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+{"text":"\n## Table of Contents\n\n  * Dedications\n  * About The Author\n  * Food From Our Ancestors: The Ultimate Italian Sunday Dinner\n  * Introduction\n  * Dina's Tossed Mushrooms\n  * Escarole Soup\n  * Fish Pizzaiola\n  * Olive Scacciata\n  * Pasta e Fagiole\n  * Pizzagaina\n  * Spinach and Potato Frittata\n  * Stuffed Artichokes\n  * Sunday Gravy\n  * Traditional Eggplant Parmigiana\n  * Uncle Vinny's Shrimp Scampi\n  * Chicken Broccoli and Ziti\n\n**Dedications and Thank You**\n\nThis book is dedicated to my sons Asher and Jacob who light up my life every single day. Thank you to my husband Rich for your endless love and unwavering support over the last 15 years. You are my number one fan and I am forever grateful. Thank you for pushing me to follow my dreams.\n\nA special thank you to the Bono Family: Aunt Dolly, Uncle Vinny and cousin Richard, for opening up your kitchen and generously sharing your family recipes and stories with us.\n\nTo all of The Lemon Bowl readers, thank you for all of your support and encouragement over the years. It is because of you that I am able to pursue my passion of cooking. I will forever be grateful.\n\nLastly, thank you to all of my family and friends who have cheered me along and supported my dream over the years. It is because you believed in me that I was able to believe in myself.\nAbout The Author\n\nLiz Della Croce is the creator and author of The Lemon Bowl, a healthy food and travel blog. Since 2010, Liz has grown a loyal following of health-conscious readers from all over the world. Focusing on seasonal ingredients and whole foods, her collection of recipes is inspired by ethnic flavors from around the globe and the Lebanese dishes of her childhood.\n\nLiz has appeared live on the TODAY Show and tapes regular cooking segments on her local NBC affiliate station. Liz been featured in various publications including Real Simple Magazine, Shape Magazine, Food Network blog, Fitness Magazine, The Cooking Channel, TODAY Food and more.\n\nThrough healthy eating and regular exercise, Liz achieved long term weight loss success and has a passion for helping others reach similar goals. In 2013, Liz launched Healthy Habits, a feature on The Lemon Bowl where her loyal readers and growing audience can find practical advice, resources and information on creating and maintaining a healthy lifestyle.\n\nLiz graduated from Boston University with a degree in Hospitality Administration and a minor in Marketing Management. She and her husband reside in Grand Rapids, MI along with their two young boys.\n\nConnect with Liz directly on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest or via email: Liz@thelemonbowl.com\n\n_Food From Our Ancestors_ : The Ultimate Italian Sunday Dinner\n\nI'll never forget the day I met my husband in 2001. I was living on the East Coast attending Boston University. It was a cold and snowy Sunday afternoon in early December, and we both arrived at the agreed upon place 20 minutes early. While there are many aspects of our first date I'll never forget, what I remember most was what I felt when he told me he had to be home in time for Sunday dinner with his family later that night. I knew right then he was going to get a second date. And probably a few more. Ten years of marriage and two kids later, I'd say my intuition was spot on.\n\nThe first in a series of eCookbooks profiling Sunday dinner across America, this edition is all about my husband's Italian-American family and the incredibly rich food history they've been so gracious to share with me over the years. While I don't have any Italian blood, from the very first time I met Rich's Italian aunts, uncles and cousins, I knew I was home. These were my people. They love hard, fight hard, laugh hard and eat well.\n\nOf course, I couldn't write a book about my husband's Italian family in Boston without also paying homage to the North End. This is the city's oldest residential neighborhood and home to nearly one hundred restaurants and specialty shops. Walking through the cobblestone-lined streets is like strolling through the old country.\n\nWhile the weather isn't usually as balmy as Italy, the energy is quite the same. The smell, the feel, the people, it's unlike anything else. Featuring many family-run, multi-generation establishments and numerous storytellers, there's nothing quite like Boston's North End. The food is still from scratch, the people are as authentic as it gets, and you can still stroll the streets to find freshly baked bread, homemade cheese and cured Italian meats. It's the real deal.\n\nTo help inspire and encourage you to celebrate an Italian-style Sunday dinner, I'm sharing the 12 ultimate Italian recipes from my husband's family with yours. I hope these recipes and photos leave you hungry for more.\n\n_Introduction_\n\nI grew up within a few miles of my entire extended family, and there was always a Sunday dinner, birthday party or holiday gathering taking place. Like any good Middle Eastern family, these events centered around one thing and one thing only: food.\n\nFor whatever reason while my little sisters were busy running around the house, watching TV or playing outside, I always gravitated toward the kitchen. No matter how many cousins were visiting or what movies were playing, all I wanted to do was see what my mom and aunts were cooking together in the kitchen. The endless laughter, the flumes of cigarette smoke, and countless cups of coffee, it was all oddly intoxicating. They were loud, they were funny, and their love for one another was palpable.\n\nFrom as young as five years old I can remember peering over the kitchen counter on my tiptoes begging my mom to let me help her dress the raw turkey at Thanksgiving. I can still picture my Great Aunt Vieve turning a platter of homemade hummus into a piece of artwork with minced parsley, toasted pine nuts and fragrant green onions.\n\nAt the end of the day it didn't matter what they were cooking, I just wanted in. To this day food is my love language, and cooking is my favorite form of therapy.\n\nWhile I didn't always have a healthy relationship with food, I was able to reach a weight loss milestone in my mid-twenties. Through proper portion control and regular exercise, I have successfully maintained a 60-pound weight loss for more than nine years and through two pregnancies.\n\nOver the years one thing has always remained the same: Taking the time to cook from scratch is not only the healthier option, but it's always worth the extra effort. As a busy mother of two little boys I've learned that some of the best scratch cooking also happens to be some of the simplest.\n\nFor me the easiest and most practical answer to healthy cooking comes down to eating the ethnic foods of my ancestors. Naturally more flavorful and more nutritious, I've found that eating ethnic food not only keeps me excited about healthy eating but it prevents me from getting bored and gaining back the weight I've worked so hard to lose.\n\nI wrote _Food From Our Ancestors_ to inspire you to get in the kitchen and gather your friends and family around the dinner table. Whether you're trying to reach a weight loss goal or simply living a healthier life, you'll never regret taking the time to put some thought into the foods you eat. Slowing down in the kitchen and unplugging from the outside world is not only the ultimate way to unwind at the end of a long day, but it is also one of the easiest steps you can take toward living a healthier life.\n\nNo matter what you're cooking, whenever you cook from scratch, you can control the quality of ingredients, which often results in less fat, fewer calories and less sodium than you'll find in a restaurant dish. This book isn't about \"health food,\" it's simply about going back to our roots and cooking the food our forebears ate.\n\nChicken Broccoli and Ziti\n\n_Lighter than the traditional Alfredo-style chicken and broccoli pasta, Aunt Dolly's version is made with a bright and flavorful garlic white wine sauce. Frequently served when the priest would come over for dinner, her children always knew it was a special occasion when chicken broccoli and ziti was on the menu._\n\nServes 4-6.\n\nIngredients\n\n  * \u00bc cup olive oil\n  * 6 cloves garlic, minced\n  * 4 six-ounce boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cubed\n  * salt and pepper to taste\n  * 4 cups broccoli, cut into bite-sized florets\n  * 1 cup dry white wine\n  * 1 \u00bd cups low sodium chicken broth\n  * 6 ounces shredded part-skim mozzarella cheese\n  * grated Parmesan cheese\n  * 1 pound ziti pasta (or short cut pasta of choice)\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Heat olive oil in a large pan over medium-high heat and add garlic. Saute until fragrant, about 30 seconds.\n  2. Sprinkle chicken with salt and pepper then add to the pan. Saute until golden brown, about 5 minutes.\n  3. Add white wine to deglaze using a wooden spoon to scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan. Reduce heat to low and simmer until liquid reduces by half.\n  4. Stir in chicken broth then continue simmering for 5 minutes. Check sauce for seasoning and add salt and pepper to taste.\n  5. Bring a large pot of salty water to a boil and add pasta. Cook according to package instructions, adding the broccoli florets to the pot two minutes before the end of the cooking time.\n  6. Drain the broccoli and pasta but do not rinse off the cooking liquid. Add cooked broccoli and pasta to the pan with chicken in white wine sauce.\n  7. Add shredded mozzarella and toss until it begins to melt. Place in a large shallow bowl and garnish with Parmesan cheese to serve.\n\nDina's Tossed Mushrooms\n\n_A delicious side dish to any Sunday dinner or special occasion meal, Auntie Dina perfected this quick and easy alternative to stuffed mushrooms._\n\nServes 6.\n\nIngredients\n\n  * 1 pound white button mushrooms\n  * 2 tablespoons water\n  * \u00bd cup dried Italian-style breadcrumbs\n  * 2 tablespoons Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, grated\n  * 2 tablespoons Italian parsley, minced\n  * \u00bc teaspoon dried thyme\n  * 1 clove garlic, minced\n  * Salt and pepper to taste\n  * \u00bc cup olive oil to drizzle\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.\n  2. Slice off the bottom of the stems; then, use a moist paper towel to gently remove any dirt from mushrooms.\n  3. Quarter or halve the mushrooms, depending on size.\n  4. Sprinkle water in the bottom of a large glass baking dish then place mushrooms in a single layer on top of the water.\n  5. In a small bowl combine next six ingredients: breadcrumbs through salt\/pepper. Sprinkle mixture evenly on top of the mushrooms.\n  6. Drizzle evenly with olive oil then bake uncovered until the mushrooms are golden, about 15 minutes. Serve hot or warm.\n\nEscarole Soup\n\n_Similar to Italian wedding soup, escarole soup has the unique flavor of the greens combined with plenty of fragrant garlic. A Bono family favorite, escarole soup is the ultimate holiday dish, weeknight winter meal or flu fighter. Kids will especially love the tiny meatballs in the soup!_\n\nServes 4-6.\n\nIngredients\n\n  * 4 tablespoons olive oil\n  * 1 bulb garlic, peeled and chopped (about 12 cloves)\n  * 1 \u00bd to 2 heads of escarole, chopped into small pieces\n  * 1 gallon water (or chicken stock)\n  * salt and pepper to taste\n  * \u00bd cup cooked tubettini pasta\n  * Meatballs\n  * 1 pound ground beef, 85% or higher fat content\n  * 1 egg, lightly beaten\n  * \u00bd cup Italian bread crumbs\n  * 2 tablespoon dried parsley\n  * 1 teaspoon salt\n  * \u00bd teaspoon pepper\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Mix together ground beef, egg, bread crumbs, parsley, salt and pepper in a medium bowl. Roll into \u00be-inch balls and set aside.\n  2. In a large soup pot heat oil over medium-high heat. Cook garlic until fragrant, about 30 seconds.\n  3. Add water or chicken stock and chopped escarole to the pan. Bring to a boil then slowly add in the tiny meatballs. Stir once.\n  4. Reduce heat to medium, cover and simmer for one hour.\n  5. Add cooked pasta to the soup right before serving.\n\nFish Pizzaiola\n\n_Uncle Vinny was the son of a fisherman, in fact the son of a captain, so fish was always a staple growing up in Uncle Vinny's house. His mother, Grandma Mary, had a total of five boys to feed and since they were Catholic, meat was never served on any Friday of the year. While not traditional, American cheese was occasionally used instead of mozzarella if that's what she had in the house. This dish is the perfect example of an Old World Italian recipe Americanized due to economizing and accessibility. Additionally, it was representative of an effort to keep old traditions alive while also showing pride for America and the opportunities this country afforded her family._\n\nServes 4.\n\nIngredients\n\n  * 2 pounds fresh white fish ( haddock, cod or tilapia)\n  * 1 teaspoon garlic powder\n  * 1 teaspoon onion powder\n  * 1 teaspoon salt\n  * \u00bd teaspoon pepper\n  * \u00bc cup unsalted butter, cut into small cubes\n  * 4 medium-sized tomatoes, thinly sliced\n  * 2 teaspoons minced fresh parsley (or 1 teaspoon dried)\n  * \u00bc cup Parmesan or Romano cheese, grated\n  * \u00bc cup olive oil\n  * 1 cup shredded mozzarella or 4 slices American cheese\n  * Lemon wedges\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.\n  2. Season fish with garlic powder, onion powder, salt and pepper. Place in a large baking dish lightly coated with cooking spray to prevent sticking.\n  3. Arrange butter cubes evenly on top of seasoned fish. Layer tomato slices on top to cover fish and butter.\n  4. Sprinkle tomatoes evenly with parsley, additional salt and pepper to taste and grated cheese.\n  5. Bake fish for 15-20 minutes or until fish is opaque. Remove from oven and add shredded cheese or cheese slices, then return to oven and bake until melted, about 2 minutes.\n  6. Remove fish from oven and garnish with lemon slices.\n\nOlive Scacciata\n\n_Scacciata, Italian for \"expelled,\" is the perfect name for this simple recipe. Grandma Mary, an incredible cook who specialized in Sicilian dishes, would serve this dish with freshly baked Italian scali bread to help soak up the vinaigrette._\n\n_Olive scacciata was always just the beginning of what would be an amazing meal full of many courses. Grandma Mary comes from a long line of women who mastered the art of creating delicious food out of only a few simple ingredients. Women like Mary, a mother of five on a budget, expressed their love best through the delicious meals they fed their families. While the dishes would change, one thing always remained the same: They served every meal with pride and perfection._\n\nServes 4.\n\nIngredients\n\n  * 1 large red onion, thinly sliced\n  * 1 bunch celery, base removed, sliced 1-inch thick\n  * 2 cups large green Sicilian (or Spanish) olives with pits\n  * 1 clove garlic, minced\n  * \u00bd cup extra virgin olive oil\n  * \u00bc cup red wine or balsamic vinegar\n  * \u00bd teaspoon black pepper\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Place onion slices and celery pieces in a large bowl.\n  2. Drain Sicilian olives and hit each one with your palm or back of a large chef's knife to break slightly. Add to the bowl along with minced garlic.\n  3. Drizzle with olive oil and red wine then sprinkle with black pepper. Toss well before serving with Italian scali bread.\n\nPasta E Fagiole\n\n_Pasta with beans is a great summer soup or hearty winter comfort dish. This is a budget friendly meal that as Dad would say,\"sticks to your ribs.\" This dish has fed a cold and kept families satisfied for many generations._\n\nServes 8.\n\nIngredients\n\n  * \u00bc cup olive oil\n  * 1 small onion, thinly sliced\n  * 2 cloves garlic, minced\n  * 2 tablespoons Italian seasoning (mixture of oregano, parsley, basil, etc.)\n  * 1 small can tomato paste\n  * 12 cups of water (or chicken stock or combination of both)\n  * 15-ounce can of red beans, drained and rinsed\n  * 15-ounce can white beans, drained and rinsed\n  * 15-ounce can chickpeas (garbanzo beans), drained and rinsed\n  * Salt and pepper to taste\n  * \u00bd pound ditalini or elbow pasta, cooked according to package\n  * Sprinkle with grated Parmesan cheese and serve with crusty bread\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Heat oil over medium-high heat in a large soup pot and saute onion, garlic and spices until just tender about 4-5 minutes.