Surprises Are Better Than Promises Quotes

I can't describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her, old sport. I even hoped for a while that she'd throw me over, but she didn't, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot because I knew different things from her. . . . Well, there I was, 'way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden I didn't care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?" On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat's shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were asleep.

How baffling you are, oh Church, and yet how I love you! How you have made me suffer, and yet how much I owe you! I would like to see you destroyed, and yet I need your presence. You have given me so much scandal and yet you have made me understand what sanctity is. I have seen nothing in the world more devoted to obscurity, more compromised, more false, and yet I have touched nothing more pure, more generous, more beautiful. How often I have wanted to shut the doors of my soul in your face, and how often I have prayed to die in the safety of your arms. No, I cannot free myself from you, because I am you, though not completely. And besides, where would I go? Would I establish another? I would not be able to establish it without the same faults, for they are the same faults I carry in me. And if I did establish another, it would be my Church, not the Church of Christ. I am old enough to know that I am no better than anyone else. …) The Church has the power to make me holy but it is made up, from the first to the last, only of sinners. And what sinners! It has the omnipotent and invincible power to renew the Miracle of the Eucharist, but is made up of men who are stumbling in the dark, who fight every day against the temptation of losing their faith. It brings a message of pure transparency but it is incarnated in slime, such is the substance of the world. It speaks of the sweetness of its Master, of its non-violence, but there was a time in history when it sent out its armies to disembowel the infidels and torture the heretics. It proclaims the message of evangelical poverty, and yet it does nothing but look for money and alliances with the powerful. Those who dream of something different from this are wasting their time and have to rethink it all. And this proves that they do not understand humanity. Because this is humanity, made visible by the Church, with all its flaws and its invincible courage, with the Faith that Christ has given it and with the love that Christ showers on it. When I was young, I did not understand why Jesus chose Peter as his successor, the first Pope, even though he abandoned Him. Now I am no longer surprised and I understand that by founding his church on the tomb of a traitor(…)He was warning each of us to remain humble, by making us aware of our fragility. (…) And what are bricks worth anyway? What matters is the promise of Christ, what matters is the cement that unites the bricks, which is the Holy Spirit. Only the Holy Spirit is capable of building the church with such poorly moulded bricks as are we. And that is where the mystery lies. This mixture of good and bad, of greatness and misery, of holiness and sin that makes up the church…this in reality am I .(…) The deep bond between God and His Church, is an intimate part of each one of us. (…)To each of us God says, as he says to his Church, “And I will betroth you to me forever” (Hosea 2,21). But at the same time he reminds us of reality: 'Your lewdness is like rust. I have tried to remove it in vain. There is so much that not even a flame will take it away' (Ezechiel 24, 12). But then there is even something more beautiful. The Holy Spirit who is Love, sees us as holy, immaculate, beautiful under our guises of thieves and adulterers. (…) It’s as if evil cannot touch the deepest part of mankind. He re-establishes our virginity no matter how many times we have prostituted our bodies, spirits and hearts. In this, God is truly God, the only one who can ‘make everything new again’. It is not so important that He will renew heaven and earth. What is most important is that He will renew our hearts. This is Christ’s work. This is the divine Spirit of the Church.

Part of the practice of modest faith, in times of suffering, is relinquishing our right to answers. God has never promised to explain himself, but he has promised to stay near. I will never leave, he says; I will never forsake. I am the friend that sticks closer than your brother. Do not think me unmoved by your grief. These are the faithful assurances of God as we have them in Scripture, and here is even more hope available to those willing to search it out. But let’s not be fooled to think that God has promised things like: it will get better, you’ll soon see the purpose behind this pain, there’s never more than you can handle. Often it does get better; often we do see purpose; always there is sufficient grace. But lament must practice the modest faith of finding sufficient that which God provides, even if, in seasons of great sorrow, it may not seem like enough.” …

Her pretty name of Adina seemed to me to have somehow a mystic fitness to her personality. Behind a cold shyness, there seemed to lurk a tremulous promise to be franker when she knew you better. Adina is a strange child; she is fanciful without being capricious. She was stout and fresh-coloured, she laughed and talked rather loud, and generally, in galleries and temples, caused a good many stiff British necks to turn round. She had a mania for excursions, and at Frascati and Tivoli she inflicted her good-humoured ponderosity on diminutive donkeys with a relish which seemed to prove that a passion for scenery, like all our passions, is capable of making the best of us pitiless. Adina may not have the shoulders of the Venus of Milo...but I hope it will take more than a bauble like this to make her stoop. Adina espied the first violet of the year glimmering at the root of a cypress. She made haste to rise and gather it, and then wandered further, in the hope of giving it a few companions. Scrope sat and watched her as she moved slowly away, trailing her long shadow on the grass and drooping her head from side to side in her charming quest. It was not, I know, that he felt no impulse to join her; but that he was in love, for the moment, with looking at her from where he sat. Her search carried her some distance and at last she passed out of sight behind a bend in the villa wall. I don't pretend to be sure that I was particularly struck, from this time forward, with something strange in our quiet Adina. She had always seemed to me vaguely, innocently strange; it was part of her charm that in the daily noiseless movement of her life a mystic undertone seemed to murmur "You don't half know me! Perhaps we three prosaic mortals were not quite worthy to know her: yet I believe that if a practised man of the world had whispered to me, one day, over his wine, after Miss Waddington had rustled away from the table, that there was a young lady who, sooner or later, would treat her friends to a first class surprise, I should have laid my finger on his sleeve and told him with a smile that he phrased my own thought. .."That beautiful girl," I said, "seems to me agitated and preoccupied." "That beautiful girl is a puzzle. I don't know what's the matter with her; it's all very painful; she's a very strange creature. I never dreamed there was an obstacle to our happiness--to our union. She has never protested and promised; it's not her way, nor her nature; she is always humble, passive, gentle; but always extremely grateful for every sign of tenderness. Till within three or four days ago, she seemed to me more so than ever; her habitual gentleness took the form of a sort of shrinking, almost suffering, deprecation of my attentions, my petits soins, my lovers nonsense. It was as if they oppressed and mortified her--and she would have liked me to bear more lightly. I did not see directly that it was not the excess of my devotion, but my devotion itself--the very fact of my love and her engagement that pained her. When I did it was a blow in the face. I don't know what under heaven I've done! Women are fathomless creatures. And yet Adina is not capricious, in the common sense... .So these are peines d'amour?" he went on, after brooding a moment. "I didn't know how fiercely I was in love!" Scrope stood staring at her as she thrust out the crumpled note: that she meant that Adina--that Adina had left us in the night--was too large a horror for his unprepared sense...."Good-bye to everything! Think me crazy if you will. I could never explain. Only forget me and believe that I am happy, happy, happy! Adina Beati."... Love is said to be par excellence the egotistical passion; if so Adina was far gone. "I can't promise to forget you," I said; "you and my friend here deserve to be remembered!

