Thanks For Mentioning Me Quotes

I mean to say, really, I am near to developing a neurosis - is there anyone around who doesn't want to study or kill me?" Floote raised a tentative hand. "Ah, yes, thank you, Floote." "There is also Mrs Tunstell, madam," he offered hopefully, is if Ivy were some kind of consolation prize. "I notice you don't mention my fair-weather husband." "I suspect, at this moment, madam, he probably wants to kill you." Alexia couldn't help smiling. "Good point.

Helda's been trying to impress me with the embroidery on the sheets. One more minute and I thought I might use them to hang myself." "My mother did the embroidery," Bittterblue said. Katsa clapped her mouth shut and glared at Helda. "Thank you, Helda, for mentioning that detail.

Dedication: My thanks to the people who showed me that opera was stranger than I could imagine. I can best repay their kindness by not mentioning their names here.

Darcangelo winced, gritted his teeth "Want to tell me why ... you're sitting here cuddling me, Hunter?" "Rossiter says I have to keep you warm. He thinks you're in shock or some shit." Despite his words and the tone of his voice, there was really worry on Hunter's face. "Great. Thanks." Darcangelo's head fell back to rest against Hunter's vest, the big guy's strength clearly spent. A muscle clenched in Hunter's jaw. "Hey, don't mention it--ever.

The very quality of your life, whether you love it or hate it, is based upon how thankful you are toward God. It is one's attitude that determines whether life unfolds into a place of blessedness or wretchedness. Indeed, looking at the same rose bush, some people complain that the roses have thorns while others rejoice that some thorns come with roses. It all depends on your perspective. This is the only life you will have before you enter eternity. If you want to find joy, you must first find thankfulness. Indeed, the one who is thankful for even a little enjoys much. But the unappreciative soul is always miserable, always complaining. He lives outside the shelter of the Most High God. Perhaps the worst enemy we have is not the devil but our own tongue. James tells us, "The tongue is set among our members as that which . . . sets on fire the course of our life" (James 3:6). He goes on to say this fire is ignited by hell. Consider: with our own words we can enter the spirit of heaven or the agonies of hell! It is hell with its punishments, torments and misery that controls the life of the grumbler and complainer! Paul expands this thought in 1 Corinthians 10:10, where he reminds us of the Jews who "grumble[d] . . . and were destroyed by the destroyer." The fact is, every time we open up to grumbling and complaining, the quality of our life is reduced proportionally -- a destroyer is bringing our life to ruin! People often ask me, "What is the ruling demon over our church or city?" They expect me to answer with the ancient Aramaic or Phoenician name of a fallen angel. What I usually tell them is a lot more practical: one of the most pervasive evil influences over our nation is ingratitude! Do not minimize the strength and cunning of this enemy! Paul said that the Jews who grumbled and complained during their difficult circumstances were "destroyed by the destroyer." Who was this destroyer? If you insist on discerning an ancient world ruler, one of the most powerful spirits mentioned in the Bible is Abaddon, whose Greek name is Apollyon. It means "destroyer" (Rev. 9:11). Paul said the Jews were destroyed by this spirit. In other words, when we are complaining or unthankful, we open the door to the destroyer, Abaddon, the demon king over the abyss of hell! In the Presence of God Multitudes in our nation have become specialists in the "science of misery." They are experts -- moral accountants who can, in a moment, tally all the wrongs society has ever done to them or their group. I have never talked with one of these people who was happy, blessed or content about anything. They expect an imperfect world to treat them perfectly. Truly, there are people in this wounded country of ours who need special attention. However, most of us simply need to repent of ingratitude, for it is ingratitude itself that is keeping wounds alive! We simply need to forgive the wrongs of the past and become thankful for what we have in the present. The moment we become grateful, we actually begin to ascend spiritually into the presence of God. The psalmist wrote, "Serve the Lord with gladness; come before Him with joyful singing. . . . Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise. Give thanks to Him, bless His name. For the Lord is good; His lovingkindness is everlasting and His faithfulness to all generations" (Psalm 100:2, 4-5). It does not matter what your circumstances are; the instant you begin to thank God, even though your situation has not changed, you begin to change. The key that unlocks the gates of heaven is a thankful heart. Entrance into the courts of God comes as you simply begin to praise the Lord.

Great way to impress your future brother-in-law, by the way," Kieran continued. "You look like you took a blood bath. The only thing missing is the axe. Would Dallas really let his little sister date a crazed murderer who hacks bodies in the basement? You need to change that shirt pronto. And oh, you're welcome. I just saved you from making a complete and utter fool of yourself, but don't mention it." I curled my lips into a fake smile. "Thanks. It's so nice to know you've got my back." Kieran regarded me coolly. "A hobby might help ease all that hunger. Have you ever considered fixing cars, or woodworking, or maybe a DIY project around the house?" "You're getting a big laugh out of this, aren't you?" Kieran shrugged. "There's nothing on TV.

That Chippendale is a coffee table, Lieutenant, not a footstool." "How do you walk with that stick up your ass?" She left her feet where they were, propped comfortably on the table. "Does it hurt, or does it give you a nice little rush?" "Your dinner guests," he said, curling his lip, "have arrived." "Thank you, Summerset." Roarke got to his feet. "We'll have the hors d'oeuvres in here." He held out a hand to Eve. She waited, deliberately, until Summerset had stepped out again before swinging her feet to the floor. "In the interest of good fellowship," Roarke began as they started toward the foyer, "could you not mention the stick in Summerset's ass for the rest of the evening?" "Okay. If he rags on me I'll just pull it out and beat him over the head with it." "That should be entertaining.

Fundamentalist Christianity: fascinating. These people actually believe that the world is twelve thousand years old. Swear to God. Based on what? I asked them. "Well, we looked at all the people in the Bible and we added 'em up all the way back to Adam and Eve, their ages? Twelve thousand years." "Well, how fucking scientific, OK. I didn't know that you'd gone to so much trouble there. That's good. You believe the world's twelve thousand years old?" "That's right." "OK, I got one word to ask you, a one word question, ready?" "Uh huh." "Dinosaurs." You know, the world's twelve thousand years old and dinosaurs existed, and existed in that time, you'd think it would been mentioned in the fucking Bible at some point: And O, Jesus and the disciples walked to Nazareth. But the trail was blocked by a giant brontosaurus... with a splinter in its paw. And the disciples did run a-screamin'. "What a big fucking lizard, Lord!" "I'm sure gonna mention this in my book," Luke said. "Well, I'm sure gonna mention it in my book," Matthew said. But Jesus was unafraid. And he took the splinter from the brontosaurus paw, and the brontosaurus became his friend. And Jesus sent him to Scotland where he lived in a loch, O so many years, attracting fat American families with their fat fuckin' dollars to look for the Loch Ness Monster. And O the Scots did praise the Lord: "Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Lord!" Twelve thousand years old. But I actually asked this guy, "OK, dinosaur fossils-- how does that fit into your scheme of life? What's the deal?" He goes: "God put those here to test our faith." "I think God put you here to test my faith, dude. I think I've figured this out." Does that-- That's what this guy said. Does that bother anyone here? The idea that God might be fucking with our heads? Anyone have trouble sleeping restfully with that thought in their head? God's running around burying fossils: "Ho ho! We'll see who believes in me now, ha ha! I'm a prankster God. I am killing me, ho ho ho!" You know? You die, you go to St. Peter: "Did you believe in dinosaurs?" "Well, yeah. There were fossils everywhere. (trapdoor opens) Aaaaarhhh!" "You fuckin' idiot! Flying lizards? You're a moron. God was fuckin' with you!" "It seemed so plausible, aaaaaahh!" "Enjoy the lake of fire, fucker!" They believe this. But you ever notice how people who believe in Creationism usually look pretty unevolved. Eyes really close together, big furry hands and feet? "I believe God created me in one day." Yeah, looks like he rushed it. Such a weird belief. Lots of Christians wear crosses around their necks. You think when Jesus comes back he's gonna want to see a fucking cross, man? "Ow." Might be why he hasn't shown up yet. "Man, they're still wearing crosses. Fuck it, I'm not goin' back, Dad. No, they totally missed the point. When they start wearing fishes, I might show up again, but... let me bury fossils with you, Dad. Fuck 'em, let's fuck with 'em! Hand me that brontosaurus head, Dad.

Wind moaned through the canyons like a chorus of zombies. I mentioned this to Blitzen, but he set me straight. 'No, kid,' he said. 'Norse zombies are called draugr. They move silently. You'd never hear them coming.' 'Thanks,' I said. 'That's a huge relief.

Ah, Robert?” “Shhhh, not while I’m praying,” he said, momentarily losing his place before he started again, “thank you for letting us survive that trip from hell. Thank you for ignoring my prayers for a quick death when I didn’t think that I’d be able to survive another day of starvation,” he said, making her roll her eyes in annoyance. “You were given three full meals a day just like everyone else,” she pointed out, not bothering to mention the fact that, on most days, he’d received second helpings. She sat down on a bench near their luggage, wondering just how much longer he was going to keep this up. “I’m sorry for all the cursing that my wife forced me to do while I was on that boat,” he continued, ignoring her even as he amused her. “As you know, she’s been such a bad influence on me. Thank you for pulling me from near death and somehow giving me the strength to survive.” “Near death?” she asked, frowning. “When were you near death?” “When was I near death?” he asked in stunned disbelief as he opened his eyes so that he could glare at her. “How could you forget all those times that I could barely move? When I struggled to find the will to live so that I wouldn’t leave you a young widow? Did my struggle for survival mean nothing to you?” he demanded in outrage, terrifying the people that were forced to walk past him to get to the docks and making her wrack her brain as she struggled to figure out what he was talking about. “Do you mean those few times when you had a touch of seasickness?” she asked, unable to think of anything else that he could be talking about since he’d been the picture of health during the majority of the trip. “A touch?” he repeated in disbelief. “I nearly died!

Prayer of Application to the Holy Spirit Holy Spirit who solves all promblems, who lights all roads so that I can attain my goal. You who give me the divine giftto forgive and forget all evil against meand that in all instances of my life you are with me. I want in this short prayer to thank you for all things and to confirm once again that I never want to be separated from you, even and in spite of all matrial illusion. I want to be with you in eternal glory. Thank you for your mercy toward me and mine. The person must say this prayer for three consecutive days. After three days the favor requested will be granted even if it may appear difficult. This prayer,including these instructions must be published immediately after the favor is granted without mentioning the favor; only your initials should appear at the bottom. MK

Very often the test of one's allegiance to a cause or to a people is precisely the willingness to stay the course when things are boring, to run the risk of repeating an old argument just one more time, or of going one more round with a hostile or (much worse) indifferent audience. I first became involved with the Czech opposition in 1968 when it was an intoxicating and celebrated cause. Then, during the depressing 1970s and 1980s I was a member of a routine committee that tried with limited success to help the reduced forces of Czech dissent to stay nourished (and published). The most pregnant moment of that commitment was one that I managed to miss at the time: I passed an afternoon with Zdenek Mlynar, exiled former secretary of the Czech Communist Party, who in the bleak early 1950s in Moscow had formed a friendship with a young Russian militant with an evident sense of irony named Mikhail Sergeyevitch Gorbachev. In 1988 I was arrested in Prague for attending a meeting of one of Vaclav Havel's 'Charter 77' committees. That outwardly exciting experience was interesting precisely because of its almost Zen-like tedium. I had gone to Prague determined to be the first visiting writer not to make use of the name Franz Kafka, but the numbing bureaucracy got the better of me. When I asked why I was being detained, I was told that I had no need to know the reason! Totalitarianism is itself a cliché (as well as a tundra of pulverizing boredom) and it forced the cliché upon me in turn. I did have to mention Kafka in my eventual story. The regime fell not very much later, as I had slightly foreseen in that same piece that it would. (I had happened to notice that the young Czechs arrested with us were not at all frightened by the police, as their older mentors had been and still were, and also that the police themselves were almost fatigued by their job. This was totalitarianism practically yawning itself to death.) A couple of years after that I was overcome to be invited to an official reception in Prague, to thank those who had been consistent friends through the stultifying years of what 'The Party' had so perfectly termed 'normalization.' As with my tiny moment with Nelson Mandela, a whole historic stretch of nothingness and depression, combined with the long and deep insult of having to be pushed around by boring and mediocre people, could be at least partially canceled and annealed by one flash of humor and charm and generosity.

I’ve had the same editor since 1967. Many times he has said to me over the years or asked me, Why would you use a semicolon instead of a colon? And many times over the years I have said to him things like: I will never speak to you again. Forever. Goodbye. That is it. Thank you very much. And I leave. Then I read the piece and I think of his suggestions. I send him a telegram that says, OK, so you’re right. So what? Don’t ever mention this to me again. If you do, I will never speak to you again

There are not many writers who would mention their divorce lawyer in the acknowledgments, but mine deserves special recognition. Farhana Shazady fought fiercely for my rights. Thank you for teaching me to value myself again.

And a big thank-you to local scientist, certified genius, and, oh yeah, my boyfriend, Carlos, who came by earlier to explain clouds. Need something explained in language that for all you know could be scientific? Feel free to drop by Carlos's lab. Sometimes he'll be there. Sometimes it's date night, and he's with me. I am his boyfriend. I don't know if I mentioned that.

You weren't the perfect father but that's okay because -- probably nobody's a perfect father. No family's perfect, either. I was lucky. I was privileged. Not because of the big house and the money, but because you gave me a lot of yourself. You taught me, you showed me, you encouraged me -- you never lied to me and you never demanded that I be anything I’m not. I didn’t imitate you because you insisted that I do so, but because I wanted to. Of all the men I knew, you were most worthy of imitation. Then I blamed you for letting me be who I was. Pretty dumb. You and Alfred gave me a home and you gave me what we don't mention. The L word. You were the best family I could have had. Thanks.

The Stain That Conner left on our lives will not vanish as easily. I don’t care about Mom and her birds. Their estimation of my brother doesn’t bother me at all. Neither do I worry about Dad and what his lobbyist buddies think. His political clout has not diminished. As twins go, Conner and I don’t share a deep affection, but we do have a nine-months-in-the-same-womb connection. Not to mention a crowd of mutual friends. God, I’ll never forget going to school the day after that ugly scene. The plan was to sever the gossip grapevine from the start with an obvious explanation— accident. Mom’s orders were clear. Conner’s reputation was to be protected at all costs. When I arrived, the rumors had already started, thanks to our neighbor, Bobby Duvall. Conner Sykes got hurt. Conner Sykes was shot. Conner Sykes is in the hospital. Is Conner Sykes, like, dead? I fielded every single question with the agreed fabrication. But eventually, I was forced to concede that, though his wounds would heal, he was not coming back to school right away. Conner Sykes wasn’t dead. But he wasn’t exactly “okay.

Soon he essentially stopped talking. "I am retreating into silence as a defensive mode," he mentioned. Eventually, he was down to uttering just five words, and only to guards: yes; no; please; thank you. "I am surprised," he wrote, "by the amount of respect this garners me. That silence intimidates puzzles me. Silence is to me normal, comfortable." Later he added, "I will admit to feeling a little contempt for those who can't keep quiet.

Whilst writing all this, I have had in my mind a woman, whose strong and serious mind would not have failed to support me in these contentions. I lost her thirty years ago [I was a child then]--nevertheless, ever living in my memory, she follows me from age to age. She suffered with me in my poverty, and was not allowed to share my better fortune. When young, I made her sad, and now I cannot console her. I know not even where her bones are: I was too poor then to buy earth to bury her! And yet I owe her much. I feel deeply that I am the son of woman. Every instant, in my ideas and words [not to mention my features and gestures], I find again my mother in myself. It is my mother's blood which gives me the sympathy I feel for bygone ages, and the tender remembrance of all those who are now no more. What return then could I, who am myself advancing towards old age, make her for the many things I owe her? One, for which she would have thanked me--this protest in favour of women and mothers.

The thing that drew me to Lafayette as a subject - that he was that rare object of agreement in the ironically named United States - kept me coming back to why that made him unique. Namely, that we the people never agreed on much of anything. Other than a bipartisan consensus on barbecue and Meryl Streep, plus that time in 1942 when everyone from Bing Crosby to Oregonian school children heeded FDR's call to scrounge up rubber for the war effort, disunity is the through line in the national plot - not necessarily as a failing, but as a free people's privilege. And thanks to Lafayette and his cohorts in Washington's army, plus the king of France and his navy, not to mention the founding dreamers who clearly did not think through what happens every time one citizen's pursuit of happiness infuriates his neighbor, getting on each other's nerves is our right.

If it makes you feel any better Tory, they were just as bad when Mia was born. At least you don’t have Sin, Kish, and Damien running around, trying to boil water for no other reason than that’s what someone had told Sin husbands are supposed to do and since Sin doesn’t know how to boil water, he had to micromanage the other two incompetents who’d never done it either. I’m amazed they didn’t band together to kill him during it or burn down the casino. And don’t get me started on my mother trying to murder my husband in the middle of it or her fighting with grandma over whose labors were more painful. Or, (she cast a meaningful glance to Simi,) someone setting my mother’s hair on fire and trying to barbecue her to celebrate the birth.” – Kat “That an old Charonte custom that go back forever ’cause we a really old race of demons who go back even before forever. When a new baby is born you kill off an old annoying family member who gets on everyone’s nerves which for all of us would be the heifer-goddess ’cause the only person who like her be you, Akra-Kat. I know she you mother and all, but sometimes you just gotta say no thank you. You a mean old heifer-goddess who need to go play in tragic and get run over by something big like a steamroller or bus or something else really painful that would hurt her a lot and make the rest of us laugh. Not to mention the Simi barbecue would have been fun too if someone, Akra-Kat, hadn’t stopped the Simi from it. I personally think it would have been a most magnificent gift for the baby. Barbecued heifer-goddess Artemis. Yum! No better meal. Oh then again baby got a delicate constitution and that might give the poor thing indigestion. Artemis definitely give the Simi indigestion and I ain’t even ate her yet.” – Simi

If you mention Bella's name to me again, Gil, I am likely to do you a mischief!' Sherry warned him. 'I never cared the snap of my fingers for that wretched girl, and if you are not assured of that, ask her! Why, God save the mark, she may be a beauty, but give me my Kitten! Bella, with her airs and her graces, and her miffs, and her curst sharp tongue! No, I thank you! What's more, no man who had lived with Kitten would look twice at the Beauty!

You aren't in love with me." She blinked. "I'm not?" "No," he said emphatically. "You just think you are. You're confused," he explained... She knew where he was headed. "I see." "Transference." "I'm sorry?" "It's called transference. It's kind of like a patient falling in love with a doctor. It's not real," he stressed. "That's what I'm suffering from?" "Not suffering, honey," he said. "But I do think you've confused gratitude for love." She pretended to ponder the possibility for a long minute and then said, "I believe you might be right." "You do?" He sounded a little stunned. "Yes, I do." She said more forcefully. He wanted confirmation. "So you realize you don't love me." "That's exactly what I realize," she told him. "It's that transference thing all right. I was confused, but I am not any longer. Thank you for clearing it up for me." He shot her a hasty glance. "That was pretty damn quick wasn't it?" "When you're right, you're right." "That's it?" He was suddenly furious with her and didn't care that it showed. Damn it, she had told him she loved him, and after a one-minute argument, she caved. What the hell kind of love was that? "That's all you have to say?" "No, actually there is just one more thing I'd like to mention." "Yeah? What's that?" "You're an idiot.

Did I mention my first sight of the African coast? Something struck in me, in my soul, Celie, like a large bell, and I just vibrated. Corrine and Samuel felt the same. And we kneeled down right on deck and gave thanks to God for letting us see the land for which our mothers and fathers cried --- and lived and died --- to see again.

So,Batman,eh?" Effing St. Clair. I cross my arms and slouch into one of the plastic seats. I am so not in the mood for this.He takes the chair next to me and drapes a relaxed arm over the back of the empty seat on his other side. The man across from us is engrossed in his laptop,and I pretend to be engrossed in his laptop,too. Well,the back of it. St. Clair hums under his breath. When I don't respond,he sings quietly. "Jingle bells,Batman smells,Robin flew away..." "Yes,great,I get it.Ha ha. Stupid me." "What? It's just a Christmas song." He grins and continues a bit louder. "Batmobile lost a wheel,on the M1 motorway,hey!" "Wait." I frown. "What?" "What what?" "You're singing it wrong." "No,I'm not." He pauses. "How do you sing it?" I pat my coat,double-checking for my passport. Phew. Still there. "It's 'Jingle bells, Batman smells,Robin laid an egg'-" St. Clair snorts. "Laid an egg? Robin didn't lay an egg-" "'Batmobile lost a wheel,and the Joker got away.'" He stares at me for a moment,and then says with perfect conviction. "No." "Yes.I mean,seriously,what's up with the motorway thing?" "M1 motorway. Connects London to Leeds." I smirk. "Batman is American. He doesn't take the M1 motorway." "When he's on holiday he does." "Who says Batman has time to vacation?" "Why are we arguing about Batman?" He leans forward. "You're derailing us from the real topic.The fact that you, Anna Oliphant,slept in today." "Thanks." "You." He prods my leg with a finger. "Slept in." I focus on the guy's laptop again. "Yeah.You mentioned that." He flashes a crooked smile and shrugs, that full-bodied movement that turns him from English to French. "Hey, we made it,didn't we? No harm done." I yank out a book from my backpack, Your Movie Sucks, a collection of Roger Ebert's favorite reviews of bad movies. A visual cue for him to leave me alone. St. Clair takes the hint. He slumps and taps his feet on the ugly blue carpeting. I feel guilty for being so harsh. If it weren't for him,I would've missed the flight. St. Clair's fingers absentmindedly drum his stomach. His dark hair is extra messy this morning. I'm sure he didn't get up that much earlier than me,but,as usual, the bed-head is more attractive on him. With a painful twinge,I recall those other mornings together. Thanksgiving.Which we still haven't talked about.

Studies suggest How may I help you officer? is the single most disarming thing to say and not What’s the problem? Studies suggest it’s best the help reply My pleasure and not No problem. Studies suggest it’s best not to mention problem in front of power even to say there is none. Gloria Steinem says women lose power as they age and yet the loudest voice in my head is my mother. Studies show the mother we have in mind isn’t the mother that exists. Mine says: What the fuck are you crying for? Studies show the baby monkey will pick the fake monkey with fake fur over the furless wire monkey with milk, without contest. Studies show to negate something is to think it anyway. I’m not sad. I’m not sad. Studies recommend regular expressions of gratitude and internal check-ins. Studies define assertiveness as self-respect cut with deference. Enough, the wire mother says. History is a kind of study. History says we forgave the executioner. Before we mopped the blood we asked: Lord Judge, have I executed well? Studies suggest yes. What the fuck are you crying for, officer? the wire mother teaches me to say, while America suggest Solmaz, have you thanked your executioner today?

Kevin", his father began, "I've been thinking about it – I guess I was kind of carried away. It's just that I've waited so long for my old school to make it to the Regionals... I suppose I was living it vicariously through you. Keith says you're not going to fail, after all. Is that right?" "Looks like I'll make it. I know it's hard to believe..." "Yes, it is. I was hoping you could get a football scholarship, you know. Something to waive the entrance requirements, because I don't know what college would take you-" "Yeah. Thanks a lot Dad," Kevin said sarcastically. He already knew what his father thought of him and didn't need to be reminded yet again. "Oh, come on. You know perfectly well that you're too stupid to-" "That's not what my boyfriend says. Oh, by the way, Dad – I'm a faggot. Did I mention that?" "... Kevin – get your stuff, and get out." "Gladly.

You're welcome to try and make me miserable," I tell Cat, letting go of Rhiannon to walk back to the flier. "Oh! And one more thing," I lower my voice just slightly, well aware of every head within our squad that turns our direction. "What?" she snaps. "That trick you mentioned? You know, with the fingers?" A slow smile spreads across my face. "Thanks.

Thank you," he said. "Welcome. Welcome especially to Mr. Coyle Mathis and the other men and women of Forster Hollow who are going to be employed at this rather strikingly energy-inefficient plant. It's a long way from Forster Hollow, isn't it?" "So, yes, welcome," he said. "Welcome to the middle class! That's what I want to say. Although, quickly, before I go any further, I also want to say to Mr. Mathis here in the front row: I know you don't like me. And I don't like you. But, you know, back when you were refusing to have anything to do with us, I respected that. I didn't like it, but I had respect for your position. For your independence. You see, because I actually came from a place a little bit like Forster Hollow myself, before I joined the middle class. And, now you're middle-class, too, and I want to welcome you all, because it's a wonderful thing, our American middle class. It's the mainstay of economies all around the globe!" "And now that you've got these jobs at this body-armor plant," he continued, "You're going to be able to participate in those economies. You, too, can help denude every last scrap of native habitat in Asia, Africa, and South America! You, too, can buy six-foot-wide plasma TV screens that consume unbelievable amounts of energy, even when they're not turned on! But that's OK, because that's why we threw you out of your homes in the first places, so we could strip-mine your ancestral hills and feed the coal-fired generators that are the number-one cause of global warming and other excellent things like acid rain. It's a perfect world, isn't it? It's a perfect system, because as long as you've got your six-foot-wide plasma TV, and the electricity to run it, you don't have to think about any of the ugly consequences. You can watch Survivor: Indonesia till there's no more Indonesia!" "Just quickly, here," he continued, "because I want to keep my remarks brief. Just a few more remarks about this perfect world. I want to mention those big new eight-miles-per-gallon vehicles you're going to be able to buy and drive as much as you want, now that you've joined me as a member of the middle class. The reason this country needs so much body armor is that certain people in certain parts of the world don't want us stealing all their oil to run your vehicles. And so the more you drive your vehicles, the more secure your jobs at this body-armor plant are going to be! Isn't that perfect?" "Just a couple more things!" Walter cried, wresting the mike from its holder and dancing away with it. "I want to welcome you all to working for one of the most corrupt and savage corporations in the world! Do you hear me? LBI doesn't give a shit about your sons and daughters bleeding in Iraq, as long as they get their thousand-percent profit! I know this for a fact! I have the facts to prove it! That's part of the perfect middle-class world you're joining! Now that you're working for LBI, you can finally make enough money to keep your kids from joining the Army and dying in LBI's broken-down trucks and shoddy body armor!" The mike had gone dead, and Walter skittered backwards, away from the mob that was forming. "And MEANWHILE," he shouted, "WE ARE ADDING THIRTEEN MILLION HUMAN BEINGS TO THE POPULATION EVERY MONTH! THIRTEEN MILLION MORE PEOPLE TO KILL EACH OTHER IN COMPETITION OVER FINITE RESOURCES! AND WIPE OUT EVERY OTHER LIVING THING ALONG THE WAY! IT IS A PERFECT FUCKING WORLD AS LONG AS YOU DON'T COUNT EVERY OTHER SPECIES IN IT! WE ARE A CANCER ON THE PLANT! A CANCER ON THE PLANET!

The war,’ she said once, ‘left me with a deep knowledge of human suffering which I expect many other young people never know about. The things I saw during the occupation made me very realistic about life, and I’ve been that way ever since. Don’t,’ she added, ‘discount anything awful you hear or read about the Nazis. It’s worse than you could ever imagine. I came out of the war thankful to be alive, aware that human relationships are the most important thing of all, far more than wealth, food, luxury, careers, or anything you can mention.

And now I speak of thanking God, I desire with all humility to acknowledge that I owe the mentioned happiness of my past life to His kind providence, which lead me to the means I used and gave them success. My belief of this induces me to hope, though I must not presume, that the same goodness will still be exercised toward me, in continuing that happiness, or enabling me to bear a fatal reverse, which I may experience as others have done; the complexion of my future fortune being known to Him only in whose power it is to bless to us even our afflictions.

lot of noises all at once, even if they are exclusively pleasant sounds, will always feel like an assault. So, the relentless cacophony of high school was constantly and unbearably overwhelming. And don’t get me started on the smell of it. Body sprays competed with hair sprays, which competed with the always over-deployed deodorants that still somehow managed to lose the war against the toxic bouquet of teenage body odour. Thank god I was a smoker; I might’ve perished otherwise. The other hurdle high school threw up at me was homework. I am not morally opposed to extracurricular curricula; I just didn’t have time for it. As in primary school, I needed my evenings to catch up on the things my brain had been unable to take on board during the day, not to mention recover from the sheer exhaustion of trying to subtly navigate a sea of hypercritical teens for hours on end. On top of that, the closer I got to being an adult and the further away from being a baby, the more chores I was expected to get done at home. These extra burdens, as reasonable as they were, led to my brain shutting down more and more, and, without my brain, learning became impossible.

2-Make eye contact. When someone is speaking, keep your eyes on him or her at all times. If someone makes a comment, turn and face that person. 3-During discussions, respect other students’ comments, opinions, and ideas. When possible, make statements like, “I agree with John, and I also feel that…” or “I disagree with Sarah. She made a good point I feel that…” or “I think Victor made an excellent observation, and it made me realize…” 4-If you win or do well at something, do not brag. If you lose, do not show anger. Instead, say something like, “I really enjoyed the competition, and I look forward to playing you again,” or “good game,” or don’t say anything at all. To show anger or sarcasm, such as “I wasn’t playing hard anyway” or “You really aren’t that good,” shows weakness. 5-“When you cough or sneeze or burp, it is appropriate to turn your head away from others and cover your mouth with the full part of your hand. Using a fist is not acceptable. Afterward, you should say, “Excuse me.” 6- “Do not smack your lips, tsk, roll your eyes, or show disrespect with gestures.” 7-“Always say thank you when I give you something. 8-“Surprise others by performing random acts of kindness. Go our of your way to do something surprisingly kind and generous for someone at least once a month.” 9-“You will make every effort to be as organized as possible.” 10-"Quickly learn the name of other teachers in the school and greet them by saying things like, "Good morning Mrs. Graham," or "Good afternoon Ms. Ortiz. 11-"When we go on field trips, we will meet different people. When I introduce you to people, make sure that you remember their names. Then, when we are leaving, make sure to shake their hands and thank them, mentioning their names as you do so." 12-“If you approach a door and someone is following you, hold the door. If the door opens by pulling, pull it open, stand to the side, and allow the other person 13-to pass through it first, then you can walk through. If the door opens by pushing, hold the door open after you push through." "Be positive and enjoy life. Some things just aren't worth getting upset over. Keep everything in perspective and focus on the good in your life.

Anything Bunny wrote was bound to be alarmingly original, since he began with such odd working materials and managed to alter them further by his befuddled scrutiny, but the John Donne paper must have been the worst of all the bad papers he ever wrote (ironic, given that it was the only thing he ever wrote that saw print. After he disappeared, a journalist asked for an excerpt from the missing young scholar's work and Marion gave him a copy of it, a laboriously edited paragraph of which eventually found its way into People magazine). Somewhere, Bunny had heard that John Donne had been acquainted with Izaak Walton, and in some dim corridor of his mind this friendship grew larger and larger, until in his mind the two men were practically interchangeable. We never understood how this fatal connection had established itself: Henry blamed it on Men of Thought and Deed, but no one knew for sure. A week or two before the paper was due, he had started showing up in my room about two or three in the morning, looking as if he had just narrowly escaped some natural disaster, his tie askew and his eyes wild and rolling. 'Hello, hello,' he would say, stepping in, running both hands through his disordered hair. 'Hope I didn't wake you, don't mind if I cut on the lights, do you, ah, here we go, yes, yes…' He would turn on the lights and then pace back and forth for a while without taking off his coat, hands clasped behind his back, shaking his head. Finally he would stop dead in his tracks and say, with a desperate look in his eye: 'Metahemeralism. Tell me about it. Everything you know. I gotta know something about metahemeralism.' 'I'm sorry. I don't know what that is.' 'I don't either,' Bunny would say brokenly. 'Got to do with art or pastoralism or something. That's how I gotta tie together John Donne and Izaak Walton, see.' He would resume pacing. 'Donne. Walton. Metahemeralism. That's the problem as I see it.' 'Bunny, I don't think "metahemeralism" is even a word.' 'Sure it is. Comes from the Latin. Has to do with irony and the pastoral. Yeah. That's it. Painting or sculpture or something, maybe.' 'Is it in the dictionary?' 'Dunno. Don't know how to spell it. I mean' – he made a picture frame with his hands – 'the poet and the fisherman. Parfait. Boon companions. Out in the open spaces. Living the good life. Metahemeralism's gotta be the glue here, see?' And so it would go, for sometimes half an hour or more, with Bunny raving about fishing, and sonnets, and heaven knew what, until in the middle of his monologue he would be struck by a brilliant thought and bluster off as suddenly as he had descended. He finished the paper four days before the deadline and ran around showing it to everyone before he turned it in. 'This is a nice paper, Bun -,' Charles said cautiously. 'Thanks, thanks.' 'But don't you think you ought to mention John Donne more often? Wasn't that your assignment?' 'Oh, Donne,' Bunny had said scoffingly. 'I don't want to drag him into this.' Henry refused to read it. 'I'm sure it's over my head, Bunny, really,' he said, glancing over the first page. 'Say, what's wrong with this type?' 'Triple-spaced it,' said Bunny proudly. 'These lines are about an inch apart.' 'Looks kind of like free verse, doesn't it?' Henry made a funny little snorting noise through his nose. 'Looks kind of like a menu,' he said. All I remember about the paper was that it ended with the sentence 'And as we leave Donne and Walton on the shores of Metahemeralism, we wave a fond farewell to those famous chums of yore.' We wondered if he would fail.

In my travels on the surface, I once met a man who wore his religious beliefs like a badge of honor upon the sleeves of his tunic. "I am a Gondsman!" he proudly told me as we sat beside eachother at a tavern bar, I sipping my wind, and he, I fear, partaking a bit too much of his more potent drink. He went on to explain the premise of his religion, his very reason for being, that all things were based in science, in mechanics and in discovery. He even asked if he could take a piece of my flesh, that he might study it to determine why the skin of the drow elf is black. "What element is missing," he wondered, "that makes your race different from your surface kin?" I think that the Gondsman honestly believed his claim that if he could merely find the various elements that comprised the drow skin, he might affect a change in that pigmentation to make the dark elves more akin to their surface relatives. And, given his devotion, almost fanaticism, it seemed to me as if he felt he could affect a change in more than physical appearance. Because, in his view of the world, all things could be so explained and corrected. How could i even begin to enlighten him to the complexity? How could i show him the variations between drow and surface elf in the very view of the world resulting from eons of walking widely disparate roads? To a Gondsman fanatic, everything can be broken down, taken apart and put back together. Even a wizard's magic might be no more than a way of conveying universal energies - and that, too, might one day be replicated. My Gondsman companion promised me that he and his fellow inventor priests would one day replicate every spell in any wizard's repertoire, using natural elements in the proper combinations. But there was no mention of the discipline any wizard must attain as he perfects his craft. There was no mention of the fact that powerful wizardly magic is not given to anyone, but rather, is earned, day by day, year by year and decade by decade. It is a lifelong pursuit with gradual increase in power, as mystical as it is secular. So it is with the warrior. The Gondsman spoke of some weapon called an arquebus, a tubular missile thrower with many times the power of the strongest crossbow. Such a weapon strikes terror into the heart of the true warrior, and not because he fears that he will fall victim to it, or even that he fears it will one day replace him. Such weapons offend because the true warrior understands that while one is learning how to use a sword, one should also be learning why and when to use a sword. To grant the power of a weapon master to anyone at all, without effort, without training and proof that the lessons have taken hold, is to deny the responsibility that comes with such power. Of course, there are wizards and warriors who perfect their craft without learning the level of emotional discipline to accompany it, and certainly there are those who attain great prowess in either profession to the detriment of all the world - Artemis Entreri seems a perfect example - but these individuals are, thankfully, rare, and mostly because their emotional lacking will be revealed early in their careers, and it often brings about a fairly abrupt downfall. But if the Gondsman has his way, if his errant view of paradise should come to fruition, then all the years of training will mean little. Any fool could pick up an arquebus or some other powerful weapon and summarily destroy a skilled warrior. Or any child could utilize a Gondsman's magic machine and replicate a firebal, perhaps, and burn down half a city. When I pointed out some of my fears to the Gondsman, he seemed shocked - not at the devastating possibilities, but rather, at my, as he put it, arrogance. "The inventions of the priests of Gond will make all equal!" he declared. "We will lift up the lowly peasant

Your wife,” said Arthur, looking around, “mentioned some toothpicks.” He said it with a hunted look, as if he was worried that she might suddenly leap out from behind a door and mention them again. Wonko the Sane laughed. It was a light easy laugh, and sounded like one he had used a lot before and was happy with. “Ah yes,” he said, “that’s to do with the day I finally realized that the world had gone totally mad and built the Asylum to put it in, poor thing, and hoped it would get better.” This was the point at which Arthur began to feel a little nervous again. “Here,” said Wonko the Sane, “we are outside the Asylum.” He pointed again at the rough brickwork, the pointing, and the gutters. “Go through that door” — he pointed at the first door through which they had originally entered — “and you go into the Asylum. I’ve tried to decorate it nicely to keep the inmates happy, but there’s very little one can do. I never go in there myself. If I ever am tempted, which these days I rarely am, I simply look at the sign written over the door and I shy away.” “That one?” said Fenchurch, pointing, rather puzzled, at a blue plaque with some instructions written on it. “Yes. They are the words that finally turned me into the hermit I have now become. It was quite sudden. I saw them, and I knew what I had to do.” The sign read: “Hold stick near center of its length. Moisten pointed end in mouth. Insert in tooth space, blunt end next to gum. Use gentle in-out motion.” “It seemed to me,” said Wonko the Sane, “that any civilization that had so far lost its head as to need to include a set of detailed instructions for use in a package of toothpicks, was no longer a civilization in which I could live and stay sane.” He gazed out at the Pacific again, as if daring it to rave and gibber at him, but it lay there calmly and played with the sandpipers. “And in case it crossed your mind to wonder, as I can see how it possibly might, I am completely sane. Which is why I call myself Wonko the Sane, just to reassure people on this point. Wonko is what my mother called me when I was a kid and clumsy and knocked things over, and sane is what I am, and how,” he added, with one of his smiles that made you feel, Oh. Well that’s all right then. “I intend to remain.

