Would You Be My Valentine Quotes

Clary, Despite everything, I can't bear the thought of this ring being lost forever, any more then I can bear the thought of leaving you forever. And though I have no choice about the one, at least I can choose about the other. I'm leaving you our family ring because you have as much right to it as I do. I'm writing this watching the sun come up. You're asleep, dreams moving behind your restless eyelids. I wish I knew what you were thinking. I wish I could slip into your head and see the world the way you do. I wish I could see myself the way you do. But maybe I dont want to see that. Maybe it would make me feel even more than I already do that I'm perpetuating some kind of Great Lie on you, and I couldn't stand that. I belong to you. You could do anything you wanted with me and I would let you. You could ask anything of me and I'd break myself trying to make you happy. My heart tells me this is the best and greatest feeling I have ever had. But my mind knows the difference between wanting what you can't have and wanting what you shouldn't want. And I shouldn't want you. All night I've watched you sleeping, watched the moonlight come and go, casting its shadows across your face in black and white. I've never seen anything more beautiful. I think of the life we could have had if things were different, a life where this night is not a singular event, separate from everything else that's real, but every night. But things aren't different, and I can't look at you without feeling like I've tricked you into loving me. The truth no one is willing to say out loud is that no one has a shot against Valentine but me. I can get close to him like no one else can. I can pretend I want to join him and he'll believe me, up until that last moment where I end it all, one way or another. I have something of Sebastian's; I can track him to where my father's hiding, and that's what I'm going to do. So I lied to you last night. I said I just wanted one night with you. But I want every night with you. And that's why I have to slip out of your window now, like a coward. Because if I had to tell you this to your face, I couldn't make myself go. I don't blame you if you hate me, I wish you would. As long as I can still dream, I will dream of you. _Jace

Then you're aping him. Valentine was one of the most arrogant and disrespectful men I've ever met. I suppose he brought you up to be just like him." "Yes," Jace said, unable to help himself, "I was trained to be an evil mastermind from a young age. Pulling the wings off flies, poisoning the earth's water supply — I was covering that stuff in kindergarten. I guess we're all just lucky my father faked his own death before he got to the raping and pillaging part of my education, or no one would be safe.

I wouldn't cut you out of my life Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine's Day gift." Gross," said Clary. "Must you?" Simon grinned. "I must.

You want a piece of all this fabulousness?" He gestured to himself. "Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn't cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine's Day gift." "Gross," said Clary. "Must you?" He grinned. "I must.

If I say your voice is an amber waterfall in which I yearn to burn each day, if you eat my mouth like a mystical rose with powers of healing and damnation, If I confess that your body is the only civilization I long to experience… would it mean that we are close to knowing something about love?

People aren't born good or bad. Maybe they're born with tendencies either way, but it's the way you live your life that matters. And the people you know. Valentine was Hodge's friend, and I don't think Hodge really had anyone else in his life to challenge him or make him be a better person. If I'd had that life, I don't know how I would have turned out. But I didn't. I have my family. And I have you.

What do you think it would have been like if Valentine had brought you up along with me? Would you have loved me?" Clary was very glad she had put her cup down, because if she hadn't, she would have dropped it. Sebastian was looking at her not with any shyness or the sort of natural awkwardness that might be attendant on such a bizarre question, but as if she were a curious, foreign life-form. "Well," she said. "You're my brother. I would have loved you. I would have...had to.

The love a parent had for a child, there is nothing else like it. No other love so consuming. No father-not even Valentine-would sacrifice his son for a hunk of metal, no matter how powerful.” (The Inquisitor) “You don’t know my father. He‘ll laugh in your face and offer you some money to mail my body back to Idris.” (Jace) “Don’t be absurd-” “You‘re right,” Jace said. “Come to think of it, he‘ll probably make you pay the shipping charges yourself.

I would never date a girl who insisted that I cut you out of my life. It’s non-negotiable. You want a piece of all this fabulousness?” He gestured at himself. “Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn’t cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine’s Day gift.” “Gross,” said Clary. “Must you?” He grinned. “I must.

I know what you said! My mother would never have belonged to something like that. Some kind of-some kind of hate group." "It wasn't-," Jace began, but Hodge cut him off. "I doubt," he said slowly, as if the words pained him, "that she had much choice." Clary stared. "What are you talking about? Why wouldn't she have had a choice?" "Because," said Hodge, "she was Valentine's wife.

We gather here today,” said Robert, reaching out his arms expansively, “to honor my son, Alexander Gideon Lightwood, who has single-handedly destroyed the forces of the Endarkened and who defeated in battle the son of Valentine Morgenstern. Alec saved the life of our third son, Max. Along with his parabatai, Jace Herondale, I am proud to say that my son is one of the greatest warriors I have ever known.” He turned and smiled at Alec and Magnus. “It takes more than a strong arm to make a great warrior,” he went on. “It takes a great mind and a great heart. My son has both. He is strong in courage, and strong in love. Which is why I also wanted to share our other good news with you. As of yesterday, my son became engaged to be married to his partner, Magnus Bane—” A chorus of cheers broke out. Magnus accepted them with a modest wave of his fork. Alec slid down in his chair, his cheeks burning. Jace looked at him meditatively. “Congratulations,” he said. “I kind of feel like I missed an opportunity.” “W-what?” Alec stammered. Jace shrugged. “I always knew you had a crush on me, and I kind of had a crush on you, too. I thought you should know.” “What?” Alec said again. Clary sat up straight. “You know,” she said, “do you think there’s any chance that you two could ...” She gestured between Jace and Alec. “It would be kind of hot.” “No,” Magnus said. “I am a very jealous warlock.” “We’re parabatai,” Alec said, regaining his voice. “The Clave would—I mean—it’s illegal.” “Oh, come on,” said Jace. “The Clave would let you do anything you wanted. Look, everyone loves you.” He gestured out at the room full of Shadowhunters. They were all cheering as Robert spoke, some of them wiping away tears. A girl at one of the smaller tables held up a sign that said, ALEC LIGHTWOOD, WE LOVE YOU.

But just promise me something, okay? I know how girls get. I know how they hate their boyfriends having a best friend who’s a girl. Just promise me you won’t cut me out of your life totally. That we can still hang out sometimes.' 'Sometimes?' Simon shook his head. 'Clary, you’re crazy.' Her heart sank. 'You mean...' 'I mean that I would never date a girl who insisted that I cut you out of my life. It’s non-negotiable. You want a piece of all this fabulousness?' He gestured at himself. 'Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn’t cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine’s Day gift.' 'Gross,' said Clary. 'Must you?' He grinned. 'I must.

Stephen Herondale would have killed me if he’d ever met me. I would not have been safe living among people like you, or like him. I am the wife and mother of warriors who fought and died and never dishonored themselves as you have. I have worn gear, wielded blades, and slain demons, and all I wished was to overcome evil so that I could live and be happy with those I loved. I’d hoped I had made this a better, safer world for my children. Because of Valentine’s Circle, the Herondale line, the line that was my son’s children’s children, is finished. That happened through you and your Circle and your husband. Stephen Herondale died with hate in his heart and the blood of my people on his hands. I can imagine no more horrible way for mine and Will’s line to end. I will have to carry for the rest of my life the wound of what Valentine’s Circle has done to me, and I will live forever.

Love is an afternoon of fishing when I'd sooner be at the ballet. Love is eating burnt toast and lumpy graving with a big smile. Love is hearing the words 'You're beautiful' as I fail to squeeze into my fat jeans. Love is refusing to bring up the past, even if doing so would be a slam dunk to prove your point. Love is your hand wiping away my tears, trying to erase streaks of mascara. Love is the warm hug that extinguishes an argument. Love is a humbly-uttered apology, even if not at fault. Love is easy to recognize but so hard to define; however, I think it boils down to this... Love is caring so much about the feelings of someone else, you sacrifice whatever it takes to help him or her feel better. In other words, love is my heart being sensitive to yours.

Ollie Girl, I’ve made a lot of mistakes, lived my life a little too carelessly, in ways that people didn’t approve of. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Because I was waiting for you. Waiting for a love that would walk into my life and blow my whole world up. I want to celebrate every Valentine’s Day & birthday with you. Love, Carter

Upon my soul!' Tietjens said to himself, 'that girl down there is the only intelligent living soul I've met for years.' A little pronounced in manner sometimes; faulty in reasoning naturally, but quite intelligent, with a touch of wrong accent now and then. But if she was wanted anywhere, there she'd be! Of good stock, of course: on both sides! But positively, she and Sylvia were the only two human beings he had met for years whom he could respect: the one for sheer efficiency in killing; the other for having the constructive desire and knowing how to set about it. Kill or cure! The two functions of man. If you wanted something killed you'd go to Sylvia Tietjens in sure faith that she would kill it: emotion, hope, ideal; kill it quick and sure. If you wanted something kept alive you'd go to Valentine: she's find something to do for it. . . . The two types of mind: remorseless enemy, sure screen, dagger ... sheath! Perhaps the future of the world then was to women? Why not? He hand't in years met a man that he hadn't to talk down to - as you talk down to a child, as he had talked down to General Campion or to Mr. Waterhouse ... as he always talked down to Macmaster. All good fellows in their way ...