Theseus Within the Labyrinth pt.2 But nobody like Theseus likes a smart girl, always telling him to dress warmly and eat plenty of fiber. She was one of those people who are never in doubt. Had he sharpened his sword, tied his sandals? Without her, of course, he would have never escaped the labyrinth. Why hadn’t he thought of that trick with the ball of yarn? But as he looked down at her sleeping form, this woman who was already carrying his child, maybe he thought of their future together, how she would correctly foretell the mystery or banality behind each locked door. So probably he shook his head and said, Give me a dumb girl any day, and crept back to his ship and sailed away. Of course Ariadne was revenged. She would have told him to change the sails, to take down the black ones, put up the white. She would have reminded him that his father, the king of Athens, was waiting on a high cliff scanning the Aegean for Theseus’s returning ship, white for victory, black for defeat. She would have said how his father would see the black sails, how the grief for the supposed death of his one son would destroy him. But Theseus and his men had brought out the wine and were cruising a calm sea in a small boat filled to the brim with ex-virgins. Who could have blamed him? Until he heard the distant scream and his head shot up to see the black sails and he knew. The girls disappeared, the ship grew quiet except for the lap-lap of the water. Staring toward the spot where his father had tumbled headfirst into the Aegean, Theseus understood he would always be a stupid man with a thick stick, scratching his forehead long after the big event. But think, does he change his mind, turn back the ship, hunt up Ariadne and beg her pardon? Far better to be stupid by himself than smart because she’d been tugging on his arm; better to live in the eternal present with a boatload of ex-virgins than in that dark land of consequences promised by Ariadne, better to live like any one of us, thinking to outwit the darkness, but knowing it will catch us, that we will be surprised like the Minotaur on his couch when the door slams back and the hired gun of our personal destruction bursts upon us, upsetting the good times and scaring the girls. Better to be ignorant, to go into the future as into a long tunnel, without ball of yarn or clear direction, to tiptoe forward like any fool or saint or hero, jumpy, full of second thoughts, and bravely unprepared.

And you must appear willing to marry me,” Oliver said. “I understand.” “Do you? It means you’ll have to act as if you enjoy my company.” To his surprise, a small smile curved her lips. “I believe I can manage that.” Then, as if realizing she was softening, she wiped the smile from her face. “But you must behave responsibly, too.” “By not trying to seduce you, you mean.” She started. “No! I mean, yes…I mean, you already said you have more urgent concerns.” Alarm rose in her cheeks. “Oh dear, I forgot that you also said you have no honor or morals.” He’d made similar assertions half his life, yet tonight he regretted making them. Shocking young ladies seemed to have lost some of its appeal. “All the same, Miss Butterfield, I promise that your virtue is safe from me.” When she looked skeptical, he added, “You’re not the sort of woman I prefer.” A respectable woman came with strings attached. “Of course I’m not,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Anyone can see that.” That took him aback. She went on. “A man with no morals isn’t going to want a woman who has them. She’d never let him do anything wicked.” Freddy coughed, as if choking on something. Oliver understood why. Miss Butterfield had an unnerving way of cutting everything down to its essence. “Yes,” he said, for lack of a better response. “Quite.” Then he narrowed his gaze on her. “So what did you mean when you said I had to ‘behave responsibly’?” “You promised to find my fiancé, and I expect you to hold to your word.” “Ah, right. Your fiancé?” He kept forgetting about that. It was hard to imagine any woman sailing off across the ocean to hunt down her fiancé. No female would ever do such a thing for him. Not that he’d want her to. That would mean someone cared for him more than was wise, given his character.

The chorus of criticism culminated in a May 27 White House press conference that had me fielding tough questions on the oil spill for about an hour. I methodically listed everything we'd done since the Deepwater had exploded, and I described the technical intricacies of the various strategies being employed to cap the well. I acknowledged problems with MMS, as well as my own excessive confidence in the ability of companies like BP to safeguard against risk. I announced the formation of a national commission to review the disaster and figure out how such accidents could be prevented in the future, and I reemphasized the need for a long-term response that would make America less reliant on dirty fossil fuels. Reading the transcript now, a decade later, I'm struck by how calm and cogent I sound. Maybe I'm surprised because the transcript doesn't register what I remember feeling at the time or come close to capturing what I really wanted to say before the assembled White House press corps: That MMS wasn't fully equipped to do its job, in large part because for the past thirty years a big chunk of American voters had bought into the Republican idea that government was the problem and that business always knew better, and had elected leaders who made it their mission to gut environmental regulations, starve agency budgets, denigrate civil servants, and allow industrial polluters do whatever the hell they wanted to do. That the government didn't have better technology than BP did to quickly plug the hole because it would be expensive to have such technology on hand, and we Americans didn't like paying higher taxes - especially when it was to prepare for problems that hadn't happened yet. That it was hard to take seriously any criticism from a character like Bobby Jindal, who'd done Big Oil's bidding throughout his career and would go on to support an oil industry lawsuit trying to get a federal court to lift our temporary drilling moratorium; and that if he and other Gulf-elected officials were truly concerned about the well-being of their constituents, they'd be urging their party to stop denying the effects of climate change, since it was precisely the people of the Gulf who were the most likely to lose homes or jobs as a result of rising global temperatures. And that the only way to truly guarantee that we didn't have another catastrophic oil spill in the future was to stop drilling entirely; but that wasn't going to happen because at the end of the day we Americans loved our cheap gas and big cars more than we cared about the environment, except when a complete disaster was staring us in the face; and in the absence of such a disaster, the media rarely covered efforts to shift America off fossil fuels or pass climate legislation, since actually educating the public on long-term energy policy would be boring and bad for ratings; and the one thing I could be certain of was that for all the outrage being expressed at the moment about wetlands and sea turtles and pelicans, what the majority of us were really interested in was having the problem go away, for me to clean up yet one more mess decades in the making with some quick and easy fix, so that we could all go back to our carbon-spewing, energy-wasting ways without having to feel guilty about it. I didn't say any of that. Instead I somberly took responsibility and said it was my job to "get this fixed." Afterward, I scolded my press team, suggesting that if they'd done better work telling the story of everything we were doing to clean up the spill, I wouldn't have had to tap-dance for an hour while getting the crap kicked out of me. My press folks looked wounded. Sitting alone in the Treaty Room later that night, I felt bad about what I had said, knowing I'd misdirected my anger and frustration. It was those damned plumes of oil that I really wanted to curse out.

Strong underneath, though!’ decided Julian. ‘There’s no softness there, if you ask me. I think Emma’s got authority but it’s the best sort. It’s quiet authority . . .’ ‘Rita wasn’t exactly loud, Martin!’ Elizabeth pointed out, rather impatiently. ‘I bet Rita was very like Emma before she was elected head girl. Was she, Belinda? You must have been at Whyteleafe then.’ Belinda had been at Whyteleafe longer than the others. She had joined in the junior class. She frowned now, deep in thought. ‘Why, Elizabeth, I do believe you’re right! I remember overhearing some of the teachers say that Rita was a bit too young and as quiet as a mouse and might not be able to keep order! But they were proved wrong. Rita was nervous at the first Meeting or two. But after that she was such a success she stayed on as head girl for two years running.’ ‘There, Martin!’ said Elizabeth. ‘Lucky the teachers don’t have any say in it then, isn’t it?’ laughed Julian. ‘I think all schools should be run by the pupils, the way ours is.’ ‘What about Nora?’ asked Jenny, suddenly. ‘She wouldn’t be nervous of going on the platform.’ ‘She’d be good in some ways,’ said Belinda, her mind now made up, ‘but I don’t think she’d be as good as Emma . . .’ They discussed it further. By the end, Elizabeth felt well satisfied. Everyone seemed to agree that Thomas was the right choice for head boy. And apart from Martin, who didn’t know who he wanted, and Jenny, who still favoured Nora, everyone seemed to agree with her about Emma. Because of the way that Whyteleafe School was run, in Elizabeth’s opinion it was extremely important to get the right head boy and head girl. And she’d set her heart on Thomas and Emma. She felt that this discussion was a promising start. Then suddenly, near the end of the train journey, Belinda raised something which made Elizabeth’s scalp prickle with excitement. ‘We haven’t even talked about our own election! For a monitor to replace Susan. Now she’s going up into the third form, we’ll need someone new. We’ve got Joan, of course, but the second form always has two.’ She was looking straight at Elizabeth! ‘We all think you should be the other monitor, Elizabeth,’ explained Jenny. ‘We talked amongst ourselves at the end of last term and everyone agreed. Would you be willing to stand?’ ‘I – I—’ Elizabeth was quite lost for words. Speechless with pleasure! She had already been a monitor once and William and Rita had promised that her chance to be a monitor would surely come again. But she’d never expected it to come so soon! ‘You see, Elizabeth,’ Joan said gently, having been in on the secret, ‘everyone thinks it was very fine the way you stood down in favour of Susan last term. And that it’s only fair you should take her place now she’s going up.’ ‘Not to mention all the things you’ve done for the school. Even if we do always think of you as the Naughtiest Girl!’ laughed Kathleen. ‘We were really proud of you last term, Elizabeth. We were proud that you were in our form!’ ‘So would you be willing to stand?’ repeated Jenny. ‘Oh, yes, please!’ exclaimed Elizabeth, glancing across at Joan in delight. Their classmates wanted her to be a monitor again, with her best friend Joan! The two of them would be second form monitors together. ‘There’s nothing I’d like better!’ she added. What a wonderful surprise. What a marvellous term this was going to be! They all piled off at the station and watched their luggage being loaded on to the school coach. Julian gave Elizabeth’s back a pat. There was an amused gleam in his eyes. ‘Well, well. It looks as though the Naughtiest Girl is going to be made a monitor again. At the first Meeting. When will that be? This Saturday? Can she last that long without misbehaving?’ ‘Of course I can, Julian,’ replied Elizabeth, refusing to be amused. ‘I’m going to jolly well make certain of that!’ That, at least, was her intention.

