Miranda What I Call Quotes

Some may say that such a girl is not ready for a relationship with a man, especially a man in his late sixties. But to that I say: We don't know anything. We don't know how to cure a cold or what dogs are thinking. We do terrible things, we make wars, we kill people out of greed. So who are we to say how to love. I wouldn't force her. I wouldn't have to. She would want me. We would be in love. What do you know. You don't know anything. Call me when you've cured AIDS, give me a ring then and I'll listen.

I never told you that, Dad, but I was drunk out of my mind one night, I had just vomited in front of the statue of the Pasquino and couldn't have been more dazed in my life yet here as I leaned against this very wall, I knew, drunk as I was, that this, with Oliver holding me, was my life, that everything that had come beforehand with others was not even a rough sketch or the shadow of a draft of what was happening to me. And now, ten years later, when I look at this wall under this old streetlamp, I am back with him and I swear to you, nothing has changed. In thirty, forty, fifty years I will feel no differently. I have met many women and more men in my life, but what is watermarked on this very wall overshadows everyone I've known. When I come to be here, I can be alone or with people, with you for instance, but I am always with him. If I stood for an hour staring at this wall, I'd be with him for an hour. If I spoke to this wall, it would speak back." "What would it say?" asked Miranda, totally taken in by the thought of Elio and the wall. "What would it say? Simple: 'Look for me, find me.'" "And what do you say?" "I say the same thing. 'Look for me, find me.' And we were both happy. Now you know.

It’s so fucking hungry. I’d even call it a desperate pussy. You haven’t been getting what you need, have you?

He didn't call me for a few weeks. This was customary within our friendship, confide and retreat, but I wondered. I wondered if perhaps our last conversation had been an overture. Not the conversation, exactly, but the silences within it. There had been many dark pits of tea-sipping silence; looking back, I could imagine placing my hand on his hand while kneeling in one of these dark pits. And in such a pit could one even be sure what one was doing? One might seek solace in a friend and literally go inside this friend to get the solace; and the friend, being old and familiar, might give especially good solace.

In the moments after she spoke I remember thinking that if she was in some way correct she was, however, not right. That of course life is random, a series of coincidences, etc., but that to live you must attempt to make sense of it, and that's what narrative's for. I believe this, people of a certain sensibility believe this. Mostly it's harmless. Though perhaps sometimes you find yourself doing things because you think the narrative arc calls for it, or because you've grown bored with your own plot, things you shouldn't do because they will, these things, hurt the other characters in your story, who are not characters after all, but people. But then people do evil often and with less elaborate justifications.

Of all the books on the shelf, just look what you’ve gone and bought. Give yourself a round of applause, even if you’re in public. I dare you. Actually I tell you what, as this would make me very happy: if you’re in public and see someone else reading this book, why don’t you applaud each other? What a lovely moment that would be. I advocate that as much as I advocate adults galloping, or people randomly wandering into an optician to try on the most unflattering and amusing glasses for no good reason. It’s what I call ‘making your own fun’. Because you have to, really, don’t you? As, let’s face it; life does have a tendency to throw up difficulties, depressions, moments of boredom, loneliness or grind. I don’t know. Life, eh?