\n  2. Add tomato paste and stir well. Reduce heat to low and cook for 3-4 minutes, stirring occasionally.\n  3. Add the water or chicken stock and beans to the pot; bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer for 20 minutes.\n  4. Stir in cooked pasta just before serving. Garnish with Parmesan cheese and serve with crusty bread for dunking.\n\nPizzagaina\n\n_Our grandmother Katerina Della Croce from Mirabella Eclano (located in the province of Avellino in southern Italy) made this dish every year on Easter. We called her Nonni, and while she is no longer here, we think of her every year at Easter when we prepare her pizzagaina. Indulgent, rich and satisfying, each bite brings us back to her kitchen and reminds us of our beloved Grandma Della Croce._\n\nServes 6.\n\nIngredients\n\n  * \u00bd pound spaghetti, broken into thirds or fourths\n  * 1 tablespoon unsalted butter\n  * \u00bd pound part-skim shredded mozzarella\n  * 2 pounds whole milk ricotta cheese\n  * \u00bd pound Fresh cheese (Typically sold around Easter on the East Coast. Replace with ricotta if you can't find.)\n  * 1 cup grated Parmesan or Romano cheese\n  * 1 dozen eggs, slightly beaten\n  * 1 pound high-end Italian cold cuts, cut in \u00bc-inch thick cubes (i.e., \u00bc pound each ham, salami, capicola and prosciutto)\n  * 2 tablespoons crushed peppercorns, optional\n  * 1 pound bacon\n  * minced parsley, optional garnish\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.\n  2. Cook spaghetti according to package instructions; drain then place in a large bowl. Add butter and toss well to melt.\n  3. In a separate large bowl, mix together mozzarella, ricotta, Fresh cheese, Parmesan, eggs and cold cuts. Add in crushed peppercorns if you wish for more of a bite.\n  4. Spray a large baking 9\" x13-inch baking dish with cooking spray or grease with vegetable shortening. Pour mixed ingredients into the pan.\n  5. Cover top entirely with sliced bacon to flavor the dish while it cooks and prevent the top from burning.\n  6. Bake until light brown and a butter knife comes out clean, about 1 to 1\u00bc hours.\n  7. Remove bacon with tongs and let cool before refrigerating. Mince cooked bacon and reserve for serving.\n  8. Serve sliced and cold, garnished with parsley and minced bacon.\n\nSpinach and Potato Frittata\n\n_The Italian word frittata, derived from friggere, roughly translates to fried. This was originally a general term for cooking eggs in a skillet, anywhere on the spectrum from scrambled to fried. Ideal for preparing ahead of time, frittatas make a great side dish or light meal for breakfast, lunch or dinner. In fact, grab two slices of Italian scali bread or a sub roll and you can create a lighter version of a \"padado\" and egg \"sangwich\"!_\n\nServes 6.\n\nIngredients\n\n  * 2 tablespoons olive oil\n  * 6 small potatoes, thinly sliced\n  * 1 cup torn spinach\n  * 2 tablespoons green onions, diced\n  * 1 clove garlic, minced\n  * Pinch of salt and pepper\n  * 6 large eggs\n  * 1\/3 cup milk\n  * 8 ounces Parmesan cheese, grated\n  * 1 tablespoon parsley, minced\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Heat olive oil over medium-high heat in a medium oven-proof skillet. Place potatoes in the pan, cover and cook for 10 minutes until tender but firm.\n  2. Add spinach, green onions and garlic to the pan along with a pinch of salt and pepper to taste. Cook until spinach wilts, stirring occasionally, about 2-3 minutes.\n  3. In a medium bowl whisk together eggs and milk. Pour into the skillet over the vegetables. Stir once then sprinkle with Parmesan cheese. Reduce heat to low, then cover and cook until eggs are firm, about 5-7 minutes.\n  4. Place skillet in the oven under the broiler and heat until eggs are cooked through, about 3 minutes, checking carefully so they don't burn.\n  5. Turn onto a plate.\n  6. Serve warm, room temperature or chilled.\n\nStuffed Artichokes\n\n_No holiday is complete without stuffed artichokes. Served as an appetizer or side dish, these are always a family favorite. Be sure to get the kids involved; they'll love pulling off the leaves and scraping the stuffing off with their teeth. Old world finger food at its best!_\n\nServes 6.\n\nIngredients\n\n  * 6 medium-sized artichokes\n  * 2 lemons, halved\n  * 6 cups Italian bread crumbs\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmesan cheese\n  * \u00bc cup chopped fresh or \u00bc cup dried parsley\n  * 4 garlic cloves, minced\n  * Salt and pepper to taste\n  * \u00bd cup olive oil, for drizzling\n  * 1 tablespoon salt\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Soak artichokes in cold water for 30 minutes.\n  2. Cut off the stems with a sharp knife. Make sure the cut is straight so artichoke will stand flat. Slice off \u00bc inch straight from the top of each artichoke (the prickly part). Stand the artichoke upside down and push firmly to slightly open the leaves, making room to catch the stuffing. Using scissors, cut the tip of each leaf straight across. Remove the purple leaves and the very center choke, which is very prickly, by grabbing it from the very bottom and pulling it straight out.\n  3. Squeeze the lemon juice inside the artichoke.\n  4. In a large bowl mix together the breadcrumbs, grated cheese, parsley, garlic, salt and pepper. Fill each leaf with the stuffing until artichokes are well-packed.\n  5. Drizzle well with olive oil.\n  6. Squeeze more lemon juice over the artichokes.\n  7. Sprinkle with a little salt over the top and sides.\n  8. Put artichokes standing up into a wide pot large enough to hold the artichokes. Add enough water to cover just to the top of the bottom row of leaves of the artichokes.\n  9. Add 1 tablespoon of salt to the pot. Cover and let the water come to a boil. Lower the heat and let the artichokes simmer for 45 minutes or until leaves are tender. Serve warm.\n\nSunday Gravy\n\n_Whether Italian Americans call it gravy or sauce, it's a Sunday tradition for Italian-American families everywhere. No family recipe is the same and rest assured, no one recipe tastes anything less than heaven._\n\n_Sundays always start with a large pot of gravy simmering on the stove, filling the house with an intoxicating aroma. No holiday dinner is complete without pasta served with this meat-filled red sauce. Fresh bread was always available throughout the day to sample the sauce while it cooked and was always available to clean off your plate at the end of the meal._\n\n_What happens in the middle is family time for feasting, sharing, laughing (and yes, sometimes even yelling) together. The operative word? Together. In fact, that's what every traditional meal should do: bring family and friends together._\n\n_P.S.: While I was growing up, my mother Dolly gave me the chore of meatball roller, and on many occasion that was one of my weekend chores. I liked to do it and enjoyed watching and learning how she prepared Sunday gravy. To this day it's probably the only thing I can make well since I'm not a great cook like most members of my family. But come the holidays? Family and friends request my gravy over and over._\n\n_Serves 12._\n\nIngredients\n\n  * Meatballs\n  * 3 pounds ground chuck (avoid beef with less than 15% fat content)\n  * 1 \u00bd cups Italian breadcrumbs\n  * \u00be cup grated Parmesan cheese\n  * 1 cup minced fresh parsley (or \u00bd cup dried)\n  * 2 eggs\n  * 1 tablespoon salt\n  * 1 teaspoon pepper\n  * Pre-heat oven to 325 degrees. Line a baking sheet with foil. Mix all ingredients well in a big bowl using your hands. Form into large meatballs and place in a single layer on the foil-lined baking sheet. Bake for 20 minutes; set aside.\n  * Sausage\n  * 12 Italian sweet and\/or spicy sausage[1]\n  * Cook according to package instructions.\n  * Gravy\n  * \u00bc cup olive oil\n  * 12 garlic cloves, minced\n  * 1 medium onion, diced\n  * \u00bc cup dried parsley or \u00bd cup minced fresh\n  * pinch red pepper flakes\n  * 1 teaspoon salt\n  * \u00bd teaspoon pepper\n  * 4 32-ounce cans \"kitchen ready\" tomatoes\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Heat oil over medium-high heat in a large sauce pot. Saut\u00e9 onions, garlic and red pepper flakes until translucent, about 3-4 minutes, stirring frequently.\n  2. Add parsley, salt and pepper; stir to combine.\n  3. Pour in tomatoes then stir well. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low.\n  4. Stir in cooked meatballs and sausage.\n  5. Fill each tomato can \u00be of the way with water, carefully rotating can so it catches any leftover tomatoes on the side of the can. Add to the pot.\n  6. Increase heat to high and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium and let cook on a low boil for 10-15 minutes, stirring frequently.\n  7. Reduce heat to low and simmer for at least 1-2 hours, stirring every 15 minutes. The longer it simmers, the deeper the flavor. If you can prepare the day before, even better.\n  8. Serve over your favorite pasta or use with your favorite Italian Parmigiana recipes like lasagna, chicken or eggplant.\n\nTraditional Eggplant Parmigiana\n\n_While the typical Italian Christmas Eve dinner table usually displays an array of seafood dishes, we always offer a dish or two for the non-fish eaters. Whether you serve this Traditional Eggplant Parmigiana on Christmas Eve or any day of the week, make sure you save leftovers for a sandwich the next day!_\n\nServes 8.\n\nIngredients\n\n  * 3 medium eggplants, ends removed, sliced \u00bc inch thick\n  * 1 \u00bd cups flour\n  * 4 eggs, lightly beaten with 2 tablespoons water\n  * 4 cups Italian breadcrumbs\n  * 1 \u00bd cups Parmesan cheese, grated\n  * 4 cups mozzarella cheese, shredded\n  * olive oil for frying\n  * 4 cups marinara sauce, homemade (see below for recipe) or store-bought\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Set up three shallow dishes: one with flour, one with beaten egg and one with Italian breadcrumbs.\n  2. Working one slice at a time, dip each eggplant slice into flour carefully dusting off any excess.\n  3. Next, dip in the egg mixture allowing excess to drip off. Finally, coat in the breadcrumb mixture. Repeat with all slices keeping them stacked on a large platter until you're finished.\n  4. Heat oil in a deep skillet over medium-high heat.\n  5. Fry each slice of eggplant until golden brown, about 2 minutes per side. Place on a dish lined with paper towel to drain off excess oil; let cool.\n  6. In a large baking dish spread a thin coating of the marinara sauce on bottom of pan.\n  7. Add a layer of fried eggplant, cutting to fit. Spread thin layer of sauce, then sprinkle grated Parmesan cheese and top with mozzarella cheese. Repeat eggplant, grated Parmesan cheese and mozzarella cheese until all is used.\n  8. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes in a 350-degree oven until it bubbles around the edges. Serve warm or cold in squares with other antipasti foods.\n\n**Quick Homemade Marinara Sauce**\n\nIngredients\n\n  * 1 clove garlic, minced\n  * pinch of red pepper flakes\n  * 3 tablespoons olive oil\n  * 1 tablespoon fresh parsley, minced\n  * 2 32-ounce cans crushed tomatoes\n  * salt and pepper to taste\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Heat oil in a large pot and saut\u00e9 garlic until slightly translucent.\n  2. Add remaining ingredients and bring to quick boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer for 30 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste.\n\nUncle Vinny's Shrimp Scampi\n\n_A popular Christmas Eve dish, Uncle Vinny's shrimp scampi is popular for the holiday because giving up meat is a means of fasting or sacrifice. A total showstopper, shrimp scampi might appear as if it takes hours to prepare, but it really doesn't take more than 15 minutes in total. Ideal for a busy weeknight dinner or to serve during the Lenten season before Easter, this lemon and garlic filled shellfish dish is always a crowd pleaser. We promise no one will miss the cheese pizza or veggie burgers when they take a bite of this shrimp scampi!_\n\nServes 4-6.\n\nIngredients\n\n  * 1 pound large raw shrimp, peeled and deveined\n  * \u00bc cup unsalted butter\n  * \u00bd cup olive oil\n  * 3 cloves garlic, minced\n  * Pinch of red pepper flakes\n  * \u00bc cup dry white wine\n  * 1 teaspoon salt\n  * \u00bd teaspoon pepper\n  * 3 tablespoons lemon juice\n  * 1 tablespoon grated lemon zest\n  * \u00bc cup chopped parsley\n  * Spaghetti, linguini or angel hair pasta, optional\n\nDirections\n\n  1. Rinse shrimp and pat dry with paper towel; set aside.\n  2. Melt butter and olive oil in a heavy frying pan over medium heat. Reduce heat and add garlic and red pepper flakes. Saute on low heat about 5 minutes.\n  3. Raise heat to high and when oil is hot, immediately add shrimp. Toss the shrimp around constantly, until they turn pink, about 3 minutes.\n  4. Add wine to pan to deglaze, scraping up any browned bits from bottom of pan. Saute 1 minute to let alcohol burn off slightly.\n  5. Remove pan from heat. Add salt, pepper, lemon juice, lemon zest and chopped parsley.\n  6. Return pan to high heat and saute for a minute or two or until butter sauce is slightly thickened.\n  7. Serve immediately in bowls with juice poured over.\n\n_Serve over spaghetti, linguini or angel hair pasta, if you wish._\nFor more easy recipes inspired from around the world, visit TheLemonBowl.com\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\n\n\nProduced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http:\/\/www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\nInternational Education Series\n\nEDITED BY\n\nWILLIAM T. HARRIS, A.M., LL.D.\n\n_Volume XXI._\n\n\nTHE INTERNATIONAL EDUCATION SERIES.\n\n12mo, cloth, uniform binding.\n\nTHE INTERNATIONAL EDUCATION SERIES was projected for the purpose of\nbringing together in orderly arrangement the best writings, new and old,\nupon educational subjects, and presenting a complete course of reading\nand training for teachers generally. It is edited by W. T. HARRIS,\nLL.D., now United States Commissioner of Education, who has contributed\nfor the different volumes in the way of introductions, analysis, and\ncommentary. The volumes are tastefully and substantially bound in\nuniform style.\n\n_VOLUMES NOW READY_:\n\n\n     Vol I.--THE PHILOSOPHY OF EDUCATION. By JOHANN KARL FRIEDRICH\n     ROSENKRANZ, Doctor of Theology and Professor of Philosophy at the\n     University of Konigsberg. Translated from the German by ANNA C.\n     BRACKETT. Second edition, revised, and accompanied with Commentary\n     and complete Analysis. Price, $1.50.\n\n     Vol. II.--A HISTORY OF EDUCATION. By F. V. N. PAINTER, A.M.,\n     Professor of Modern Languages and Literature in Roanoke College,\n     Va. Price, $1.50.\n\n     Vol. III.--THE RISE AND EARLY CONSTITUTION OF UNIVERSITIES. WITH A\n     SURVEY OF MEDIEVAL EDUCATION. By S. S. LAURIE, LL.D., Professor of\n     the Institutes and History of Education in the University of\n     Edinburgh. Price, $1.50.\n\n     Vol. IV--THE VENTILATION AND WARMING OF SCHOOL BUILDINGS. By\n     GILBERT B. MORRISON, Teacher of Physics and Chemistry in Kansas\n     City High School. Price, $1.00.\n\n     Vol V.--THE EDUCATION OF MAN. By FRIEDRICH FROEBEL. Translated and\n     furnished with ample notes by W. N. HAILMANN, A.M., Superintendent\n     of Public Schools, La Porte, Ind. Price, $1.50.\n\n     VOL VI--ELEMENTARY PSYCHOLOGY AND EDUCATION. By Dr. J. BALDWIN,\n     author of \"The Art of School Management.\" Price, $1.50.\n\n     Vol. VII.--THE SENSES AND THE WILL. (Part I of \"THE MIND OF THE\n     CHILD.\") By W. PREYER, Professor of Physiology in Jena. Translated\n     from the original German by H. W. BROWN, Teacher in the State\n     Normal School at Worcester, Mass. Price, $1.50.\n\n     VOL VIII.--MEMORY: What it is and how to Improve it. By DAVID KAY,\n     F.R.G.S., author of \"Education and Educators,\" etc. Price, $1.50.\n\n     VOL IX.--THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE INTELLECT. (Part II of \"THE MIND OF\n     THE CHILD.\") By W. PREYER, Professor of Physiology in Jena.\n     Translated from the original German by H. W. BROWN, Teacher in the\n     State Normal School at Worcester, Mass. Price, $1.50.\n\n     Vol. X.