bottom, not the black T marking the approaching wall. He couldn’t see how many strokes were left. For most swimmers, losing your sight in the middle of an Olympic final would be cause for panic. Phelps was calm. Everything else that day had gone according to plan. The leaking goggles were a minor deviation, but one for which he was prepared. Bowman had once made Phelps swim in a Michigan pool in the dark, believing that he needed to be ready for any surprise. Some of the videotapes in Phelps’s mind had featured problems like this. He had mentally rehearsed how he would respond to a goggle failure. As he started his last lap, Phelps estimated how many strokes the final push would require—nineteen or twenty, maybe twenty-one—and started counting. He felt totally relaxed as he swam at full strength. Midway through the lap he began to increase his effort, a final eruption that had become one of his main techniques in overwhelming opponents. At eighteen strokes, he started anticipating the wall. He could hear the crowd roaring, but since he was blind, he had no idea if they were cheering for him or someone else. Nineteen strokes, then twenty. It felt like he needed one more. That’s what the videotape in his head said. He made a twenty-first, huge stroke, glided with his arm outstretched, and touched the wall. He had timed it perfectly. When he ripped off his goggles and looked up at the scoreboard, it said “WR”—world record—next to his name. He’d won another gold. After the race, a reporter asked what it had felt like to swim blind. “It felt like I imagined it would,” Phelps said. It was one additional victory in a lifetime full of small wins.4.19

I shouldn’t have been allowed to come see you at all, but that was another thing Kash arranged.” Taking my hand, he pulled me close and looked at me for a long moment before speaking again. “Rachel, he’s giving you the choice to go with me.” My brow furrowed, and I shook my head in confusion. “I don’t—like Kash and me go with you?” When Trent shook his head slowly, I grasped what he was saying . . . and my chest tore open. “Just me,” I stated. It was no longer a question. Some small part of me hated that Kash was still questioning my feelings. My mind kept screaming, He just said last night he wouldn’t let me go for anything! But, if I was being honest with myself, I knew that wasn’t what this was . . . he was making sure I knew what I wanted . . . and giving me the option to have that. I loved him. I loved how selfless he was. “Trent, I will never forget you, and I will never forget everything you did for me. I owe you everything. I know how you feel for me; to be honest, I’ve had an idea since before I got out of that house. And I’m so sorry if I ever led you to believe anything different, but I love Kash. I’ll always love Kash.” Trent cleared his throat, and looked away quickly when his dark eyes filled with pain. “I hate that after finally knowing you’re safe from those men, you’re going to be leaving me. But I’ve only ever viewed you as a friend, and protector. I’m sorry.” “I know. I knew even when I kissed you that your heart belonged to him. I’ve never loved anyone until I met you, Rachel, and I don’t think I’ll ever get over you.” “You’ll find someone, I know you will. You have so much to give to someone, and whoever she ends up being, she will be incredibly lucky to have you.” He watched me for a few seconds with a sad smile as he cupped one side of my face. “I’ll never forget you.” More tears fell down my cheeks as I admitted, “I’ll never forget you either, Trent Cruz.” With a kiss to my forehead, he released me and took a few steps back and looked over at the dark SUV. A few seconds later, it started up and pulled into the driveway, and soon Kash and Mason were joining us. Turning