They had found out. Before I could panic, I made myself stretch my fingers wide and take a calming breath. You already knew this was bound to happen. At least that’s what I told myself. The more I thought about it, the more I should have been appreciative that the people at the chapel in Las Vegas hadn’t recognized him. Or that people on the street had been oblivious and hadn’t seen us going in and out of there. Or that the receptionist at the acupuncturist hadn’t snapped a picture on her phone and posted it online. Because I might not understand all people, much less most of them, but I understood nosey folks. And nosey folks would do something like that without a second thought. Yet, I reminded myself that there was nothing to be embarrassed about. It would be fine. So, one gossip site posted about us getting married. Whoop-de-do. There was probably a thousand sites just like it. I briefly thought about Diana hearing about it, but I’d deal with that later. There was no use in getting scared now. She was the only one whose reaction I cared about. My mom and sisters’ opinions and feelings weren’t exactly registering at the top of my list now… or ever. I made myself shove them to the back of my thoughts. I was tired of being mad and upset; it affected my work. Plus, they’d made me sad and mad enough times in my life. I wasn’t going to let them ruin another day. Picking my phone up again, I quickly texted Aiden back, swallowing my nausea at the same time. Me: Who told you? Not even two minutes passed before my phone dinged with a response. Miranda: Trevor’s blowing up my phone. Eww. Trevor. Me: We knew it was going to happen eventually, right? Good luck with Trev. I’m glad he doesn’t have my number. And I was even gladder there wasn’t a home phone; otherwise, I’m positive he would have been blowing it up too. I managed to get back to looking at images on the screen for a few more minutes—a bit more distracted than usual—when the phone beeped again. It was Aiden/Miranda. I should really change his contact name. Miranda: Good luck? I’m not answering his calls. What? Me: That psycho will come visit if you don’t. Was that me being selfish? Yes. Did I care? No. Aiden: I know. Uh. Me: You’re always at practice… Aiden: Have fun. This asshole! I almost laughed, but before I could, he sent me another message. Aiden: I’ll get back to him in a couple days. Don’t worry. Snorting, I texted back. Me: I’m not worried. If he drops by, I’ll set him up in your room. Aiden: You genuinely scare me. Me: You don’t know how many times you barely made it through the day alive, for the record. He didn’t text me back after that

Okay, that’s fair,” I said. “But it’s not a contest about whose days suck the most, Auggie. The point is we all have to put up with the bad days. Now, unless you want to be treated like a baby the rest of your life, or like a kid with special needs, you just have to suck it up and go.” He didn’t say anything, but I think that last bit was getting to him. “You don’t have to say a word to those kids,” I continued. “August, actually, it’s so cool that you know what they said, but they don’t know you know what they said, you know?” “What the heck?” “You know what I mean. You don’t have to talk to them ever again, if you don’t want. And they’ll never know why. See? Or you can pretend to be friends with them, but deep down inside you know you’re not.” “Is that how you are with Miranda?” he asked. “No,” I answered quickly, defensively. “I never faked my feelings with Miranda.” “So why are you saying I should?” “I’m not! I’m just saying you shouldn’t let those little jerks get to you, that’s all.” “Like Miranda got to you.” “Why do you keep bringing Miranda up?” I yelled impatiently. “I’m trying to talk to you about your friends. Please keep mine out of it.” “You’re not even friends with her anymore.” “What does that have to do with what we’re talking about?” The way August was looking at me reminded me of a doll’s face. He was just staring at me blankly with his half-closed doll eyes. “She called the other day,” he said finally. “What?” I was stunned. “And you didn’t tell me?” “She wasn’t calling you,” he answered, pulling both comic books out of my hands. “She was calling me. Just to say hi. To see how I was doing. She didn’t even know I was going to a real school now. I can’t believe you hadn’t even told her. She said the two of you don’t hang out as much anymore, but she wanted me to know she’d always love me like a big sister.” Double-stunned. Stung. Flabbergasted. No words formed in my mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I said, finally. “I don’t know.” He shrugged, opening the first comic book again. “Well, I’m telling Mom and Dad about Jack Will if you stop going to school,” I answered. “Tushman will probably call you into school and make Jack and those other kids apologize to you in front of everyone, and everyone will treat you like a kid who should be going to a school for kids with special needs. Is that what you want? Because that’s what’s going to happen. Otherwise, just go back to school and act like nothing happened. Or if you want to confront Jack about it, fine. But either way, if you—

