Wilmington Quotes

Liam cleared his throat again and turned to fully face me. “So, it’s the summer and you’re in Salem, suffering through another boring, hot July, and working part-time at an ice cream parlor. Naturally, you’re completely oblivious to the fact that all of the boys from your high school who visit daily are more interested in you than the thirty-one flavors. You’re focused on school and all your dozens of clubs, because you want to go to a good college and save the world. And just when you think you’re going to die if you have to take another practice SAT, your dad asks if you want to go visit your grandmother in Virginia Beach.” “Yeah?” I leaned my forehead against his chest. “What about you?” “Me?” Liam said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m in Wilmington, suffering through another boring, hot summer, working one last time in Harry’s repair shop before going off to some fancy university—where, I might add, my roommate will be a stuck-up-know-it-all-with-a-heart-of-gold named Charles Carrington Meriwether IV—but he’s not part of this story, not yet.” His fingers curled around my hip, and I could feel him trembling, even as his voice was steady. “To celebrate, Mom decides to take us up to Virginia Beach for a week. We’re only there for a day when I start catching glimpses of this girl with dark hair walking around town, her nose stuck in a book, earbuds in and blasting music. But no matter how hard I try, I never get to talk to her. “Then, as our friend Fate would have it, on our very last day at the beach I spot her. You. I’m in the middle of playing a volleyball game with Harry, but it feels like everyone else disappears. You’re walking toward me, big sunglasses on, wearing this light green dress, and I somehow know that it matches your eyes. And then, because, let’s face it, I’m basically an Olympic god when it comes to sports, I manage to volley the ball right into your face.” “Ouch,” I said with a light laugh. “Sounds painful.” “Well, you can probably guess how I’d react to that situation. I offer to carry you to the lifeguard station, but you look like you want to murder me at just the suggestion. Eventually, thanks to my sparkling charm and wit—and because I’m so pathetic you take pity on me—you let me buy you ice cream. And then you start telling me how you work in an ice cream shop in Salem, and how frustrated you feel that you still have two years before college. And somehow, somehow, I get your e-mail or screen name or maybe, if I’m really lucky, your phone number. Then we talk. I go to college and you go back to Salem, but we talk all the time, about everything, and sometimes we do that stupid thing where we run out of things to say and just stop talking and listen to one another breathing until one of us falls asleep—” “—and Chubs makes fun of you for it,” I added. “Oh, ruthlessly,” he agreed. “And your dad hates me because he thinks I’m corrupting his beautiful, sweet daughter, but still lets me visit from time to time. That’s when you tell me about tutoring a girl named Suzume, who lives a few cities away—” “—but who’s the coolest little girl on the planet,” I manage to squeeze out.

This guy had balls. Well, I mean, obviously he had balls. I hope he had balls. Bailey, stop thinking about his balls.

I love you,” he said. “This couldn’t be a dumber place and time to tell you, I know. But, God, Bailey. I love you.” He paused. “I love you.

Did you blow up a kraken?" "Maybe." He laughed into the phone.

Red Horn kills people,” Thomas said behind my back. “Your wife…” “Will enjoy the exercise,” my husband said. “You know what they say. Happy wife, happy life.

If the Palace doesn’t like my art, then I lose my work visa, and believe me, I do not want to go back to doing teen soaps in Wilmington.

The Consort is merciful and kind to a fault,” Keelan said. The two of them stared at each other for half a second. “I’m sure he is,” Jushur said.

I just wanna belong, Bailey,” he said softly. “I wanna belong in your world with your friends and your hobbies and your gardens. That’s all. I wanna know everything about you, even if I have to bully it out of you. Put you on the spot. Make you uncomfortable. ‘Cause I can’t get enough of you.

Cuddles gave him her “kicking” eye. If she wasn’t tied at the nose of the boat, she would’ve wandered over toward the cabin and stomped on his injured foot a few times for funsies.

It’s important to him that his resorting to violence is viewed as a deliberate choice rather than a loss of control on his part.

I'd won our school science fair in the fourth grade, my "Phases of an Egg" presentation eclipsing the dozen or so baking-soda-and-vinegar volcanoes presented by the rest of our class. I'd taken gold in our town's Junior Olympics when I was ten, and got to stand up on the top of a three-tiered pedestal after placing first in the Fifty Yard Dash. One time when I was fourteen, I'd received a Presidential Physical Fitness certificate from Ronald Reagan, when I logged a record-breaking eighty-two situps in the span of a minute. But nothing compared to the sense of accomplishment I felt - no award, no ribbon, no trophy - no achievement lived up to the unfathomable triumph of having won the heart of Terrence C. Wilmington III.

She will find the hornet’s nest and set it on fire. When the angry hornets fly out, she’ll poke them with her sword.

Just a few days before the attack on Burke, Parenting magazine named Wilmington the most “dangerous city in America.

I knew life moments happened that way. They made no sense, and I didn’t think we were supposed to make them. I think we were just supposed to experience them, grow from them, and hopefully come out the other side as better people. Life is nothing but juxtaposing the good with the bad. We have to learn how to handle both—how to cope with the frightening events and embrace the joyous ones.

Wilmington, Del. (AP) June 14, 1966—A fire that destroyed the city’s oldest Negro church has led to the discovery of a wild slave narrative that highlights a little-known era of American history. The First United

You didn't tell me you were the Consort," I growled. "I haven't been the Consort for 9 years." "I didn't think you were a shapeshifter, but now I see it, " Thomas said. "You sound like one." Behind me Andre made a strangled noise that sounded a lot like an aborted snicker.

Curran grinned at me, his gray eyes happy. “Hey, baby. You come here often?” I laughed. “Your hand looks heavy. Let me hold it for you.” He squeezed my hand with his warm fingers. “Smooth,” Jynx murmured. Andre winked at her. “Hey, Jynx, your hand—” “Touch me and I’ll break you,” she told him. “Aww.

