Promises Are Meant To Be Kept Quotes

He buried his face in her hair. She felt his lips move against her ear when he said, “I never want to see you like this again.” “Do you mean the dress or the cell?” A laugh shook him. “Definitely the cell.” Then he cupped her face in his hands. “Jer molle pe oonet. Enel mörd je nej afva trohem verretn.” Nina swallowed hard. She remembered those words and what they truly meant. I have been made to protect you. Only in death will I be kept from this oath. It was the vow of the drüskelle to Fjerda. And now it was Matthias’ promise to her. She knew she should say something profound, something beautiful in response. Instead, she spoke the truth. “If we make it out of here alive, I’m going to kiss you unconscious.

I’m tired of the lies and the cheating, and the broken promises that were never meant to be kept.

Nina swallowed hard. She remembered those words and what they truly meant. 'I have been made to protect you. Only in death will I be kept from this oath.' It was the vow of the druskelle to Fjerda. And now it was Matthias' promise to her.

Then he cupped her face in his hands. “Jer molle pe oonet. Enel mörd je nej afva trohem verret.” Nina swallowed hard. She remembered those words and what they truly meant. “I have been made to protect you. Only in death will I be kept from this oath.” It was the vow of the drüskelle to Fjerda. And now it was Matthias' promise to her.

Aedion fell to his knees in the sand as Wendlyn’s armada spread before them. I promise you that no matter how far I go, no matter the cost, when you call for my aid, I will come, Aelin had told him she’d sworn to Darrow. I’m going to call in old debts and promises. To raise an army of assassins and thieves and exiles and commoners. And she had. She had meant and accomplished every word of it. Rowan counted the ships that slid over the horizon. Counted the ships in their own armada. Added Rolfe’s—and the Mycenians he was rallying in the North. “Holy gods,” Dorian breathed as Wendlyn’s armada kept spreading wider and wider. Tears slid down Aedion’s face as he silently sobbed. Where are our allies, Aelin? Where are our armies? She had taken the criticism—taken it, because he knew she hadn’t wanted to disappoint them if she failed. Rowan put a hand on Aedion’s shoulder. All of it for Terrasen, she had said that day she’d revealed she’d schemed her way into getting Arobynn’s fortune. And Rowan knew that every step she had taken, every plan and calculation, every secret and desperate gamble … For Terrasen. For them. For a better world. Aelin

No, I kept my promise to someone who’d made me feel like I mattered at a time when everyone else just wanted me to go away. Someone who gave me a place to stay and made it feel like a home after mine had been ripped apart. I know that doesn’t erase the things she’s done, but it meant too much for me to totally ignore it. I did owe her.

I thought about that while he made his next calls, while I kept on with the newsletters. I thought about it during Sunday service at Word of Life, and during study hours in my room, with the Viking Erin and her squeaky pink highlighter. What it meant to really believe in something—for real. Belief. The big dictionary in the Promise library said it meant something one accepts as true or real; a firmly held conviction or opinion. But even that definition, as short and simple as it was, confused me. True or real: Those were definite words; opinion and conviction just weren't—opinions wavered and changed and fluctuated with the person, the situation. And most troubling of all was the word accepts. Something one accepts. I was much better at excepting everything than accepting anything, at least anything for certain, for definite. That much I knew. That much I believed.

Jer molle pe oonet. Enel mörd je nej afva trohem verret.” Nina swallowed hard. She remembered those words and what they truly meant. I have been made to protect you. Only in death will I be kept from this oath. It was the vow of the drüskelle to Fjerda. And now it was Matthias’ promise to her.

Our story, it wasn't over yet It was far from a romance. But it was still a love story. And it was ours. We started as a broken promise, one never meant to be kept. We ended on the promise of forever.

When they first came for us with their bullets, we didn't stop moving even though the bullets moved twice as fast as the sound of our screams, and even when their heat and speed broke our skin, shattered our bones, skulls, pierced our hearts, we kept on, even when we saw the bullets send our bodies flailing through the air like flags, like the many flags and buildings that went up in place of everything we knew this land to be before. The bullets were premonitions, ghosts from dreams of a hard, fast future. The bullets moved on after moving through us, became the promise of what was to come, the speed and the killing, the hard, fast lines of borders and buildings. They took everything and ground it down to dust as fine as gunpowder, they fired their guns into the air in victory and the strays flew out into the nothingness of histories written wrong and meant to be forgotten. Stray bullets and consequences are landing on our unsuspecting bodies even now. (10)

He buried his face in her hair. She felt his lips move against her ear when he said, “I never want to see you like this again.” “Do you mean the dress or the cell?” A laugh shook him. “Definitely the cell.” Then he cupped her face in his hands. “Jer molle pe oonet. Enel mörd je nej afva trohem verret.” Nina swallowed hard. She remembered those words and what they truly meant. I have been made to protect you. Only in death will I be kept from this oath. It was the vow of the drüskelle to Fjerda. And now it was Matthias’ promise to her. She knew she should say something profound, something beautiful in response. Instead, she spoke the truth. “If we make it out of here alive, I’m going to kiss you unconscious.” A grin split his beautiful face. She couldn’t wait to see the real blue of his eyes again.

Immortality was nothing but an illusion—a false promise that had kept him from living out his days as if they meant something.

And despite it all, all the things that have happened between us, I kept a vain hope that you would keep your promise. That it meant that much to you too. Despite everything.

I didn’t feel guilty about cheating on you back then,” he said quietly. “Or all the times I promised not to do it again and talked you into taking me back.” He paused, glancing at me. I clenched my jaw, resisting the urge to lash out at him, but I said I’d hear him out, so I kept my mouth shut. Tightly shut. He cleared his throat. “It was the last time that did my conscience in. Maybe it was some long overdue maturity, maybe it was because it was the longest we’d gone without getting back together after breaking up, but it started eating at me. The longer it went on, the more I missed you, and the more I realized I’d done you horribly wrong from the start.” He closed his eyes for a second. His Adam’s apple bobbed once and then he went on. “When I realized what I’d lost, I was scared to come back and even try to apologize because I was afraid the one time I really, really meant it—” His voice cracked, and he paused, clearing his throat again before continuing. “I was afraid that would be the one time you’d finally had enough and told me to fuck off for the last time. Which I certainly deserved at that point, I just…” He looked at me. “I didn’t think I could face you again because I finally knew just how much I’d hurt you and just how much you had every right to hate me.

He sensed a lonely childhood on some great decaying plantation, an echoing ‘Great House’ slowly falling into disrepair and being encroached on by the luxuriance of the tropics. The parents dying, and the property being sold. The companionship of a servant or two and an equivocal life in lodgings in the capital. The beauty which was her only asset and the struggle against the shady propositions to be a ‘governess’, a ‘companion’, a ‘secretary’, all of which meant respectable prostitution. Then the dubious, unknown steps into the world of entertainment. The evening stint at the nightclub with the mysterious act which, among people dominated by magic, must have kept many away from her and made her a person to be feared. And then, one evening, the huge man with the grey face sitting at a table by himself. The promise that he would put her on Broadway. The chance of a new life, of an escape from the heat and the dirt and the solitude. Bond turned brusquely away from the window. A romantic picture, perhaps. But it must have been something like that.

kept my promise – because when I slept with Hannah it was just sex and it meant less than nothing – I honestly believe it’s true. I had, and still have, no feelings for Hannah whatsoever. I don’t even particularly like her as a person. I made a mistake – but it’s scarily easy to do.

She kept herself busy for a moment, pouring hot water into a mug and giving Jay a chance to absorb what she’d just asked of him, letting him consider her request. Before the dance and before they were a couple, there would have been nothing to think about; he would never have told on her. They’d kept each other’s secrets. No matter what. But now everything—everything—had changed, and Violet was sometimes surprised by how far he would go to keep her out of harm’s way. She knew that, for him anyway, it meant that he would even betray her secrets if it meant she’d be safer in the end. She carried her steaming mug, with the tea bag steeping inside, and set it on the table as she sat down. Jay reluctantly sat too. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, watching her warily. Finally he sighed, “I won’t tell . . . if you make me one promise.” She met his eyes, hesitating at the look she saw on his face. The unusual mixture of tenderness and fear were at odds, but it made Violet feel warm and soft inside. He reached out his hand to her, and she took it, letting him pull her toward him. She settled onto his lap as he wrapped his arms around her. He nuzzled her neck, inhaling deeply as if the scent of her was somehow reassuring. “Next time . . .” he insisted in a voice quieter than before, “you call me.” She nodded, satisfied that he would keep her safe . . . secrets and all. It was completely astonishing to her—even after all these months—being in love with her best friend.