He opened his arm as I slid next to him. I settled against his side, letting out another deep sigh as his familiar heat and aura closed over me. I laid my head on his shoulder and was rewarded with the pressure of his cheek against the top of my head, a subtle caress. I shut my eyes. It seemed they were leaking again. I had thought I was done with crying. "I thought you were dead," I said for the hundredth time. "I keep thinking you'll vanish, and I'll wake up." "I told you, while you live, I live." He sounded calmer now, the tension leaving him. He settled back into the seat, and I leaned into him, grateful. "I would not abandon you, Dante.

Do you know how much of my life I spent waiting for something terrible to happen? I was obsessed with it, consumed by it I spent every moment dreading it--and all of a sudden, here it was, and it was every bit as awful as I'd imagined it would be And then . . . life went on. I realized then how pointless and powerless fear is . . . .

He is a demon, Clarissa,” said Valentine, still in the same soft voice. “A demon with a man’s face. I know how deceptive such monsters can be. Remember, I spared him once myself.” “Monster?” echoed Clary. She thought of Luke, Luke pushing her on the swings when she was five years old, higher, always higher; Luke at her graduation from middle school, camera clicking away like a proud father’s; Luke sorting through each box of books as it arrived at his store, looking for anything she might like and putting it aside. Luke lifting her up to pull apples down from the trees near his farmhouse. Luke, whose place as her father this man was trying to take. “Luke isn’t a monster,” she said in a voice that matched Valentine’s, steel for steel. “Or a murderer. You are.” “Clary!” It was Jace. Clary ignored him. Her eyes were fixed on her father’s cold black ones. “You murdered your wife’s parents, not in battle but in cold blood,” she said. “And I bet you murdered Michael Wayland and his little boy, too. Threw their bones in with my grandparents’ so that my mother would think you and Jace were dead. Put your necklace around Michael Wayland’s neck before you burned him so everyone would think those bones were yours. After all your talk about the untainted blood of the Clave — you didn’t care at all about their blood or their innocence when you killed them, did you? Slaughtering old people and children in cold blood, that’s monstrous.

I saw what Andrew did in our family. I saw that he came in and listened and watched and understood who we were, each individual one of us. He tried to discover our need and then supply it. He took responsibility for other people and it didn't seem to matter to him how much it cost him. And in the end, while he could never make the Ribeira family normal, he gave us peace and pride and identity. Stability. He married Mother and was kind to her. He loved us all. He was always there when we wanted him, and seemed unhurt by it when we didn't. He was firm with us about expecting civilized behavior, but never indulged his whims at our expense. And I thought: This is so much more important than science. Or politics, either. Or any particular profession or accomplishment or thing you can make. I thought: If I could just make a good family, if I could just learn to be to other children, their whole lives, what Andrew was, coming so late into ours, then that would mean more in the long run, it would be a finer accomplishment than anything I could ever do with my mind or hands." "So you're a career father," said Valentine. "Who works at a brick factory to feed and clothe the family. Not a brick-maker who also has kids. Lini also feels the same way... She followed her own road to the same place. We do what we must to earn our place in the community, but we live for the hours at home. For each other, for the children.

His insecurities hurt me just as much as they hurt him. The idea that he would think himself to be anything less than the wonderful man he is pains me. He’s more than he or anybody else gives him credit for, and I’ve made it my mission to make sure he sees the man I see.

I want a love that makes me burn and melt and gives me every gooey feeling in the world. I want a morning kisses and late-night talk kind of love. I want a eat dessert naked in bed kind of love." I take a deep breath. "I want a man who chooses to love me --in good times and bad, because I'm going to chose to love him right back. We won't be perfect, nothing's perfect but it would be my kind of perfect love.

When you would be looking somewhere maybe standing near a window and looking outside, I will come slowly towards you. And first I will inhale your sublime fragrance that emanates from your soft and tender body. Then slowly inching towards you I would hug you from behind and take you in my arms.

From the first day we met, I knew I needed you in my life. You took the chaos and made it calm. You lifted my heart with your smile and awed me with your brilliant mind. I kept every secret valentine, every scribbled note, your stuffed rabbit, and the answer to every math question I gave you. I hoped one day to be the kind of man you could love, a man who would hold and cherish you, a man worthy of you, and who would protect you with the sword you are going to allow him to have at our wedding.

Where else would I be? You need me? I’m there. It’s you and me against the world now, right?

Babe, I’m too selfish a man to leave you, even if it’s the right thing to do. I’m fucking addicted to you and there’s nothing anybody can do that would make me give this up. I’ve decided.

VALENTINE'S DAY POEM: What earth is to sky.. on the horizon.. What moon is to night.. no matter start studded ocean! What Love is to life.. above all give and take.. that you are to me.. a rhythm that soulful music would make! * Let's surrender to each other.. for a dream to be woven together!! You're my weakness and my strength.. wanna live with you till the end!! .. and beyond.. ;)!!! * Even a dent in the universe.. can't express my Love for you! My life is yours forever.. O girl, O girl.. O girl.. you be mine!! Not just for this time.. Everyday beyond.. Valentine, O O my heart, be my.. Valentine!

TEDDY DAY POEM: A bear hug for you, and I would make you forget your sorrows! I’ll be there with you forever, in your today and all tomorrows!! .. The moment I am not there.. Close your eyes and you'll see me.. You're there in my heart, and yours, I always would be; so just be fine! .. O girl, O girl, O.. O.. girl.. you be mine.. You're my buddy and I am your teddy.. O sweety, you be my.. Valentine. .. Just be mine.. O O.. be my Valentine!!!

In retrospect, I didn’t really want to be a slut. What I wanted and needed was a therapist who would consent to fucking me, but I doubted my parents’ insurance would have covered that. I had a lot to figure out for myself and I did that by making poor decisions that summer. If some wise, authoritative adult could simply have explained why I wanted to do these things and then done some with me, I think I would have refrained from most of my sexual misadventures...

Hello?” “Hey.” She sounded pissed. “What the hell happened to you tonight? Jess said the three of us were meeting for Valentine’s Day, but you never showed.” “Sorry,” I said. “Something came up.” “Bianca, you’ve been saying that a lot lately. Something is always coming up or you have plans or…” Suddenly, I felt Wesley’s breath hit the back of my neck. He’d gotten up from the floor and slid up behind me without me realizing it. His arms slid around my waist from behind, his fingers undoing the button of my jeans before I could stop him. “… and Jess had her hopes up that we’d do something fun…” I couldn’t focus on a word Casey was saying as Wesley’s hand slid beneath the waistband of my pants, his fingers moving lower and lower. I couldn’t say a word. I couldn’t tell him to stop or show any reaction at all. If I did, Casey would know I wasn’t alone. But, God, I could feel my whole body turning into a ball of fire. Wesley was laughing against my neck, knowing he was driving me crazy. “… I just don’t understand what’s up with you.” I bit my lip to keep from gasping as Wesley’s fingers slipped to places that made my knees shake. I could feel the smirk on his lips as they moved to my ear. Asshole. He was trying to torture me. I couldn’t handle it much longer. “Bianca, are you there?” Wesley bit my earlobe and pushed my jeans even lower with his free hand as the other continued to make me shiver.

My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!” Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape was looking as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.

i wonder where you are right now what are you doing? what are you thinking about? is it me and what we used to be? or is it someone else again? do i ever cross your mind? do you think about me now when i'm not there? did you think about me when i was? i wonder what we could have been would there have been evenings by the fireplace as you read to me? or the candle light dinners on our balcony because it was your last minute surprise? would there have been long walks in central park on valentine's day evening? or just any other night you wanted an excuse to hold my hand? would there have been movie nights after cancelling on that boring party we planned? would there still have been a me and you if i hadn't made you feel blue? did i burn the bridge we found home at? was i really such a brat? then i'm sorry, i always say but you didn't hear it as you walked away

The essence of cool, after all, is not giving a fuck. And let’s face it: I most definitely give a fuck now. I give a huge fuck. The hugest. Everything else—everything—pales. To pretend otherwise, by word or deed, would be a monstrous lie. There will be no more Dead Boys T-shirts. Whom would I be kidding? Their charmingly nihilistic worldview in no way mirrors my own. If Stiv Bators were still alive and put his filthy hands anywhere near my baby, I’d snap his neck—then thoroughly cleanse the area with baby wipes. There is no hope of hipness. As my friend A. A. Gill points out, after your daughter reaches a certain age—like five—the most excruciating and embarrassing thing she could possibly imagine is seeing her dad in any way threatening to rock. Your record collection may indeed be cooler than your daughter’s will ever be, but this is a meaningless distinction now. She doesn’t care. And nobody else will. If you’re lucky, long after you’re gone, a grandchild will rediscover your old copy of Fun House. But it will be way too late for you to bask in the glory of past coolness. There is nothing cool about “used to be cool.” All of this, I think, is only right and appropriate.

I’m the first man you saw today,” he pointed out, “so I’m officially your valentine.” She let out a harsh laugh. “Because of a silly superstition? I think not.” “Because I want to be,” he said in a low voice. “And because you want me to be, too.” Her gaze would have skewered a stone. “Want a drunken debaucher fresh from some whore’s bed as my valentine? Not if you were the last man on earth.” She slammed the door in his face. His brothers laughed, but he ignored them. He couldn’t blame her for being angry; he’d given her good reason to be so. But it didn’t change a thing. He’d be damned if he let her go now. One way or the other, Maria Butterfield was going to be his. One way or the other, she would share his bed.