The Consort is merciful and kind to a fault,” Keelan said. The two of them stared at each other for half a second. “I’m sure he is,” Jushur said. Ha!

I’ll stand next to you and look menacing.” “No need to stand. You can sit and look menacing.” “Thank you, my queen.

In this life each of us must decide three things for ourselves: who to worship, who to marry, and who to serve.

My wife needs a medmage,” Curran said. “She will tell you that she is fine, and she doesn’t need help. She isn’t and she does.” “You made your point,” I told him. His eyes flashed gold. “I did. And I’m going to stand over you and watch you get treatment.” As a married woman, I had learned that some fights weren’t worth fighting. “Your lack of trust is very disappointing.” “I trust you with my life, not with yours,” my husband said.

People are ruled by their emotions, Conlan, and anger is one of the most powerful emotions we can experience. It can fester if you don’t vent it. Always take that into account.

I trust you with my life, not with yours,” my husband said.

We smiled at each other. Ms. Vigue was doing her best to appear approachable, while I did my best to appear harmless. We were both lying as hard as we could.

I smiled. Curran and I had agreed to maintain a low profile after moving. Think normal suburban thoughts. How hard could this be, right?

Everyone’s pain is different,” Reece went on. “I don’t like when people compare. I don’t like when people marginalize their feelings because they think they’re not allowed to have them. Someone will always have a tougher go than you. Does that mean you’re not allowed to feel hurt? To be sad?

Of all the human filth, I hate human traffickers the most. Wilmington is too small for both of us. It’s either Red Horn or me, and I just finished painting my second living room. I’m not leaving.

When we arrived in Wilmington, looking forward to a steak with all the trimmings, one snooty puffball says to us, "We don't accept women in trousers," to which Willy says, "Would you accept a boot in your behind?

I enjoyed it.” And there it was. I said it and waited. “I know,” he said. “After you killed the skull mage, you turned to me and you were smiling. A big, bright smile. Old Kate smile.” “Old Kate?” “Dangerous Kate. Stabby Kate. My Kate.” I raised my head and leaned it on my bent elbow. “Stabby?” “Yes. Exciting.” He grinned.

We did visit, eight months ago. Which was why Paul had had to work extra hard to convince Curran that there was absolutely no way to put a moat around our new residence. He still wanted it and swore he’d find a way somehow.

In 1896, in Plessy v. Ferguson, the United States Supreme Court declared de jure (by law) racial segregation legal, which caused it to spread in at least twelve northern states. In 1898, Democrats rioted in Wilmington, North Carolina, driving out the mayor and all the other Republican officeholders and killing at least twelve African Americans. The McKinley administration did nothing, allowing this coup d'etat to stand. Congress became desegregated in 1901 when Congressman George H. White of North Carolina failed to win reelection owing to the disfranchisement of black voters in his state. No African American served in Congress again until 1929, and none from the South until 1973.

Oh my God, he thought suddenly. I’ve got a hard-on. “You want some or what?” Bailey asked softly. Reece took the water and drank down a sizeable amount. He grew paranoid that she could see his hard-on, but that would be impossible. The lights were dim. There was an armrest between them. Relax, bro. You’re cool. She can’t see your . . . oh, wait a minute. There it goes. It’s going down. Phew! Thank God. How embarrassing would that have been, right? For her to see how much she turns me on? How much I can’t stop thinking about the kind of panties she wears under those cigarette pants. The way her tits look in her button-up tops. Man, I love how she buttons them all the way up . . . wait a minute. Hold up. I mean down! Go down! Stupid dick!

In one such church in Wilmington, Delaware, the police broke up the meeting by throwing tear-gas bombs through the windows and when the marchers broke out from the church in disorderly fashion, clubbed and arrested those whom they suspected of being the leaders.

Were you going to poke them with a stick?” Keelan growled. Hakeem looked uncertain. “Yes?” “When you find freaky shit in the scary woods, you don’t poke it with a stick. It can explode in your face. What do you do instead?” Hakeem clearly didn’t know the answer to that question. I almost felt sorry for him. He had just turned eighteen this year, and this was likely his first real outing. “You ask the Consort. The Consort knows everything.” “Oh,” Hakeem said. Keelan pivoted to me. “Consort, please tell us what this is.” “I have no idea.” Keelan blinked, his teaching moment temporarily derailed. He took a second to recover. “How do we proceed?” I held my hand out, and Hakeem surrendered his branch. “I’m going to poke it with a stick.

Curran stood up. He raised the heart up, showing it to everyone, walked over to me, and dropped it at my feet. Umm. What was I supposed to do with it? His eyes were pure gold, still mad with bloodlust. I stabbed the heart with Sarrat. It seemed like the thing to do. Curran turned away from me and roared.

It is near time to speak of Peter – not the saint, but the Bishop of Lewes.  Gethsemane was significant to Peter. He made it significant to others.  There is a house in the South Downs of England, between Berwick and Wilmington, a bishop’s house – a former bishop – where the Garden of Gethsemane was made manifest.

It early became manifest that great reliance must be placed on the introduction of articles of prime necessity through the blockaded ports. A vessel, capable of stowing six hundred and fifty bales of cotton, was purchased by the agent in England, and kept running between Bermuda and Wilmington. Some fifteen to eighteen successive trips were made before she was captured. Another was added, which was equally successful. These vessels were long, low, rather narrow, and built for speed. They were mostly of pale sky-color, and, with their lights out and with fuel that made little smoke, they ran to and from Wilmington with considerable regularity.

I have a condition!” I blurted. Silence. “Like an STD?” he asked. “God no! No! Oh my God.” I blushed profusely and turned my face, burying it in my pillow. “Okay. So, no STD,” Reece said. “By the way, it would have been okay if you had. We’d figure out how to work with it.” “Oh. My. God. Stop talking about STDs,” I demanded. “You got it.