Time for an exercise, which I shall call 'Say It Out Loud With Miranda'. Please take a moment to sit back, breathe and intone: 'I am taking myself seriously as a woman.' Note your response. If you're reading this on the bus, or surreptitiously in the cinema, or in any other public scenario, then please note other people's responses. (If you are male, and teenaged, and reading this in a room with other teenage boys, then for your own safety I advise you not to participate.) The rest of you – what comes to mind when you say those words? Is it a fine lady scientist, a ballsy young anarchist with tights on her head or a feminist intellectual from the 1970s nose-down in Simone de Beauvoir? Or is it what I think my friend meant when she said 'woman' which is really 'aesthetic object'. Clothes-horse. Show pony. General beautiful piece of well-groomed stuff that's lovely to look at? I reckon, to my great dismay, that she did indeed mean the latter. And in saying that I don't take myself seriously in this regard her assessment of me is absolutely bang-on. If taking oneself seriously as a woman means committing to a like of grooming, pumicing, pruning and polishing one's exterior for the benefit of onlookers, then I may as well heave my unwieldy rucksack to the top of a bleak Scottish hill and make my home there under a stone, where I'll fashion shoes out of mud and clothes out of leaves.

In the first message, left at 4:10, Miranda said, "Pick up this phone at once. How dare you leave me hanging this way? You 'can't live without me,' what the hell does that--answer the phone, Andrea!" The second message, left at 4:14, said, "I understand the impulse, really, but I'm not sure this is--there are the girls to consider, of course, and…it's very soon. It's very quick. And I'm tempted, but--you're right, we have to talk. Call me." The third message, left at 4:22, said, "All right. All right. If you've changed your mind, I'll kill you. I will kill you. We'll do it. Call me before I change my mi--we'll do it. Call me tonight. I have things to take care of this--I have things." The message clicked off. Andy stared into space. 'We'll do it.

Oh my absolute god!” said Vicky or Sophie or Sarah. “You’ve got a girlfriend?” “Ah, how sweet!” added Sophie or Sarah or Vicky. “Oh my god!” Sarah or Vicky or Sophie gushed. “You absolutely have to bring her to the drinks on Friday.” The others squealed their approval at this suggestion. “What’s her name?” Her name. No matter how many times I have to explain it, it doesn’t get any easier. “Her name’s Miranda,” I mumbled into my computer keyboard, “but she calls herself Panda because it rhymes with Miranda and also because she likes pandas.” There was a pause while Vicky/Sophie/Sarah, Sophie/ Sarah/Vicky and Sarah/Vicky/Sophie took this in. I waited for the mocking peals of laughter but they never came. “That is actually awesome,” said Vicky or Sophie or Sarah finally. “I wish my name rhymed with an animal.” “Yeah,” said Sophie or Sarah or Vicky. “It would be so awesome to be called, like, Miraffe or Mirelephant.” “Oh my god, yeah,” agreed Sarah or Vicky or Sophie. “I am totes naming my daughter Miraffe.” “What if you have a boy, though?” Sarah or Vicky or Sophie chewed her pen while she considered this. “Maybe I’ll go for a more masculine animal, like Mirhino or Mirocodile.” “Yeah, Mirocodile’s gorgeous, actually.” “Well, I’ve already got dibs, so you’ll have to take Mirhino.” The conversation continued in this vein until all the peanut M&M’s were finished and it was time for us to go home.

Why?” “Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone’d be wantin’ magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left alone.” At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street. Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Harry couldn’t blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?” “Hagrid,” said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep up, “did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?” “Well, so they say,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a dragon.” “You’d like one?” “Wanted one ever since I was a kid — here we go.” They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t understand “Muggle money,” as he called it, gave the bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets. People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent. “Still got yer letter, Harry?” he asked as he counted stitches. Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket. “Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list there of everything yeh need.” Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t noticed the night before, and read: HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY UNIFORM First-year students will require: 1. Three sets of plain work robes (black) 2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear 3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar) 4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings) Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags COURSE BOOKS All students should have a copy of each of the following: The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling A