Reading the transcript now, a decade later, I’m struck by how calm and cogent I sound. Maybe I’m surprised because the transcript doesn’t register what I remember feeling at the time or come close to capturing what I really wanted to say before the assembled White House press corps: That MMS wasn’t fully equipped to do its job, in large part because for the past thirty years a big chunk of American voters had bought into the Republican idea that government was the problem and that business always knew better, and had elected leaders who made it their mission to gut environmental regulations, starve agency budgets, denigrate civil servants, and allow industrial polluters do whatever the hell they wanted to do. That the government didn’t have better technology than BP did to quickly plug the hole because it would be expensive to have such technology on hand, and we Americans didn’t like paying higher taxes—especially when it was to prepare for problems that hadn’t happened yet. That it was hard to take seriously any criticism from a character like Bobby Jindal, who’d done Big Oil’s bidding throughout his career and would go on to support an oil industry lawsuit trying to get a federal court to lift our temporary drilling moratorium; and that if he and other Gulf-elected officials were truly concerned about the well-being of their constituents, they’d be urging their party to stop denying the effects of climate change, since it was precisely the people of the Gulf who were the most likely to lose homes or jobs as a result of rising global temperatures. And that the only way to truly guarantee that we didn’t have another catastrophic oil spill in the future was to stop drilling entirely; but that wasn’t going to happen because at the end of the day we Americans loved our cheap gas and big cars more than we cared about the environment, except when a complete disaster was staring us in the face; and in the absence of such a disaster,

and Bran was suddenly afraid. Old sour-smelling Yoren looked up at Robb, unimpressed. “Whatever you say, m’lord,” he said. He sucked at a piece of meat between his teeth. The youngest of the black brothers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There’s not a man on the Wall knows the haunted forest better than Benjen Stark. He’ll find his way back.” “Well,” said Yoren, “maybe he will and maybe he won’t. Good men have gone into those woods before, and never come out.” All Bran could think of was Old Nan’s story of the Others and the last hero, hounded through the white woods by dead men and spiders big as hounds. He was afraid for a moment, until he remembered how that story ended. “The children will help him,” he blurted, “the children of the forest!” Theon Greyjoy sniggered, and Maester Luwin said, “Bran, the children of the forest have been dead and gone for thousands of years. All that is left of them are the faces in the trees.” “Down here, might be that’s true, Maester,” Yoren said, “but up past the Wall, who’s to say? Up there, a man can’t always tell what’s alive and what’s dead.” That night, after the plates had been cleared, Robb carried Bran up to bed himself. Grey Wind led the way, and Summer came close behind. His brother was strong for his age, and Bran was as light as a bundle of rags, but the stairs were steep and dark, and Robb was breathing hard by the time they reached the top. He put Bran into bed, covered him with blankets, and blew out the candle. For a time Robb sat beside him in the dark. Bran wanted to talk to him, but he did not know what to say. “We’ll find a horse for you, I promise,” Robb whispered at last. “Are they ever coming back?” Bran asked him. “Yes,” Robb said with such hope in his voice that Bran knew he was hearing his brother and not just Robb the Lord. “Mother will be home soon. Maybe we can ride out to meet her when she comes. Wouldn’t that surprise her, to see you ahorse?” Even in the dark room, Bran could feel his brother’s smile. “And afterward, we’ll ride north to see the Wall. We won’t even tell Jon we’re coming, we’ll just be there one day, you and me. It will be an adventure.” “An adventure,” Bran repeated wistfully. He heard his brother sob. The room was so dark he could not see the tears on Robb’s face, so he reached out and found his hand. Their fingers twined together. EDDARD “Lord Arryn’s death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord,” Grand Maester Pycelle said.

As he gazed at the sun-darkened, battle-worn warriors before him, he decided that he would rather fight a hundred enemies by himself than have to stand up in public and risk the disapproval of others. Until the moment he opened his mouth, Eragon was not sure what he was going to say. Once he started, the words seemed to pour out of their own accord, but he was so tense, he could not remember much of what he said. The speech passed in a blur; his main impressions were of heat and sweat, the groans of the warriors when they learned of Nasuada’s fate, the ragged cheers when he exhorted them to victory, and the general roar from the crowd when he finished. With relief, he jumped down from the back of the wagon to where Arya and Orik were waiting next to Saphira. As he did, his guards formed a circle around the four of them, shielding them from the crowd and holding back those who wished to speak with him. “Well done, Eragon!” said Orik, clapping him on the arm. “Was it?” Eragon asked, feeling dazed. “You were most eloquent,” said Arya. Eragon shrugged, embarrassed. It intimidated him to remember that Arya had known most of the leaders of the Varden, and he could not help but think that Ajihad or his predecessor, Deynor, would have done a better job with the speech. Orik pulled on his sleeve. Eragon bent toward the dwarf. In a voice barely loud enough to be heard over the crowd, Orik said, “I hope that whatever you find is worth the trip, my friend. Take care you don’t get yourselves killed, eh?” “I’ll try not to.” To Eragon’s surprise, Orik grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him into a rough embrace. “May Gûntera watch over you.” As they separated, Orik reached over and slapped the palm of his hand against Saphira’s side. “And you as well, Saphira. Safe journeys to the both of you.” Saphira responded with a low hum. Eragon looked over at Arya. He suddenly felt awkward, unable to think of anything but the most obvious things to say. The beauty of her eyes still captivated him; the effect she had on him never seemed to lessen. Then she took his head in her hands, and she kissed him once, formally, on the brow. Eragon stared at her, dumbstruck. “Guliä waíse medh ono, Argetlam.” Luck be with you, Silverhand. As she released him, he caught her hands in his own. “Nothing bad is going to happen to us. I won’t let it. Not even if Galbatorix is waiting for us. If I have to, I’ll tear apart mountains with my bare hands, but I promise, we’re going to make it back safely.” Before she could respond, he let go of her hands and climbed onto Saphira’s back.

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.