TO MY BELOVED, Its neither a piece of paper nor a letter, rather it's my small heart which I'm gifting it to you darling.It seems time stood still without ur presence around me. My days and nights have gone worthless. All my heart could do is to recall the memories of time which we have spend together. My heart gets rejoiced whenever your beautiful face comes before my eyes. Your mesmerizing eyes drive me to another world. Your flowing hair looks tantalizing and your rosy lips seems to be meant only for saying lovely words. While having a cup of coffee yesterday, numerous moments striked my heart. Our first meeting, when you were looking like a fairy in white salwar-suit. Still fresh in my mind, your pretty smile and bowing your head down to laugh with your hand on your lips. I confess that your every action was stealing my heart and I couldn't withdraw myself from lookig you. The gift you presented me on my birthday gives me a sigh of relief that you are always there with me. Sweetheart, In the classroom, I cracked useless jokes and PJ's just to see your charming smile. Kept gazing your lips, just to heat some golden words. You had stolen my heart. Dedicated '' I don't know when and how you arrived in my life, Don't know when my heart star beating for you, day n night.... My eyes kept staring the window pane, Wishing one day u'll come in my lane.... Darling you're the only one whom I admire, It's you whom my heart desperately desires... Being with you is my only need, You are now the medicine of my heartbeat... I Craved your name on my heart, The day when I decided not to loose you ever, And I promise you sweetheart that, I love you & i'll love you for ever, ever n ever...... It's true my baby that, i love you like anything. Miss you from very morning 2 the night. MY senses are active to feel you, to hear you, to see you, to taste every sorrow and happiness of your life. Jaana, get embedded in me, in my soul so that i can live with you, for you........ Dying to have your reply..... Truly Your's PK

He got thrashed in every one-on-one situation, lost every drill, but he kept coming back. At the end of the summer David drove over to see Filip's mom, sat in her kitchen, and told her about a study that showed how many elite players were never among the five best in their youth team, and how it's often the sixth- to twelfth-best juniors who break through at senior level. They've had to fight harder. They don't buckle when the setbacks come. "If Filip ever doubts his chances, you don't have to promise him that he'll be the best in the team one day. You just have to convince him that he can battle his way to twelfth place," David said. There's no way he can know how much that meant for the family, because they have no words to express it. It only changed everything.

I’m walking off the dance floor when I see him. Peter, in a suit, standing to the side, beside the dogwood tree. He looks so handsome I can hardly stand it. I cross the backyard, and he watches me the whole time. My heart is pounding so hard. Is he here for me? Or did he just come because he promised my dad? When I’m standing in front of him, I say, “You came.” Peter looks away. “Of course I came.” Softly I say, “I wish I could take back the things I said the other night. I don’t even remember all of them.” Looking down, he says, “But you meant them, right? So it’s a good thing you said them then, because somebody had to and you were right.” “Which part?” I whisper. “About UNC. About me not transferring there.” He lifts his head, his eyes wounded. “But you should have told me my mom talked to you.” I take a shaky breath. “You should have told me you were thinking about transferring! You should’ve told me how you were feeling, period. You shut down after graduation; you wouldn’t let me in. You kept saying everything was going to be fine.” “Because I was fucking scared, okay!” he bursts out. He looks around to see if anyone heard, but the music is loud, and everyone is dancing; no one is looking at us, and it’s like we are alone here in this backyard. “What were you so scared about?” I whisper. His hands tighten into fists at his sides. When he finally speaks, his voice comes out raw, like he hasn’t used it in a while. “I was scared that you were going to go to UNC and you were gonna figure out I wasn’t worth it, and you were going to leave.

Chris took his vows very seriously. But even as he said them, he wondered whether the marriage would last. In retrospect, that’s not surprising. He was surrounded by Team guys who’d had their own relationships fail. A common, and tragic, statistic at the time was that the divorce rate among SEALs was over 95 percent-a stunning statistic. Actual statistics are difficult to find, but most experts estimate that the divorce rate in America in general is below 50 percent. Chris kept his pessimism well hidden, even from me. It wasn’t until years later that I found out about it. He asked why I’d stayed with him through some difficult times. “I told you I meant what I promised,” I answered. “I know, but I didn’t count on it,” he confessed. “So few women stick it out.” Maybe. But he was worth it.

Beneath his purposefully constructed armor is the bleeding heart of an orphaned little boy who was forced to grow up way too soon. A heart that suffered years of neglect, of rejection—including his own. He kept it that way to protect himself and those around him until I retrieved it. And he let me discover him, knowing he would become his most vulnerable. He told me once his admiration for me stems from the fact that I’ve always been vocal about my heart—while he’s carefully hidden his to protect those he loves. And it’s here, with me, where he’s finally unshackled himself from the obligation of being so selfless. It’s here with me that he’s freed himself to love the way he was meant to. I raise my palm to the window. “You’ll never be alone again. You’ll never be alone. I promise you. It was never my heart, Tobias. It was yours.

Tina and Pete stood together. Pete knew he should be grilling the girl, getting the full story before details were lost, but he was too spellbound by the reunion. The boy he was watching was so different. There was no way to avoid the truth. Someone, a very evil someone, had hurt his boy. Pete felt his fists clench. Whoever it was that had turned Lockie into the skinny kid trapped behind his pain, he would pay. If he had to spend his whole life looking for him, Pete would find him and then he would make him pay. The girl had obviously helped Lockie. He had no idea if she had found him or if she had been with him the whole time, but Lockie kept saying that she had ‘saved’ him. He was a clever kid and he knew what the word meant. Pete liked the way she looked at Lockie—like a lioness, like a sister, like a mother. The skinny girl with short messy black hair could have been anyone. She looked about fifteen but when she spoke she sounded a lot older. She was wearing a big coat but underneath that Pete had caught a glimpse of a short skirt and a tight red top. Not the kind of thing a nice girl would wear. Maybe she wasn’t a nice girl but she was smart. That was easy to see. She was watching Lockie with his dad and Pete could see her body sag with relief. She was relieved to get him home. It must have been a promise she had made the boy. Pete had no idea how she’d got him home. She didn’t look like she had a cent to her name. He sighed. So many questions to answer and the worst part was that some of the answers would be things he did not want to hear. Some of the answers would keep him up at night for the rest of his life. He wished he didn’t have to know, but he figured that if Lockie had been through it his family should know about it. If Lockie had been one of the small skeletons buried in the yard in Sydney they would have only been able to imagine what he had suffered. Now they would know. Which way was better? Pete thought about all the other parents who were waiting for the results of tests from the police. For a moment he let go of what needed to be done and what was to come and he offered up a prayer of thanks. Then he offered up a prayer for strength for all those other parents who would never again get to feel their kid’s arms around their neck. And then he wiped his eyes because he was a grown man and a cop and he really shouldn’t be standing in the driveway crying.

I leaned into Tamlin, sighing. 'It feels- feels as if some of it was a dream, or a nightmare. But... But I remembered you. And when I saw you there today, I started clawing at it, fighting, because I knew it might be my only chance, and-' 'How did you break free of his control,' Lucien said flatly from behind us. Tamlin gave him a warning growl. I'd forgotten he was there. My sister's mate. The Mother, I decided, did have a sense of humour. 'I wanted it- I don't know how. I just wanted to break free of him, so I did.' We stared each other down, but Tamlin brushed a thumb over my shoulder. 'Are- are you hurt?' I tried not to bristle. I knew what he meant. That he thought Rhysand would do anything like that to anyone- 'I- I don't know,' I stammered. 'I don't... I don't remember those things.' Lucien's metal eye narrowed, as if he could sense the lie. But I looked up at Tamlin, and brushed my hand over his mouth. My bare, empty skin. 'You're real,' I said. 'You freed me.' It was an effort not to turn my hands into claws and rip out his eyes. Traitor- liar. Murderer. 'You freed yourself,' Tamlin breathed. He gestured to the house. 'Rest- and then we'll talk. I... need to find Ianthe. And make some things very, very clear.' 'I- I want to be a part of it this time,' I said, halting when he tried to herd me back into that beautiful prison. 'No more... No more shutting me out. No more guards. Please. I have so much to tell you about them- bits and pieces, but... I can help. We can get my sisters back. Let me help.' Help lead you in the wrong direction. Help bring you and your court to your knees, and take down Jurian and those conniving, traitorous queens. And then tear Ianthe into tiny, tiny pieces and bury them in a pit no one can find. Tamlin scanned my face, and finally nodded. 'We'll start over. Do things differently. When you were gone, I realised... I'd been wrong. So wrong, Feyre. And I'm sorry.' Too late. Too damned late. But I rested my head on his arm as he slipped it around me and led me toward the house. 'It doesn't matter. I'm home now.' 'Forever,' he promised. 'Forever,' I parroted, glancing behind- to where Lucien stood in the gravel drive. His gaze on me. Face hard. As if he'd seen through every lie. As if he knew of the second tattoo beneath my glove, and the glamour I now kept on it. As if he knew that they had let a fox into a chicken coop- and he could do nothing. Not unless he never wanted to see his mate- Elain- again. I gave Lucien a sweet, sleepy smile. So our game began. We hit the sweeping marble stairs to the front doors of the manor. And so Tamlin unwittingly led the High Lady of the Night Court into the heart of his territory.