Deep started to respond and then he felt Kat’s rush of relief. His fragile hope that she had learned to love him as well as Lock crumbled in that instant. She’s glad, he thought, his mouth twisting. So glad we’ve found the blossoms. Because now we can take them back to Mother L’rin and Kat can be rid of us forever. Rid of me. He had no doubt that Kat would have happily joined with Lock if he himself hadn’t been in the picture. He’d lingered outside the bedroom door after seeing their kiss for a moment, intending to go back in. And he knew what Kat meant when she told Lock that he “came with a lot of baggage.” More Earth vernacular, he thought bitterly. Just another way of saying I’m not the one she wants. He’d fooled himself into thinking that she cared for him—that she loved him as he had so stupidly allowed himself to start loving her. But it wasn’t true—she couldn’t wait to get the Moons blossom and leave—he could feel the impatience to be away coming from her already. It doesn’t matter anyway, Deep told himself grimly. I’m no good for her—just look at my past. At what happened to Miranda. I don’t want that to happen to Kat, even if she doesn’t care for me. I couldn’t bear it if…But he couldn’t make himself finish the grim thought. Instead he watched as his brother helped the woman they both loved gather the rare, mystical blossoms. They were laughing as they did and Kat was tickling Lock under the chin with one of the two-headed flowers. Lock is good for her, Deep realized. He’s the one she ought to be with. Not me and not both of us. Just him. The concept of one of them having a female without the other was so foreign to him it was hard to contemplate, but he knew it was true. It didn’t matter who he thought Kat belonged with, though. They had the Moons blossoms—or fifi flowers, as she called them. Mother L’rin would be able to brew a potion to separate Kat from both of them. By this time tomorrow we will be two and one again instead of three, Deep thought. That’s a good thing—good for all of us. But though he tried, he could feel no joy at the idea. All he felt was achingly empty.  

If we hurry,” Lock repeated dully. “Because the faster we get back, the faster you can get us separated from the only woman I’ve ever really loved. The only woman either one of us has ever really loved.” Deep raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you forgetting Miranda?” “We shared a few dreams with her,” Lock said wearily. “Not our lives—not like Kat.” “So she doesn’t count because we never actually got to meet her in person?” Deep demanded. Lock looked up at him wearily. “What happened to Miranda was terrible, Brother. It was a grief deeper than anything I have ever felt—until now.” He sighed. “But Miranda is gone and Kat…she’s right here. She’s lovely and intelligent and perfect in every way. So of course you have to drive her away.” Deep looked his brother in the eyes. “If you truly love her, then you’ll help me in this. I’m no good for her, Lock—for any female. I’ll poison her life if we get too close.” “Just the way you’ve poisoned mine.” Lock ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “I wish I could cut the tie between us. Not just between the two of us and Kat—between you and me. I wish…I wish we weren’t brothers.” He glared at Deep. “I’d rather be dead than spend one more day as your twin.” Despite his outward composure, Deep’s breath caught in his throat. He knew his brother—Lock never spoke unkindly and he never lied. If he said a thing, it was true from the bottom of his heart. “Brother…” he said uncertainly. “Don’t call me that.” Lock threw him one last glance over his shoulder before he walked away. “Not anymore.” Deep watched him go, his heart aching in his chest. He was only doing what he had to do, but it still hurt. It’s for the best though, he told himself. For Kat. For all of us. But seeing misery in the set of his brother’s hunched shoulders, and feeling the echo of both his pain and Kat’s, it was hard to believe.

Of course there's a reason this fantasy belongs to childhood. Starting over is difficult and painful and the past isn't dead and buried it isn't even, etc. And the fact is that starting over becomes more so—difficult and painful I mean—the older one gets, for the older one gets the more numerous the ties to life one wishes to leave behind, the more ties therefore to cut. The more ties therefore, later, if one is possessed of what is sometimes called a weak ego and what is sometimes called a conscience, to mend. What I mean is I'd waited too long.