He immediately turned to her as the carriage rocked into motion, wrapping her in his cloak and examined her. She had bruises on her shoulders and on her arms. Her wrists were bloodied- he growled under his breath as he examined them, picking away the remains of the ropes. Her plump little toes were muddied and cut and cold. He warmed them with his hands, crooning to them. She had quite a nasty bruise on her left side and he tenderly pressed his fingers around that, soft sounds leaving his lips helplessly. Oh, that he had been there when this had been done! He would have put their eyes out. He would have cut off their noses and made them eat them. He would have- "Valentine." He blinked and realized that she had the palms of her hands on his face and was looking at him. "Valentine. I'm all right." His eyes narrowed as he looked at her face, for he was no fool. They must've had her for several days to bring her here. "Are you, though?" She looked at him very firmly. "Yes." "They didn't rape you?" "No." "Or touch you in any way?" She sighed. "They grabbed me when they took me. They tied me up." He thought about that. He didn't like it. "Did they make you do anything you didn't want to?" She hesitated. He went icy cold. "Tell me." "They..." She went a deep red and looked away. "They... when I needed to... to urinate they didn't turn away." "Ah." Well. That settled that. He wrapped his arms around her. "I am truly sorry you had to endure such horrific events, my Séraphine.

And Doris had offered to pick up Valentine and Valentine had said, “My friend Pixie is on the way too, if you . . .” And included her, which was what a best friend should do, but then ignored her and refused to use her real name, her confirmation name, the name by which she would—maybe embarrassing to say but she thought it anyway—the name by which she would rise in the world.

Well, I've never written a line of poetry in my life: it is not my way! But if I *did* write about you I shouldn't call you a paltry daffodil! I should liken you to a rose--one of those yellow ones, with a deep golden heart, and a sweet scent!" said Sir Bonamy, warming to the theme. "Nonsense!" she said briskly. "You would be very much more likely to call me a plum partridge, or a Spanish fritter!

And then he saw her burning eyes. They gazed at him calmly and he saw in them benediction. He fell to his knees before her, pressing his face to her purple-velvet-clad-belly. "Séraphine, Séraphine, Séraphine. O most beloved of women, most fiery of saints, never leave me, please. I'll erect columns of white marble to you, build gardens of delight for you, cause ships to sail and warriors to rise for you, if you'll only remain by my side." She smiled down at him and cupped his cheeks. "Valentine, do you love me?" Ah, God, it was like a shot to the gut. He squeezed tight his eyes. To come so close and lose her because of this. "If I were able I would love you as no man has ever loved a woman since the beginning of time." She knelt then to face him and whispered, "But you are able." He clutched her. He wouldn't let her go, no, not even when she realized... "Séraphine, my darling, burning one, do you not remember? I told you, so long ago now, that I lacked that part. I cannot-" "But you can, Valentine." She touched a finger to his cheek and then showed it to him. He blinked. Her finger was wet. His eyes were wet. She smiled at him, his burning Séraphine, and it was as if the night sky were ablaze. "You love me." "I love you," he said in wonder, and felt his chest fill with warmth. "I love you." "And I love you," she whispered, her hands cupping his face. So he kissed her until she was limp and pliable and so very hot against him, and then he purred into her ear, "Does that mean you'll become my duchess, darling Bridget Crumb?" And when she sighed back, "Oh, yes, Val," he picked her up and carried her off to have his wicked, wicked way with her. Because he might have a heart now but some things weren't ever going to change.

Oh, stop talking," I cried, in a hunted tone. "I can't bear it. If you are going to arrest me, get it over." "I'd rather NOT arrest you, if we can find a way out. You look so young, so new to Crime! Even your excuse for being here is so naive, that I—won't you tell me why you wrote a love letter, if you are not in love? And whom you sent it to? That's important, you see, as it bears on the case. I intend," he said, "to be judgdicial[sic], unimpassioned, and quite fair." "I wrote a love letter" I explained, feeling rather cheered, "but it was not intended for any one, Do you see? It was just a love letter." "Oh," he said. "Of course. It is often done. And after that?" "Well, it had to go somewhere. At least I felt that way about it. So I made up a name from some malted milk tablets——" "Malted milk tablets!" he said, looking bewildered. "Just as I was thinking up a name to send it to," I explained, "Hannah—that's mother's maid, you know—brought in some hot milk and some malted milk tablets, and I took the name from them." "Look here," he said, "I'm unpredjudiced and quite calm, but isn't the `mother's maid' rather piling it on?" "Hannah is mother's maid, and she brought in the milk and the tablets, I should think," I said, growing sarcastic, "that so far it is clear to the dullest mind." "Go on," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes. "You named the letter for your mother's maid—I mean for the malted milk. Although you have not yet stated the name you chose; I never heard of any one named Milk, and as to the other, while I have known some rather thoroughly malted people—however, let that go." "Valentine's tablets," I said. "Of Course, you understand," I said, bending forward, "there was no such Person. I made him up. The Harold was made up too—Harold Valentine." "I see. Not clearly, perhaps, but I have a gleam of intellagence[sic]." "But, after all, there was such a person. That's clear, isn't it? And now he considers that we are engaged, and—and he insists on marrying me." "That," he said, "is realy[sic] easy to understand. I don't blame him at all. He is clearly a person of diszernment[sic]." "Of course," I said bitterly, "you would be on HIS side. Every one is." "But the point is this," he went on. "If you made him up out of the whole cloth, as it were, and there was no such Person, how can there be such a Person? I am merely asking to get it all clear in my head. It sounds so reasonable when you say it, but there seems to be something left out." "I don't know how he can be, but he is," I said, hopelessly. "And he is exactly like his picture." "Well, that's not unusual, you know." "It is in this case. Because I bought the picture in a shop, and just pretended it was him. (He?) And it WAS." He got up and paced the floor. "It's a very strange case," he said. "Do you mind if I light a cigarette? It helps to clear my brain. What was the name you gave him?" "Harold Valentine. But he is here under another name, because of my Familey. They think I am a mere child, you see, and so of course he took a NOM DE PLUME." "A NOM DE PLUME? Oh I see! What is it?" "Grosvenor," I said. "The same as yours.

Danny’s Song” by Kenny Loggins “Reminder” by Mumford & Sons “Barton Hollow” by The Civil Wars “Like a Bridge Over Troubled Waters” by Simon and Garfunkel “I and Love and You” by The Avett Brothers “Make You Feel My Love” by Adele “Can’t Break Her Fall” by Matt Kearney  “Stillborn” by Black Label Society “Come On Get Higher” by Matt Nathanson “I Won’t Give Up” by Jason Mraz “This Girl” by City & Colour “My Funny Valentine” by Ella Fitzgerald “Dream a Little Dream of Me” by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong “Stormy Blues” by Billie Holiday “I would be Sad” by The Avett Brothers “Hello, I’m Delaware” by City & Colour “99 Problems” by Hugo (originally written and performed by Jay-Z) “It’s Time” by Imagine Dragons “Let It Be Me” by Ray LaMontagne “Rocketship” by Guster “Don’t Drink The Water” by Dave Matthews Band “Blackbird” by The Beatles

As a child Valentine’s Day was fun. You got to design your own little heart-laden box to accept all your classmate’s Valentine’s. Then you’d get to fill in the To: and From: fields on your G.I. Joe cards (because nothing says “Be Mine” like Snake Eyes). I remember each time taking extra special care when filling out a card for the girl who I happened to like that particular year. When the day arrived and cards were exchanged I would rifle through my haul finding the one from whichever girl it was and kept it apart from the others. It was special even though I’m sure she’d written the exact same thing on mine that she’d written on everyone else’s. No matter, love was given and received. Valentine’s Day was for a young boy not yet mature enough to express his affections and for him to hold fast to even a token expression from the object those affections.

Half inebriated, he vaulted up the stairs to find them lolling in chairs in the hall outside Maria’s door. Gabe clasped a bunch of violets in his hand while Jarret held a rolled-up piece of parchment in his. “What are you two louts doing here in the middle of the night?” he growled. “It’s nearly dawn,” Gabe said coolly. “Hardly the middle of the night. Not that you would have noticed, in your drunken state.” Scowling, Oliver took a step toward them. “It’s still earlier than you, at least, every rise.” Gabe glanced at Jarret. “Clearly, the old boy doesn’t remember what today is.” “I believe you’re right,” Jarret returned, a hint of condemnation in his tone. Oliver glared at them both as he sifted through his soggy brain for what they menat. When it came to him, he groaned. St. Valentine’s Day. That sobered him right up. “That doesn’t explain why you’re lurking outside Maria’s door.” Jarret cast him a scathing glance as he got to his feet. “Why do you care? You ran off to town to find your entertainment. Seems to me that you’re relinquishing the field.” “So you two intend to step in?” he snapped. “Why not?” Gabe rose to glower at him. “Since your plan to thwart Gran isn’t working, and it’s looking as if we’ll have to marry someone, we might as well have a go at Miss Butterfield. She’s an heiress and a very nice girl, too, in case you hadn’t noticed If you’re stupid enough to throw her over for a bunch of whores and opera dancers, we’re more than happy to take your place. We at least appreciate her finer qualities.” The very idea of his brothers appreciating anything of Maria’s made his blood boil. “In the first place, I didn’t throw her over for anyone. In the second, I am damned well not relinquishing the field. And I’m certainly not giving it over to a couple of fortune hunters like you.” The sound of footsteps coming down the hall from the servants’ stairs made them whirl in that direction. Betty walked slowly toward them, one hand shading her eyes. That’s when it hit him. His brothers were here because of that silly superstition about a maiden’s heart being joined to that of whoever was the first man she spotted on St. Valentine’s Day. “Good morning, gentlemen,” Betty murmured as she approached, carefully avoiding looking at any of them. A devilish grin lit Gabe’s face. “Betty, catch!” he cried and tossed a violet at her. She didn’t even move a finger to stop it from bouncing off her and falling to the floor. “If your lordships will excuse me,” she said in a decidedly snippy tone, “my mistress rang the bell for me.” With a sniff that conveyed her contempt for them, she slipped inside Maria’s rom and shut the door firmly behind her. “That was shameful,” Jarret told Gabe. “You know bloody well that Betty and John are sweethearts.” “It’s not my fault that John didn’t show up this morning so she could see him first,” Gabe said with a shrug.