And now I speak of thanking God, I desire with all humility to acknowledge that I owe the mentioned happiness of my past life to His kind providence, which lead me to the means I used and gave them success. My belief of this induces me to hope, though I must not presume, that the same goodness will still be exercised toward me, in continuing that happiness, or enabling me to bear a fatal reverse, which I may experience as others have done: the complexion of my future fortune being known to Him only in whose power it is to bless to us even our afflictions.

a lot of noises all at once, even if they are exclusively pleasant sounds, will always feel like an assault. So, the relentless cacophony of high school was constantly and unbearably overwhelming. And don’t get me started on the smell of it. Body sprays competed with hair sprays, which competed with the always over-deployed deodorants that still somehow managed to lose the war against the toxic bouquet of teenage body odour. Thank god I was a smoker; I might’ve perished otherwise. The other hurdle high school threw up at me was homework. I am not morally opposed to extracurricular curricula; I just didn’t have time for it. As in primary school, I needed my evenings to catch up on the things my brain had been unable to take on board during the day, not to mention recover from the sheer exhaustion of trying to subtly navigate a sea of hypercritical teens for hours on end. On top of that, the closer I got to being an adult and the further away from being a baby, the more chores I was expected to get done at home. These extra burdens, as reasonable as they were, led to my brain shutting down more and more, and, without my brain, learning became impossible.

Mother and Father had said one night, just before my wedding, that her name would not be mentioned again and that they would thank me if I would act accordingly. And I did, act accordingly, that is, although I thought about her a great deal more than they realised. So I pulled out the letters and—

Laden with all these new possessions, I go and sit at a table. And don't ask me what the table was like because this was some time ago and I can't remember. It was probably round." [...] "So let me give you the layout. Me sitting at the table, on my left, the newspaper, on my right, the cup of coffee, in the middle of the table, the packet of biscuits." "I see it perfectly." "What you don't see," said Arthur, "because I haven't mentioned him yet, is the guy sitting at the table already. He is sitting there opposite me." "What's he like?" "Perfectly ordinary. Briefcase. Business suit. He didn't look," said Arthur, "as if he was about to do anything weird." "Ah. I know the type. What did he do?" "He did this. He leaned across the table, picked up the packet of biscuits, tore it open, took one out, and . . ." "What?" "Ate it." "What?" "He ate it." Fenchurch looked at him in astonishment. "What on earth did you do?" "Well, in the circumstances I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do. I was compelled," said Arthur, "to ignore it." "What? Why?" "Well, it's not the sort of thing you're trained for, is it? I searched my soul, and discovered that there was nothing anywhere in my upbringing, experience, or even primal instincts to tell me how to react to someone who has quite simply, calmly, sitting right there in front of me, stolen one of my biscuits." "Well, you could. . ." Fenchurch thought about it. "I must say I'm not sure what I would have done either. So what happened?" "I stared furiously at the crossword," said Arthur, "couldn't do a single clue, took a sip of coffee, it was too hot to drink, so there was nothing for it. I braced myself. I took a biscuit, trying very hard not to notice," he added, "that the packet was already mysteriously open. . ." "But you're fighting back, taking a tough line." "After my fashion, yes. I ate the biscuit. I ate it very deliberately and visibly, so that he would have no doubt as to what it was I was doing. When I eat a biscuit," said Arthur, "it stays eaten." "So what did he do?" "Took another one. Honestly," insisted Arthur, "this is exactly what happened. He took another biscuit, he ate it. Clear as daylight. Certain as we are sitting on the ground." Fenchurch stirred uncomfortably. "And the problem was," said Arthur, "that having not said anything the first time, it was somehow even more difficult to broach the subject the second time around. What do you say? 'Excuse me... I couldn't help noticing, er . . .' Doesn't work. No, I ignored it with, if anything, even more vigor than previously." "My man..." "Stared at the crossword again, still couldn't budge a bit of it, so showing some of the spirit that Henry V did on St. Crispin's Day . ." "What?" "I went into the breach again. I took," said Arthur, "another biscuit. And for an instant our eyes met." "Like this?" "Yes, well, no, not quite like that. But they met. Just for an instant. And we both looked away. But I am here to tell you," said Arthur, "that there was a little electricity in the air. There was a little tension building up over the table. At about this time." "I can imagine."” "We went through the whole packet like this. Him, me, him, me . . ." "The whole packet?" "Well, it was only eight biscuits, but it seemed like a lifetime of biscuits we were getting through at this point. Gladiators could hardly have had a tougher time." "Gladiators," said Fenchurch, "would have had to do it in the sun. More physically gruelling." "There is that. So. When the empty packet was lying dead between us the man at last got up, having done his worst, and left. I heaved a sigh of relief, of course. "As it happened, my train was announced a moment or two later, so I finished my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper . . ." "Yes?" "Were my biscuits." "What?" said Fenchurch. "What?" "True." "No!

But I’d been watching Schitt’s Creek because Briana had mentioned it on our phone call the other day, and I wanted to understand her references. I wanted to have things in common with her. I wanted to try the things she liked. It was a small, invisible gesture of friendship from me. Something she’d likely never even fully appreciate because she didn’t know the effort that came with it. She’d just think I watch the same popular show she does and that would be it. This was me making space for her, even though she would never know it. My way of saying thank you for her friendship, even if it was too quiet to hear.

Theodore, I don’t think I have to tell you but …” “I won’t mention the little incident, your grace. Not even on my deathbed.” “Thank you, but to be safe you should give me your solemn oath.” Theodore repeated his promise with his hand on his heart. “Ah, we have to do his sort of thing correctly. Fetch me a holy book.

I notice you have written about mussels a few times, but you only ever mention cooking clams. I recently learned a creative mussels recipe from a Frenchwoman I met on a voyage to the Far East. I am enclosing a packet of saffron from that voyage. It is my small way of thanking you for "Letters from the Island." For steamed mussels, in a stockpot add a generous pinch of saffron, coarsely chopped garlic, and parsley to a half cup of melted butter. The red enamel pot you mentioned in your column about racing Dungeness crabs, the one with the pockmark from your niece's Red Ryder BB gun, will do perfectly. If you can't find fresh garlic, shallots can be substituted, but in my opinion, without fresh garlic the dish isn't worth making. The Frenchwoman told me the addition of a cup or so of white wine is considered standard for this broth, but she prefers vermouth. I agree with her. It gives the dish a crisp, botanical flavor, and I can save my Chablis for drinking with my meal.

She's probably just tired of seeing you miserable.Like we all are," I add. "I'm sure...I'm sure she's as crazy about you as ever." "Hmm." He watches me put away my own shoes and empty the contents of my pockets. "What about you?" he asks, after a minute. "What about me?" St. Clair examines his watch. "Sideburns. You'll be seeing him next month." He's reestablishing...what? The boundary line? That he's taken, and I'm spoken for? Except I'm not. Not really. But I can't bear to say this now that he's mentioned Ellie. "Yeah,I can't wait to see him again. He's a funny guy, you'd like him.I'm gonna see his band play at Christmas. Toph's a great guy, you'd really like him. Oh. I already said that,didn't I? But you would. He's really...funny." Shut up,Anna. Shut.Up. St. Clair unbuckles and rebuckles and unbuckles his watchband. "I'm beat," I say. And it's the truth. As always, our conversation has exhausted me. I crawl into bed and wonder what he'll do.Lie on my floor? Go back to his room? But he places his watch on my desk and climbs onto my bed. He slides up next to me. He's on top of the covers, and I'm underneath. We're still fully dressed,minus our shoes, and the whole situation is beyond awkward. He hops up.I'm sure he's about to leave,and I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed,but...he flips off my light.My room is pitch-black. He shuffles back toward my bed and smacks into it. "Oof," he says. "Hey,there's a bed there." "Thanks for the warning." "No problem." "It's freezing in here.Do you have a fan on or something?" "It's the wind.My window won't shut all the way.I have a towel stuffed under it, but it doesn't really help." He pats his way around the bed and slides back in. "Ow," he says. "Yes?" "My belt.Would it be weird..." I'm thankful he can't see my blush. "Of course not." And I listen to the slap of leather as he pulls it out of his belt loops.He lays it gently on my hardwood floor. "Um," he says. "Would it be weird-" "Yes." "Oh,piss off.I'm not talking trousers. I only want under the blankets. That breeze is horrible." He slides underneath,and now we're lying side by side. In my narrow bed. Funny,but I never imagined my first sleepover with a guy being,well,a sleepover. "All we need now are Sixteen Candles and a game of Truth or Dare." He coughs. "Wh-what?" "The movie,pervert.I was just thinking it's been a while since I've had a sleepover." A pause. "Oh." "..." "..." "St. Clair?" "Yeah?" "Your elbow is murdering my back." "Bollocks.Sorry." He shifts,and then shifts again,and then again,until we're comfortable.One of his legs rests against mine.Despite the two layers of pants between us,I feel naked and vulnerable. He shifts again and now my entire leg, from calf to thigh, rests against his. I smell his hair. Mmm. NO! I swallow,and it's so loud.He coughs again. I'm trying not to squirm. After what feels like hours but is surely only minutes,his breath slows and his body relaxes.I finally begin to relax, too. I want to memorize his scent and the touch of his skin-one of his arms, now against mine-and the solidness os his body.No matter what happens,I'll remember this for the rest of my life. I study his profile.His lips,his nose, his eyelashes.He's so beautiful.

I’d better get out of here before Ares arrives,” I said. Clarisse nodded. “He’d probably kill you on sight.” “Congratulations,” I said. “I guess you passed your driving test.” She wrapped the reins around her hand. “About what you saw, Percy. What I was afraid of, I mean—” “I won’t tell anybody.” She looked at me uncomfortably. “Did Phobos scare you?” “Yeah. I saw the camp in flames. I saw my friends all pleading for my help, and I didn’t know what to do. For a second, I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed. I know how you felt.” She lowered her eyes. “I, uh . . . I guess I should say. . .” The words seemed to stick in her throat. I wasn’t sure Clarisse had ever said thank you in her life. “Don’t mention it,” I told her. I started to walk away, but she called out, “Percy?” “Yeah?” “When you, uh, had that vision about your friends . . .” “You were one of them,” I promised. “Just don’t tell anybody, okay? Or I’d have to kill you.” A faint smile flickered across her face. “See you later.” “See you.” I headed off toward the subway. It had been a long day, and I was ready to get home.

In recent decades, Ireland in general and Dublin in particular, have been very fortunate in the quality of the historical attention they have received. During the extensive research required to write this book, I have been privileged to work with some of Ireland’s most distinguished scholars, who have generously shared their knowledge with me and corrected my texts. Their kind contributions are mentioned in the Acknowledgements. Thanks to the scholarly work of the last quarter century, there has been a reevaluation of certain aspects of Ireland’s history; and as a result, the story that follows may contain a number of surprises for many readers. I have provided a few additional notes in the Afterword at the end of this volume for those curious to know more.

I know you,” he added, helping to arrange the blanket over my shoulders. “You won’t drop the subject until I agree to check on your cousin, so I’ll do it. But only under one condition.” “John,” I said, whirling around to clutch his arm again. “Don’t get too excited,” he warned. “You haven’t heard the condition.” “Oh,” I said, eagerly. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Thank you. Alex has never had a very good life-his mother ran away when he was a baby, and his dad spent most of his life in jail…But, John, what is all this?” I swept my free hand out to indicate the people remaining on the dock, waiting for the boat John had said was arriving soon. I’d noticed some of them had blankets like the one he’d wrapped around me. “A new customer service initiative?” John looked surprised at my change of topic…then uncomfortable. He stooped to reach for the driftwood Typhon had dashed up to drop at his feet. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, stiffly. “You’re giving blankets away to keep them warm while they wait. When did this start happening?” “You mentioned some things when you were here the last time….” He avoided meeting my gaze by tossing the stick for his dog. “They stayed with me.” My eyes widened. “Things I said?” “About how I should treat the people who end up here.” He paused at the approach of a wave-though it was yards off-and made quite a production of moving me, and my delicate slippers, out of its path. “So I decided to make a few changes.” It felt as if one of the kind of flowers I liked-a wild daisy, perhaps-had suddenly blossomed inside my heart. “Oh, John,” I said, and rose onto my toes to kiss his cheek. He looked more than a little surprised by the kiss. I thought I might actually have seen some color come into his cheeks. “What was that for?” he asked. “Henry said nothing was the same after I left. I assumed he meant everything was much worse. I couldn’t imagine it was the opposite, that things were better.” John’s discomfort at having been caught doing something kind-instead of reckless or violet-was sweet. “Henry talks too much,” he muttered. “But I’m glad you like it. Not that it hasn’t been a lot of added work. I’ll admit it’s cut down on the complaints, though, and even the fighting amongst our rowdier passengers. So you were right. Your suggestions helped.” I beamed up at him. Keeper of the dead. That’s how Mr. Smith, the cemetery sexton, had referred to John once, and that’s what he was. Although the title “protector of the dead” seemed more applicable. It was totally silly how much hope I was filled with by the fact that he’d remembered something I’d said so long ago-like maybe this whole consort thing might work out after all. I gasped a moment later when there was a sudden rush of white feathers, and the bird he’d given me emerged from the grizzly gray fog seeming to engulf the whole beach, plopping down onto the sand beside us with a disgruntled little humph. “Oh, Hope,” I said, dashing tears of laughter from my eyes. Apparently I had only to feel the emotion, and she showed up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you behind. It was his fault, you know.” I pointed at John. The bird ignored us both, poking around in the flotsam washed ashore by the waves, looking, as always, for something to eat. “Her name is Hope?” John asked, the corners of his mouth beginning to tug upwards. “No.” I bristled, thinking he was making fun of me. Then I realized I’d been caught. “Well, all right…so what if it is? I’m not going to name her after some depressing aspect of the Underworld like you do all your pets. I looked up the name Alastor. That was the name of one of the death horses that drew Hades’s chariot. And Typhon?” I glanced at the dog, cavorting in and out of the waves, seemingly oblivious of the cold. “I can only imagine, but I’m sure it means something equally unpleasant.

A pale, sweaty Corona bottle invaded my field of vision. It was clamped in a hand attached to a muscular arm with pale blond hair. “Peace offering,” Curran said. Did I hear him come in? No. I took the beer. He paused on the other side of the tub. He was wearing a white gym towel. “I’m about to take the towel off and hop in,” he said. “Fair warning.” There are times in life when shrugging takes nearly all of your will. “I’ve seen you naked.” “Didn’t want you to run away screaming or anything.” “You flatter yourself.” He took the towel off. I hadn’t exactly forgotten what he looked like without clothes. I just didn’t remember it being quite so tempting. He was built with survival in mind: strong but flexible, defined but hardly slender. You could bounce a quarter from his abs. Curran stepped into the tub. He was obviously in no hurry. It was like walking on a high bridge: don’t look down. Definitely not below his waist . . . Oh my. He sank into the hot water near me. I remembered to breathe. “How’s your back?” “It’s fine,” he said. “Thanks.” “Don’t mention it.” It had to be sore. “Does your side hurt?” “No.” His smile told me he knew we were both full of it.

Suffice it to say I was compelled to create this group in order to find everyone who is, let's say, borrowing liberally from my INESTIMABLE FOLIO OF CANONICAL MASTERPIECES (sorry, I just do that sometimes), and get you all together. It's the least I could do. I mean, seriously. Those soliloquies in Moby-Dick? Sooo Hamlet and/or Othello, with maybe a little Shylock thrown in. Everyone from Pip in Great Expectations to freakin' Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre mentions my plays, sometimes completely mangling my words in nineteenth-century middle-American dialect for humorous effect (thank you, Sir Clemens). Many people (cough Virginia Woolf cough) just quote me over and over again without attribution. I hear James Joyce even devoted a chapter of his giant novel to something called the "Hamlet theory," though do you have some sort of newfangled English? It looks like gobbledygook to me. The only people who don't seek me out are like Chaucer and Dante and those ancient Greeks. For whatever reason. And then there are the titles. The Sound and the Fury? Mine. Infinite Jest? Mine. Proust, Nabokov, Steinbeck, and Agatha Christie all have titles that are me-inspired. Brave New World? Not just the title, but half the plot has to do with my work. Even Edgar Allan Poe named a character after my Tempest's Prospero (though, not surprisingly, things didn't turn out well for him!). I'm like the star to every wandering bark, the arrow of every compass, the buzzard to every hawk and gillyflower ... oh, I don't even know what I'm talking about half the time. I just run with it, creating some of the SEMINAL TOURS DE FORCE OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. You're welcome.

You’re welcome to try and make me miserable,” I tell Cat, letting go of Rhiannon to walk back to the flier. “Oh! And one more thing.” I lower my voice just slightly, well aware of every head within our squad that turns our direction. “What?” she snaps. “That trick you mentioned? You know, with the fingers?” A slow smile spreads across my face. “Thanks.” Cat’s eyes bulge. Imogen laughs so hard she snorts as I walk back to Rhiannon.

A boot camp?  I don’t think so,” I say with a little frown while shaking my head. “It’ll be good for you,” he grins.  “No charge, since you’ve fed me two days in a row, not to mention the cookies and my kitchen.  We’ll call it even.” “What?  No way.  You want to clean my bathroom or carry my bags on vacation, that would be a fair trade.  But you want to kick my ass in a boot camp because I fed you?  Not a way to thank a girl,” I reply sarcastically.

Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I’m really extremely grateful for them. And that’s all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they’re so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up.

Oh wait.” I roll down the window. “I forgot to mention this a couple weeks ago, but your wife wants you to fuck her like you mean it.” Carter stares. “What?” “You cannot poke your baby in the eye, Carter.” He glances at his crotch. “Are you sure? I’m pretty well-endow—” “Stop.” I hold up a hand. “Please stop. My God, what is this life I’m leading?” I sigh. “Okay. Thanks for the car. I’ll take care of her, hopefully. You take care of your wife. Bye. I’m going now. Good-bye.

If a gentleman held a door for me, I would accept the courtesy and thank him. Gentlemen enjoy offering little gallantries; a lady enjoys accepting them graciously, with a smile and a word of thanks. I mention this because, by the 1970s, there were many females who would snub a man unmercifully if he offered a gallantry, such as holding a chair for a woman, or offering to help her in or out of a car. These women (a minority but a ubiquitous, obnoxious one) treated traditional courtesy as if it were an insult. I grew to think of these females as the “Lesbian Mafia.” I don’t know that all of them were homosexual (although I’m certain about some of them) but their behavior caused me to lump them all together. If some of them were not Lesbians, then where did they find heterosexual mates? What sort of wimp would put up with this sort of rudeness in women? I am sorry to say that by 1970 there were plenty of wimps of every sort. The wimps were taking over.

My time in the Middle East led me to realize that, with a few rare exceptions, the dominant political ideology there—whether you were talking about Sunnis or Shiites or Kurds, Israelis, Arabs, Persians, Turks, or Palestinians—was “I am weak, how can I compromise? I am strong, why should I compromise?” The notion of there being “a common good” and “a middle ground” that we all compromise for and upon—not to mention a higher community calling we work to sustain—was simply not in the lexicon.

Bree rubbed her belly. Figured; Alessandro wasn’t one to live in quiet but strained tension. She stared up at the fabric of the canopy and then squeezed her eyes shut. “Alessandro, considering that the outside world has the sterile hospital rooms, not to mention the epidurals, yeah. For goodness sake, Alessandro. You know we can’t stay here forever. I’m entering my eighth month here.” “I must say, I’m surprised you’re so anxious to leave.” “Why?” Bree asked, turning to look at his strong profile. “You know why, Brianna. As soon as we walk out that door, you and I are over.” Bree felt a guilty tightening in her chest. “Perhaps that’s what you want, though.” “That’s not fair,” Bree whispered even as she feared he was right. No. He’s wrong. I love him. She wasn’t going to let anyone shake what she and Alessandro had built here. She’d let her family know that she wanted Alessandro in her life and that she wanted to be a family with him. “Thanks for your confidence in me, though. Really.

Metahemeralism. Tell me about it. Everything you know. I gotta know something about metahemeralism." "I'm sorry. I don't know what that is." "I don't either," Bunny would say brokenly. "Got to do with art or pastoralism or something. That's how I gotta tie together John Donne and Izaak Walton, see." He would resume pacing. "Donne. Walton. Metahemeralism. That's the problem as I see it." "Bunny, I don't think "metahemeralism" is even a word." "Sure it is. Comes from the Latin. Has to do with irony and the pastoral. Yeah. That's it. Painting or sculpture or something, maybe." "Is it in the dictionary?" "Dunno. Don't know how to spell it. I mean" — he made a picture frame with his hands — "the poet and the fisherman. Parfait. Boon companions. Out in the open spaces. Living the good life. Metahemeralism's gotta be the glue here, see?" And so it would go on, for sometimes half an hour or more, with Bunny raving about fishing, and sonnets, and heaven knew what, until in the middle of his monologue he would be struck by a brilliant thought and bluster off as suddenly as he had descended. He finished the paper four days before the deadline and ran around showing it to everyone before he turned it in. "This is a nice paper, Bun — ," Charles said cautiously. "Thanks, thanks." "But don't you think you ought to mention John Donne more often? Wasn't that your assignment?" "Oh, Donne," Bunny had said scoffingly. "I don't want to drag him into this." Henry had refused to read it. "I'm sure it's over my head, Bunny, really," he said, glancing over the first page. "Say, what's wrong with this type?" "Tripled spaced it," said Bunny proudly. "These lines are about an inch apart." "Looks kind of like free verse, doesn't it?" Henry made a funny little snorting noise through his nose. "Looks kind of like a menu," he said. All I remember about the paper was that it ended with the sentence "And as we leave Donne and Walton on the shores of Metahemeralism, we wave a fond farewell to those famous chums of yore.

Anna? Anna,are you there? I've been waiting in the lobby for fifteen minutes." A scrambling noise,and St. Clair curses from the floorboards. "And I see your light's off.Brilliant. Could've mentioned you'd decided to go on without me." I explode out of bed. I overslept! I can't believe I overslept! How could this happen? St. Clair's boots clomp away,and his suitcase drags heavily behind him. I throw open my door. Even though they're dimmed this time of night,the crystal sconces in the hall make me blink and shade my eyes. St. Clair twists into focus.He's stunned. "Anna?" "Help," I gasp. "Help me." He drops his suitcase and runs to me. "Are you all right? What happened?" I pull him in and flick on my light. The room is illuminated in its disheveled entirety. My luggage with its zippers open and clothes piled on top like acrobats. Toiletries scattered around my sink. Bedsheets twined into ropes. And me. Belatedly, I remember that not only is my hair crazy and my face smeared with zit cream,but I'm also wearing matching flannel Batman pajamas. "No way." He's gleeful. "You slept in? I woke you up?" I fall to the floor and frantically squish clothes into my suitcase. "You haven't packed yet?" "I was gonna finish this morning! WOULD YOU FREAKING HELP ALREADY?" I tug on a zipper.It catches a yellow Bat symbol, and I scream in frustration. We're going to miss our flight. We're going to iss it,and it's my fault. And who knows when the next plane will leave, and we'll be stuck here all day, and I'll never make it in time for Bridge and Toph's show. And St. Clair's mom will cry when she has to go to the hospital without him for her first round of internal radiation, because he'll be stuck iin an airport on the other side of the world,and its ALL. MY FAULT. "Okay,okay." He takes the zipper and wiggles it from my pajama bottoms. I make a strange sound between a moan and a squeal. The suitcase finally lets go, and St. Clair rests his arms on my shoulders to steady them. "Get dressed. Wipe your face off.I'll takecare of the rest." Yes,one thing at a time.I can do this. I can do this. ARRRGH! He packs my clothes. Don't think about him touching your underwear. Do NOT think about him touching your underwear. I grab my travel outfit-thankfully laid out the night before-and freeze. "Um." St. Clair looks up and sees me holding my jeans. He sputters. "I'll, I'll step out-" "Turn around.Just turn around, there's not time!" He quickly turns,and his shoulders hunch low over my suitcase to prove by posture how hard he is Not Looking.

now I speak of thanking God, I desire with all humility to acknowledge that I owe the mentioned happiness of my past life to His kind providence, which lead me to the means I used and gave them success. My belief of this induces me to hope, though I must not presume, that the same goodness will still be exercised toward me, in continuing that happiness, or enabling me to bear a fatal reverse, which I may experience as others have done: the complexion of my future fortune being known to Him only in whose power it is to bless to us even our afflictions.

What did I do now?” He reluctantly pulled the car the curb. I needed to get out of this car – like now. I couldn’t breathe. I unbuckled and flung open the door. “Thanks for the ride. Bye.” I slammed the door shut and began down the sidewalk. Behind me, I heard the engine turn off and his door open and shut. I quickened my stride as James jogged up to me. I slowed down knowing I couldn’t escape his long legs anyway. Plus, I didn’t want to get home all sweaty and have to explain myself. “What happened?” James asked, matching my pace. “Leave me alone!” I snapped back. I felt his hand grab my elbow, halting me easily. “Stop,” he ordered. Damn it, he’s strong! “What are you pissed about now?” He towered over me. I was trapped in front of him, if he tugged a bit, I’d be in his embrace. “It’s so funny huh? I’m that bad? I’m a clown, I’m so funny!” I jerked my arm, trying to break free of his grip. “Let me go!” “No!” He squeezed tighter, pulling me closer. “Leave me alone!” I spit the words like venom, pulling my arm with all my might. “What’s your problem?” James demanded loudly. His hand tightened on my arm with each attempt to pull away. My energy was dwindling and I was mentally exhausted. I stopped jerking my arm back, deciding it was pointless because he was too strong; there was no way I could pull my arm back without first kneeing him in the balls. We were alone, standing in the dark of night in a neighborhood that didn’t see much traffic. “Fireball?” he murmured softly. “What?” I replied quietly, defeated. Hesitantly, he asked, “Did I say something to make you sad?” I wasn’t going to mention the boyfriend thing; there was no way. “Yes,” I whimpered. That’s just great, way to sound strong there, now he’ll have no reason not to pity you! “I’m sorry,” came his quiet reply. Well maybe ‘I’m sorry’ just isn’t good enough. The damage is already done! “Whatever.” “What can I do to make it all better?” “There’s nothing you could–” I began but was interrupted by him pulling me against his body. His arms encircled my waist, holding me tight. My arms instinctively bent upwards, hands firmly planted against his solid chest. Any resentment I had swiftly melted away as something brand new took its place: pleasure. Jesus! “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked him softly; his face was only a few inches from mine. “What do you think you’re doing?” James asked back, looking down at my hands on his chest. I slowly slid my arms up around his neck. I can’t believe I just did that! “That’s better.” Our bodies were plastered against one another; I felt a new kind of nervousness touch every single inch of my body, it prickled electrically. “James,” I murmured softly. “Fireball,” he whispered back. “What do you think you’re doing?” I repeated; my brain felt frozen. My heart had stopped beating a mile a minute instead issuing slow, heavy beats. James uncurled one of his arms from my waist and trailed it along my back to the base of my neck, holding it firmly yet delicately. Blood rushed to the very spot he was holding, heat filled my eyes as I stared at him. “What are you doing?” My bewilderment was audible in the hush. I wasn’t sure I had the capacity to speak anymore. That function had fled along with the bitch. Her replacement was a delicate flower that yearned to be touched and taken care of. I felt his hand shift on my neck, ever so slightly, causing my head to tilt up to him. Slowly, inch by inch, his face descended on mine, stopping just a breath away from my trembling lips. I wanted it. Badly. My lips parted a fraction, letting a thread of air escape. “Can I?” His breath was warm on my lips. Fuck it! “Yeah,” I whispered back. He closed the distance until his lush lips covered mine. My first kiss…damn! His lips moved softly over mine. I felt his grip on my neck squeeze as his lips pressed deeper into

Oh, Daisy, it’s revolting, the way I want to fawn all over him. I’m afraid that I’m going to do something dreadfully silly today. Burst into song or something. For God’s sake, don’t let me.” “I won’t,” Daisy promised, smiling back at her. “Are you in love, then?” “That word is not to be mentioned,” Lillian said swiftly. “Even if I were— and I am not admitting anything— I would never be the first to say it. It’s a matter of pride. And there’s every chance that he won’t say it back, but just respond with a polite ‘thank you,’ in which case I would have to murder him. Or myself.” “I hope the earl is not equally as stubborn as you,” Daisy commented. “He isn’t,” Lillian assured her. “Although he thinks he is.” Some private memory caused her to chortle, clasping a hand to her forehead. “Oh, Daisy,” she said with devilish glee, “I’m going to be such an abominable countess.” “Let’s not put it that way,” Daisy said diplomatically. “Rather, we’ll say ‘unconventional countess.’ ” “I can be any kind of countess I want,” Lillian said, half in delight, half in wonder. “Westcliff said so. And what’s more… I actually think he means it.

Everything is arranged," John Robertson told me. Thank God." I forgot to mention that we appear to have one small problem," he said. Okay..." Evidently it seems Winston Holder has already left this morning to the border and Gbarnga. He took a journalist in." A journalist? Who?" I don't know who. They thought it must be you." But it wasn't me. I'm me," I said, though from the first hour in this country I'd begun to doubt it. I have Lincoln Smythe's address. He'll put us right. Everything will be arranged promptly, and we'll work out your itinerary." I thought everything was arranged," I said. By the bare bulb hung above our straw beds I saw, far back in John Robertson's eyes, the eternal West African question: What is this guy going on about? Naturally," he said, "but we just have to work out your itinerary." Everything is arranged doesn't mean you should expect to get anywhere or accomplish anything. In fact, for sanity's sake, those two ideas have to be banished: the idea of getting somewhere and the idea of accomplishing something. Everything is arranged means that all is complete, the great plan of the universe is unfolding before our eyes. So eat, drink, sleep. Everything is arranged.

Thank you,” I said. “It’s so nice of you to think of me. But actually, we’ve made the decision I won’t be moving to Washington.” I let her know that we had two little girls in school in Chicago and that I was pretty attached to my job. I explained that Barack was settling into life in D.C., commuting home when he could. I didn’t mention that we were so committed to Chicago that we were looking to buy a new house, thanks to the royalty money that was starting to come in from the renewed sales of his book and the fact that he now had a generous offer on a second book—the surprise harvest of Barack’s magic beans.

Subject: Some boat Alex, I know Fox Mulder. My mom watched The X-Files. She says it was because she liked the creepy store lines. I think she liked David Duchovny. She tried Californication, but I don't think her heart was in it. I think she was just sticking it to my grandmother, who has decided it's the work of the devil. She says that about most current music,too, but God help anyone who gets between her and American Idol. The fuzzy whale was very nice, it a little hard to identify. The profile of the guy between you and the whale in the third pic was very familiar, if a little fuzzy. I won't ask. No,no. I have to ask. I won't ask. My mother loves his wife's suits. I Googled. There are sharks off the coast of the Vineyard. Great big white ones. I believe you about the turtle. Did I mention that there are sharks there? I go to Surf City for a week every summer with my cousins. I eat too much ice cream. I play miniature golf-badly. I don't complain about sand in my hot dog buns or sheets. I even spend enough time on the beach to get sand in more uncomfortable places. I do not swim. I mean, I could if I wanted to but I figure that if we were meant to share the water with sharks, we would have a few extra rows of teeth, too. I'll save you some cannoli. -Ella Subject: Shh Fiorella, Yes,Fiorella. I looked it up. It means Flower. Which, when paired with MArino, means Flower of the Sea. What shark would dare to touch you? I won't touch the uncomfortable sand mention, hard as it is to resist. I also will not think of you in a bikini (Note to self: Do not think of Ella in a bikini under any circumstanes. Note from self: Are you f-ing kidding me?). Okay. Two pieces of info for you. One: Our host has an excellent wine cellar and my mother is European. Meaning she doesn't begrudge me the occasional glass. Or four. Two: Our hostess says to thank yur mother very much. Most people say nasty things about her suits. Three: We have a house kinda near Surf City. Maybe I'll be there when your there. You'd better burn this after reading. -Alexai Subect: Happy Thanksgiving Alexei, Consider it burned. Don't worry. I'm not showing your e-mails to anybody. Matter of national security, of course. Well,I got to sit at the adult table. In between my great-great-aunt Jo, who is ninety-three and deaf, and her daughter, JoJo, who had to repeat everyone's conversations across me. Loudly. The food was great,even my uncle Ricky's cranberry lasagna. In fact, it would have been a perfectly good TG if the Eagles han't been playing the Jets.My cousin Joey (other side of the family) lives in Hoboken. His sister married a Philly guy. It started out as a lively across-the-table debate: Jets v. Iggles. It ended up with Joey flinging himself across the table at his brother-in-law and my grandmother saying loud prayers to Saint Bridget. At least I think it was Saint Bridget. Hard to tell. She was speaking Italian. She caught me trying to freeze a half-dozen cannoli. She yelled at me. Apparently, the shells get really soggy when they defrost. I guess you'll have to come have a fresh one when you get back. -F/E

You were right. Food is communal. Mom once told me that it was no accident that Jesus's first miracle was at a wedding. It was a sign that he was the Master of the Feast---and all celebrations involve a feast. Some of the best, most thankful moments of our lives involve food----almost all, really." I tapped Emma, resting on Jane's lap. "You see it in Austen. She only mentions food as a means to bring characters together, reveal aspects of their nature and their moral fiber. Hemingway does the same, though he skews more towards the drinks. Nevertheless, it's never about the food----it's about what the food becomes, in the hands of the giver and the recipient.

Before I leave, I sit down on my bed and pat Henry's head. He barely opens his eyes, gives me a slight smile, and buries his face in the pillow again. "I'll call you after the game." I say. "Stay as long as you want." "Thanks, Woods. Have fun with Ty," he says into the pillow. "Show him that underware you're wearing - It'll make him wild." I smack Henry on the shoulder. Considering we've been friends since we were seven, I'm sure he's seen me in my underwear a bunch of times, but he's never mentioned them before. "Why were you watching me change?: I exclaim. "Uh, 'cause I'm a guy?" He flips the pillow and slaps it, fluffing it. Then he rolls over and closes his eyes again.