Antonia Valleau cast the first shovelful of dirt onto her husband’s fur-shrouded body, lying in the grave she’d dug in their garden plot, the only place where the soil wasn’t still rock hard. I won’t be breakin’ down. For the sake of my children, I must be strong. Pain squeezed her chest like a steel trap. She had to force herself to take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of loam and pine. I must be doing this. She drove the shovel into the soil heaped next to the grave, hefted the laden blade, and dumped the earth over Jean-Claude, trying to block out the thumping sound the soil made as it covered him. Even as Antonia scooped and tossed, her muscles aching from the effort, her heart stayed numb, and her mind kept playing out the last sight of her husband. The memory haunting her, she paused to catch her breath and wipe the sweat off her brow, her face hot from exertion in spite of the cool spring air. Antonia touched the tips of her dirty fingers to her lips. She could still feel the pressure of Jean-Claude’s mouth on hers as he’d kissed her before striding out the door for a day of hunting. She’d held up baby Jacques, and Jean-Claude had tapped his son’s nose. Jacques had let out a belly laugh that made his father respond in kind. Her heart had filled with so much love and pride in her family that she’d chuckled, too. Stepping outside, she’d watched Jean-Claude ruffle the dark hair of their six-year-old, Henri. Then he strode off, whistling, with his rifle carried over his shoulder. She’d thought it would be a good day—a normal day. She assumed her husband would return to their mountain home in the afternoon before dusk as he always did, unless he had a longer hunt planned. As Antonia filled the grave, she denied she was burying her husband. Jean-Claude be gone a checkin’ the trap line, she told herself, flipping the dirt onto his shroud. She moved through the nightmare with leaden limbs, a knotted stomach, burning dry eyes, and a throat that felt as though a log had lodged there. While Antonia shoveled, she kept glancing at her little house, where, inside, Henri watched over the sleeping baby. From the garden, she couldn’t see the doorway. She worried about her son—what the glimpse of his father’s bloody body had done to the boy. Mon Dieu, she couldn’t stop to comfort him. Not yet. Henri had promised to stay inside with the baby, but she didn’t know how long she had before Jacques woke up. Once she finished burying Jean-Claude, Antonia would have to put her sons on a mule and trek to where she’d found her husband’s body clutched in the great arms of the dead grizzly. She wasn’t about to let his last kill lie there for the animals and the elements to claim. Her family needed that meat and the fur. She heard a sleepy wail that meant Jacques had awakened. Just a few more shovelfuls. Antonia forced herself to hurry, despite how her arms, shoulders, and back screamed in pain. When she finished the last shovelful of earth, exhausted, Antonia sank to her knees, facing the cabin, her back to the grave, placing herself between her sons and where their father lay. She should go to them, but she was too depleted to move.

Husband?” “I told them we were betrothed.” Cam took her arm in a gentle but adamant grip and guided her around to the other side of the yew, where they could not be observed from the house. “Why?” “Because we are.” “What?” They stopped in the concealment of the hedge. Aghast, Amelia looked up into his warm hazel eyes. “Are you mad?” Taking her hand, Cam lifted it until the ring gleamed in the daylight. “You’re wearing my ring. You slept with me. You made promises. Many in the Rom would say that constitutes full-blown marriage. But just to make certain it’s legal, we’ll do it the way of the gadjos as well.” “We’ll do no such thing!” Amelia snatched her hand from his and backed away. “I’m only wearing this ring because I can’t get the blasted thing off. And what do you mean, I made promises? Were those Romany words you asked me to repeat some kind of vow? You tricked me! I didn’t mean what I said.” “But you did sleep with me.” She flushed in shame and outrage, and dragged a sleeve across her sweating brow. Whirling away from him, she strode rapidly along a graveled path that led deeper into the garden. “That didn’t mean anything, either,” she said over her shoulder. He kept pace with her easily. “It meant something to me. The sexual act is sacred to a Roma.” She made a scornful sound. “What about all the ladies you seduced in London? Was it sacred when you slept with them, too?” “For a while I fell into the impure ways of the gadjo,” he said innocently. “Now I’ve reformed.” Amelia sent him a sideways glare. “You don’t want this. You don’t want me. One night can’t change the entire course of someone’s life.” “Of course it can.” He reached for her, and Amelia skittered away, passing a mermaid fountain surrounded by stone benches. Cam caught her from behind and jerked her back against him. “Stop running from me and listen. I do want you. I want you even knowing if I marry you, I’ve got an instant family, complete with a suicidal brother-in-law and a Gypsy houseboy with the temperament of a poked bear.” “Merripen is not a houseboy.” “Call him what you like. He comes with the Hathaways. I accept that.” “They won’t accept you,” she said desperately. “There’s no place for you in our family.” “Yes there is. Right by your side.

While marriage rates for middle-class white women soared through the 1940s and 1950s, for black women, mid-twentieth century conditions were very different. Since emancipation, black women had married earlier and more often than their white counterparts. In the years directly after World War II, thanks to the return of soldiers, black marriage rates briefly increased further.66 However, as white women kept marrying in bigger numbers and at younger ages throughout the 1950s, black marriage rates began to decrease, and the age of first marriage to climb.67 By 1970, there had been a sharp reversal: Black women were not marrying nearly as often or as early as their white counterparts. It was nothing as benign as coincidence. While one of the bedrocks of the expansion of the middle class was the aggressive reassignment of white women to domestic roles within the idealized nuclear family, another was the exclusion of African-Americans from the opportunities and communities that permitted those nuclear families to flourish. Put more plainly, the economic benefits extended to the white middle class, both during the New Deal and in the post-World War II years, did not extend to African-Americans. Social Security, created in 1935, did not apply to either domestic laborers or agricultural workers, who tended to be African-Americans, or Asian or Mexican immigrants. Discriminatory hiring practices, the low percentages of black workers in the country’s newly strengthened labor unions, and the persistent (if slightly narrowed68) racial wage gap, along with questionable practices by the Veterans Administration, and the reality that many colleges barred the admission of black students, also meant that returning black servicemen had a far harder time taking advantage of the GI Bill’s promise of college education.69 Then there was housing. The suburbs that bloomed around American cities after the war, images of which are still summoned as symbols of midcentury familial prosperity, were built for white families. In William Levitt’s four enormous “Levittowns,” suburban developments which, thanks to government guarantees from the VA and the Federal Housing Association, provided low-cost housing to qualified veterans, there was not one black resident.70 Between 1934 and 1962, the government subsidized $120 billion in new housing; 98 percent of it for white families.

When at last he sprang to his feet, she retreated a step, lifting her chin so the lapping water couldn’t reach her mouth. He bent to retrieve the buffalo robe and beckoned for her. “Keemah.” She knew by now that the word meant “come.” She shuddered and looked longingly at the fur he held. “Keemah,” he repeated. When she made no move to obey, he sighed. Sinking lower into the water, Loretta accidentally took a mouthful and choked. He glanced skyward, clearly exasperated. “This Comanche is not stupid. You would run like the wind if I took my eyes from you.” She shook her head. Frowning, he studied her for a long moment. “This is not pe-nan-de taquoip, the honey talk. It is a promise you make?” She nodded, her teeth chattering. “And you will not make a lie of it?” When he assured him she wouldn’t with another shake of her head, he dropped the fur to the ground and pivoted on one foot. She could scarcely believe he truly meant to keep his back to her. She stared at the broad expanse of his shoulders, at the curve of his spine, at his long, leather-clad legs. Like the wild animals he hunted, he was lithe and lean, his large frame padded with sleek, powerful muscle. If she tried to run, he would be upon her before she had gone more than a few steps. Plowing her way through the water to shore, she kept her eyes riveted to his back. A small rock cut into the sole of her foot as she scrambled up the bank. She bit her lip and kept going, afraid to hesitate even for a second. By the time she reached him, her heart was slamming. She grabbed up the fur and slung it around her shoulders, clasping the edges tightly to her chest. Standing this close to him, she could see the sheen of oil on his skin, the dark hair that dusted the crease of his armpits. She didn’t want to touch him. The seconds ticked past. Was his hearing so keen that he knew she was still behind him? She sensed he was waiting her out, testing her in some way she couldn’t fathom, proving his mastery over her. She worked one hand free from the heavy robe. So fast that she scarcely felt her fingertips graze his skin, she tapped his shoulder and snatched her hand back. He turned to look at her, his gaze lingering a moment on her bare feet and legs. Humiliation scorched her cheeks. He stepped toward her, stooping as he did to catch her behind the knees and toss her over his shoulder. As Loretta grabbed his belt for support, she realized two things: the cold water had eased her headache, and the hilt of the Comanche’s knife was within her reach… Without stopping to think of the possible consequences, she reached out, imagining how it would feel to bury the blade into his back, to be free of him. Just as her fingers curled around the knife handle, he spoke. “Kill me, Yellow Hair, and my friends will avenge me. The blood of your loved ones will be spilled as slowly as sap drips from a wounded tree.” He kept walking and made no move to grab her hand. “My friends know the way to your wooden walls, eh? Make no grief behind you. It is wisdom.