--HOW TO STUDY GEOGRAPHY. A Practical Exposition of Methods\n     and Devices in Teaching Geography which apply the Principles and\n     Plans of Ritter and Guyot. By FRANCIS W. PARKER, Principal of the\n     Cook County (Illinois) Normal School. Price, $1.50.\n\n     Vol. XI.--EDUCATION IN THE UNITED STATES: Its History from the\n     Earliest Settlements. By RICHARD G. BOONE, A.M., Professor of\n     Pedagogy in Indiana University. Price, $1.50.\n\n     Vol. XII.--EUROPEAN SCHOOLS; or, What I Saw in the Schools of\n     Germany, France, Austria, and Switzerland. By L. R. KLEMM, Ph.D.,\n     Principal of the Cincinnati Technical School, author of \"Chips from\n     a Teacher's Workshop,\" etc. Fully illustrated. Price, $2.00.\n\n     Vol. XIII.--PRACTICAL HINTS FOR THE TEACHERS OF PUBLIC SCHOOLS. By\n     GEORGE HOWLAND, Superintendent of the Chicago Public Schools.\n     Price, $1.00.\n\n     Vol. XIV.--PESTALOZZI: His Life and Work. By ROGER DE GUIMPS.\n     Authorized translation from the second French edition, by J.\n     RUSSELL, B.A., Assistant Master in University College, London.\n     With an Introduction by Rev. R. H. QUICK, M.A. Price, $1.50.\n\n     Vol. XV.--SCHOOL SUPERVISION. By J. L. PICKARD, LL.D. Price, $1.00.\n\n     Vol. XVI.--HIGHER EDUCATION OF WOMEN IN EUROPE. By HELENE LANGE,\n     Berlin. Translated and accompanied by comparative statistics by L.\n     R. KLEMM. Price, $1.00.\n\n     Vol. XVII.--ESSAYS ON EDUCATIONAL REFORMERS. By ROBERT HERBERT\n     QUICK, M.A., Trinity College, Cambridge; formerly Assistant Master\n     at Harrow, and Lecturer on the History of Education at Cambridge;\n     late Vicar of Ledbergh. _Only authorized edition of the work as\n     rewritten in 1890._ Price, $1.50.\n\n     Vol. XVIII.--A TEXT-BOOK IN PSYCHOLOGY. AN ATTEMPT TO FOUND THE\n     SCIENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON EXPERIENCE, METAPHYSICS, AND MATHEMATICS.\n     By JOHANN FRIEDRICH HERBART. Translated from the original German by\n     MARGARET K. SMITH, Teacher in the State Normal School at Oswego,\n     New York. Price, $1.00.\n\n     Vol. XIX.--PSYCHOLOGY APPLIED TO THE ART OF TEACHING. By Dr. JOSEPH\n     BALDWIN. Price, $1.50.\n\n     Vol. XX.--ROUSSEAU'S EMILE. By W. H. PAYNE. Price, $1.50.\n\n     Vol. XXI.--ETHICAL TRAINING IN SCHOOLS. By FELIX ADLER.\n\n     Vol. XXII.--ENGLISH EDUCATION IN THE ELEMENTARY AND SECONDARY\n     SCHOOLS. By ISAAC SHARPLESS, LL.D. Price, $1.00.\n\n     Vol. XXIII.--EDUCATION FROM A NATIONAL STANDPOINT. By ALFRED\n     FOUILLEE. Price, $1.50.\n\n_Circular, describing the volumes more in detail, mailed to any address\non request._\n\nNew York: D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.\n\n\n\n\nINTERNATIONAL EDUCATION SERIES\n\nTHE MORAL INSTRUCTION OF CHILDREN\n\nBY\nFELIX ADLER\n\nNEW YORK\nD. APPLETON AND COMPANY\n1892\n\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892,\nBY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.\n\nELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED\nAT THE APPLETON PRESS, U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nEDITOR'S PREFACE.\n\n\nMoral education is everywhere acknowledged to be the most important part\nof all education; but there has not been the same agreement in regard to\nthe best means of securing it in the school. This has been due in part\nto a want of insight into the twofold nature of this sort of education;\nfor instruction in morals includes two things: the formation of right\nideas and the formation of right habits. Right ideas are necessary to\nguide the will, but right habits are the product of the will itself.\n\nIt is possible to have right ideas to some extent without the\ncorresponding moral habits. On this account the formation of correct\nhabits has been esteemed by some to be the chief thing. But unconscious\nhabits--mere use and wont--do not seem to deserve the title of moral in\nits highest sense. The moral act should be a considerate one, and rest\non the adoption of principles to guide one's actions.\n\nTo those who lay stress on the practical side and demand the formation\nof correct habits, the school as it is seems to be a great ethical\ninstrumentality. To those who see in theoretical instruction the only\ntrue basis of moral character, the existing school methods seem sadly\ndeficient.\n\nThe school as it is looks first after its discipline, and next after its\ninstruction. Discipline concerns the behavior, and instruction concerns\nthe intellectual progress of the pupil. That part of moral education\nwhich relates to habits of good behavior is much better provided for in\nthe school than any part of intellectual education.\n\nThere is, however, a conflict here between old and new ideals. The\nold-fashioned school regarded obedience to authority the one essential;\nthe new ideal regards insight into the reasonableness of moral commands\nthe chief end. It is said, with truth, that a habit of unreasoning\nobedience does not fit one for the exigencies of modern life, with its\npartisan appeals to the individual and its perpetual display of grounds\nand reasons, specious and otherwise, in the newspapers. The unreasoning\nobedience to a moral guide in school may become in after life\nunreasoning obedience to a demagogue or to a leader in crime.\n\nIt is not obedience to external authority that we need so much as\nenlightened moral sense, and yet there remains and will remain much good\nin the old-fashioned habit of implicit obedience.\n\nThe new education aims at building up self-control and individual\ninsight. It substitutes the internal authority of conscience for the\nexternal authority of the master. It claims by this to educate the\ncitizen fitted for the exercise of suffrage in a free government. He\nwill weigh political and social questions in his mind, and decide for\nhimself. He will be apt to reject the scheme of the demagogue. While the\nold-fashioned school-master relied on the rod to sustain his external\nauthority, he produced, it is said, a reaction against all authority in\nthe minds of strong-willed pupils. The new education saves the\nstrong-willed pupil from this tension against constituted authority, and\nmakes him law-abiding from the beginning.\n\nIt will be admitted that the school under both its forms--old as well as\nnew--secures in the main the formation of the cardinal moral habits. It\nis obliged to insist on regularity, punctuality, silence, and industry\nas indispensable for the performance of its school tasks. A private\ntutor may permit his charge to neglect all these things, and yet secure\nsome progress in studies carried on by fits and starts, with noise and\nzeal to-day, followed by indolence to-morrow. But a school, on account\nof its numbers, must insist on the semi-mechanical virtues of\nregularity, punctuality, silence, and industry. Although these are\nsemi-mechanical in their nature, for with much practice they become\nunconscious habits, yet they furnish the very ground-work of all\ncombinations of man with his fellow-men. They are fundamental conditions\nof social life. The increase of city population, consequent on the\ngrowth of productive industry and the substitution of machines for hand\nlabor, renders necessary the universal prevalence of these cardinal\nvirtues of the school.\n\nEven the management of machines requires that sort of alertness which\ncomes from regularity and punctuality. The travel on the railroad, the\nmanagement of steam-engines, the necessities of concerted action,\nrequire punctuality and rhythmic action.\n\nThe school habit of silence means considerate regard for the rights of\nfellow-workmen. They must not be interfered with; their attention must\nnot be distracted from their several tasks. A rational self-restraint\ngrows out of this school habit--rational, because it rests on\nconsiderateness for the work of others. This is a great lesson in\nco-operation. Morals in their essence deal with the relation of man to\nhis fellow-men, and rest on a considerateness for the rights of others.\n\"Do unto others,\" etc., sums up the moral code.\n\nIndustry, likewise, takes a high rank as a citizen's virtue. By it man\nlearns to re-enforce the moments by the hours, and the days by the\nyears. He learns how the puny individual can conquer great obstacles.\nThe school demands of the youth a difficult kind of industry. He must\nthink and remember, giving close and unremitting attention to subjects\nstrange and far off from his daily life. He must do this in order to\ndiscover eventually that these strange and far-off matters are connected\nin a close manner to his own history and destiny.\n\nThere is another phase of the pupil's industry that has an important\nbearing on morals. All his intellectual work in the class has to do with\ncritical accuracy, and respect for the truth. Loose statements and\ncareless logical inference meet with severe reproof.\n\nFinally, there is an enforced politeness and courtesy toward teachers\nand fellow-pupils--at least to the extent of preventing quarrels. This\nis directly tributary to the highest of virtues, namely, kindness and\ngenerosity.\n\nAll these moral phases mentioned have to do with the side of school\ndiscipline rather than instruction, and they do not necessarily have any\nbearing on the theory of morals or on ethical philosophy, except in the\nfact that they make a very strong impression on the mind of the youth,\nand cause him to feel that he is a member of a moral order. He learns\nthat moral demands are far more stern than the demands of the body for\nfood or drink or repose. The school thus does much to change the pupil\nfrom a natural being to a spiritual being. Physical nature becomes\nsubordinated to the interests of human nature.\n\nNotwithstanding the fact that the school is so efficient as a means of\ntraining in moral habits, it is as yet only a small influence in the\nrealm of moral theory. Even our colleges and universities, it must be\nconfessed, do little in this respect, although there has been of late an\neffort to increase in the programmes the amount of time devoted to\nethical study. The cause of this is the divorce of moral theory from\ntheology. All was easy so long as ethics was directly associated with\nthe prevailing religious confession. The separation of Church and\nState, slowly progressing everywhere since the middle ages, has at\nlength touched the question of education.\n\nThe attempt to find an independent basis for ethics in the science of\nsociology has developed conflicting systems. The college student is\nrarely strengthened in his faith in moral theories by his theoretic\nstudy. Too often his faith is sapped. Those who master a spiritual\nphilosophy are strengthened; the many who drift toward a so-called\n\"scientific\" basis are led to weaken their moral convictions to the\nstandpoint of fashion, or custom, or utility.\n\nMeanwhile the demand of the age to separate Church from State becomes\nmore and more exacting. Religious instruction has almost entirely ceased\nin the public schools, and it is rapidly disappearing from the\nprogrammes of colleges and preparatory schools, and few academies are\nnow scenes of religious revival, as once was common.\n\nThe publishers of this series are glad, therefore, to offer a book so\ntimely and full of helpful suggestions as this of Mr. Adler. It is hoped\nthat it may open for many teachers a new road to theoretic instruction\nin morality, and at the same time re-enforce the study of literature in\nour schools.\n\nW. T. HARRIS.\n\nWASHINGTON, D.C., _July, 1892_.\n\n\n\n\nPREFATORY NOTE.\n\n\nThe following lectures were delivered in the School of Applied Ethics\nduring its first session in 1891, at Plymouth, Mass. A few of the\nlectures have been condensed, in order to bring more clearly into view\nthe logical scheme which underlies the plan of instruction here\noutlined. The others are published substantially as delivered.\n\nI am deeply conscious of the difficulties of the problem which I have\nventured to approach, and realize that any contribution toward its\nsolution, at the present time, must be most imperfect. I should, for my\npart, have preferred to wait longer before submitting my thought to\nteachers and parents. But I have been persuaded that even in its present\nshape it may be of some use. I earnestly hope that, at all events, it\nmay serve to help on the rising tide of interest in moral education, and\nmay stimulate to further inquiry.\n\nFELIX ADLER.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY LECTURES.\n                                                                  PAGE\n   I. The Problem of Unsectarian Moral Instruction                   3\n\n  II. The Efficient Motives of Good Conduct                         17\n\n III. Opportunities for Moral Training in the Daily School          27\n\n  IV. The Classification of Duties                                  37\n\n   V. The Moral Outfit of Children on entering School               47\n\n\nPRIMARY COURSE.\n\n  VI. The Use of Fairy Tales                                        64\n\n VII. The Use of Fables                                             80\n\nVIII. Supplementary Remarks on Fables                               96\n\n  IX. Selected Stories from the Bible                              106\n\n   X. The Odyssey and the Iliad                                    146\n\n\nGRAMMAR COURSE.\n\nLESSONS ON DUTY.\n\n  XI. The Duty of acquiring Knowledge                              169\n\n XII. Duties which relate to the Physical Life and the Feelings    185\n\nXIII. Duties which relate to Others (Filial and Fraternal Duties)  202\n\n XIV. Duties toward all Men (Justice and Charity)                  218\n\n  XV. The Elements of Civic Duty                                   236\n\n XVI. The Use of Proverbs and Speeches                             245\n\nXVII. Individualization of Moral Teaching                          249\n\n\nAPPENDIX.\n\n      The Influence of Manual Training on Character                257\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY LECTURES.\n\n\n\n\nI.\n\nTHE PROBLEM OF UNSECTARIAN MORAL INSTRUCTION.\n\n\nIt will be the aim of the present course of lectures to give in outline\nthe subject-matter of moral instruction for children from six to\nfourteen or fifteen years of age, and to discuss the methods according\nto which this kind of instruction should be imparted. At the outset,\nhowever, we are confronted by what certainly is a grave difficulty, and\nto many may appear an insuperable one. The opinion is widely held that\nmorality depends on religious sanctions, and that right conduct can not\nbe taught--especially not to children--except it be under the authority\nof some sort of religious belief. To those who think in this way the\nvery phrase, unsectarian moral teaching, is suspicious, as savoring of\ninfidelity. And the attempt to mark off a neutral moral zone, outside\nthe domains of the churches, is apt to be regarded as masking a covert\ndesign on religion itself.\n\nThe principle of unsectarian moral instruction, however, is neither\nirreligious nor anti-religious. In fact--as will appear later on--it\nrests on purely educational grounds, with which the religious bias of\nthe educator has nothing whatever to do. But there are also grounds of\nexpediency which, at least in the United States, compel us, whether we\ncare to do so or not, to face this problem of unsectarian moral\neducation, and to these let us first give our attention. Even if we were\nto admit, for argument's sake, the correctness of the proposition that\nmoral truths can only be taught as corollaries of some form of religious\nbelief, the question would at once present itself to the educator, To\nwhich form of religious belief shall he give the preference? I am\nspeaking now of the public schools of the United States.\n\nThese schools are supported out of the general fund of taxation to which\nall citizens are compelled to contribute. Clearly it would be an act of\ngross injustice to force a citizen belonging to one denomination to pay\nfor instilling the doctrines of some other into the minds of the\nyoung--in other words, to compel him to support and assist in spreading\nreligious ideas in which he does not believe. This would be an outrage\non the freedom of conscience. But the act of injustice would become\nsimply monstrous if parents were to be compelled to help indoctrinate\ntheir own children with such religious opinions as are repugnant to\nthem.