And in 1513, the Spanish government created a kind of Miranda rights–style document that was to be read (in Spanish—incomprehensible to the indigenous peoples!) to those about to be conquered. It was the summary of the Gospel as they understood it; it was their core message, their “good news,” the metanarrative that legitimized their white Christian supremacy: On the part of the King, Don Fernando, and of Doña Juana I, his daughter, Queen of Castille and Léon, subduers of the barbarous nations, we their servants notify and make known to you, as best we can, that the Lord our God, Living and Eternal, created the Heaven and the Earth, and one man and one woman, of whom you and we, all the men of the world at the time, were and are descendants, and all those who came after and before us…. Of all these nations God our Lord gave charge to one man, called St. Peter, that he should be Lord and Superior of all the men in the world, that all should obey him, and that he should be the head of the whole Human Race…. One of these Pontiffs, who succeeded that St. Peter as Lord of the world, in the dignity and seat which I have before mentioned, made donation of these isles and Tierra-firme to the aforesaid King and Queen and to their successors, our lords…. Wherefore, as best we can, we ask and require you that you consider what we have said to you, and that you take the time that shall be necessary to understand and deliberate upon it, and that you acknowledge the Church as the Ruler and Superior of the whole world…. But, if you do not do this, and maliciously make delay in it, I certify to you that, with the help of God, we shall powerfully enter into your country, and shall make war against you in all ways and manners that we can, and shall subject you to the yoke and obedience of the Church and of their Highnesses; we shall take you and your wives and your children, and shall make slaves of them, and as such shall sell and dispose of them as their Highnesses may command.

And Feuer works with you?” “No. She’s just been helping me with one case I’m working on. Just as a favor.” “Some favor,” Conroy said. He handed my license back. “You want to tell us what happened?” Gianakouros said. How to answer that? I wanted to, but this was not a story I could tell quickly. Where did it even start? When Susan began making calls for me, or before that when I first saw her dancing at the Sin Factory, or before that, when I opened the paper and saw Miranda’s face staring out at me, all innocence and accusation? Or ten years earlier, when I’d seen Miranda last, when I’d sent her off on a boomerang voyage from New York to New Mexico and back again, from possibility to disaster and from life to death? I’d have to explain an awful lot if I wanted them to understand what had happened. And I wouldn’t mind explaining — but right now I couldn’t afford the time. Jocelyn was still in town, but for how long? She was packed and ready to go. She’d just needed to sew up some loose ends, like the troublemaker who was calling all the strip clubs she’d ever worked at and trying to track her down. I’d set Susan on Jocelyn’s trail, and somehow it had gotten back to her. Was it any wonder that Jocelyn had decided to eliminate Susan before leaving the city? Now, Jocelyn probably just needed to pick up the money from wherever she’d stashed it and then she’d vanish forever. One of the country’s best agencies hadn’t been able to find her the last time she’d gone on the road, and back then she hadn’t had a half million dollars to help her hide. “We’re looking for a missing woman named Jocelyn Mastaduno,” I said. “Her parents haven’t heard from her in six years and they want to know what happened to her. Susan was helping me make some calls to track her down.” “What was she doing in the park?” “I don’t know,” I said. “How did you know she was there?” “Susan was staying with my mother. She told her she was going to the park, and my mother mentioned it to me.” “So you went there.” “I was worried,” I said. “I didn’t understand why she’d gone there, and the park can be dangerous at night.” Conroy spoke up. “Any idea who might have done this?” “None,” I said. “What about this woman you’re looking for, Mastaduno?” “It’s possible. I just don’t know.” “How close are you to finding her?” Pretty close, I thought — if I can get out of here. I fought to keep my voice calm. “I can’t say. We’re not the

No one has a plan for you and your life doesn’t have a soundtrack, it’s just a series of” -she shrugged- “accidents and split-second decisions and coincidences and demographics, where you live and when you were born and who your parents were and how much money they had.” … I remember thinking that if she was in some ways correct she was, however, not right. That of course life is random, a series of coincidences, etc., but that to live you must attempt to make sense if it, and that’s what narrative’s for. I believe this, people of a certain sensibility believe this. Mostly it’s harmless. Though perhaps sometimes you find yourself doing things because you think your narrative arc calls for it, or because you’ve grown bored with your own plot, things you shouldn’t do because they will, these things, hurt the other characters in your story, who are not characters after all, but people. But then people do evil often and with less elaborate justifications.