When she finally grew still, a taut silence settled over them. From the corner of his eye he could see her worrying her lip, her small white teeth sinking into the soft pink flesh. Remembering how those lips felt beneath his, another surge of longing knotted his guts, making him recall the plans he had made for the evening--plans that were now drifting away on the wind. He wanted her, yes, but not if it meant forcing her. “I suppose that…” Her voice trailed off. She plucked nervously at her skirt, then ran her fingertips up the line of buttons on her bodice. She glanced around nervously, still nibbling her lip. “I, um, haven’t forgotten my promises to you.” “This is good.” Hunter watched her with gentle amusement. “A promise is a promise, even when given under unusual circumstances. You kept up your part, and--” She seemed unable to meet his gaze. “I’m sure you expect me to keep up mine.” A dark flush crept up her neck. “I, um, guess you had Amy taken to your mother’s so we could--so we could…” She looked so distressed that Hunter took pity on her. “Ah, yes, we have a bargain, do we not?” He forced a long and very loud yawn. “My heart is heavy to say these words, Blue Eyes, but I am sure enough weary after traveling so far, eh?” Her expression brightened so visibly that he nearly chuckled. “Oh, but of course!” she exclaimed in a shaky little voice. “You’ve ridden a very long way. You must be exhausted.” He yawned again and patted the fur beside him. “You will lie beside me.” “But what about Amy?” “Your Aye-mee is with my mother, yes? The woman who is mean like a buffalo. She is safe. You will be easy about her until the sun shows its face.” His voice turned husky. “Keemah, come.

What does my being your life mate mean exactly?” Anders stared at her blankly, and then said, “I told you, a life mate is a rare and precious treasure. They are someone an immortal can live with happily and in peace.” “Yes, but—” Valerie hesitated, a bit frustrated in her effort to verbalize what she wanted to know. Finally, she just asked, “What do you want from me, Anders?” “You,” he said simply, and reached out to take her hands gently in his. “I realize that your experiences in that house were horrible and traumatizing, and most likely turned you against my kind, Valerie. But I would remind you there are evil and bad mortals as well. All immortals are not like the one who attacked and took you from the street that night, then kept you in a cage to feed on.” Valerie stared at him silently, memories of the house running through her head. They were quickly followed by the memories she’d made with this man. The drive to Cambridge and back, the pool, their walk, the shared meals, cooking together, the overwhelming passion, waking up cradled in his arms . . . Oddly enough, the horror and trauma from the house had paled somewhat next to the vibrancy of the memories she’d started to make with Anders. They were like sepia photos next to new, modern, color ones. Anders continued, “And I also know that as a mortal you are more used to a long and slow courtship before making such an important decision. But for my kind it is different. A life mate is a gift to us and knowing we cannot read or control them, that we share pleasure, and that our other appetites are returning is enough in our minds to tell us that this is the one we are meant to be with. That this is the one who suits us in all ways. So, what I want is to spend the rest of my very long life with you at my side and in my bed. And if you agree to that, I promise I will never hurt or bring harm to you. I would sooner hurt myself.” He squeezed her fingers gently. “I would give my life for you, Valerie. Because having experienced the vibrancy and tasted the spice of life with you, returning to the dull, cold existence I had before you is unbearable to even consider.” Anders stared solemnly into her wide eyes as he said that, and then released her hands and sat back, adding, “However, I know you may need more time to make up your mind about whether you are willing to be my life mate. And that is the real reason you were moved to Leigh and Lucian’s home, to give you the chance to get to know me, to see if you could accept being my life mate.” “And if I can’t?” Valerie asked quietly. “Then your memories will be erased like the other women and you too, will be returned to your life to live it out as you choose without your experiences to haunt you.

God had spoken a promise to Joseph as a young boy, that he would someday be a ruler and his family would bow to him. Joseph did not have a lot of wisdom at this young age, and because of this, he revealed dreams and promises that were given to him by God that were not meant to be shared. Right here I would like to insert: when God speaks a promise into our lives, gives us a Word regarding a situation, or prompts us to claim a promise, we don’t need to announce it to others or post it for the world of social media to see. Some things are to be kept inside our spirit and are to be shared between us and God alone. When this breach takes place and spiritual things are not protected, something is lost because it wasn’t guarded.

As the 1970s drew to a close, and Commodore, Tandy, Altair, and Apple began to emerge from the sidelines, PARC director Bert Sutherland asked Larry Tesler to assess what some analysts were already predicting to be the coming era of “hobby and personal computers.” “I think that the era of the personal computer is here,” Tesler countered; “PARC has kept involved in the world of academic computing, but we have largely neglected the world of personal computing which we helped to found.”41 His warning went largely unheeded. Xerox Corporation’s parochial belief that computers need only talk to printers and filing cabinets and not to each other meant that the “office of the future” remained an unfulfilled promise, and in the years between 1978 and 1982 PARC experienced a dispersal of core talent that rivals the flight of Greek scholars during the declining years of Byzantium: Charles Simonyi brought the Alto’s Bravo text editing program to Redmond, Washington, where it was rebooted as Microsoft Word; Robert Metcalf used the Ethernet protocol he had invented at PARC to found the networking giant, 3Com; John Warnock and Charles Geschke, tiring of an unresponsive bureaucracy, took their InterPress page description language and founded Adobe Systems; Tesler himself brought the icon-based, object-oriented Smalltalk programming language with him when he joined the Lisa engineering team at Apple, and Tim Mott, his codeveloper of the Gypsy desktop interface, became one of the founders of Electronic Arts—five startups that would ultimately pay off the mortgages and student loans of many hundreds of industrial, graphic, and interaction designers, and provide the tools of the trade for untold thousands of others.

It was worse than she’d expected. “None?” she asked. “No fresh boot prints anywhere around the perimeter of the house,” Sheriff Coughlin confirmed. “It was windy last night. Maybe the drifting snow filled in the prints?” Even before she finished speaking, the sheriff was shaking his head. “With the warm temperatures we’ve been having, the snow is either frozen or wet and heavy. If someone had walked through that yard last night, there would’ve been prints.” Daisy hid her wince at his words, even though they hit as hard as an elbow to the gut, and struggled to keep her voice firm. “There was someone walking around the outside of that house last night, Sheriff. I don’t know why there aren’t any boot prints, but I definitely saw someone.” He was giving her that look again, but it was worse, because she saw a thread of pity mixed in with the condescension. “Have you given more thought to starting therapy again?” The question surprised her. “Not really. What does that have to do…?” As comprehension dawned, a surge of rage shoved out her bewilderment. “I didn’t imagine that I saw someone last night. There really was a person there, looking in the side window.” All her protest did was increase the pity in his expression. “It must get lonely here by yourself.” “I’m not making things up to get attention!” Her voice had gotten shrill, so she took a deep breath. “I even said there was no need for you to get involved. I only suggested one of the on-duty deputies drive past to scare away the kid.” “Ms. Little.” His tone made it clear that impatience had drowned out any feelings of sympathy. “Physical evidence doesn’t lie. No one was in that yard last night.” “I know what I saw.” The sheriff took a step closer. Daisy hated how she had to crane her neck back to look at him. It made her feel so small and vulnerable. “Do you really?” he asked. “Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. Even people without your issues misinterpret what they see all the time. The brain is a tricky thing.” Daisy set her jaw as she stared back at the sheriff, fighting the urge to step back, to retreat from the man looming over her. There had been someone there, footprints or no footprints. She couldn’t start doubting what she’d witnessed the night before. If she did, then that meant she’d gone from mildly, can’t-leave-the-house crazy, to the kind of crazy that involved hallucinations, medications, and institutionalization. There had to be some other explanation, because she wasn’t going to accept that. Not when her life was getting so much better. She could tell by looking at his expression that she wasn’t going to convince Coughlin of anything. “Thank you for checking on it, Sheriff. I promise not to bother you again.” Although he kept his face impassive, his eyes narrowed slightly. “If you…see anything else, Ms. Little, please call me.” That wasn’t going to happen, especially when he put that meaningful pause in front of “see” that just screamed “delusional.” Trying to mask her true feelings, she plastered on a smile and turned her body toward the door in a not-so-subtle hint for him to leave. “Of course.” Apparently, she needed some lessons in deception, since the sheriff frowned, unconvinced. Daisy met his eyes with as much calmness as she could muster, dropping the fake smile because she could feel it shifting into manic territory. She’d lost enough credibility with the sheriff as it was. The silence stretched until Daisy wanted to run away and hide in a closet, but she managed to continue holding his gaze. The memory of Chris telling her about the sheriff using his “going to confession” stare-down on suspects helped her to stay quiet. Finally, Coughlin turned toward the door. Daisy barely managed to keep her sigh of relief silent. “Ms. Little,” he said with a short nod, which she returned. “Sheriff.” Only when he was through the doorway with the door locked behind him did Daisy’s knees start to shake.

The dark-haired man smiled. “You left one option off when you talked to my friend here.” “What’s that?” “Option three.” He held up three fingers in case Myron didn’t know what the word three meant. “We make sure you can’t tell her father.” He grinned. The other men grinned. Myron spread his arms and said, “How?” That made the man frown again. “Huh?” “How are you going to make sure of that?” Myron looked around. “You guys are going to jump me—that’s the plan? So then what? The only way to shut me up would be to kill me. You willing to go that far? And what about my lovely associate out in the front room? Are you going to kill her too? And what about my other associates”—might as well exaggerate with the plural—“who are outside? Are you going to kill them too? Or is your plan, what, to beat me up and teach me a lesson? If so, one, I’m not a good learner. Not that way at least. And two, I’m looking at all of you and memorizing your faces, and if you do attack me, you better make sure I’m dead because if not, I’ll come after you, at night, when you’re sleeping, and I’ll tie you down and pour kerosene on your crotch and set it on fire.” Myron Bolitar, Master of Melodrama. But he kept his eyes steady and looked at their faces carefully, one at a time.