Charlotte’s disheveled blond head was buried in his chest. It took him too long, floating in the blissful aftermath, to realize that she was crying. Horror blasted his satisfaction to ash. He reared back and placed his hands on either side of her head, forcing her face up until he could see her eyes. “Mo leannan, mo chridhe, I’ve hurt you. I’m so sorry. I tried to be gentle, but you were like fire in my arms. I acted like a damn barbarian. Will you ever forgive me?” She regarded him with drenched eyes as a frown drew her brows together. “Ewan, what on earth are you talking about?” He dug his fingers into her thick, warm hair. “You’re crying,” he said flatly, sick with guilt. Her lips turned down in disapproval. “I suppose you expect me to tell you why.” “For God’s sake, just tell me I didn’t hurt you.” He leaned forward and traced kisses across her brow and down her temple where he felt the deep beat of her blood. “You didn’t.” Her hands encircled his wrists. “Well, a little. At first. But then…” “Thank heaven,” he breathed, kissing the salty moisture from her fluttering eyelashes. Under his wandering lips, he felt warmth flood her cheeks. “Then it was wonderful.” “Nonetheless you cried.” He drew back to stare into her face, trying to see past her beauty to what went on in her mind. “Are you lying to make me feel better?” She released a choked laugh and tried to avoid his gaze. “When have I ever tried to make you feel better?” “When have you ever cried?” “Oh, curse you, Ewan. Can’t you leave it alone?” With some difficulty, she tugged free and sat up. “Not when you’re unhappy.” He rose until he sat in front of her. She scowled. “You’re going to make me admit it, aren’t you?” By the second, guilt and worry faded. In their place came a great happiness that turned the whole world golden. “Admit what, Charlotte?” he asked, hoping like hell he hadn’t mistaken where she was going. She swallowed, her slender throat working. Her voice was low and vibrant with emotion. “I had no idea it could be like that. You made me feel things I never imagined were possible.” “Good things?” “Now you’re just looking for compliments.” “Charlotte,” he said warningly. Her lips curved. “Marvelous, wondrous, extraordinary things.” Lyle should be happy. After all, not long ago, the thought that she wouldn’t have him under any circumstances had tormented him. Hell, not much more than a day ago, she’d baulked at letting him into the house. Now she’d given him a promise of marriage and commended his lovemaking. He was a fool to want more, but for one luminous moment, he’d hoped she might declare her love. “It’s your first time,” he said in a gloomy voice. “I’m not surprised you’re feeling a wee bit floaty.” She stared hard at him. “First time or hundredth time, I believe it’s something remarkable between us that made it like that.” “Like what?” “Like the beauty tore my soul into pieces.” Her voice was husky. His heart crashed against his ribs at her confession. Surely that was enough. Why couldn’t he accept what she offered? She told him everything he wanted to hear—except the most important words of all. “That’s just pleasure.” She gave him the familiar unimpressed look. “I’m no expert, Ewan, but I’m pretty sure that pleasure alone wouldn’t make me cry.” She bit her lip, and her eyes deepened to dark honey. “Only love could make me cry.

surprise it's better than promises

Surprised at Kaye’s belated display of maternal instincts, Sean relented, promising he’d get in touch with Lily. Besides, he knew his own mother would never forgive him if he refused such a simple request. As he made his way down the narrow streets to the pensione opposite the Pantheon, where Lily and her roommate were staying, Sean steadfastly refused to acknowledge any other reason for agreeing to take Lily out. It had been three years since they’d left for college, not once had she come home to visit. But Sean still couldn’t look at a blonde without comparing her to Lily. He’d mounted the four flights of narrow, winding stairs, the sound of his steps muffled by red, threadbare carpet. At number seventeen, he’d stopped and stood, giving his racing heart a chance to quiet before he knocked. Calm down, he’d instructed himself. It’s only Lily. His knock echoed loudly in the empty hall. Through the door he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Then it opened and there she was. She stood with her mouth agape. Her eyes, like beacons of light in the obscurity of the drab hallway, blinked at him with astonishment. “What are you doing here?” The question ended on a squeak. As if annoyed with the sound, she shut her mouth with an audible snap. Was it possible Kaye hadn’t bothered to tell Lily he’d be coming? “I heard you were spending a few days in Rome.” Sean realized he was staring like a dolt, but couldn’t help himself. It rattled him, seeing Lily again. A barrage of emotions and impressions mixed and churned inside him: how good she looked, different somehow, more self-confident than in high school, how maybe this time they might get along for more than 3.5 seconds. He became aware of a happy buzz of anticipation zinging through him. He was already picturing the two of them at a really nice trattoria. They’d be sitting at an intimate corner table. A waiter would come and take their order and Sean would impress her with his flawless Italian, his casual sophistication, his sprezzatura. By the time the waiter had served them their dessert and espresso, she’d be smiling at him across the soft candlelight. He’d reach out and take her hand. . . . Then Lily spoke again and Sean’s neat fantasy evaporated like a puff of smoke. “But how did you know I was here?” she’d asked, with what he’d conceitedly assumed was genuine confusion—that is, until a guy their age appeared. Standing just behind Lily, he had stared back at Sean through the aperture of the open door with a knowing smirk upon his face. And suddenly Sean understood. Lily wasn’t frowning from confusion. She was annoyed. Annoyed because he’d barged in on her and Lover Boy. Lily didn’t give a damn about him. At the realization, his jumbled thoughts at seeing her again, all those newborn hopes inside him, faded to black. His brain must have shorted after that. Suave, sophisticated guy that he was, Sean had blurted out, “Hey, this wasn’t my idea. I only came because Kaye begged me to—” Stupendously dumb. He knew better, had known since he was eight years old. If you wanted to push Lily Banyon into the red zone, all it took was a whispered, “Kaye.” The door to her hotel room had come at his face faster than a bullet train. He guessed he should be grateful she hadn’t been using a more lethal weapon, like the volleyball she’d smashed in his face during gym class back in eleventh grade. Even so, he’d been forced to jump back or have the number seventeen imprinted on his forehead. Their last skirmish, the one back in Rome, he’d definitely lost. He’d stood outside her room like a fool, Lover Boy’s laughter his only reply. Finally, the pensione’s night clerk had appeared, insisting he leave la bella americana in peace. He’d gone away, humiliated and oddly deflated.

People often find potential more interesting than accomplishment because it’s more uncertain, the researchers argue. That uncertainty can lead people to think more deeply about the person they’re evaluating—and the more intensive processing that requires can lead to generating more and better reasons why the person is a good choice. So next time you’re selling yourself, don’t fixate only on what you achieved yesterday. Also emphasize the promise of what you could accomplish tomorrow.

The Sister Bells had neither a sad nor fearful ring. At the core of each chime was a vibrancy, a promise of a better spring, a resonance coloured by beautiful, sustained vibrations. Their sound penetrated deeply, creating mirages in the mind and touching the most hardened of men. With a skilful bell-ringer the Sister Bells could turn doubters into churchgoers, and the explanation for their powerful tone was that they were malmfulle - that silver had been added to the bronze when the church bells were cast. The more silver, the more beautiful and resonant the chime. The skilfully crafted moulds and bronze had already cost Eirik Hekne a fortune, far more than his twin daughters had ever earned with their weaves. In the madness of his grief he went to the melting pot and threw in all his silver cutlery, then shoved his big working hands deep into his pockets and threw two fistfuls of silver dalers into the boiling alloy, coins that stayed on the surface surprisingly long, before they melted and the bubbles rose