He and his mama run swamp tours back in the bayou.” Roo flicked ashes into the trampled weeds. “Tourists really like that kind of thing, don’t ask me why. He works construction jobs, too. Mows lawns, cuts trees, takes fishermen out in his boat. Stuff like that.” “Quite a résumé.” “And not bad to look at either.” Roo arched an eyebrow. “Or haven’t you noticed?” “I don’t even know him.” “You don’t have to know him to notice.” Miranda hedged. “Well…sure. I guess he’s kind of cute.” “Cute? Kind of? I’d say that’s the understatement of the century.” “Does he have a girlfriend or something?” As Roo flicked her an inquisitive glance, she added quickly, “He keeps calling me Cher.” Clearly amused, Roo shook her head. “It’s not a name, it’s a…” She thought a minute. “It’s like a nickname…like what you call somebody when you like them. Like ‘hey, love’ or ‘hey, honey’ or ‘hey, darlin’. It’s sort of a Cajun thing.” Miranda felt like a total fool. No wonder Etienne had gotten that look on his face when she’d corrected him about her name. “His dad’s side is Cajun,” Roo explained. “That’s where Etienne gets that great accent.” Miranda’s curiosity was now bordering on fascination. She knew very little about Cajuns--only the few facts Aunt Teeta had given her. Something about the original Acadians being expelled from Novia Scotia in the eighteenth century, and how they’d finally ended up settling all over south Louisiana. And how they’d come to be so well known for their hardy French pioneer stock, tight family bonds, strong faith, and the best food this side of heaven. “Before?” Roo went on. “When he walked by? He was talking to you in French. Well…Cajun French, actually.” “He was?” Miranda wanted to let it go, but the temptation was just too great. “What’d he say?” “He said, ‘Let’s get to know each other.’” A hot flush crept up Miranda’s cheeks. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear, and she was totally flustered. Maybe Roo was making it up, just poking fun at her--after all, she didn’t quite know what to make of Roo. “Oh,” was the only response Miranda could think of.

Etienne’s going to find out stuff about voodoo. Oh, and Roo and I are going to research that little boy who died at the feed store. And Miranda gets Magnolia Gallery--but of course we’ll all help her with that. And…and I guess that’s about it.” “Damn.” Parker did his best to sound disappointed. “I was hoping for a whole lot more.” Nodding sympathetically, Roo swept him with solemn eyes. “How sad. That’s exactly what Ashley always says about you.” “Oh, except for this other idea I had.” Ashley glanced hopefully around the group. “Instead of calling it Ghost Walk, why don’t we call it something else?” “Great idea.” Parker was adamant. “Why don’t we call it off?

Etienne’s going to find out stuff about voodoo. Oh, and Roo and I are going to research that little boy who died at the feed store. And Miranda gets Magnolia Gallery--but of course we’ll all help her with that. And…and I guess that’s about it.” “Damn.” Parker did his best to sound disappointed. “I was hoping for a whole lot more.” Nodding sympathetically, Roo swept him with solemn eyes. “How sad. That’s exactly what Ashley always says about you.” “Oh, except for this other idea I had.” Ashley glanced hopefully around the group. “Instead of calling it Ghost Walk, why don’t we call it something else?” “Great idea.” Parker was adamant. “Why don’t we call it off?” “How about”--Ashley paused dramatically, her eyes sparkling--“Walk of the Spirits?” As everyone traded glances, Gage repeated it several times out loud. “Yeah. I like it.” “Me, too,” Miranda spoke up. “I think it’s good.” “I think it’s romantic,” Ashley sighed. “Walk of the Spirits…don’t you think it’s wonderfully romantic?” “I think it’s wonderfully…you.” Etienne patted Ashley’s shoulder. “But could we move a little faster here? I got me a lotta work to do this evening.” “That’s okay, this is just our first outline. We still have to refine it. And we still have a lot more research to do.” Gage nodded. “Then we have to write up a script for the tour. And everything has to be timed. And--” “Enough torture.” Parker glowered at each of them. “I get the idea.” “But hey, y’all.” Ashley fairly glowed with pride. “The important thing is that Miss Dupree loves our project even more now. Did you see the look on her face when she was reading our outline? I’ve never seen her that excited about any assignment before, have you?” “I’ve never seen her excited about anything.” Parker exchanged guy looks with Etienne. “She needs to get laid.” “You know, at some point, we really need to do a trial run of this thing,” Gage advised, ignoring Parker. “Seeing it in daylight is totally different than seeing it at night. If we’re gonna get the full effect, we need to walk it after dark.