You’re worried about Anna?” “Anna and the baby, who, I can assure you, are not worried about me.” “Westhaven, are you pouting?” Westhaven glanced over to see his brother smiling, but it was a commiserating sort of smile. “Yes. Care to join me?” The commiserating smile became the signature St. Just Black Irish piratical grin. “Only until Valentine joins us. He’s so eager to get under way, we’ll let him break the trail when we depart in the morning.” “Where is he? I thought you were just going out to the stables to check on your babies.” “They’re horses, Westhaven. I do know the difference.” “You know it much differently than you knew it a year ago. Anna reports you sing your daughter to sleep more nights than not.” Two very large booted feet thunked onto the coffee table. “Do I take it your wife has been corresponding with my wife?” “And your daughter with my wife, and on and on.” Westhaven did not glance at his brother but, rather, kept his gaze trained on St. Just’s feet. Devlin could exude great good cheer among his familiars, but he was at heart a very private man. “The Royal Mail would go bankrupt if women were forbidden to correspond with each other.” St. Just’s tone was grumpy. “Does your wife let you read her mail in order that my personal marital business may now be known to all and sundry?” “I am not all and sundry,” Westhaven said. “I am your brother, and no, I do not read Anna’s mail. It will astound you to know this, but on occasion, say on days ending in y, I am known to talk with my very own wife. Not at all fashionable, but one must occasionally buck trends. I daresay you and Emmie indulge in the same eccentricity.” St. Just was silent for a moment while the fire hissed and popped in the hearth. “So I like to sing to my daughters. Emmie bears so much of the burden, it’s little enough I can do to look after my own children.” “You love them all more than you ever thought possible, and you’re scared witless,” Westhaven said, feeling a pang of gratitude to be able to offer the simple comfort of a shared truth. “I believe we’re just getting started on that part. With every child, we’ll fret more for our ladies, more for the children, for the ones we have, the one to come.” “You’re such a wonderful help to a man, Westhaven. Perhaps I’ll lock you in that nice cozy privy next time nature calls.” Which

We took a hike in Malibu and shared ice cream. I stayed with him while he had walking pneumonia, heating soup and pouring him glass after glass of ginger ale and feeling his fevered forehead as he slept. He warned me of the life that was coming for me if I wasn’t careful. Success was a scary thing for a young person, he said. I was twenty-four and he was thirty-three (“Jesus’s age,” he reminded me more than a few times). There was something tender about him, broken and gentle, and I could imagine that sex with him might be similar. I wouldn’t have to pretend like I did with other guys. Maybe we would both cry. Maybe it would feel just as good as sharing a bed. On Valentine’s Day, I put on lace underwear and begged him to please, finally, have sex with me. The litany of excuses he presented in response was comic in its tragedy: “I want to get to know you.” “I don’t have a condom.” “I’m scared, because I just like you too much.” He took an Ambien and fell asleep, arm over my side, and as I lay there, wide awake and itchy in my lingerie set, it occurred to me: this was humiliating, unsexy, and, worst sin of all, boring. This wasn’t comfort. This was paralysis. This was distance passing for connection. I was being desexualized in slow motion, becoming a teddy bear with breasts.

Haydée became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven, exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, “Then you leave me, my lord?” “Haydée, Haydée, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and be happy.” “It is well,” said Haydée; “your order shall be executed, my lord; I will forget even your name, and be happy.” And she stepped back to retire. “Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head of Morrel on her shoulder, “do you not see how pale she is? Do you not see how she suffers?” Haydée answered with a heartrending expression, “Why should he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am his slave; he has the right to notice nothing.” The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the inmost recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl and he could not bear their brilliancy. “Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “can my suspicions be correct? Haydée, would it please you not to leave me?” “I am young,” gently replied Haydée; “I love the life you have made so sweet to me, and I should be sorry to die.” “You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haydée——” “I should die; yes, my lord.” “Do you then love me?” “Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you love Maximilian.” The count felt his heart dilate and throb; he opened his arms, and Haydée, uttering a cry, sprang into them. “Oh, yes,” she cried, “I do love you! I love you as one loves a father, brother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the noblest of created beings!

This was certainly a fitting end to Valentine’s Day.” She slanted him a glance. “Tell me, was it really just chance that you drew my name at the ball?” “What do you think?” “I don’t know. Celia told me on the way home that she thought it was Fate.” He arched one eyebrow. “Only if Fate’s helper is the Duke of Foxmoor. He rigged the drawing for me.” To his surprise, she laughed. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! I thought perhaps you’d spotted my name by chance, but deliberately cheating…You have no principles whatsoever, do you?” “Not where you’re concerned,” he said. That answer seemed to please her. Reassured of her ability to bewitch him, she stretched beside him like a cat, her full breasts moving enticingly under the sheet. It roused him instantly. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, my dear.” “Do what?” Her gaze was full of curiosity. “Display yourself so deliciously. Or I’m going to make love to you again.” A coy smile tipped up her lips. “Are you really?” She slid up next to him, her hand drawing a line down his bare chest in a motion worthy of the most experienced courtesan. He caught her hand. “I mean it, minx. Don’t tempt me. I’ll have you on your back so fast you won’t know what happened.” “And what would be wrong with that?” He entwined his fingers with hers. Why couldn’t he stop touching her? “It was your first time. Your body needs to rest.” “Oh.” She frowned. “I suppose I am a little sore.” She cast him a teasing glance. “Who could have known that making love would be so…vigorous? Or addictive?” “You have no idea.” Already his cock was rock hard beneath the sheet. “But after we’re married, I’ll be happy to add to your store of experience.

In the days leading up to Valentine’s Day, in addition to the daily letter I also made sure to send her a Valentine’s card and a different bar of chocolate. I was buying really nice bars of chocolate, all different flavors and kinds. She was only allowed to eat them right there at mail call, and sometimes she would get several packages at once, so even though it was hard to do, she’d share bites of her chocolate with other people. I also made sure to give extra thought to the regular, daily letter that would arrive on Valentine’s Day: Jamie, In the beginning of our relationship I criticized your expectations in a boyfriend. I told you that you watched too many movies and lived in a fantasy world. In a way I was asking you to settle. Even through our arguments about what was realistic and what was a fairy tale, I did everything I could to be your prince in a world where I saw you as the princess that you are. I was wrong to ever question you. Your standards never dropped and it forced me to rise up to the level needed to keep you. Like a storybook romance, I’ve defended your honor, showered you with love, worshipped the ground you walk on, and will faithfully wait for you while you’re away. You have made me a better man. Because of you I live a life I am proud of and have become the father, brother, son, and friend my family deserves. Your love has positively affected every aspect of my life. And for that I could never repay you. But I will happily be forever yours, paying off my debt and love for years to come. Like your favorite movie, Beauty and the Beast, a tale as old as time, we are living proof that fantasy can be reality. Love always and forever, Noah I’d never been that outwardly romantic before. I’d never worn my feelings on my sleeve quite like I did with her.

It’s more an affliction than the expression of any high-minded ideals. I watch Mark Bittman enjoy a perfectly and authentically prepared Spanish paella on TV, after which he demonstrates how his viewers can do it at home—in an aluminum saucepot—and I want to shove my head through the glass of my TV screen and take a giant bite out of his skull, scoop the soft, slurry-like material inside into my paw, and then throw it right back into his smug, fireplug face. The notion that anyone would believe Catherine Zeta-Jones as an obsessively perfectionist chef (particularly given the ridiculously clumsy, 1980s-looking food) in the wretched film No Reservations made me want to vomit blood, hunt down the producers, and kick them slowly to death. (Worse was the fact that the damn thing was a remake of the unusually excellent German chef flick Mostly Martha.) On Hell’s Kitchen, when Gordon Ramsay pretends that the criminally inept, desperately unhealthy gland case in front of him could ever stand a chance in hell of surviving even three minutes as “executive chef of the new Gordon Ramsay restaurant” (the putative grand prize for the finalist), I’m inexplicably actually angry on Gordon’s behalf. And he’s the one making a quarter-million dollars an episode—very contentedly, too, from all reports. The eye-searing “Kwanzaa Cake” clip on YouTube, of Sandra Lee doing things with store-bought angel food cake, canned frosting, and corn nuts, instead of being simply the unintentionally hilarious viral video it should be, makes me mad for all humanity. I. Just. Can’t. Help it. I wish, really, that I was so far up my own ass that I could somehow believe myself to be some kind of standard-bearer for good eating—or ombudsman, or even the deliverer of thoughtful critique. But that wouldn’t be true, would it? I’m just a cranky old fuck with what, I guess, could charitably be called “issues.” And I’m still angry. But eat the fucking fish on Monday already. Okay? I wrote those immortal words about not going for the Monday fish, the ones that’ll haunt me long after I’m crumbs in a can, knowing nothing other than New York City. And times, to be fair, have changed. Okay, I still would advise against the fish special at T.G.I. McSweenigan’s, “A Place for Beer,” on a Monday. Fresh fish, I’d guess, is probably not the main thrust of their business. But things are different now for chefs and cooks. The odds are better than ever that the guy slinging fish and chips back there in the kitchen actually gives a shit about what he’s doing. And even if he doesn’t, these days he has to figure that you might actually know the difference. Back when I wrote the book that changed my life, I was angriest—like a lot of chefs and cooks of my middling abilities—at my customers. They’ve changed. I’ve changed. About them, I’m not angry anymore.