I also believe strongly in the powerful words: “I took the road less traveled, and that has made all the difference.” They are good ones to live by. The big, final motivator was that I really wasn’t enjoying my university studies. I loved the Brunel and our small group of buddies there, but the actual university experience was killing me. (Not the workload, I hasten to add, which was pleasantly chilled, but rather the whole deal of feeling like just another student.) Sure, I like the chilled lifestyle (like the daily swim I took naked in the ornamental lake in the car park), but it was more than that. I just didn’t like being so unmotivated. It didn’t feel good for the soul. This wasn’t what I had hoped for in my life. I felt impatient to get on and do something. (Oh, and I was learning to dislike the German language in a way that was definitely not healthy.) So I decided it was time to make a decision. Via the OTC, Trucker and I quietly went to see the ex-SAS officer to get his advice on our Special Forces Selection aspirations. I was nervous telling him. He knew we were troublemakers, and that we had never taken any of the OTC military routine at all seriously. But to my amazement he wasn’t the least bit surprised at what we told him. He just smiled, almost knowingly, and told us we would probably fit in well--that was if we passed. He said the SAS attracted misfits and characters--but only those who could first prove themselves worthy. He then told us something great, that I have always remembered. “Everyone who attempts Selection has the basic mark-one body: two arms, two legs, one head, and one pumping set of lungs. What makes the difference between those that make it and those that don’t, is what goes on in here,” he said, touching his chest. “Heart is what makes the big difference. Only you know if you have got what it takes. Good luck…oh, and if you pass I will treat you both to lunch, on me.” That was quite a promise from an officer--to part with money. So that was that. Trucker and I wrote to 21 SAS HQ, nervously requesting to be put forward for Selection. They would do their initial security clearances on us both, and then would hopefully write, offering us (or not) a place on pre-Selection--including dates, times, and joining instructions. All we could do was wait, start training hard, and pray. I tossed all my German study manuals unceremoniously into the bin and felt a million times better. And deep down I had the feeling that I might just be embarking on the adventure of a lifetime. On top of that, there was no Deborah Maldives saying I needed a degree to join the SAS. The only qualification I needed was inside that beating heart of mine.

What happened?” Harper swallowed, unsure what to tell his daughter. What had Cat told her? “I was shot a couple of weeks ago.” Her eyes flashed to his as if to see if he were telling the truth. “Seriously?” He nodded. “But I’m okay. No big deal,” he assured her. She shook her head, stepping closer. Her hand lifted as if she wanted to touch the wound but she stopped. “Does it still hurt?” “Not much. I’m kind of used to it.” Crossing her arms, she looked up at him, considering. “Mom told me you had been hurt but she didn’t say how or why. I thought she was lying to me again.” Harper winced. “She wasn’t lying. I was shot in the chest and I was hit by glass when my scope was hit. I lost the vision in my right eye.” He rubbed at the scars on his face a little self-consciously. She blinked. “Isn’t that your shooting eye?” Harper looked at her, considering. Damn, she was sharp. “Yes, it is. I’m going to have to teach myself to shoot again. I don’t really shoot much at work, but it’s a skill I need to keep.” Dillon shook her head again, her expression forlorn. “Where do you work now? Mom didn’t know. And we haven’t heard from you in so long. It was like you disappeared off the earth. And now you’re hurt.” Tears filled her eyes again and one slipped down her cheek. She swiped it away angrily, but more began to follow. “Oh, honey.” Harper dared to take a step toward her, heartened when she didn’t bolt. “I’m okay. I really am. And I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you. Believe it or not I’ve missed you too—I just didn’t feel like I could be at home with you for a while. Not because of anything you did, but because of things that were going on in my head. I had to get them straightened out so that I could be with you guys.” Dillon didn’t look like she believed him, but at least she was listening. “I swear to you I wanted to come home, but I couldn’t risk you guys. In my old job with the SEALs I had to go to war in bad places.” “Afghanistan?” He stopped, surprised. But then, why was he surprised? Dillon was damn smart. “Yes. I was there for a good while. And a bunch of other places. And when you get used to doing something, like fighting in a war, it’s hard to change when you come home. I had problems getting used to not fighting. Do you understand?” She nodded, arms still wrapped around herself. “So rather than run the chance of maybe waking up one night and hurting you guys I moved out. It wasn’t because your mom and I had problems, it wasn’t because I didn’t love you and it definitely wasn’t because of anything you kids did. It was just me. Fighting myself in my head. And I worried that if I talked to you guys I wouldn’t be able to stay away.” Tears were still dripping down her cheeks. Harper dared to reach out and tuck a mussed strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “But I promise you I won’t leave you again. Not like this. And I promise I will always talk to you. Okay?” She nodded and took a step forward, as if seeking reassurance. Harper opened his arms for a hug and she folded into him, sobbing. “Oh, baby girl, I love you so much. I’m sorry I hurt you but I really did think it would be better if I just disappeared.” He ran his hands down her long hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Do you think you can forgive me? I really miss talking to you.” She nodded her head against him and wrapped her arms around him to squeeze, then pulled back with a gasp. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Harper smiled. “Nope. Not enough to notice.” He pulled her back for another hug and another kiss on top of her head. “Wanna grab some breakfast?” Dillon nodded and they headed to the kitchen, his arm around her shoulders.

What the f**k is this?” Trevor didn’t rise to the bait, as he hadn’t for the last several days. Calmly, he asked, “What?” “This.” Edgard threw the pristine, custom-made saddle on the ground within Trevor’s peripheral view. Shit. How had Edgard found it? And why in the hell had that bastard gone snooping around instead of figuring out what was wrong with Meridian like he’d promised? “Trev? I asked you a question.” “You know damn good and well what it is, Ed.” “I figured you would’ve gotten rid of it by now.” “Well, I didn’t.” Edgard practically growled, “That don’t tell me why you still have it. That don’t tell me nothin’.” Trevor turned his face toward the opposite fence to gaze across to the mountains. His reasons for keeping the saddle seemed sentimental, sloppy and stupid now, but he’d be damned if he’d share those reasons with anyone, least of all Edgard, the man responsible for those feelings. Bootsteps made a sucking sound in the muck of the corral as Edgard closed the short distance between them. “I ain’t gonna drop it. Answer me.” “Fine. You said I could do whatever I wanted with it. So I kept it.” “You didn’t use it at all, did you?” Trevor shook his head, keeping his eyes averted. “Why not?” “I have plenty of other saddles, saddles I like better.” “That’s a piss-poor excuse. Try again.” He stayed mum, wishing the damn mud would open up and swallow him like a sinkhole. “Were you hoping if you kept it I’d come back?” Trevor’s heart said yes but his mouth stayed tight as a rusty hinge. “Answer the f**king question, Trevor.” Edgard’s arrogant streak snapped Trevor’s forced patience. “What do you want me to say? It’s obvious I saved the goddamn saddle.” “Why?” “Because it reminded me of you, all right?” He kicked a chunk of mud and stalked away. “Fuck this and f**k you.” Edgard rattled off something in Portuguese, something Trevor vaguely remembered as being a plea. Or was it a threat? Dammit. His feet stopped. Trevor’s gaze zeroed in on Edgard, who’d circled him until they were standing less than a foot apart. “Tell me why.” Be cruel, that’ll nip this in the bud once and for all. “I didn’t keep the f**kin’ thing because I had some girlish goddamn hope you’d come back lookin’ for it like Cinderella’s lost glass slipper, and we’d pick up where we left off after you left me.” He locked his eyes to the liquid heat in Edgard’s, not allowing the man to look away. “Especially after you made it crystal clear you weren’t ever comin’ back.” Angry puffs of breath distorted the air between them. Several beats passed before Edgard retorted, “But I am here now, aren’t I?” “What? Am I supposed to be flippin’ cartwheels about that fact? I don’t know what you want from me, Ed. Take the saddle back if that’ll make you happy. I’ve got no use for it. I never did.” Angry, disgusted with himself, Edgard, and the whole uncomfortable situation, Trevor spun and walked toward the barn. Edgard laughed—the taunting, soft laughter that was guaranteed to raise Trevor’s hackles and his ire. “It’s that easy for you? To get pissed off and walk away?” “Yep. You’ve got no right to act so goddamned surprised since it’s a trick I learned from you, amigo.” Not two seconds later, the air left Trevor’s lungs as Edgard tackled him to the ground. Trevor rolled to dislodge the man from his back; Edgard countered, took a swing and missed. Trevor bucked and twisted his shoulders, but Edgard anticipated the move and used the momentum against Trevor to try and shove Trevor’s face against the fence. Before Edgard cornered him and held him down completely to land a punch, Trevor rolled again and pushed to his feet. A noise echoed behind him, but he ignored it as he fisted his hands in Edgard’s shearling coat, dragging him upright until they were nose to nose.