I like everybody,” I told her. I thought I’d get her to laugh, but she just looked at me.

We’ll have to force a confrontation. How terrible.” She rolled her eyes.

He went to the lake again. He found some sort of magic freshwater clams in it. He’s very excited about it.” Conlan shrugged.

that’s why we don’t poke random shit we find in the woods with a stick,

There was no better leash than saving the life of someone you loved. It made people do terrible things.

I sprinted, the spears hammering at my shield. Erra would’ve loved this so much. I could almost hear her in my head. You run like a toddler. Slow and clumsy.

Every time I believed Rya owned all of me, she would teach me differently. She would find a part of me I didn’t know I had, and own that, too.

Are you playing a tiny violin?” he asked. “Yep. The name of the song is ‘My Heart Bleeds for You.’” He grimaced. “You’re an annoying little fly, aren’t you?

I want Little Noah looking like a beat-up mess by the time he's eighteen." "Why?" "Cause no woman wants a delicate man. He needs to be sporting at least five scars.

Life is nothing but juxtaposing the good with the bad. We have to learn how to handle both—how to cope with the frightening events and embrace the joyous ones.

Mostly, this was the fault of white, Rust Belt, out-of-work Democrats. They had voted twice for Barack Obama, but now they were being told that they were racists or white supremacists for voting for Trump and giving him an Electoral College edge. The contrarian liberal genius Michael Moore had been a lonely prophet who had seen it coming, but the Clinton team had ignored him, just as they had ignored their own patriarch, Bill Clinton, who sounded the same warning. In a live performance, Moore had teased voters in Wilmington, Ohio, months before the election, telling them that he knew what they were planning to do. And they laughed with him, like guilty children caught in the act by a bemused cousin. He knew they were going to vote for Trump. He didn’t like it, but at least he was one person who could not be fooled. People who had been overlooked, despised, stomped on, used, taken for granted. This was their moment to speak. They had been shamed into telling the pollsters what they wanted to hear, but in the privacy of their polling booths, they had struck a blow. This

He never stopped being the Beast Lord. He was the man who could dominate thousands of shapeshifters with a single look, and he was also the man who stayed up all night with a child who’d eaten some poisonous herbs in the forest and spent twenty-four hours throwing them up. One couldn’t be separated from another. They were all aspects of Curran, and I loved all of him.

It was majestic and beautiful, as if the forest had sent a herald to greet us. “An Irish elk,” Keelan whispered. More like the stag-moose, Cervalces scotti, which was native to North America according to Conlan’s book, but I didn’t want to ruin Keelan’s moment. “Damn, that’s a lot of meat,” Jynx breathed behind us. And the bouda had done it for me. Keelan glared at her. “Shut it.

Hey,” I told him. “What’s going on?” “Paul’s nephew has been kidnapped by a local gang. About 50 people. I’m going to get him back.” Curran grinned at me. “Will you be home in time for dinner?

Keelan blinked, his teaching moment temporarily derailed. He took a second to recover. “How do we proceed?” I held my hand out, and Hakeem surrendered his branch. “I’m going to poke it with a stick.

I never got my Pompeii,” I said, low and even. “And you know I deserved every bit of it. But I’m not going to erupt all over you like I’m owed. Because I’ve already won. She’s not fucking you tonight.

Look at that evil lair, Cuddles. No ziggurats, no ritualistic poles with skulls on them, no giant faces carved anywhere or big metal fire braziers. These modern evil god followers just don’t care to put in the work.

You probably think I'm a floosy,” she went on. “A floosy?” he whispered back, and chuckled. “First off, I love that you said ‘floosy.’ Second, you’re crazy. I hope you kiss me like that again.” He leaned in close. “And again and again.

An interesting captain on there, McNamara. Th e United States Lines had three captains. Every company had their captains that were notorious, and U.S. Lines had McNamara. Later on, McNamara, he dies, and the Wilmington Union Hall for Masters, Mates and Pilots—cuz he was captain, he would come out of that hall—they had a party when he died. Baked a cake. It wasn’t every day you got to lose one like him. Some people took this more seriously than others is the only way I can phrase this.

It didn’t look like any architectural style I knew. I had never seen anything like it. Curran closed his mouth with a click. “Where did they get the granite? The nearest quarry is hundreds of miles inland.” “I don’t care. I want it,” Curran growled.

Can you guarantee that your child will not snap and attack his classmates?” “Absolutely. He is very much like his father. It’s important to him that his resorting to violence is viewed as a deliberate choice rather than a loss of control on his part.

She was a hunchback with a sweet smile. She smiled sweetly at anything; she couldn't help it; the trees, me, the grass, anything. The basket pulled her down, dragging her toward the ground. She was such a tiny woman, with a hurt face, as if slapped forever. She wore a funny old hat, an absurd hat, a maddening hat, a hat to make me cry, a hat with faded red berries on the brim. And there she was, smiling at everything, struggling across the carpet with a heavy basket containing Lord knew what, wearing a plumed hat with red berries. I got up. It was so mysterious. There I was, like magic, standing up, my two feet on the ground, my eyes drenched. I said, "Let me help." She smiled again and gave me the basket. We began to walk. She led the way. Beyond the trees it was stifling. And she smiled. It was so sweet it nearly tore my head off. She talked, she told me things I never remembered. It didn't matter. In a« dream she held me, in a dream I followed under the blinding sun. For blocks we went forward. I hoped it would never end. Always she talked in a low voice made of human music. What words! What she said! I remembered nothing. I was only happy. But in my heart I was dying. It should have been so. We stepped from so many curbs, I wondered why she did not sit upon one and hold my head while I drifted away. It was the chance that never came again. That old woman with the bent back! Old woman, I feel so joyfully your pain. Ask me a favor, you old woman you! Anything. To die is easy. Make it that. To cry is easy, lift your skirt and let me cry and let my tears wash your feet to let you know I know what life has been for you, because my back is bent too, but my heart is whole, my tears are delicious, my love is yours, to give you joy where God has failed. To die is so easy and you may have my life if you wish it, you old woman, you hurt me so, you did, I will do anything for you, to die for you, the blood of my eighteen years flowing in the gutters of Wilmington and down to the sea for you, for you that you might find such joy as is now mine and stand erect without the horror of that twist. I left the old woman at her door. The trees shimmered. The clouds laughed. The blue sky took me up. Where am I? Is this Wilmington, California? Haven't I been here before? A melody moved my feet. The air soared with Arturo in it, puffing him in and out and making him something and nothing. My heart laughed and laughed. Goodbye to Nietzsche and Schopenhauer and all of you, you fools, I am much greater than all of you! Through my veins ran music of blood. Would it last? It could not last. I must hurry. But where? And I ran toward home. Now I am home. I left the book in the park. To hell with it. No more books for me. I kissed my mother. I clung to her passionately. On my knees I fell at her feet to kiss her feet and cling to her ankles until it must have hurt her and amazed her that it was I.