Do we need to talk about my kissing you a year ago? I’ve behaved myself for two weeks, Ellen, and hope by action I have reassured you where words would not.” Silence or the summer evening equivalent of it, with crickets chirping, the occasional squeal of a passing bat, and the breeze riffling through the woods nearby. “Ellen?” Val withdrew his hand, which Ellen had been holding for some minutes, and slid his arm around her waist, urging her closer. “A woman gone silent unnerves a man. Talk to me, sweetheart. I would not offend you, but neither will I fare well continuing the pretense we are strangers.” He felt the tension in her, the stiffness against his side, and regretted it. In the past two weeks, he’d all but convinced himself he was recalling a dream of her not a real kiss, and then he’d catch her smiling at Day and Phil or joking with Darius, and the clench in his vitals would assure him that kiss had been very, very real. At least for him. For him, that kiss had been a work of sheer art. “My husband seldom used my name. I was my dear, or my lady, or occasionally, dear wife. I was not Ellen, and I was most assuredly not his sweetheart. And to you I am the next thing to a stranger.” Val’s left hand, the one she’d just held for such long, lovely moments between her own, drifted up to trace slow patterns on her back. “We’re strangers who kissed. Passionately, if memory serves.” “But on only one occasion and that nearly a year ago.” “Should I have written? I did not think to see you again, nor you me, I’m guessing.” Now he wished he’d written, though it would hardly have been proper, even to a widow. That hand Valentine considered so damaged continued its easy caresses on Ellen’s back, intent on stealing the starch from her spine and the resolve from her best intentions. And she must have liked his touch, because the longer he stroked his hand over her back, the more she relaxed and leaned against him. “I did not think to see you again,” Ellen admitted. “It would have been much easier had you kept to your place in my memory and imagination. But here you are.” “Here we are.” Haunting a woman’s imagination had to be a good thing for a man whose own dreams had turned to nightmares. “Sitting on the porch in the moonlight, trying to sort out a single kiss from months ago.” “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Ellen said, her head coming to rest on Val’s shoulder as if the weight of truth were a wearying thing. “But I’m lonely and sometimes a little desperate, and it seemed safe, to steal a kiss from a handsome stranger.” “It was safe,” Val assured her, seeing the matter from her perspective. In the year since he’d seen Ellen FitzEngle, he’d hardly been celibate. He wasn’t a profligate Philistine, but neither was he a monk. There had been an older maid in Nick’s household, some professional ladies up in York, the rare trip upstairs at David’s brothel, and the frequent occasion of self-gratification. But he surmised Ellen, despite the privileges of widowhood, had not been kissed or cuddled or swived or flirted with in all those days and weeks and months. “And now?” Ellen pressed. “You show up on my porch after dark and think perhaps it’s still safe, and here I am, doing not one thing to dissuade you.” “You are safe with me, Ellen.” He punctuated the sentiment with a kiss to her temple then rested his cheek where his lips had been. “I am a gentleman, if nothing else. I might try to steal a kiss, but you can stop me with a word from even that at any time. The question is, how safe do you want to be?” “Shame

Clary held her hands up. 'I do get it. I know you don’t like me, Isabelle. Because I’m a mundane to you.' 'You think that’s why—' Isabelle broke off, her eyes bright; not just with anger, Clary saw with surprise, but with tears. “God, you don’t understand anything, do you? You’ve known Jace what, a month? I’ve known him for seven years. And all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him fall in love, never seen him even like anyone. He’d hook up with girls, sure. Girls always fell in love with him, but he never cared. I think that’s why Alec thought—” Isabelle stopped for a moment, holding herself very still. She’s trying not to cry, Clary thought in wonder—Isabelle, who seemed like she never cried. “It always worried me, and my mom, too—I mean, what kind of teenage boy never even gets a crush on anyone? It was like he was always half-awake where other people were concerned. I thought maybe what had happened with his father had done some sort of permanent damage to him, like maybe he never really could love anyone. If I’d only known what had really happened with his father—but then I probably would have thought the same thing, wouldn’t I? I mean, who wouldn’t have been damaged by that?' 'And then we met you, and it was like he woke up. You couldn’t see it, because you’d never known him any different. But I saw it. Hodge saw it. Alec saw it—why do you think he hated you so much? It was like that from the second we met you. You thought it was amazing that you could see us, and it was, but what was amazing to me was that Jace could see you, too. He kept talking about you all the way back to the Institute; he made Hodge send him out to get you; and once he brought you back, he didn’t want you to leave again. Wherever you were in the room, he watched you…. He was even jealous of Simon. I’m not sure he realized it himself, but he was. I could tell. Jealous of a mundane. And then after what happened to Simon at the party, he was willing to go with you to the Dumort, to break Clave Law, just to save a mundane he didn’t even like. He did it for you. Because if anything had happened to Simon, you would have been hurt. You were the first person outside our family whose happiness I’d ever seen him take into consideration. Because he loved you.' Clary made a noise in the back of her throat. 'But that was before—' 'Before he found out you were his sister. I know. And I don’t blame you for that. You couldn’t have known. And I guess you couldn’t have helped that you just went right on ahead and dated Simon afterward like you didn’t even care. I thought once Jace knew you were his sister, he’d give up and get over it, but he didn’t, and he couldn’t. I don’t know what Valentine did to him when he was a child. I don’t know if that’s why he is the way he is, or if it’s just the way he’s made, but he won’t get over you, Clary. He can’t. I started to hate seeing you. I hated for Jace to see you. It’s like an injury you get from demon poison—you have to leave it alone and let it heal. Every time you rip the bandages off, you just open the wound up again. Every time he sees you, it’s like tearing off the bandages.' 'I know,' Clary whispered. “How do you think it is for me?” 'I don’t know. I can’t tell what you’re feeling. You’re not my sister. I don’t hate you, Clary. I even like you. If it were possible, there isn’t anyone I’d rather Jace be with. But I hope you can understand when I say that if by some miracle we all get through this, I hope my family moves itself somewhere so far away that we never see you again.

You don’t understand,” she said, and there was a puzzling trace of resentment in her voice. “Children never do. The love a parent has for a child, there is nothing else like it. No other love so consuming. No father—not even Valentine—would sacrifice his son for a hunk of metal, no matter how powerful.” “You don’t know my father. He’ll laugh in your face and offer you some money to mail my body back to Idris.” “Don’t be absurd—” “You’re right,” Jace said. “Come to think of it, he’ll probably make you pay the shipping charges yourself.

There you are, Franklin,” he said. “Your friends are waiting. We can’t start the party without you.” “I don’t belong at the party,” replied Franklin. “I don’t have any valentines to give.” “I know,” said Mr. Owl. “Your mother told me what happened. And I told the class.” Franklin moaned. “I guess no one’s going to give me a valentine now.” “Hmmm,” said Mr. Owl. “If Bear lost his valentines, would you decide not to give him a card?” “I’d never do that!” exclaimed Franklin. “Bear is my friend.” “Maybe Bear feels the same way about you,” replied Mr. Owl.

The thing was, I forgot that Valentine's Day when you were single was completely different from when you were in a relationship. If you were shacked up with someone and said you didn't celebrate, no biggie. But when you were single, you got the LOOK. And you got the comments about how you would find someone some day. After about six hours of that, well, even I was starting to feel a deep sense of unhappiness crushing down on me. I literally felt weighted by it, like there was something trying to drag me down to the floor where I was expected to cry and bemoan my singledom like any respectable woman steadily heading past acceptable marriageable age.

While she was gone, since I was already sending her letters every day, I ordered envelopes that had her address on them and little stickers that had my return address that I’d stick on the envelopes. I didn’t stop there. I also ordered some stamps that were a picture of her and me. Even though I sent the letters every day, some days she would get several at a time. Each letter I wrote was several pages long, so I’d take one page and I’d glue one stick of gum in the middle and fold it up. So she could have the gum they weren’t allowed. She said she would chew on it at night in bed. I had experienced enough of that world to know those little things mattered. I knew exactly what her days were like and how hard they were. She was getting so much mail that when they called out names to pass out the mail, they’d just toss Jamie’s on the ground and she’d have to pick it up. And they made fun of the envelopes with the stamps I’d had made. But she got all her mail. She was at Fort Leonard Wood for six months--from October until March. I made sure she got tons of mail the whole time. But this also meant she would be there on Valentine’s Day. I made sure that she felt loved on that day. I bought her a Valentine’s Day card and enclosed a chocolate bar in that letter. The card read: Jamie, we can’t be together for Valentine’s Day, so I came up with a way to at least show you how much you are loved. Valentine’s Day is twenty-four hours long. So expect twenty-four separate packages with a card and chocolate. I’m so proud of you. Love always and forever, Noah.