We were putting everything away when a guitar started coming through the speakers. Figuring one of the guys had turned on the music, we thought nothing of it and I kept talking to Bryce until I heard a husky voice join in. I abruptly stopped talking and stood there with two glasses in my hands just staring at the wall that separated us from the area that held the stage. I bit my lip to contain my smile as I heard the first few lines of “Your Guardian Angel.” It didn’t matter what type of song it was; Kash could sing it. And in his deep voice? Lord, it was a treat. He’d just started the second verse of the song by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus when I rounded the corner and leaned up against the wall to watch him. His lips curled up when he saw me enter the dim room, and other than the few times he’d look down when he was only playing the guitar, he kept his gray eyes trained on me. I took in the words like I was hearing them for the first time, because Kash had told me last week after dancing with me in my kitchen that he would only sing me songs that meant something for us. My heart beat wildly as I felt every word go straight to my soul, and I subconsciously grabbed at my warming chest. When his words trailed off and his hand stopped strumming the guitar, I was still leaning against the wall, hoping it would keep me standing as he set the guitar down and stepped off the stage. Much like the first night he sang to me in the bar, his stride was purposeful as he made his way toward me. Only this time, I didn’t turn and run. His smile grew when he got closer to me, but he didn’t pull me into his arms like he normally would. Just as I started to push myself off the wall, he spoke, his voice gruff. “I didn’t do this right the first time.” Dropping slowly to one knee, he grabbed my left hand and brought a diamond solitaire up to my ring finger. “Rachel Masters, I promise to love you and take care of you . . . no matter the cost, every day for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?” “Yes,” I whispered, and bounced on my toes when he slid the ring onto my finger. Grabbing his face, I pulled him up and kissed him with every bit of passion in my body.

There are two things I can promise you.  Though he is technically Forlorn, he’s always followed pack rules.  He has no issue with humans.  With him, you are safe.  His control over the change is unusually strong.” When over stimulated, the change could burst upon a werewolf with less than adequate control.  Sam had drilled that into me when I first started hanging out with Paul and Henry unsupervised.  He didn’t want me to freak out if one of them went wolf on me for no reason.  He’d stressed that whether in their fur or in their skin, they had the same intelligence and instinct.  The change was just a defense mechanism because in their fur, they had teeth and claws to fight.  So, what he meant was Clay had control, and he kept his emotions in check. “And he won’t give up,” Sam added. Clay hadn’t been looking for a Mate like most werewolves did once they reached puberty.  Did that give me any advantage?  I doubted it.  Sam had repeatedly stressed that instinct ruled this business.  And fighting instinct proved extremely difficult for werewolves.  So Sam’s final warning was a given.  Once they scented their Mate, they couldn’t turn back. 

And then you had to go and sing that song! Why did you pick that song?” His head jerked back slightly and his eyes lost some of their fierceness. “You’re mad about me singing the song? You love that song. You play it all the time.” I finally succeeded at freeing my wrist and crossed my arms under my chest. “And how the hell would you know that? I know I’ve never played that song in front of you!” “Seriously? You leave your windows open! We live right across from each other. I can hear it from my apartment.” Oh. “Well, that’s private. It’s for my parents. You don’t understand what it could possibly mean to me for you to sing that song to me.” Confusion crossed his face and he shook his head. “For your parents?” “Yes! And since we’re throwing the shields out, I lied to you, Kash.” “About what?” he said through gritted teeth, and called my name when I turned and dashed into my room. “Damn it, woman, stop running from me!” “I’m not running. I never told my parents about what happened to me like I promised you I would,” I mumbled as I grabbed underneath my mattress for my journal. Turning back to him, I held it up so he could see it and dropped it on the bed. “That is how I told my parents.” His eyes were narrowed again as they bounced between the journal and me. “Why?” “Why did I lie to you? Because you kept telling me I should tell them. And . . . well . . . technically, I did. I wrote it to them, so I guess I wasn’t exactly lying, because this”—I picked the journal back up—“is the only way I can talk to them.” “What are you—” “They’re gone, Kash. My parents died almost four years ago! I told you I couldn’t tell them. But I wasn’t ready for you to know why; no one in Texas other than Candice knows about it. And that’s how I like it.” Kash’s face fell and he took a few steps closer to me. “Rach . . .” “No, Kash. You didn’t want any more shields. Now there aren’t any. That song you sang tonight, my dad used to sing to my mom when they thought no one was watching. He would pull her close and dance with her in the kitchen while he did it, and it’s my favorite memory of them. So I’m sorry if I didn’t know how to react to you singing it to me, but that song means so much to me.” “Rachel, I’m sorry.” I threw my arms up and planted them on his chest so he wouldn’t come any closer. “Is this what you wanted? You know everything now. Are you happy . . . are you glad the shields are gone?” He pulled me into his arms and held me close. “I had no idea, I’m so sorry. I—I’m just sorry. For hurting you, for pushing you to tell me, for upsetting you with the song . . . all of it. I swear to you that isn’t what I wanted.” My anger was quickly fading and I blinked back tears. “I know, I just . . .” “That song is special to you. I get it, Rach.” He tipped my head back and brushed his lips across my forehead before capturing my eyes with his. “You need to know—” “Rach, I’m back!” Candice called. “Time to start this junk-food night!” Kash didn’t let me go, and I didn’t move. We continued to stare at each other, and when we heard Candice messing with the food in the kitchen, he leaned close and whispered in my ear. “You need to know that you’re special to me. I meant every single word I sang to you tonight and I will never regret that kiss.

What about ‘The Girl I Left Behind’?” Abigail suggested. “I found the music in the piano bench.” She had heard that when soldiers used to leave the post, heading for battle, the company band would play that song. Oliver shook his head. “I don’t want to leave my girl behind. I want her by my side.” He gave Abigail a look so filled with longing that a lump formed in her stomach. Oh no, Oliver. You don’t mean it. You know I’m not your girl, and I won’t ever be. Oblivious to the thoughts that set Abigail’s insides churning, Charlotte nodded vigorously. “That shouldn’t stop us from singing it,” she insisted. “It’s a pretty song.” And it was. Were it not for her concerns that Oliver wanted something she could not give, Abigail could have spent hours listening to him and her sister, for their voices blended beautifully. At the end of the evening, Abigail accompanied Oliver to the door. Though she hoped he would simply say good night as he had before, the way he cleared his throat and the uneasiness she saw on his face made Abigail fear that her hopes would not be realized. Perhaps if she kept everything casual, he would take the cue. “Thank you for coming,” she said as they walked onto the front porch. “Charlotte always enjoys your duets.” “And you?” They were only two words, but Oliver’s voice cracked with emotion as he pronounced them. Please, Oliver, go home. Don’t say something you’ll regret. Though the plea was on the tip of her tongue, Abigail chose a neutral response. “I enjoy listening to both of you.” Oliver stroked his nose in a gesture Abigail had learned was a sign of nervousness. “That’s not what I meant. I hope you enjoy my company as much as I do yours. I look forward to these visits all day.” His voice had deepened, the tone telling Abigail he was close to making a declaration. If only she could spare him the inevitable pain of rejection. “It’s good to have friends,” she said evenly. Oliver shook his head. “You know I want to be more than your friend. I want to marry you.” “I’m sorry.” And she was. Though Ethan claimed Oliver bounced back from rejection, she hated being the one to deliver it. “You know marriage is not possible. Woodrow . . .” Abigail hesitated as she tried and failed to conjure his image. “Woodrow isn’t here.” Oliver completed the sentence. “I am. I lo—” She would not allow him to continue. While it was true that Oliver’s visits helped lift Charlotte’s spirits and filled the empty space left by Jeffrey’s absence, Abigail could not let him harbor any false hopes. “Good night, Lieutenant Seton.” Perhaps the use of his title would tell him she regarded him as a friend, nothing more. What appeared to be sadness filled Oliver’s eyes as his smile faded. “Is there no hope for me?” Abigail shook her head slowly. “I’m afraid not.” He stood for a moment, his lips flattened, his breathing ragged. At last, he reached out and captured her hand in his. Raising it to his lips, Oliver pressed a kiss to the back. “Good night, Miss Harding,” he said as he released her hand and walked away.