She thrust the pink box she was holding into Mr. Rutherford’s hands before she opened up her reticule and pulled out a fistful of coins. Counting them out very precisely, she stopped counting when she reached three dollars, sixty-two cents. Handing Mr. Rutherford the coins, she then took back the pink box, completely ignoring the scowl Mr. Rutherford was now sending her. “This is not the amount of money I quoted you for the skates, Miss . . . ?” “Miss Griswold,” Permilia supplied as she opened up the box and began rummaging through the thin paper that covered her skates. Mr. Rutherford’s brows drew together. “Surely you’re not related to Mr. George Griswold, are you?” “He’s my father,” Permilia returned before she frowned and lifted out what appeared to be some type of printed form, one that had a small pencil attached to it with a maroon ribbon. “What is this?” Mr. Rutherford returned the frown, looking as if he wanted to discuss something besides the form Permilia was now waving his way, but he finally relented—although he did so with a somewhat heavy sigh. “It’s a survey, and I would be ever so grateful if you and Miss Radcliff would take a few moments to fill it out, returning it after you’re done to a member of my staff, many of whom can be found offering hot chocolate for a mere five cents at a stand we’ve erected by the side of the lake. I’m trying to determine which styles of skates my customers prefer, and after I’m armed with that information, I’ll be better prepared to stock my store next year with the best possible products.” “Far be it from me to point out the obvious, Mr. Rutherford, but one has to wonder about your audacity,” Permilia said. “It’s confounding to me that you’re so successful in business, especially since not only are you overcharging your customers for the skates today, you also expect those very customers to extend you a service by taking time out of their day to fill out a survey for you. And then, to top matters off nicely, instead of extending those customers a free cup of hot chocolate for their time and effort, you’re charging them for that as well.” “I’m a businessman, Miss Griswold—as is your father, if I need remind you. I’m sure he’d understand exactly what my strategy is here today, as well as agree with that strategy.” Permilia stuck her nose into the air. “You may very well be right, Mr. Rutherford, but . . .” She thrust the box back into his hands. “Since I’m unwilling to pay more than I’ve already given you for these skates, I’ll take my money back, if you please.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. Rutherford said, thrusting the box right back at Permilia. “Now, if the two of you will excuse me, I have other customers to attend to.” With that, he sent Wilhelmina a nod, scowled at Permilia, and strode through the snow back to his cash register.

I’m sorry. About earlier.” I took another bite. Another sip. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Yet I wondered what he meant. Three quick bites and my pie disappeared, my fork clattering into the empty pan. “It’s not any of my business what you do with your life.” “No, it isn’t.” I wrapped one hand around my warm cup and lifted it to my lips. “But do you mind if I ask what you intend to do with it?” Uncertainty colored his voice. Was he afraid to hear my answer or afraid he couldn’t restrain comment on it? I cleared my throat, uncomfortable now, even with the cover of night over our faces. Yet something in me needed to talk. And Frank might understand. He’d lost his love, even if part of his dream remained intact. “I’m not sure, exactly. I thought God had made it very plain. Now I don’t know.” Quiet filled the room. Then his chair creaked. I took a deep breath. “I’ve lived on a farm my whole life. But I’ve always wanted to live somewhere else. Somewhere big, with lots going on. My brother, Will, he got to see the world, to do something important. Like you did. I want the same opportunity.” More silence. “The world is changing so fast. I don’t want to miss it.” His boots shuffled against the floor. “I can see how you’d feel that way. But I guess it depends on how you define ‘important.’ ” I shrugged. “Same as everyone, I guess. Something big. Something lasting.” His shadow leaned against the Wilson cabinet now. “I think tending my farm and raising my children are the most worthwhile things I can do. So did Clara. That’s why we agreed I should go to France. To make the world a safer place for them.” My insides jiggled. Perhaps a late-night snack hadn’t been such a good idea. I pushed back my chair. “I’d better get some sleep. The children will be up early.” “I’ll be praying for you, Rebekah.” His voice rumbled from nearby. I could feel the heat from his body, smell the scent of fresh hay on his clothes. He took the dishes from my hand. “I’ll clean up.” I nodded, even though I doubted he could see my response.

Been walkin' all mornin', went walkin' all night I can't see much difference between the dark and light And I feel the wind and I taste the rain Never in my mind to cause so much pain Comes a time when the blind man takes your hand Says, "Don't you see? Gotta make it somehow on the dreams you still believe Don't give it up, you got an empty cup Only love can fill, only love can fill