One of the reasons that my wife appreciated Valentine’s Day this year is because we spent uninterrupted time together. She often complains that I am not fully present with her even when we’re together; she says I’m either checking emails, on the phone, or glued to a screen. Though I don’t appreciate her complaints, I do realize that what she says is true; her case against my frequent screen distractions is not unfounded. Much of that screen time is office related, and the further I move up in management, the less time I seem to have in the evenings to be fully present with my family. To be honest, even when I’m not checking email, my mind is still preoccupied with work and the tasks I didn't finish at the office. When my wife goes to bed, I end up catching up on emails that went unanswered during the day. I finally go to bed when I am too tired to continue, only to wake up the next day and start the cycle all over again. I really do feel like a hamster in a wheel. During my first few years at the company, this wasn’t a big deal. Plus, email wasn’t like it is today. Now I feel like I’m under a continual barrage of email, texts, and documents, and to be honest, it’s exhausting. I am losing motivation to keep moving forward with my company. I’m starting to see that it is impacting my relationship with my wife and kids, and I’m not sure what to do about that. It would be helpful to talk through my options.

I hope you have a good idea, because right now I’m sitting here, alone in my bakery with the woman of my dreams on Valentine’s Day, with a box full of pastries that I saved for her in the hope that she would come in today and they’d be waiting—

You say the sweetest things, but you’ve always been the dirtier fighter of the two of us.” “I’m not fighting dirty when it’s the truth.” In the spirit of honesty and generally pushing my luck, I add, “If the roles were reversed right now, would you fight for us? Would you let me go?” A sigh of resignation fills the car, followed by his very telling silence. “Well?” I press. “No,” he says. “You know damn well I wouldn’t let you go.

So she’s a super-hot lady, and she’s a Marine?” Jase scoffed and took a drink of his beer. “I give you a fucking week before she breaks your neck between her thighs.”   “If you’re lucky,” said Will.   “Dude, that would be the most legendary and spectacular death a warrior could ask for,” said Ghost, pointing hard at Jase. “And you fucking put my casket on parade if that’s how I die. You make sure every asshole in this town knows how it went down!

Esther.” He nuzzled her crown. “I find I am fully recovered.” “This is amazing,” his wife replied, “as you have neither a medical degree nor powers of divination.” “True.” He nuzzled her again. “But two things are restored to me that indicate my health is once again sound.” “And these would be?” the duchess inquired as she watched Westhaven take a polite leave of Miss James. The duke frowned at his son’s retreating back. “The first is a nigh insatiable urge to meddle in that boy’s affairs. Devlin and Valentine dragooned me into a shared tea pot, and for once, we three are in agreement over something.” “It’s about time.” “You don’t mind if I take a small hand in things?” the duke asked warily. “I am ready to throttle them both.” The duchess sighed, leaning into her husband. “And I suspect the girl is breeding and doesn’t even know it.” “St. Just is of like mind. He and Val all but asked me what I intend to do about it.” “You will think of something. I have every faith in you, Percy.” “Good to know.” “What was the second piece of evidence confirming your restored health?” “Come upstairs with me, my love, and I will explain it to you in detail.

I love you,” Val began, wondering where in the nine circles of hell that had come from. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry; that came out… wrong. Still…” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “It’s the truth.” Ellen’s fingers settled on his nape, massaging in the small, soothing circles Val had come to expect when her hands were on him. “If you love me,” she said after a long, fraught silence, “you’ll tell me the truth.” Val tried to see that response as positive—she hadn’t stomped off, railed at him, or tossed his words back in his face. Yet. But neither had she reciprocated. “My name is Valentine Windham,” he said slowly, “but you’ve asked about my family, and in that regard—and that regard only—I have not been entirely forthcoming.” “Come forth now,” she commanded softly, her hand going still. “My father is the Duke of Moreland. That’s all. I’m a commoner, my title only a courtesy, and I’m not even technically the spare anymore, a situation that should improve further, because my brother Gayle is deeply enamored of his wife.” “Improve?” Ellen’s voice was soft, preoccupied. “I don’t want the title, Ellen.” Val sat up, needing to see her eyes. “I don’t ever want it, not for me, not for my son or grandson. I make pianos, and it’s a good income. I can provide well for you, if you’ll let me.” “As your mistress?” “Bloody, blazing… no!” Val rose and paced across the porch, turning to face her when he could go no farther. “As my wife, as my beloved, dearest wife.” A few heartbeats of silence went by, and with each one, Val felt the ringing of a death knell over his hopes. “I would be your mistress. I care for you, too, but I cannot be your wife.” Val frowned at that. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting. A conditional rejection, that’s what it was. She’d give him time, he supposed, to get over his feelings and move along with his life. “Why not marry me?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. She crossed her arms too. “What else haven’t you told me?” “Fair enough.” Val came back to sit beside her and searched his mind. “I play the piano. I don’t just mess about with it for polite entertainment. Playing the piano used to be who I was.” “You were a musician?” Val snorted. “I was a coward, but yes, I was a musician, a virtuoso of the keyboard. Then my hand”—he held up his perfectly unremarkable left hand—“rebelled against all the wear and tear, or came a cropper somehow. I could not play anymore, not without either damaging it beyond all repair or risking a laudanum addiction, maybe both.” “So you came out here?” Ellen guessed. “You took on the monumental task of setting to rights what I had put wrong on this estate and thought that would be… what?” “A way to feel useful or maybe just a way to get tired enough each day that I didn’t miss the music so much, and then…” “Then?” She took his hand in hers, but Val wasn’t reassured. His mistress, indeed. “Then I became enamored of my neighbor. She beguiled me—she’s lovely and dear and patient. She’s a virtuoso of the flower garden. She cared about my hand and about me without once hearing me play the piano, and this intrigued me.” “You intrigued me,” Ellen admitted, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. “You still do.” “My Ellen loves to make beauty, as do I.” Val turned and used his free hand to trace the line of Ellen’s jaw. “She is as independent as I am and values her privacy, as I do.” “You are merely lonely, Val.

Hello, ladies, I’m your uncle Devlin. Has Westhaven scared you witless with his fuming and fretting?” This fellow looked to be great fun, with a nice smile and kind green eyes. “Mama and Papa didn’t say anything about getting uncles for Christmas,” Amanda observed, but she was smiling back at the big uncle. The biggest uncle—they were all as tall as Papa. “Well, that’s because we’re a surprise,” the other dark-haired fellow said. “I’m your uncle Valentine, and we have an entire gaggle of aunties waiting out in the coach to spoil you rotten. Westhaven here is just out of sorts because Father Christmas gave him a headache for being naughty yesterday.” “I was not naughty.” The other two uncles thought this was quite funny, judging by their smiles. “There’s your problem,” said Uncle Devlin. “I’m thinking it’s a fine day for a pair of ladies to join their aunts for a ride in the traveling coach.” Uncle Gayle—it didn’t seem fair to call him by the same name as Fleur’s puppy—appeared to consider this. “For what purpose?” “To keep the peace. Emmie and I never haul out our big guns around the children,” said Uncle Devlin, which made no sense. “Do you like to play soldiers?” Fleur asked. Amanda appeared intrigued by the notion. She was forever galloping up hills and charging down banisters in pursuit of the French. Uncle Devlin’s brows knitted—he had wonderful dark eyebrows, much like Papa’s. “As a matter of fact, on occasion, if I’ve been an exceedingly good fellow, my daughter lets me join her in a game of soldiers.” “I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the business myself,” said Uncle Valentine. “I excel at the lightning charge and have been known to take even the occasional doll prisoner.” “Missus Wolverhampton would not like being a prisoner,” Fleur said, though Uncle Valentine was teasing—wasn’t he?” “Perhaps you gentlemen can arrange an assignation to play soldiers with our nieces on some other day,” Westhaven said. He sounded like his teeth hurt, which Fleur knew might be from the seasonal hazard of eating too much candy. “You can play too,” Fleur allowed, because it was Christmas, and one ought to be kind to uncles who strayed into one’s nursery. “We’ll let you be Wellington,” Amanda added, getting into the spirit of the day. “Which leaves me to be Blucher’s mercenaries,” Uncle Devlin said, “saving the day as usual.” “Oh, that’s brilliant.” Uncle Valentine wasn’t smiling now. “Leave your baby brother to be the infernal French again, will you? See if I write a waltz for your daughter’s come out, St. Just.” Uncle Gayle wasn’t frowning quite so mightily. In fact, he looked like he wanted to smile but was too grown-up to allow it. “Perhaps you ladies will gather up a few soldiers and fetch a doll or two. We’re going on a short journey to find your mama and papa, so we can all share Christmas with them.” Fleur noticed his slip, and clearly, Amanda had too—but it was the same slip Amanda had made earlier, and one Fleur was perfectly happy to let everybody make. Uncle Gayle had referred to their papa’s new wife not as their stepmama, but as their mama. What a fine thing that would be, if for Christmas they got a mama again for really and truly. Amanda fetched their dolls, Fleur grabbed their favorite storybook, and the uncles herded them from the nursery, all three grown men arguing about whose turn it was to be the blasted French. ***

You’re close to Westhaven?” Peeking and prying again, damn the man. “I love my family, Mr. Hazlit, and yes, I would say I am close to all my siblings.” “No particular favorites?” When would the perishing damned tray arrive? “I was close to Bart—there was only a few months’ difference in our ages—and Victor was my escort of choice because Valentine had his hands full with the rest of my sisters. Why do you ask?” He flashed her a saccharine smile. “A man interested in a lady wants to know her every confidence. Would you like to know a few of mine?” “Have you any worth knowing?” The boredom she was able to inject into the question was supremely satisfying. She more than suspected he was better connected than he let on—perhaps in line for a title. He was an honorable, after all. “Everybody has secrets, Miss Windham, or am I still to call you Maggie?” When had he moved? He was perched on the arm of the sofa, not a polite posture at all, and one that put him in proximity to her. “If you’re supposedly courting me, Mr. Hazlit, then you will want to impress me with your manners, not slip into informalities at every turn.