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.

of Business.*11 They’ve completed their humor audits (just as you will—read on!), and now they’re ready to start paying attention to the nuances of humor in their lives—where they see it in the world, what they find funny, who brings it out in them, and how they most naturally express it. Over the course of the semester, our students experience a profound shift. What begins as a sobering, often (very) unfunny first class (remember: “On Tuesday, I did not laugh once. Not once. Who knew a class about humor could be so depressing?”) ends with students reporting significantly more joy and more laughter in their lives. This shift is about more than their becoming funnier: They become more generous with their laughter. They notice opportunities for humor that would otherwise pass them by. The mindset of looking for reasons to be delighted becomes a habit. In a very real way, they learned how to move a little more fluidly, how to exercise with better form, and play their favorite (amateur) sport with better results—just as you will. When you walk around on the precipice of a smile, you’ll be surprised how many things you encounter that push you over the edge. So, repeat after us: “I promise to laugh more. Even on Tuesday.” THE HUMOR AUDIT*12 WHAT DOES HUMOR LOOK LIKE IN MY LIFE? This exercise is intended to spark self-awareness about various aspects of your unique sense of humor, so you can more

Rhys smiled a bit, but the amusement died as he said, 'Tamlin was younger than me- born when the War started. But after the War, when he'd matured, we got to know each other at various court functions. He...' Rhys clenched his jaw. 'He seemed decent for a High Lord's son. Better than Beron's brood at the Autumn Court. Tamlin's brothers were equally as bad, though. Worse. And they knew Tamlin would take the title one day. And to a half-breed Illyrian who'd have to prove himself, defend his power, I saw what Tamlin went through... I befriended him. Sought him out whenever I was able to get away from the war camps or court. Maybe it was pity, but... I taught him some Illyrian techniques.' 'Did anyone know?' ... 'Cassian and Azriel knew,' Rhys went on. 'My family knew. And disapproved.' His eyes were chips of ice. 'But Tamlin's father was threatened by it. By me. And because he was weaker than both me and Tamlin, he wanted to prove to the world that he wasn't. My mother and sister were to travel to the Illyrian war-camp to see me. I was supposed to meet them halfway, but I was busy training a new unit and decided to stay.' My stomach turned over and over and over, and I wished I had something to lean against as Rhys said, 'Tamlin's father, brothers, and Tamlin himself set out into the Illyrian wilderness, having heard from Tamlin- from me- where my mother and sister would be, that I had plans to see them. I was supposed to be there. I wasn't. And they slaughtered my mother and sister anyway.' I began shaking my head, eyes burning. I didn't know what I was trying to deny, or erase, or condemn. 'It should have been me,' he said, and I understood- understood what he'd said that day I'd wept before Cassian in the training pit. 'They put their heads in boxes and sent them down the river- to the nearest camp. Tamlin's father kept their wings as trophies. I'm surprised you didn't see them pinned in the study.' I was going to vomit; I was going to fall to my knees and weep. ... Rhys merely continued. 'When I heard, when my father heard... I wasn't wholly truthful to you when I told you Under the Mountain that my father killed Tamlin's father and brothers, I went with him. Helped him. We winnowed to the edge of the Spring Court that night, then went the rest of the way on foot- tot he manor. I slew Tamlin's brothers on sight. I held their minds, and rendered them helpless while I cut them into pieces, then melted their brains inside their skulls. And when I got to the High Lord's bedroom- he was dead. And my father... my father had killed Tamlin's mother as well.' I couldn't stop shaking my head. 'My father had promised not to touch her. That we weren't the kind of males who would do that. But he lied to me, and he did it, anyway. And then he went for Tamlin's room.' I couldn't breathe- couldn't breathe as Rhys said, 'I tried to stop him. He didn't listen. He was going to kill him, too. And I couldn't... After all the death, I was done. I didn't care that Tamlin had been there, had allowed them to kill my mother and sister, that he'd come to kill me because he didn't want to risk standing against them. I was done with death. So I stopped my father before the door. He tried to go through me. Tamlin opened the door, saw us- smelled the blood already leaking into the hallway. And I didn't even get to say a word before Tamlin killed my father in one blow.' 'I felt the power shift to me, even as I saw it shift to him. And we just looked at each other, as we were both suddenly crowned High Lord- and then I ran.' He'd murdered Rhysand's family. The High Lord I'd loved- he'd murdered his friend's family, and when I'd asked how his family died, he'd merely told me a rival court had done it. Rhysand had done it, and- 'He didn't tell you any of that.

Rhys smiled a bit, but the amusement died as he said, 'Tamlin was younger than me- born when the War started. But after the War, when he'd matured, we got to know each other at various court functions. He...' Rhys clenched his jaw. 'He seemed decent for a High Lord's son. Better than Beron's brood at the Autumn Court. Tamlin's brothers were equally as bad, though. Worse. And they knew Tamlin would take the title one day. And to a half-breed Illyrian who'd had to prove himself, defend his power, I saw what Tamlin went through... I befriended him. Sought him out whenever I was able to get away from the war camps or court. Maybe it was pity, but... I taught him some Illyrian techniques.' 'Did anyone know?' ... 'Cassian and Azriel knew,' Rhys went on. 'My family knew. And disapproved.' His eyes were chips of ice. 'But Tamlin's father was threatened by it. By me. And because he was weaker than both me and Tamlin, he wanted to prove to the world that he wasn't. My mother and sister were to travel to the Illyrian war-camp to see me. I was supposed to meet them halfway, but I was busy training a new unit and decided to stay.' My stomach turned over and over and over, and I wished I had something to lean against as Rhys said, 'Tamlin's father, brothers, and Tamlin himself set out into the Illyrian wilderness, having heard from Tamlin- from me- where my mother and sister would be, that I had plans to see them. I was supposed to be there. I wasn't. And they slaughtered my mother and sister anyway.' I began shaking my head, eyes burning. I didn't know what I was trying to deny, or erase, or condemn. 'It should have been me,' he said, and I understood- understood what he'd said that day I'd wept before Cassian in the training pit. 'They put their heads in boxes and sent them down the river- to the nearest camp. Tamlin's father kept their wings as trophies. I'm surprised you didn't see them pinned in the study.' I was going to vomit; I was going to fall to my knees and weep. ... Rhys merely continued. 'When I heard, when my father heard... I wasn't wholly truthful to you when I told you Under the Mountain that my father killed Tamlin's father and brothers, I went with him. Helped him. We winnowed to the edge of the Spring Court that night, then went the rest of the way on foot- to the manor. I slew Tamlin's brothers on sight. I held their minds, and rendered them helpless while I cut them into pieces, then melted their brains inside their skulls. And when I got to the High Lord's bedroom- he was dead. And my father... my father had killed Tamlin's mother as well.' I couldn't stop shaking my head. 'My father had promised not to touch her. That we weren't the kind of males who would do that. But he lied to me, and he did it, anyway. And then he went for Tamlin's room.' I couldn't breathe- couldn't breathe as Rhys said, 'I tried to stop him. He didn't listen. He was going to kill him, too. And I couldn't... After all the death, I was done. I didn't care that Tamlin had been there, had allowed them to kill my mother and sister, that he'd come to kill me because he didn't want to risk standing against them. I was done with death. So I stopped my father before the door. He tried to go through me. Tamlin opened the door, saw us- smelled the blood already leaking into the hallway. And I didn't even get to say a word before Tamlin killed my father in one blow.' 'I felt the power shift to me, even as I saw it shift to him. And we just looked at each other, as we were both suddenly crowned High Lord- and then I ran.' He'd murdered Rhysand's family. The High Lord I'd loved- he'd murdered his friend's family, and when I'd asked how his family died, he'd merely told me a rival court had done it. Rhysand had done it, and- 'He didn't tell you any of that.