I needed to grab another box of screws, but, when I got to the truck, I realized I’d left my wallet in my tool bucket. When I went back ground the house to get it, she had my plans open and was double-checking all my measurements.” Emma’s cheeks burned when Gram laughed at Sean’s story, but, since she couldn’t deny it, she stuck her last bite of the fabulous steak he’d grilled into her mouth. “That’s my Emma,” Gram said. “I think her first words were ‘If you want something done right, do it yourself.’” “In my defense,” she said when she’d swallowed, pointing her fork at Sean for emphasis, “my name is on the truck, and being able to pound nails doesn’t make you a builder. I have a responsibility to my clients to make sure they get quality work.” “I do quality work.” “I know you build a quality deck, but stairs are tricky.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I had to double-check.” “It’s all done but the seating now and it’s good work, even though I practically had to duct tape you to a tree in order to work in peace.” She might have taken offense at his words if not for the fact he was playing footsie with her under the table. And when he nudged her foot to get her to look at him, he winked in that way that—along with the grin—made it almost impossible for her to be mad at him. “It’s Sean’s turn to wash tonight. Emma, you dry and I’ll put away.” “I’ll wash, Gram. Sean can dry.” “I can wash,” Sean told her. “The world won’t come to an end if I wash the silverware before the cups.” “It makes me twitch.” “I know it does. That’s why I do it.” He leaned over and kissed her before she could protest. “That new undercover-cop show I like is on tonight,” Gram said as they cleared the table. “Maybe Sean won’t snort his way through this episode.” He laughed and started filling the sink with hot, soapy water. “I’m sorry, but if he keeps shoving his gun in his waistband like that, he’s going to shoot his…he’s going to shoot himself in a place men don’t want to be shot.” Emma watched him dump the plates and silverware into the water—while three coffee mugs sat on the counter waiting to be washed—but forced herself to ignore it. “Can’t be worse than the movie the other night.” “That was just stupid,” Sean said while Gram laughed. They’d tried to watch a military-action movie and by the time they were fifteen minutes in, she thought they were going to have to medicate Sean if they wanted to see the end. After a particularly heated lecture about what helicopters could and couldn’t do, Emma had hushed him, but he’d still snorted so often in derision she was surprised he hadn’t done permanent damage to his sinuses. “I don’t want you to think that’s real life,” he told them. “I promise,” Gram said, “if I ever want to use a tank to break somebody out of a federal prison, I’ll ask you how to do it correctly first.” Sean kissed the top of her head. “Thanks, Cat. At least you appreciate me, unlike Emma, who just tells me to shut up.” “I’d appreciate you more if there wasn’t salad dressing floating in the dishwater you’re about to wash my coffee cup in.” “According to the official guy’s handbook, if I keep doing it wrong, you’re supposed to let me watch SportsCenter while you do it yourself.” “Did the official guy’s handbook also tell you that if that happens, you’ll also be free to watch the late-night sports show while I do other things myself?

She yanked open the door, and her smile faded. The same Indian who had wanted to trade two horses for her was standing on the apple crate that served as a front step, his black hair dripping with water, his calico shirt so wet that his copper skin showed through in places. “No house!” he said. Lily was paralyzed for a moment. Here it was, she thought, the moment she’d been warned about. She was going to be scalped, or ravaged, or carried off to an Indian village. Maybe all three. She cast a desperate glance toward the shutgun, at the same time smiling broadly at the Indian. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “but of course you can see that there is a house.” “Woman go away!” the Indian insisted. Lily’s heart was flailing in her throat like a bird trapped in a chimney, but she squared her shoulders and put out her chin. “I’m not going anywhere, you rude man,” she replied. “This is my land, and I have the papers to prove it!” The Indian spouted a flock of curses; Lily knew the words for what they were only because of their tone. She started to close the door. “If you’re going to be nasty,” she said, “you’ll just have to leave.” Undaunted, the red man pushed past Lily and strode right over to the stove. He got a cup from the shelf, filled it with coffee, and took a sip. He grimaced. “You got firewater?” he demanded. “Better with firewater.” Lily had never been so frightened or so angry in her life. With one hand to her bosom she edged toward the shotgun. “No firewater,” she said apologetically, “but there is a little sugar. There”—she pointed—“in the blue bowl.” When her unwanted guest turned around to look for the sugar, Lily lunged for the shotgun and cocked it. There was no shell in the chamber; she could only hope the Indian wouldn’t guess. “All right, you,” she said, narrowing her eyes and pointing the shotgun. “Get out of here right now. Just ride away and there won’t be any trouble.” The Indian stared at her for a moment, then had the audacity to burst out laughing. “The major’s right about you,” he said in perfectly clear English. “You are a hellcat.” Now it was Lily who stared, slowly lowering the shotgun. “So that’s why Caleb wasn’t alarmed that day when you and your friends rode up and made all that fuss about the land. He knows you.” “The name’s Charlie Fast Horse,” the man said, offering his hand. Lily’s blood was rushing to her head like lava flowing to the top of an erupting volcano. “Why, that polecat—that rounder—that son-of-a—” Charlie Fast Horse set his coffee aside and held out both hands in a plea for peace. “Calm down, now, Miss Lily,” he pleaded. “It was just a harmless little joke, after all.” “When I see that scoundrel again I’m going to peel off his hide!” Charlie was edging toward the door. “Lord knows I’d like to warm myself by your fire, Miss Lily, but I’ve got to be going. No, no—don’t plead with me to stay.” “Get out of here!” Lily screamed, and Charlie Fast Horse ran for his life. Obviously he didn’t know the shotgun wasn’t loaded. The