Everybody mentions how kind I am. They always have, even when I was a child. Later, as an adult, I got regular praise for being “polite” and “nice,” though there were others, from time to time, who saw that kindness as weakness. Which … in a way … it may have been. But not in the way those people thought it was. It’s hard to be anything but kind or nice when you’ve been raised on a steady dose of religion and abuse. The principle of turning the other cheek embodied in the physical act of turning one’s cheek, the other stinging from your father’s slap, water from the showerhead raining down on your body. “You’re so polite.” “Thanks, it was beaten into me.” Not the response anybody wants to hear. So I don’t give it. See? Polite.

I went over to where Jack was with some guy who, had he been in a suit instead of a soft, flowing peasant shirt and trousers, would have been the archetypal uptight businessman. “This is unacceptable! Do you have any idea how many people depend on me? How much money I’m losing every minute I’m here?” Jack’s eyes had glazed over, vague and unfocused as he nodded slowly. “Mmm hmmm,” he kept repeating, almost like he was humming. “Hey,” I said. “Everything okay?” Jack gave me a desperate look. “No, everything is not okay!” Uptight Businessman shouted at me. “Great! I need to borrow Jack, then.” I grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him away. “Thanks. Have I mentioned lately how glad I am you didn’t die?” “Yes. But feel free to keep it up.

Suppose he really is in love. What about her? She never has anything good to say about him.” “Yet she blushes whenever he enters a room. And she stares at him a good deal. Or hadn’t you noticed that, either?” “As a matter of fact, I have.” Gazing up at him, she softened her tone. “But I do not want her hurt, Isaac. I must be sure she is desired for herself and not her fortune. Her siblings had a chance of not gaining their inheritance unless the others married, so I always knew that their mates loved them, but she…” She shook her head. “I had to find a way to remove her fortune from the equation.” “I still say you’re taking a big risk.” He glanced beyond her to where Celia was talking to the duke. “Do yo really think she’d be better off with Lyons?” But she doesn’t love him…If you’d just give her a chance- “I do not know,” Hetty said with a sigh. “I do not know anything anymore.” “Then you shouldn’t meddle. Because there’s another outcome you haven’t considered. If you try to manipulate matters to your satisfaction, she may balk entirely. Then you’ll find yourself in the sticky position of having to choose between disinheriting them all or backing down on your ultimatum. Personally, I think you should have given up that nonsense long ago, but I know only too well how stubborn you can be when you’ve got the bit between your teeth.” “Oh?” she said archly. “Have I been stubborn with you?” He gazed down at her. “You haven’t agreed to marry me yet.” Her heart flipped over in her chest. It was not the first time he had mentioned marriage, but she had refused to take him seriously. Until now. It was clear he would not be put off any longer. He looked solemnly in earnest. “Isaac…” “Are you worried that I am a fortune hunter?” “Do not be absurd.” “Because I’ve already told you that I’ll sign any marriage settlement you have your solicitor draw up. I don’t want your brewery or your vast fortune. I know it’s going to your grandchildren. I only want you.” The tender words made her sigh like a foolish girl. “I realize that. But why not merely continue as we have been?” His voice lowered. “Because I want to make you mine in every way.” A sweet shiver swept along her spine. “We do not need to marry for that.” “So all you want from me is an affair?” “No! But-“ “I want more than that. I want to go to sleep with you in my arms and wake with you in my bed. I want the right to be with you whenever I please, night or day.” His tone deepened. “I love you, Hetty. And when a man loves a woman, he wants to spend his life with her.” “But at our age, people will say-“ “Our age is an argument for marriage. We might not have much time left. Why not live it to the fullest, together, while we’re still in good health? Who cares about what people say? Life is too short to let other people dictate one’s choices.” She leaned heavily on his arm as they reached the steps leading up to the dais at the front of the ballroom. He did have a point. She had been balking at marrying him because she was sure people would think her a silly old fool. But then, she had always been out of step with everyone else. Why should this be any different? “I shall think about it,” she murmured as they headed to the center of the dais, where the family was gathering. “I suppose I’ll have to settle for that. For now.” He cast her a heated glance. “But later this evening, once we have the chance to be alone, I shall try more effective methods to persuade you. Because I’m not giving up on this. I can be as stubborn as you, my dear.” She bit back a smile. Thank God for that.

Here’s a crash course in the economy,” said Hunter. “Americans get up each morning and go to factories and farms and fire stations and work their whole lives, creating actual products you can hold in your hands. Or some service that benefits. I mean, what the fuck’s that about?” “Work isn’t good?” “It’s the damn workers who crashed the economy.” “I thought it was you,” said Serge. “Don’t be a comedian.” Hunter started counting off on his fingers. “They lost their retirement accounts, their mortgages, their homes, even their jobs. Can’t these assholes do anything right?” “You on the other hand?” “We ended up with all the cash. And then the people turned to the government and went, ‘Holy shit! What happened to all our goddamn money? Do something!’ So the government takes even more money from the workers and—this part is absolutely priceless—they give it all to us again! Now you tell me who’s the success story.” “But what’s so hard about accepting free money?” “That’s exactly what I was thinking when half the country screamed, ‘I’ll kick your fucking ass if you give me health care!’ ” “Sounds too good for words,” said Serge. “It’s good enough for one word,” said Hunter. “Socialism.” Serge pounded the bar with his fist. “Fuck socialism.” “Don’t say that!” Hunter took a swig. “I love socialism.” “You do?” Hunter nodded hard. “Finest word in the English language. Just mention socialism, and everyone gets blinded by rage, takes their eyes off us and prints up T-shirts that insult the president.” Bleadoph raised his hands toward the ceiling in exultation. “Thank God he was elected!” “Forgive my ignorance,” said Serge, “but weren’t the bailouts socialism?” Hunter shook his head. “It’s only socialism if the money goes down, not up.” “A toast,” said Serge. “To socialism!” “To socialism!

I would like to see you cheat,” Elizabeth said impulsively, smiling at him. His hands stilled, his eyes intent on her face. “I beg your pardon?” “What I meant,” she hastily explained as he continued to idly shuffle the cards, watching her, “is that night in the card room at Charise’s there was mention of someone being able to deal a card from the bottom of the deck, and I’ve always wondered if you could, if it could…” She trailed off, belatedly realizing she was insulting him and that his narrowed, speculative gaze proved that she’d made it sound as if she believed him to be dishonest at cards. “I beg your pardon,” she said quietly. “That was truly awful of me.” Ian accepted her apology with a curt nod, and when Alex hastily interjected, “Why don’t we use the chips for a shilling each,” he wordlessly and immediately dealt the cards. Too embarrassed even to look at him, Elizabeth bit her lip and picked up her hand. In it there were four kings. Her gaze flew to Ian, but he was lounging back in his chair, studying his own cards. She won three shillings and was pleased as could be. He passed the deck to her, but Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t like to deal. I always drop the cards, which Celton says is very irritating. Would you mind dealing for me?” “Not at all,” Ian said dispassionately, and Elizabeth realized with a sinking heart that he was still annoyed with her. “Who is Celton?” Jordan inquired. “Celton is a groom with whom I play cards,” Elizabeth explained unhappily, picking up her hand. In it there were four aces. She knew it then, and laughter and relief trembled on her lips as she lifted her face and stared at her betrothed. There was not a sign, not so much as a hint anywhere on his perfectly composed features that anything unusual had been happening. Lounging indolently in his chair, he quirked an indifferent brow and said, “Do you want to discard and draw more cards, Elizabeth?” “Yes,” she replied, swallowing her mirth, “I would like one more ace to go with the ones I have.” “There are only four,” he explained mildly, and with such convincing blandness that Elizabeth whooped with laughter and dropped her cards. “You are a complete charlatan!” she gasped when she could finally speak, but her face was aglow with admiration. “Thank you, darling,” he replied tenderly. “I’m happy to know your opinion of me is already improving.” The laughter froze in Elizabeth’s chest, replaced by warmth that quaked through her from head to foot. Gentlemen did not speak such tender endearments in front of other people, if at all. “I’m a Scot,” he’d whispered huskily to her long ago. “We do.” The Townsendes had launched into swift, laughing conversation after a moment of stunned silence following his words, and it was just as well, because Elizabeth could not tear her gaze from Ian, could not seem to move. And in that endless moment when their gazes held, Elizabeth had an almost overwhelming desire to fling herself into his arms. He saw it, too, and the answering expression in his eyes made her feel she was melting. “It occurs to me, Ian,” Jordan joked a moment later, gently breaking their spell, “that we are wasting our time with honest pursuits.” Ian’s gaze shifted reluctantly from Elizabeth’s face, and then he smiled inquisitively at Jordan. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, shoving the deck toward Jordan while Elizabeth put back her unjustly won chips. “With your skill at dealing whatever hand you want, we could gull half of London. If any of our victims had the temerity to object, Alex could run them through with her rapier, and Elizabeth could shoot him before he hit the ground.” Ian chuckled. “Not a bad idea. What would your role be?” “Breaking us out of Newgate!” Elizabeth laughed. “Exactly.

Thank God daily for such a terrific guy, mentioning specific qualities for which I’m grateful.     •   Look for daily ways to be a blessing to my husband (trying to understand what pleases him, anticipating his needs, etc.).     •   Chart my menstrual cycle and remind myself on the PMS days that what I’m feeling isn’t true and to keep my mouth shut and let it pass.     •   Avoid books, magazines, and TV shows that describe what marriage, family, and husbands ought to be like, and make a conscious effort to be grateful for things as they are instead of trying to change the people around me.     •   Take responsibility for my own emotional well-being: Stay rested, don’t overcommit and then complain, stay in touch with friends with a positive influence.     •   Stay focused on making a home for my family and remember that this is my highest calling and responsibility, and that it has eternal value. The more I do this, the happier and more content I am.

I wasn’t simply coming up with an easy excuse when I mentioned procrastination. There were all sorts of minor and not-so-minor chores I really had been putting off, including taking clothes to the dry cleaner, catching up with some of the routine housework, getting some essentials from the drug store, working with the gardener to change some plants, and scheduling routine car maintenance for my BMW that had indicated it needed to be done nearly ten days ago. I had no legitimate excuse for not doing any of this. Thankfully, I was well. I had no job at the moment, and there was nothing else more important cramming my attention. No one had to explain to me that my lack of enthusiasm was characteristic of deepening depression either. I had read enough about it and the symptomatic behavior which usually centered around obsessive eating or drinking as well as sleeping too much. But as the song says, Along came Jones and – voila! – my depression, although not completely gone, had dissipated considerably.

In under two weeks, and with no budget, thousands of college students protested the movie on their campuses nationwide, angry citizens vandalized our billboards in multiple neighborhoods, FoxNews.com ran a front-page story about the backlash, Page Six of the New York Post made their first of many mentions of Tucker, and the Chicago Transit Authority banned and stripped the movie’s advertisements from their buses. To cap it all off, two different editorials railing against the film ran in the Washington Post and Chicago Tribune the week it was released. The outrage about Tucker was great enough that a few years later, it was written into the popular television show Portlandia on IFC. I guess it is safe to admit now that the entire firestorm was, essentially, fake. I designed the advertisements, which I bought and placed around the country, and then promptly called and left anonymous complaints about them (and leaked copies of my complaints to blogs for support). I alerted college LGBT and women’s rights groups to screenings in their area and baited them to protest our offensive movie at the theater, knowing that the nightly news would cover it. I started a boycott group on Facebook. I orchestrated fake tweets and posted fake comments to articles online. I even won a contest for being the first one to send in a picture of a defaced ad in Chicago (thanks for the free T-shirt, Chicago RedEye. Oh, also, that photo was from New York). I manufactured preposterous stories about Tucker’s behavior on and off the movie set and reported them to gossip websites, which gleefully repeated them. I paid for anti-woman ads on feminist websites and anti-religion ads on Christian websites, knowing each would write about it. Sometimes I just Photoshopped ads onto screenshots of websites and got coverage for controversial ads that never actually ran. The loop became final when, for the first time in history, I put out a press release to answer my own manufactured criticism: TUCKER MAX RESPONDS TO CTA DECISION: “BLOW ME,” the headline read.

Gibbon and Hume, the great British historians, who were contemporaries of Franklin, express in their autobiographies the same feeling about the propriety of just self-praise. And now I speak of thanking God, I desire with all humility to acknowledge that I owe the mentioned happiness of my past life to His kind providence, which lead me to the means I used and gave them success. My belief of this induces me to hope, though I must not presume, that the same goodness will still be exercised toward me, in continuing that happiness, or enabling me to bear a fatal reverse, which I may experience as others have done; the complexion of my future fortune being known to Him only in whose power it is to bless to us even our afflictions. The notes one of my uncles (who had the same kind of curiosity in collecting family anecdotes) once put into my hands, furnished me with several particulars relating to our ancestors. From these notes I learned that the family had lived in the same village, Ecton, in Northamptonshire, [5] for three

I might have stood there for a long time, hand halfway up like a religious statue,if Frankie hadn't gently pulled it down and held on. He stood behind me, vibrating with anger. "That is not an honorable man, Fiorella." Without thinking, I lifted my free hand toward my neck.But I was wearing a turtleneck and my hair was down. There was nothing to see,and all my fingertips found was the rigid peak under my jaw. "Don't do that," Frankie hissed. "Don't you dare. It's not the scar and it's abso-freakin-lutely not you." I dropped my hand. "Yeah,right." I sagged against him a little. For being skinny as he is, Frankie's really solid. "It's never me." I felt his sigh against my shoulder blades. "We are young; heartache to heartache we stand." "Let me guess," I said. "Old Korean proverb." "As if.Pat Benatar. 'Love is a Battlefield.'" I laughed.I had a feeling I might cry, but not there and then. "Thanks." "Don't mention it." Frankie wrapped his free arm around me so my chin rested on his forearm. "Enough,right? That was enough of Alex Bainbridge-for all of us. Promise?" "Yeah.Promise?

Az, this one's for you.' The shadowsinger's brows lifted, but his scarred hand extended to take the present. Elain turned from where she'd been spreaking to Nesta. 'Oh, that's from me.' Azriel's face didn't so much as shift at the words. Not even a smile as he opened the present and revealed- 'I had Madja make it for me,' Elain explained. Azriel's brows narrowed at the mention of the family's preferred healer. 'It's a powder to mix in with any drink.' Silence. Elain bit her lip and then smiled sheepishly. 'It's for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often.' Silence again. Then Azriel tipped his head back and laughed. I'd never heard such a sound, deep and joyous. Cassian and Rhys joined him, the former grabbing the bottle from Azriel's hand and examining it. 'Brilliant, 'Cassian said. Elain smiled again, ducking her head. Azriel mastered himself enough to say, 'Thank you.' I'd never seen his hazel eyes so bright, the hues of green amid the brown and grey like veins of emerald. 'This will be invaluable.' 'Prick, ' Cassian said, but laughed again.

Would you be embarrassed if they found out? he said. In some ways, yeah. He turned over then, so he wasn’t looking up at the ceiling anymore but facing her. Why? he said. Because it was humiliating. You mean like, the way I treated you. Well, yeah, she said. And just the fact that I put up with it. Carefully he felt for her hand under the quilt and she let him hold it. A shiver ran along her jaw and she tried to make her voice sound light and humorous. Did you ever think about asking me to the Debs? she said. It’s such a stupid thing but I’m curious whether you thought about it. To be honest, no. I wish I did. She nodded. She continued looking up at the black ceiling, swallowing, worried that he could make out her expression. Would you have said yes? he asked. She nodded again. She tried to roll her eyes at herself but it felt ugly and self-pitying rather than funny. I’m really sorry, he said. I did the wrong thing there. And you know, apparently people in school kind of knew about us anyway. I don’t know if you heard that. She sat up on her elbow and stared down at him in the darkness. Knew what? she said. That we were seeing each other and all that. I didn’t tell anyone, Connell, I swear to god. She could see him wince even in the dark. No, I know, he said. My point is more that it wouldn’t have mattered even if you did tell people. But I know you didn’t. Were they horrible about it? No, no. Eric just mentioned it at the Debs, that people knew. No one cared, really. There was another short silence between them. I feel guilty for all the stuff I said to you, Connell added. About how bad it would be if anyone found out. Obviously that was more in my head than anything. I mean, there was no reason why people would care. But I kind of suffer from anxiety with these things. Not that I’m making excuses, but I think I projected some anxiety onto you, if that makes sense. I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it a lot, why I acted in such a fucked-up way. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back, so tightly it almost hurt her, and this small gesture of desperation on his part made her smile. I forgive you, she said. Thank you. I think I did learn from it. And hopefully I have changed, you know, as a person. But honestly, if I have, it’s because of you. They kept holding hands underneath the quilt, even after they went to sleep.

Looking back on all my interviews for this book, how many times in how many different contexts did I hear about the vital importance of having a caring adult or mentor in every young person’s life? How many times did I hear about the value of having a coach—whether you are applying for a job for the first time at Walmart or running Walmart? How many times did I hear people stressing the importance of self-motivation and practice and taking ownership of your own career or education as the real differentiators for success? How interesting was it to learn that the highest-paying jobs in the future will be stempathy jobs—jobs that combine strong science and technology skills with the ability to empathize with another human being? How ironic was it to learn that something as simple as a chicken coop or the basic planting of trees and gardens could be the most important thing we do to stabilize parts of the World of Disorder? Who ever would have thought it would become a national security and personal security imperative for all of us to scale the Golden Rule further and wider than ever? And who can deny that when individuals get so super-empowered and interdependent at the same time, it becomes more vital than ever to be able to look into the face of your neighbor or the stranger or the refugee or the migrant and see in that person a brother or sister? Who can ignore the fact that the key to Tunisia’s success in the Arab Spring was that it had a little bit more “civil society” than any other Arab country—not cell phones or Facebook friends? How many times and in how many different contexts did people mention to me the word “trust” between two human beings as the true enabler of all good things? And whoever thought that the key to building a healthy community would be a dining room table? That’s why I wasn’t surprised that when I asked Surgeon General Murthy what was the biggest disease in America today, without hesitation he answered: “It’s not cancer. It’s not heart disease. It’s isolation. It is the pronounced isolation that so many people are experiencing that is the great pathology of our lives today.” How ironic. We are the most technologically connected generation in human history—and yet more people feel more isolated than ever. This only reinforces Murthy’s earlier point—that the connections that matter most, and are in most short supply today, are the human-to-human ones.

Our sizable group was scattered among three different tables, and because the restaurant was a bit noisy, the kids’ table didn’t hear Alan lead us in the blessing. So Miss Kay went over to their table and led Mia and her cousins in their own prayer, thanking God for the food and asking Him to watch over Mia the next morning. After she finished, she asked the girls if they wanted to add anything. Mia said that she did. They all bowed their heads while Mia prayed for Mrs. Cathy, a dear friend of ours who was recovering from a recent mastectomy and undergoing chemotherapy for stage two breast cancer. Miss Kay came over to me and Jase with tears in her eyes, recounting what Mia had prayed. “I just assumed she was going to pray for herself, but she prayed for Cathy instead.” When I told Miss Kay that we pray for Cathy each night at bedtime, Kay said, “Well, I guess Mia thought there was no reason that this night should be any different.” She also mentioned that she asked Mia if she was nervous about the next day. “Not really” was Mia’s response. “But what do you feel?” Miss Kay asked her. “Nothing. I just don’t feel anything, really.” I guess I would interpret her response simply as Mia being at peace.

It's crazy that her tester pancake turned out to be perfect," I finally said. "Her what?" Cat chuckled. "You know, the tester pancake," I explained, hoping that the preceding glasses of wine wouldn't make this analogy impossible to follow. "Like, when you're making pancakes, you don't just start off by dumping all the pancake batter onto the griddle and assuming everything will be okay. You have to start with one and then test it out to see--- is the griddle hot enough? Is the batter not too thick or not too loose? Does the butter melt at the right sizzle? Does the batter have the right ratio of blueberries---" "You mean chocolate chips---" she interjected. "I mean blueberries for my fictional theoretical pancakes, thank you very much. Anyway," I said, clearing my throat, "you need the tester pancake to help you adjust. Not to mention you might spend years refining your pancake recipe to get to the one you want." "But sometimes the tester just works," Cat argued wholeheartedly. Such a hidden sap. It made no sense, since she---like me--- had essentially been single since college. But I knew she was a softie beneath her badass consulting and math-brain exterior. "Besides," she said, "they always say when you know, you know.

Do you believe in God, Aunt Elner?” “Sure I do, honey, why?” “How old were you when you started believing, do you remember?” Aunt Elner paused for a moment. “I never thought about not believing. Never did question it. I guess believing is just like math: some people get it right out of the chute, and some have to struggle for it. (...) Oh, I know a lot of people struggle, wondering is there really a God. They sit and think and worry over it all their life. The good Lord had to make smart people but I don’t think he did them any favors because it seems the smart ones start questioning things from the get go. But I never did. I’m one of the lucky ones. I thank God every night, my brain is just perfect for me, not too dumb, not too bright. You know, your daddy was always asking questions.” “He was?” “I remember one day he said, ‘Aunt Elner, how do you know there is a God, how can you be sure?’ ” “What did you tell him?” “I said, ‘Well, Gene, the answer is right on the end of your fingertips.’ He said, ‘What do you mean?’ I said, ‘Well, think about it. Every single human being that was ever born from the beginning of time has a completely different set of fingerprints. Not two alike. Not a single one out of all the billions is ever repeated.’ I said, ‘Who else but God could think up all those different patterns and keep coming up with new ones year after year, not to mention all the color combinations of all the fish and birds.’ ” Dena smiled. “What did he say?” “He said, ‘Yes, but, Aunt Elner, how do you know that God’s not repeating old fingerprints from way back and reusing them on us?’ ” She laughed. “See what I mean? Yes, God is great, all right. He only made one mistake but it was a big one.” “What was that?” “Free will. That was his one big blunder. He gave us a choice whether or not to be good or bad. He made us too independent … and you can’t tell people what to do; they won’t listen. You can tell them to be good until you’re blue in the face but people don’t want to be preached at except at church, where they know what they are getting and are prepared for it.” “What’s life all about, Aunt Elner? Don’t you ever wonder what the point of the whole thing is?” “No, not really; it seems to me we only have one big decision in this life, whether to be good or bad. That’s what I came up with a long time ago. Of course, I may be wrong, but I’m not going to spend any time worrying over it, I’m just going to have a good time while I’m here. Live and let live.

POEM – MY AMAZING TRAVELS [My composition in my book Travel Memoirs with Pictures] My very first trip I still cannot believe Was planned and executed with such great ease. My father, an Inspector of Schools, was such a strict man, He gave in to my wishes when I told him of the plan. I got my first long vacation while working as a banker One of my co-workers wanted a travelling partner. She visited my father and discussed the matter Arrangements were made without any flutter. We travelled to New York, Toronto, London, and Germany, In each of those places, there was somebody, To guide and protect us and to take us wonderful places, It was a dream come true at our young ages. We even visited Holland, which was across the Border. To drive across from Germany was quite in order. Memories of great times continue to linger, I thank God for an understanding father. That trip in 1968 was the beginning of much more, I visited many countries afterward I am still in awe. Barbados, Tobago, St. Maarten, and Buffalo, Cirencester in the United Kingdom, Miami, and Orlando. I was accompanied by my husband on many trips. Sisters, nieces, children, grandchildren, and friends, travelled with me a bit. Puerto Rico, Los Angeles, New York, and Hialeah, Curacao, Caracas, Margarita, Virginia, and Anguilla. We sailed aboard the Creole Queen On the Mississippi in New Orleans We traversed the Rockies in Colorado And walked the streets in Cozumel, Mexico. We were thrilled to visit the Vatican in Rome, The Trevi Fountain and the Colosseum. To explore the countryside in Florence, And to sail on a Gondola in Venice. My fridge is decorated with magnets Souvenirs of all my visits London, Madrid, Bahamas, Coco Cay, Barcelona. And the Leaning Tower of Pisa How can I forget the Spanish Steps in Rome? Stratford upon Avon, where Shakespeare was born. CN Tower in Toronto so very high I thought the elevator would take me to the sky. Then there was El Poble and Toledo Noted for Spanish Gold We travelled on the Euro star. The scenery was beautiful to behold! I must not omit Cartagena in Columbia, Anaheim, Las Vegas, and Catalina, Key West, Tampa, Fort Lauderdale, and Pembroke Pines, Places I love to lime. Of course, I would like to make special mention, Of two exciting cruises with Royal Caribbean. Majesty of the Seas and Liberty of the Seas Two ships which grace the Seas. Last but not least and best of all We visited Paris in the fall. Cologne, Dusseldorf, and Berlin Amazing places, which made my head, spin. Copyright@BrendaMohammed

And you're thinking I just tossed out some casual phrase that you've heard from dozens of guys? Or maybe one in particular,who mattered enough to turn you into a cynic?" At the intensity of his tone she looked up. "Yeah.Something like that.After all, McCord,your reputation precedes you. You're not exactly shy with women. I'm sure you've used plenty of lines like that to get what you want." His eyes,steady on hers,were hot and fierce. His voice was equally fierce. "I'll admit that when I first saw you, my initial reaction was purely physical. A healthy combination of testosterone and lust.What guy could look at you and not feel what I felt? You're beautiful, and bright and independent.And did I mention beautiful?" That brought a smile to her eyes. "But the more I got to know you,the more I realized you weren't just a pretty package.I started learning that you were someone special.Someone I wanted to treat very carefully." "And now?" "I'm still battling lust." There was that grin,sending an arrow straight through her heart. "But there's more here.Much more." He stared at her mouth with naked hunger. "I've waited a long time for this,but now I'm going to have to kiss you.And when I do,I can't promise to stop." She stood very still,heart pounding. "How do you know I'll ask you to?" "Careful.Because unless you tell me to stop,you have to know where this is heading..." In reply she stood on tiptoe to brush her mouth to his,stopping his words. Stopping his heart. He drew in a deep breath and drew her a little away to stare into her eyes. "I hope you meant that." "With all my heart." "Thank God." He dragged her against him and covered her lips with his.Inside her mouth he whispered, "Because, baby,I mean this." She'd waited so long.So long.And it was worth all the time she'd spent waiting and wondering.Here was a man who knew how to kiss a woman and make her feel like the only one in the universe. This kiss was so hot,so hungry, she felt the rush of desire from the top of her head all the way to her toes.And still it spun on and on until she became lost in it. He changed the angle of the kiss and took it deeper until Marilee could feel her flesh heating, her bones melting like hot wax. She wanted to be sensible,to move slowly, but her mind refused to cooperate. With a single kiss her brain had been wiped clear of every thought but one.She wanted this man.Wanted him now.Desperately. When at last they came up for air, she put a hand to his chest. "I need a minute to catch my breath." "Okay." A second later he dragged her close. "Time's up." Her laughter turned into a sigh as he ran nibbling kisses down her throat until the blood was drumming in her temples.

Realizing that the footman was still glowering at him, Ian looked down at the short man and said, “Your mistress is expecting me. Tell her I’ve arrived.” “I’m here, Aaron,” Elizabeth’s voice said softly, and Ian turned. One look at her and Ian forgot the footman, the state of the house, and any knowledge of architecture he’d ever possessed. Garbed in a simple gown of sky-blue gauze, with her hair twisted into thick curls bound with narrow blue ribbons, Elizabeth was standing in the hall with the poise of a Grecian goddess and the smile of an angel. “What do you think?” she asked expectantly. “About what?” he asked huskily, walking forward, forcing his hands not to reach out for her. “About Havenhurst?” she asked with quiet pride. Ian thought it was rather small and in desperate need of repair, not to mention furnishings. In fact, he had an impulse to drag her into his arms and beg her forgiveness for all he’d cost her. Knowing such a thing would shame and hurt her, he smiled and said truthfully, “What I’ve seen is very picturesque.” “Would you like to see the rest?” “Very much,” he exaggerated, and it was worth it to see her face light up. “Where are the Townsendes?” he asked as they started up the staircase. “I didn’t see a carriage in the drive.” “They haven’t arrived yet.” Ian correctly supposed that was Jordan’s doing and made a mental note to thank his friend.

Well, hello, Cameron.” “Vanni, how are you?” “Very well, thanks. And you?” She chewed her lip a little bit. Why couldn’t this just be Paul? “I’m good. Listen, I know Virgin River is perfection, but I was wondering if you’d like to get out of town for a weekend.” “A weekend?” she asked, completely unprepared for such a question. “There’s a great seaside hotel in Mendocino, on the ocean. Lots to do around there. Very relaxing and entertaining.” “Cameron, I have a baby.” He chuckled. “I thought maybe I could bring along a pediatrician.” “But, Cameron, I’m really not ready for—” “Easy, Vanni. We’ll get two rooms. Think of it as a chance to get to know each other better, that’s all. And no, I have not mentioned my plans to Carol.” “Oh. Listen—I appreciate the invitation, but I’m not sure I’m ready for something like a weekend date. That’s moving a little fast for me…” “I’ll be a Boy Scout,” he laughed. “Two rooms, good views, great food, a little relaxation, conversation, no pressure…” “I appreciate the thought, really. It’s very nice of you, but…” “All right,” he said. “It was worth a try. Well, then, can I wrangle another run down to Virgin River? I have Jack’s phone number. I could make a reservation at that little cabin…” “You’re welcome anytime,” she said. “Maybe this weekend, since I scheduled it off?” “Sure,” she said without enthusiasm. “Let me know if you decide to come down.” *

Chad made a sour face. He turned to Shadow. “Okay,” said Chad. “Through that door and into the sally port.” “What?” “Out there. Where the car is.” Liz unlocked the doors. “You make sure that orange uniform comes right back here,” she said to the deputy. “The last felon we sent down to Lafayette, we never saw the uniform again. They cost the county money.” They walked Shadow out to the sally port, where a car sat idling. It wasn’t a sheriff’s department car. It was a black town car. Another deputy, a grizzled white guy with a mustache, stood by the car, smoking a cigarette. He crushed it out underfoot as they came close, and opened the back door for Shadow. Shadow sat down, awkwardly, his movements hampered by the cuffs and the hobble. There was no grille between the back and the front of the car. The two deputies climbed into the front of the car. The black deputy started the motor. They waited for the sally port door to open. “Come on, come on,” said the black deputy, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. Chad Mulligan tapped on the side window. The white deputy glanced at the driver, then he lowered the window. “This is wrong,” said Chad. “I just wanted to say that.” “Your comments have been noted, and will be conveyed to the appropriate authorities,” said the driver. The doors to the outside world opened. The snow was still falling, dizzying into the car’s headlights. The driver put his foot on the gas, and they were heading back down the street and on to Main Street. “You heard about Wednesday?” said the driver. His voice sounded different, now, older, and familiar. “He’s dead.” “Yeah. I know,” said Shadow. “I saw it on TV.” “Those fuckers,” said the white officer. It was the first thing he had said, and his voice was rough and accented and, like the driver’s, it was a voice that Shadow knew. “I tell you, they are fuckers, those fuckers.” “Thanks for coming to get me,” said Shadow. “Don’t mention it,” said the driver. In the light of an oncoming car his face already seemed to look older. He looked smaller, too. The last time Shadow had seen him he had been wearing lemon-yellow gloves and a check jacket. “We were in Milwaukee. Had to drive like demons when Ibis called.” “You think we let them lock you up and send you to the chair, when I’m still waiting to break your head with my hammer?” asked the white deputy gloomily, fumbling in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. His accent was Eastern European. “The real shit will hit the fan in an hour or less,” said Mr. Nancy, looking more like himself with each moment, “when they really turn up to collect you. We’ll pull over before we get to Highway 53 and get you out of those shackles and back into your own clothes.” Czernobog held up a handcuff key and smiled. “I like the mustache,” said Shadow. “Suits you.” Czernobog stroked it with a yellowed finger. “Thank you.” “Wednesday,” said Shadow. “Is he really dead? This isn’t some kind of trick, is it?” He realized that he had been holding on to some kind of hope, foolish though it was. But the expression on Nancy’s face told him all he needed to know, and the hope was gone.

Oh,Ella. I wish you'd had a better time at the ball." "Fuhgeddaboudit," I muttered. Greaseball. Freddy. Freak. "It's not like she and I were ever going to be BFFs." "I wasn't just referring to Amanda." Of course he wasn't. "I'll try," I moaned into the crook of my elbow. "Oh, Lord.I'll try to carry on." "That sounds rather dramatic, even for you." "It's Styx," I told him. "After your time, before mine. I don't know all the words,but those work for the moment. And for the record, I'm being ironic, not dramatic." "If you say so." I ignored him. "I have had my last flutter over Alex Bainbridge. I mean it. Frankie was right.How many signs do I need that we are never, ever going to have...anything...before I get it? Obviously, it doesn't matter that we realte to the same schizo seventies songs. Or that we can discuss antique Japanese woodblock prints. Or that when he sits next to me, he kinda takes my breath away. You would think that would count for a lot,wouldn't you?" Edward gets the concept of rhetorical questions, so I went on. "I wouldn't even want to hazard a guess about what makes Amanda's pulse go all skittery, but I would bet anything it's not Alex. And he's still with her. He doesn't belong with her, but apparently he feels he belongs to her. Explain that,please." "Oh,Ella.We men are not always the best at looking beyond the...er..." "Boobs,Edward. You can say it. Amanda Alstead has boobs and blonda hair. Beyond that, I can't see a single thing that's special about her." "Because there isn't a single thing. Beyond the...er, obvious. You,on the other hand,are a creature of infinite charms. Shall I list them alphabetically or from the top down?" I scowled up at him. "Y'know, you are beginning to sound a little too much like Frankie and Sadie,my deluded Greek chorus." "yes,well,I rather thought that's what friends are for." "You're not supposed to be my friend," I muttered. "You're supposed to be my Prince Charming." "Ahem." Edward's sculpted lips compressed into a grim line. "Have you looked at me lately? I am supposed to be startling and even a bit scary." "Nope.Neither." I rested my chin on my forearm. "To me,you are perfect. You are loyal and reliable and completely lacking in surprises." "That is a good thing?" "Absolutely," I said. "It's an excellent thing.I don't want any more surprises, over." "Hardly an admirable goal,that." "Maybe not," I agreed, "but pleasant. Among all the other bizarreness tonight, I found something new to be afraid of. Evil girlfriends." "Now,Ella. You can't go on being afraid forever." "Oh,yes,I can. As far as Amanda Alstead is concerned, I can." Edward tilted his head and studied me for a moment. He looked annoyed. "Why do you insist on having these conversations with me when you ignore everything I have to say?" It was a pretty good question. "Fine." I sat up straight and folded my hands in my lap. Home Truth time. "Go ahead. On this night when we celebrate the mysteries of life and death..Say something profound, something startling." There was a long silence. Then, "Boo," Edward said. "Thank you,Mr. Willing." "Don't mention it, Miss Marino. I am yours to command.