The expression on his face was kindly, but there was something more within his gaze. She didn’t understand it but couldn’t bring herself to turn away. Instead, she studied him in return. His dark hair was slightly long, but his face was clean shaven. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she took off her glove, reaching out to touch his cheek. “You shaved.” “So I did.” She traced the planes of his face, fully aware that she shouldn’t be doing this. And yet, he didn’t seem to mind her touch. He allowed it, and when she touched his opposite cheek, he warned, “Careful, Lady Rose.” His voice held a gruff quality that made her stop. But when she tried to pull her hand away, he covered it with his own, bringing it to his mouth. Against her palm, his mouth was warm. The heat of his lips made gooseflesh rise upon her skin. Her imagination conjured up the image of his breath upon her body, and her breasts tightened inside her corset. She didn’t understand these sensations or why she should feel anything at all. Dozens of men had kissed her hand, though never like this. “I’m sorry,” she murmured and tried to pull back. “I’m not.” The wicked smile returned, and he kept her palm firmly in his own. “But it only seems fair that I should be allowed to do the same.” She was frozen in place when his palm cupped her cheek. His thumb traced the outline of her jaw, moving lower to her chin. Her heartbeat quickened, blood rushing to her face. She told herself that this meant nothing, that they were only friends. But he was overstepping the boundaries of friendship, reaching for something he couldn’t have. The look in his eyes seemed to reach beneath her defenses. This man was taking apart her good sense, tempting her in a way she didn’t understand. “I am going to stay and teach you to walk, Rose.” He lifted her hand and stole another kiss that left her reeling. “That promise I’ve made, and that promise I’ll keep. But if ever you change your mind about Burkham, know that you are worth more than one letter a month.

When D. L. Moody’s Church in Chicago lay in ashes, he went over to England, in 1872, not to preach, but to listen to others preach while his new church was being built. One Sunday morning he was prevailed upon to preach in a London pulpit. But somehow the spiritual atmosphere was lacking. He confessed afterwards that he never had such a hard time preaching in his life. Everything was perfectly dead, and, as he vainly tried to preach, he said to himself, “What a fool I was to consent to preach! I came here to listen, and here I am preaching.” Then the awful thought came to him that he had to preach again at night, and only the fact that he had given the promise to do so kept him faithful to the engagement. But when Mr. Moody entered the pulpit at night, and faced the crowded congregation, he was conscious of a new atmosphere. “The powers of an unseen world seemed to have fallen upon the audience.” As he drew towards the close of his sermon he became emboldened to give out an invitation, and as he concluded he said, “If there is a man or woman here who will tonight accept Jesus Christ, please stand up.” At once about 500 people rose to their feet. Thinking that there must be some mistake, he asked the people to be seated, and then, in order that there might be no possible misunderstanding, he repeated the invitation, couching it in even more definite and difficult terms. Again the same number rose. Still thinking that something must be wrong, Mr. Moody, for the second time, asked the standing men an women to be seated, and then he invited all who really meant to accept Christ to pass into the vestry. Fully 500 people did as requested, and that was the beginning of a revival in that church and neighbourhood, which brought Mr. Moody back from Dublin, a few days later, that he might assist the wonderful work of God.

How did you know? How did you know who I was as soon as you saw me come out of the trapdoor in the museum?” “You’re so like your father. The eyes, the way your voice is pitched. He wasn’t much older than you are now when he ran away from Westwood. And I knew he’d married an Indian woman and had a son; we kept in touch. So when I saw that the crows had caught you, I realized your plan had gone wrong.” “You mean you knew what we were planning?” said Maia--not at all pleased. “More or less. Your acting skills are not very great,” said Miss Minton, “And as a liar you are bottom of the class. I made friends with old Lila, and when she realized that I knew Bernard, she told me about this place. But you seemed to know what you were doing, so I left you to it.” “We did know what we were doing,” said Finn. “But Clovis just went berserk when he got down to the cellar. Some skulls came tumbling out of a packing case, and he saw these eye sockets staring at him. Then he fell over a throwing spear and the lamp kept going out. There was a weird moaning noise, too--it was only the water pipes--but he got hysterical and said he felt sick and he couldn’t go through with it. I suppose it was sort of stage fright--he really thought the crows were going to hurt him. I’d promised Maia I wouldn’t let him get too scared, so I stayed. I meant to make a dash for it when the crows opened the door and lead them away from him. When the sloth fell over he thought it was a bomb!” “Poor Clovis,” said Maia. “She’s always sticking up for him,” said Finn. “Still, he gave a fine performance at the end, you must admit,” said Miss Minton.

All while she poisoned me with unknown toxins. Deprived me of healthy essentials. Kept me up so I could never sleep, making me look and act worse and worse.

3 ALICIA Seven hours. That’s how much time had passed since Alicia collected two-and-a-half-year-old Theo from the police station and brought him to his new foster home. Seven hours since he scampered out of her grasp and disappeared under the dining room table. Seven hours since Alicia sat on the linoleum floor and promised him she would wait until he was ready to come out. Alicia always kept her promises to the kids. Which meant now she might have to die on this linoleum floor. “Hey, buddy, I think Bluey might be on the TV,” Alicia tried, without much hope. “Should we go and see?” Theo didn’t turn his little blond head from the wall. She had to admire his resolve. Since they’d arrived, he hadn’t spoken, he’d refused all food and drink, and, if smell was anything to go by, he’d soiled himself. Still, he wouldn’t budge. Last night, he’d been taken to the police station by a neighbor who’d discovered him playing on the road at midnight, wearing nothing but a dirty nappy. Apparently his father had been too inebriated to realize he was gone. His mother had yet to be located and it wasn’t looking hopeful. Alicia had hoped that returning Theo to Trish’s, where he’d spent a few months earlier in the year, might provide Theo with some reassurance; but, if anything, his understanding of what was happening made things worse. His head remained down, his tiny, twiggy arms remained ramrod straight by his sides. “Do you like chocolate?” she asked, as another foster kid, Aaron, sloped into the kitchen, and started rummaging in the cupboards, presumably for food. “I’ve got a Kit Kat here. Want some?” Alicia broke off a chocolate finger and held it out to Theo under the table. To her delight, he scooted across the floor to inspect it. “Ow!

all gone and the sky was a lovely blue, while the dark night in my soul had passed. Jesus had awakened and was filling me with joy, and the waves were silent. Instead of the howling wind, a gentle breeze was swelling my sails, and I thought I had already reached harbor. But there were storms ahead, storms that would make me fear at times that I was being driven away beyond return from the shore I longed so much to reach. No sooner had I obtained my uncle’s consent than you told me that the Superior of Carmel would not let me enter until I was twenty-one. The possibility of such serious opposition had not occurred to anyone, and it would be very hard to overcome; but I kept up my courage and went with Father to ask him if I could enter. He treated me coldly, and nothing would change his mind; we left in the end with a most emphatic “No,” except that he added: “I am only the Bishop’s delegate, of course, and if he allowed you to enter, I could not prevent it.” As we came out of the presbytery, we found that it was pouring with rain again, just as heavy clouds were once more darkening my soul. Father did not know what to do to comfort me, but promised to take me to Bayeux if I wanted, and I gratefully accepted. Many things, however, happened before this trip was possible, and in the meantime, my life, to all outward appearances, went on as usual. I continued my studies, but most important of all, I went on growing in the love of God, so much that sometimes my soul experienced real transports of love. One evening, not knowing how to tell Jesus how much I loved Him and how I wanted above all else to serve Him and give Him glory, I was saddened at the thought that He would never receive a single act of love from the depths of Hell. Then, from the bottom of my heart, I said I would consent to be cast into that place of torment and blasphemy, so that even there He would be loved eternally. This could not glorify Him, of course, because it is only our happiness He desires, but when one is in love, one says so many foolish things. Even while I spoke like this, I still had an ardent desire for Heaven, though Heaven meant nothing to me, save love, and I was sure that nothing could take me from the Divine Being who held me captive. It was at this time that Our Lord gave me the consolation of a deeper understanding of a child’s soul, and this is how it came about. A poor woman had been taken ill, and I was giving a good deal of my time to looking after her two little girls, both under six. It was a real joy to see the way they believed everything I told them. Baptism does indeed plant the seeds of the theological virtues deep in our soul, for the

Immortality was nothing but an illusion - a false promise that had kept him from living out his days as if they meant something. It wasn't the guarantee of the years ahead that mattered. It was what a person did today that truly counted.

Sacrosanctis was in fact the public face of a corporate conspiracy between the leading men of three powerful European families: the Medici (in the form of Pope Leo); Jakob Fugger, head of the Augsburg banking and mining dynasty and a man often said to have been the richest in human history; and Albert, archbishop of Mainz, a member of the politically influential Hohenzollern dynasty and (not coincidentally) the man to whom Luther mailed the first copy of his Theses. The nature of the agreement between these three was broadly thus: Albert, who was already archbishop of Magdeburg, had been permitted by the pope to become archbishop of Mainz at the same time – which made him the most senior churchman in Germany, and meant he controlled two of the seven electoral votes which determined the identity of the German emperor. (His brother already controlled a third.) Vast fees were due to Rome as a tax on taking office as an archbishop – but Albert could afford these, thanks to a loan from Fugger, who advanced the money on the basis that he would have the Hohenzollern and their electoral votes in his pocket. Albert, for his part, promised Leo he would do all he could to make sure that German Christians bought as many indulgences as possible, partly because his share of the proceeds could repay his debt to Fugger and partly so that funds would flow rapidly to Leo in Rome for the completion of St Peter’s. For the parties involved this was a neat arrangement by which they all got what they wanted – so long as the faithful did their part and kept pumping money into pardons.