… How can we say that we deeply revere the principles of our Declaration and our Constitution and yet refuse to recognize those principles when they are to be applied to the American Negro in a down-to-earth fashion? During election campaigns and in Fourth of July speeches, many speakers emphasize that these great principles apply to all Americans. But when you ask many of these same speakers to act or vote so that those great principles apply in fact to Negro-Americans, you may be accused of being unfair, idealistic or even pro-Communist. … A person has real moral courage when, being in a position to make decisions or determine policies, he decides that the qualified Negro will be admitted to a school of nursing [as had recently been done at St. Francis Hospital in Wilmington]; that the Negro, like the white, will receive a fair trial no matter what the public feeling may be; that every Catholic school, church and institution shall be open to all Catholics—not at some distant future time when public opinion happens to coincide with Catholic moral teaching—but now. Are these requests of our business, governmental and religious leaders too much to ask? I think not.

Things just didn’t go your way today,” Owen rumbled from his blanket, his eyes still closed. “First, you got your arm broken. Then the Consort had to bring you food. Now you are getting a lecture. It’s hard to be Troy today.” “Don’t make me come over there,” Troy growled. Owen opened his eyes. “And do what?

The idealized image of American citizenship pleased people like Roosevelt, but there was a negative side to the image of a pure American government of individualistic citizens. Those who seemed to support special interests were often purged from government, even if they had won elections fair and square. Their success in winning office simply proved to mainstream Americans that they were corrupting society and strengthened the resolve to get rid of them. In November 1898, for example, the “best citizens” of Wilmington, North Carolina, launched a race riot to purify the city government of the Populist/African American coalition that had won election in 1896.

At some point in our lives together, keeping her lovely family from trying to murder her became a full-time job for me. They were powerful, homicidal psychopaths, and they didn’t half-ass it. When they came to kill her, they gave it their all. Her eyes sparked. “You wanted to kill me at some point.” “No. The most I promised to do was to throw you out of a window.

I’ve dedicated many years to the survival of your family. There are others like me, brought here by your father, adrift and alone, strangers in an alien land. Your people are crying out in the wilderness, for they need a home. Will you turn a deaf ear to our desperate pleas? Will you reject us? Will you cast us out after all those generations of service?” “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Keelan muttered.

Yes, these are the thoughts that occupy my brain on a daily basis: How many steps to take. How many hairbrush strokes. Making sure I line up my proofreading pens just so. Making sure my make-up is just so. Sitting in my fucking desk chair just so. It’s exhausting living a “just so” life. And I don’t want to do it, but the idea of not counting, not arranging, not tic-ing sends my heart reeling with anxiety.

After Wilmington, the daily drinking stopped. He’d go a week, sometimes two, without anything stronger than diet soda. He’d wake up without a hangover, which was good. He’d wake up thirsty and miserable—wanting—which wasn’t. Then there would come a night. Or a weekend. Sometimes it was a Budweiser ad on TV that set him off—fresh-faced young people with nary a beergut among them, having cold ones after a vigorous volleyball game. Sometimes it was seeing a couple of nice-looking women having after-work drinks outside some pleasant little café, the kind of place with a French name and lots of hanging plants. The drinks were almost always the kind that came with little umbrellas. Sometimes it was a song on the radio. Once it was Styx, singing “Mr. Roboto.” When he was dry, he was completely dry. When he drank, he got drunk. If he

One time Desandra lost her patience and straight out asked him if he would ever make a bid for her spot, and he told her that only an idiot would want that job, because life was far too short for that kind of bullshit. Both Jim and Desandra tried to pull him to their respective sides, but Keelan proceeded to half-ass every task they had given him and was insufferably apathetic about werewolfing in general and following their orders in particular.

You’ve dated a shoplifter. A drug addict. A girl who claimed that her roommate kept her locked in a dumpster. She was admitted to Mulberry not too long ago, if I recall, right? They diagnosed her with schizophrenia.” Reece nodded reluctantly. “For the record, I only dated her for two months. And also for the record, she’s doing a lot better.” “Hmm,” Camden replied. “There’s the one who put salt on all her food then complained incessantly of bloating problems. Oh yeah! And the one who wanted you to tie her up and beat the shit out of her every night.” “All right already!” Reece snapped. “I get it. I haven’t had the best of luck with normal women.

the Wilmington coup of 1898 was even mentioned— If the Wilmington massacre of 1898 was even mentioned— (how would the massacred name it?) If the Campaign for White Supremacy leading up to the 1898 elections was even mentioned in the junior-year class on the history of North Carolina, the events were described as another eruption of Negro dissatisfaction which, once expressed, quieted. But in the story of the campaign (for white supremacy), the Negro had become unruly, needed instead to be ruled once more out, “Negro rule” ousted into the swampy fantastic as fear, as specter, as a promise. The phantasm of Negro rule was what the high school textbook never acknowledged had rallied the Wilmington race (war) of 1898, the riot planned and instigated, orderly disorder, the wrong the Redeemers sought to riot up, right justifying anything, even murder, the declaration to “choke the Cape Fear River with the carcasses” of whatever the Negro populating their fantasies was—threatening and promising domination, threatening revenge, promising a North Carolina governed by the many not the few. A thousand Black rapists (each vote a thousand more) haunted the campaign the Redeemers rallied to wage. They claimed the fight to protect their honor. For, if this time they didn’t prevail, who could imagine what they would be subject to?