Gina flopped back on her cot, arm up over her eyes. “Oh, my God, Molly, what am I going to do? The fact that he came here tonight at all is . . . He’s clearly interested, but that’s probably just because he thinks I’m a total perv.” “Whoa,” Molly said. “Wait. You lost me there.” Gina sat up, a mix of earnestness, horror, and amusement on her pretty face. “I didn’t tell you this, but after I first spoke to Lucy’s sister—we were in the shower tent so no one would see us—I let her leave first and then I waited, like, a minute, thinking we shouldn’t be seen leaving the tent together. And before I go, he came in.” He. “Leslie Pollard?” Molly clarified. Gina nodded. “I freaked out when I saw him coming, and it’s stupid, I know, but I hid. And I should have just waited until I heard the shower go on, but God, maybe he wouldn’t have pulled the curtain, because he obviously thought he was in there alone . . .” Molly started to laugh. “Oh my.” “Yeah,” Gina said. “Oh my. So I decide to run for it, only he’s not in one of the changing booths, he’s over by the bench, you know?” Molly nodded. The bench in the main part of the room. “In only his underwear,” Gina finished, with a roll of her eyes. “Oh, my God.” “Really? Molly asked. Apparently Jones was taking his change of identity very seriously. He hated wearing underwear of any kind, but obviously he thought it wouldn’t be in character for Leslie Pollard to go commando. “Boxers or briefs?” Gina gave her a look, but she was starting to laugh now, too, thank goodness. “Briefs. Very brief briefs.” She covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, my God, Molly, he was . . . I think he showers at noon because he knows no one else will be in there, so he can, you know, have an intimate visit with Mr. Hand.” Oh, dear. “And now I know, and he knows I know, and he also probably thinks I lurk in the men’s shower,” Gina continued. “And the fact that he actually came to tea tonight, instead of hiding from me, in his tent, forever, means . . . something awful, don’t you think? Did I mention he has, like, an incredible body?” Molly shook her head. Oh dear. “No.” “Yes,” Gina said just a little too grimly, considering the topic. “Who would’ve guessed that underneath those awful shirts he’s a total god? And maybe that’s what’s freaking out the most.” “You mean because . . . you’re attracted to him?” Molly asked. “No!” Gina said. “God! Because I’m not. I felt nothing. I’m standing there and he’s . . . You know how I said he reminds me of Hugh Grant?” Molly nodded, too relieved to speak. “Well, I got the wrong Hugh. This guy is built like Hugh Jackman. And beneath the hats and sunblock and glasses, he’s actually got cheekbones and a jaw line, too. I’m talking total hottie. And, yes, I can definitely appreciate that on one level, but . . .” She glanced over at the desk, at her digital camera. She’d gotten it out of her trunk earlier today. Which, Molly had learned, meant that she’d spent more time this afternoon looking at her saved pictures. Which included at least a few of Max. Molly’s relief over not having to deal with the complications of Gina having a crush on Leslie felt a whole lot less good. She wished someone would just go ahead and steal Gina’s camera already. Maybe that would help her move on.

But if her idiot suitors were staying at Halstead Hall with her, then by thunder, he'd be here, too. They wouldn't take advantage of her on his watch. "We're agreed that you won't do any of that foolish nonsense you mentioned, like spying on them, right?" "Of course not. That's what I have you for." Her private lackey to jump at her commands. He was already regretting this. "Surely the gentlemen will accept the invitation," she went on, blithely ignoring his disgruntlement. "It's hunting season, and the estate has some excellent coveys." "I wouldn't know." She cast him an easy smile. "Because you generally hunt men, not grouse. And apparently you do it very well." A compliment? From her "No need to flatter me, my lady," he said dryly. "I've already agreed to your scheme." Her smile vanished. "Really, Mr. Pinter, sometimes you can be so..." "Honest?" he prodded. "Irritating." She tipped up her chin. "It will be easier to work together if you're not always so prickly." He felt more than prickly, and for the most foolish reasons imaginable. Because he didn't like her trawling for suitors. Or using him to do it. And because he hated her "lady of the manor" role. It reminded him too forcibly of the difference in their stations. "I am who I am, madam," he bit out, as much a reminder for himself as for her. "You knew what you were purchasing when you set out to do this." She frowned. "Must you make it sound so sordid?" He stepped as close as he dared. "You want me to gather information you can use in playing a false role to catch s husband. I am not the one making it sordid." "Tell me, sir, will I have to endure your moralizing at every turn?" she said in a voice dripping with sugar. "Because I'd happily pay extra to have you keep your opinions to yourself." "There isn't enough money in all the world for that." Her eyes blazed up at him. Good. He much preferred her in a temper. At least then she was herself, not putting on some show. She seemed to catch herself, pasting an utterly false smile to her lips. "I see. Well then, can you manage to be civil for the house party? It does me no good to bring suitors here if you'll be skulking about, making them uncomfortable." He tamped down the urge to provoke her further. If he did she'd strike off on her own, and that would be disastrous. "I shall try to keep my 'skulking' to a minimum." "Thank you." She thrust out her hand. "Shall we shake on it?" The minute his fingers closed about hers, he wished he'd refused. Because having her soft hand in his roused everything he'd been trying to suppress during this interview. He couldn't seem to let go. For such a small-boned female, she had a surprisingly firm grip. Her hand was like her-fragility and strength all wrapped in beauty. He had a mad impulse to lift it to his lips and press a kiss to her creamy skin. But he was no Lancelot to her Guinevere. Only in legend did lowly knights dare to court queens. Releasing her hand before he could do something stupid, he sketched a bow. "Good day, my lady. I'll begin my investigation at once and report to you as soon as I learn something." He left her standing there, a goddess surrounded by the aging glories of an aristocrat's mansion. God save him-this had to be the worst mission he'd ever undertaken, one he was sure to regret.

I was lucky to receive it. Most rogue interns never get a second chance. And here it’s worth mentioning that I benefited from what was known in 2009 as being fortunate, and is now more commonly called privilege. It’s not like I flashed an Ivy League gang sign and was handed a career. If I had stood on a street corner yelling, “I’m white and male, and the world owes me something!” it’s unlikely doors would have opened. What I did receive, however, was a string of conveniences, do-overs, and encouragements. My parents could help me pay rent for a few months out of school. I went to a university lousy with successful D.C. alumni. No less significantly, I avoided the barriers that would have loomed had I belonged to a different gender or race. Put another way, I had access to a network whether I was bullshit or not. A friend’s older brother worked as a speechwriter for John Kerry. When my Crisis Hut term expired, he helped me find an internship at West Wing Writers, a firm founded by former speechwriters for Bill Clinton and Al Gore. In the summer of 2009, my new bosses upgraded me to full-time employee. Without meaning to, I had stumbled upon the chance to learn a skill. The firm’s partners were four of the best writers in Washington, and each taught me something different. Vinca LaFleur helped me understand the benefits of subtle but well-timed alliteration. Paul Orzulak showed me how to coax speakers into revealing the main idea they hope to express. From Jeff Shesol, I learned that while speechwriting is as much art as craft, and no two sets of remarks are alike, there’s a reason most speechwriters punctuate long, flowy sentences with short, punchy ones. It works.

Obama!” the President said, shaking my hand. “Come here and meet Laura. Laura, you remember Obama. We saw him on TV during election night. Beautiful family. And that wife of yours—that’s one impressive lady.” “We both got better than we deserve, Mr. President,” I said, shaking the First Lady’s hand and hoping that I’d wiped any crumbs off my face. The President turned to an aide nearby, who squirted a big dollop of hand sanitizer in the President’s hand. “Want some?” the President asked. “Good stuff. Keeps you from getting colds.” Not wanting to seem unhygienic, I took a squirt. “Come over here for a second,” he said, leading me off to one side of the room. “You know,” he said quietly, “I hope you don’t mind me giving you a piece of advice.” “Not at all, Mr. President.” “He nodded. “You’ve got a bright future,” he said. “Very bright. But I’ve been in this town awhile and, let me tell you, it can be tough. When you get a lot of attention like you’ve been getting, people start gunnin’ for ya. And it won’t necessarily just be coming from my side, you understand. From yours, too. Everybody’ll be waiting for you to slip, know what I mean? So watch yourself.” “Thanks for the advice, Mr. President.” “All right. I gotta get going. You know, me and you got something in common.” “What’s that?” “We both had to debate Alan Keyes. That guy’s a piece of work, isn’t he?” I laughed, and as we walked to the door I told him a few stories from the campaign. It wasn’t until he had left the room that I realized I had briefly put my arm over his shoulder as we talked—an unconscious habit of mine, but one that I suspected might have made many of my friends, not to mention the Secret Service agents in the room, more than a little uneasy.

Listen, you don't have to get up or anything. Galen just...uh...went for a swim. He'll be back real soon." I look between them and past the beach. I shake my head. "What? What's wrong, Emma?" he asks. I like Toraf. He seems genuinely concerned about me, without ever having met me. Rayna looks as if she might want to stomp on my head and finish the job I started with the cafeteria door. "Storm," I say. The one syllable word polka-dots my vision. Toraf smiles. "He'll be back before the storm. Can I get you anything? Something to eat? Something to drink?" "A taxi?" Rayna pitches in. "Go to the kitchen, Rayna," he says. "Unless you're ready to go find an island?" I'm not sure how far away the kitchen is, but it seems like she stomps for a good five minutes. Finding an island doesn't really seem like a fitting punishment for being rude, but since I do have a head injury, I give them the benefit of the doubt. Plus, there's always the possibility that I imagined the whole thing. "Do you mind if I sit?" Toraf says. I shake my head. He eases onto the edge of the couch and pulls the blanket back over me. I hope he takes my nod for "Thanks." He crouches down and whispers, "Listen, Emma. Before Galen gets back. There's something I want to ask you. Oh, don't worry, it's a yes or no question. No talking involved." I hope he takes my nod for "Sure, why not? You're nice." He glances around, as if he's about to rob me instead of ask a question. "Do you feel...uh...tingly...when you're around Galen?" This time, I hope he takes my wide-eyed nod for "Ohmysweetgoodness, how did you know that?" "I knew it!" he hisses. "Listen, I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention it to Galen. You'll both be better off if he figures it out on his own. Promise?" I hope he takes my nod for "This is the strangest dream I've ever had." Everything goes black.

People should forgive me, as an old philologist who cannot prevent himself from maliciously setting his finger on the arts of bad interpretation ― but that "conformity to nature" which you physicists talk about so proudly, as if ― it exists only thanks to your interpretation and bad "philology"― it is not a matter of fact, a "text." It is much more only a naively humanitarian emendation and distortion of meaning, with which you make concessions ad nauseam to the democratic instincts of the modern soul! "Equality before the law everywhere ― in that respect nature is no different and no better than we are": a charming ulterior motive, in which once again lies disguised the rabble's hostility to everything privileged and autocratic, as well as a second and more sophisticated atheism. Ni dieu, ni maître [neither god nor master] ― that's how you want it, and therefore "Up with natural law!" Isn't that so? But, as mentioned, that is interpretation, not text, and someone could come along who had an opposite intention and style of interpretation and who would know how to read out of this same nature, with a look at the same phenomena, the tyrannically inconsiderate and inexorable enforcement of power claims ― an interpreter who set right before your eyes the unexceptional and unconditional nature in all "will to power," in such a way that almost every word, even that word "tyranny," would finally appear unusable or an already weakening metaphor losing its force ― as too human ― and who nonetheless in the process finished up asserting the same thing about this world as you claim, namely, that it has a "necessary" and "calculable" course, but not because laws rule the world but because there is a total absence of laws, and every power draws its final consequence in every moment. Supposing that this also is only an interpretation ―and you will be eager enough to raise that objection?― well, so much the better.

I'm in sore straits, Jeeves.' 'I am sorry to hear that, sir.' 'You'll be sorrier when I explain further. Have you ever seen a garrison besieged by howling savages, with their ammunition down to the last box of cartridges, the water supply giving our and the United States Marines nowhere in sight?' 'Not to my recollection, sir.' 'Well, my position is roughly that of such a garrison, except that compared with me they're sitting pretty. Compared with me they haven't a thing to worry about.' 'You fill me with alarm, sir.' 'I bet I do, and I haven't even started yet. I will begin by saying that Miss Cook, to whom I'm engaged, is a lady for whom I have the utmost esteem and respect, but on certain matters we do not... what's the expression?' 'See eye to eye, sir?' 'That's right. And unfortunately those matters are the what-d'you-call-it of my whole policy. What is it that policies have?' 'I think the word for which you are groping, sir, may possibly be cornerstone.' 'Thank you, Jeeves. She disapproves of a variety of things which are the cornerstone of my policy. Marriage with her must inevitably mean that I shall have to cast them from my life, for she has a will of iron and will have no difficulty in making her husband jump through hoops and snap sugar off his nose. You get what I mean?' 'I do, sir. A very colourful image.' 'Cocktails, for instance, will be barred. She says they are bad for the liver. Have you noticed, by the way, how frightfully lax everything's getting now? In Queen Victoria's day a girl would never have dreamed of mentioning livers in mixed company.' 'Very true, sir. Tempora mutanter, nos et mutamur in illis.' 'That, however, is not the worst.' 'You horrify me, sir.' 'At a pinch I could do without cocktails. It would be agony, but we Woosters can rough it. But she says I must give up smoking.' 'This was indeed the most unkindest cut of all, sir.' 'Give up smoking, Jeeves!' 'Yes, sir. You will notice that I am shuddering.

Mikhail’s hands were gentle as he helped her to lie down. He caressed her silky hair, bent to kiss her tenderly. “You have no idea what you did for me tonight. Thank you, Raven.” Her eyes were closed, lashes lying like two dark crescents against her soft skin. She smiled. “Someone has to show you what love is, Mikhail. Not possession or ownership, but real unconditional love.” Her hand rose, and even with her eyes closed, her fingertips unerringly found the lines around his mouth. “You need to remember how to play, to laugh. You need to learn to like yourself more.” The hard edges of his mouth softened, curved. “You sound like the priest.” “I hope you confessed that you took advantage of me,” she teased. Mikhail’s breath caught in his throat. Guilt washed over him. He had taken advantage. Maybe not the first time, when he was so out of control after such isolation. It had been necessary to make the exchange to save her life. But the second time had been pure selfishness. He had wanted the sexual rush, the total completion of the ritual. And he had uttered the ritual words. They were bound. He knew it, felt the rightness of it, felt the healing in his soul only a true lifemate could effect. “Mikhail? I was teasing you.” The long lashes fluttered, lifted so her eyes could confirm what her fingertips tracing his frown told her. His teeth caught her finger, his tongue stroking over her skin. His mouth was hot, erotic, his eyes burning down at her. Answering heat leapt into her eyes. Raven laughed softly. “You have it all, don’t you? Charm, you’re so sexy you should be locked up, and you have a smile men would kill for. Or women, however you want to look at it.” He bent to kiss her, one hand closing over her breast possessively. “You need to mention what a great lover I am. Men need to hear these things.” “Really?” She arched an eyebrow at him. “I don’t dare. You’re already as arrogant as I can stand.” “You are crazy about me. I know. I read minds.” He suddenly grinned mischievously, like a little boy.

For our part, we thought we would be following her path from a distance in the press. Our friends called to tell us when the photo of Diana pushing Patrick in his stroller appeared in Newsweek, or when our name was mentioned in a news magazine or paper. We were generally mislabeled as the Robinsons. Everyone asked if we would be going to the wedding, and we would reply, “Us? No, of course not.” We truly never expected to hear from Diana again, so her January letter became especially precious to us. We were stunned when a letter from Diana on Buckingham Palace stationary arrived in late March. She was clearly happy, writing, “I am on a cloud.” She missed Patrick “dreadfully.” She hoped that we were all “settled down by now, including your cat too--.” Diana had never even seen our cat. We’d left him with my brother because England requires a six-month quarantine for cats and dogs. How did she ever remember we had one? Then, “I will be sending you an invitation to the wedding, naturally. . . .” The wedding . . . naturally . . . God bless her. Maybe we weren’t going to lose her after all. She even asked me to send a picture of Patrick to show to “her intended(!), since I’m always talking about him.” As for her engagement, she could never even have imagined it the year before. She closed with her typical and appealing modesty: “I do hope you don’t mind me writing to you but just had to let you know what was going on.” Mind? I was thrilled and touched and amazed by her fondness and thoughtfulness, as I have been every single time she has written to us and seen us. This was always to be the Diana we knew and loved—kind, affectionate, unpretentious. I wrote back write away and sent her the two photographs I’d taken of her holding Patrick in our living room the previous fall. After Diana received the photographs, she wrote back on March 31 to thank me and sent us their official engagement picture. She said I should throw the photograph away if it was of no use. She added, “You said some lovely things which I don’t feel I deserve . . . .” Surely, she knew from the previous year that we would be her devoted friends forever.

Eat, woman,” he bellowed, leaning over her, prepared to force the remainder of her meal into her opened mouth. “I would,” she said in a strained voice, “But there is a giant attached to my chin. Perhaps if he would be so gracious as to remove the cured pork from my pack, I would share it with him.” Rautu’s eyes blazed in senseless joy. He released his companion and hastened toward her effects, rummaging through them with great anticipation. He found a small brown parchment parcel and assumed that this was the source of his happiness. He sniffed the outside of the paper and hummed in delight for the exquisite scent. He tore open the barrier between him and his prize and he was compelled to smile when remarking the numerous slices of meat in his hands. He began eating them immediately, leaving no time between one slice and the next to savour that which he had longed to again taste. The superior fare of Frewyn had been the chief of his consolation during the war, and if he was to remain on the islands with all its splendor, all its comforting familiarity, all its temperate climate, and all its horrendous food, he would relish this last ember of bliss before being made to suffer a diet of steamed grains again. “I did say share,” the commander called out. “I am responsible for securing your life,” he replied with a full mouth and without turning around. “And I thanked you accordingly.” The commander’s remonstrations were unanswered, and she scoffed in aversion as she watched the voracious beast consume nearly all the provisions she had been saving for the return journey. “I know you shall not be satisfied until you have all the tribute in the world, but that pork does belong to me, Rau.” “You are not permitted to have meat while taking our medicines,” he said, dismissively. She peered at him in circumspection. “I don’t recall you mentioning that stipulation before. I find it convenient that you should care to do so now.” The giant paused, his cheeks filled with pork. “And?” he said, shoving another slice into his mouth. “And,” she laughed, “You’re going to allow me to starve on your inedible bread while you skulk off with something that was meant for both of us?” “Perhaps.” “Savior, indeed,” the commander fleered. “You have saved me from one means of death only to plunge me into another.

Early in the boob-emerging years, I had no boobs, and I was touchy about it. Remember in middle school algebra class, you’d type 55378008 on your calculator, turn it upside down, and hand it to the flat-chested girl across the aisle? I was that girl, you bi-yotch. I would have died twice if any of the boys had mentioned my booblets. Last year, I thought my boobs had progressed quite nicely. And I progressed from the one-piece into a tankini. But I wasn’t quite ready for any more exposure. I didn’t want the boys to treat me like a girl. Now I did. So today I’d worn a cute little bikini. Over that, I still wore Adam’s cutoff jeans. Amazingly, they looked sexy, riding low on my hips, when I traded the football T-shirt for a pink tank that ended above my belly button and hugged my figure. I even had a little cleavage. I was so proud. Sean was going to love it. Mrs. Vader stared at my chest, perplexed. Finally she said, “Oh, I get it. You’re trying to look hot.” “Thank you!” Mission accomplished. “Here’s a hint. Close your legs.” I snapped my thighs together on the stool. People always scolded me for sitting like a boy. Then I slid off the stool and stomped to the door in a huff. “Where do you want me?” She’d turned back to the computer. “You’ve got gas.” Oh, goody. I headed out the office door, toward the front dock to man the gas pumps. This meant at some point during the day, one of the boys would look around the marina office and ask, “Who has gas?” and another boy would answer, “Lori has gas.” If I were really lucky, Sean would be in on the joke. The office door squeaked open behind me. “Lori,” Mrs. Vader called. “Did you want to talk?” Noooooooo. Nothing like that. I’d only gone into her office and tried to start a conversation. Mrs. Vader had three sons. She didn’t know how to talk to a girl. My mother had died in a boating accident alone on the lake when I was four. I didn’t know how to talk to a woman. Any convo between Mrs. Vader and me was doomed from the start. “No, why?” I asked without turning around. I’d been galloping down the wooden steps, but now I stepped very carefully, looking down, as if I needed to examine every footfall so I wouldn’t trip. “Watch out around the boys,” she warned me. I raised my hand and wiggled my fingers, toodle-dee-doo, dismissing her. Those boys were harmless. Those boys had better watch out for me.

Destiny. He, I mean Geralt, is linked to me by destiny, and I am to him. Our destinies are conjoined. So it would be better if I went away from here. Right away. Do you understand?” “I confess that I don’t quite.” “Destiny!” She took a sip. “A force which it’s better not to get in the way of. Which is why I think… No, no thank you, don’t serve me any more, please, I’ve eaten so much I think I’ll burst.” “You mentioned thinking.” “I think it was a mistake to lure me here. And force me to… Well, you know what I mean. I must get away from here, and hurry to help him… Because it’s my destiny—” “Destiny,” he interrupted, raising his glass. “Predestination. Something that is inevitable. A mechanism which means that a practically unlimited number of unforeseeable events must end with the same result and no other. Is that right?” “Certainly!” “Then whence and wherefore do you wish to go? Drink your wine, enjoy the moment, delight in life. What is to come will come, if it’s inevitable.” “Like hell. It’s not that easy.” “You’re contradicting yourself.” “No, I’m not.” “You’re contradicting your contradiction, and that’s a vicious circle.” “No!” She tossed her head. “You can’t just sit and do nothing! Nothing comes by itself!” “Sophistry.” “You can’t waste time unthinkingly! You might overlook the right moment… That one right, unique moment. For time never repeats itself.” “Permit me.” He stood up. “Look at that, over there.” On the wall he was pointing at was a protruding relief portraying an immense, scaly snake. The reptile, curled up in a figure of eight, was sinking its great teeth into its own tail. Ciri had once seen something like it, but couldn’t remember where. “There,” said the elf. “The ancient snake Ouroboros. Ouroboros symbolises eternity and is itself eternal. It is the eternal going away and the eternal return. It is something that has no beginning and no end. “Time is like the ancient Ouroboros. Time is fleeting moments, grains of sand passing through an hourglass. Time is the moments and events we so readily try to measure. But the ancient Ouroboros reminds us that in every moment, in every instant, in every event, is hidden the past, the present and the future. Eternity is hidden in every moment. Every departure is at once a return, every farewell is a greeting, every return is a parting. Everything is simultaneously a beginning and an end.

If it were any of the other Sharpes, he wouldn’t balk. But the idea of spending serveral hours in her company was both intoxicating and terrifying. “If you don’t let me go along,” she continued, “I’ll just follow you. He scowled at her. She probably would; the woman was as stubborn as she was beautiful. “And don’t think you can outride me, either,” she added. “Halstead Hall has a very good stable, and lady Bell is one of our swiftest mounts.” “Lady Bell?” he said sarcastically. “Not Crack Shot or Pistol?” She glared over at him. “Lady Bell was my favorite doll when I was a girl, the last one Mama gave me before she died. I used to play with it whenever I wanted to remember her. The doll got so ragged that I threw her away when I outgrew her.” Her voice lowered. “I regretted that later, but by then it was too late.” The idea of her playing with a doll to remember her late mother made his throat tighten and his heart falter. “Fine,” he bit out. “You can go with me to High Wycombe.” Surprise turned her cheeks rosy. “Oh, thank you, Jackson! You won’t regret it, I promise you!” “I already regret it,” he grumbled. “And you must do as I say. None of your going off half-cocked, do you hear?” “I never go off half-cocked!” “No, you just walk around with a pistol packed full of powder, thinking you can hold men at bay with it.” She tossed her head. “You’ll never let me forget that, will you?” “Not as long as we both shall live.” The minute the words left his lips, he could have kicked himself. They sounded too much like a vow, one he’d give anything for the right to make. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to have noticed. Instead, she was squirming and shimmying about on her saddle. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I’ve got a burr caught in my stocking that keeps rubbing against my leg. I’m just trying to work it out. Don’t mind me.” His mouth went dry at her mention of stockings. It brought yesterday’s encounter vividly into his mind, how he’d lifted her skirts to reach the smooth expanse of calf encased in silk. How he’d run his hands up her thighs as his mouth had tasted- God save him. He couldn’t be thinking about such things while riding. He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle as they reached the road and settled into a comfortable pace. The road was busy at this early hour. The local farmers were driving their carts to market or town, and laborers were headed for the fields. To Jackson’s relief, that made it easy not to talk. Conversaing with her was bound to be difficult, especially if she started consulting him about her suitors.

I am dreaming of happy Pandas. A whole field full of happy Pandas. I am beside myself. I am entirely myself. I am going to set myself on fire. Just you wait and see. I will destroy. You will obey. That's the way it has to be. You'll make the lemonade and I'll ensure that no other lemonade stand stands in our way. We will wear terrific Panda suits. We will have a secret hand shake. We'll stick to the plan. I will destroy. You will obey. That's the way it's going to have to be. Pouting about it won't change anything. Pouting about it will only make you look like an unhappy Panda and we can't be having that. So you should think before you speak. You should consider your options before you decide to become an unhappy Panda. Because you don't want to know what happens to Pandas that aren't happy. So you'd best be careful. Don't worry though. This is just us talking. This is just us coming together at the head. Like Siamese twins, like two happy peas in a pod. You would not like it if we were to do the other routine. There are no happy Pandas to be had in that one. Not at all. No mention of Pandas whatsoever. Just unpleasantness that I would rather avoid. So keep smiling. Always remember to keep smiling. Whatever will be, will be. There is nothing more pathetic than a sore loser. So keep smiling. Everything will take care of itself. Thank goodness. I'm tired now. I am going to go to bed. I don't much feel like being your friend anymore. The good old days are gone. Best to get on board with the depravity of the here and now. The world consumes, the world revolves, the world will someday come to and end. If not by us, then pulverized by the sun. The mysteries of the universe revealed with no time to study the data and reach an outcome, the sun will go out and all creatures great and small will be helpless against the unknowns of life. So why are you so worried? Why don't you go have some drinks, get laid, get back, get something. After everything has been done, been bought, sold, produced, consumed, recycled, re-packaged, and re-sold, you will have gained nothing by floundering about trying to change things that cannot be changed. The little things exist only so that the important ones never get touched upon. That's why you can wear leather shoes and, at the same time, refuse to eat beef. Because we are all, every one of us, ridiculous. And we've elected you our leader. I am going to go lay in bed and wait for the hands of impossibility to come strangle me. I am going to smile at my ceiling and sing the song of our undoing. I will wear my Panda pajamas. I will think of you often when I get to where it is that I'm going. Everything will be fine. Just you wait and see. Just you wait and see.

You have to go rescue Gabe before he does something foolish. Chetwin is here and they’re near to coming to blows over that stupid race. They’re in the card room.” “Oh, for God’s sake, I can’t believe Foxmoor invited that idiot.” He hurried off. As soon as Oliver disappeared into the house, Celia and Minerva tugged Maria inside, grinning. “Hurry, before he gets back.” They were met by Lord Gabriel and Lord Jarret, who strode up with several young men in tow. “Lord Gabriel!” Maria exclaimed. “Your brother-“ “Yes, I know. And while he’s gone…” He and Jarret introduced the other gentlemen to her. By the time Oliver returned, she’d promised dances to all of his brothers’ friends. Oliver’s frown deepened as he saw Gabe standing there, blithe as could be. He raised an eyebrow at his sister. “Was running me off in search of Chetwin your idea of a joke?” “I got confused, that’s all,” Celia said brightly. “We’ve been introducing Maria around while you were gone.” “Thank you for making her feel welcome,” he said, though he eyed the other gentlemen warily. Then he held out his arm to Maria. “Come, my dear, let me introduce you to our hosts, so we can dance.” “Sorry, old chap.” Gabe said, stepping between them, “but she’s already promised the first dance to me.” Oliver’s gaze swung to her, dark and accusing, “You didn’t.” She stared to feel guilty, then caught herself. What did she have to feel guilty about? He was the one who’d spent last night at a brothel. He was the one who’d been so caught up in his battle with his grandmother that he hadn’t even bothered to ask her for a dance. He’d just assumed that she would give him one, because he’d “paid” for her services. Well, a pox on him. Meeting his gaze steadily, she thrust out her chin. “You never mentioned it. I had no idea you wanted the first dance.” A black scowl formed on his brow. “Then I get the second dance.” “I’m afraid that one’s mine,” Jarret put in. “Indeed, I believe Miss Butterfield is engaged for every single dance. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?” A male swell of assent turned Oliver’s scowl into a glower. “The hell she is.” Mrs. Plumtree slapped his arm with her fan. “Really, Oliver, you must watch your language around young ladies. This is a respectable gathering.” “I don’t care. She’s my fi-“ He caught himself just in time. “Maria came with me. I deserve at least one dance.” “Then perhaps you should have asked for one before she became otherwise engaged,” Celia said with a mischievous smile. Gabe held out his arm to Maria. “Come, Miss Butterfield,” he said in an echo of his older brother’s words, “I’ll introduce you to our hosts.” As she took his arm, he grinned at Oliver. “You’d better start hoping you draw her name in the lottery for the supper waltz, old boy. Because that’s the only way you’re going to get to dance with her tonight.

Miss Prudence Mercer Stony Cross Hampshire, England 7 November 1854 Dear Prudence, Regardless of the reports that describe the British soldier as unflinching, I assure you that when riflemen are under fire, we most certainly duck, bob, and run for cover. Per your advice, I have added a sidestep and a dodge to my repertoire, with excellent results. To my mind, the old fable has been disproved: there are times in life when one definitely wants to be the hare, not the tortoise. We fought at the southern port of Balaklava on the twenty-fourth of October. Light Brigade was ordered to charge directly into a battery of Russian guns for no comprehensible reason. Five cavalry regiments were mowed down without support. Two hundred men and nearly four hundred horses lost in twenty minutes. More fighting on the fifth of November, at Inkerman. We went to rescue soldiers stranded on the field before the Russians could reach them. Albert went out with me under a storm of shot and shell, and helped to identify the wounded so we could carry them out of range of the guns. My closest friend in the regiment was killed. Please thank your friend Prudence for her advice for Albert. His biting is less frequent, and he never goes for me, although he’s taken a few nips at visitors to the tent. May and October, the best-smelling months? I’ll make a case for December: evergreen, frost, wood smoke, cinnamon. As for your favorite song…were you aware that “Over the Hills and Far Away” is the official music of the Rifle Brigade? It seems nearly everyone here has fallen prey to some kind of illness except for me. I’ve had no symptoms of cholera nor any of the other diseases that have swept through both divisions. I feel I should at least feign some kind of digestive problem for the sake of decency. Regarding the donkey feud: while I have sympathy for Caird and his mare of easy virtue, I feel compelled to point out that the birth of a mule is not at all a bad outcome. Mules are more surefooted than horses, generally healthier, and best of all, they have very expressive ears. And they’re not unduly stubborn, as long they’re managed well. If you wonder at my apparent fondness for mules, I should probably explain that as a boy, I had a pet mule named Hector, after the mule mentioned in the Iliad. I wouldn’t presume to ask you to wait for me, Pru, but I will ask that you write to me again. I’ve read your last letter more times than I can count. Somehow you’re more real to me now, two thousand miles away, than you ever were before. Ever yours, Christopher P.S. Sketch of Albert included As Beatrix read, she was alternately concerned, moved, and charmed out of her stockings. “Let me reply to him and sign your name,” she begged. “One more letter. Please, Pru. I’ll show it to you before I send it.” Prudence burst out laughing. “Honestly, this is the silliest things I’ve ever…Oh, very well, write to him again if it amuses you.

DEAR CHILD Please to fancy, if you can, that you are reading a real letter, from a real friend whom you have seen, and whose voice you can seem to yourself to hear wishing you, as I do now with all my heart, a happy Easter. Do you know that delicious dreamy feeling when one first wakes on a summer morning, with the twitter of birds in the air, and the fresh breeze coming in at the open window – when, lying lazily with eyes half-shut, one sees as in a dream green boughs waving, or water rippling in a golden light? It is a pleasure very near to sadness, bringing tears to one’s eyes like a beautiful picture or poem. And is not that a Mother’s gentle hand that undraws your curtains, and a Mother’s sweet voice that summons you to rise? To rise and forget, in the bright sunlight, the ugly dreams that frightened you so when all was dark – to rise and enjoy another happy day, first kneeling to thank that unseen Friend, who sends you the beautiful sun? Are these strange words from a writer of such tales as ‘Alice’? And is this a strange letter to find in a book of nonsense? It may be so. Some perhaps may blame me for thus mixing together things grave and gay; others may smile and think it odd that any one should speak of solemn things at all, except in church and on Sunday: but I think – nay, I am sure – that some children will read this gently and lovingly, and in the spirit of which I have written it. For I do not believe God means us thus to divide life into two halves – to wear a grave face on Sunday, and to think it out-of-place to even so much as mention Him on a week-day. Do you think He cares to see only kneeling figures, and to hear only tones of prayer – and that He does not also love to see the lambs leaping in the sunlight, and to hear the merry voices of the children, as they roll among the hay? Surely their innocent laughter is as sweet in His ears as the grandest anthem that ever rolled up from the ‘dim religious light’ of some solemn cathedral? And if I have written anything to add to those stories of innocent and healthy amusement that are laid up in books for the children I love so well, it is surely something I may hope to look back upon without shame and sorrow (as how much of life must then be recalled!) when my turn comes to walk through the valley of shadows. This Easter sun will rise on you, dear child, feeling your ‘life in every limb’, and eager to rush out into the fresh morning air – and many an Easter-day will come and go, before it finds you feeble and gray-headed, creeping wearily out to bask once more in the sunlight – but it is good, even now, to think sometimes of that great morning when the ‘Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing in his wings’. Surely your gladness need not be less for the thought that you will one day see a brighter dawn than this – when lovelier sights will meet your eyes than any waving trees or rippling waters – when angel-hands shall undraw your curtains, and sweeter tones than ever loving Mother breathed shall wake you to a new and glorious day – and when all the sadness, and the sin, that darkened life on this little earth, shall be forgotten like the dreams of a night that is past! Your affectionate friend, LEWIS CARROLL Easter, 1876

Romans 1: 8 First, I thank my God through Jesus Christ for you all, that your faith is spoken of throughout the whole world. 9 For God is my witness, whom I serve with my spirit in the gospel of his Son, that without ceasing I make mention of you always in my prayers; 10 Making request, if by any means now at length I might have a prosperous journey by the will of God to come unto you. 11 For I long to see you, that I may impart unto you some spiritual gift, to the end ye may be established; 12 That is, that I may be comforted together with you by the mutual faith both of you and me. 13 Now I would not have you ignorant, brethren, that oftentimes I purposed to come unto you, (but was let hitherto,) that I might have some fruit among you also, even as among other Gentiles. 14 I am debtor both to the Greeks, and to the Barbarians; both to the wise, and to the unwise. 15 So, as much as in me is, I am ready to preach the gospel to you that are at Rome also. 16 For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth; to the Jew first, and also to the Greek. 17 For therein is the righteousness of God revealed from faith to faith: as it is written, The just shall live by faith. 18 For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who hold the truth in unrighteousness; 19 Because that which may be known of God is manifest in them; for God hath shewed it unto them. 20 For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse: 21 Because that, when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened. 22 Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools, 23 And changed the glory of the uncorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and fourfooted beasts, and creeping things. 24 Wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lusts of their own hearts, to dishonour their own bodies between themselves: 25 Who changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator, who is blessed for ever. Amen. 26 For this cause God gave them up unto vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature: 27 And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men working that which is unseemly, and receiving in themselves that recompence of their error which was meet. 28 And even as they did not like to retain God in their knowledge, God gave them over to a reprobate mind, to do those things which are not convenient; 29 Being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity; whisperers, 30 Backbiters, haters of God, despiteful, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, 31 Without understanding, covenantbreakers, without natural affection, implacable, unmerciful: 32 Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are

I’m at my locker; the door is jammed, and I’m trying to yank it open. I finally get the door loose and there’s Josh, standing right there. “Lara Jean…” He has this shell-shocked, confused expression on his face. “I’ve been trying to talk to you since last night. I came by, and nobody could find you…” He holds out my letter. “I don’t understand. What is this?” “I don’t know…,” I hear myself say. My voice feels far away. It’s like I’m floating above myself, watching it all unfold. “I mean, it’s from you, right?” “Oh, wow.” I take a deep breath and accept the letter. I fight the urge to tear it up. “Where did you even get this?” “It got sent to me in the mail.” Josh jams his hands into his pockets. “When did you write this?” “Like, a long time ago,” I say. I let out a fake little laugh. “I don’t even remember when. It might have been middle school.” Good job, Lara Jean. Keep it up. Slowly he says, “Right…but you mention going to the movies with Margot and Mike and Ben that time. That was a couple of years ago.” I bite my bottom lip. “Right. I mean, it was kind of a long time ago. In the grand scheme of things.” I can feel tears coming on so close that if I break concentration even for a second, if I waver, I will cry and that will make everything worse, if such a thing is possible. I must be cool and breezy and nonchalant now. Tears would ruin that. Josh is staring at me so hard I have to look away. “So then…Do you…or did you have feelings for me or…?” “I mean, yes, sure, I did have a crush on you at one point, before you and Margot ever started dating. A million years ago.” “Why didn’t you ever say anything? Because, Lara Jean…God. I don’t know.” His eyes are on me, and they’re confused, but there’s something else, too. “This is crazy. I feel kind of blindsided.” The way he’s looking at me now, I’m suddenly in a time warp back to a summer day when I was fourteen and he was fifteen, and we were walking home from somewhere. He was looking at me so intently I was sure he was going to try to kiss me. I got nervous, so I picked a fight with him and he never looked at me like that again. Until this moment. Don’t. Just please, don’t. Whatever he’s thinking, whatever he wants to say, I don’t want to hear it. I will do anything, literally anything, not to hear it. Before he can, I say, “I’m dating someone.” Josh’s jaw goes slack. “What?” What? “Yup. I’m dating someone, someone I really really like, so please don’t worry about this.” I wave the letter like it’s just paper, trash, like once upon a time I didn’t literally pour my heart onto this page. I stuff it into my bag. “I was really confused when I wrote this; I don’t even know how it got sent out. Honestly, it’s not worth talking about. So please, please don’t say anything to Margot about it.” He nods, but that’s not good enough. I need a verbal commitment. I need to hear the words come out of his mouth. So I add, “Do you swear? On your life?” If Margot was to ever find out…I would want to die. “All right, I swear. I mean, we haven’t even spoken since she left.” I let out a huge breath. “Great. Thanks.” I’m about to walk away, but then Josh stops me. “Who’s the guy?” “What guy?” “The guy you’re dating.” That’s when I see him. Peter Kavinsky, walking down the hallway. Like magic. Beautiful, dark-haired Peter. He deserves background music, he looks so good. “Peter. Kavinsky. Peter Kavinsky!

them.” “Well, since we’re waiting on a fresh warlock, you have time then, right?” “I mean, yeah, I guess so, but—” “That’s alright, I won’t force you to go. I know you have a lot on your mind, but just consider it, okay?” I nodded. “Yes, sir.” We cleaned up the field some more. After a while, I asked, “Hey, where’s Lukester and Cindy? I don’t see them anywhere.” “If they are not here, then they must be at the hospital helping the wounded,” said Adrian. “Okay, I think I’ll head over there, then.” “Sure, Steve. Adrian and I will continue cleaning up here,” said the mayor. Adrian turned to look at the mayor. It looked like he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue. “Alright, see you guys later.” I turned and walked away. Adrian and the mayor waved at me, then they continued picking up weapons. As I walked away, I suddenly remembered that I wanted to ask the mayor something about the mining operation. So, I busted a U-turn and walked toward the mayor. Adrian and the mayor were both busily working and had their backs facing me. “I don’t want him spiraling into depression over the Bob and horse thing, so make sure you keep him busy,” I overheard the mayor say. “Yes, sir,” replied Adrian. “There was a time when he fell into depression and he just lay in bed for days. I don’t want the same thing happening again.” Adrian nodded. “I’ll have plenty for him to do in the coming days, and with the party coming up, I plan to have all sorts of activities to distract him.” “Yes, sir.” “Good, please help me clean up for another five minutes, then go join Steve.” “As you wish.” They were clearly talking about me, and I didn’t want to interrupt them. So, I quietly spun 180 degrees and made my way to the hospital. As I walked, I thought, Wow… the mayor is really concerned about my state of mind. I had no idea… I reached the hospital and found a bunch of patient-filled beds outside. The place was completely packed, so packed that they had to treat patients outdoors. Cindy caught my eye as she frantically ran about from patient to patient. “Cindy!” I yelled. She gasped and turned around. “Steve, shhh…” she whispered. “Some of the patients are sleeping. “Oh, sorry…” She walked over to me. “How are you? Feeling good? Any injuries?” “Hm… now that you mentioned it, I’m surprised that I don’t have any injuries.”  Cindy beamed a huge smile. “I had a splash potion of regeneration in my personal chest at home. I used it on you while you slept.” “You did? No wonder.” “That was my last one. I was saving it for a special situation, and I guess saving a friend from pain is a pretty good reason to use it.” “Aw… thank you so much, Cindy.” “You’re welcome, Steve. So, are you here to help today?” “Help?” “Yeah, help with the wounded?” “Uh, um, sure. Yeah, I can help, but actually, I wanted to speak with you about something.” “Oh? What’s up?” “Well…” I explained to Cindy about what happened. “Oh, no… so she wouldn’t change Paul right away?” asked the potioneer. I shook my head. “I begged her, but she absolutely refused.” “Aw…” “So, I was wondering if you could give it a try?” “You want me to ask her to change Paul into a warlock?” “Yeah, could you do that for me? As a favor?” “Well, of course I’d be willing to, but what about Paul? Is he okay with this plan?” Cindy asked. “I think Paul will be way easier to convince once Wanda is on board.” Cindy nodded. “You’re right. Okay, my shift here doesn’t end for another few hours. I’ll head over to Wanda’s afterward.” “Yass!