Ashley, what about your costume?” “I’ve got the final fitting after I leave here.” Ashley’s eyes shone with excitement. “Can you believe Mrs. Wilmington went to all that trouble to make it for me?” “She didn’t.” Parker scowled. “She got her dressmaker, or designer, or whoever the hell she calls him, to make it for you.” “Parker, that doesn’t matter--it was still really nice of your mother to do that.” “You’re a southern belle--how could she resist that?” Ashley shot Miranda a grateful smile. “That was Miranda’s idea.” “It made sense,” Miranda explained. “A costume sets the mood. It’s all about southern history and heritage, so our tour guide should be a southern hostess--hoopskirt and all.” “And I’m the only one who gets to dress up! And I can’t wait to wear it! It’s like cotton candy!” Roo arched an eyebrow. “Sticky?” “No! All pink and fluffy and…sweet. I love the way I feel in it.” “I agree,” Parker said hoarsely. “I love the way you feel in it, too. And I love the way you feel out of it even better.” Roo stared at him. “Wow. You should write greeting cards.

Roo!” Miranda called and started toward her. But she realized then that the others had noticed, too. Ashley and Parker and Etienne, all of them hurrying in Roo’s direction, though it was Parker who reached her first. “So what’d you do?” he teased gently. “Take bets I wouldn’t make it back?” Despite her best attempt at annoyance, Roo’s voice was shaking. “A girl can hope, can’t she?” “Hey, I came back to save you.” “Hey, you came back to spite me.” Parker ruffled her hair. Roo punched him in the abs. While the five of them watched Gage being carried away on a stretcher, Parker slid his arm around Roo’s shoulders. And Roo didn’t pull away.

Okay, y’all,” Ashley announced. “This is our dress rehearsal. Our last chance to get everything perfect before the big night tomorrow. Any questions? Ideas? Opinions?” “Yeah, I have an idea.” Slumped on the front steps of the Battlefield Inn, Parker choked down a mouthful of cough syrup and tried not to speak above a whisper. “Let’s call it off. That would really make it perfect. No more ghost tour.” “Walk of the Spirits,” Ashley corrected him, irritated. “Walk of the Spirits. And we’re not calling it off. After all this time? All this work?” “All this suffering?” Roo added. She was perched one step below Parker, and was digging through her pockets for a cigarette. Her face still bore some major bruises from the storm, and a wide gash zigzagged across her forehead, not quite healed. She’d taken great pains to highlight this zigzag with dark, red lipstick. “You like suffering,” Parker reminded her. “And, excuse me, but you’re not the one with pneumonia.” "You don’t have pneumonia. You’re just jealous because Gage was in worse shape than you, and he got more attention.” “Well, it’s almost pneumonia. It’s turning into pneumonia.” Tensing, Parker let out a gigantic sneeze. “Shit, I hate this. I feel like my brain’s ten times its normal size.” Roo gave him a bland stare. “You know, when people lose a leg or an arm, they think they still feel it, even though it’s not really there.” “Will you two behave?” Ashley scolded. “And, Parker, where’s that newspaper article your mom was going to give us?” “Somewhere.” Parker thought a moment, then shrugged. “In my car, I think.” “Well, will you please go get it? The sooner we start, the sooner we can all go home.” “She’s right.” Though unable to hold back a laugh, Miranda came loyally to Ashley’s rescue. “Let’s just walk it through, and read the script, and make sure we’ve covered all the basic information. Ashley, what about your costume?” “I’ve got the final fitting after I leave here.” Ashley’s eyes shone with excitement. “Can you believe Mrs. Wilmington went to all that trouble to make it for me?” “She didn’t.” Parker scowled. “She got her dressmaker, or designer, or whoever the hell she calls him, to make it for you.” “Parker, that doesn’t matter--it was still really nice of your mother to do that.” “You’re a southern belle--how could she resist that?” Ashley shot Miranda a grateful smile. “That was Miranda’s idea.” “It made sense,” Miranda explained. “A costume sets the mood. It’s all about southern history and heritage, so our tour guide should be a southern hostess--hoopskirt and all.” “And I’m the only one who gets to dress up! And I can’t wait to wear it! It’s like cotton candy!” Roo arched an eyebrow. “Sticky?” “No! All pink and fluffy and…sweet. I love the way I feel in it.” “I agree,” Parker said hoarsely. “I love the way you feel in it, too. And I love the way you feel out of it even better.” Roo stared at him. “Wow. You should write greeting cards.