So it wasn’t all Indians, pilfered brandy, and erotica?” “Not lately. The point I wanted to make, however, is I do not want to be—I most assuredly do not want to be—Moreland’s youngest pup while I am among my neighbors here.” “You’re a mighty strapping pup, but you are his son.” “I could be the size of your dear brother-in-law, Nick Haddonfield,” Val retorted, a note of exasperation in his voice, “and I would still be Moreland’s youngest pup, and not just to the doddering old titles His Grace battles with in the Lords. You try being the youngest of five boys and blessed with a name like Valentine. It wears on one.” Darius

You’re really going?” Except it wasn’t a question. “You’ve asked it of me,” Val reminded her gently, “and you are convinced Freddy will pester me literally to death if I don’t leave you to continue on with him as you did before, and you have forbidden me to call him out.” She nodded and leaned into him, fell into him, because her knees threatened to buckle with the magnitude of the loss she was to endure. Val embraced her, resting his cheek against her hair. “You’re a strong woman, Ellen Markham, and I have every faith in your ability to soldier on. I need to know as I trot out of your life that you will be fine and you will manage here without me. So”—he put a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze—“tell me some pretty lies, won’t you? You’ll be fine?” Ellen blinked and obediently recited the requested untruth. “I’ll be fine.” “I’ll be fine, as well.” Val smiled at her sadly. “And I’ll manage quite nicely on my own, as I always have. You?” “Splendidly,” Ellen whimpered, closing her eyes as tears coursed hot and fast down her cheeks. “Oh, Val…” She clutched him to her desperately, there being no words to express the pure, undiluted misery of the grief she’d willingly brought on herself. “My dearest love.” Val kissed her wet cheeks. “You really must not take on so, for it tortures me to see it. This is what you want, or do I mistake you at this late hour?” “You do not.” The sigh Ellen heaved as she stepped back should have moved the entire planet. She wanted Val safe from Freddy’s infernal and deadly machinations, and this was the only way to achieve that goal. She had the conviction Valentine Windham, a supremely determined and competent man—son of a duke in every regard—would not take Freddy’s scheming seriously until it was too late. It was up to her to protect the man she loved, and that thought alone allowed her to remain true to the only prudent course. “You have not mistaken me, not now—not ever.” “I did not think you’d change your mind.” Val led her back toward the house by the hand. “I have left my direction in the library, and in the bottom drawer of the desk you will find some household money. I know you’d prefer to cut all ties, Ellen, but if you need anything—anything at all—you must call upon me. Promise?” “I promise,” she recited, unable to do otherwise. “And Ellen?” Val paused before they got to the stable yard. “Two things. First, thank you. You gave me more this summer than I could have ever imagined or deserved, and I will keep the memories of the joy we shared with me always. Second, if there should be a child, you will marry me.” “There will not be a child,” she murmured, looking back toward the wood. He was thanking her? She’d cost him a fortune and put his well-being in jeopardy, and he was thanking her? “I do not, and never will, deserve you.” “Promise me you’ll tell me if there’s a child?” Val’s green eyes were not gentle or patient. They were positively ducal in their force of will. “If there is a child I will tell you.” “Well, then.” Val resumed their progress. “I think that’s all there is to say, except, once again, I love you.” “I love you, too,” Ellen replied, wishing she’d given him the words so much more often and under so many different circumstances. “Good-bye, my dearest love.

So is this Val’s widow?” A jovial male voice sang out from the back of the box, and because she was watching her escort’s every move, Ellen saw Gayle Windham almost roll his eyes. “Percy!” A soft, female voice chided. “Really. Lady Roxbury is Valentine’s friend and was his neighbor in Oxfordshire. My lady, Esther, the Duchess of Moreland, pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Valentine’s mother, and this scandalous old reprobate is His Grace, Percival, the Duke of Moreland.” Ellen would have fallen on her backside had Westhaven not had her hand tucked firmly on his arm. She curtsied, murmuring something polite, her mind whirling at the august personages before her and the casual manner in which they’d introduced themselves. Maybe Val hadn’t known his parents were using their box tonight, she reasoned. This whole trip to Town had been so odd, with Westhaven explaining only that Val wanted her to attend the opening night of the symphony’s fall season. She’d been whisked to Town, spent the night in one of the most elegant townhouses she’d ever seen, presented with a peculiarly well-fitting bronze silk evening gown and all the trimmings, and now here she was. “They’re growin’ ’em almost as pretty as my duchess out in Oxfordshire, I see,” the duke said, beaming at Ellen. Did dukes beam? Something in the mischief of his smile tickled her memory. “You and Val have the same smile,” she informed the duke. “And Your Grace”—she turned to the duchess, a stately, slender lady whose hair was antique gold—“Val has your eyes.” The duchess leaned close to whisper, “But I think Valentine has your heart, hmm?” She straightened and took her husband’s arm. “Shall we be seated, Percy? One doesn’t want to disappoint the crowds.

Jung had had enough, and in his reply he made clear his disgust with Freud’s infuriating practice of treating criticism of his ideas as mere psychological resistance to his infallibility. Jung had already complained that “the majority of psychoanalysts misuse psychoanalysis to devalue other people and their progress by insinuations about complexes,”19 and now he dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s. Treating his followers like patients, he told Freud, was a “blunder” that produced “either slavish sons or impudent puppies.” “I am objective enough to see through your little trick,” he told the master. “You go around sniffing out all the symptomatic actions in your vicinity, thus reducing everyone to the level of your sons and daughters who blushingly admit the existence of their faults. Meanwhile you remain on top as a father, sitting pretty. For sheer obsequiousness nobody dares to pluck the prophet by the beard and inquire for once what you would say to a patient with a tendency to analyse the analyst instead of himself.” “You see, my dear Professor, so long as you hand out this stuff I don’t give a damn for my symptomatic actions; they shrink to nothing compared with the formidable beam in my brother Freud’s eye.”20

More than that, the thought rattled uncomfortably in my child brain that I would one day become one of them. My body then was sexless. Though I had seen the curves of adults, I couldn’t fathom the chrysalis that would turn my featureless body into something with heft and gravity, curves and the inclination to use them.

He wonders aloud at the origins of valentining. 'You're right,' Rachel says. 'It is a verb. Can be. And birds valentine each other, make mating calls. And usually mate in mid-February. You see?' 'But why Valentine?' asks Zach. 'Why valentining?' 'There were many Saint Valentines,' offers Tasha. 'I don't know what the link is between their martyrdom and love letters.' Zach is not very interested in the old tradition or the archaic verb. He is not bothered by the mating calls of passerines or the saints named Valentine and their associated symbols—he is merely fishing. Does Rachel think the tradition silly? If he were to send her a valentine, how strange would that be?

Jace’s ears were ringing with a harsh, tinny sound. He felt dizzy. “Even Valentine,” he said, “even Valentine would never do that—” “Please,” said Sebastian. “Do you really think my father won’t go through with what he’s planned?” “Our father,” Jace said. Sebastian glanced down at him. His hair was a white halo; he looked like the sort of bad angel who might have followed Lucifer out of heaven. “Pardon me,” he said, with some amusement. “Are you praying?” “No. I said our father. I meant Valentine. Not your father. Ours.” For

You look as if you’ve just lost your best friend.” Eve took a place beside Jenny on this observation, which leavened Jenny’s sense of desolation with a spike of resentment. “With all my family around me, how could I possibly be in want of companionship?” Eve watched their mutual siblings stepping through a minuet while their brother Valentine held forth at the piano. “The same way I can long to dance while the minuet plays all around me.” Marriage had settled Eve, and impending motherhood had only honed her already formidable instincts. “You’re admiring your husband, Lady Deene, even when you can’t dance with him.” “He’s promised me a waltz, though Valentine will probably find one to play at the speed of a dirge.” She fell silent for a moment as the dancers one-two-three’d around the space created by the music room and an adjoining parlor. “You would make a wonderful mother, Jenny.” The worst pain was not in the words Eve offered, but the combination of pleading and pity with which she offered them. “Becoming a mother usually contemplates becoming a wife first, and I’ve no wish to wed some man for the sole purpose of bearing his babies.” Not the sole purpose… As the dancers twirled and smiled, it occurred to Jenny that Victor had made her promise not to stop painting, but he hadn’t said anything specific about eschewing motherhood. Had he? Another pause in the conversation, while the music played on. Eve, however, was notably tenacious, so Jenny waited for the next salvo, and Eve did not disappoint. “You look at Bernward the way I look at Deene, the way Maggie looks at Benjamin, the way—” “Louisa looks at Joseph, I suppose.” And Sophie at her baron too, of course. They needn’t start on how the Windham brothers regarded their respective wives. “Louisa’s gaze is a touch more voracious. I was going to say, the way Mama looks at Papa.” Ouch. Ouch, indeed. The duke and duchess turned down the room with the grace of a more elegant age, and yet, their gazes spoke volumes about the sheer pleasure of sharing a dance. Jenny stated the obvious as matter-of-factly as possible. “Their Graces dance beautifully.” Eve’s feet were propped on a hassock. She wiggled her toes in time with the music, the left and right foot partnering each other. “Bernward also dances quite well.” Elijah was dancing with Valentine’s lady, Ellen’s preferred partner being ensconced at the keyboard, as usual. “Bernward is dancing carefully, lest Valentine take exception.” Eve twitched her skirts. “Bernward is dancing with one eye on you, you ninnyhammer, and with the certain knowledge that all three of our brothers are waiting for him to come over here and get you to stand up with him. How many more times do you think you can check on the punch bowl between sets without Bernward taking insult?” Check