A man strolled up to their table, dressed in the garb of a waiter. His blond hair was long and shiny, showing that he obviously took great care of it, probably more so than a man had any right to care for their hair. Light blue eyes were hidden beneath several strands of shimmering gold, and his pearly white teeth gleamed as he smiled. Kevin nearly groaned. Great. This was just what they needed. A bishie. “Good evening ma’am, madam… sir.” For reasons beyond Kevin, he felt like this man only added him at the last second as an afterthought. “Would either of you care for a refill?” he asked the two ladies at the table, though his eyes focused on Lilian. Kevin felt his blood boil. “No thanks. I’m good here.” Lilian dismissed the man without even looking at him. Vindication rushed through his veins when Kevin saw the pretty boy’s right eye twitch. He apparently wasn’t used to women ignoring him. “I see.” Kevin had to give the man credit. He kept his annoyance in check well. “And what about you, madam?” he addressed Kotohime. “Is the wine to your satisfaction?” He gave her his best smile. “It’s all right, I suppose.” Kotohime took a sip of the wine that he spoke of, managing to hide her grimace. “Though I do wish that you were in possession of some sake instead.” Another twitch. “I apologize that we could not accommodate you.” He bowed. “I have, of course, already suggested that we begin working towards importing sake, however, these things do take time. It will probably be at least a year before we see anything done.” “A shame,” Kotohime said, “I know that Kiara was most looking forward to trying some.” At the mention of Kiara, the man gripped the water pitcher in his hand hard enough that Kevin thought the handle would shatter. Did this man have a grudge against Kiara? He didn’t think so, but then, who could say for sure. For all Kevin knew, this man could have asked Kiara out on a date, thinking his bishounen good looks would make her swoon over him—and had then been disappointed when she told him that wimpy maggots who sparkled didn’t do it for her. Kevin could totally see that happening. “Yes, well, I am terribly sorry to disappoint a woman of her… esteemed position, but I am not in charge of imports, I’m afraid. I merely wait tables.” “Indeed.” “If you’ll excuse me.” “Hold it.” The man turned around. Kevin almost smiled when the man aimed an evil glare at him. He raised his glass. “I’d like a refill of water, please.” A twitch. “Of course, sir.” The man refilled his glass. Kevin leaned in. “If I ever see you stripping my girlfriend with your eyes again, I will rip your arms off and shove them so far up your ass that you’ll need to have surgery done if you ever want to use the restroom again,” he said, his tone and manner nonchalant. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the man said, his smile fixed. “I am merely doing my job as your host.” “Yes.” Kevin snorted. “I’m sure you are.

Metahemeralism. Tell me about it. Everything you know. I gotta know something about metahemeralism." "I'm sorry. I don't know what that is." "I don't either," Bunny would say brokenly. "Got to do with art or pastoralism or something. That's how I gotta tie together John Donne and Izaak Walton, see." He would resume pacing. "Donne. Walton. Metahemeralism. That's the problem as I see it." "Bunny, I don't think "metahemeralism" is even a word." "Sure it is. Comes from the Latin. Has to do with irony and the pastoral. Yeah. That's it. Painting or sculpture or something, maybe." "Is it in the dictionary?" "Dunno. Don't know how to spell it. I mean" — he made a picture frame with his hands — "the poet and the fisherman. Parfait. Boon companions. Out in the open spaces. Living the good life. Metahemeralism's gotta be the glue here, see?" And so it would go on, for sometimes half an hour or more, with Bunny raving about fishing, and sonnets, and heaven knew what, until in the middle of his monologue he would be struck by a brilliant thought and bluster off as suddenly as he had descended. He finished the paper four days before the deadline and ran around showing it to everyone before he turned it in. "This is a nice paper, Bun — ," Charles said cautiously. "Thanks, thanks." "But don't you think you ought to mention John Donne more often? Wasn't that your assignment?" "Oh, Donne," Bunny had said scoffingly. "I don't want to drag him into this." Henry had refused to read it. "I'm sure it's over my head, Bunny, really," he said, glancing over the first page. "Say, what's wrong with this type?" "Tripled spaced it," said Bunny proudly. "These lines are about an inch apart." "Looks kind of like free verse, doesn't it?" Henry made a funny little snorting noise through his nose. "Looks kind of like a menu," he said. All I remember about the paper was that it ended with the sentence "And as we leave Donne and Walton on the shores of Metahemeralism, we wave a fond farewell to those famous chums of yore.

He wants to meet you—her,” Alex says. “Holy shit.” Ed straightens, turning around to tug on his hair. “If I don’t say much it’s because I’m screaming inside.” “Okay, this doesn’t have to be that big a deal.” Alex looks up at Ed, confused. Sweet, breezy Alex. But sweet, emotional Ed drops into a chair and wipes his palms on his robe-covered thighs. “It is a big deal, though, Alex, since these are our best friends, and one of them has been lying to another. Not to mention the tiny fact that both of us knew. We’re aiders and abettors.” “Not helping.” I whimper and sink deeper into the cushion. The beads in Ed’s cheap beanbag choose this moment to shift underneath me, folding me in half and causing me to roll awkwardly to the floor. I land on my face with a groan. And remain there. “Oh, that’s just sad.” Alex lasts about five seconds before bursting out laughing. At least Ed takes pity on me. “Come on,” he says, and offers me a hand. “Let’s get you up.” “Leave me,” I mumble from the floor. “This is where I belong.” “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” Ed bends one knee to kneel near me, and I squeeze my eyes closed as I get an eyeful of vague dickness up his robe. “You mean, I’m being too dramatic about Reid having feelings for a version of me who doesn’t exist? Or am I being too dramatic about the reality that he thinks I’m emotionally barren? I mean, let’s not forget I basically catfished my best friend.” I push to sit up. “Who does that? I didn’t even really know what that was a few months ago. I thought it was just a show on MTV.” Ed, thankfully, moves to drag a milk crate across the floor to use as a seat. “Please take this the way it’s intended, because you know that I love you, but what did you expect to happen?” When I whimper instead of answering, Alex has no problem hopping in: “This. This is what happens. Secrets are cancerous.” “Thanks, Alex.” He shrugs. “Someone’s got to be straight with you, and who else would do it?. We’re your only friends.” “I have other friends,” I say, indignant. “Who?” Ed asks, quickly adding, “Baristas don’t count.” “What, you want names?” I try to laugh but it comes out wheezy. “I have lots of names. Like, all my friends at work. And my sister.” “A sister we’ve never met, and who you never talk about,” Ed reminds me. I open my mouth to argue, but there’s nothing but dead air.

Xavier and Catalina sat in the VIP box, waving down at us enthusiastically and I waved back before giving Darius my full attention. The entire right side of his face was covered in mud, not to mention the rest of him and his torn jersey fell open to reveal the firm cut of his abs and that perfect V which dipped beneath his waistband. “You’re killing it out there,” I told him truthfully, flashing a sweet smile which instantly had him narrowing his eyes in suspicion. We hadn’t exactly talked much since the whole three way thing and I was really curious about how he was feeling about that. But I was even more curious as to how he was going to react when he realised I’d been playing with the sack of treasure I stole from him oh so long ago. There were plenty of times when I’d thought about the little stash we’d hidden out in the woods and wondered why he hadn’t asked for it back and there was only one reason that made any sense – he assumed I didn’t have it anymore. I didn’t know if he thought I’d sold it or destroyed it, but I was about to remind him that I still had it and see how nice he was when his temper flared. I was pretty sure there was a guide book or two out there about not poking a Dragon, but I guessed I was just too stupid to care. “Thanks. Are you looking for me to make some cheesy statement like I’m thinking of you every time I tackle someone?” he teased and I laughed, tossing my hair. He frowned at me and I had to admit that might have been overkill, but whatever. “Nice to know I’m on your mind every time you have someone pinned beneath you in the mud,” I purred. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Mildred rising to her feet in the stands with a face like an angry Koala which had been hit by a car. I didn’t have long before she came over here to stake her claim on her Dragon, but I didn’t need much time. “I think I’ve made my desire to pin you beneath me pretty clear,” Darius replied in a low voice which had my toes curling, but I wasn’t here to flirt, I was here to poke a Dragon. “Good luck for the second half,” I said in a sweet voice, reaching out touch his bicep, making sure that the gold rings pressed against his skin. Darius looked down the moment he felt his magic stir in response to the gold and his eyes widened in surprise which was quickly followed by a flash of fury as he recognised the jewellery from his stash which I’d stolen. I whirled away from him with a dark laugh before he could do any more than suck in an angry breath and I jogged out to join my squad just as they started up a chant. V – E – G – A! She’ll wipe the floor with you today! Veeeeega! Veeeeega! I fell into the moves of the chant, clapping my hands as some of the others rustled pom-poms and Darcy offered me an appreciative smile from the side of the pitch. We had little chants like that for all of the team members, but we often forgot to call out for the Heirs. The music suddenly dropped and 7 Rings by Ariana Grande burst from speakers around the stadium as we moved into a full routine filled with dance moves and tricks. The song choice turned out to be perfect for taunting a gold obsessed Dragon as well as performing a badass routine to and I couldn’t help but smirk like a psychopath throughout. Darius stood glaring at me from the side of the pitch even when Seth tried to drag him into the locker rooms and my heart thundered at the pure fury in his eyes. Remind me again why I thought poking the Dragon was a good idea because he looks ready to shit a brick! I turned my eyes from him, grinning out at the crowd as I moved between my girls, running forward as I performed a set of hand springs which ended in me throwing a huge blast of multicoloured petals up into the air so that they fell over the crowd. (Tory)

I hate to break it to you, Professor Abrams, but old guys don’t do it for me. They’ve got a sickly smell that I don’t like, and correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t that thing down there increasingly shrink with age?” I’m angry enough to not care about what I just said, but not angry enough to ignore the flame flickering in my stomach or to not look at the…thing I just mentioned, the slight bump hidden by the zipper of his jeans. Heat spans the entire length of my body as I imagine what it looks like…bare and hard. “I wouldn’t know, Miss Robinson.” His soft, smooth voice brings me out of my trance. “I think I have some good inches left in me, but thanks for the tip. Might come in handy in a few years when I start measuring my dick.

The ceremony was beautiful, and as Hope and Mark stood beneath the towering floral arch, I couldn't help but think this scene truly looked like something out of a fairytale wedding. I even started feeling a little emotional--- until they started to recite their vows. Hope had told me earlier that she and Mark had written their own vows but failed to say more about them. At first, I thought my hearing had failed or I was having some kind of stroke. "What language is that?" I whispered to Dom from our perch in the back. "I... I actually think it's a pretend language," he replied. "What are you talking about?" I asked. "What do you mean pretend language?" "Do you have one of the programs with you?" he asked. "I bet there's a note in there about it." "No, but let me grab one." I didn't have to go far before I found the table at the back of the aisle and a basket full of programs. Each program was iridescent, in the shape of a flower with a beautiful lilac ribbon tied at the bottom. Under the order of service, a small line read: "The bride and groom have chosen to recite their own vows to one another in their favorite mythical tongue: Sindarin, one of the Elvish languages of Tolkein." My eyes were wide as saucers. Both the Elvish and English translations were printed below for everyone to follow along. Dom was going to lose it for sure. I quietly moved back to my seat next to Dom, who was still filming. "You're not going to believe what I'm about to tell you," I whispered as I casually fanned myself with the floral program. "What is it?" he asked. "It's Elvish," I said, holding back a laugh. "What?" he replied a little too loud. "Keep your voice down," I said, now pointing to the line in the program as proof. "Like, from The Lord of the Rings?" "I can't believe she didn't mention this to me earlier," I said. "But yes, I think so. This wedding is just full of surprises." "For once, I'm at a loss for words," Dom said. "They are clearly perfect for each other if this was something they both enjoyed. I bet they go to all those conferences for people who like fantasy stuff." "Maybe that's what they're doing for their honeymoon," I added. "I haven't asked them about it yet. If it is, I'm going to die." We were both holding back giggles at this point, but thankfully the couple finished reciting whatever it was they were saying to each other. I wondered whether we'd need to add subtitles to our video if we showed this part of the ceremony. As soon as the officiant pronounced them man and wife, the ceremony musicians played a set of chimes and the officiant asked for every guest to open the small box that was placed at the base of every bench. Inside each box was a butterfly that flew into the air and fluttered around the entire area above all the guests. I supposed that since real fairies weren't available, butterflies were the next best option. It was actually the perfect ending to this mythical ceremony, and everyone cheered in delight.

She has turned on all the lights downstairs. 'Are you OK, Stan?' 'What are you doing, Laverne?' shouts Dad. 'Turn the lights off. Do you want everyone to see?' 'It’s late, Stan. Go to bed,' she sighs. 'You too, kids' she calls up at us. We go back to bed. -- The next morning, when Alice and I go down for breakfast, everything is exactly normal again. 'Dad…' I start, but Mum gives me a look that says, 'Don't you dare mention last night.' So I don't say anything. Dad beams at us over a big steaming cup of black coffee. 'Good morning, poppets. You sleep OK?' He looks tired and a bit dirty, but he has a huge grin on his face. 'Yes, thanks,' says Alice. I don't think she remembers last night at all. Right now

I’m sure our newcomers appreciate hearing that being diagnosed with HIV is not all doom and gloom.” The leader’s gaze swept over all the others in the circle. “With an attitude like Duncan’s, great things will happen to you. Don’t let the disease define you. Make the disease work for you instead.” An hour later, the meeting was over. John had gotten the opportunity to introduce himself to the group, something he would have preferred to have skipped, but that wasn’t allowed. Everyone must participate in that part; only the question and answer session that followed was optional. He hadn’t mentioned that he used to be a cop, certainly not that he had been fired. He’d just said that he was a private eye and that he would be happy to be their spy if they needed one. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Linda asked John when they were outside the room and in the hallway, where donuts and coffee and tea were served. Most of the participants milled around there, connecting with each other. John shrugged and grabbed a jelly donut. “I guess not.” The bespectacled leader named Robert came up to them then. He was on the short side and had an emaciated face with delicate features. He stuck out a bony hand toward John. John took it and gave it a firm shake. “John, it’s so nice to have you join us today,” Robert said with a broad smile that displayed big, graying teeth. Robert was HIV-positive as well, and in the chronic HIV stage. “Thank you for having me,” John said and returned the smile as best he could. “It’s been very…educational. I’m glad I came.” “Great,” Robert said, then his attention went to Linda. “Thanks for bringing your friend, Linda. And for coming again yourself.” “Oh, of course,” Linda said and smiled. Her hazel eyes glittered with warmth. “It’s a great group and you’re a great leader.” “Thank you. That’s so kind of you to say.” Robert tossed a glance over his shoulder, then leaned in toward John and Linda. “I just wanted to apologize for Doris.” “Apologize?” Linda repeated. “What did she do?” “Well, for starters, she’s not 33. She’s 64 and has been infected for thirty years. She’s also a former heroin addict and prostitute. She likes to pretend that she’s someone else entirely, and because we don’t want to upset her, we humor her. We pretend she’s being truthful when she talks about herself. I’d appreciate it if you help us keep her in the dark.” That last sentence had a tension to it that the rest of Robert’s words hadn’t had. It was almost like he’d warned them not to go against his will, or else. Not that it had been necessary to impress that on either John or Linda. John especially appreciated the revelation. Maybe having HIV was not as gruesome as Doris had made it seem then. Six Yvonne jerked awake when the phone rang. It rang and rang for several seconds before she realized where she was and what was going on. She pushed herself up on the bed and glanced around for the device. When she eventually spotted it on the floor beside the bed, it had stopped ringing. Even so, she rolled over on her side and fished it up to the bed. Crossing her legs Indian-style, she checked who had called her. It was Gabe, which was no surprise. He was the only one who had her latest burner number. He had left her a voicemail. She played it. “Mom, good news. I have the meds. Jane came through. Where do you want me to drop them off? Should I come to the motel? Call me.” Exhilaration streamed through her and she was suddenly wide awake. She made a fist in the air. Yes! Finally something was going their way. Now all they had to do was connect without Gabe leading the cops to her. She checked the time on the ancient clock radio on the nightstand. It was past six o’clock. So she must have slept

Note: I am sure that now they will approach Medium to stop me from writing. Let’s see what happens. “A genuine person or celebrity doesn’t need a certificate or blue tick. Such ways are blackmailing your passion, emotion, or willingness. Criminals and money-mongers misuse and try to earn in an ugly and easy way. This trend also discriminates against others who cannot afford such an awkward notion.” Istay determined every day. I cannot tolerate liars and those who misuse their authority and attempt to victimize the righteous for their will and purpose in an illegitimate way to please their godfathers of the mafia and international criminal intelligence agencies. I am pretty sure, after reviewing again the replies from the Twitter team that mirror and endorse the Twitter team, that someone works for intelligence agencies or criminal and mafia groups. Since the beginning months of this year, I have been continuously victimized without specifying why I was posting the wrong things. I am going to publish a few emails that will exhibit the picture of how I was being victimized, harassed, and even threatened about things that I was neither aware of nor that the team explained. I was already under the attacks of criminals and even the gang of filthy-minded gays who were suffering from mental issues and sexual frustration; knowing it, I am not gay. In the Twitter team, the presence of such ones is not excluded since I felt a similar style of victimization. How do they dare to adopt such mean tactics to gain their will and desire? This reply email shows that a screenshot article has been displayed since 2020. After four years, it became an issue for someone in the Twitter team who continued to lock my account and tag the restriction flag. Text of my emails; “I am still uncertain about what to post and what not to post. You didn’t specify why my account was locked, whether it was because of the content I removed or something else. Is it permissible for me to share media and social media links in which my quotes are mentioned? My writings do not contain any personal attacks; nonetheless, thank you.” “You locked my Twitter, @EhsanSehgal, again; you know why you are doing it. Now, I can say only goodbye to my locked account and enjoy your terror. It is not a protection of my account; it is victimization. No more requests to unlock my account. Someone of angelic character will do it without my request. Shame on you all, involved ones.” Team replied; Hello, “We had a look at your account, and it appears that everything is now resolved! If that’s not the case, please reply to this message, and we’ll continue to help. Thanks,” X Support This was a screenshot article from Wikipedia about me on my profile that was illegitimately removed by such people as the Twitter team forced me to remove. Despite that, they continued locking my account to identify and provide an ID or passport. I did that twice and identified several times, but the team seemed not satisfied since their goal was something else; they would not approach nor be able to do it. To stop such criminal torture, I deactivated my account and decided never to come back there again.

This book was inspired by these words.” “The young man was a blacksmith in the village, a magnificent white charger horse was brought to him, and he was ordered to put iron shoes onto the horse's hooves. After doing this he took the horse for a ride in the open field, and thereby a Brook he met a fair maiden. He fell madly in love with her instantly, he claimed that he was a decorated knight, but she could see he was poor, and was a blacksmith. His black working hands betrayed him, but she never mentioned this to the young man. After talking, for about fifteen minutes, in perfect harmony and calm, their meeting was broken up when two ladies that were approached the maiden.” “The maiden took out her handkerchief and gave it to him, he took it without taking his eyes off of her. The maiden dashed off running towards the two women, assuring them that she was alright. That evening a guard came from the castle, took the white charger with the new horseshoes and left. The dashing young man got to work instantly. Making himself a beautiful sword like no other. He then made himself a silver shining armour, beautiful as any knight.” “The young man made wooden replicas of men in battle, and he would practice for hours, finding new ways of defeating the enemy. All of this because of a chance meeting in a field, and the handkerchief he kept pressed against his chest. The danger was looming and there was talk of an invasion, from another country. To preserve the dignity and the honour of the village and the castle that employed all the villagers. “ “The king asked for volunteers for the impending battle. The blacksmith went to the castle as one of the volunteers. He showed up on an old brown horse, that would not be able to stand the first charge in battle. Proudly he was dressed in his silver knight's armour, holding his handmade sword. One of the guards came and took away his horse, the young man looked on sadly as others around the courtyard mocked him. Another guard approached him with the white charger that he nailed the shoes to his hooves; “this will be your steed, the guard said and he helped him onto the horse. There was silence around the forecourt, he turned and rode with the knights out to meet the enemy.” “After five hours of battle, they had secured a brave victory. The young man performed above and beyond the call of duty. He was chosen to be knighted. As he entered the great hall in the castle, there were people on both sides of the hall as he walked up to the spot where he was to be knighted. Waiting patiently, to perform the ceremony of knighthood, was none other than the king himself, and next to him, his young daughter, a princess he met by chance in a field, after the ceremony of knighthood, the princess stepped forward and said, thank you for bringing my horse back to me, a young woman who overlooked his poverty, have him her white horse, and encouraged him with giving him her handkerchief, by speaking to him in a field with kindness, her father the king was rewarded with a knight of chivalry and virtue. All because of accidental meeting and events, that encouraged someone ready in life, to step forth, and take control of his dreams, as impossible, as they seemed at the time.

A man called me who watches our television program and said, “We are taking an offering for you, and we would like to give an offering to the gospel work in England. You just mentioned it in the sermon.” I said, “We would deeply appreciate it.” He said, “Maybe we can raise ten thousand dollars.” I said, “Oh, that would be so greatly appreciated because we are trying to open another chapel in another city in England, training the people to go there.” He called me after he took the offering and he said, “We do not have ten thousand, we have twenty, and we may have twenty more coming.” What did God do? I thank God for those people, but I am telling you the Lord raised the windows open in heaven.

Things go wrong when you fish, and those chances increase when you’re in a boat. Often this has to do with what’s known as human error. This is the preferred term because it doesn’t name the human who made the error, especially when that human is me. Once, Dave and I were in his canoe on the last quarter mile of a long day on the water. We were around a bend from the takeout. Beyond one final rapids we would pull over and load up his van. The only thing standing in our way was a large rock. The current picked up and moved us faster, but it would be easy to avoid the rock. It would almost be harder to hit it than to miss it. I was in the bow, Dave was in the stern. Without question he was the captain, I’m not sure a fifteen-foot canoe has a captain, but Dave would be the captain of anything from a kayak to a steamer. “Go to the left of the rock,” he bellowed. This could not have been clearer and took on some urgency as the rock got nearer. Yet we rowed at cross-purposes and continued to head straight toward it. In search of clarity I shouted: “Our left or the rock’s left?” The metaphysical nature of this question has remained with me over the years. If it appeared in a Basho haiku, it might be considered cryptically wise or at least a noble mistranslation. Canoe in summer Floats slowly down the river Past the large rock’s left Not this time. The last thing I remember hearing, which echoed in my ears underwater as we turned over, was Dave saying emphatically, “The rock doesn’t have a left!” My tendency to overanalyze simple situations was captured in this question, though I’m embarrassed to admit in private moments it still makes sense to me that a rock can have a left. Hitting a rock with a canoe may have many reasons but one result. The canoe tipped at once, decisively, and Dave’s only concern was the fate of his tackle box, which occupied a place in his spiritual landscape like the Gutenberg Bible. Thankfully, the river wasn’t deep there, just a few feet. Once the tackle box was salvaged—which he always kept tightly shut in case of this exact sort of catastrophe—Dave was in a fairly agreeable mood. He didn’t care about getting wet or even mention it. He had the grin of a teenager who’s just talked his way out of a speeding ticket. This was not the first canoe he’d tipped out of. He was seventy-five years old.

I’m sorry did I mention anything about my body related to having kids? No. I was talking about how you’re a whiny dick, but thanks for letting me know how you really feel.

Beneath the previously mentioned disappointments on both sides and the disputes I have mentioned there lurked a deep-seated bitterness and disillusionment over the images of one another that we had fashioned for ourselves. Occasionally such feelings were expressed under the veil of an exchange of letters that the infant Stefan and I would leave out for each other. Stefan’s letters were in Dora’s handwriting, but they were written with Walter’s knowledge and possibly even with his participation. On June 20—six weeks after my arrival!—Stefan wrote me with reference to a letter of mine that, as far as I recall, never existed: Dear Uncle Gerhardt [sic]: Herewith I am sending you a better photo of me which has arrived in the meantime. Thank you very much for your letter; various things may be said about it, and that is why I am writing you, for if I visit you, you will again tell me so many things that I won’t be able to get a word in edgeways. Well then, first I must tell you that you ought to know I no longer remember. For if I could remember, I certainly would not be here, where it is so unpleasant and you are creating such a bad atmosphere; no, I long since would have returned where I came from. That’s why I can’t read the end of your letter. My mother read the rest to me. Incidentally, I have very strange parents; but more about that later. When I was in town yesterday, something occurred to me: When I grow up, I’m going to be your pupil. Better start thinking now. Best of all, start keeping a little book in which you note everything down. Now I will tell you something about my parents. I won’t say anything about my mother, because she is, after all, my mother. But I have all sorts of things to tell you about my father. You are wrong in what you write, dear Uncle Gerhardt. I believe you really know very little about my Papa. There are very few people who know anything about him. Once, when I was still in heaven, you wrote him a letter that made all of us think that you did know him. But perhaps you don’t after all. I think a man like that is born only once in a great while, and then you just have to be kind to him and he will do everything else by himself. You, dear Uncle Gerhardt, still think that one has to do a great deal. Perhaps I shall also think that way when I am a grown man, but now I think more like my Mama, that is, not at all or very little; and so all this to-do and the great excitement over everything seems much less important to me than which way the wind is blowing. But I don’t want to be smart-alecky, for you know everything much better. That’s the whole trouble. Many regards from Stefan

Can you do mango cream in the croquembouche?" Mangoes must have been a thing with them, because Saint grinned. "Of course. How about two croquembouches and perhaps glace au beurre noisette to accompany?" "I think you're my hero," Delilah said with a relieved sigh. "Dessert hero," Saint corrected, but he was smiling, too, in a reserved way that reminded me too much of myself. "Thanks, man. Seriously." "It's not a problem." "What was that last bit you mentioned?" Emma asked, looking a little glazed in the eyes. The woman really did love her desserts. "Browned-butter ice cream. I'll be serving it more as a semifreddo, though, considering the time." "Lord save me." She fanned herself.

Bran tells me that you wish to find the nexus not for science, but so you may put your faerie lover back on his throne. It is the height of stupidity to involve yourself in their politics. You will thank me one day." I stared at her in dumbfounded agitation. This was not how it was supposed to go. I had imagined Eichorn and de Grey full of gratitude for our assistance and eager to help in our search for the nexus. Not condescending, dismissive, and--- well, bloody rude. To my surprise, it was Rose who came to my defense. "Our reasons for seeking the nexus are beside the point. A promise was made, and we have the means to see it is kept." "Do you?" De Grey cast a cool look in Wendell's direction where he lay by the fire, little more than a lumpy collection of blankets and a tuft of gold hair. "This faerie king, as Bran has termed him, does not seem to be made of strong stuff." "He pulled you both out of Faerie, you ingrate," I snapped. "Not to mention out of time. If you do not help us, I will see to it that he throws you into a realm far more unpleasant than the one you have left behind, with a populace decidedly less well mannered than the fauns." A little silence followed this.

Anyhow, I've begun on the story we discussed. I will not refer specifically to what you said, but I've decided that it will have as its author Hawthorne Abendsen, the novelist in my novel MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE who wrote THE GRASSHOPPER LIES HEAVY. I wrote & wrote . . . after all, I wrote my 4th novel EYE IN THE SKY in two weeks, so this merely shows I'm in love with what I'm doing. The title of Abendsen's yarn is, "A Man For No Countries," because he is unwanted in the USA where the Asshole Axis rule, and certainly not in Europe where Germany rules from . . . I did bio notes, the uncorrected carbons of which I'm enclosing; they were improved in a second draft, and can/will be cut as needed. And, as to the story, I finished the holographic first draft last night about the time our tomcat Pinky wants indoors to be fed, which is quite late, and at which time nothing, even Pinky, gets me out of bed. It is a short story, but I think a lot of it, Phil. I really do, and when I turn out a lousy one I usually know it and the other way around. I'll send you a carbon of the final, not of the rough, since the rough is in holo. Now, a technical problem. To whom do I send the yarn when I'm done? By contract, it must be to Scott Meredith; that is determined by law. But my own name must be on it, on the far left upper corner, not under the title, so he can see who sent it, and hence pay me. That is, receive pay. Who does pay, by the way? Ed Ferman or whoever buys it (if anyone)? Does it just go onto the market like all stories, OR—and this is crucial, maybe—should I mention to Scott Meredith that you should be involved . . . without mentioning certain details held in confidence between us? How do I handle it? I will sell it, in any case; I wrote MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE in 1961 and ever since "they" have begged (well, asked me) to do more as a sequel. This story is in fact a follow-up, of Abendsen's life since, besides being an intrinsic plot-idea-theme story. So it'll sell, and Ed Ferman does like my stuff; he has commissioned a set of three stories from me, the last three I have done, including one for FINAL STATE or EDGE or whatever with Malzberg, and so would tend to want to buy it. So advise me, as I type up the final. And thanks for getting my literary ass in gear; God bless, Phil. [The story was never completed or published.]

Connie and I had vodka gimlets to start, and we both went for Leroy’s special of the day: a grilled grouper sandwich with spicy french fries, served with a salad of Bibb lettuce, red onions, and a vinaigrette sauce. A winner. Connie attacked her food with enthusiasm and didn’t mention a word about proteins, cholesterol, or fat, for which I was thankful. Nutrition nuts are the world’s most boring dining companions. They make every bite a guilt trip, which forces me to gorge to prove my disdain for calories. I mean, if God had wanted us to nibble, He wouldn’t have created veal cordon bleu.

Really don’t want Ramirez to beat the shit out of me, so I get it. That’s fine. But I’m starving, and I figure you are too. Cam and I want to take you and Rox out.” He holds out his hands. “Just as friends. I swear.” “Trust me, Jake won’t care.” It’s like we were never friends. My eyes sting, but I can’t be upset with him. I did this to myself. I was too chicken to tell him how I felt in high school, and I only compounded everything when I left NTU without talking to him first. “I don’t know about that.” Billy’s voice lowers. “Aww, hell, Chuck. Don’t cry.” I sniffle and blink several times. “I’m not crying. It’s allergies.” Jake stops playing with Asher to glance over at us, and my heart sinks at the cold expression on his face. There are icebergs in the Arctic warmer than the look he gives me. Billy makes that humming noise again before he slips his beefy arm over my shoulders. “Doesn’t care, huh? I might regret this later, but how ’bout we give him something to care about?” “What?” That’s when the doofus pulls me into his chest and kisses me out of the blue. There’s no tongue, thank God. Just the hard press of his bristly mouth against mine. It’s fine, I guess. When he pulls away, he smacks his lips. “You taste minty.” I sigh, and it’s not because he swept me off my feet. “That was my first kiss.” I don’t mention I was saving it for someone special. His eyes widen. “Like, ever?” “Yes, and now I need to go home and write about it in my diary,” I say sarcastically before I turn to pack my gear, a little upset my first kiss wasn’t more magical.