Okay, Parker. Enrapture us once again with your dullness.” “You mean, my evil courthouse.” Giving a mock shudder, Parker lounged comfortably back on the bed. “Evil judge. Unfair convictions. Botched hangings. Judge swings from rafters and dies a slow, painful death. Judge gets exactly what he deserves. Nothing we don’t already know.” Ashley was clearly annoyed. “That’s it?” “What else do you want?” “Some historical facts would be nice.” “Like what?” “Well, tell us something about the prisoners. What kinds of crimes did they commit?” “I don’t know anything about the prisoners. Why would I need to know that?” “Parker!” “Come on, crime is crime. You got murder. Stealing. Murder. Treason. Murder. Oh, and did I mention murder?” “That’s incredibly historical.” Roo’s stare was bland. “And incredibly descriptive. Wow. I feel like I was there.” Parker grimaced. “Okay, fine. Let me run through the prisoners for you. Murderers. Thieves. Murderers. Spies. Murderers. Oh, and did I happen to mention killers, too?” Frowning, Ashley shook her finger at him. “I will say this one more time. If you mess up our project--” “Miranda!” Parker broke in quickly. “Update us on your dashing, see-through soldier!” “Parker Wilmington, shame on you. Don’t call him that. And Miranda has enough on her shoulders right now without you being so insensitive.

Very slowly, he leaned toward her. He took her face between his hands. His lips were gentle, but his kiss was firm--she melted beneath it as he pressed her tight against his chest. His lips traced a shivery path to her neck and lingered at the base of her throat. His hands slid to her shoulders and down her body, an embrace both relentless and tender--burning where it touched, but never forcing, never intrusive. He whispered to her in his secret language…their lips locked in a kiss… “Miranda?” Aunt Teeta called softly. Miranda’s cry was instantly muffled beneath Etienne’s lips. Shocked, she stared at him, even as he pulled away from her, snapped off the light, and slipped out of sight beneath the covers. After a second’s hesitation, Miranda slid in beside him and yanked the bedspread up to her chin. “What?” she called back, with what she hoped was convincing grogginess. Aunt Teeta opened the door, her bathrobe askew, her hair disheveled, and several oversize curlers bobbing on top of her head. “Oh, darlin’, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you’d be asleep yet. You know, I was just thinking--since you and Etienne have been spending so much time together, why don’t you invite him over sometime? So your mama can meet him? And ask Gage over, too--he’s such a cutie.” Miranda yawned loudly. “That’s a great idea, Aunt Teeta. Thanks a lot.” “All right now, hon, you go on back to sleep. Love you.” “Love you, too.” Miranda waited till the door closed. Till Aunt Teeta’s footsteps faded down the stairs, till the house was silent once more. She waited a long time. At last the covers moved, and Etienne, after a thorough look around, threw them back and sat up. He seemed immensely amused. “Damn, that was close. Your aunt, she woulda skinned me alive if she’d caught me here.