\n\nThere is no state religion in the United States. In the eyes of the\nstate all shades of belief and disbelief are on a par. There are in this\ncountry Catholics, Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Methodists, Baptists,\nJews, etc. They are alike citizens. They contribute alike toward the\nmaintenance of the public schools. With what show of fairness, then,\ncould the belief of any one of these sects be adopted by the state as a\nbasis for the inculcation of moral truths? The case seems, on the face\nof it, a hopeless one. But the following devices have been suggested to\nremove, or rather to circumvent, the difficulty.\n\n_First Device._--Let representatives of the various theistic churches,\nincluding Catholics, Protestants, and Jews, meet in council. Let them\neliminate all those points in respect to which they differ, and\nformulate a common creed containing only those articles on which they\ncan agree. Such a creed would include, for instance, the belief in the\nexistence of Deity, in the immortality of the soul, and in future reward\nand punishment. Upon this as a foundation let the edifice of moral\ninstruction be erected. There are, however, two obvious objections to\nthis plan. In the first place, this \"Dreibund\" of Catholicism,\nProtestantism, and Judaism would leave out of account the party of the\nagnostics, whose views may indeed be erroneous, or even detestable, but\nwhose rights as citizens ought not the less on that account to be\nrespected. \"_Neminem laede_,\" hurt no one, is a cardinal rule of justice,\nand should be observed by the friends of religion in their dealings with\ntheir opponents as well as with one another. The agnostic party has\ngrown to quite considerable dimensions in the United States. But, if it\nhad not, if there were only a single person who held such opinions, and\nhe a citizen, any attempt on the part of the majority to trample upon\nthe rights of this one person would still be inexcusable. In the sphere\nof political action the majority rules, and must rule; in matters that\ntouch the conscience the smallest minority possesses rights on which\neven an overwhelming majority arrayed on the opposite side can not\nafford to trespass. It is one of the most notable achievements of the\nAmerican commonwealths that they have so distinctly separated between\nthe domain of religion and of politics, adopting in the one case the\nmaxim of coercion by majority rule, in the other allowing the full\nmeasure of individual liberty. From this standpoint there should be no\ndeparture.\n\nBut the second objection is even more cogent. It is proposed to\neliminate the differences which separate the various sects, and to\nformulate their points of agreement into a common creed. But does it not\noccur to those who propose this plan that the very life of a religion is\nto be found precisely in those points in which it differs from its\nneighbors, and that an abstract scheme of belief, such as has been\nsketched, would, in truth, satisfy no one? Thus, out of respect for the\nsentiments of the Jews, it is proposed to omit the doctrines of the\ndivinity of Christ and of the atonement. But would any earnest Christian\ngive his assent, even provisionally, to a creed from which those\nquintessential doctrines of Christianity have been left out? When the\nChristian maintains that morality must be based on religion, does he not\nmean, above all, on the belief in Christ? Is it not indispensable, from\nhis point of view, that the figure of the Saviour shall stand in the\nforeground of moral inculcation and exhortation? Again, when the\nCatholic affirms that the moral teaching of the young must be based on\nreligion, is it to be supposed for an instant that he would accept as\nsatisfying his conception of religion a skeleton creed like that above\nmentioned, denuded of all those peculiar dogmas which make religion in\nhis eyes beautiful and dear? This first device, therefore, is to be\nrejected. It is unjust to the agnostics, and it will never content the\nreally religious persons of any denomination. It could prove acceptable\nonly to theists pure and simple, whose creed is practically limited to\nthe three articles mentioned; namely, the belief in Deity, immortality,\nand future punishment and reward. But this class constitutes a small\nfraction of the community; and it would be absurd, under the specious\nplea of reconciling the various creeds, in effect to impose the\nrationalistic opinions of a few on the whole community.\n\nThe _second device_ seems to promise better results. It provides that\nreligious and moral instruction combined shall be given in the public\nschools under the auspices of the several denominations. According to\nthis plan, the pupils are to be divided, for purposes of moral\ninstruction, into separate classes, according to their sectarian\naffiliations, and are to be taught separately by their own clergymen or\nby teachers acting under instructions from the latter. The high\nauthority of Germany is invoked in support of this plan. If I am\ncorrectly informed, the president of one of our leading universities\nhas recently spoken in favor of it, and it is likely that an attempt\nwill be made to introduce it in the United States. Already in some of\nour reformatory schools and other public institutions separate religious\nservices are held by the ministers of the various sects, and we may\nexpect that an analogous arrangement will be proposed with respect to\nmoral teaching in the common schools. It is necessary, therefore, to pay\nsome attention to the German system, and to explain the reasons which\nhave induced or compelled the Germans to adopt the compromise just\ndescribed. The chief points to be noted are these: In Germany, church\nand state are united. The King of Prussia, for instance, is the head of\nthe Evangelical Church. This constitutes a vital difference between\nAmerica and Germany. Secondly, in Germany the schools existed before the\nstate took charge of them. The school system was founded by the Church,\nand the problem which confronted the Government was how to convert\nchurch schools into state schools. An attempt was made to do this by\nlimiting the influence of the clergy, which formerly had been\nall-powerful and all-pervasive, to certain branches and certain hours of\ninstruction, thereby securing the supremacy of the state in respect to\nall other branches and at all other hours. In America, on the other\nhand, the state founded the schools _ab initio_. In Germany the state\nhas actually encroached upon the Church, has entered church schools and\nreconstructed them in its own interest. To adopt the German system in\nAmerica would be to permit the Church to encroach upon the state, to\nenter state schools and subordinate them to sectarian purposes. The\nexample of Germany can not, therefore, be quoted as a precedent in\npoint. The system of compromise in Germany marks an advance in the\ndirection of increasing state influence. Its adoption in this country\nwould mark a retrograde movement in the direction of increasing church\ninfluence.\n\nNor can the system, when considered on its own merits, be called a happy\none. Prof. Gneist, in his valuable treatise, Die Konfessionelle Schule\n(which may be read by those who desire to inform themselves on the\nhistorical evolution of the Prussian system), maintains that scientific\ninstruction must be unsectarian, while religious instruction must be\nsectarian. I agree to both his propositions. But to my mind it follows\nthat, if religious instruction must be sectarian, it ought not to have a\nplace in state schools, at least not in a country in which the\nseparation of church and state is complete. Moreover, the limitation of\nreligious teaching to a few hours a week can never satisfy the earnest\nsectarian. If he wants religion in the schools at all, then he will also\nwant that specific kind of religious influence which he favors to\npermeate the whole school. He will insist that history shall be taught\nfrom his point of view, that the readers shall breathe the spirit of his\nfaith, that the science teaching shall be made to harmonize with its\ndoctrines, etc. What a paltry concession, indeed, to open the door to\nthe clergyman twice or three times a week, and to permit him to teach\nthe catechism to the pupils, while the rest of the teaching is withdrawn\nfrom his control, and is perhaps informed by a spirit alien to his! This\nkind of compromise can never heartily be indorsed; it may be accepted\nunder pressure, but submission to it will always be under protest.[1]\n\nThe third arrangement that has been suggested is that each sect shall\nbuild its own schools, and draw upon the fund supplied by taxation\nproportionately to the number of children educated. But to this there\nare again two great objections: First, it is the duty of the state to\nsee to it that a high educational standard shall be maintained in the\nschools, and that the money spent on them shall bear fruit in raising\nthe general intelligence of the community. But the experience of the\npast proves conclusively that in sectarian schools, especially where\nthere are no rival unsectarian institutions to force them into\ncompetition, the preponderance of zeal and interest is so markedly on\nthe side of religious teaching that the secular branches unavoidably\nsuffer.[2] If it is said that the state may prescribe rules and set up\nstandards of its own, to which the sectarian schools shall be held to\nconform, we ask, Who is to secure such conformance? The various sects,\nonce having gained possession of the public funds, would resent the\ninterference of the State. The Inspectors who might be appointed would\nnever be allowed to exercise any real control, and the rules which the\nState might prescribe would remain dead letter.\n\nIn the second place, under such an arrangement, the highest purpose for\nwhich the public schools exist would be defeated. Sectarian schools tend\nto separate the members of the various denominations from one another,\nand to hinder the growth of that spirit of national unity which it is,\non the other hand, the prime duty of the public school to create and\nfoster. The support of a system of public education out of the proceeds\nof taxation is justifiable in the last analysis as a measure dictated to\nthe State by the law of self-preservation. The State maintains public\nschools in order to preserve itself--i. e., its unity. And this is\nespecially true in a republic. In a monarchy the strong arm of the\nreigning dynasty, supported by a ruling class, may perhaps suppress\ndiscord, and hold the antagonistic elements among the people in\nsubjection by sheer force. In a republic only the spirit of unity among\nthe people themselves can keep them a people. And this spirit is\nfostered in public schools, where children of all classes and sects are\nbrought into daily, friendly contact, and where together they are\nindoctrinated into the history, tradition, and aspirations of the nation\nto which they belong.\n\nWhat then? We have seen that we can not encourage, that we can not\npermit, the establishment of sectarian schools at the public expense. We\nhave also seen that we can not teach religion in the public schools.\nMust we, therefore, abandon altogether the hope of teaching the elements\nof morals? Is not moral education conceded to be one of the most\nimportant, if not the most important, of all branches of education? Must\nwe forego the splendid opportunities afforded by the daily schools for\nthis purpose? Is there not a way of imparting moral instruction without\ngiving just offense to any religious belief or any religious believer,\nor doing violence to the rights of any sect or of any party whatsoever?\nThe correct answer to this question would be the solution of the problem\nof unsectarian moral education. I can merely state my answer to-day, in\nthe hope that the entire course before us may substantiate it. The\nanswer, as I conceive it, is this: It is the business of the moral\ninstructor in the school to deliver to his pupils the subject-matter of\nmorality, but not to deal with the sanctions of it; to give his pupils a\nclearer understanding of what _is_ right and what _is_ wrong, but not to\nenter into the question why the right should be done and the wrong\navoided. For example, let us suppose that the teacher is treating of\nveracity. He says to the pupil, Thou shalt not lie. He takes it for\ngranted that the pupil feels the force of this commandment, and\nacknowledges that he ought to yield obedience to it. For my part, I\nshould suspect of quibbling and dishonest intention any boy or girl who\nwould ask me, Why ought I not to lie? I should hold up before such a\nchild the Ought in all its awful majesty. The right to reason about\nthese matters can not be conceded until after the mind has attained a\ncertain maturity. And as a matter of fact every good child agrees with\nthe teacher unhesitatingly when he says, It is wrong to lie. There is an\nanswering echo in its heart which confirms the teacher's words. But\nwhat, then, is it my business as a moral teacher to do? In the first\nplace, to deepen the impression of the wrongfulness of lying, and the\nsacredness of truth, by the spirit in which I approach the subject. My\nfirst business is to convey the spirit of moral reverence to my pupils.\nIn the next place, I ought to quicken the pupil's perceptions of what is\nright and wrong, in the case supposed, of what is truth and what is\nfalsehood. Accordingly, I should analyze the different species of lies,\nwith a view of putting the pupils on their guard against the spirit of\nfalsehood, however it may disguise itself. I should try to make my\npupils see that, whenever they intentionally convey a false impression,\nthey are guilty of falsehood. I should try to make their minds\nintelligent and their consciences sensitive in the matter of\ntruth-telling, so that they may avoid those numerous ambiguities of\nwhich children are so fond, and which are practiced even by adults. I\nshould endeavor to tonic their moral nature with respect to\ntruthfulness. In the next place, I should point out to them the most\nfrequent motives which lead to lying, so that, by being warned against\nthe causes, they may the more readily escape the evil consequences. For\nexample, cowardice is one cause of lying. By making the pupil ashamed of\ncowardice, we can often cure him of the tendency to falsehood. A\nredundant imagination is another cause of lying, envy is another cause,\nselfishness in all its forms is a principal cause, etc. I should say to\nthe moral teacher: Direct the pupil's attention to the various dangerous\ntendencies in his nature, which tempt him into the ways of falsehood.\nFurthermore, explain to your pupils the consequences of falsehood: the\nloss of the confidence of our fellow-men, which is the immediate and\npalpable result of being detected in a lie; the injuries inflicted on\nothers; the loosening of the bonds of mutual trust in society at large;\nthe loss of self-respect on the part of the liar; the fatal necessity of\nmultiplying lies, of inventing new falsehoods to make good the first,\netc. A vast amount of good, I am persuaded, can be done in this way by\nstimulating the moral nature, by enabling the scholar to detect the\nfiner shades of right and wrong, helping him to trace temptation to its\nsource, and erecting in his mind barriers against evil-doing, founded on\na realizing sense of its consequences.\n\nIn a similar if not exactly the same way, all the other principal\ntopics of practical morality can be handled. The conscience can be\nenlightened, strengthened, guided, and all this can be done without once\nraising the question why it is wrong to do what is forbidden. That it is\nwrong should rather, as I have said, be assumed. The ultimate grounds of\nmoral obligation need never be discussed in school. It is the business\nof religion and philosophy to propose theories, or to formulate articles\nof belief with respect to the ultimate sources and sanctions of duty.\nReligion says we ought to do right because it is the will of God, or for\nthe love of Christ. Philosophy says we should do right for utilitarian\nor transcendental reasons, or in obedience to the law of evolution, etc.