Jt'i to- You shall love your neighbor as yourself. -LEVITICUS 19:18 Yes, I give you permission to be selfish at times. One thing I notice about so many people is that they are burned out because they spend so much time serving others that they have no time for themselves. As a young mom I was going from sunup to late in the evening just doing the things that moms do. When evening came around I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was take a hot bath and slip into bed and catch as much sleep as possible before I was awakened in the night by one of the children. After several years I remember saying to myself, I've got to have some time just for me-I need help. One of the things I did was to get up a half hour before everyone else so I could spend time in the Scriptures over an early cup of tea. This one activity had an incredibly positive effect upon my outlook. I went on to making arrangements to get my hair and nails taken care of periodically. I was even known to purchase a new outfit (on sale of course) occasionally. As I matured I discovered that I became a better parent and wife when I had time for myself and my emotional tank was filled up. I soon realized I had plenty left over to share with my loved ones. When you're able to spend some time just for you, you will be more relaxed, and your family and home will function better. I find these to be beneficial time-outs: • taking a warm bath by candlelight • getting a massage • having my hair and nails done • meeting a friend for lunch • listening to my favorite CD • reading a good book • writing a poem

Making Time for God Don’t burn out; keep yourselves fueled and aflame. Be alert servants of the Master, cheerfully expectant. Don’t quit in hard times; pray all the harder. Romans 12:11-12 MSG Has the busy pace of life robbed you of the peace that might otherwise be yours through Jesus Christ? If so, you are simply too busy for your own good. Through His Son Jesus, God offers you a peace that passes human understanding, but He won’t force His peace upon you; in order to experience it, you must slow down long enough to sense His presence and His love. Each waking moment holds the potential to think a creative thought or offer a heartfelt prayer. So even if you’re a woman with too many demands and too few hours in which to meet them, don’t panic. Instead, be comforted in the knowledge that when you sincerely seek to discover God’s purpose for your life, He will respond in marvelous and surprising ways. Remember: this is the day that He has made and that He has filled it with countless opportunities to love, to serve, and to seek His guidance. Seize those opportunities today, and keep seizing them every day that you live. We all long for that more sane lifestyle rather than being overwhelmed. Patsy Clairmont When a church member gets overactive and public worship is neglected, his or her relationship with God will be damaged. Anne Ortlund In our tense, uptight society where folks are rushing to make appointments they have already missed, a good laugh can be a refreshing as a cup of cold water in the desert. Barbara Johnson Life is not intended to be simply a round of work, no matter how interesting and important that work may be. A moment’s pause to watch the glory of a sunrise or a sunset is soul satisfying, while a bird’s song will set the steps to music all day long. Laura Ingalls Wilder MORE FROM GOD’S WORD Careful planning puts you ahead in the long run; hurry and scurry puts you further behind. Proverbs 21:5 MSG You can’t go wrong when you love others. When you add up everything in the law code, the sum total is love.

Copaface I'm quick learning lessons from the devil but can't decide whether I arrived or was contrived I view so many faces form a tower up above neglected inner wants and hungers for what I love cluttered bunched black eyed and voiceless I fill up the sugar cup to stay up at night in my black upabove where my face is a moon full of craters with crummy eyes and cyst-thighs a perfect beacon for the fictionettes who spread their legs wide open on the plasma embodiments of everything i hide about my self today hips rashed elastic crowded barely wrenched into my upmost ambition for attraction so I nurse fellow wilted and the withered shallow love smut love our love in my black upabove my face is a room full of mirrors with crummy eyes and blistered thighs a bent brain full of lies a beacon for the fiction body voodoo embodiments in morbid tense misplace your grace to chase your copaface