Monday night marked our first Astrology Class in the Earth Observatory. And it didn't start until eight o'clock. I was distracted during my Liaison while Orion sat across his desk from me, attempting to explain Nymph anatomy in greater detail while I tried not to wonder what those lips would feel like against more places than my neck. I bet his kisses taste like bourbon and power. “Miss Vega?” I blinked, snapping myself out of my latest dirty daydream as Orion rose from his seat. “Time's up,” he answered my questioning expression. “I'm so glad I didn't waste my time tonight. You've been listening so attentively.” His narrowed eyes told me that was sarcasm and I gave him an apologetic grin. Well I had fun anyway. I gathered up my bag, wishing I could head back to my room, have a shower and change out of this uniform. But according to the email I'd received when the class had been added to my timetable, we had to turn up dressed in the Zodiac uniform even for lessons after hours. “I'll walk you back to your House,” Orion said. “And maybe on the way you can tell me exactly what you've spent the last hour thinking about.” He strode toward the door with a smirk and I followed him across the room, my heart pitter-pattering. “No thanks, I've got Astrology now, sir,” I said, saying absolutely nothing more about my daydreams. Those can never see the light of day. “Then I'll take you to Earth Observatory.” Orion stepped out into the hall, waiting for me as I followed. I frowned at him. “I think I can manage a ten minute walk alone.” “Well I'm heading in that direction anyway so we may as well go together.” Orion headed off and I fell into step beside him, fighting an eye-roll. We headed onto the path beyond Jupiter Hall and a yawn pulled at my mouth as we turned in the direction of Earth Observatory. Students were spilling out of The Orb heading back to their Houses, but I wasn't jealous. Despite the long-ass day I'd had, I was excited to attend my first ever Astrology class. Supposedly our schedule was going to fill up even more once we passed The Reckoning. Or if we passed it. God I hope we do. We might end up back in Chicago after all. Even Darius’s gold doesn’t make me feel much better about that. I spent most of my free time practising Elemental magic with Tory and the others in preparation for the exam. Orion was still refusing to teach us anything practical in class, and I half wondered if his vague promises of practical lessons would really ever come to fruition. I stole a look at him as we walked in perfect silence, finding it surprisingly not awkward. I noticed the deep set of his eyes, the way his shoulders were slightly tense and his fingers were flexing a little. “Are you expecting an ambush?” I teased and he glanced my way, his expression deadly serious. “You should always expect an ambush, Miss Vega.” “Oh,” I breathed, figuring he was probably right considering the way the Fae world carried on. I'd not really thought about what it might be like to live somewhere beyond the walls of the Academy. Would it be just as cut-throat out there as it was in here? “Darcy!” Sofia's voice caught my attention and I spotted her up ahead with Diego, standing outside the observatory. She beckoned me over and I stopped walking, looking to Orion to say goodbye. He turned to me too and a strange energy passed between us as we simply stood there for much longer than was necessary. Why are we even stopping to say goodbye? Why am I not just walking away now? He half tipped his head then shot away at high-speed, disappearing back the way we'd come. So he hadn’t been heading this way. I knew it. His casual stalking was clearly to do with his worries over a Nymph getting its probes into my magic. “Daaarccccyy!” Sofia sang and I turned back to them, finding her on Diego's back, waving her arms. (Darcy)

And so it should. The raw shock on Archer's handsome face was better than I could have hoped for. I expected him to make a scene. To yell at us and get all fired up with piss and vinegar and ultimately cheat me of what was promising to be a glorious climax. But he surprised me, for once. He didn't shout and scream. He didn't throw insults. He just stood there, transfixed. "Shit," Kody cursed, clearly seeing Archer as well. "Fuck right off, dude," he snapped with pure venom.

Isn’t she wonderful?” Oliver’s voice held the same fatuous tone it had when he’d declared himself in love with Miss Smyth, the post’s newest laundress. Though he knew the answer to the question, Ethan couldn’t help teasing Oliver. “Isn’t who wonderful?” Oliver’s eyes widened, as if the answer should be apparent. “Miss Harding. Abigail. She’s the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met.” Ethan wouldn’t disagree with that assessment, even though he could not imagine Abigail as Mrs. Oliver Seton. “You think she’s wonderful even though she refused you?” “She’ll change her mind. I know she will. I tell you, Ethan, she’s the woman for me, even if she’s not as beautiful as her sister.” Ethan blinked in surprise. “You think Charlotte’s prettier than Abigail?” Oliver nodded. “Any man with eyes can see that, but Jeffrey spotted her first. Lucky man. Abigail’s next best.” The thought of Abigail as second best made Ethan clench his fists. Charlotte had a head filled with air. She would never have tried to help him out of the doldrums as Abigail had done, for she would not have even known he had sunk into the mire. Second best? Hah! “You’re crazy, Oliver. Anyone can see that Abigail’s twice the woman Charlotte is. I’m not denying that Charlotte is pretty, but Abigail is in a class of her own.” Oliver’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Ethan. “It sounds like you’re interested in her yourself.” Ridiculous. The thought was absurd. “Of course I’m not. I’m only pointing out the facts.” “I’m warning you, Ethan. You may outrank me, but you’d better not be setting your sights on Miss Harding, because I aim to marry her.” Without waiting for a reply, Oliver stalked away.

All girls love the idea of Almack’s. They spend the majority of their early years envisioning exactly what their first evening there will be like. They go all starry-eyed about the ruddy place, imagining just who will be the first man to steal their hearts.” “Not these girls,” piped in Ella. “I, for one, have no interest at all in having my heart stolen,” Alex interjected, ire rising. Gavin leaned back in his chair and studied the trio of girls, taking note of Alex’s rising temper. “To be honest, Nick, I’d be surprised to hear these three speaking of having their hearts stolen…with an attitude like this…I’m guessing this lot is much more interested in who will be the first man to have his heart stolen—they don’t seem the wall-flower type.” Alex exploded in irritation. “Why is it that men believe that all women care to think about is the trappings of romance and love? You really don’t consider the possibility that there’s anything more to us, do you?” The boys looked at each other and turned to the girls with expressions that clearly articulated the answer to her question—rendering words unnecessary. “Fools,” Alex mumbled under her breath. “In actual fact, gentlemen, I think we’d all much prefer to steer clear of heart stealing of any kind, victim or perpetrator,” Alex continued. “Of course, you lot wouldn’t understand that. You’re never going to be forced into dancing with some namby-pamby so your mothers can feel better about your marriage prospects.” Will snorted in laughter. “Spoken like someone who has never been to a ball with our mother. I promise you, Alex, as difficult as she can be with you, she’s just as impossible with us. The duchess wants a wedding…any wedding will do.” Gavin joined in. “I second that. Last season our mothers aligned against me—I thought for sure I was done for. I danced scores of quadrilles with any number of desperate young ladies before I realized it would be smart for me to beg off attending balls altogether.” His tone turned thoughtful. “I had planned on doing the same this year…but seeing Alex take London by storm just might be entertaining enough to drag me to a society gathering or two.” “Be careful what you ask for, Blackmoor,” Nick interjected. “It is I who has been forced to play partner to her during her dancing lessons. She’s not the most graceful of ladies.” “Nor the lightest. Mind your toes, chap.” Kit, as usual, delivered his barb with an impish grin thrown in the direction of an increasingly irritated Alex. With a chuckle, Will interjected, “Ah, well, as brothers, we can rest easy from the fate of Alex’s clumsiness. We’ll never have to dance with her again. Wednesday evening, she shall be loosed upon the men of London. I’m sure someone in the mix won’t mind partnering her.” With an exasperated groan, Alex leveled her gaze at the men in the room. “Well, I console myself with this: No matter who I end up having to dance with, he can’t be more boorish than you three oafs. Lord save your future wives.