Tell me what happened.” “He was here,” I said, hoarse. “He lit the can on fire and took the extinguisher nearby. I ran to the back to get the other and he pushed one of the shelves over on me.” The muscles in Holt’s jaw clenched and flexed beneath the stubble that lined his face. “Do you ever shave?” I wondered out loud. He smiled and rubbed at the gruffness. “I just trim it.” I nodded. “Do you like it?” he asked. Once again, I touched him, brazenly running my hand along his jaw. It was soft and rough at the same time—the perfect balance. “Yeah, I do.” “Good to know,” he said, taking my hand, linking our fingers together, and then his face grew serious again. “Obviously, I avoided the shelf.” “Did you get a look at his face?” I cringed at the hopefulness in his voice. “No,” I admitted. “I tried, but he kicked me.” His eyes went murderous. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. “He. Kicked. You,” he ground out, making each word into a pointed sentence. This time I kept my mouth shut. “Where?” he demanded. I wasn’t going to reply, but his eyes narrowed and I knew he would eventually make me tell him. I was going to have to tell the cops anyway. Weariness floated over me at the thought of enduring yet another one of their hours-long interrogations. I lifted my wrist, the bandage just dangling from the area now, not covering or protecting a thing. The waves of hatred that rolled off him made me sincerely glad that all that emotion wasn’t directed at me. He stared at my delicately injured skin (some of it had gotten torn in the struggle and was slick with some sort of puss… Eww, gross), and I kind of thought the top of his head might explode. I was going to reassure him that I was okay, but the police rushed inside, followed closely behind by a medic with a first aid kit. “She needs medical attention,” Holt barked, authority ringing through his tone. The medic hurried to comply, slamming down his kit and springing it open. Holt dropped his hand onto the man’s shoulder and squeezed. “Bryant, I don’t even want to see a flick of pain cross her face when you touch her.” Bryant looked at me and swallowed thickly. “Yes, Chief.” “Chief?” I said, looking up at Holt. “I’ll be right back,” he said to me in a much gentler tone and then moved away. Bryant was fumbling with his supplies, Holt’s words clearly making him nervous. “Relax.” I tried to soothe him. “He’s just on edge about what happened. I’m fine. I promise to smile the whole time you fix me up.” “But it’s going to hurt,” he blurted apologetically. “Yeah, I know. Just do it. I’ll be fine.” That seemed to calm him a little, and he got to work. It did hurt. Incredibly. I felt Holt’s stare and I glanced up, giving him a fake smile. He rolled his eyes and turned back to one of the officers. “Hey,” I said to the medic. “Why did you call him chief?” He gave me a quizzical look. “Arkain’s the Wilmington Fire Chief.” My eyes jerked back to Holt where he stood talking to the police force and the firefighters that responded to the call. His firefighters. “I didn’t realize,” I murmured. Bryant nodded. “I guess I can understand that. He’s a humble guy. Doesn’t like to throw his position around.” I made a sound of agreement as he applied something to my wrist that made my entire body jerk. I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out. “I’m sorry!” he said a little too loudly. Holt stiffened and he turned, looking at me over his shoulder. I blinked back the tears that flooded my eyes and waved at him with my free hand. He said a few more words to the men standing around him and then he left them, coming to stand over poor Bryant. I never realized how intimidating he was when he wanted to be.

I was referred to her by a guardian in northern Wilmington, a guy who handles people that are moving into nursing homes. They leave all their stuff there, and we have to empty the houses out. She provides a great service

I expect the world from you, as I should, because you’re amazing and talented and funny and sweet. You’re sexy as hell and clever and smart and capable of so many things. So yeah. I expect a hell of a lot from you. And I also expect that you can be successful in managing your OCD. I’m proud of you, Bailey.

Bailey. I’m gonna make you live a little.” “Hey! Now wait just a minute, buster! I do live. I recall being the surfer in this relationship. Not you.” “Oh my God ,” Reece replied, his face lighting up. “That’s perfect! Let’s fuck on your surfboard!” I stared at him. “Seriously. Let’s just—” He thrust his hips forward a few times. “— just fucking go at it on your surfboard.” “Oh my God,” I mumbled. “What? It’s totally hot.

This period saw the establishment of the first Swedish colony in America. On March 1, 1638, a large party of Swedes, who had crossed the ocean under the command of the celebrated Peter Minuit, took possession of land on the banks of the Delaware River. They called their settlement (on the site that later became Wilmington) Fort Christina, after their royal princess, and the colony which they were founding New Sweden. The first Lutheran congregation in America was established here by the Reverend Reorus Porkillus and five years later, the colonists from Delaware pushed into what is now Pennsylvania, where they founded the settlement of Upland, on the site where Chester now stands. Among the gifts these first Swedish colonists brought to America were the log cabin and the steam bath. The new colony, which never numbered more than 200 Swedes, did not long survive. In 1655, it was attacked and captured by the Dutch, who incorporated New Sweden into what was then New Netherland.