M. Romains had taken many journeys in his country’s interest and at his own expense. He had talked with the statesmen of fourteen European lands. Three years ago he had traveled to Berlin and delivered a lecture under government auspices. Brownshirted leaders had been summoned from all over the land to hear him, and one of the top-flight Nazis had said to him: “You know, no private individual has ever been received like this in Berlin.” The philosopher-novelist had also been welcomed by the King of the Belgians, who had discussed frankly that country’s attitude to the gravely threatened war. As M. Romains told about these matters, you couldn’t doubt that he was patriotically in earnest, but also you couldn’t help feeling that he was intensely impressed by his own importance. His plan was the one known as le couple France-Allemagne, and it meant reconcilation with Germany, by the simple method of giving the Nazis whatever they demanded. For example, he had had the idea that the Allies should have got out of the Saar without the formality of a plebiscite. Lanny happened to know that Briand had been trying to work out some compromise on this question as far back as ten years ago; but apparently M. Romains didn’t know that, and certainly it wasn’t up to Lanny to correct him on his facts. The philosopher-novelist seemed to have the idea that the Saar settlement had been a matter between France and Germany, and that the plebiscite had taken place under French military control, whereas the fact was it had been a League matter, and French troops had been withdrawn nine years before the plebiscite was held. Among the members of that attentive audience was Kurt Meissner, who had met the Frenchman many years ago in Emily’s drawing-room. Evidently he had put his opportunity to good use, for it was just as if M. Romains had sat in a seminar conducted by the Wehrmacht’s agent, had absorbed the entire doctrine, and was now giving an oral dissertation to demonstrate what he had learned and get his degree. His discourse embraced the complete Nazi program for the undermining of the French republic: warm protestations of friendship; unlimited promises of peace; the sowing of distrust of all politicians and of the entire democratic procedure; and, above all else, fear of the Red specter. The Reds kept faith with nobody, their country was a colossus with feet of clay, their army a broken reed upon which France persisted in trying to lean. The republic had to choose between Stalin and Hitler; between an illusory military alliance and a secure and enduring peace. The words burned Lanny’s tongue: “M. Romains, have you ever read Mein Kampf?” Of course, Lanny couldn’t say them; but he wondered, how would this somewhat self-conscious idol of the bourgeois world have replied? Lanny recalled the Max Beerbohm cartoon in which a drawing-room fop is asked if he has read a certain book, and replies: “I do not read books; I write them.

You’ve sent me up the wall more times than I can count chasing bear cubs.” “Why the fuck did God make them so damn adorable if they weren’t meant to be kept as pets? That’s all I want to know.

I leaned into Tamlin, sighing. 'It feels- feels as if some of it was a dream, or a nightmare. But... But I remembered you. And when I saw you there today, I started clawing at it, fighting, because I knew it might be my only chance, and-' 'How did you break free of his control,' Lucien said flatly from behind us. Tamlin gave him a warning growl. I'd forgotten he was there. My sister's mate. The Mother, I decided, did have a sense of humour. 'I wanted it- I don't know how. I just wanted to break free of him, so I did.' We stared each other down, but Tamlin brushed a thumb over my shoulder. 'Are- are you hurt?' I tried not to bristle. I knew what he meant. That he thought Rhysand would do anything like that to anyone- 'I- I don't know,' I stammered. 'I don't... I don't remember those things.' Lucien's metal eye narrowed, as if he could sense the lie. But I looked up at Tamlin, and brushed my hand over his mouth. My bare, empty skin. 'You're real,' I said. 'You freed me.' It was an effort not to turn my hands into claws and rip out his eyes. Traitor- liar. Murderer. 'You freed yourself,' Tamlin breathed. He gestured to the house. 'Rest- and then we'll talk. I... need to find Ianthe. And make some things very, very clear.' 'I- I want to be a part of it this time,' I said, halting when he tried to herd me back into that beautiful prison. 'No more... No more shutting me out. No more guards. Please. I have so much to tell you about them- bits and pieces, but... I can help. We can get my sisters back. Let me help.' Help lead you in the wrong direction. Help bring you and your court to your knees, and take down Jurian and those conniving, traitorous queens. And then tear Ianthe into tiny, tiny pieces and bury them in a pit no one can find. Tamlin scanned my face, and finally nodded. 'We'll start over. Do things differently. When you were gone, I realised... I'd been wrong. So wrong, Feyre. And I'm sorry.' Too late. Too damned late. But I rested my head on his arm as he slipped it around me and led me toward the house. 'It doesn't matter. I'm home now.' 'Forever,' he promised. 'Forever,' I parroted, glancing behind- to where Lucien stood in the gravel drive. His gaze on me. Face hard. As if he'd seen through every lie. As if he knew of the second tattoo beneath my glove, and the glamour I now kept on it. As if he knew that they had let a fox into a chicken coop- and he could do nothing. Not unless he never wanted to see his mate- Elain- again. I gave Lucien a sweet, sleepy smile. So our game began. We hit the sweeping marble stairs to the fornt doors of the manor. And so Tamlin unwittingly led the High Lady of the Night Court into the heart of his territory.

Often we get disheartened cause the promises and hope that we get from people are not kept and think that those were not meant but people change. As they change, they may no longer feel that way for those promises. The earlier we accept this truth; life becomes easier.

When they first came for us with their bullets, we didn't stop moving even though the bullets moved twice as fast as the sound of our screams, and even when their heat and speed broke our skin, shattered our bones, skulls, pierced our hearts, we kept on, even when we saw the bullets send our bodies flailing through the air like flags, like the many flags and buildings that went up in place of everything we knew this land to be before. The bullets were premonitions, ghosts from dreams of a hard, fast, future. The bullets moved on after moving through us, became the promise of what was to come, the speed and the killing, the hard,f ast lines of borders and buildings. They took everything and ground it down to dust as fine as gunpowder, they fired their guns into the air in victory and the strays flew out into the nothingneww of histories written wrong and meant to be forgotten. Stray bullets and consequences are landing on our unsuspecting bodies even now.

Before Virginia, I had not known that the prize for enduring a real winter, with its occasional wonderland days and its regular misery days, was an awakening so astonishing it felt as if I learned that the word spring meant for the first time in my life. Spring wasn't simply a pleasant interlude; it wasnt merely the change to catch one's breath between the ice storm and the heat wave. It was a fulfillment. It was a promise kept, though I had not even realized a promise had been made. Like winter, the wilderness is always a promise. God leads us in and, one way or another, he leads us out again. page 62

Ilost my left eye during blades training at assassin school. My twin brother did the deed using a clever feint and a quick crosswise cut that caught me by surprise. “Well, Carmen, that’ll leave a scar,” Corwin had said. Then he’d laughed that snorty, snotty laugh that had grated on my nerves a thousand times since childhood. My vision had been too blurry to aim a cutting blow at him, and I wasn’t certain if I even wanted to. He was the only family I had. And despite his laughter, he may not have known how deep the wound was. He often made a silly joke when he’d done something stupid. But when I stumbled and fell toward the floor, Corwin dropped his blade and caught me. “Aw, sorry, sis,” he said, holding me against his chest. Then the healers rushed in with their bandages and salves and led me to the healing room. Maestru Alesius—my master—soon followed them, bringing the bad news: “You will lose that eye, Carmen.” I was thirteen. I’d been ahead of my brother on the honor roll—the top of the class. I often wondered if a bout of jealousy inspired my blinding. The blades were sharp, but we students weren’t supposed to cut each other—the idea was to keep the mind sharp as well. And I’d love to know where he’d learned the move. I’d never seen it before, and I was better with the sword than him. Did he have a secret teacher? Everything was harder with only one eye—the sword fights, the dagger throws, learning to avoid traps; even the poisons and potions were more difficult to pour. A half-blind assassin was a joke. I was pretty certain my fellow students had chuckled and celebrated as my position on the honor roll slipped. I had the knowledge and the skill. But the patch over my eye meant I had a weakness, and the school trained assassins to exploit weaknesses. I’d have quit, perhaps to be a scullery maid or to work in the massive wheat fields of the Akkad Empire, if only to get away from the other apprentice assassins who had once been beneath me and who now scorned me. I especially wanted to flee from the kinder ones who looked at me with pity. But Maestru Alesius had insisted I stay. “Adversity will toughen your mental bones,” he’d promised. His support and my perseverance had kept me in school. Three years had passed since the incident. Three years of struggling to keep my spot. I was finally sixteen, in my final week of classes. Corwin would graduate at the top of the honor roll. He was the best with bladed weapons, the best at hiding in shadows, the best assassin the school had seen in many years. He may even be better than the legendary Banderius. All the kings, queens, and archons would seek to hire Corwin. Maybe even Emperor Rima himself. I’d be lucky to get hired at all.