Mystic Moon Dreaming Pillows Sometimes, when we are in need of extra rest, or when we just want to reach a deeper sleep state, we can achieve this by the use of dreaming pillows—small sachet like pillows that we can tuck inside of our pillow cases. Depending on the herbs, the pillows can encourage vivid dreams, astral work, or restful sleep. This recipe is designed to help promote peaceful slumber, since so many of us don’t get enough time in bed in this fast-paced world. You will need: 2 seven-inch squares of sturdy, purple material—linen works well Gold thread and needle or sewing machine Cotton batting 1/2 cup each: dried lavender mugwort rose petals lemon balm chamomile valerian root 3 drops lavender essential oil 3 drops lemon essential oil 2 drops rosemary essential oil Small spike of quartz crystal Mix herbs together in a bowl, focusing on your desire to encourage deep slumber and to work with your Higher Self while asleep. Focus on the nature of dreams, how they can solve problems, and ask that this energy infuse the herbs and bring out their natural magical tendencies. Add drops of essential oil and mix again. Place quartz spike in the middle of the herbs and set aside (in a bottle with a lid if you are going to wait to finish this charm). Place cloth pieces together, wrong sides out, and sew to form a pouch (use a 3/8” seam allowance), leaving on side open. Iron seams open, then reverse so pouch is right side out. Fill halfway with cotton batting. Add herb mixture and crystal, then pack with rest of cotton batting. Sew the end shut. Place this inside your pillowcase at night and, before you go to bed, focus on some thought you’d like to explore in the dream-state, then go to sleep as usual. Write down your dreams when you wake up and eventually, you should see them responding to your requests. You can recharge this pillow by adding two drops each of lavender oil, lemon oil, and rosemary oil when the fragrance starts to fade. Remember: It is up to us to solve our own problems, but we can call on the power of our Higher Self when we need help, or when we seek more information on a subject. Eventually, through focus and determination, we can enter the Dream-Time and learn to hear our inner guidance when we’re awake, not just during our sleep.

A flush slid up her neck. In nothing but a nightgown, she would have been embarrassed in front of any man; with Hunter her humiliation was tenfold. He swept his gaze over her with no sign of guilt, no hesitation, his attention lingering on whatever drew his interest. When he traced her collarbone with a fingertip and gave her arm a squeeze, she felt like a head of beef at auction. “You are too skinny. Your father should feed you more.” Catching hold of her chin, he tipped her head back and forced her mouth open to check her teeth. “Hmph-hh,” he grunted, returning his arm to her waist. “This Comanche paid too many horses. Without your pitsikwina to cover you, you are all bones.” She flashed him a glare, only to discover that his eyes were filled with laughter. He slid a hand up her side, his fingers firm and warm where they hugged the curve of her ribs. She stiffened when he cupped the underside of her breast, but she didn’t resist his touch. “Maybe not all bones. What do you have there, herbi? Do you try to hide the sweet places your mother promised me?” He watched her for a moment, as if trying to predict what her reaction might be to such outrageous familiarity.

(Verse 1) In the glow of a **dawn's early light**, With the dew on the grass, shining so bright, A cup of coffee, a **gentle breeze**, These little things, oh how they please. (Chorus) **Grab your hat and dance in the rain,** **Kick off your boots, forget the pain,** **Laugh with friends, under the sun's reign,** **Life's a sweet ride, hop on the train!** **Raise your glass to the stars above,** **Sing with heart, push and shove,** **Every little moment, fit like a glove,** **It's the simple things that we love!** (Verse 2) A **dog's wagging tail**, a **porch swing's sway**, The **colors of flowers** that brighten the day, A **song on the radio** that takes you back, To the **sweet old memories** that never lack. (Bridge) **Lights down low, we're just starting up,** **Fill up the tank, let's raise our cup,** **To the moments that feel like a live wire,** **Simple sparks igniting our fire.** **Sync to the beat of the city's pulse,** **Every little win, every single result,** **We're living loud in the here and now,** **In the simple life, we take our bow.** (Verse 3) **Under the wide-open sky so blue,** **Life's painting scenes, each one anew,** **A simple hello, a wave goodbye,** **In these little things, our dreams fly high.** **With every sunrise, we start again,** **Finding joy in the whisper of the wind,** **A hearty laugh, a warm embrace,** **In the simple life, we find our grace.** (Chorus) **Turn it up, let the bass line roll,** **Simple life's got that rock 'n' roll soul,** **Snap your fingers, tap your feet,** **Living for the moment, life's so sweet.** **Catch the vibe, let it take control,** **These little things are how we roll,** **From the heartland to the city's grip,** **It's the simple life that makes us flip.** (Verse 4) **The jukebox plays a tune that's bittersweet,** **Echoing tales of love and deceit,** **But in the neon glow, we find our truth,** **In simple things, we reclaim our youth.** **A twist of fate, a turn of the key,** **Life's full of surprises, as we can see,** **A chance encounter, a new beginning,** **In the simple life, we keep on winning.**