Liam dropped down to one knee and clasped her hand. "From the day we first met, I knew I needed you in my life. You took the chaos and made it calm. You lifted my heart with your smile and awed me with your brilliant mind. I kept every secret valentine, every scribbled note, your stuffed rabbit, and the answer to every math question I gave you. I hoped one day to be the kind of man you could love, a man who would hold and cherish you, a man worthy of you, and who would protect you with the sword you are going to allow him to have at our wedding." He fumbled in his pocket. "I didn't really plan this..." Daisy laughed. "Of course not." "I did try, but it wasn't me, and if I had, I would have missed this incredible opportunity to turn the ultimate cinematic symbol of uncontrollable passion upside down and make the fantasy of a love so intense that nothing else matters into something real." Her face softened. "You remembered all that?" "I remember every moment I spend with you." He pulled out a silver ring with a Sharks logo on top. "I keep my fan gear in Hamish's warehouse. I grabbed it when I left with the bike, just in case." He slipped the ring on her finger. "Daisy Patel, my humraaz, love of my life, will you marry me?" Her happiness bubbled over and she punched her fist in the air. "Go Sharks!" "Is that a yes?" He looked up, frowning. "It's a little less romantic than I had anticipated..." "Of course it's a yes.

If you were not so gentle, If you were hard to please, If you were never patient And always ill at ease, If you were far from humble, If you could not forgive, If all you did was grumble And curse the life you live, If you were irreligious, If you were not composed, If you were quite ignoble, If you had not proposed, If you were daft as killdeer, If you were less than kind, If you were proud and pushy, I’d pay you little mind. And never would I ever Call you Valentine. But you are kind and gentle, So patiently at ease. You’re gracious, sweet, and humble. Not ever hard to please. You evince faith and service; They dictate how you live. Good will along with mercy Allow you to forgive. Despite the trials and heartaches, You count your blessings all. Despite the miles between us, Persistently you call. The gestures of affection. The compliments so kind. The selfless acts of service Endear you in my mind. And that, my dear, is why I Call you Valentine.

You had hoped in love. You had believed in its existence. Its goodness. The richness of a life bathed in it. You went in search of it. Hoping. Longing. Risking. Trusting. And at some point you found love, or what you thought was love. And you gladly immersed yourself in it. Freely. Joyfully. With the whole of your being. And then at some point, it turned. Violently. Wickedly. It did what loves doesn’t do, or least what it’s not supposed to do. It used you. Betrayed you. Wounded you. And then it cast you off to some cold isolated place to somehow bear your pain in the worst kind of loneliness imaginable. And in those places we are left with the bitter feeling that love was a grand hoax. A childish hope. An antiquated myth set on wounding those who fall prey to its seductive promises. But I would tell you to never let those who abuse love define it through their abuse of it. To the contrary, there is something pristine and untouchable about love. Something transformational. Life-altering. Life-giving. Yes, people abuse it. But when a single human being sets the whole of themselves aside in order to freely love another, magic is set in motion. And it is my prayer that the hope of the love that you have always longed for will never be crushed by those who have crushed you. Rather, may you believe, may you wait, may you hold hope close, and may you be blessed when the love that you thought not to exist unexpectedly seizes your heart, rubs your soul warm, and ignites your life. This is what I wish for you.

The dingo’s got my baby’. It’s a statement of fact. And it’s very clear. I know now that it’s considered too clear. Apparently it would have been more believable if I had choked, hysterical. ‘In the tent … a … a … get out …’ Oh, I know what they would have liked, ‘Get away from her, Get away, you, Get away from my baby’. They wouldn’t have made fun of that. ‘Oh God, Oh God, Oh God!’ Or just a blood-curdling scream and instant tears. But that’s not what I do that’s not going to help I thought of the baby not myself I didn’t get emotional or hysterical because I wasn’t thinking of myself I was thinking there might still be a chance so I give the news as clearly and precisely as I can, ‘A dingo’s got my baby’. So that they don’t have to waste time on ‘What is it? What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ I just screwed it all up into what’s happened and how and the race to fix it. Because you’re in it it's happening and she’s gone and you can’t undo it and you can’t unlose her and you can’t for a moment indulge your feelings so you yell, ‘The dingo’s got my baby!’ And that’s where it begins.

Dear Lindy, Over ten years ago a ten and a half foot Amethystine python tried to take my not quite two year old son from his bed… this weekend I attended a writer’s workshop with… Kate Llewellyn and after reading the enclosed poem she said I MUST send it to you and so here it is… The Letter I should Have Written to Lindy Chamberlain I believe you, Lindy, I know that even now with all that is tamed the Wild is always near In the black of night I lifted my child from his winter bed only to feel a cold weight, skin to skin along my length. Python jaws around my baby’s leg. Two day’s later on TV, whodunnit: the Dingo or the Bitch But I believed you and I wonder Would they have hissed at me on the steamy courthouse steps: ‘The snake is innocent.

After a few slow dances, Dallas and I take a break. He stops by the punch table, as Raya walks over. Dallas hands me a glass, and then, without thinking, gives Raya the one he got for himself. “Thanks.” She takes it, and stares him down as he gets another for himself. “I was there for the first rendition of ‘Kiss You.’” “Oh?” He glances at me, then back at Raya. “Yours was much, much better than Poppy’s.” Raya’s expression remains the same. Dallas’s smile is tentative. “That was cool what you did.” Then, with a smile that would chill a corpse, she says, “But if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.” And with that, she walks away. “She secretly likes you,” I tell him. “If that’s her version of liking someone, I’d hate to be on her bad side.

Because I won’t survive having you and losing you,” he says in a shaky breath. “To wake up one day and have you realize it wasn’t what you thought it would be or that it was the chase that you actually enjoyed. That I was just an experiment or a momentary lapse in judgment.” He shakes his head, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “My heart can’t take that, Gael.

Because I was waiting for you. Waiting for a love that would walk into my life and blow my whole world up. I want to celebrate every Valentine’s Day & birthday with you. Love, Carter I’d

Well, I've never written a line of poetry in my life: it is not my way! But if I *did* write about you I shouldn't call you a paltry daffodil! I should liken you to a rose--one of those yellow ones, with a deep golden heart, and a sweet scent!" said Sir Bonamy, warming to the theme. "Nonsense!" she said briskly. "You would be very much more likely to call me a plump partridge, or a Spanish fritter!

There’s nothing there except for her word, and what good is that when she was the one sending you all those texts. But you wanna know the kicker? You want me to crack an egg of knowledge over your head?” I didn’t answer. Christmas wiggled his fingers in the air, and then sang “Spoiler alert! Regina’s the one who asked me for help. It’s not the other way around this time.” He pounded the butt of his fist against the table. “Man! I hate ruining surprises!” My heart stopped. I patted my chest with my open palm to get it going again. Okay, not really, but that’s what it felt like. Christmas could see the confusion on my face and he continued to floor me with his words. “I’m sure by now you’ve noticed the show choir has been absorbed with the set they’ve been creating all afternoon. It’s quite elaborate, and everyone in the show choir is required to help, but… has Regina been helping at all? Has she been sweating away, moving huge boxes back and forth with the other kids in the show choir?” I paused. “No. She’s been running around the mall taking selfies. But… her parents were here. They came to watch her performance.” Christmas snapped his fingers at me. “Connect those dots, Valentine…” “But if Regina’s not in the show choir, then her parents can only be here because they think she’s in it,” I said, staring at the table. “But why would she lie to them?” “Cha-ching!” Christmas was giving me a hint. “Don’t forget that membership is $200 a month!” “That’s why Regina seems to have so much money all the time,” I said. “She faked being a member of show choir to keep the money for herself. But… why the selfie game? Why send us all over the mall?” “Because I told her to,” Christmas chuckled. “Yeah, that was all me. She came to me, asking for help to cancel the entire trip, which I actually tried to do earlier.” Little light bulbs were switching on in my head. “That’s what the sign was for this morning.” And then I remembered the girl who shouted. “That was Regina in the cafeteria! She tried to start a food fight so the school would cancel the show before we even boarded the buses!” “Didn’t work,” Christmas said. “I knew it wouldn’t, but that didn’t stop her. She came to me again at the mall and asked for my help, so I did. I told her exactly what to do, and she did it perfectly, distracting you like the bugs you are.” “Distracting us?” I asked. Christmas turned around. “She’s planning on sabotaging the show choir performance. If they don’t perform, then her parents will never learn that she’s not in the club.