What if nobody comes?” Ashley wrung her hands. “They’ll show up,” Roo assured her. “If nobody shows up, it’ll be my absolute worst nightmare.” Blowing his nose into a tissue, Parker looked up with bleary eyes. “And if you don’t stop talking about it, it’ll be my absolute worst nightmare.” “Parker Wilmington, how can you say that? For the millionth time, this counts for half our grade. And we can’t very well have a Walk of the Spirits if there’s nobody to walk with.” Miranda opted for practicality. “Well, we know Miss Dupree and our class will be here. And I know my mom and Aunt Teeta are coming.” “My folks, too,” Gage added. “And some of the other kids at school--they said they were interested.” “Yeah. In laughing at us.” Flopping into a chair, Parker slid low on his spine. His voice was even hoarser than yesterday, and he winced each time he tried to talk. “Shit, I’ll be glad when this is over.” Etienne struggled to keep a straight face. “How come? You scared you might see a real ghost?

To her surprise, Ashley, Roo, and Parker dropped by together, bringing a perfectly arranged tray of gourmet hors d’oeuvres from Mrs. Wilmington’s favorite deli, a fresh pot of jambalaya from the girls’ mother--Miss Voncile--and a homemade pie from Roo. “We don’t know what kind of pie exactly,” Parker said his face perfectly composed. “But I’ve heard it’s the thought that counts.” A slight frown settled between Roo’s brows. She’d changed the streaks in her hair from dark purple to bright orange. “It’s something I haven’t tried before,” she said solemnly. “It’s made with cottage cheese.” Ashley instantly looked alarmed. “You didn’t use the cottage cheese in the fridge, did you?” “What other cottage cheese would I use?” “For God’s sake, Roo, that’s been in there for weeks. It’s nasty by now.” “Well, I’m sure the cooking part must have killed the bacteria, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Despite Parker’s vivid portrayal of death by poisoning, Miranda made a special point of exclaiming over the pie. Then she dumped it in the trash can as soon as they left.

Ah, yes,” Mrs. Wilmington said, apparently recognizing the picture. “All the roses. Aren’t they lovely?” With a gentle tug, Gage coaxed the paper from Miranda’s hand. She didn’t even realize she’d grabbed it away from him. “What about the roses?” gage’s tone was casual, but Miranda could hear an underlying hint of excitement. “There’s so many of them.” “And hundreds more you can’t even see here,” Parker’s mother informed him. “Red roses had a special significance at the opera house.” Miranda had begun to shiver. From some distant place, she was vaguely aware of Gage’s hand on her back. “And,” the woman added, “when red roses lined the driveway and spilled from every door and window of the opera house, it always meant that Mademoiselle DuVrey was performing that night.” “And why was that?” Roo stared pensively into Mrs. Wilmington’s enraptured face. “Did she have body odor or offensive personal habits?” Gage choked down a laugh. Ashley looked horrified. Etienne shifted from one foot to the other and mumbled under his breath. Mrs. Wilmington maintained her dignity.

It’s all my fault,” Ashley sobbed. “What if she’s dead?” The four of them were squeezed tightly into Etienne’s truck. With every shift of the clutch and each turn of the wheel, Etienne’s right arm jabbed sharply into Miranda’s side, and Ashley bounced back and forth between Miranda’s lap and Parker’s. The old Chevy truck, way past its prime, rattled and clanked and groaned at every pothole and puddle, but it hugged the roads like glue. “It’s not your fault,” Parker reassured Ashley for the dozenth time. “You didn’t know what she was planning to do. How could it be your fault?” “The water always gets so deep at the Falls. The bayou always floods. If she’s dead--” “She’s not dead.” He paused, then mumbled, “I couldn’t be that lucky.” “Parker Wilmington, I can’t even believe you said--” “I was kidding, Ash. Okay, sorry, bad timing, but I was kidding, okay? Roo’s fine. And none of this is your fault.” Gulping down a hiccup, Ashley glared at him. “You’re right. It’s your fault.” “My fault?” “You know she caught you drinking in the parking lot!” “Just a little! I swear, I only had one sip--” “You’re heartless and insensitive, and you hate my sister.” “Christ, Ashley, I don’t hate your sister--” “You told her I care more about you than I do about her, and that’s not true!” “I know it’s not--and Roo knows it’s not. It was a joke! I wasn’t serious!” “I’m always defending you, and Roo’s always been smarter than me. Roo would never get involved with somebody like you.” Parker shot Etienne another helpless glance. “Is that good or bad?” “I wouldn’t be doing any more talking right now, if I were you,” Etienne advised him. “Roo looks out for me. Roo has better sense than I do,” Ashley went on miserably. “It’s always been that way, ever since we were little. She’s always had the brains. And I’ve always had…not the brains.” Etienne’s eyes and Parker’s eyes met behind Ashley’s back. “Not going there,” Etienne mumbled.

It’s not your fault,” Parker reassured Ashley for the dozenth time. “You didn’t know what she was planning to do. How could it be your fault?” “The water always gets so deep at the Falls. The bayou always floods. If she’s dead--” “She’s not dead.” He paused, then mumbled, “I couldn’t be that lucky.” “Parker Wilmington, I can’t even believe you said--” “I was kidding, Ash. Okay, sorry, bad timing, but I was kidding, okay? Roo’s fine. And none of this is your fault.” Gulping down a hiccup, Ashley glared at him. “You’re right. It’s your fault.