\nThe moral teacher, fortunately, is not called upon to choose between\nthese various metaphysical and theological asseverations. As an\nindividual he may subscribe to any one of them, but as a teacher he is\nbound to remain within the safe limits of his own province. He is not to\nexplain why we should do the right, but to make the young people who are\nintrusted to his charge see more clearly what is right, and to instill\ninto them his own love of and respect for the right. There is a body of\nmoral truth upon which all good men, of whatever sect or opinion, are\nagreed: _it is the business of the public schools to deliver to their\npupils this common fund of moral truth_. But I must hasten to add, to\ndeliver it not in the style of the preacher, but according to the\nmethods of the pedagogue--i. e., in a systematic way, the moral lessons\nbeing graded to suit the varying ages and capacities of the pupils, and\nthe illustrative material being sorted and arranged in like manner.\nConceive the modern educational methods to have been applied to that\nstock of moral truths which all good men accept, and you will have the\nmaterial for the moral lessons which are needed in a public school.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] Since the above was written, the draft of the _Volksschulgesetz_\nsubmitted to the Prussian Legislature, and the excited debates to which\nit gave rise, have supplied a striking confirmation of the views\nexpressed in the text. Nothing could be more mistaken than to propose\nfor imitation elsewhere the German \"solution\" of the problem of moral\nteaching in schools, especially at a time when the Germans themselves\nare taking great pains to make it clear that they are as far as possible\nfrom having found a solution.\n\n[2] During the reactionary period which followed the Revolution of 1848,\nthe school regulations of Kur-Hessen provided that twenty hours a week\nbe devoted in the Volkschulen to religious teaching.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nTHE EFFICIENT MOTIVES OF GOOD CONDUCT.\n\n\nThere are persons in whom moral principle seems to have completely\ntriumphed; whose conduct, so far as one can judge, is determined solely\nby moral rules; but whom, nevertheless, we do not wholly admire. We feel\ninstinctively that there is in their virtue a certain flaw--the absence\nof a saving grace. They are too rigorous, too much the slaves of duty.\nThey lack geniality.\n\nLike religion, morality has its fanatics. Thus, there is in the\ntemperance movement a class of fanatics who look at every public\nquestion from the point of view of temperance reform, and from that\nonly. There are also woman's-rights fanatics, social purity fanatics,\netc. The moral fanatic in every case is a person whose attention is\nwholly engrossed by some one moral interest, and who sees this out of\nits relation to other moral interests. The end he has in view may be in\nitself highly laudable, but the exaggerated emphasis put upon it, the\none-sided pursuit of it, is a mischievous error.\n\nObserve, further, that there are degrees of moral fanaticism. The\nfanatic of the first degree, to whom Emerson addresses the words, \"What\nright have you, sir, to your one virtue?\" has just been described. He\nis a person who exalts some one moral rule at the expense of the others.\nA fanatic of a higher order is he who exalts the whole body of moral\nrules at the expense of human instincts and desires. He is a person who\nalways acts according to rule; who introduces moral considerations into\nevery detail of life; who rides the moral hobby; in whose eyes the\ninfinite complexity of human affairs has only one aspect, namely, the\nmoral; who is never satisfied unless at every step he feels the strain\nof the bridle of conscience; who is incapable of spontaneous action and\nof _naive_ enjoyment. It is believed that there are not a few persons of\nthis description in the United States, and especially in the New England\nStates--fanatics on the moral side, examples of a one-sided development\nin the direction of moral formalism. We must be very careful, when\ninsisting on the authority of moral ideas, lest we encourage in the\nyoung a tendency of this sort. The hearts of children are very pliable;\nit is easily possible to produce on them too deep an impression: to give\nthem at the outset a fatal twist, all the more since at a certain age\nmany young people are prone to exaggerated introspection and\nself-questioning. But it may be asked: Are not moral principles really\nclothed with supreme authority? Ought we not, indeed, to keep the\nstandard of righteousness constantly before our eyes; in brief, is it\npossible to be too moral? Evidently we have reached a point where a\ndistinction requires to be drawn.\n\nEthics is a science of relations. The things related are human\ninterests, human ends. The ideal which ethics proposes to itself is the\nunity of ends, just as the ideal of science is the unity of causes. The\nends of the natural man are the subject-matter with which ethics deals.\nThe ends of the natural man are not to be crushed or wiped out, but to\nbe brought into right relations with one another. The ends of the\nnatural man are to be respected from an ethical point of view, so long\nas they remain within their proper limits. The moral laws are formulas\nexpressing relations of equality or subordination, or superordination.\nThe moral virtue of our acts consists in the respect which we pay to the\nsystem of relationships thus prescribed, in the willingness with which\nwe co-ordinate our interests with those of others, or subordinate them\nto those of others, as the exigencies of the moral situation may\nrequire.\n\nBut the point on which it is now necessary to fix our attention is that\nwhen morality has once sanctioned any of the ends of life, the natural\nman may be left to pursue them without interference on the part of the\nmoralist. When morality has marked out the boundaries within which the\ngiven end shall be pursued, its work so far is done; except, indeed,\nthat we are always to keep an eye upon those boundaries, and that the\nsense of their existence should pervade the whole atmosphere of our\nlives.[3] A few illustrations will make my meaning clear. There is a\nmoral rule which says that we should eat to live; not, conversely, live\nto eat. This means that we should regulate our food in such a way that\nthe body may become a fit instrument for the higher purposes of\nexistence, and that the time and attention bestowed upon the matter of\neating shall not be so great as to divert us from other and more\nnecessary objects. But, these limits being established, it does not\nfollow that it is wrong or unspiritual to enjoy a meal. The senses, even\nthe lowest of them, are permitted to have free play within the bounds\nprescribed. Nor, again, should we try rigidly to determine the choice of\nfood according to moral considerations. It would be ridiculous to\nattempt to do so. The choice of food within a wide range depends\nentirely on taste, and has nothing to do with moral considerations\n(whether, for instance, we should have squash or beans for dinner).\nThose who are deeply impressed with the importance of moral rules are\noften betrayed into applying them to the veriest minutiae of conduct. Did\nthey remember that ethics is a science of relations, or, what amounts to\nthe same thing, a science of limits, they would be saved such pedantry.\nUndoubtedly there are moral _adiaphora_. The fact that such exist has\nbeen a stumbling-block in the way of those who believe that morality\nought to cover the whole of conduct. The definition of ethics as a\nscience of relations or limits removes this stumbling-block. Ethics\nstands at the frontier. With what goes on in the interior it does not\ninterfere, except in so far as the limitations it prescribes are an\ninterference. Take another illustration. Ethics condemns vanity and\nwhatever ministers to vanity--as, e. g., undue attention to dress and\nadornment of the person--on the ground that this implies an immoral\nsubordination of the inner to the outer, of the higher to the lesser\nends. But, to lay down a cast-iron rule as to how much one has a right\nto expend on dress, can not be the office of ethics, on account of the\ninfinite variety of conditions and occupations which subsists among men.\nAnd the attempt to prescribe a single fashion of dress, by sumptuary\nlaws or otherwise, would impair that freedom of taste which it is the\nbusiness of the moralist to respect. Again, every one knows with what\nbitterness the moral rigorists of all ages have condemned the impulse\nwhich attracts the sexes toward one another, and how often they have\ntried, though vainly, to crush it. But here, again, the true attitude is\nindicated by the definition of ethics as a science of limits. The moral\nlaw prescribes bounds within which this emotional force shall be free to\noperate, and claims for it the holy name of love, so long as it remains\nwithin the bounds prescribed, and, being within, remains conscious of\nthem. That is what is meant when we speak of spiritualizing the\nfeelings. The feelings are spiritualized when they move within certain\nlimits, and when the sense of the existence of these limits penetrates\nthem, and thereby imparts to them a new and nobler quality. And, because\nsuch limitation is felt to be satisfying and elevating, the system of\ncorrelations which we call ethical, and which, abstractly stated, would\nfail to interest, does by this means find an entrance into the human\nheart, and awakens in it the sense of the sublimity and the blessedness\nof the moral commands.\n\nThere are two defects of the moral fanatic which can now be signalized:\nFirst, he wrongly believes that whatever is not of morality is against\nit. He therefore is tempted to frown upon the natural pleasures; to\nbanish them if he can, and, if not, to admit them only within the\nnarrowest possible limits as a reluctant concession to the weakness of\nhuman nature. In consequence, the moral fanatic commits the enormity of\nintroducing the taint of the sense of sin into the most innocent\nenjoyments, and thus perverts and distorts the conscience. Secondly, he\nis always inclined to seek a moral reason for that which has only a\nnatural one; to forget that, like the great conquerors of antiquity,\nMorality respects the laws of the several realms which it unites into a\nsingle empire, and guarantees to each the unimpaired maintenance of its\nlocal customs. These remarks are intended to serve as a general caution.\nI find that young people, when they have become awakened on ethical\nsubjects, often betray a tendency toward moral asceticism. I find that\nteachers, in the earnest desire to impress the laws of the moral empire,\nare sometimes betrayed into disregarding the provincial laws of the\nsenses, the intellect, and the feelings; are apt to go too far in\napplying moral prescriptions to the minutiae of conduct; are apt to leave\nthe impression that pleasant things, just because they are pleasant, are\ntherefore sinful.\n\nBut we have now to take a further step, which will bring us close to our\nspecial subject for to-day, viz., the efficient motives of good conduct.\nThe non-moral faculties are not only not anti-moral, as has been shown,\nbut, when appealed to in the right way, they lend to Morality a\nfriendly, an almost indispensable support. The aesthetic, the\nintellectual, and the emotional faculty have not in themselves a moral\nquality, but when used as auxiliaries they pave the way for moral\nconsiderations pure and simple, and have in this sense an immense\npropaedeutic value. Without entering in this place into the philosophy of\naesthetics, it is enough to say that the beautiful, like the good,\nresults from and depends on the observance of certain limits and certain\nrelations. And it will not seem far-fetched to suggest that pupils who\nhave been trained to appreciate moderation, restraint and harmony of\nrelations in external objects, will be predisposed to apply analogous\nmeasures to matters of conduct, and that a standard of valuation will\nthus be created in their minds which must prove favorable to right\naction. AEsthetics may become a pedagogue unto ethics. The same\npedagogical function may be claimed for the intellect. The intellect\ntraces the connection between causes and effects. Applied to conduct, it\nshows the connection between acts and their consequences. It is the\nfaculty which counsels prudence. One does not need to accept the\negoistic theory of morals to concede that self-interest is an ally of\nmorality, that Prudence and Virtue travel hand in hand a certain\ndistance on the same road. Not, indeed, until the ideal state shall have\nbeen reached will the dictates of the two ever coincide entirely; but to\na certain extent the coincidence already exists, and the moral teacher\nis justified in availing himself of it as far as it goes.\n\nTo take a very simple case--a child handles a knife which it has been\ntold not to touch, and cuts his fingers. Morally speaking, his fault is\ndisobedience. He would have been equally guilty if he had escaped\ninjury. But he would hardly be so ready to obey another time, if he had\nbeen less sharply reminded of the usefulness of obedience. It is wrong\nto lie--wrong on purely moral grounds, with which self-interest has\nnothing to do. But for all that we can not dispense with the lesson\ncontained in the well-known fable of the boy who cried, \"Wolf!\" It is\nwrong to steal on purely moral grounds. But even a child can be made to\nunderstand that the thief, as Emerson puts it, \"steals from himself,\"\nand that, besides being a rogue, he is deficient in enlightened\nself-interest. The maxim that honesty is the best policy is true enough\nso far as the facts are concerned, which come under the observation of\nchildren, though one may question whether it be true absolutely.\n\nLastly, when we come to consider the emotional faculty, we find that\nthe intimate connection between it and the moral is so generally\nconceded as to make it quite superfluous to expatiate on it. On the\ncontrary, it seems necessary to expostulate with those who claim too\nmuch credit for the feelings, who ascribe to them a moral value which\nthey by no means possess. Thus, gentleness is not necessarily a virtue;\nit may be a mere matter of temperament. Sympathetic impulses, _per se_,\nare not praiseworthy. Sympathy quite as often leads us astray as aright;\nsympathy, indeed, unless tutored and regulated by moral principles, is a\ndanger against which we ought to be on our guard almost as much as\nagainst selfishness. Yet, no one will deny that the feelings, when\nrightly trained, are of inestimable service as auxiliaries in the task\nof moral education.\n\nTo sum up, let me say that the wise teacher will appeal to the taste,\nthe intelligence, and the feelings of his pupils; that he will touch\nthese various springs of conduct all the time, and get from them all the\nhelp he can. Thus, when speaking of cleanliness, he will appeal to the\naesthetic instinct of the children, awakening in them a feeling of\ndisgust at untidiness. He will appeal to the prudential motive, by\nshowing that want of cleanliness breeds disease. \"You do not wish to be\nsick? You do not wish to suffer? Therefore, it is to your interest to be\nclean.\" But, finally, he will touch a higher motive than any of these.\n\"If you are unclean, you cease to respect yourself.\" And the term\nself-respect expresses in a condensed form the moral motive proper. It\nimplies the idea of moral personality, which it is not necessary, nor\npossible, at this stage to analyze, but which the pupil will somehow\nunderstand, for his conscience will respond. In many cases the appeal\nwill be made chiefly to the sympathetic feelings; for through these\nfeelings we become aware of the pains and joys of others, and thus of\nthe consequences of the benefits we confer or the evil we inflict. The\nsympathetic feelings supply the information upon which the will can act.\nThey tell us that others suffer or are glad. And yet the strength to\nlabor persistently for the relief of others' suffering and the\nenhancement of others' joy--that we can derive from the moral impulse\nalone.