You’re welcome to try and make me miserable,” I tell Cat, letting go of Rhiannon to walk back to the flier. “Oh! And one more thing.” I lower my voice just slightly, well aware of every head within our squad that turns our direction. “What?” she snaps. “That trick you mentioned? You know, with the fingers?” A slow smile spreads across my face. “Thanks.” Cat’s eyes bulge. Imogen laughs so hard she snorts as I walk back to Rhiannon. “Damn. Just…damn.” Rhi claps a few times.

Thanks for sharing your opinion on the subject. That’s the last time you get to do it. Mention money to me again, and you know what you’ve got coming.” When I only stand there staring at him, he prompts, “Acknowledge that you know what you’ve got coming.” “Why?” “It’s called consent.” I say haughtily, “I don’t consent to a spanking over money.

These are shades of gray that create a halo of “possible Dougs” around the Doug that I happen to have become, thanks to a million accidental events that have befallen me over the decades, and thanks to hundreds of particular individuals who happen to have entered my life (and millions of others who never did, not to mention an infinite number of counterfactual individuals who never entered my life!). We don’t normally think of “who/what/how I am” in such shades of gray, but there they are, spelled out a bit, in my case.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. I mentioned I’d been in contact with her mother. “Oh crikey, that sounds dangerous!” “She’s a feisty woman, isn’t she?” William giggled. “Granny’s great fun after a few gin and tonics.” “Sh, William,” Diana said, giggling too. “My mother’s been a tremendous source of support to me. She never talks publicly; she’s just there for me.” “And what about William’s other granny?” “I have enormous respect for the Queen; she has been so supportive, you know. People don’t see that side of her, but I do all the time. She’s an amazing person.” “Has she been good over the divorce?” “Yes, very. I just want it over now so I can get on with my life. I’m worried about the attacks I will get afterward.” “What attacks?” “I just worry that people will try and knock me down once I am out on my own.” This seemed unduly paranoid. People adored her. I asked William how he was enjoying Eton. “Oh, it’s great, thanks.” “Do you think the press bother you much?” “Not the British press, actually. Though the European media can be quite annoying. They sit on the riverbank watching me rowing with their cameras, waiting for me to fall in! There are photographers everywhere if I go out. Normally loads of Japanese tourists taking pictures. All saying “Where’s Prince William?’ when I’m standing right next to them.” “How are the other boys with you?” “Very nice. Though a boy was expelled this week for taking ecstasy and snuff. Drugs are everywhere, and I think they’re stupid. I never get tempted.” “Does matron take any?” laughed Diana. “No, Mummy, it gives her hallucinations.” “What, like imagining you’re going to be king?” I said. They both giggled again. “Is it true you’ve got Pamela Anderson posters on your bedroom wall?” “No! And not Cindy Crawford, either. They did both come to tea at the palace, though, and were very nice.” William had been photographed the previous week at a party at the Hammersmith Palais, where he was mobbed by young girls. I asked him if he’d had fun. “Everyone in the press said I was snogging these girls, but I wasn’t,” he insisted. Diana laughed. “One said you stuck your tongue down her throat, William. Did you?” “No, I did not. Stop it, Mummy, please. It’s embarrassing.” He’d gone puce. It was a very funny exchange, with a flushed William finally insisting: “I won’t go to any more public parties; it was crazy. People wouldn’t leave me alone.” Diana laughed again. “All the girls love a nice prince.” I turned to more serious matters. “Do you think Charles will become king one day?” “I think he thinks he will,” replied Diana, “but I think he would be happier living in Tuscany or Provence, to be honest.” “And how are you these days--someone told me you’ve stopped seeing therapists?” “I have, yes. I stopped when I realized they needed more therapy than I did. I feel stronger now, but I am under so much pressure all the time. People don’t know what it’s like to be in the public eye, they really don’t.

Thanks to the work of Laird Scranton and his gracious exchange of information with his audience online, I was able -with the help of Veronique Smith- to embark upon an insight in the Dogon culture that I honestly wasn't expecting to acquire at all. In the Dogon tradition -according to Laird Scranton- a potential interface between the non-material and material worlds could be established in various ways and even probably through a non-human agent. When I projected that framework onto Islam, I reasoned that if the non-human entity were not a messenger of God and rather a being from among the Jinn, then the communication which the Dogon priests were seeking must have been satanic in nature based on the fact that the word 'satan' means in the Semitic tongue 'to diverge' - and that is exactly the effect that takes place once man seeks contact with these beings. However, I know -based on my own work- that the contrary social concept to 'divergence' is 'Umma/Ummah' and -after listening to the latest audio interview of Laird Scranton talking about Skara Brae- I heard him mention the word 'Amma' which refers to the divine in the Dogon religion and as a consequence thereof, I directly linked it with 'Umma'. This sparked my attention to realize that such a communication could have not been demonic in nature and rather didactic in purpose. But I needed a proof for it; and when I further searched for more information I found an article on Britannica -which I discovered that Laird Scranton has written it himself- mentioning the word 'Amazigb' - this word [was applied collectively to the hunter cultural groups who preceded the 1st dynasty in ancient Egypt]. The evidence was lying there in front of my eyes in that word and more specifically in the syllable 'zigb' which could have been construed from 'gizb' meaning to 'attract' or 'get together' in contrast to 'divergence'. I also discovered that there is a cultural resemblance between the Dogon and the Berber in that Berbers have the name 'Amazigh' which is derived from the name of the ancestor 'Mezeg'; this name literally means 'to mix' and 'to put together'. Laird Scranton even links 'Amma' to 'Amen', and now I don't see any other choice for me in the time being but to accept 'Amen' as a word that refers to the act of 'bringing together'.

It’s probably just some good old-fashioned lust,” Noah said. “Hmm, probably,” George agreed. “Some of the best lust I can remember,” Noah said. “Christ above, this is all wrong.” “We both know what’s wrong with it, son. Let’s take a second to talk about what’s right.” “I can’t think of anything at the moment. Besides the lust, that is. And that she’s incredible. I never thought this would work—I thought it was a charity job, giving her the position to help her get her custody deal worked out. But I couldn’t ask for more. And she makes me laugh. She’s so sassy. And soft. Did I mention she’s soft?” “Did you coerce her? Harass her? Emotionally blackmail her?” George asked. “Of course not. I told her she could sue me.” George chuckled. “Well, Noah, what a sweet-talker you are. No wonder the women are just falling at your feet.” “She depends on me and the job.” “Yes, you’ve explained. Is it likely she’s afraid that if she doesn’t yield, you or the job will vanish?” Noah took a breath. “She is afraid of nothing. Even when she should be.” “Noah, are you courting her?” Dead silence hung in the air. And finally he said, “I’m fighting my libido, and for a while tonight it was winning. I don’t even know if I’m courting—it’s too new. I like her, of course. She intrigues me as much as she annoys me. I admire her, but I admit she’s strange to me. I’ve never known anyone like her. And of course she’s entirely the wrong kind of woman for me, in my circumstances.” “Oh, I don’t know. Jesus hung out with Mary Magdalene. You don’t get more provocative than that.” “Thanks a lot,” Noah grumbled. “I’d better come up there. I was going to wait till you got rid of all the mouse shit, but I’d better come before you create some of your own.” *

That is my least favorite Stony Cross wedding custom,” Beatrix said ruefully, brushing at the remaining few crumbs that clung to her arms. “On the other hand, it’s probably made more than a few birds happy.” “Speaking of birds, dear…” Amelia waited until the maid had gone to draw a bath. “That brings to mind the line from Samuel Coleridge’s poem about spring, ‘The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--’” Beatrix gave her a quizzical glance. “Why do you mention that? It’s autumn, not spring.” “Yes, but that particular poem mentions birds pairing. I thought you might have some questions for me on that topic.” “About birds? Thank you, but I know far more about birds than you.” Amelia sighed, giving up the attempt to be delicate. “Forget the blasted birds. It’s your wedding night--do you want to ask me anything?” “Oh. Thank you, but Christopher has already, er…provided the information.” Amelia’s brows lifted. “Has he?” “Yes. Although he used a different euphemism than birds or bees.” “Did he? What did he reference, then?” “Squirrels,” Beatrix said. And she turned aside to hide a grin at her sister’s expression.

Have you ever danced with a man?” “No,” she admitted. “Then how can you be sure you wouldn’t like it?” “I can have an opinion about something even if I haven’t done it.” “Of course. It’s so much easier to form opinions without being troubled by experience or facts.” She frowned but kept silent. “You’ve given me an idea, Marks,” Leo went on. “I’m going to allow my sisters to plan the ball they mentioned earlier. Only for this reason: I’m going to come to you in the middle of it and ask you to dance with me. In front of everyone.” She looked appalled. “I would refuse.” “I’m going to ask nevertheless.” “To make a mockery of me,” she said. “To make fools of us both.” “No.” His voice gentled. “Just to dance, Marks.” Their gazes locked in a long, fascinated stare. And then to Leo’s surprise, Catherine smiled at him. A sweet, natural, brilliant smile, the first she had ever given him. Leo felt his chest tighten, and he went hot all over, as if some euphoric drug had gone straight to his nervous system. It felt like … happiness. He remembered happiness from a long time ago. He didn’t want to feel it. And yet the giddy warmth kept washing over him for no reason whatsoever. “Thank you,” Catherine said, the smile still hovering on her lips. “That is kind of you, my lord. But I will never dance with you.” Which, of course, made it the goal of Leo’s life.

Matthew, mentioned you.” “He did?” Leni said. Don’t smile so big. What a dork. Geneva Walker slipped in beside her husband. “Hey,” she said, smiling at Cora. “I see you’ve met my husband.” “Ex.” Tom Walker put his arm around Geneva, pulled her close. “I love the woman like air, but I can’t live with her.” “Can’t live without me, either.” Geneva smiled, cocked her head to the left. “That’s my main squeeze over there. Calhoun Malvey. He doesn’t love me as much as Tom does, but he likes me a helluva lot better. And he doesn’t snore.” She elbowed Mr. Walker in the side playfully. “I hear you guys aren’t too well prepared,” Mr. Walker said to Dad. “You’re going to have to learn fast. Don’t be afraid to ask me for help. I’m always up for it. Anything you need to borrow, I have.” Leni heard something in Dad’s “Thanks” that put her on alert. He sounded irritated all of a sudden. Offended. Mama heard it, too; she glanced worriedly at him. Mad Earl stumbled forward. He was wearing a T-shirt that read I’VE BEEN FISHING SO LONG I’M A MASTER BAITER. He grinned drunkenly, swayed side to side, stumbled. “You offering Ernt help, Big Tom? That’s mighty white of you. Sorta like King John offerin’ to help his poor serfs. Maybe your friend the governor can help ya out.” “Good Lord, Earl, not again,” Geneva said. “Let’s play some music. Ernt, can you play an instrument?” “Guitar,” Dad said. “But I sold—” “Great!” Geneva said, taking him by the arm, pulling him away from Mad Earl and toward Large Marge and the makeshift band gathered at the beach. She handed Dad the guitar Mr. Walker had put down. Mad Earl stumbled over to the fire and retrieved his crockery jug. Leni wondered if Mama knew how beautiful she looked, standing there in her form-fitting pants, with

All right there, mate?’ Clark jumped and turned round. He straightened up and looked at Billy, recognition taking a few seconds. Billy’s hair was shorter now, and his face was tanned. ‘Christ, you startled me,’ he said. ‘What have you got there?’ Clark held up the jar by a piece of tatty string. ‘Sticklebacks!’ For a moment his blue eyes shone with excitement, then they clouded over. He ran a wet hand through his red hair and swept it off his face. His freckles were more pronounced than usual, and for a moment Billy saw him as an eleven-year-old again. He felt his throat constrict, which made his next sentence a strangled croak. ‘We had fun, didn’t we, Clark?’ Clark snorted and set the jar of fish down on a large stone. He waded out of the water and sat down heavily on the bank. Billy edged closer and then tentatively sat down next to him. ‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ said Clark. ‘Look, Clark. Can’t we be friends again?’ ‘Can’t we be friends again?’ mimicked Clark. ‘We’re not in the school playground now, Billy.’ ‘Why did you come here?’ asked Billy. Clark thought for a moment. ‘To reflect.’ He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a brown envelope. ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting it into Billy’s hands. Billy opened the envelope and stared at the contents. ‘You’ve been called up?’ ‘Military training,’ explained Clark. Billy knew it was only a matter of time. Since Parliament had passed the Act in April, all men aged twenty and twenty-one were required to undertake six months’ military training. He didn’t know what to say. ‘Clark, look …’ He passed the envelope back. ‘How’s Chrissie?’ asked Clark, looking Billy directly in the eye. Billy was taken by surprise at the sudden mention of her name and picked at a blade of grass. ‘She’s fine, thanks. In fact she’s with me now, over there.’ Clark looked in the direction of Billy’s finger and Chrissie slid out sheepishly from behind a tree.

You should have some new gowns made up as well,” he said. “I'm tired of seeing you in all that halfmourning—gray, brown, lavender… No one expects it of you any longer. Order as many as you like. I'll take care of the expense.” Holly stared at him openmouthed. “Not only are you daring to complain about my appearance, you are also insulting me by offering to pay for my clothes?” “I didn't mean it as an insult,” he countered warily. “You know very well that a gentleman would never purchase items of apparel for a lady. Not even a pair of gloves.” “Then I'll subtract the necessary amount from your salary.” Bronson gave her a cajoling smile. “A woman with your looks deserves to wear something beautiful. I'd like to see you in jade green, or yellow. Or red.” The idea seemed to spark his imagination as he continued. “I can't imagine a finer sight in the world than you in a red gown.” Holly was not mollified by the flattery. “I most certainly will not order new gowns, and I'll thank you to spare me further mention of the subject. A red gown, indeed! Do you know what would become of my reputation?” “It's already tarnished,” he pointed out. “You may as well enjoy yourself.” He seemed to enjoy her spluttering outrage at the comment. “You sir, may… may…” “Go to the devil?” he suggested helpfully. She seized on the expression with enthusiasm. “Yes, go right at once to the devil!

Such a shame that I didn’t get to say good-bye to my fellow inmates,” he said sarcastically. “Actually, Puchalski was the only guy I liked. I still can’t figure out what got into him.” As Jordan used her chopsticks to pick up a piece of hamachi, she decided it was best to get her brother off that topic as fast as possible. “Sounds like he just snapped.” “But why would he have a fork in his shoe?” Kyle mused. “That makes me think he was planning the attack, which doesn’t make sense.” Let it go, Kyle. She shrugged. “Maybe he always keeps a fork in his shoe. Who understands why any of these felon types do what they do?” “Hey. I am one of those felon types.” Grey tipped his glass of wine. “And who would’ve thought you would do what you did?” “It was Twitter,” Kyle mumbled under his breath. Maybe we should change the subject,” Jordan suggested, sensing the conversation could only spiral downward from there. “Okay. Let’s talk about you instead,” Grey said. “I never asked—how did Xander’s party go?” Now there was a potential land mine of a topic. “It went fine. Pretty much the same party as usual.” Except for a little domestic espionage. She threw Kyle a look, needing help. Change the subject. Fast. He stared back cluelessly. Why? She glared. Just do it. He made a face. All right, all right. “Speaking of wine, Jordo, how was your trip to Napa?” Great. Leave it to her genius of a brother to pick the other topic she wanted to avoid. “I visited that new winery I told you about. We should have a deal this week so that my store will be the first to carry their wine in the Chicago area.” Grey’s tone was casual. “Did you bring Tall, Dark, and Smoldering with you on the trip?” Jordan set down her chopsticks and looked over at her father. He smiled cheekily as he took a sip of his wine. “You read Scene and Heard, too?” she asked. Grey scoffed at that. “Of course not. I have people read it for me. Half the time, it’s the only way I know what’s going on with you two. And don’t avoid the question. Tell us about this new guy you’re seeing. I find it very odd that you’ve never mentioned him.” He fixed his gaze on her like the Eye of Sauron. Jordan took a deep breath, suddenly very tired of the lies and the secret-agent games. Besides, she had to face the truth at some point. “Well, Dad, I don’t know if you have to worry about Tall, Dark, and Smoldering anymore. He’s not talking to me right now.” Kyle’s face darkened. “Tall, Dark, and Smoldering sounds like a moron to me.” Grey nodded, his expression disapproving. “I agree. You can do a lot better than a moron, kiddo.” “Thanks. But it’s not that simple. His job presents some . . . challenges.” That was definitely the wrong thing to say. “Why? What kind of work does he do?” her father asked immediately. Jordan stalled. Maybe she’d overshot a little with the no more lies promise. She threw Kyle another desperate look. Do something. Again. Kyle nodded. I’m on it. He eased back in his chair and stretched out his intertwined hands, limbering up his fingers. “Who cares what this jerk does? Send me his e-mail address, Jordo—I’ll take care of it. I can wreak all sorts of havoc on Tall, Dark, and Smoldering’s life in less than two minutes.” With an evil grin, he mimed typing at a keyboard. Their father looked ready to blow a gasket. “Oh no—you do not get to make the jokes,” he told Kyle. “Jordan and I make the jokes. You’ve been out of prison for four days and I seriously hope you learned your lesson, young man . . .

Date?” Paul glanced at Henry, who wore an equally puzzled expression.  “I heard Charlene talking about that once.  Sounds weird.” “Really?  You guys don’t date?”  I didn’t ask what they did to get to know a girl instead of dating. “No, we get invited to Introductions,” Paul said as if reading my mind. “What’s that?”  Sam hadn’t mentioned anything like that to me, and I wondered if I should add it to his list of omissions. “When a female comes of age, she’s brought to the Introduction room where she can meet werewolves she has never met before.  The Elders are there to make sure the girl is safe and to give the guys a few minutes to talk to her.  You know, to really get her scent.  When there’s a connection, a guy just knows and Claims her.  If not, the next group comes in for their chance.” I started to sweat as I sat there.  First, what did he mean by Claim?  Second, they kept a girl in a room while guys came in to look her over and smell her?  I reached for my water that sat on the coffee table in the center of our sitting arrangement.  My hands shook a little, and I tried really hard to calm down and not let my imagination run away. “Hey, Gabby, you okay?  Did Paul say something wrong?  Charlene said we could ask any questions we wanted...” They had no idea how foreign what they’d just said sounded to me. “Hey, Gabby, you don’t have to worry about Introductions if that’s what’s scaring you.”  Paul looked at me with concern.  “For you and Charlene, the attraction works different.  She explained it to us when she said that you were coming.  You guys have a level of appeal, or chemistry, with just about all werewolves.”  He is not helping, I thought while he continued.  “Because the level of attraction to you varies, it wouldn’t be safe to put you in an Introduction room.” “Yeah,” Henry agreed and, with a spark of excitement in his eyes, leaned forward in his chair.  “That’s when the mating duels happen.  It’s rare with a werewolf couple, but when Charlene was first brought here, I heard the guys went crazy because they didn’t know what was happening.  They fought over who had the strongest tie to her.  But you don’t have to worry about that with us.  Paul and I think you’re okay, and you smell good and everything, but we knew when we met you that you’re not right for either of us.  That’s why Charlene left you alone with us.” My stomach churned.  Werewolves were going to start fighting each other for me?  No thanks.  They both smiled at me encouragingly.  They probably thought their explanations helpful, but the information they threw at me stunned me. “What did you mean by ‘Claim’?”  My voice came out light and airy with anxiety, but I needed to know. “It’s when we bite our Mate.  The bite draws blood but doesn’t hurt,” Paul explained reassuringly. “What?” I nearly shouted.  My freak-o-meter bypassed meltdown. My head spun dizzily, and no doubt, all the color had drained from my face.  “Oh, not for you, Gabby,” Paul said, quickly leaning forward.  He made shushing motions with his hands.  “We can’t Claim humans like that.  When your Mate finds you, it’s up to you to Claim him.” So,

So what are you doing lurking out here?” Madison asked, cradling the sticker with Blue’s number in her hand, so Jeremy wouldn’t see it. Jeremy leaned in until his face was only inches from hers, and whispered, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” “Ahem!” a deep voice sounded behind them. “I hate to interrupt this little tete-a-tete, but don’t you have someplace else you ought to be right now?” Madison and Jeremy sprang away from each other like startled pigeons. They turned and guiltily faced the principal. Madison spoke first. “Hello, Mr. Kaufman. I left some, um, material for my report for Mr. Dalberg’s class in my locker and I was just about to get it.” “Is that your locker?” Mr. Kaufman asked. Jeremy cut in. “Actually, it’s my locker. Madison forgot to mention that she had asked me to keep it for her.” Jeremy spun the combination on the lock to show Mr. Kaufman that he was actually getting the report. He swung open the locker and grabbed the first thing he could put his hands on--a MAD magazine. Without skipping a beat, Madison took it and started talking. “You see, Mr. Kaufman, we’re studying the role that periodicals and newspapers have played in American historical events. For instance, um, Tom Paine’s pamphlet Common Sense helped start the American Revolution, and, well, Horace Greeley’s editorials in the New York Tribune sparked the great Westward migration and the idea of Manifest Destiny, and now MAD magazine has, um, er--” “Redefined the concept of social satire in the twentieth century,” Jeremy jumped in. “Without MAD, there’d have been no National Lampoon. Without the National Lampoon, no Saturday Night Live. Without SNL, there’d be no Bill Murray. Eddie Murphy. Adam Sandler. The list goes on and on.” “Really?” Mr. Kaufman raised one eyebrow. “Very interesting.” Madison plastered a grateful smile on her face and extended her hand to Jeremy. “Thanks for keeping this, um, research material for me.” Jeremy shook her hand politely. “Anytime, Madison. I have room in here for lots more of your, uh, reports.” Before Mr. Kaufman could say anything, Jeremy shut his locker, and the two of them marched off in opposite directions away from the principal. As she walked away, Madison held her breath waiting for Mr. Kaufman to call them back. But he didn’t. Madison couldn’t believe her luck. What a bizarre encounter! And yes, she had to admit it: Jeremy had really bailed her out when she’d run out of gas with her excuse.

When I mentioned that to Stoyan, and thanked him for his time, he smiled modestly and replied, 'I thank God and I take great joy in knowing that I was suffering in prison in my country, so that you, Nik, could be free to share Jesus in Kentucky.' Those words pierced my soul. I looked Stoyan straight in the eyes. 'Oh, no!' I protested. 'No! You are not going to do that! You are NOT going to put that on me. That is a debt so large that I can never repay you!' Stoyan stared right back at me and said, 'Son, that's the debt of the cross!' He leaned forward and poked me in the chest with his finger as he continued, 'Don't you steal my joy! I took great joy that I was suffering in my country, so that you could be free to witness in your country.' Then he raised his voice in a prophet-like challenge that I knew would live with me forever: 'Don't ever give up in freedom what we would never give up in persecution! That is our witness to the power of the resurrection of Jesus Christ!

I’ve just been to see Audrey,” Beatrix said breathlessly, entering the private upstairs parlor and closing the door. “Poor Mr. Phelan isn’t well, and--well, I’ll tell you about that in a minute, but--here’s a letter from Captain Phelan!” Prudence smiled and took the letter. “Thank you, Bea. Now, about the officers I met last night…there was a dark-haired lieutenant who asked me to dance, and he--” “Aren’t you going to open it?” Beatrix asked, watching in dismay as Prudence laid the letter on a side table. Prudence gave her a quizzical smile. “My, you’re impatient today. You want me to open it this very moment?” ”Yes.” Beatrix promptly sat in a chair upholstered with flower-printed fabric. “But I want to tell you about the lieutenant.” “I don’t give a monkey about the lieutenant, I want to hear about Captain Phelan.” Prudence gave a low chuckle. “I haven’t seen you this excited since you stole that fox that Lord Campdon imported from France last year.” “I didn’t steal him, I rescued him. Importing a fox for a hunt…I call that very unsporting.” Beatrix gestured to the letter. “Open it!” Prudence broke the seal, skimmed the letter, and shook her head in amused disbelief. “Now he’s writing about mules.” She rolled her eyes and gave Beatrix the letter. Miss Prudence Mercer Stony Cross Hampshire, England 7 November 1854 Dear Prudence, Regardless of the reports that describe the British soldier as unflinching, I assure you that when riflemen are under fire, we most certainly duck, bob, and run for cover. Per your advice, I have added a sidestep and a dodge to my repertoire, with excellent results. To my mind, the old fable has been disproved: there are times in life when one definitely wants to be the hare, not the tortoise. We fought at the southern port of Balaklava on the twenty-fourth of October. Light Brigade was ordered to charge directly into a battery of Russian guns for no comprehensible reason. Five cavalry regiments were mowed down without support. Two hundred men and nearly four hundred horses lost in twenty minutes. More fighting on the fifth of November, at Inkerman. We went to rescue soldiers stranded on the field before the Russians could reach them. Albert went out with me under a storm of shot and shell, and helped to identify the wounded so we could carry them out of range of the guns. My closest friend in the regiment was killed. Please thank your friend Prudence for her advice for Albert. His biting is less frequent, and he never goes for me, although he’s taken a few nips at visitors to the tent. May and October, the best-smelling months? I’ll make a case for December: evergreen, frost, wood smoke, cinnamon. As for your favorite song…were you aware that “Over the Hills and Far Away” is the official music of the Rifle Brigade? It seems nearly everyone here has fallen prey to some kind of illness except for me. I’ve had no symptoms of cholera nor any of the other diseases that have swept through both divisions. I feel I should at least feign some kind of digestive problem for the sake of decency. Regarding the donkey feud: while I have sympathy for Caird and his mare of easy virtue, I feel compelled to point out that the birth of a mule is not at all a bad outcome. Mules are more surefooted than horses, generally healthier, and best of all, they have very expressive ears. And they’re not unduly stubborn, as long they’re managed well. If you wonder at my apparent fondness for mules, I should probably explain that as a boy, I had a pet mule named Hector, after the mule mentioned in the Iliad. I wouldn’t presume to ask you to wait for me, Pru, but I will ask that you write to me again. I’ve read your last letter more times than I can count. Somehow you’re more real to me now, two thousand miles away, than you ever were before. Ever yours, Christopher P.S. Sketch of Albert included

Jim Biggers looked down at the puppy playing tug-of-war with one of his bootlaces. “Quit it,” he growled, gently shaking it off. The puppy yapped and scampered away, bumping into Truck’s furry side and bouncing off. The big dog didn’t bat an eye, but he raised his head when he heard a car door slam outside. Another puppy tumbled off his back as he got up. Jim rose too, looking out the window. “She’s here,” he announced, throwing down his pencil. In another minute Kenzie and Linc walked in. One of the puppies ran to her and she squatted down to say hi. “Oh my gosh. You are so cute!” “I can’t compete,” Jim grumbled to Linc. The puppy yapped and ran away. Kenzie went around to the other side of the desk to kiss her boss on the cheek. “Sorry.” Jim grinned. “You’re forgiven. How are you doing, Linc?” He’d noticed that the younger man was still limping. There wasn’t any need to mention it specifically. “Better every day, thanks. How did Truck get stuck with babysitting?” “I promised him half a steak,” Jim said. “He fell for it.” An eager puppy chomped down hard on Truck’s ear, then put his head and paws down in play position, wagging his stubby tail. “Poor Truck,” Kenzie said sympathetically. She looked back to Jim. “Why are they here? I mean, they’re cute but way too young to start with us.” “Merry Jenkins is fostering them for me. But she’s gone for the next two days, so I have them. It’s been fun. I’m seeing plenty of potential.” He glanced at the floor, frowning. “And a few puddles.” He unrolled several sheets from the paper towel dispenser on his desk and let them drift to the floor. A puppy pounced on the white stuff and dragged it away. Jim rolled his eyes. He unrolled more paper towels, and this time he put his boot down on them. “I can’t wait to come back full-time,” Kenzie said. “When you’re ready. Not a minute before,” Jim said sternly. “Everything’s under control. No rush.” Linc looked down. “Am I seeing things?” A tiny kitten was clawing its way up his jeans. Jim harrumphed. “That’s a stray. Buddy and Wells started feeding it, and now it won’t go away.” “Aww,” Kenzie exclaimed. “It’s adorable.” Linc detached the kitten from his front pocket and held it up. The warmth of his hands calmed it, but only for a minute. The kitten stared at him, bug-eyed, then batted at his nose. “Doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything.” “Reminds me of Kenzie. I guess I’ll have to keep it. So where are you two headed?” Linc put the kitten down. Tiny tail waving, it sauntered between Truck’s furry legs. The dog didn’t seem to mind.

Third Week of June 2012 The questionnaire arrived via email from Dr. Arius. It read: Good Day, Young! Thank you for agreeing to be a candidate in my survey. As I mentioned previously, let’s conduct this research like our regular correspondence. There is no pressure on your part to answer or not to answer my questions; it’s entirely up to your discretion on the way you like to channel this analysis. There are no fixed rules or regulations on how you answer my queries. Be yourself and treat this study like you are talking with a confidant. Let’s get started and begin from the beginning; * In “Initiation” you said that as far as you can remember; as a baby you disliked your father. What was it that you didn’t like about the man? Did he have a certain smell that repelled you or something conscious or subconscious that repulsed your connection towards him? * Do you think your overly protective mother had an influence on you disliking your father? * When you were wearing pretty frocks and playing with dolls, did you feel less than a boy? How did you feel or react when you saw other boys playing with ‘boyish’ toys; like miniature toy soldiers or train sets, etc.? * Did your mom try distancing you away from your dad? * What did your brothers think of your parent’s relationship? * Did you have any boy pals or friends when you were growing up? If not, why is that? Would you have grown up differently if you had had guy friends? Let’s start with these questions and we’ll proceed further with others, as we continue along in our future correspondence. Now that you, Andy and Oscar have reconnected, I hope your newfound friendships are progressing well with both your ex ‘big brothers and lovers. Keep me posted, as I’m interested to know the outcome. Kind regards, A.S.

I can only thank the good Lord above,” she began after she turned back to him and Mr. Hodges assumed his usual stoic demeanor, “that your father and brother are away on business at the moment, because, well, I’m sure they’d have quite a bit to say regarding your current circumstance.” She released the tiniest of sighs. “Honestly, Edgar, one would have thought, considering you failed so spectacularly to win Wilhelmina’s hand the first time you proposed to her, that you would have tried a little more diligently to pull off a romantic moment the second time around.” “And one would have thought, considering how put out you’ve been at Wilhelmina over her rejecting my proposal all those years ago, that you would be trying to figure out a way to get me out of marrying her rather than marrying her.” “I’ve always adored Wilhelmina,” Nora said with a rattle of the paper she was still holding. “And while I’m sure I did lend the impression of being put out with her, that was mostly for your benefit, dear.” Edgar’s mouth dropped open. “Do not tell me that you’ve been holding out hope all these years for something like this to happen.” “I must admit that I have, and . . . now it would seem as if that hope was not misplaced if a wedding does indeed occur between the two of you in the foreseeable future.” Reaching for his tea again, Edgar drained the cup and set it aside. “I’m hesitantly optimistic that a wedding may soon take place, especially since I have come to realize that I still love Wilhelmina. I find her to be a most enchanting creature, and I would be a lucky gentleman indeed if she would truly agree to become my wife.” Nora frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand why you’re only hesitantly optimistic about marrying Wilhelmina. You’ve mentioned a time or two now that you told Mrs. Travers you were to be married, and while I know you’ve been away from society for quite some time, surely you haven’t forgotten that, as a gentleman, you have no choice but to go through with the wedding. And, as a lady, Wilhelmina can’t refute your declaration, not if she wants to keep her reputation, and . . . she can forget about continuing on as a social secretary if she doesn’t go through with the marriage because she’ll be looked at forevermore as a woman of loose moral values.” She rattled the paper again. “Add in the article Miss Quill published, and I can say with all certainty that there will be a wedding to plan, whether Wilhelmina has doubts or not.” Turning

What about her?” she asked with a curious tone. “My memory came back of the night I was attacked. She was being dragged into the forest toward the river. And I ran after them.” She gasped. “Oh, Knox. Do we know if she’s okay?” “I tried contacting her and her father, but nobody picked up.” He gulped back the acid in his throat. “I hope she somehow got away.” “Didn’t Nick mention the river once? Maybe we should check it out.” They hurried to the farthest side of the house, down the same pathway Lisa had been dragged, until they reached the raging river. He doubted someone could cross that. The only other option was a guest had brought those people with them. Back at the house, he continued trying to contact Lisa and her father. A call to her father’s office told him that Lisa’s dad was at his vacation home in the mountains. There was no way to reach him and no other information they could share. “Uh-oh,” Scarlett crossed her arms over her chest. “I know that face. Someone’s going to hack something.” He grinned at the way she whispered it. “Babe, we’re home. There’s no one else here but us. You don’t have to whisper.” “So what are you looking for?” “Just John’s mountain home address. I want to go up there and see him. Find out if she’s okay.” “Did you call their house?” He nodded, emailed himself the address, and grabbed her hand. “Yes. Nobody would give me any information other than John was gone. They knew nothing of Lisa.” “Damn.” “Ready for a quick trip?” he asked as they walked outside again. The sound of helicopter blades reached them. “Thank goodness. I really didn’t want to fly on your back again.” He chuckled at her teasing and helped her into the chopper. An hour later, they touched down in the area near the cabin. He gave the chopper instructions to land at the nearest helipad with availability and he’d give them a call when ready to go. They ran to the front door and knocked repeatedly. Nobody answered. “Maybe they’re out back,” Scarlett said and they went around the house. They walked down a trail. He sniffed but got nothing. His senses told him something was wrong. And a new animal decided

This was ridiculous. This was not real life. I blinked a few times, but Jamie and the horse remained firmly in place. “I’m not Jane Eyre!” I shouted. “Sorry?” He blinked somewhat owlishly a few times. “I’m not Jane Eyre!” I repeated. “You can’t Mr. Rochester your way out of everything!” “Prior to this moment, I have never attempted to Mr. Rochester my way out of anything,” he said, baffled. “I have neither dressed up as a fortune-teller to ascertain your intentions nor blinded myself in a fire. This very incident hardly qualifies as Mr. Rochester-ing, since I am still firmly atop my horse. And I’m not entirely sure that gentleman’s name can be used as a verb.” “In America you can use anything as a verb!” I retorted shrilly, scrambling to my feet. “You can verb whatever you want! Thank the goddamn Smurfs for that!” “I believe the Smurfs are Belgian, originally.” “You’re Belgian! Originally!” I was aware that I had long since bypassed the realm of the rational, but I really didn’t care. My legs were practically buckling underneath me, knees knocking with each fresh wave of shivers. “Distantly, on my mother’s side, as a matter of fact. But not since the fourteenth century. I believe it was called the Burgundian Netherlands in those days, however.” I raised my hands heavenward in the kind of epic shrug any mention of the Burgundian Netherlands justly deserved.

So which one of you was pretending to be George Washington?” she asked. “Uh, well,” Matt hesitated. “Honey, I don’t think Matt wants to divulge any more information.” Mr. Carlton turned to Matt and whispered, “Private club business, right, son?” “Something like that,” Matt replied. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me, man-to-man.” Mr. Carlton nodded. “You did a fine job of looking out for your sister on this camp-out and I want you to know that I’m proud of you for including her. It shows that you’re becoming a mature, responsible person.” “Uh, gee…thanks, Dad,” Matt mumbled. “Don’t mention it.” Mr. Carlton smiled. “Pass me the sugar, will you, son?

Thank you for leaving the flowers. I’ve meant to mention them before now.” He frowned. “The white rose…on my pillow? In my purse? Did you leave them?” The corner of his mouth turned up. “When would I have done that?” I thought for a moment. He had said goodnight with me before we had gone downstairs to play cards that first night. I worried my lip. He grinned. “I wonder who could have gone into your bedroom after we went down the stairs?” He peaked over his shoulder to make sure we weren’t being observed. “Maybe someone saying goodnight to his little ones?” “But this morning…he didn’t know we were leaving…” “Stewart did…Stewart does a lot for my brother.” He shrugged. I blushed. “Really? Why would he do this?” His grin grew. My cheeks felt like they were on fire. “What does the white rose stand for?” “I always thought it was purity…a new beginning…reverence.” His blues danced. “Maybe my brother is a romantic after all.” I drew in a breath. Getting flowers from Ian was one thing…getting them from Liam was a whole other matter. “I’m going to tell him you thanked me for the flowers and I took credit for them. If that doesn’t get his competitive spirit revved up…I don’t know what will!” He gave me a wink. “Ah, this game is fun! Good night, sweet friend!