I think…someone needs to go.” As the three of them stared at one another, Etienne pushed away from the wall. “No.” Parker grabbed Etienne’s arm. “I’ll go.” Surprise crept slowly over Etienne’s face. Instinctively, Miranda glanced at Ashley, who seemed oddly frozen. “Parker--” Ashley began, but Etienne interrupted. “I know the way better than you do,” he said firmly. “Like I haven’t been to your house a million times?” Grinning, Parker shrugged and jerked his chin in Gage’s direction. “You got one too sick to go, two too tired to go, and her”--he winked at Miranda--“too damn cute to go. And besides, who’s the athlete around here anyway?” “No, Parker. I--” “Look.” The grin faded from Parker’s lips. He moved closer to Etienne, putting his back to Roo and Ashley so they couldn’t hear. His voice was soft now, and serious. “You and Gage, you’re each other’s family. If something happened to you--” He broke off, glanced away, then pulled his eyes back to Etienne. “What would Gage do if something happened to you? Hell, what would any of us do if something happened to you?” Their gazes held steady. Parker swallowed…gave a slight nod. “Let me do this, Etienne. I want to.” Silence fell between them. A silence louder, wider, deeper than any storm. It was Ashley who broke it. “Parker, what’s happening?” Almost guiltily, Miranda jumped. She’d been so engrossed in the boys’ conversation, she hadn’t noticed Ashley approaching. At once Parker and Etienne turned toward Ashley, their expressions somber. “Parker?” Ashley asked again. But then, as she stared long and hard at the boys, a slow dawn of awareness crept over her. “No, Parker. Please don’t be stupid.” Miranda waited for Roo’s usual insults. Roo kept silent. “Hey, I’m up for this.” Grin firmly back in place, Parker struck a heroic pose. “Parker Wilmington--explorer, adventurer, and super-swimmer!

Parker?” Ashley asked again. But then, as she stared long and hard at the boys, a slow dawn of awareness crept over her. “No, Parker. Please don’t be stupid.” Miranda waited for Roo’s usual insults. Roo kept silent. “Hey, I’m up for this.” Grin firmly back in place, Parker struck a heroic pose. “Parker Wilmington--explorer, adventurer, and super-swimmer!” “Parker, you can’t go out there--” “Battling the elements! Wrestling man-eating alligators! Laughing in the face of danger!” “Parker, I’m serious!” Ashley was close to tears. “It’s too far to Etienne’s house!” “Hey, I need the exercise. And the fresh air. And the good news is: I won’t even have to worry about dehydration.” But the tears came now, rolling down Ashley’s cheeks, while Etienne tactfully moved away and Miranda joined him. “Please.” Slipping her arms around Parker’s waist, Ashley leaned into him, peered up at him. “It’s too horrible out there. I’m scared.” Parker raised his arms, flexed his muscles. “Fear? Fear is foreign to me!

Please.” Slipping her arms around Parker’s waist, Ashley leaned into him, peered up at him. “It’s too horrible out there. I’m scared.” Parker raised his arms, flexed his muscles. “Fear? Fear is foreign to me!” “Don’t joke about this! I’m really scared something bad will happen. I just feel it.” “Ash, nothing bad is going to happen. I’ll be careful, okay? I’ll be safe.” Miranda suddenly realized she’d been eavesdropping. She hadn’t meant to intrude on their private conversation, yet she’d been watching their faces and hearing every word. An eerie chill had settled at the base of her spine. She felt anxious and restless and afraid. She glanced at Roo. Roo hadn’t said anything in such a long time, just sitting there holding gage, her head bent over his face. Miranda’s heart reached out to Roo, but her own uneasiness persisted. Something dangerous, something tragic… Something familiar… Reluctantly she turned her attention to Ashley and Parker. Though Ashley’s features were pale and drawn, she seemed composed now, even quietly resigned. Parker was squeezing her in a tight hug. “You better hurry, Parker Wilmington.” Ashley’s voice was muffled against his chest. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.” Parker rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sure. I promise.” “Tonight.” “Tonight,” Parker echoed dutifully. “Cross your heart.” “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ashley, I said I’d be back, didn’t I? Don’t I always come back? Even when you don’t want me to?

You better hurry, Parker Wilmington.” Ashley’s voice was muffled against his chest. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.” Parker rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sure. I promise.” “Tonight.” “Tonight,” Parker echoed dutifully. “Cross your heart.” “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ashley, I said I’d be back, didn’t I? Don’t I always come back? Even when you don’t want me to?” Miranda’s breath caught in her throat. Fear squeezed in her chest. It can’t be…it’s impossible. For she knew now why she’d listened so intently to Ashley and Parker, why their conversation had seemed so familiar… Oh, God, no… “Parker,” she whispered. Starting forward, she saw Ashley and Etienne standing at the edge of the shelter. Ashley was shivering, and Etienne’s arm was around her shoulders. Miranda tried to call out, to shout a warning, to stop Parker from going, but he’d already dashed into the rain; she could already see the beam of his flashlight growing smaller and dimmer, swallowed by the storm. Yet his words were still here. They lingered in this dark, frightening, abandoned place--the words he’d spoken to Ashley, and the words Ashley had spoken to him. Prophetic words and fatal words. Words that tore at Miranda’s heart and echoed over and over again in her mind. The words Nathan and Ellena had spoken… Right before the end.

You better hurry, Parker Wilmington.” Ashley’s voice was muffled against his chest. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.” Parker rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sure. I promise.” “Tonight.” “Tonight,” Parker echoed dutifully. “Cross your heart.” “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ashley, I said I’d be back, didn’t I? Don’t I always come back? Even when you don’t want me to?

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

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

I wish we could put Nathan and Ellena and Travis on our walk.” Ashley sighed. “It just doesn’t seem complete without them.” “They’re on our walk.” Taking Ashley’s notebook, Roo calmly pointed to the neatly lettered, neatly organized tour script. “See? Right here. Magnolia Gallery. Opera house fire.” “That’s not what I mean. Each of them really, really loved somebody very much. That’s what I want people to remember.” Ashley put a hand over her heart. “The loves that never die.” “The loves that made people die.” Parker downed another swig of cough medicine, capped the bottle, then slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Sorry, Ash, but that’s not the way of the world. If you tell their real stories, people will only remember all the dumb mistakes they made. Like…oh, you know…torture and murder and arson and treason and--” “Ah, yes,” Roo acknowledged coolly. “Parker Wilmington, the last of the true romantics.” Retrieving her notebook, Ashley hugged it to her chest. Her sigh was more wistful this time. “I know you’re right. I mean, we can’t ever give away their real secrets. Not on the Walk of the Spirits…not to anybody…not ever. I mean, Nathan and Ellena and Travis lived and sacrificed and died, protecting those secrets about themselves. If we told their secrets, it would be like betraying them all over again.” “Or we could call the tabloids and paparazzi,” Parker deadpanned. “They pay big money for secrets and betrayals.” “Parker Wilmington, if I told even half your secrets and betrayals, I’d be a very rich woman!” Even Parker looked amused as the group broke into raucous applause. Looking entirely pleased with herself, Ashley curtsied, then motioned them all toward the Brickway.