Instead, the thing that had captured my attention was this big metal column topped by…absolutely nothing. It was doing this in the parking lot of what I had to figure was the main supplier of off-campus food: a retro-fifties fast-food joint. Maybe it’s supposed to be some kind of art, I thought as I stared at the column. I was living in the big city now, after all. Public art happened. Not only that, it didn’t have to make sense. In fact, having it not make sense was probably a requirement. “They took it down for repairs,” a voice beside my suddenly said. I’m kind of embarrassed to admit this, but the truth is, I jumped about a mile. I’d been so mesmerized by the sight of that column extending upward into space, supporting empty air, that I’d totally lost track of all my soon-to-be-fellow students rushing by me. To this day, I can’t quite explain the fascination. But I’ve promised to tell you the 100 percent truth, which means I’ve got to include even the parts which make me appear less than impressive. “Huh?” Yes, all right, I know. Nowhere even near the list of incredibly clever replies. “They took it down for repairs,” the voice said again. “Took it down,” I echoed. By this time, I knew I was well on my way to breaking my own blending-in rule, big time. Sounding like a total idiot can generally be considered a foolproof method of getting yourself noticed. “The car that’s usually up there.” The guy--it was a guy; I’d calmed down enough to realize that--said. I snuck a quick glance at him out of the corner of my eye. First fleeting impression: tall and blond. The kind of muscular-yet-lanky build I’ve always been a sucker for. Faded jeans. Letterman jacket with just about every sport there was represented on it. Gotcha! I thought. BMOC. Big Man on Campus. This made me feel a little better for a couple of reasons. The first was that it showed my skills hadn’t abandoned me completely after all. I could still identify the players pretty much on sight. The second was that in my vast, though admittedly from-a-distance, experience of them, BMOCs have short attention spans for anyone less BOC than they are. Disconcerting and intense as it was at the moment, I could nevertheless take comfort in the fact that this guy’s unexpected and unnatural interest in me was also unlikely to last very long. “An old Chevy, I think,” he was going on now. “It’s supposed to be back soon, though. Not really the same without it, is it?” He actually sounded genuinely mournful. I was surprised to find myself battling back a quick, involuntary smile. He did seem to be more interesting than your average, run-of-the-mill BMOC. I had to give him that. Get a grip, O’Connor, I chastised myself. “Absolutely not,” I said, giving my head a semi-vigorous nod. That ought to move him along, I thought. You may not be aware of this fact, but agreeing with people is often an excellent way of getting them to forget all about you. After basking in the glow of agreement, most people are then perfectly content to go about their business, remembering only the fact that someone agreed and allowing the identity of the person who did the actual agreeing to fade into the background. This technique almost always works. In fact, I’d never known it not to. There was a moment of silence. A silence in which I could feel the BMOC’s eyes upon me. I kept my own eyes fixed on the top of the carless column. But the longer the silence went on, the more strained it became. At least it did on my side. This guy was simply not abiding by the rules. He was supposed to have basked and moved on by now.

Okay, Chace,” she whispered immediately. “Good,” he kept growling, “we got that down. Now we’ll get this straight and not mixed. You know my shit’s f**ked up. I’m workin’ on that. You popped up with bad timing once and surprised me another time. I didn’t handle either of those well. The shit I’m workin’ through, I cannot promise I’ll do any better. What I can promise is I like the way you dress. I like the sound of your voice. I like the way you smell. I like that your hair feels the way it looks, like silk. I like the way you taste. I like that you got a backbone. I like it when you get scared of me. I like it when you stand up to me. I like it that you care as much as you do for a kid you don’t know jack about. I like it that you have no clue how to kiss but still, the two kisses I’ve shared with you are the best I’ve ever had. By far. I like all of that more than is healthy for me but especially for you. But I like it so much, I’m gonna ignore that and hope like f**k this doesn’t get jacked like everything else in my life has a tendency to do. I like it so much I’m willin’ to take that risk. I like it so much that I’ve decided you’re gonna take that risk with me. And I’ll make that straight too. I’m not asking you to take that risk, I’m tellin’ you you’re doin’ it. That means I’ll be at your place at seven with pizza, beer, a sleeping bag and food for our kid.

I knew this trailer park well. It was a part of my childhood. I came to a stop in front of Beaus’ trailer. It would be easier to believe that this was the alcohol talking, but I knew it wasn’t. We hadn’t been alone in over four years. Since the moment I became Sawyer’s girlfriend, our relationship had changed. I took a deep breath, then turned to look at Beau. “I never talk in class. Not to anyone but the teacher. You never talk to me at lunch, so I have no reason to look your way. Attracting your attention leads to you making fun of me. And, at the field, I’m not looking at you with disgust. I’m looking at Nicole with disgust. You could really do much better than her.” I stopped myself before I said anything stupid. He tilted his head to the side as if studying me. “You don’t like Nicole much, do you? You don’t have to worry about her hang-up with Sawyer. He knows what he’s got, and he isn’t going to mess it up. Nicole can’t compete with you.” Nicole had a thing for Sawyer? She was normally mauling Beau. I’d never picked up on her liking Sawyer. I knew they’d been an item in seventh grade for, like, a couple of weeks, but that was junior high school. It didn’t really count. Besides, she was with Beau. Why would she be interested in anyone else? “I didn’t know she liked Sawyer,” I replied, still not sure I believed him. Sawyer was so not her type. “You sound surprised,” Beau replied. “Well, I am, actually. I mean, she has you. Why does she want Sawyer?” A pleased smile touched his lips making his hazel eyes light up. I realized I hadn’t exactly meant to say something that he could misconstrue in the way he was obviously doing. He reached for the door handle before pausing and glancing back at me. “I didn’t know my teasing bothered you, Ash. I’ll stop.” That hadn’t been what I was expecting him to say. Unable to think of a response, I sat there holding his gaze. “I’ll get your car switched back before your parents see my truck at your house in the morning.” He stepped out of the truck, and I watched him walk toward the door of his trailer with one of the sexiest swaggers known to man. Beau and I had needed to have that talk, even if my imagination was going to go wild for a while, where he was concerned. My secret attraction to the town’s bad boy had to remain a secret. The next morning, I found my car parked in the driveway, as promised, with a note wedged under the windshield wipers. I reached for it, and a small smile touched my lips. “Thanks for last night. I’ve missed you.” He had simply sighed it “B.

We will never speak of this.” “Very well.” “Also…we are still not friends.” His gaze held hers. “Are we enemies, then?” “That depends.” Kathleen took a wavering breath. “What…what will you do with Asad?” Something in his face softened. “He’ll remain at the estate until he can be retrained. That’s all I can promise for now.” Although it wasn’t precisely the answer she’d wanted, it was better than having Asad sold right away. If the horse could be retrained, he might at least end up in the possession of someone who valued him. “Then…I suppose…we’re not enemies.” He stood before her in his shirtsleeves, with no necktie or collar in sight. The hems of his trousers were muddy. His hair needed combing, and there was a bit of hay caught in it, but somehow in his disarray, he was even more handsome than before. She approached him with abashed tentativeness, and he held very still as she reached up to pull the little wisp of hay from his hair. The dark locks were invitingly disheveled, a cowlick on the right side, and she was almost tempted to smooth it. “How long is the mourning period?” he surprised her by asking abruptly. Kathleen blinked, disconcerted. “For a widow? There are four mourning periods.” “Four?” “The first one lasts a year, the second for six months, the third for three months, and then half mourning lasts for the rest of one’s life.” “And if the widow wishes to marry again?” “She may do so after a year and a day, although it is frowned upon to marry so quickly unless she has children, or lacks income.” “Frowned upon but not forbidden?” “Yes. Why do you ask?” Devon shrugged casually. “I’m merely curious. Men are required to mourn only for six months--probably because we wouldn’t tolerate anything longer than that.