\n\nThe moral motive is the highest, it is really the only sufficient\nmotive. Pray, understand me well at this point. I should say to the\nchild: It is wrong to lie. That is sufficient. It is wrong, it is\nforbidden; you must yourself acknowledge the truth of my words, because\nyou despise yourself when you have told a lie. But, in order to\nstrengthen your weak resolution, to confirm you in well-doing, let me\nshow you that it is also contrary to self-interest to lie, and likewise\nthat it is disgusting to be unclean, and that a wrong done to another\ncauses pain. Thus the aesthetic, intellectual, and emotional faculties\nare called in as witnesses to bear testimony to the moral truths; they\nare invited to stand up in chorus and say Amen! to the moral commands.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[3] It must be remembered also that our knowledge of the right ethical\nrelations is still extremely imperfect, and that the duty of extending\nthe knowledge and promoting the recognition of them is perhaps the\nhighest of all--to which, on occasion, every lesser end must be\nsacrificed.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nOPPORTUNITIES FOR MORAL TRAINING IN THE DAILY SCHOOL.\n\n\nThe school should be to the pupil not an intellectual drill-ground, but\na second home; a place dear at the time, and to be gratefully remembered\never after; a place in which his whole nature, and especially what is\nbest in him, may expand and grow. The educational aim should be, not\nmerely to pave the pupil's way to future success, not merely to make of\nhis mind a perfect instrument of thought, a kind of intellectual loom,\ncapable of turning out the most complicated intellectual patterns. The\naim should be, above all; to build up manhood, to develop character.\nThere is no school in which moral influence is wanting. The pity is,\nthat in many schools it is incidental, not purposed. And yet there are\nmanifold opportunities in every school for influencing the moral life.\nLet us consider a few of these.\n\n_1._ The teaching of _science_ lends itself to the cultivation of\ntruthfulness. Truthfulness may be defined as the correspondence between\nthought and word and fact. When the thought in the mind fits the fact,\nand the word on the tongue fits the thought, then the circuit of truth\nis complete. Now, with respect to the inculcating of truthfulness,\nscience teaching has this advantage above other branches, that the\npalpable nature of the facts dealt with makes it possible to note and\ncheck the least deviation from the truth. The fact is present, right\nbefore the pupil, to rebuke him if he strays from it in thought or\nspeech. And this circumstance may be utilized even in the humble\nbeginnings of science teaching, in the so-called object-lessons. For\ninstance, a bird, or the picture of one, is placed before the child. The\nteacher says, \"Observe closely and tell me exactly what you see--the\nlength of the neck, the curve of the beak, the colors of the plumage,\"\netc. The pupil replies. The teacher objects: \"You have not observed\naccurately. The color is not what you describe it to be. Look again. The\ncurve of the beak does not resemble what you have just drawn on the\nblackboard. You must tell me exactly what you see. Your words must tally\nwith the facts.\" And the same sort of practice may be continued in the\nscience-lessons of the upper classes.\n\nScientists are distinguished from other observers by their greater\naccuracy. Intellectual honesty is that moral quality which science is\nbest calculated to foster. All the great scientists have been haunted by\na high ideal of truth, and a gleam of that ideal, however faint, may be\nmade to shed its light even into the school-room. It is obvious that\nthis realistic tutoring into veracity will be of special use to children\nwho are led into lying by a too vivid imagination.\n\nLet me add the following remarks in regard to indirect means of\npromoting truthfulness: The teacher can do a great deal to cultivate\nrespect for the truth among his pupils by frankly admitting an error\nwhenever he has fallen into one. Some teachers try to save their dignity\nby glossing over their mistakes. But even young children are shrewd\nenough to estimate such trickery at its worth; while he who manfully\nconfesses that he has been in the wrong, earns the respect of his class,\nand sets them an invaluable example.\n\nIt is well also to observe strict accuracy even in matters which of\nthemselves are of no moment. For instance, in giving an account of a\nbotanizing expedition, you begin, perhaps, by saying, \"It was half-past\nten when we arrived at our destination.\" Suddenly you stop and correct\nyourself. \"No, I was mistaken; it could not have been later than ten\no'clock.\" Does this strike you as pedantic? But if you fix the time at\nall, is it not worth while to fix it with approximate exactness? True,\nit makes no difference in regard to what you are about to relate,\nwhether you arrived at half-past ten or at ten. But, precisely because\nit makes no difference, it shows the value which you set on accuracy\neven in trifles. And by such little turns of phrase, by such\ninsubstantial influences, coming from the teacher, the pupil's character\nis molded.\n\n_2._ _The study of history_, when properly conducted is of high moral\nvalue. History sets before the mind examples of heroism, of\nself-sacrifice, of love of country, of devotion to principles at the\ngreatest cost. How can such examples fail to inspire, to ennoble, to\nawaken emulation? The great and good men of the past, the virtuous and\nthe wise, serve as models to the young, and often arouse in them an\nenthusiastic admiration, a passionate discipleship. In the next place,\nthe study of history may be used to exercise the moral judgment. The\ncharacters which history presents are not all good; the characters even\nof the good are by no means faultless. It is in the power of the teacher\nto train the moral judgment and to increase the moral insight of his\npupils by leading them to enter into the motives, and to weigh the right\nand wrong of the actions which history reports. He will also find many\nan occasion to warn against being dazzled by brilliant success to such a\ndegree as to condone the moral turpitude by which it is often bought.\nThe study of history can thus be made the means of enlightening the\nconscience as well as of awakening generous aspirations--but, let me\nhasten to add, only in the hands of a teacher who is himself morally\nmature, and fully imbued with the responsibilities of his task. Lastly,\nthe study of history among advanced pupils may be used to confirm the\nmoral idea of the mission of mankind, and to set it in its true light.\nThe human race, as, from the moral point of view, we are bound to\nassume, exists on earth in order to attempt the solution of a sublime\nproblem--the problem of the perfect civilization, the just society, the\n\"kingdom of God.\" But on every page of history there are facts that warn\nus that progress toward this high ideal is of necessity slow. Whether\nwe review the evolution of religion, or of political institutions, or of\nindustrial society, we are still forced to the same solemn conclusion,\nthat in view of the ultimate goal, \"a thousand years are as a day,\" and\nthat while we may not relax our efforts to attain the ideal, we must be\nwell content in case we are permitted to advance the mighty work even a\nlittle. This conviction is calculated to engender in us a new spirit of\npiety and self-abnegation, which yet is consistent with perfect alacrity\nin discharging the duty of the hour.\n\nThere could be no better result from the study of history among young\nmen and young women than if it should have the effect of impressing on\nthem this new piety, this genuine historic sense, in which the average\ncitizen, especially of democratic communities, is so conspicuously\ndeficient. But this is a digression which I must ask you to pardon.\n\n_3._ The moral value of the _study of literature_ is as great as it is\nobvious. Literature is the medium through which all that part of our\ninner life finds expression which defies scientific formulation. In the\ntext-books of science we possess the net result of the purely\nintellectual labors of the past; in universal literature we have\ncomposite photographs, as it were, of the typical hopes, sentiments, and\naspirations of the race. Literature gives a voice to that within us\nwhich would otherwise remain dumb, and fixity to that which would\notherwise be evanescent. The best literature, and especially the best\npoetry, is a glass in which we see our best selves reflected. There is\na legend which tells of two spirits, the one an angel, the other a\ndemon, that accompany every human being through life, and walk invisibly\nat his side. The one represents our bad self, the other our better self.\nThe moral service which the best literature renders us is to make the\ninvisible angel visible.\n\n_4._ I can but cast a cursory glance at some of the remaining branches\nof instruction.\n\n_Manual training_ has a moral effect upon the pupil, of which I have\nspoken at some length on another occasion.[4]\n\n_Music_, apart from its subtler influences, which can not be considered\nhere, has the special function of producing in the pupil a feeling of\noneness with others, or of social unity. This is best accomplished\nthrough the instrumentality of chorus singing, while particular moral\nsentiments, like charity, love of home, etc., can be inculcated by means\nof the texts.\n\n_Gymnastic_ exercises likewise have a moral effect in promoting habits\nof self-control, prompt obedience at the word of command, etc. Indeed,\nit is not difficult to show the moral bearings of the ordinary branches\nof instruction. It would, on the contrary, be difficult to find a single\none, which, when rightly viewed, is not surrounded by a moral\nphotosphere.\n\nScience, history, literature, and the other branches lend themselves in\nvarious ways to the development of character. But there are certain\nother opportunities which every school offers, apart from the teaching,\nand these may be utilized to the same end. The discipline of the school,\nabove all, has an immense effect on the character. If it is of the right\nkind, a beneficial effect; if not, a most pernicious one.\n\nThe mere working of what may be called the school machinery tends to\ninculcate habits of order, punctuality, and the like. The aggregation of\na large number of scholars in the same building and their intercourse\nwith one another under the eye of the teachers, afford frequent\nopportunities for impressing lessons of kindness, politeness, mutual\nhelpfulness, etc.\n\nThe recitations of lessons give occasion not only to suppress prompting,\nbut to eradicate the motives which lead to it, and to impress deeply the\nduty of honesty.\n\nThe very atmosphere of the class-room should be such as to encourage\nmoral refinement; it should possess a sunny climate, so to speak, in\nwhich meanness and vulgarity can not live.\n\nBut there is especially one avenue of influence, which I have much at\nheart to recommend. The teacher should join in the _games_ of his\npupils. He will thus at once come to stand on a friendly footing with\nthem, and win their confidence, without in the least derogating from his\nproper dignity. And thus will be removed that barrier which in many\nschools separates pupils and teachers to such a degree that there\nactually seem to exist side by side two worlds--the world to which the\nteacher has access, and the world from which he is shut out. Moreover,\nwhile they are at play, the true character of the pupils reveals itself.\nAt such times the sneak, the cheat, the bully, the liar, shows his true\ncolors, and the teacher has the best opportunity of studying these\npathological subjects and of curing their moral defects. For, while\nplaying with them, as one concerned in the game, he has the right to\ninsist on fair dealing, to express his disgust at cowardice, to take the\npart of the weak against the strong, and his words spoken on the\nplayground will have tenfold the effect of any hortatory address which\nhe might deliver from the platform. The greatest and most successful of\nteachers have not disdained to use this device.\n\nFinally, let me say that the personality of the master or principal of\nthe school is the chief factor of moral influence in it. Put a great,\nsound, whole-souled nature at the head of a school, and everything else\nmay almost be taken for granted. In every school there exists a public\nopinion among the scholars, by which they are affected to a far greater\ndegree than by the words of their superiors. The tactful master will\ndirect his chief attention to shaping and improving this public opinion,\nwhile at the same time interfering as little as possible with the\nfreedom of his pupils. He can accomplish his purpose by drawing close to\nhimself those scholars who make the public opinion of the school, and\nthese in turn he can win to fine and manly views only by the effect of\nhis personality. The personality of the head-master is everything. It is\nthe ultimate source of power in the school, the central organ which\nsends out its life-giving currents through the whole organism. And let\nme here add that, if I am in favor of excluding direct religious\nteaching from our schools, I am not in favor of excluding religious\ninfluence. That, too, flows from the personality of the true master. For\nif he be reverent, a truly pious soul, humble in his estimate of self,\nnot valuing his petty schoolmaster's authority on its own account, but\nusing it lovingly as an instrument for higher ends, he will be sure to\ncommunicate of his spirit to his pupils, and by that spirit will open\ntheir hearts, better than by any doctrinal teaching he could give, to\nthe reception of the highest spiritual truths.\n\nBy all these means--by the culture of the intellect, the taste, and the\nfeelings, by his daily dealings with the young, in work and play--the\nteacher helps to create in them certain moral habits. Why, then, should\nnot these habits suffice? What need is there of specific moral\ninstruction? And what is the relation of moral instruction to the habits\nthus engendered?\n\nThe function of moral instruction is to clinch the habits. The function\nof moral instruction is to explicate in clear statements, fit to be\ngrasped by the intellect, the laws of duty which underlie the habits.\nThe value of such intellectual statements is that they give a rational\nunderpinning to moral practice, and, furthermore, that they permit the\nmoral rules to be applied to new cases not heretofore brought within the\nscope of habit. This thought will be more fully developed and explained\nas we proceed.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[4] In the address on the subject, reprinted in the Appendix.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nCLASSIFICATION OF DUTIES.\n\n\nThe topics of which moral instruction treats are the duties of life. To\nteach the duties, however, we must adopt some system of classification.\nTo which system shall we give the preference? The difficulty which we\nencountered at the outset seems to meet us here in a new guise.\n\nFor most if not all of the systems of classification commonly proposed\nare based upon some metaphysical theory or some theological doctrine. To\nadopt any one of these would be tantamount to adopting the theory or\ntheology on which it is founded; would be equivalent to introducing\nsurreptitiously a particular philosophy or creed into the minds of the\npupils; and this would be a plain departure from the unsectarian\nprinciple to which we are pledged. Thus, Plato's fourfold division of\nthe virtues into the so-called cardinal virtues of temperance, courage,\njustice, wisdom, is based on his psychology. Aristotle's division of the\nvirtues into dianoetic and what he calls ethical virtues is clearly\ndependent on what may be termed Aristotle's intellectualism--i. e., the\nsupreme importance which he assigns to the functions of the intellect,\nor [Greek: nous], in the attainment of the perfect life.\n\nKant's division of duties into complete and incomplete is an outgrowth\nof the ideas developed in his Critique of Pure Reason; the philosopher\nHerbart's fivefold classification reflects his metaphysical theory of\nreality; while the systems of ethical classification which are to be\nfound in theological handbooks betray still more clearly the bias of\ntheir authors.