Each of them really, really loved somebody very much. That’s what I want people to remember.” Ashley put a hand over her heart. “The loves that never die.” “The loves that made people die.” Parker downed another swig of cough medicine, capped the bottle, then slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Sorry, Ash, but that’s not the way of the world. If you tell their real stories, people will only remember all the dumb mistakes they made. Like…oh, you know…torture and murder and arson and treason and--” “Ah, yes,” Roo acknowledged coolly. “Parker Wilmington, the last of the true romantics.

I mean, Nathan and Ellena and Travis lived and sacrificed and died, protecting those secrets about themselves. If we told their secrets, it would be like betraying them all over again.” “Or we could call the tabloids and paparazzi,” Parker deadpanned. “They pay big money for secrets and betrayals.” “Parker Wilmington, if I told even half your secrets and betrayals, I’d be a very rich woman!” Even Parker looked amused as the group broke into raucous applause.

Were all chains fancy like this one?” Ashley asked. Mrs. Wilmington was delighted to elaborate. “Oh no, they could be made of many different materials.” Etienne’s body tensed. Miranda felt the quick catch of his muscles…the slide of his hands up her back…as he slowly gripped her shoulders. And she knew the realization had struck both of them at the exact same time. “They could be gold-filled or platinum,” Mrs. Wilmington rattled on. “Or expensive leather, or studded with precious stones. But some were much plainer--a ribbon, or a common strap. Even string. Oh, and some women even wove them out of their hair.” The silence was sudden and stifling. Five bodies held together by an undercurrent of shock. Mrs. Wilmington was clueless about the response she’d just caused. She tapped again on the window glass. “Yes, indeed,” she said, “that was the truest devotion. To have a watch chain woven from your sweetheart’s hair.

When Ashley walked out on the porch, Parker gave a loud, shrill whistle that echoed clear across the parking lot. “Parker Wilmington!” Ashley hissed. Trying to ignore the offended stares of onlookers, she marched over and planted her feet angrily in front of him. “What on earth has gotten into you? I am so sorry, Miranda.” Parker grinned. He lunged for Ashley, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her close. “I’m leaving. You staying or going?” “Go,” Miranda insisted. “This thing’s almost over. There’s no reason for you guys to hang around.” Ashley didn’t seem convinced. “Are you sure? The others are leaving, too, but I can stay. I can always walk home--” “No walking home,” Parker ordered. “I can always get a ride later with Etienne--” “No riding with Etienne!” Parker’s hands went up in despair. “Dammit, I’ll be competing with that guy for the rest of my life!” “And Gage, don’t forget,” Ashley teased. “And Gage.” Wrapping her in a hug, Parker steered Ashley toward the steps. “I’ll be competing with Etienne and Gage for the rest of my life!” Ashley gave Miranda a see-what-I-put-up-with sigh.

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

When she arrived in Castine the USS Comfort was a tired, World War II vintage Hospital Ship. Her keel had been laid as a Maritime Commission C1-B hull, which was most frequently used in the construction of troop ships. Built by the Consolidated Steel Corporation in Wilmington, California, she was launched on March 18, 1943. As the USS Comfort (AH-6), a naval hospital ship, she served in the South Pacific during World War II, having a U.S. Navy crew and an Army medical staff. In 1945, the USS Comfort took part in the battle of Okinawa, and was struck by a kamikaze pilot, killing 28 of the ship’s personnel, including six nurses, and wounding 48 additional people. When she was decommissioned and struck from the Naval Vessel Register, her title was retained by the U.S. Army. Not being needed, she was taken up to the Hudson River Reserve Fleet near Bear Mountain in New York. In 1949 her title was returned to the Maritime Commission, who on August 24, 1953, assigned her to Maine Maritime Academy for use as a training ship.

He lies on the sofa with a book on his belly and a blanket over his head. I know he’s alive because occasionally he snores.” —Nancy, Wilmington, DE

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Up to January, 1865, the enemy occupied Fort Fisher, at the mouth of Cape Fear River and below the City of Wilmington. This port was of immense importance to the Confederates, because it formed their principal inlet for blockade runners by means of which they brought in from abroad such supplies and munitions of war as they could not produce at home. It was equally important to us to get possession of it, not only because it was desirable to cut off their supplies so as to insure a speedy termination of the war, but also because foreign governments, particularly the British Government, were constantly threatening that unless ours could maintain the blockade of that coast they should cease to recognize any blockade.

In 1920, Mary McLeod Bethune, an American educator, stateswoman, philanthropist, humanitarian, womanist, and civil-rights activist traveled through her home state of Florida to encourage women to vote, facing tremendous obstacles at every step along the route. The night before Election Day in November 1920, white-robed Klansmen marched into Bethune’s girls’ school to intimidate the women who had gathered there to get ready to vote, aiming to prevent them from voting even though they had managed to get their names on the voter rolls. Newspapers in Wilmington, Delaware, reported that the numbers of Black women who wanted to register to vote were “unusually large,” but they were turned away for their alleged failure to “comply with Constitutional tests” without any specification of what these tests were. The Birmingham Black newspaper Voice of the People noted that only half a dozen Black women had been registered to vote because the state had applied the same restrictive rules for voting to colored women that they applied to colored men.