Watching the old lady’s fingers, and hoping it wasn’t going to taste vile, May nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Having removed the stopper from the first jar, Primrose picked up a set of measuring spoons threaded onto a leather thong and searched for the one she wanted. Into a stone bowl, she then measured four quantities of what looked like dried leaves. From the second jar, she added a similar amount. To May’s eyes, the contents of both looked identical. Once stirred together, Granny Beer tipped them out on to a square of paper, folded the corners together and then twisted the top tightly closed. ‘Equal parts nettle and dandelion. Enough for a week. Nettles are rich in iron. Better than that, they contain all the vitamins needed to get it into your blood.’ May conveyed her understanding with a nod. ‘All right.’ ‘Nettle by itself is prone to being somewhat potent, which is why I’ve made it up with dandelion leaf, which will also help with getting it into your body.’ ‘I see.’ ‘Two teaspoons into a pot. You got a little teapot over yonder?’ ‘Um, actually…’ May pictured the contents of the dresser. There was really only the Brown Betty. ‘Here,’ Primrose went on, opening the door to another of her cupboards and bending to look inside. ‘Take this ’n.’ Into May’s hand, she pressed a small pot painted blue and white. ‘Two teaspoons in there, boiling water to fill it up, steep for five minutes with a stir halfway through. Strain it into a cup, let it cool a moment. No sense scalding your tongue. And then

Recipe 19: Honeydukes Chocolate Frogs Ah, the legendary Honeydukes! Honestly, that store is enough to drive a person with a sweet tooth absolutely bonkers! Honeydukes is like a Muggle candy store on steroids! Anyway, I made these chocolate frogs as an experimental Christmas present for my little nephew. He went crazy when he saw them and actually asked if I would take him to Honeydukes the next time I went there, the cute thing! Here’s the recipe and a few variations that you could make! Serving Sizes: 8 Duration: 1 hour List of Ingredients: For the Shell 1 big bar milk chocolate or 1 cup chocolate chips For the Filling Use anything from fruit to hazelnuts to peanut butter. If you are feeling particularly tricky, which is pretty much my constant mood, get some popping candy and make a sort of hybrid cross between a Chocolate Frog and a Fizzing Whizzbee. You will also need chocolate frog molds to get that froggy shape. These are easily available on Amazon. WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW Preparation: 1. First, melt the chocolate in your microwave at 30 seconds, till the chocolate is melted and smooth. Use a big bowl, you’ll soon see why. 2. Stir the chocolate until it is slightly cooler but still runny. 3. Fill a piping bag with the melted chocolate, this makes the entire process less messy! 4. Take your frog molds and lightly spray them with cooking spray to make the demolding easier. 5. Pipe chocolate around the mold and in the centre. Don’t worry about quantities but ensure that the surface of the frog is completely covered. 6. After you’ve filled all the molds in the tray, flip the tray over the bowl of melted chocolate to get rid of the excess chocolate inside each frog. 7. Place the mold inside the freezer for about 10-15 minutes and allow the chocolate to harden slightly. 8. In the meantime, choose your fillings. I usually use nuts and peanut butter as one option and popping candy as another. I make an assortment so that when someone bites into the frog, they get a pleasant fizzy surprise! If you intend to use peanut butter or something runny, use a piping bag or a small squeezy bottle to fill your frogs. 9. Next, get the mold out of the freezer and carefully fill with the desired filling. 10. Top the filling with more melted chocolate and smoothen out so that the mold is completely even and covered. 11. Return to the freezer for another 30-35 mins. 12. When the chocolate has hardened, remove from the molds and store in the refrigerator. So perfect for boxing up as gifts and so easy to make that you can probably go into the business of making Chocolate Frogs professionally!