\n\nWe can, I think, find a simple way out of this difficulty by proceeding\nin the following manner: Let us take for our guidance the objects to\nwhich duty relates, and disregard the sources from which it flows. It is\nconceded on all hands that every one is to himself an object of duty,\nthat he has certain duties to perform with respect to himself, as, for\ninstance, the duty of intellectual development; furthermore, that every\nperson owes certain duties to his fellow-men generally, in virtue of the\nfact that they are human beings; again, that there are special duties\nwhich we owe to particular persons, such as parents, brothers, and\nsisters; finally, that there are certain duties, into which, so to\nspeak, we are born, like the ones last mentioned, and others which we\ncan freely assume or not, like the conjugal duties, but which, once\nassumed, become as binding as the former. Thus the very structure of\nhuman society suggests a scheme of classification. And this scheme has\nthe advantage of being a purely objective one. It keeps close to the\nfacts, it is in harmony with the unsectarian principle, and it is\nperfectly fair. It leaves the problem of first principles entirely\nuntouched. That we have such duties to perform with respect to self and\nothers, no one questions. Let philosophers differ as to the ultimate\nmotives of duty. Let them reduce the facts of conscience to any set of\nfirst principles which may suit them. It is our part as instructors to\ninterpret the facts of conscience, not to seek for them an ultimate\nexplanation.\n\nLet me briefly indicate how the different duties may be made to fall\ninto line according to the plan of classification which has just been\nsuggested. The whole field of duty may be divided into three main\nprovinces:[5] those duties which relate to ourselves, those which we owe\nto all men, and those which arise in the special relations of the\nfamily, the state, etc.:\n\nI. The Self-regarding Duties.\n\nThese may again be subdivided into duties relating to our physical\nnature, to the intellect, and to the feelings.\n\nUnder the head of physical duties belong the prohibition of suicide, and\nthe duties of physical culture, temperance, and chastity.\n\nIntellectual Duties.--Under this head may be ranged the duty of\nacquiring knowledge and the subsidiary duties of order, diligence,\nperseverance in study; while, for those who are beyond the school age,\nspecial stress should be laid on the duty of mental genuineness. This\nmay be expressed in the words: To thine own mental self be true. Study\nthine own mental bent. Try to discover in what direction thy proper\ntalent lies, and make the most of it. Work thine own mine: if it be a\ngold-mine, bring forth gold; if it be a silver-mine, bring forth silver;\nif it be an iron-mine, bring forth iron. Endeavor to master some one\nbranch of knowledge thoroughly well. It is for thee the key which opens\nthe gates of all knowledge. The need of general culture is felt by all,\nbut the concentration of intellectual efforts on special studies is not\ninconsistent with it. On the contrary, special studies alone enable us\nto gain a foothold in the realm of knowledge. A branch of knowledge\nwhich we have mastered, however small, may be compared to a strong\nfortress in an enemy's country, from which we can sally forth at will to\nconquer the surrounding territory. Knowledge may also be likened to a\nsphere. From every point of the circumference we can, by persistent\nlabor, dig down to the center. He who has reached the center commands\nthe sphere.\n\nDuties which relate to the Feelings.--The principal duty under this head\nmay be expressed in the twofold command--control and purify thy\nfeelings! The feelings which need to be repressed are anger, fear,\nself-complacency. Let the teacher, when he reaches this point, dwell\nupon the causes and the consequences of anger. Let him speak of certain\nhelps which have been found useful for the suppression of angry passion.\nLet him distinguish anger from moral indignation.\n\nIn dealing with fear let him pursue the same method. Let him distinguish\nphysical from moral cowardice, brute courage from moral courage, courage\nfrom fortitude.\n\nIn dealing with self-complacency let him discriminate between vanity and\npride, between pride and dignity. Let him show that humility and dignity\nare consistent with one another, yes, that they are complementary\naspects of one and the same moral quality. Not the least advantage to be\nreaped from lessons on duty is the fixing in the pupil's mind of the\nmoral vocabulary. The moral terms as a rule are loosely used, and this\ncan not but lead to confusion in their application. Precise definitions,\nbased on thorough discussion, are an excellent means of moral\ntraining.[6]\n\nII. The duties which we owe to all men are Justice and Charity:\n\nBe just is equivalent to--Do not hinder the development of any of thy\nfellow-men. Be charitable is equivalent to--Assist the development of\nthy fellow-men. Under the head of charity the teacher will have\noccasion to speak not only of almsgiving, the visitation of the sick,\nand the like, but of the thousand charities of the fireside, of the\ncharity of bright looks, of what may be called intellectual charity,\nwhich consists in opening the eyes of the mentally blind, and of the\nnoblest charity of all, which consists in coming to the aid of those who\nare deep in the slough of moral despond, in raising the sinful and\nfallen.\n\nIII. Special social duties:\n\nUnder this head belong the duties which arise in the family: the\nconjugal, the parental, the filial, the fraternal duties.\n\nUnder the head of duties peculiar to the various avocations should be\ndiscussed the ethics of the professions, the ethics of the relations\nbetween employers and laborers, etc.\n\nThe consideration of the duties of the citizen opens up the whole\nterritory of political ethics.\n\nLastly, the purely elective relationships of friendship and religious\nfellowship give rise to certain fine and lofty ethical conceptions, the\ndiscussion of which may fitly crown the whole course.\n\nI have thus mentioned some of the main topics of practical ethics, from\nwhich we are to make our selection for the moral lessons.\n\nBut a selective principle is needed. The field being spread out before\nus, the question arises, At what point shall we enter it? What topics\nshall we single out? It would be manifestly absurd, for instance, to\ntreat of international ethics, or of conjugal ethics, in a course\nintended for children. But especially the order in which the different\ntopics are to follow each other needs to be determined. The order\nfollowed in the above sketch is a purely logical one, and the logical\narrangement of a subject, as every educator knows, is not usually the\none most suitable for bringing it within reach of the understanding of\nchildren. It would not be in the present instance. Clearly a selective\nprinciple is wanted.\n\nLet me here interrupt myself for a moment to say that the problem which\nwe are attacking, so far from being solved, has heretofore hardly even\nbeen stated. And this is due to the fact that moral instruction has been\nthus far almost entirely in the hands of persons whose chief interest\nwas religious, and who, whatever their good intentions might be, were\nhardly qualified to look at the subject from the educator's point of\nview. The work of breaking ground in the matter of moral instruction has\nstill to be done. As to the selective principle which I have in view I\nfeel a certain confidence in its correctness; but I am aware that the\napplications of it will doubtless require manifold amendment and\ncorrection, for which purpose I invoke the experience and honest\ncriticism of my fellow-teachers. This being understood, I venture to ask\nyour attention to the following considerations:\n\nThe life of every human being naturally divides itself into distinct\nperiods--infancy, childhood, youth, etc. Each period has a set of\ninterests and of corresponding duties peculiar to itself. The moral\nteaching should be graded according to periods. The teaching\nappropriate to any period is that which bears upon the special duties of\nthat period. To illustrate, the ethics of childhood may be summarized as\nfollows: The personal duties of a child are chiefly the observance of a\nfew simple rules of health and the curbing of its temper. It owes social\nduties to parents, brothers and sisters, and kinsfolk, to its playmates,\nand to servants. The child is not yet a citizen, and the ethics of\npolitics, therefore, lie far beyond its horizon; it does not yet require\nto be taught professional ethics, and does not need to learn even the\nelements of intellectual duty, because its energies are still absorbed\nin physical growth and play. The duties of childhood can be readily\nstated. The peculiar duties of the subsequent stages of development, for\ninstance, of middle life and old age, are complex, and not so easy to\ndefine. But I believe that the attempt to describe them will throw light\non many recondite problems in ethics.\n\nMy first point therefore is, that the moral teaching at a given period\nshould be made to fit the special duties of that period. Secondly--and\nthis touches the core of the matter--in every period of life there is\nsome one predominant duty around which all the others may be grouped, to\nwhich as a center they may be referred. Thus, the paramount duty of the\nyoung child is to reverence and obey its parents. The relation of\ndependence in which it stands naturally prescribes this duty, and all\nits other duties can be deduced from and fortified by this one. The\ncorrectness of its personal habits and of its behavior toward others\ndepends primarily on its obedience to the parental commands. The child\nresists the temptation to do what is wrong, chiefly because it respects\nthe authority and desires to win the approbation of father and mother.\nSecondary motives are not wanting, but reverence for parents is the\nprincipal one.\n\nThirdly, in each new period there emerges a new paramount ethical\ninterest, a new center of duties. But with the new system of duties thus\ncreated the previous ethical systems are to be brought into line, into\nharmonious correlation. And this will be all the more feasible, because\nthe faithful performance of the duties of any one period is the best\npreparation for the true understanding and fulfillment of those of the\nnext. From these statements the following conclusions may be drawn with\nrespect to the question under discussion--namely, the proper sequence of\nthe topics of duty in a course of moral lessons.\n\nThe moral lessons being given in school, must cover the duties which are\npeculiar to the school age. The paramount duty should be placed in the\nforeground. Now the paramount duty of children between six and fourteen\nyears of age is to acquire knowledge. Hence we begin the lessons with\nthe subject of intellectual duty. In the next place, the duties learned\nin the previous periods are to be brought into line with the duties of\nthe school age. At each new step on the road of ethical progress the\nmoral ideas already acquired are to be reviewed, confirmed, and to\nreceive a higher interpretation.\n\nWe have already seen that, before the child enters school, its personal\nduties are such as relate to the physical life and the feelings, and its\nchief social duties are the filial and fraternal.\n\nTherefore, the order of topics for the lessons thus far stands: The duty\nof acquiring knowledge; the duties which relate to the physical life;\nthe duties which relate to the feelings; the filial duties; the\nfraternal duties.\n\nAgain, a child that has learned to respect the rights of its brothers\nand sisters, and to be lovingly helpful to them, will in school take the\nright attitude toward its companions. The fraternal duties are typical\nof the duties which we owe to all our companions, and, indeed, to all\nhuman beings.\n\nThe next topic of the lessons, therefore, will be the duties which we\nowe to all human beings.\n\nFinally, life in school prepares for life in society and in the state,\nand so this course of elementary moral lesson will properly close with\n\"The elements of civic duty.\"\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[5] It may be urged by some that duties toward God ought to be included\nin such a scheme of moral lessons as we are proposing. I should say,\nhowever, that the discussion of these duties belongs to the\nSunday-schools, the existence of which alongside the daily schools is\n_presupposed throughout the present course of lectures_.\n\n[6] The duties which relate to the moral nature, as a whole, such for\ninstance as the duty of self-scrutiny, may be considered either at the\nend of the chapter on self-regarding duties, or at the close of the\nwhole course.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nTHE MORAL OUTFIT OF CHILDREN ON ENTERING SCHOOL.\n\n\nIt is difficult to trace the beginnings of the moral life in children.\nThe traveler who attempts to follow some great river to its source\ngenerally finds himself confused by the number of ponds and springs\nwhich are pointed out to him with the assurance in the case of each that\nthis and no other is the real source. In truth, the river is fed not\nfrom one source but from many, and does not attain its unity and\nindividuality until it has flowed for some distance on its way. In like\nmanner, the moral life is fed by many springs, and does not assume its\ndistinctive character until after several years of human existence have\nelapsed. The study of the development of conscience in early childhood\nis a study of origins, and these are always obscure. But, besides, the\nattention hitherto given to this subject has been entirely inadequate,\nand even the attempts to observe in a systematic way the moral\nmanifestations of childhood have been few.\n\nParents and teachers should endeavor to answer such questions as these:\nWhen do the first stirrings of the moral sense appear in the child? How\ndo they manifest themselves? What are the emotional and the\nintellectual equipments of the child at different periods, and how do\nthese correspond with its moral outfit? At what time does conscience\nenter on the scene? To what acts or omissions does the child apply the\nterms right and wrong? If observations of this kind were made with care\nand duly recorded, the science of education would have at its disposal a\nconsiderable quantity of material from which no doubt valuable\ngeneralizations might be deduced. Every mother especially should keep a\ndiary in which to note the successive phases of her child's physical,\nmental, and moral growth; with particular attention to the moral; so\nthat parents may be enabled to make a timely forecast of their\nchildrens' characters, to foster in them every germ of good, and by\nprompt precautions to suppress, or at least restrain, what is bad.\n\nI propose in the present lecture to cast a glance at the moral training\nwhich the normal child receives before it enters school, and the moral\noutfit which it may be expected to bring with it at the time of\nentering. Fortunately, it is not necessary to go very deeply into the\nstudy of development of conscience for this purpose. A few main points\nwill suffice for our guidance.\n\n_First Point._--The moral training of a child can be begun in its\ncradle. Regularity is favorable to morality. Regularity acts as a check\non impulse. A child should receive its nourishment at stated intervals;\nit should become accustomed to sleep at certain hours, etc. If it\nprotests, as it often does vigorously enough, its protests should be\ndisregarded. After a while its cries will cease, it will learn to submit\nto the rule imposed, and the taking of pleasure in regularity and the\nsense of discomfort when the usual order is interrupted become\nthenceforth a part of its mental life. I do not maintain that regularity\nitself is moral, but that it is favorable to morality because it curbs\ninclination. I do not say that rules are always good, but that the life\nof impulse is always bad. Even when we do the good in an impulsive way\nwe are encouraging in ourselves a vicious habit. Good conduct consists\nin regulating our life according to good principles; and a willingness\nto abide by rules is the first, the indispensable condition of moral\ngrowth. Now, the habit of yielding to rules may be implanted in a child\neven in the cradle.