Angel" Shooby dooby dooby doo woi Shooby doo Oh Shooby doo dooby doo boi oi Yeah, ah Girl, you're my angel, you're my darling angel Closer than my peeps you are to me, baby Shorty, you're my angel, you're my darling angel Girl, you're my friend when I'm in need, lady Life is one big party when you're still young But who's gonna have your back when it's all done It's all good when you're little, you have pure fun Can't be a fool, son, what about the long run Looking back Shorty always mention Said me not giving her much attention She was there through my incarceration I wanna show the nation my appreciation Girl, you're my angel, you're my darling angel Closer than my peeps you are to me, baby Shorty, you're my angel, you're my darling angel Girl, you're my friend when I'm in need, lady You're a queen and so you should be treated Though you never get the lovin' that you needed Could have left, but I called and you heeded Begged and I pleaded, mission completed Mama said that I and I dissed the program Not the type to mess around with her emotion But the feeling that I have for you is so strong Been together so long and this could never be wrong Girl, you're my angel, you're my darling angel Closer than my peeps you are to me, baby Shorty, you're my angel, you're my darling angel Girl, you're my friend when I'm in need, lady Uh, uh Girl, in spite of my behavior, said I'm your savior (You must be sent from up above) And you appear to me so tender, say girl I surrender (Thanks for giving me your love) Girl, in spite of my behavior, well, you are my savior (You must be sent from up above) And you appear to me so tender, well, girl I surrender (Said thanks for giving me your love) Now life is one big party when you're still young And who's gonna have your back when it's all done It's all good when you're little, you have pure fun Can't be a fool, son, what about the long run Looking back Shorty always mention Said me not giving her much attention She was there through my incarceration I wanna show the nation my appreciation Girl, you're my angel, you're my darling angel Closer than my peeps you are to me, baby Shorty, you're my angel, you're my darling angel Girl, you're my friend when I'm in need, lady Girl, you're my angel, you're my darling angel Closer than my peeps you are to me, baby Shorty, you're my angel, you're my darling angel Girl, you're my friend when I'm in need, lady

One summer, a bachelor farmer hires a college student to help around the farm. Says the farmer, “Son, since you have done such a fine job here this summer, I am going to throw a party for you. You better be able to handle a few beers because there will be lotsa drinkin’ going on.” “Hey, I’m a college man—I can hold my liquor, believe you me. I should do just fine.” “There is also going to be a lot of fightin’, so I hope you can handle yourself with your fists.” “I have been working hard all summer and I think I’m in pretty good shape to defend myself.” “Okey-dokey, but did I mention that there will be lotsa sex?” “Thank God! I have been out here all summer without a date and I have been dying for some action. Say. . . what should I wear to this party?” “I don’t care. Its just gonna be me and you.

God ’s Joyful Love The Lord your God is in the midst of you, a Mighty One, a Savior [Who saves]! He will rejoice over you with joy; He will rest [in silent satisfaction] and in His love He will be silent and make no mention [of past sins, or even recall them]; He will exult over you with singing. ZEPHANIAH 3:17 AMP The first time a mom holds her newborn, a grandmother holds her grandchild, or an aunt holds her newborn niece or nephew, their hearts fill up with overwhelming love for that child. You look into the baby’s eyes, check all the fingers and toes, and marvel over the perfection of this child. You can’t imagine anything they do or say as the child grows up will lessen the love you have for him or her. This scenario is just a tiny glimpse into how much God loves His children. Paul wrote in Romans 8: “I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord” (vv. 38–39 NLT). Zephaniah says that God’s love for His child is so overwhelming that He breaks into singing. Music is a spontaneous expression of many emotions, but especially love. Father, thank You for Your arms of love holding me close to Your heart.

Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. —Matthew 5:6 (KJV) Hey, old man.” It was my sister Keri on the line. “I can’t believe you are about to turn forty.” Hearing those words rang hard in my head. How could I be forty? It was time for a reality check. I was passionate about my career. My son Harrison was a wellspring of joy, and six-month-old Mary Katherine had forever changed Corinne’s and my life for the better. Yet, I couldn’t help but think about my shortcomings. Did I reach out to others or was I too self-centered? Was I giving back in proportion to what had been given to me? Was I mindful enough of the teachings of Jesus? Was I His defender? I tortured myself remembering that Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. achieved greatness before age forty. How could my life ever measure up to theirs? My big day started with birthday calls, but by lunch I was feeling disappointed. How anticlimactic it seemed. In the afternoon, Corinne suggested we take a drive to a friend’s farm. She led me to a converted barn and swung open the door. “Surprise!” The room was filled with family and friends. Toasts followed. One friend spoke of our work in Africa; another thanked me for helping his parents through a hard financial time; another mentioned my work in the inner city. Small steps, I thought. Tiny acts far from greatness. But wait! Why am I treating forty as a deadline? What better age to begin again to make the world right, to reach out, to give, to defend God’s rightness? Everything old turned new in that moment, and I was on my way. Father, I want to do more than long for a better world. Come with me. Help me make it happen. —Brock Kidd Digging Deeper: Gal 6:9; Eph 2:10

As a young wife and mother living in a pre-Pinterest world, I used to glue-gun bows and small pieces of minutia together methodically. I was an insomniac proudly penning thank you notes longer than the Declaration of Independence to every person who had even sent me a card. I was reorganizing my linen closet, ironing placemats, straight-ironing my hair, and never saying no to any person that asked me for a favor. And, I forgot to mention, I didn’t really like myself. I felt like a fuzzy, carbon copy of myself. I felt the passion, the conviction, and the grit somewhere inside of me yet a bunch of preconceived ideas somehow got in the way.

LEDERHOSEN BACK IN THE SUITCASE – THEY WEREN’T MUCH HELP – I’M READY to leave. I started my journey in the most gorgeous of architectures in Jerusalem, and I end it in the most ravished of places, in Jenin. I started with Kings, David and Herod, and I end with Haifa Refugees. When I started the journey I was awed, when I end it I’m dismayed; when I started my journey laughter was my companion, when I end it a tear joins me; when I started this journey hope was my neighbor, when I end it despair stares me in the face. Witnessing the tremendous investments and endless attempts of the Europeans, not to mention the Germans, all geared to undermine the Jews in this land, in Israel, was an extremely unsettling experience. Being showered with love by the Arabs, just because they thought I was an Aryan, a German, was very discomforting. Watching the Jews and seeing how powerless they are, even now that they have their own state, was distressing. If logic is any guide, Israel will not survive. Besieged by hate from without and from within, no land can survive for very long. Miraculously, the Jews have built one of the most sophisticated, intense, beautiful countries of our time, but what are they doing to keep it? They hate themselves, they belie themselves, they are full of fears and many of them rush to get another passport; they want to go back to Poland, to Austria, to Germany – lands where their forefathers were hunted down and killed. And what am I doing? Just the same: I am going back to Germany. Am I a Jew just like them? Am I not Tobi the German? Am I not Abu Ali? My name is, sorry, Tuvia. Goodness of God. What a joke. A joke, I fear, only the Chosen People will truly comprehend. Adios, my sweet cats. You, of all creatures of this land, have a clear and sensible direction: milk and tuna. I am thankful that we met, for you have provided me with companionship in a land I felt so alone in. I am leaving this land, and I am leaving you. You will fare better here. You are Jewish cats, stay with your kind. Enjoy this land, my stray cats, as long as it lasts. I’ll miss you terribly. Shalom.

I couldn’t help but notice that Ravenwood would make a splendid spot to hold a wedding. Why, this tower room would be the perfect place for a lady to get ready, and then . . .” Abigail looked up, a faraway expression in her eyes. “The bride could descend the staircase with a train flowing gently behind her . . . Why, I can picture it in detail.” “You should put those types of details straight from your mind, Abigail,” Lucetta said. “I have no intention of getting married anytime soon, nor would my choice of groom be your grandson.” “Why not? Bram’s a delightful gentleman.” “Who happens to be a great, great admirer of my work.” Abigail leaned back in her chair. “I knew you were going to take issue with that.” “And for good reason. If you haven’t noticed, most admirers of my work—gentlemen admirers, that is—have the unpleasant habit of holding me in high esteem, that circumstance brought about through the unfortunate infatuations they develop for me.” She blew bubbles off her hand. “Once they become acquainted with the real me, I’m afraid they quickly lose all interest and never darken the steps of the theater again.” “I’m sure Bram will appreciate everything about you even when he does get to know you better.” Lucetta wrinkled her nose. “Thank you, I think, but Bram didn’t seem to appreciate carrying me up all of those steps, especially since he made mention of how sturdy he found me to be.” “He did not.” “I assure you, he did, although in his defense, he believed I was unconscious when he uttered the whole sturdy nonsense.” “Well, that’s a relief, and . . .” A knock on the bathing chamber door interrupted whatever else Abigail had been about to say.

Mr. Kenton told me about the kiss you shared with Everett. The poor man was completely baffled about how to handle the situation, although he did mention something about a bat being involved, and not the type of bat that flies through the air at night.” Millie’s lips curved into a grin as she looked to Mr. Kenton, who smiled back and sent her a wink. Looking around the backyard, she was about to thank everyone for coming such a long way when Everett and the children reappeared, the children grinning from ear to ear and Everett looking rather . . . determined. He strode across the lawn and came to stop directly in front of her, silence descending as he took hold of her hand. Giving that hand a little squeeze, he smiled. “I was not comfortable saying anything until getting the approval of the children, but now that that has been fulfilled . . .” He dropped to his knees, but then, surprisingly enough, frowned. “Good heavens. This isn’t right. I don’t have a—” “I have one right here, darling.” Dorothy hurried up, pressed a small box into Everett’s hand, muttered something about it being a family heirloom, and then sent Millie a rather misty smile before she hurried back to Fletcher’s side. “You may continue.” “Thank you, Mother.” Everett looked up and smiled at Millie. “Where was I?” “You were getting ready to ask Miss Millie to marry you,” Thaddeus called. “Yes, quite right, thank you, Thaddeus.” Swallowing a laugh, Millie bit her lip as Everett grinned, but then he sobered a second later. “Miss Millie Longfellow, I know we’ve had our differences, and I know I’ve been a complete idiot with you, but as the esteemed Mr. Darcy said, or said something like this—through the pen of Jane Austen, of course—you are my reason for living, and I’d be beyond honored if you’d agree to become my wife.” “That’s not what Jane Austen wrote in her book,” Lucetta called. “Not even close.” “And you forgot to tell her you love her,” Elizabeth added. Everett turned and arched a brow at Lucetta. “I understand you have this gift for memorization, but honestly . . .” He directed his attention to Elizabeth next. “And as for your comment, I thought the whole ‘you are my reason for living’ covered that.” Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not the same.” Sending Elizabeth a wink, Everett looked back up at Millie and smiled. “Well, there you have it. So I suppose all that’s left for me to say is . . . I love you.” With knees that were distinctly wobbly and a heart that felt ready to burst, Millie smiled back at him. “I love you too.” “And you’ll marry me?” “Of course.” Slipping the ring Dorothy had provided over Millie’s finger, Everett rose to his feet. Pulling Millie close to him, he smiled at the crowd watching them so intently, and then . . . he kissed her.

Very well. Since you won’t divulge her location, answer me this. Why would Miss Plum turn down a respectable offer of marriage from a gentleman such as my Bram?” “Why is it that ladies seem to believe I enjoy discussing these types of personal matters?” Mr. Skukman countered. Iris continued as if Mr. Skukman had not spoken. “Bram is a wealthy, eligible, and influential gentleman who owns his own castle—not to mention his stellar good looks.” “You’re his mother. Of course you’re going to believe he has stellar good looks.” “You don’t believe my Bram is handsome?” “Yet another topic I’m not comfortable discussing, but . . . I suppose if I really consider the matter, yes . . . Mr. Haverstein’s features are adequately arranged, but Miss Plum is not a lady who is impressed by a handsome face.” “She’s an actress.” Mr. Skukman let out a bit of a growl, which had Lucetta immediately stepping from behind the curtain. “Thank you, Mr. Skukman, but I think it might be for the best if I take it from here.” “Were you hiding behind the curtains?” Iris demanded. “Obviously,” Lucetta said as she headed across the room, stepping in between Iris, who was looking indignant, and Mr. Skukman, who’d adopted his most intimidating pose—a pose that didn’t appear to intimidate Iris in the least. “Now then,” Lucetta began, sending Mr. Skukman a frown when he cracked his knuckles, “from what I overheard, you’re here, Mrs. Haverstein, to learn why I rejected Bram’s offer.” Iris lifted her chin. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve sought you out.” “Lovely, and before we address those other reasons, allow me to say that the reason I refused Bram’s proposal was because your son was offering to marry a woman who doesn’t exist. He simply has yet to realize that.” Iris narrowed her eyes. “Bram could provide you with everything.” “I’m fairly good at providing for myself, Mrs. Haverstein.” Iris’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “What are you really playing at? Are you, by chance, hoping that because you turned him down, he’ll make you a better offer?” Lucetta’s brows drew together. “What else could he possibly offer me that would be more appealing than his name?” For a second, Iris looked a little taken aback, but she rallied quickly. “You may be the type of woman who prefers the freedom spinsterhood provides, so I would imagine you’re holding out for a nice place in the city, replete with all the fashionable amenities.” Even though Lucetta was well aware of the reputation most actresses were assumed to enjoy, and even though such insinuations normally never bothered her, a sliver of hurt wormed its way into her heart. Before she could summon up a suitable response, though, Abigail suddenly breezed into the room. “Lucetta is like a granddaughter to me, Iris, and as such, you will treat her accordingly, as well as apologize for your serious lack of manners,” Abigail said as she plunked her hands on her hips and scowled at her daughter. At first, it seemed that Iris wanted to argue the point, but then she blew out a breath and nodded Lucetta’s way. “My mother is quite right. That was unkind of me, and unfair. Forgive me.” Lucetta

Why would anyone’s suspicions be roused simply from an event being canceled?” Bram asked. “I think it might have had something to do with your grandmother implying you were soon to make an announcement,” Mr. Skukman said, speaking up. “What?” Lucetta and Bram asked together. Mr. Skukman’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “Mrs. Hart seems determined to see you well settled, Miss Plum, and I think she may have planted that particular seed for her daughter’s benefit—so that Mrs. Haverstein will have time to adjust to the idea of you and Mr. Haverstein making a match of it.” “We have no intention of making a match of it,” Lucetta said firmly. “There’s no need to declare that quite so adamantly,” Bram mumbled. Lucetta sent him a smile. “Forgive me, Bram. You and I have agreed to become friends, and that was hardly friendly of me, was it? Still, I’ve seen Abigail maneuver events to her satisfaction before, and we cannot let our guard down—not when it’s now become clear she’s still determined to see us well settled, and well settled together.” “I believe the two of you would make a lovely couple,” Stanley said, sending a smile to Lucetta before he sent a not-so-subtle wink to Bram. Bram cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you for that, Stanley, but my grandmother’s matchmaking schemes aside, we still can’t host an event. We can’t chance Lucetta being recognized.” “Don’t worry about me,” Lucetta said with an airy wave of her hand. “I’m very good at disguise, and quite honestly, I’ve never been invited to attend a local theatrical event before, and I find the very idea of that intriguing.” Bram’s eyes narrowed on Lucetta’s face. “You can’t go to it.” “Of course I can. As I just mentioned, I’m a master at disguise. No one will have the faintest idea that a notorious New York actress is in their midst.” Bram’s eyes narrowed another fraction. “You wouldn’t happen to be considering trying out for a part, would you?” “Is that how it works?” she asked. “How marvelous. I’m now quite curious to discover whether or not I’ll be able to win a part if no one knows that I’m Lucetta Plum.” Bram slowed his steps. “Absolutely not.” Unwilling to continue the argument, especially since she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Bram Haverstein possessed a bit of a stubborn streak, Lucetta turned to Mr. Skukman and abruptly changed the subject.

I will let you study me…in exchange for one thing.” Her breath caught. “And that would be?” His burning gaze swept her with tangible intensity. “I want a kiss. One for each study.” Her heart lodged in her throat and her knees turned to water. Surely she could not have heard him correctly. “You want me to kiss you?” “It is a human need I never quite outgrew.” His black hair fell in a heavy sheaf, hiding the scarred half of his face. “Even the hardiest prostitutes are reluctant to provide me with that service, so I shall ask you.” Cassandra’s mind and emotions roiled. How could he sound so cold, mentioning prostitutes even as he was speaking of the need for her kiss? And how could any woman be reluctant to do so? Were they frightened of his scars? The ones on his face were not even that prominent. Only a slight furrow of roughness along his temple and left cheek. She didn’t find them frightening. They made him appear powerful, a survivor. With predatory grace, Rafael leaned forward, placing a hand on each side of her hips. He moved closer until his face was inches from hers. “You did say you’d be willing to bargain anything, Countess.” She studied his lips, her mouth going dry at the sight of the wicked arches and sensuous curves. For over a year, she’d dreamed of being in his arms, tracing the faint ridged scars on his cheek as his mouth claimed hers. “Yes,” she said breathlessly, frightened at the deep well of desire within her soul. Had he read her mind? Was that why he was asking this? Was he toying with her? Something fiery and primitive flickered in his eyes. “We have a bargain, then?” Cassandra nodded and reached up to touch his face. He drew back and seized her hand and shook it as if she had sold him a piece of property, not her… She couldn’t finish the thought. He inclined his head respectfully and released her, leaning back against his seat. “We may begin tomorrow night if that is acceptable to you.” “That will be”—she struggled to breathe—“most adequate.” Thankfully,

Meridith stepped down from the chair and scooted it a few feet. “Let me.” Jake took the string and looped it over the hooks one at a time. It took him two minutes to finish the porch. “Show-off,” she said. “Being tall has its benefits.” And being strong. Words of gratitude formed in her mind, but it took a moment to order them. “I never thanked you last night.” He scratched behind Piper’s ears. “No need.” He plugged the lights in the wall outlet, and they glowed dimly. “Hopefully there’s a wall switch inside.” “I mean it, Jake. I don’t know what I would’ve done.” Heat worked into her cheeks. She pulled a cornflower blue pail from the box and set it on one of the tables. “Your arms . . .” She looked down, noticing the bruises. Brownish-gray blotches, Sean’s fingerprints on her skin. She rubbed the spots, wishing she could wipe them away. Seeing them there, she could almost feel Sean’s grip on her, feel the helplessness welling up. “I should’ve beat the kid to a pulp.” Jake’s fists clenched. “He’s long gone. That’s all that matters.” “He should’ve been arrested.” “I don’t think he meant to—to attack me that way. We stumbled, and he fell on me.” “You’re wearing evidence that says otherwise.” He had a point. And the night before, sand grinding into her back, she’d been convinced she was in danger. “Don’t like the idea of you and the kids here alone.” “Aren’t you the one who thought the partitions were silly?” “Never said that.” “Didn’t have to.” She gave a wry smile. She was pretty good at reading people. Like just now, he was thinking she was right. “Maybe I did.” He leaned a shoulder on the shingled wall, looking every bit as cocky as he had that first day he’d turned up on her doorstep. It didn’t bother her just this minute. “I know I said I was done with the repairs, but what would you think of finishing the ones that aren’t too costly?” His gaze intensified. “Really?” Meridith collected a basket and began filling it with shells. “You mentioned the fireplace. I’d like to get it working again. We have tree branches hitting the house, a couple trees that a stiff wind would blow over—if you do that kind of work. Not to mention the other things on the list.” Jake walked to the railing, staring out to sea. When Piper joined him, Jake ruffled her fur. Maybe he didn’t want to stay now. Maybe having the kids underfoot all week had been a pain. Maybe he’d been offended at the way she’d confronted him about being alone with Noelle—a notion that now seemed ludicrous in light of the way he’d come to her rescue. “I mean, if you can’t, that’s all right. You probably have other work lined up.” It was only a couple months. They’d be safe that long, right? She saw Sean’s hardened face, heard the bitter slur of his words, and shuddered. “I’ll stay.” “Are you sure?” Her words rushed out. “Glad to.” She smiled. “All right then.” He straightened, winked, and she felt it down to her bones. “Back

Come Let Us Worship Come, let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the LORD our Maker. —PSALM 95:6     A recent point of frustration, debate, and tension in many churches has been about defining worship and agreeing what it should look like. Older Christians are confused because of changes made to the style of worship. They wonder whatever happened to the old hymns that were so beloved. They knew the page numbers and all the old verses by heart. Today there are no hymnals, the organs have been silenced, and guitars, drums, and cymbals have taken over. The choir and their robes have been abandoned, and now we have five to seven singers on stage leading songs. We stand for 30 minutes at a time singing song lyrics that we aren’t familiar with from a large screen. What’s happening? If the church doesn’t have these components, the young people leave and go to where it’s happening. Are we going to let the form of worship divide our churches? I hope not! The origins of many of the different expressions of worship can be found in the Psalms, which portray worship as an act of the whole person, not just the mental sphere. The early founders established ways to worship based on what they perceived after reading this great book of the Bible. Over the centuries, Christian worship has taken many different forms, involving various expressions and postures on the part of churchgoers. The Hebrew word for “worship” literally means “to kneel” or “to bow down.” The act of worship is the gesture of humbling oneself before a mighty authority. The Psalms also call upon us to “sing to the LORD, bless His name” (96:2 NASB). Music has always played a large part in the sacred act of worship. Physical gestures and movements are also mentioned in the Psalms. Lifting our hands before God signifies our adoration of Him. Clapping our hands shows our celebration before God. Some worshipers rejoice in His presence with tambourines and dancing (see Psalm 150:4). To worship like the psalmist is to obey Jesus’ command to “love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength” (Mark 12:30). There are many more insights for worship in the book of Psalms: • God’s gifts of instruments and vocal music can be used to help us worship (47:1; 81:1-4). • We can appeal to God for help, and we can thank Him for His deliverance (4:3; 17:1-5). • Difficult times should not prevent us from praising God (22:23- 24; 102:1-2; 140:4-8).

You’re really going to kick me out?” “Yes, I really am.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook folded her arms. Jane bit her lip and bent her head back to look at the sky. Funny that it looked so far away. It felt as if it were pressing down on her head, shoving her into the dirt. What a mean bully of a sky. Much of the household was present now. Miss Heartwright was huddled with the main actors, whispering, like rubberneckers shocked at a roadside accident but unable to look away. A couple of gardeners strolled up as well, tools in hand. Martin wiped his brow, confusion (sadness?) heavy on his face. Jane was embarrassed to see him, remembering how she’d ended things, and feeling less than appealing at the moment. The whole scene was rather Hester Prynne, and Jane imagined herself on a scaffold with a scarlet C for “cell phone” on her chest. She realized she was still holding her croquet mallet and wondered that no one felt threatened by her. She hefted it. Would it be fun to bash in a window? Nah. She handed it to Miss Charming. “Go get ‘em, Charming.” “Okay,” Miss Charming said uncertainly. “If you would be so kind as to step into the carriage,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. Curse the woman. Jane had just started to have such fun, too. Why didn’t one of the gentlemen come forward to defend her? Wasn’t that, like, their whole purpose of existence? She supposed they’d be fired if they did. The cowards. She stood on the carriage’s little step and turned to face the others. She’d never left a relationship with the last word, something poetic and timeless, triumphant amid her downfall. Oh, for a perfect line! She opened her mouth, hoping something just right would come to her, but Miss Heartwright spoke first. “Mrs. Wattlesbrook! Oh dear, I have only now realized what transpired.” She lifted the hem of her skirts and minced her way to the carriage. “Please wait, this is all my fault. Poor Miss Erstwhile was only doing me a favor. You see, the modern contraption was mine. I did not realize I had it until I arrived, and I was so distressed, Miss Erstwhile kindly offered to keep it for me among her own things where I would not have to look upon it.” Jane stood very still. She thought to wonder what instinct made her body rigid when shocked. Was she prey by nature? A rabbit afraid to move when a hawk wheels overhead? Mrs. Wattlesbrook had not moved either, not even to blink. A silent minute limped forward as everyone waited. “I see,” the proprietress said at last. She looked at Jane, at Miss Heartwright, then fumbled with the keys at her side. “Well, now, ahem, since it was an accident, I think we should forget it ever happened. I do hope, Miss Heartwright, that you will continue to honor us with your presence.” Ah, you old witch, Jane thought. “Yes, of course, thank you.” Miss Heartwright was in her best form, all proper feminine concern, artless and pleasant. Her eyes twinkled. They really did. Everyone began to move off, nothing disturbing left to view. Jane caught a glimpse of Martin smiling, pleased, before he turned away. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I do hope you will forgive me.” “Please don’t mention it, Miss Heartwright.” “Amelia.” She held Jane’s hand to help her descend from the carriage. “You must call me Amelia now.” “Thank you, Amelia.” It was such a sisterly moment, Jane thought they might actually embrace. They didn’t.

Here, let me,” he said, trying to take the box from her small hands. “Oh, thanks. I—” She looked up and her eyes hardened. “Oh, it’s you.” Wrenching the box away from him, she banged through the door herself and shoved past him to enter the building. Wonderful—she was still mad at him. Sylvan had no idea what he had done to earn her enmity but for whatever reason it seemed like Olivia’s beautiful sister really hated him. “Yes, it’s me,” he said, following her as she marched up to the front desk. “My name is Sylvan, by the way, I’m Baird’s half brother. And Olivia mentioned your name but I seem to have forgotten it.” “Isn’t that a shame.” She nodded at the human behind the counter as she placed the massive cardboard box on the desk. “This needs to get to my sister, Olivia Waterhouse, immediately. She was abducted, uh, claimed by a Kindred warrior earlier today.” “Yes, Ma’am.” The human attendant nodded. “You’ll need to give it to the Kindred representative who came to pick it up.” “Kindred representative?” Olivia’s sister frowned as Sylvan cleared his throat behind her. “That would be me.” “You?” She whirled to face him. “What do you have to do with it?” Sylvan frowned. “Olivia wanted her things. I volunteered to come get them for her so Baird wouldn’t have to. They need to spend time alone together right now—every minute he has with her is precious.” “Oh right. So he can seduce her and convince her to bond with him.” She shot him an icy glare and picked up the box again. “Fine. I guess you can take the box to her. She ought to have plenty of time to go through it since I know for a fact she has no interest in spending the rest of her life on an alien ship with a complete stranger.” Sylvan smiled, deliberately showing her his fangs. “I think I can promise you with absolute certainty that they won’t be strangers for long.” Her

Well…” drawled Stanhope once he disappeared, “that was certainly more illuminating than I had expected it would be.” “Oh, shut up, Freddie.” “My lips are sealed, kitten…but may I make a small suggestion? Two, actually.” “As if I could stop you?” “First, I wouldn’t necessarily mention that part about balconies so freely and in such close company. It’s not exactly a flattering picture of Blackmoor…and could be damaging to your reputation.” “Thank you, Freddie.” Her voice was laced with sarcasm. “I hadn’t realized that.” “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, sweet.” He pressed on. “Second…I’d imagine Blackmoor will be rather…put out…that you brought that up in front of me.” “More than put out,” she replied. “Livid.” “A choice word.” “So what’s your second suggestion?” “Tread lightly.” “That’s it? That’s the best advice you can give me?” “All right, tread very lightly.

I missed the rest of the conversation because, while the good actor was carefully cooking his sentences with criticisms spiced with kindness, another member of the group, a young man who looked Chinese, with a face like raspberry jelly, stumbled up to me. His naturally yellow complexion was complemented by bright threads of broken veins, more purple than red. He had thick hair, a receding brow, jutting cheekbones, narrow eyes whose dark pupils seemed more polished than alive, a barely visible moustache the color of dead leaves, a little salt and pepper beard that was worn out like an old carpet, a long neck with an Adam’s apple stuck in it like a huge walnut, and shoulders like a scrawny old horse which did not fit with his thick, short chest and his pot belly. He was knock-kneed and bowed legged, with kneecaps shaped like coconuts. He also borrowed Doctor Magne’s chair, blew cigarette smoke out his nose, and took his turn to tackle me. His language was less elegant than the other two; it was hard for him to speak, which you could put down to shyness. He was dull and awkward. He seemed horribly unhappy and sorry to have come over, but there he was. He had to march on—and he did so heroically!—death in his soul. “Monsieur—finally yes!... Monsieur… I don’t like to jaw about brothers… absolutely not! But I have to tell you that Desbosquets is a lot more… absolutely… oh, I’ll blurt it out… a lot more… absolutely cracked than our friend Magne. Absolutely yes!” He wanted to be frank, to open up, which he constantly regretted, because he knew that he would be clumsy and mocked; he felt ridiculous and it was killing him. But his need for some honest self-indulgence gnawed at him, and he spit out his slang and his absolutelys—‘absolutely yes!’ and ‘absolutely no!’— which made him think he was revealing the deepest depths of his soul. He continued. “Maybe they told you about me—yes! I know: bing, bang —mechanics! Absolutely yes! A hack, they must have told you…” (Aha! I thought. So it’s my colleague the poet!) “…and the worst trouble, right? That’s Leonard—yes! Ah! When I’m a little…bing, bang…mechanics! I guess—grumpy—I don’t say… but there’s not an ounce of meanness in me! Disgusting, this awful problem with talking, but the mechanics, you know—because it’s the mechanics—no way! Do you want me to tell you my name? Ah! Totally unknown, my name, but don’t want them to mangle it mechanically when quoting it to you: Oswald Norbert Nigeot. Don’t say Numskull—no!—Although my verses!... Ah! Damned mechanics!... A bonehead, a stupid bonehead, bitten by the morbid mania to write—and the slander of the old students of the Polytechnic! Oh! To write! Terrible trade for the poorly gifted like me who are… bing, bang, not mechanics! And angry at the mechanics of words. Polytechnic pigs manufacture words; so, poor hacks can’t use them. Ah! Even this is mechanics!... And drunk on it, Desbosquets too, very drunk! Obviously you see it: Cusenier, Noilly-Prat, why not Pernod? It’s awful for people like him and me! See, you know— liquids are scarce—but thanks to the guards’ hatred of Bid’homme… and thanks to old Froin, too good, don’t believe in any bad—but can you call that bad? He lives with the Heaven of…mechanics…of…bang…of derangements, no! I want arrangements, not derangements!” Mr. Nigeot seemed very proud of having successfully (?) completed such a long sentence propped up by only one “bang” and one “mechanics,” but in spite of his satisfaction, he was scared of continuing less elegantly and he got all tangled up in a run of bizarre expressions in which the hated Polytechnicians and the bings and bangs (not to mention the absolutelys) got so out of hand that I could not understand a word of what he said.

I went into the bar and sank into a leather bar seat packed with down. Glasses tinkled gently, lights glowed softly, there were quiet voices whispering of love, or ten per cent, or whatever they whisper about in a place like that. A tall fine-looking man in a gray suit cut by an angel suddenly stood up from a small table by the wall and walked over to the bar and started to curse one of the barmen. He cursed him in a loud clear voice for a long minute, calling him about nine names that are not usually mentioned by tall fine-looking men in well cut gray suits. Everybody stopped talking and looked at him quietly. His voice cut through the muted rhumba music like a shovel through snow. The barman stood perfectly still, looking at the man. The barman had curly hair and a clear warm skin and wide-set careful eyes. He didn’t move or speak. The tall man stopped talking and stalked out of the bar. Everybody watched him out except the barman. The barman moved slowly along the bar to the end where I sat and stood looking away from me, with nothing in his face but pallor. Then he turned to me and said: “Yes, sir?” “I want to talk to a fellow named Eddie Prue.” “So?” “He works here,” I said. “Works here doing what?” His voice was perfectly level and as dry as dry sand. “I understand he’s the guy that walks behind the boss. If you know what I mean.” “Oh. Eddie Prue.” He moved one lip slowly over the other and made small tight circles on the bar with his bar cloth. “Your name?” “Marlowe.” “Marlowe. Drink while waiting?” “A dry martini will do.” “A martini. Dry. Veddy, veddy dry.” “Okay.” “Will you eat it with a spoon or a knife and fork?” “Cut it in strips,” I said. “I’ll just nibble it.” “On your way to school,” he said. “Should I put the olive in a bag for you?” “Sock me on the nose with it,” I said. “If it will make you feel any better.” “Thank you, sir,” he said. “A dry martini.” He took three steps away from me and then came back and leaned across the bar and said: “I made a mistake in a drink. The gentleman was telling me about it.” “I heard him.” “He was telling me about it as gentlemen tell you about things like that. As big shot directors like to point out to you your little errors. And you heard him.” “Yeah,” I said, wondering how long this was going to go on. “He made himself heard—the gentleman did. So I come over here and practically insult you.” “I got the idea,” I said. He held up one of his fingers and looked at it thoughtfully. “Just like that,” he said. “A perfect stranger.” “It’s my big brown eyes,” I said. “They have that gentle look.” “Thanks, chum,” he said, and quietly went away. I saw him talking into a phone at the end of the bar. Then I saw him working with a shaker. When he came back with the drink he was all right again.

Trust you to mention love, Gustav. But the word has no meaning for me any more. I’m enslaved to Hans Hirsch, that’s all I know – because he’s beautiful and because he has power over me. Thank goodness my father died. Armin always saw right through me. He would have known that what I’ve got is slavery, nothing more nor less.

I’ve come to a place where I embrace everything that happens to me. I’ve been practicing being thankful for whatever comes my way for so long that I have confidence that this experience will have meaning in my life too. It took me a bit of work to get here, but it sure makes things more fun and less frightening.” He just nodded and smiled and started the machine. That’s what I’m talking about when I mention peace of mind. Yes, I was worried, but I knew that I had the tools to handle the next thing that came, and to make something meaningful out of it. I knew I could find a place of contentment anywhere.

coughed. Granny, you know I love Meg very much, and I’ve decided that I would like to ask her to marry me, and I’ve been told that, er, that I have to ask your permission before I can propose. You have to? Um. Well, yes, that’s what your staff tell me, and my staff as well. That I have to ask your permission. I stood completely still, as motionless as the birds in my hands. I stared at her face but it was unreadable. At last she replied: Well, then, I suppose I have to say yes. I squinted. You feel you have to say yes? Does that mean you are saying yes? But that you want to say no? I didn’t get it. Was she being sarcastic? Ironic? Deliberately cryptic? Was she indulging in a bit of wordplay? I’d never known Granny to do any wordplay, and this would be a surpassingly bizarre moment (not to mention wildly inconvenient) for her to start, but maybe she just saw the chance to play off my unfortunate use of the word “have” and couldn’t resist? Or else, perhaps there was some hidden meaning beneath the wordplay, some message I wasn’t comprehending? I stood there squinting, smiling, asking myself over and over: What is the Queen of England saying to me right now? At long last I realized: She’s saying yes, you muppet! She’s granting permission. Who cares how she words it, just know when to take yes for an answer. So I sputtered: Right. OK, Granny! Well. Fabulous. Thank you! Thank you so much. I wanted to hug her. I longed to hug her. I didn’t hug her. I saw her into the Range Rover, then marched back to Pa and Willy.

To help you get started, I've mentioned a few prompts below: I’m writing in this journal because… I find the most comfort in... My admiration for you comes from... Reasons why you loved them Your favorite qualities about them Some of the ways I practice physical self-care are… Some of the ways I practice emotional self-care are… Some of the ways I practice social self-care are… Some of the ways I practice spiritual self-care are… These are some activities that keep me distracted... My current way of coping is… I cry when I remember… I smile when I remember… My current support system is... I’m thankful for... I honor you by... Today, I feel like… I really miss… Dealing with this is really hard because… I face difficulty in... Lately, I feel like… Every time I think about you… Losing you changed me... I could have some more of… Together we could have done… Our last interaction was when… My grief feels like… I choose to remember you because... One of my favorite memories is when… I always remember you when I see/hear/smell… I have grown a lot since you left us… I find it difficult to cope because… People have been saying… Being a part of your life was an opportunity for me because… I wish I could have told you this… It’s time for me to move on but you’ll always be in my heart...