A music critic once regaled a party I attended with a list of composers of serious music in the past. Nobody had heard of any of them, and the critic told us that they were all regarded in their own time as being the greatest composers alive. These were contemporaries of Beethoven and Brahms and Wagner and so on, composers for full orchestras in the Romantic mode. We asked him why they weren’t admired today. He had made it his business to hear as much of their work as he could, and he had this to say: “It was all gesture.” By this he meant that musical promise after musical promise of great themes to come were made, and were not kept. The composers were honored in their own time for the gorgeousness of the promises they made but could not keep. They perhaps made promises which not even an archangel could keep. Some of the most imposing literary reputations of my own time, it seems to me, are based on just that sort of promising. •

…After seventeen minutes of panicky crowds destroying everything in their path, Eric could distinguish, despite all the chaos and hellish noise, the slight buzz of a second plane. He started counting to himself, watching the blazing inferno at the North Tower: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… The second Boeing glided into the South Tower, WTC-2, and it seemed to Eric that this plane was flying slowly, that its impact was a soft one… Due to the pandemonium all around, the impact itself seemed not to be as loud as the first hit. Still, in a moment the second twin was also blazing. Both skyscrapers were on fire now. Novack looked up again at what had happened a minute before: the terror attack of the century. Then he started walking fast down Church Street, away from the huge buildings that were now on fire. He knew that in about an hour, the South Tower was to collapse completely, and half an hour after that, the same was to happen to the North Tower, which was also weakened by the impact. He knew there were tons of powerful Thermate in both buildings. Over the course of the previous two months, some fake repairmen had brought loads of it into the towers and put them in designated places around the trusswork. It was meant to make buildings collapse like card towers, which would only happen when the flames reached a certain point. The planes had started an unstoppable countdown as soon as they hit the buildings: these were the last minutes of their existence. Next in line was the third building: 7 WTC, which stood north of the Twin Towers. It counted forty-seven floors, and it too was stuffed with Thermate. Novack started getting concerned, however, that the third plane seemed to be late. Where’s the third plane? Why is it late? It’s already fifty minutes after the first impact, and they were supposed to hit the three targets with a time lag of about twenty minutes. Where are you, birdie number three? You are no less important than the first two, and you were also promised to my clients… People were still running in all directions, shouting and bumping into each other. Sirens wailed loudly, heartrendingly; ambulances were rushing around, giving way only to firefighters and emergency rescue teams. Suddenly hundreds of policemen appeared on the streets, but it seemed that they didn’t really know what they were supposed to do. They mostly ran around, yelling into their walkie-talkies. At Thomas Street, Eric walked into a parking lot: the gate arm was up and the security guy must have left, for the door of his booth stood wide open… …Two shots rang out simultaneously during the fifth and the longest second. They were executed synchronously, creating a single, stinging, deadly sound. The bullet from the sixth floor of the book depository went straight up into the sky, as planned. The second bullet shot out of a sniper rifle, held confidently in the arms of a woman behind the hedge, on the grassy knoll. It was her bullet that struck the head of the 35th US president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy. The woman walked quickly down the grassy knoll. Stepping only about five meters away, she put her rifle into a baby pram waiting there, with a real six-month-old baby boy whimpering inside it. She put on thick glasses and started walking away, exhibiting no haste. Only thirty seconds after the second shot, the woman was gone, nowhere to be seen… After the second or, rather, the third shot, the one from the knoll, President Kennedy’s head was tossed back. Jackie somehow managed to crawl onto the back hood of the car. A security agent from the escort car had already reached them. The motorcade picked up speed and disappeared under the overpass. Zapruder’s camera kept whirring for some seconds. He must have filmed the whole operation – that is, the assassination of an acting US president. But now he simply stood there without saying a word, completely dumbfounded...

When they first came for us with their bullets, we didn’t stop moving even though the bullets moved twice as fast as the sound of our screams, and even when their heat and speed broke our skin, shattered our bones, skulls, pierced our hearts, we kept on, even when we saw the bullets send our bodies flailing through the air like flags, like the many flags and buildings that went up in place of everything we knew this land to be before. The bullets were premonitions, ghosts from dreams of a hard, fast future. The bullets moved on after moving through us, became the promise of what was to come, the speed and the killing, the hard, fast lines of borders and buildings. They took everything and ground it down to dust as fine as gunpowder, they fired their guns into the air in victory and the strays flew out into the nothingness of histories written wrong and meant to be forgotten. Stray bullets and consequences are landing on our unsuspecting bodies even now.

It's disheartening to think about how many people, like myself, fell victim to these unscrupulous brokers promising easy returns through binary options trading. All I wanted was to invest and be part of a promising financial opportunity. The idea seemed simple: put in your money, make a smart investment, and watch it grow. But as I soon learned, things were far from what they appeared. From the beginning, everything felt too good to be true. These brokers made their pitch with high-pressure tactics, ensuring that I was excited about the prospects of lucrative returns. But the more I engaged, the more I realized something wasn’t right. Every time I tried to make a withdrawal from my account, I was met with constant resistance. The excuses kept piling up: "You need to invest more before you can withdraw," or "There's an issue with your account that requires further funds to fix. "It became clear that the goal wasn’t to help me grow my investments but to take my money and prevent me from accessing it. The emotional toll was immense imagine watching your hard-earned savings evaporate because of promises that were never meant to be kept. It was a terrifying, frustrating experience, and I can’t help but feel for all the others going through the same ordeal. I considered myself lucky when I finally found a way to recover my funds, albeit through some unethical means. At that point, I was desperate. I couldn’t care less how it was done, as long as I got my money back. The amount of stress and anxiety I endured throughout the process made me realize how easily these brokers can manipulate and deceive people into losing everything. If you find yourself in a similar situation where a binary options broker has taken your money and refuses to allow withdrawals, there is hope. A company like SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL offers services to help you recover your funds. While the methods they use may not always be conventional, they are highly effective at assisting victims of online financial fraud. To anyone considering binary options or any form of online trading, I urge caution. Do your research thoroughly, and be extremely wary of brokers who promise quick profits with no risks. Sadly, many of these platforms are simply scams designed to steal your money. If you’ve been a victim of one of these fraudulent brokers, don't give up hope. Seek SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL help to recover what you’ve lost there are resources available to help you reclaim your funds and, more importantly, protect your financial future. MORE INFO ABOUT THE COMPANY WhatsApp:+1 (971) 4 8 7 - 3 5 3 8 Email: spartantech (@) c y b e r s e r v i c e s . c o m Telegram:+1 (581) 2 8 6 - 8 0 9 2

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Thanksgiving following Powerball held a different vibe than years past. When Gooch arrived with a wine case mixed with whites and reds—part of a massive purchase to restock Pogo’s cellar—Indian Leo was there to greet him. “I see Powerball changes everything! Your first Thanksgiving with us!” “Show me where to set this down, then let’s talk. I have a proposal for you.” Leo waved Gooch to follow. “And giving orders like a rich man!” The two wound up huddled behind a brandy still in a far, dark corner of the barn, invisible to those gathering for the feast. After hitting the bowl Leo had passed to him, Gooch laid out the consortium’s plan, talked about hidden caves and the promise he’d made to his father. Despite a niggling disrespect for Leo, Gooch grudgingly admired the Nindian’s life experience, competence, and wisdom that arose unexpectedly—usually when it was needed most. “I can see the merit in this. I think it’s providence, what you propose. I’ll chant on this tonight and then you’ll have my answer.” The darkness between them was interrupted by the embers glowing from the pull on his pipe. Flynn and The Don watched their friends return from the barn’s shadows, curious as to what the Nindian’s answer would be. Leo’s weed was famous throughout the Rockies—his “Butter Rum Snatch” and “Shush Kush” particularly popular with skiers wanting to find themselves either landing in soft pillows or navigating slopes of cerebral adventure. Getting Leo on board with tending the grow would be a real coup. After swatting away the buzzing fly that was Toothless Don, The Don heaped his plate pheasant, yams, globs of Jello-fruit-Cool-Whip, green bean casserole, then told Flynn that Gooch made the best choice for the operation’s gardener. Pointing forked roasted bird to rafters, he declared, “Leo goes for it. Why wouldn’t he? His autonomy? As a grower? Methinks this shit expands his trip.” “Everything I’ve smoked up here is primo. If that’s the guy growing it? I’m down.” Satisfied with his own plate, Flynn watched Whisper pull Leo aside as Gooch slapped some skin all around then jogged his way to the buffet. Gooch opted for duck, ladling gravy over scooped out mashed potatoes, slopping down collard greens and grabbing two Hawaiian sweet rolls. After pounding a few mouthfuls of food, he looked to his friends for affirmation. “Leo’s weed lasts what? Two months up here? And then, we’re stuck with ditchweed or expensive shit from Paonia or wherever. With our operation, he’ll do what he does and make tons more money. Because he won’t be limited by seasons. And we’ll have kine bud, like, whenever. I think he’s our gardener.” “Where did that come from, squire?” The Don waved his fork, wild-rice stuffing sprayed within the wake of his gestures. “Thinking. Out loud. Wondering if Leo is good for this or if he isn’t going to start doing fucking tours down in the caves.” Pulling meat from his plate and chewing on what he’d snagged, Gooch’s brow drooped to darken his eyes. “You know how he is.” Flynn didn’t know. “How do you mean?” Gooch cast a glance at Flynn’s plate where none of the food touched, meat, starch and veggies divided neatly into discrete nutritional piles. “The man has secrets. I mean, we all have secrets, but he more than most. Which tells me he won’t go blabbing about this, our thing.” “Cosa nostra,” The Don mumbled his Godfather impression. Seated and filling their faces, the three found other table conversations focused entirely on the winners, what they were planning to do with all that money—the winners, everyone meant—and how it was great for the town, especially for the winners. A rubber ball of a topic that kept bouncing back, no matter how hard lottery winners tried to send the trajectory in another direction.