I’m not one of them, Captain!” Lydia said quickly. She moved forward, her hands clasped together in supplication. “You can see I’m not a Skandian!” The captain studied her, then looked at the rest of the crew. They were mostly fair skinned and blue eyed. She was dark haired, with olive skin. She definitely didn’t look like a Skandian. “Treacherous cow!” Jesper muttered. Then he grunted in pain as Stig shot an elbow into his ribs to silence him. “Shut up, you fool!” Stig said, out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m just a passenger! I paid them for passage down the river!” Lydia was saying, wringing her hands before her. “I’m from Krall. My parents are dead and I’m going to live with my uncle in Raguza.” She glared at Thorn. “And they took advantage of me. They charged me double the going rate for my fare!” she added angrily. Not bad, Thorn thought. Then, in a loud voice, he snarled at her. “You were happy enough to pay when you came to us, girl! You pleaded with us to take you on board! You couldn’t thank us enough then, could you? I’ll wager you were in trouble in Krall and had to get away in a hurry. I told the boys you’d be nothing but bad luck, but you won them over with your big brown eyes!” “Quiet,” the captain said distractedly. He studied the warrant again. There was definitely no mention of a girl. There was no order for her arrest and her story was logical. He knew from his briefing that the Skandians were pursuing a ship that was headed for Raguza. He came to a decision.

It was some time before he motioned for me to come out, and when I did so, I couldn't help glancing around nervously. The gardeners were now mere specks in the distance. "Do they work at night as well?" I asked, looking around at the dusky pall that still thankfully covered the sky. "It will be morning soon," said Er Lang. "But they seem to go around at all hours. You look dreadful, by the way," he remarked conversationally. I glared at him, conscious of the way my hair had straggled out of its plaits, the dirt that encrusted my clothing, not to mention the tear stains on my grimy face. "Why does it matter?

Resting her head on her bent arm, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on something else. Like getting the hell out of here. I’m not going to urinate in my canteen. I have to drink out of that. She smiled when Jak’ri’s disgruntled voice came to her. She was too tired to block other people’s thoughts. And the Gathendiens all dosed themselves with some herb to keep their minds private. So Jak’ri’s and Ziv’ri’s were the ones she inadvertently found herself immersed in. For once, she didn’t mind. I don’t know why that would bother you, his brother responded dryly. After you drank that liquor from Promeii 7, I would think urine would be a vast improvement. Though they spoke aloud, their thoughts mirrored their words, enabling her to listen in. Jak’ri laughed. It probably would. That bura was revolting. Yet you still drank it. And won the wager. Ziv’ri made a grumbly sound. I never should’ve wagered my hovercycle. Best cycle I ever owned, Jak’ri crowed. His brother grunted. Did you tell Ava about that? She raised her eyebrows, surprised to hear Ziv’ri mention her. No. I think I’ll spare her that one. Why? Don’t want to tarnish your virile image by describing the week afterward that you spent hanging your head in the lav and regurgitating everything you ate? Jak’ri laughed. I already tarnished my image when I showed her what I look like now. Not a wise move. Even Shek’ra wouldn’t want you if she could see you now. You’re far too scrawny to attract a female. Drek you. Low masculine laughter accompanied the siblings’ teasing. What does she look like? Ziv’ri asked. Ava? Yes. All you’ve told me is she looks Lasaran. A moment passed, and Ava found herself holding her breath as she awaited his answer. She’s beautiful, Jak’ri said, something like affection tingeing his voice. Warmth filled her. Small and delicate like the Lasaran princess. She was actually three inches taller than Ami. But Jak’ri had been a head taller than her or more, so she supposed anyone a foot shorter would seem small and delicate to him. She isn’t built like our women, he continued. Her shoulders aren’t as broad. And her chest and back aren’t as muscled. What about her breasts? You don’t need to know about her breasts, Jak’ri chastised him. But they’re perfect, plump and round. She didn’t think he said that last part out loud, thankfully. Ava glanced down at her modest bosom. She’d always considered her breasts small by society’s standards. Certainly nothing that would stop traffic. But it seemed as though they were actually larger than most Purveli women’s. And Jak’ri liked them, judging by the way his thoughts drifted to memories of her lacy bra cupping her breasts while they swam and played together in the ocean. You’re thinking about her breasts now, aren’t you? Ziv’ri asked. She grinned. Yes, he is, she answered telepathically. Jak’ri gasped. Oh ho! Ziv’ri crowed on a laugh. You’ve made my brother blush, Ava. I haven’t seen his face this red since Mother caught him— Do not finish that sentence! Jak’ri ordered. Ava laughed.

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E m a i l. Trustgeekshackexpert[At]fastservice[Dot]com T e l e g r a m. Trustgeekshackexpert w h a t's A p p. +1 7 1 9 4 9 2 2 6 9 3 Back in January, I got caught up in a cryptocurrency scam that really turned my life upside down. I invested a jaw-dropping $214,000 in BNB on what I thought was a legitimate crypto site. For a while, everything seemed to be going smoothly, and I was excited about the returns I was expecting. But then, when I tried to withdraw my profits, everything fell apart. The scammers froze my account and demanded more money, claiming I had breached some sort of agreement. I was completely devastated and felt trapped in a nightmare. It got so overwhelming that I started having dark thoughts about ending it all. Thankfully, my family noticed I was struggling and stepped in when I finally opened up about what was happening. During one of our talks, my niece mentioned a group called (Trust Geeks Hack Expert). She had heard they helped people recover their stolen cryptocurrencies, and I was intrigued. I thought, “Could this be my saving grace?” So, I decided to reach out to them and explain my situation in detail. To my surprise, (Trust Geeks Hack Expert) was incredibly responsive and compassionate. They reassured me that they had dealt with cases like mine before and would do everything they could to help. I was a bit skeptical, but I was also desperate for a solution. Amazingly, within about three days if I remember correctly they managed to recover the entire $214,000 that I had lost! I was in shock. It felt like a huge burden had been lifted off my shoulders. If you’re reading this and you’ve fallen victim to a crypto scam, I can’t recommend (Trust Geeks Hack Expert) enough. They are truly exceptional at what they do. Reach out for help, and don’t hesitate to contact them. (Trust Geeks Hack Expert)

With these uneasy thoughts urging me onward, I hurried toward home, praying I would make it in time for dinner and thereby avoid having to answer to my mother. That was the only way my day could get worse. I was forced to adjust that conclusion, however, when I spotted Saadi loitering nearby. The moment he laid eyes on me, I knew he’d been waiting for me, and I groaned. Why couldn’t he leave me alone? “Shaselle!” he called, coming toward me. I gritted my teeth, knowing I could not escape. The traffic on the thoroughfare had thinned, as was generally the case at this time of day, no longer providing the cover I needed to dart past him. He came abreast of me, but I didn’t slow or acknowledge him. “I’m glad I caught you,” he said, and in my peripheral vision, I could see him smoothing that damn bronze hair forward, an impossible task, for as always it kinked upward at the midpoint of his hairline. “Can’t say the same.” “I didn’t take you to my sister.” He sounded like this small mercy should be eliciting gratitude from me. “I realize that.” Saadi exhaled, baffled and exasperated. “How can you be angry with me?” I halted and stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not! You’re the Cokyrian soldier who arrested me when I broke the law. Our relationship ends there. It would be a waste of my time to be angry with you.” “That’s it?” he said, eyebrows rising, and I was sure I detected disappointment. “I thought…I don’t know. I thought you were angry with me before, for not having mentioned I’m Rava’s brother. Weren’t you?” “No,” I lied. I still didn’t understand why it upset me to know that this annoying tag-along was related to the woman I hated with such intensity that my insides burned. But there was no reason to complicate things by letting him know the truth. “Well, I saved you today, didn’t I? Just like I saved you before. You walked out of the Bastion free, without a scratch, and if any Cokyrian but me had caught you with that dagger, you might be drawn and quartered by now.” “You didn’t save me from that butcher,” I said irritably. “But you’re right. About today, I mean.” I could sense his satisfaction, which irritated me all the more. “So accept my thanks, but stay away from me. We’re not friends, you know.” I was nearing my neighborhood and didn’t want anyone to see me with him. He stepped in front of me, forcing me to stop. “We’re not friends yet. But you’ve thought about it. And you just thanked me.” “Are you delusional?” “No. You just said thank you to the faceless Cokyrian soldier who arrested you.” “Don’t you ever stop?” I demanded, trying in vain to move around him. “I haven’t even started.” “What does that mean?

Hello all, Why must we be confused by all this online scammers when we all know that there has never been any other oracle apart from the the great spell casters called lama lama oracle temple, The great oracle and also i my self called kuq ya that is greatest of all, Kuq ya means GREATEST AMONG ALL THE SPELL CASTERS. This oracle has been in existence for so many years even before i was born i inherited it from my great grand father. Since we have been existing we have never failed in solving any kind of problem anyone must have been having cos we know the spirits that we serve we never lets us down, We perform various sacrifice to this spirits from time to time to make our powerful and doings effective. This temple is out on the internet to tell all of you that is wasting your time and also your hard earned money dealing with all this hungry souls that called themselves spell casters by bring cause to themselves by claiming to be what they are not, We advise you all that you should stop it as it is not right to do such, Because those spell casters that called themselves different names / temples are scammers,You will do this greatest oracle good by doing that.They are scammers and all those testimony there are posted by them also and not the people they have help,They are doing all this to get money to fed there-self and there family members !!! BE WARNED ALL OF YOU THAT NEED HELP FROM SPELL CASTERS AS IT IS BECAUSE OF ALL OF YOU WE HAVE DECIDED TO COME ONLINE TO REDUCE AND STOP ALL THIS FAKE SPELL CASTERS, AS WE GOT PERMISSION FROM THE FBI !!.. I have made so many of them online that are spoiling this great temple good work go back to the sea and some blind. I am Dr Kuq Ya the messenger to the great oracle of Nigeria,Indian,Indonesia,Singapore,UK,USA,Uganda,japan,Spain,Germany,Paris,Dubai,South Africa. To mention but a few..We are know well there as the great temple that has helped them get many of there ANCESTRAL problems solve in recent times. But we are also extending this great offer to those that have any kind of problem, when i mean any kind of problem i mean any problem at all you might be having in this life,Such as getting your lover back,you want to be rich, you feel like using charms on someone to get something you like from him or her or getting your scam many back, wining a lottery, to mention but a few. KUQ YA IS HERE FOR YOUR SERVICES AND PLEASE STOP DEALING WITH THOSE SO CALLED SPELL CASTERS THAT HAVE REALLY MESSED UP THIS WORK ONLINE. I HAVE NEVER BEEN ONLINE,BUT THE PRESIDENTS OF THE ABOVE COUNTRIES CALLED ME ON PHONE AND ALSO PERSONALLY HOLD A MEETING AND THEY ASK ME THE MESSENGER TO START ADVERTING AND TELL ALL ABOUT THIS GREATEST ORACLE THAT IS SO DURABLE, PERFECT, MARVELOUS, AND GOOD WORKS TO AVOID THIS SCAMMING THAT IS GOING ON ONLINE. I WILL BE ENDING HERE NOW, IF YOU HAVE ANYTHING BOTHERING YOUR MIND AND YOU NEED PERMANENT SOLUTION TO IT WITHOUT ANY SIDE EFFECT OR HARM, KINDLY SEND AN EMAIL TO THE FOLLOWING EMAIL ADDRESS: great.spellcaster@yahoo.com Thanks and may the spirits guide you to read and understand what i said and also we will be awaiting response from you all that have problems that want it solve at once.Thanks for your patronage as you come. To enhance fast communication, Kindly send down your Name : Country: State: Address: More about the kind of help you want here: Phone number: Age: Gender : Job: and any other information's you know it will be so helpful on the kind of work and help you wish for here. Because we solve any kind of problem in this life. NOTE : MY GMAIL ACCOUNT IS NOW BAD AS YOU CAN ONLY GET ME ON THIS EMAIL : great.spellcaster@yahoo.com. So don't contact me via me gmail account. And also our spell casting here has no side effect, As it is just to grant you your heart desires without any problem.

One AS husband wrote me the following very powerful e-mail (I have excerpted parts.):       I guess your heart probably sinks just a little when you get a message from an AS man. However, I’ve just read your book and I’d like to thank you for its honesty and indeed bravery.       I’ve been with my NT partner . . . for 25 years and have inflicted many distressing incidents on her similar to those you describe. But I can honestly say that none of them were ever designed to hurt. This feeling has probably made things much worse [for her]! I doubt I would have become so angry and defensive if I didn’t believe myself to be ‘innocent’ of the crime of intention. Hopefully I am coming to realise that I need to do more than just not intend to do harm. . .       . . . Reading your book I think I see parallels here between my fear of being overwhelmed in social or conflict situations. But I also see similarities to those feelings when my partner expresses her frustrations and needs - to admit to her point of view seems sometimes like I would be ‘destroyed.’ I mention this because I get the strong feeling that you equate spirituality and loving relationships. I feel that between myself and . . . there is something very important to us both, beyond companionship. For me there seems to have been a chance given that I would never believed I would have had. . .

I’ve never been inside a gaming club before. It will be a novel experience.” “They won’t let you inside. You’re a lady. And even if they did allow it, I wouldn’t.” Lowering her hand, Amelia glanced at him in surprise. It was rare that Merripen forbade her to do anything. In fact, this may have been the first time. She found it annoying. Considering that her brother’s life might be at stake, she was hardly going to quibble over social niceties. Besides, she was curious to see what was inside the privileged masculine retreat. As long as she was doomed to remain a spinster, she might as well enjoy the small freedoms that came with it. “Neither will they let you inside,” she pointed out. “You’re a Roma.” “As it happens, the manager of the club is also a Roma.” That was unusual. Extraordinary, even. Gypsies were known as thieves and tricksters. For one of the Rom to be entrusted with the accounting of cash and credit, not to mention arbitrating controversies at the gambling tables, was nothing short of amazing. “He must be a rather remarkable individual to have assumed such a position,” Amelia said. “Very well, I will allow you to accompany me inside Jenner’s. It’s possible your presence will induce him to be more forthcoming.” “Thank you.” Merripen’s voice was so dry one could have struck a match off it.

# 2 of 2 She laughed. “Stop cursing.” He grimaced. “Forgive me. It’s just… I seem to be inadvertently letting my guard down more and more around you.” “I like it when you let your guard down around me.” Her words appeared to do little to alleviate his concern though. “Is that so unusual? Don’t you let your guard down around your brethren?” He shook his head. “I have always spoken freely with David. Ami too, sometimes. But I’ve never broadcast my thoughts to either of them without meaning to. I haven’t done that since—” He broke off, seeming disinclined to continue. “Since your wife?” she asked gently. He nodded. That was telling. He watched her uncertainly. Did he worry she would freak out over his mentioning the wife he’d lost? He hadn’t freaked out when she had mentioned the husband she’d lost. “Whatever thoughts you send my way I won’t betray,” she promised. Thank you. She grinned when his baritone voice once more filled in her head. “That is so cool. You aren’t reading my thoughts, are you?” “No.” “Good.” His lips curled up in a slow smile. “Why? What would I find if I did? What are you thinking?” She swallowed. Did she dare tell him? “This may sound weird, but hearing your voice in my head totally turns me on.” Beneath the robe, her nipples had hardened. Other parts of her tingled. Her pulse raced. “And I’m sort of fixating on the fact that you’ve been missing sex more since you met me. Because I’ve been missing sex a lot more since I met you.” The golden light in his eyes grew brighter as a low rumbling sound filled her head. Seeming almost to vibrate through her, it set her body aflame. “Oh sh**,” she whispered. “That’s so hot.” “What is?” he murmured. “You just made this sort of low, growly sound in my head.” And it had affected her as much as stroking all of her erogenous zones at once would have. “I didn’t mean to.” “That just makes it even hotter.

On All Dogs Go to Heaven: Lastly, the heaven illustrated in the movie didn't seam much like the one being advertised during Big Church services. I mean, three was a whippet dog playing the role of Saint Peter, which is super dubious because I think if dogs uniformly had to elect a particular breed as the representative sample of goodness greeting them as the shuffled off their mortal coils (leashes?) and entered into eternity, it would probably go: 1) Golden Retriever: Might be more angelic than Saint Peter IMO 2) Labrador Retriever: The All-American, apple pie-sniffing dog next door. 3) Siberian Huskies: Those eyes tho. 4) Beagle: Scrappy, overachieving everydogs 5) German Shepherd: Would be higher but lost a ton of points thanks the unfortunate connection to the Big Bads of WW2. 6) Whippets: They look like they are either embarking upon or just recovering from an intense drug habit. LAST PLACE: CORGIS: These dogs are probably the gatekeepers to hell*. White cute, this dog is more useless than a urinal cake-flavored Popsicle. My parents have had two of these dogs and all they were good at was being emotional terrorists. Zero starts, would not recommend. *I know Greek myth says it's Cerberus, a giant, three-headed dog, and it makes no mention of dog breed, but I can guarantee you that Cerberus must have had three large and stupid Corgi heads.

Ah. Have I mentioned how grateful I am that you found me?” Isaac chuckled. “You’ve thanked me for saving you, yes. Most beautiful thank you I ever got.” “Not merely for saving me. For finding me, for not giving up.” Turk eased the ship out at the head of their fighter formation. “The universe is circular, I think.” “Could be.” “So many things are forced into circular shapes by gravitational attraction. The universe must be as well. So must all things, in the end. Infinitely circular.

Is there any piped water? Anywhere?” “The kitchen and the stables.” “But there are water closets in the house, of course.” She sent him a reproving glance at the mention of such an indelicate subject. “If you’re not too delicate to train horses,” he pointed out, “who are generally not known for their discretion about bodily functions, surely you can bring yourself to tell me the number of water closets in the mansion.” She colored as she forced herself to reply. “None. Only chamber pots at night, and an outdoor privy by day.” He gave her an incredulous glance, seeming genuinely offended by the idea. “None? At one time this was one of the most prosperous estates in England. Why the devil was the house never plumbed?” “Theo said that according to his father, there was no reason for it when they had so many servants.” “Of course. Such a delightful activity, running up and down the stairs with heavy cans of water. Not to mention chamber pots. How thankful the servants must be that no one has yet deprived them of such enjoyment.” “There’s no need for sarcasm,” she said. “It wasn’t my decision.

mention that!). Teresa is way more than an agent. She’s also a lovely, thoughtful person. I’d also like to thank my good friends Susan McKenzie and Lili de Grandpré, for their help and support. And finally I want to say a word about the poetry I use in this book, and the others. As much as I’d love not to say anything and hope you believe I wrote it, I actually need to thank the wonderful poets who’ve allowed me to use their works and words. I adore poetry, as you can tell. Indeed, it inspires me—with words and emotions. I tell aspiring writers to read poetry, which I think for them is often the literary equivalent of being told to eat Brussels sprouts. They’re none too enthusiastic. But what a shame if a writer doesn’t at least try to find poems that speak to him or her. Poets manage to get into a couplet what I struggle to achieve in an entire book. I thought it was time I acknowledged that. In this book I use, as always, works from Margaret Atwood’s slim volume Morning in the Burned House. Not a very cheerful title, but brilliant poems. I’ve also quoted from a lovely old work called The Bells of Heaven by Ralph Hodgson. And a wonderful poem called “Gravity Zero” from an emerging Canadian poet named Mike Freeman, from his book Bones. I wanted you to know that. And I hope these poems speak to you, as they speak to me.

On All Dogs Go to Heaven: Lastly, the heaven illustrated in the movie didn't seam much like the one being advertised during Big Church services. I mean, three was a whippet dog playing the role of Saint Peter, which is super dubious because I think if dogs uniformly had to elect a particular breed as the representative sample of goodness greeting them as the shuffled off their mortal coils (leashes?) and entered into eternity, it would probably go: 1) Golden Retriever: Might be more angelic than Saint Peter IMO 2) Labrador Retriever: The All-American, apple pie-sniffing dog next door. 3) Siberian Huskies: Those eyes tho. 4) Beagle: Scrappy, overachieving everydogs 5) German Shepherd: Would be higher but lost a ton of points thanks the unfortunate connection to the Big Bads of WW2. 6) Whippets: They look like they are either embarking upon or just recovering from an intense drug habit. LAST PLACE: CORGIS: These dogs are probably the gatekeepers to hell*. While cute, this dog is more useless than a urinal cake-flavored Popsicle. My parents have had two of these dogs and all they were good at was being emotional terrorists. Zero starts, would not recommend. *I know Greek myth says it's Cerberus, a giant, three-headed dog, and it makes no mention of dog breed, but I can guarantee you that Cerberus must have had three large and stupid Corgi heads.

On All Dogs Go to Heaven: Lastly, the heaven illustrated in the movie didn't seam much like the one being advertised during Big Church services. I mean, three was a whippet dog playing the role of Saint Peter, which is super dubious because I think if dogs uniformly had to elect a particular breed as the representative sample of goodness greeting them as the shuffled off their mortal coils (leashes?) and entered into eternity, it would probably go: 1) Golden Retriever: Might be more angelic than Saint Peter IMO 2) Labrador Retriever: The All-American, apple pie-sniffing dog next door. 3) Siberian Huskies: Those eyes tho. 4) Beagle: Scrappy, overachieving everydogs 5) German Shepherd: Would be higher but lost a ton of points thanks the unfortunate connection to the Big Bads of WW2. 6) Whippets: They look like they are either embarking upon or just recovering from an intense drug habit. LAST PLACE: CORGIS: These dogs are probably the gatekeepers to hell*. While cute, this dog is more useless than a urinal cake-flavored Popsicle. My parents have had two of these dogs and all they were good at was being emotional terrorists. Zero stars, would not recommend. *I know Greek myth says it's Cerberus, a giant, three-headed dog, and it makes no mention of dog breed, but I can guarantee you that Cerberus must have had three large and stupid Corgi heads.

She eyed him. “What does that mean?” “You know exactly what it means, McKenna. Women who take on the world and never back down. Women whose hearts have so much love, they give even when that love isn’t returned.” He was reminded of what he had in his vest pocket for her—the thank-you gift for his saddle. The gift had since turned into the peace offering for missing dinner that night, and now represented so much more . . . Now that he knew how much she cared for him. Even though she might not be able to voice it, or even want to admit it to herself. But he would forever remember the moment she looked up outside the doc’s office, thinking he was dead, and found him alive. The timing hadn’t felt right to give it to her then, but it did now. He reached into his pocket. “I’m talking about a woman who faces life with a courage and a persistence that astounds me. Who has endured so much difficulty in her life and yet keeps pushing on with stubborn grace, step-after-step, day-after-day.” He softened his voice. “A woman who, at first, didn’t trust me.” He touched the side of her face. “But a woman who might just be beginning to trust.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “And who makes this man want to spend the rest of his life proving to her that she can.” He held out the box. “Not to mention a woman who makes the best saddles in all the western territory.” Her eyes widened. “You know?” Oh how he wanted to kiss her. And if he was reading her right, she was more than open to the idea. “What did I tell you about looking at a man that way when he couldn’t do anything about it?” She grinned, and he pulled her to him and kissed her. He’d meant for their first kiss to be more tender, slow and gentle, but the way her arms came around him, pulling him closer, the way she responded, deepening the kiss, drove the desire inside him. Their bodies touching, he memorized the curves of her waist, the small of her back, how she felt pressed up against him. The warmth of her hand as she cradled the back of his neck encouraged him further— Remembering where they were, Wyatt drew back. “McKenna!” he whispered. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted. She was wearing a purple dress today, one he hadn’t seen before. But he liked it, very much. Especially on her. It buttoned up the front, and the lacey curve of the bodice revealed her neckline. The dress wasn’t at all improper, but the thoughts he was having about her right now bordered on being just that. She blinked. “Y-yes?” He smiled and ran a finger over her mouth, and put more distance between them. “You need to open your gift.” She gave him an intimate look. “I thought I already had.” Oh this woman . . . It was a good thing they were in church. She opened the box in her hand, and giggled. He didn’t mind in the least. He’d had about the same reaction when he’d first seen it. The woman in the store in Denver had called it a charm bracelet. But it was the tiny saddle hanging off it—among other miniature trinkets—that had gained his attention. She held up the bracelet and fingered each tiny charm. “I love it! Thank you, Wyatt.

I do hope I will see you at the dance,” she said quickly, “and I did mean it when I thanked you for thinking of me.” He paused at the doorway, and his nearness unnerved her. “Don’t mention it.” He donned his hat and pulled up his collar against the rain and wind. “By the way, who’s the lucky man?” “Cody,” she answered. “He—he asked me just this week.” What’s wrong with me? she thought, licking dry lips. But she knew it was his penetrating eyes that now held a softness she didn’t know he was capable of. “Then tell Cody that you’re saving a dance for me!” He turned and strode into the storm.

Donato, Donato,” Hannah calls, waving. He comes over to us, kisses his mother and her friend on their cheeks. They laugh and smile, slapping him playfully when he flatters them in Italian. I can tell Hannah is waiting for her turn. She blushes when he spins her. “Bellissima.” He whistles. When he looks at me it’s with the same calculated charm. Only he’s quick about it, he does not mention the silk crepe dress I’m wearing, the one from the shop on Via Condotti. He does offer me a cigarette. “Cilla doesn’t smoke,” Hannah reminds him. He smirks. “Ah, sì. I forget. Ready to go in?” He gives us wristbands that will get us free drinks, and then ushers us from the line, past the bouncers and into the club. It is an instant assault of grinding bodies, of a thick, not unpleasant heat. Flashing lights—blue, white, pink, purple. I can’t make anything out. And then Hannah and her girlfriends are gone. Donato too. I look around, but I’ve been left with Marie and her friend. “Donato reserved us a booth,” Marie shouts to me, and signals that I should follow her. I push my way through the crowd. Everywhere are women, most not older than thirty, all of them red-lipped and kohl-eyed, with delicate sloping noses, bare shoulders and legs. They are dancing almost on top of one another, their teeth bright white and perfect. A bartender comes by with shots for anyone who will kiss him. Marie’s friend leaves a fat lip print on either cheek. Bacio, bacio, she mouths to me. I shake my head. No, thank you. A waitress takes us past a velvet rope, to a big round booth where a bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of ice. Marie and her friend are beaming. Marie leans over to me. “Is this like Los Angeles clubs?

packed in steamer trunks.” “Good. How many trunks?” She glanced at the nearby tables, which were empty. “A typical steamer trunk filled with hundred-dollar bills will hold about fifteen million dollars, and weigh about four hundred pounds.” “Okay . . . one in each hand, two people, that’s sixty million.” She ignored my math and said, “But there are also fifty-dollar bills, and twenties, so there are more than four trunks.” “How many?” “My grandfather said ten.” “Each weighing four hundred pounds?” “Yes. A twenty-dollar bill weighs the same as a hundred-dollar bill.” “Right. That’s four thousand pounds of steamer trunks.” “Give or take.” If I’d known this in Key West I would have gone to the gym. “How about the gold and jewels?” “The gold may be too heavy to take. But there are four valises of jewelry which we’ll take.” “Always room for jewelry. And how about the property deeds that you mentioned?” “That’s another steamer trunk.” I pointed out, “This could be a bit of a logistical problem. You know, getting the trunks out of the cave, onto a truck, then to the boat.” “Carlos has a plan.” “Well, thank God. Would you like another cup of coffee?” She stared at me. “We wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t think we could do it.” “Right.” A pretty waitress cleared our plates and smiled at me. It was almost 8 A.M. and people from various tour groups were making their way toward the lobby. We stood and I left two CUCs on the table, and Sara said, “That’s three days’ pay.” “She worked hard.” “And she had a nice butt.” “Really?” The Yale group was already boarding and Sara and I got on the bus together, said good morning to José, Tad, Alison, Professor Nalebuff, and our travel mates as we made our way toward the rear and found a seat together. The efficient Tad did a head count and announced, “We’re all here.” Antonio hopped aboard and called out, “Buenos días!” Everyone returned the greeting so we could get moving. “We will have a beautiful day!” said Antonio. Sí, camarada. CHAPTER 20 The bus wound its way out of Havana and again I had the impression of a once vibrant city that was suffocating under the weight of a rotting corpse. Hemingway’s house, Finca Vigía, was a handsome Spanish Colonial located about fifteen kilometers from Havana,

It was... amazing,” whispered Zak, seeking Stitch’s fingers with his hand. “Never done this bare before, and you... agreeing to this, letting me come inside you. I just... don’t know what to say without making it seem cheaper than it was, you know.” Stitch squeezed Zak’s hand and delighted in a slow kiss. “My inhibitions were bullshit. Now I know. I had the shittiest day and you made it better. Thank you.” Zak pushed his fingers into Stitch’s hair and looked into his eyes. His were this beautiful, deep blue that Stitch could look into all the time. It was different to lie in Zak’s arms for a change, him being a bit sore in a way that Zak sometimes mentioned but Stitch could never understand. It really was pleasant, hot, tender. A remainder of being so close with another man, closer than he ever imagined. “I’m here to serve,” chuckled Zak, but his face became more serious when he leaned in for another kiss. “You are an amazing man. Nobody’s anything like you.” “I love you,” Stitch whispered and kissed Zak’s lip piercing. Everything about his man was perfect

He spoke through an interpreter, but the discussion flowed easily. He acknowledged concerns I raised about the situation in Tripoli. He smiled but offered no assurances when I said I hoped he would make the transition from rebel commander to politician. Libya would need more talented politicians than soldiers, I argued, in what would surely be a difficult transition from a family-run kleptocracy to a nascent democracy. His commitment and the commitment of other devout Muslims to peaceful political change would be essential to building a functioning and lasting democratic polity. “We might have disagreements between us,” I acknowledged, “about political issues and the future of the region. But as long as you’re committed to the democratic process, we can have a good relationship.” At the end of the meeting, in a quieter voice, I mentioned I had recently learned that Americans had detained and interrogated him using tactics that should not have been allowed and were not allowed any longer. I knew about his rendition to Libya, and the years of torture he had suffered in prison. I assumed someone had briefed him on my military background and service in Vietnam, and I tried to relate to him as a former military officer who had entered politics and as one torture victim to another. I told him it had always been important to me that my country act honorably in war and peace, even when our enemies did not. “Some of us in the delegation have worked to outlaw mistreatment of our prisoners because it doesn’t befit a great nation.” He looked me in the eyes the entire time I was speaking, but I don’t remember him nodding his head or in any other way acknowledging my words. But when I added that I knew his wife had been mistreated, his eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry,” I told him, “and as an elected representative of my country, I apologize for what happened, for the way you and especially your wife were treated, and for all you suffered because of it.” He leaned toward me and expressed through the interpreter his appreciation for the apology. “We regret all that happened,” he said, “but we don’t think of revenge. We will behave responsibly in Libya. Our actions will be governed by law and we will live up to universal standards.” I thanked him for that assurance, and the meeting ended. I never saw him again after our meeting. He did, in fact, become a leading Islamist politician in Libya, and, I’ve heard, quite a wealthy man. I don’t for a moment assume his views and career decisions were influenced by my brief conversation with him. He’ll have had his own reasons, political, religious, and personal, for the course he has chosen to follow. I do believe, though, that he genuinely appreciated the apology I offered him.

The neurological disorder of oversensitivity to touch, which Nietzsche posited to account for Jesus' hate of reality, seems far-fetched. As a diagnosis of Jesus, these quotes are not very convincing; yet as an admission of Nietzsche's problems in intimacy, these words are suggestive. In fact, Nietzsche describes himself almost in the same way. The themes of depersonalization and derealization appear in other places too. Zarathustra said, 'To men, I am still the mean between a fool and a corpse' and as was mentioned before 'as my own father I am already dead'. Nietzsche wrote in similar terms about Jesus himself as living outside of reality, which brings up back to the dissociative phenomena in PTSD. Dissociation is the most direct defense against overwhelming traumatic experiences, consisting in symptoms of derealization (feeling as if the world is not real), and depersonalization (feeling as if one self is not real). Experiencing the world and the self from afar, enables victims of abuse, torture, and war, to escape from an unbearable and unavoidable external reality, on the one hand; and the internal distress and arousal, on the other hand. It somehow allows them to continue to live and function. In the follow comment, Nietzsche connected his disassociation, his being 'beyond life', with cryptic reference to his father: 'I regard it as a great privilege to have had such a father: it even seems to me that this exhausts all that I can claim in the matter of privileges-life, the great yea to life, excepted. What I owe to him above all is this, that I do not need any special intention, but merely patience, in order to enter involuntarily into a world of higher and finer things. There I am at home, there alone does my profoundest passion have free play. The fact that I almost paid for this privilege with my life, certainly does not make it a bad bargain. In order to understand even a little of my Zarathustra, perhaps a man must be situated much as I am myself with one foot beyond life.' Mind you, in fact, thanking his father for almost losing or ruining his life! We arrived at a secret again and have only hints that Nietzsche dropped such as 'What was silent in the father speaks in the son, and often I found in the son the unveiled secret of the father'.

My clothes aren’t going to get dried until you wash them. Which involves putting them in the washer, and that involves picking them off the floor.” Marshell wiggled his eyebrows at me, then turned and stepped into the shower. I did drool when I got a look at his ass. “Oh my….” Did I mention I was an ass man? “Remi?” “Uh-huh?” My vocabulary had taken a hike, it appeared. “I can smell your desire. If you’re still here by the count of five, I’m getting out and coming after you. One of us is going to get fucked in this awesome shower of yours, so….” Marshell said from the shower. “One.” The sound I made was a cross between a squeak and a growl, thanks to acres and acres of wet, glistening skin. I wanted to run my tongue over every square— “Two…. “Three….” I grabbed his jeans and ran. The softly whispered word “chicken” followed me out of there. I was halfway to the laundry room before I could take a deep breath. Then it hit me what I’d done. I ran out on him. Honestly calling me a chicken was too kind. I was a coward. The only reason I ran was because I was afraid to bottom. I was a top. I always topped. I threw his clothes in the washer, tossed in one of those little pods, and turned it on. Then banged my head against it. What was I doing? Why was I standing here and not in the shower with him? Yes, I topped because I was afraid to do anything else. My one and only experience with bottoming was an unmitigated disaster. A painful, excruciating, unbearable disaster, and I hadn’t repeated the experience since. “I’m an idiot.” What happened was a long time ago. A really, really long time ago, and I let it shape me. Not only shape me, but run my life. I knew that, but it didn’t really seem to matter. The males I hooked up with were bottoms. They wanted me to top, so it was never an issue. Now things had changed. Marshell was my mate. I knew perfectly well he’d take care not to hurt me. How did I know? Because when I got a chance at that ass of his—and I certainly planned to—I’d take care not to hurt him either. All I had to do was… trust him. Trust him. But I really didn’t know him. Then again, I nearly lost him too. My goddess wouldn’t match me with someone I couldn’t love. Maybe I needed to trust her. Maybe… maybe I needed to trust myself. Something deep inside me said Marshell was a good man. I hurried out of the laundry and back to the bathroom.

We’re getting to the end here, but not before mentioning the students at High Point University and Middlebury College, who over the years have shared all their great ideas for new ventures with me—and helped me realize that the lessons I learned as an entrepreneur can be used by anyone with a dream they want to make real. Thanks, in particular, to Jessica Holmes, past director of the Middlebury College MiddCORE program.

Hey Menace, what do I owe this call? Speaker… why?” Zoya rolled her eyes and put her phone on speaker. “What up, King?” “What’s good, Menace… appreciate the gift.” He chuckled. “Don’t even mention the shit.” “Thank you, Menace. We really appreciate it.” The line grew quiet. “How you doing, Bronx? Congratulations on the baby… I had the truck dropped off there because I heard ya’ll homeless.” I dropped my head and held my laugh because it wouldn’t be Menace if he didn’t say some wild shit. “I’m not fucking homeless and my name ain’t Bronx, Marvin.” Zoya took the call off speaker and rushed her brother off the call. “Why does he keep calling me every name but Blair?” “Same reason you called…” Capri allowed her voice to trail off, and she looked down at her feet. “Sorry.