\n\n_Second Point._--A very young child--one not older than a year and a\nhalf--can be taught to obey, to yield to the parent's will. A child a\nyear and a half old is capable of adhering to its own will in defiance\nof the expressed will of father or mother. In this case it should be\nconstrained to yield. We shall never succeed in making of it a moral\nperson if it does not realize betimes that there exists a higher law\nthan the law of its will. And of this higher law, throughout childhood,\nthe parent is, as it were, the embodiment. When I say that obedience can\nbe exacted of a child of such tender age, that a child so young is\ncapable of deliberately opposing the will of the parent, I speak from\nexperience. I know a certain little lady who undertook a struggle with\nher father precisely in the way described. The struggle lasted fully\nthirty-five minutes by the clock. But when it was over, the child\nstretched out her little arms and put up her lips to be kissed, and for\ndays after fairly clung to her father, showing him her attachment in the\nmost demonstrative manner. Nor should this increase of affectionateness\nexcite surprise--it is the proper result of a conflict of this sort\nbetween father and child when conducted in the right spirit. The child\nis happy to be freed from the sway of its wayward caprice, to feel that\nits feeble will has been taken up into a will larger and stronger than\nits own.\n\n_Third Point._--What is called conscience does not usually begin to show\nitself until the child is about three years old. At this age the concept\nself usually emerges, and the child begins to use the personal pronoun\nI. This is one of these critical turning points in human development, of\nwhich there are several. The beginning of adolescence marks another. I\nam inclined to suspect that there is one at or about thirty-three. There\nseem to be others later on. At any rate the first turning point--that\nwhich occurs at three--is marked unmistakably. At this time, as we have\njust said, the child begins to be distinctly self-conscious; it says\n\"I,\" and presently \"you,\" \"he,\" and \"they.\" Now, moral rules formulate\nthe relations which ought to subsist between one's self and others, and\nto comprehend the rules it is clearly necessary to be able to hold apart\nin the mind and to contrast with one another the persons related. It is\nevident, therefore, that the emergence of the concept self must have a\ndecided effect on moral development.\n\nI feel tempted to pause here a moment and to say a word in passing about\nthe extreme importance of the constituent elements of the concept self.\nFor it must not be supposed that the pronoun \"I\" means the same thing on\nthe lips of every person who uses it. \"I\" is a label denoting a mass of\nassociated ideas, and as these ideas are capable of almost endless\nvariation, so the notion of selfhood is correspondingly diversified in\ndifferent individuals. In the case of children, perhaps the principal\nconstituents of the concept are supplied by their outward appearance and\nenvironment. When a child speaks of itself, it thinks primarily of its\nbody, especially its face, then of the clothes it usually wears, the\nhouse it lives in, the streets through which it habitually walks, its\nparents, brothers, sisters, school-masters, etc.[7] If we analyze the\nmeaning of \"I\" in the case of two children, the one well-born and well\nbrought up, the other without these advantages, we shall perhaps find\nsuch differences as the following: \"I\" in the one case will mean a being\nliving in a certain decent and comfortable house, always wearing neat\nclothing, surrounded by parents, brothers, and sisters who speak kindly\nto one another and have gentle manners, etc. In the other case, the\nconstituents of the concept self may be very different. \"I\" in the case\nof the second child may mean a creature that lives in a dark, filthy\nhovel and walks every day through narrow streets, reeking with garbage.\n\"I\" may mean the child of a father who comes home drunk and strikes the\nmother when the angry fit is upon him. \"I\" stands for a poor waif that\nwears torn clothes, and when he sits in school by the side of\nwell-dressed children is looked at askance and put to shame. It is\nobvious that the elements which go to make up the concept self affect\nthe child's moral nature by lowering or raising its self-esteem. I\nremember the case of one, who as a boy was the laughing-stock of his\nclass on account of the old-fashioned, ill-fitting clothes which he was\ncompelled to wear, and who has confessed that even late in life he could\nnot entirely overcome the effect of this early humiliation, and that he\ncontinued to be painfully aware in himself, in consequence, of a certain\nlack of ease and self-possession. Hence we should see to it that the\nconstituent elements of the concept self are of the right kind. It is a\nmistake to suppose that the idea of selfhood stands off independently\nfrom the elements of our environment. The latter enter into, and when\nthey are bad eat into, the very kernel of our nature.\n\nWe have seen that the development of the intellect as it appears in the\ngrowing distinctness of self-consciousness exercises an important\ninfluence on the development of the moral faculty. But there is still\nanother way in which this influence becomes apparent. The function of\nconscience further depends on the power of keeping alternative courses\nof action before the mind. Angels capable only of the good, or fiends\nactuated exclusively by malice, could not be called moral creatures. A\nmoral act always presupposes a previous choice between two possible\nlines of action. And until the power of holding the judgment in\nsuspense, of hesitating between alternative lines of conduct, has been\nacquired, conscience, strictly speaking, does not manifest itself. We\nmay say that the voice of conscience begins to be heard when, the parent\nbeing absent, the child hesitates between a forbidden pleasure and\nobedience to the parental command. Of course, not every choice between\nalternative courses is a moral act. If any one hesitates whether to\nremain at home or to go for a walk, whether to take a road to the right\nor to the left, the decision is morally indifferent. But whenever one of\nthe alternative courses is good and the other bad, conscience does come\ninto play.\n\nAt this point, however, the question forcibly presents itself, How does\nit come to pass in the experience of children that they learn to regard\ncertain lines of action as good and others as bad? You will readily\nanswer, The parent characterizes certain acts as good and others as bad,\nand the child accepts his definition; and this is undoubtedly true. The\nparent's word is the main prop of the budding conscience. But how comes\nthe parent's word to produce belief? This is indeed the crucial\nquestion touching the development of the moral faculty. Mr. Bain says\nthat the child fears the punishment which the parent will inflict in\ncase of disobedience; that the essential form and defining quality of\nconscience from first to last is of the nature of dread. He seems to\nclassify the child's conscience with the criminal conscience, the rebel\nconscience which must be energized by the fear of penalties. But this\nexplanation seems very unsatisfactory. Every one, of course, must admit\nthat the confirmations of experience tend greatly to strengthen the\nparent's authority. The parent says, You must be neat. The child, if it\ndoes as it is bidden, finds an aesthetic pleasure in its becoming\nappearance. The parent says, You must not strike your little brother,\nbut be kind to him; and the child, on restraining its anger, is\ngratified by the loving words and looks which it receives in return. The\nparent says, You must not touch the stove, or you will be burned. The\ndisobedient child is effectually warned by the pain it suffers to be\nmore obedient in future. But all such confirmations are mere external\naids to parental authority. They do not explain the feeling of reverence\nwith which even a young child, when rightly brought up, is wont to look\nup to his father's face. To explain this sentiment of reverence, I must\nask you to consider the following train of reasoning. It has been\nremarked already that the parent should be to the child the visible\nembodiment of a higher law. This higher law shining from the father's\ncountenance, making its sublime presence felt in the mother's eye,\nwakens an answering vibration in the child's heart. The child feels the\nhigher presence and bows to it, though it could not, if it tried,\nanalyze or explain what it feels. We should never forget that children\npossess the capacity for moral development from the outset. It is indeed\nthe fashion with some modern writers to speak of the child as if it were\nat first a mere animal, and as if reflection and morality were\nmechanically superadded later on. But the whole future man is already\nhidden, not yet declared, but latent all the same in the child's heart.\nThe germs of humanity in its totality exist in the young being. Else how\ncould it ever unfold into full-grown morality? It will perhaps serve to\nmake my meaning clearer if I call attention to analogous facts relating\nto the intellectual faculty. The formula of causality is a very abstract\none, which only a thoroughly trained mind can grasp. But even very young\nchildren are constantly asking questions as to the causes of things.\nWhat makes the trees grow? what makes the stars shine?--i. e., what is\nthe cause of the trees growing and the stars shining? The child is\nconstantly pushing, or rather groping, its way back from effects to\ncauses. The child's mind acts under what maybe called the causative\ninstinct long before it can apprehend the law of causation. In the same\nway young children perfectly follow the process of syllogistic\nreasoning. If a father says, on leaving the house for a walk: I can take\nwith me only a child that has been good; now, you have not been good\nto-day; the child without any difficulty draws the conclusion, Therefore\nI can not go out walking with my father to-day. The logical laws are, as\nit were, prefigured in the child's mind long before, under the chemical\naction of experience they come out in the bright colors of\nconsciousness. Or, to use another figure, they exert a pressure on the\nchild of which he himself can give no account. And in like manner the\nmoral law--the law which prescribes certain relations between self and\nothers--is, so to speak, prefigured in the child's mind, and when it is\nexpressed in commands uttered by the parent, the pressure of external\nauthority is confirmed by a pressure coming from within. We can\nillustrate the same idea from another point of view. Whenever a man of\ncommanding moral genius appears in the world and speaks to the multitude\nfrom his height, they are for the moment lifted to his level and feel\nthe afflatus of his spirit. This is so because he expresses\npotentialities of human nature which also exist in them, only not\nunfolded to the same degree as in him. It is a matter of common\nobservation that persons who under ordinary circumstances are content to\nadmire what is third rate and fourth rate are yet able to appreciate\nwhat is first rate when it is presented to them--at least to the extent\nof recognizing that it is first rate. And yet their lack of development\nshows itself in the fact that presently they again lose their hold on\nthe higher standard of excellence, and are thereafter content to put up\nwith what is inferior as if the glimpses of better things had never been\nopened to them. Is it not because, though capable of rising to the\nhigher level, they are not capable of maintaining themselves on it\nunassisted. Now, the case of the parent with respect to the child is\nanalogous. He is on a superior moral plane. The child feels that he is,\nwithout being able to understand why. It feels the afflatus of the\nhigher spirit dwelling in the parent, and out of this feeling is\ngenerated the sentiment of reverence. And there is no greater benefit\nwhich father or mother can confer on their offspring than to deepen this\nsentiment. It is by this means that they can most efficiently promote\nthe development of the child's conscience, for out of this reverence\nwill grow eventually respect for all rightly constituted authority,\nrespect and reverence for law, human and divine. The essential form and\ndefining quality of conscience is not, therefore, as Bain has it--fear\nof punishment. In my opinion such fear is abject and cowardly. The\nsentiment engendered by fear is totally different from the one we are\ncontemplating, as the following consideration will serve to show: A\nchild fears its father when he punishes it in anger; and the more\nviolent his passion, the more does the child fear him. But, no matter\nhow stern the penalty may be which he has to inflict, the child reveres\nits father in proportion as the traces of anger are banished from his\nmien and bearing, in proportion as the parent shows by his manner that\nhe acts from a sense of duty, that he has his eye fixed on the sacred\nmeasures of right and wrong, that he himself stands in awe of the\nsublime commands of which he is, for the time being, the exponent.\n\nTo recapitulate briefly the points which we have gone over: regular\nhabits can be inculcated and obedience can be taught even in infancy. By\nobedience is meant the yielding of a wayward and ignorant will to a firm\nand enlightened one. The child between three and six years of age learns\nclearly to distinguish self from others, and to deliberate between\nalternative courses of action. It is highly important to control the\nelements which enter into the concept self. The desire to choose the\ngood is promoted chiefly by the sentiment of reverence.\n\nWe are thus prepared to describe in a general way the moral outfit of\nthe child on entering school. We have, indeed, already described it. The\nmoral acquirements of the child at the age of which we speak express\nthemselves in habits. The normal child, under the influences of parental\nexample and command, has acquired such habits as that of personal\ncleanliness, of temperance in eating, of respect for the truth. Having\nlearned to use the pronouns I and thou, it also begins to understand the\ndifference between _meum_ and _tuum_. The property sense begins to be\ndeveloped. It claims its own seat at table, its own toys against the\naggression of others. It has gained in an elementary way the notion of\nrights.\n\nThis is a stock of acquirements by no means inconsiderable. The next\nstep in the progress of conscience must be taken in the school. Until\nnow the child has been aware of duties relating only or principally to\npersons whom it loves and who love it. The motive of love is now to\nbecome less prominent. A part of that reverence which the child has felt\nfor the parents whom it loves is now to be transferred to the teacher. A\npart of that respect for the rights of equals which has been impressed\nupon it in its intercourse with brothers and sisters, to whom it is\nbound by the ties of blood, is now to be transferred to its school\ncompanions, who are at first strangers to it. Thus the conscience of the\nchild will be expanded, thus it will be prepared for intercourse with\nthe world. Thus it will begin to gain that higher understanding of\nmorality, according to which authority is to be obeyed simply because it\nis rightful, and equals are to be treated as equals, even when they are\nnot and can not be regarded with affection.\n\nI have in the above used the word habits advisedly. The morality of the\nyoung child assumes the concrete form of habits; abstract principles are\nstill beyond its grasp. Habits are acquired by imitation and repetition.\nGood examples must be so persistently presented and so often copied that\nthe line of moral conduct may become the line of least resistance. The\nexample of parents and teachers is indeed specially important in this\nrespect. But after all it is not sufficient. For the temptations of\nadults differ in many ways from those of children, and on the other\nhand in the lives of older persons occasions are often wanting for\nillustrating just the peculiar virtues of childhood. On this account it\nis necessary to set before the child ideal examples of the virtues of\nchildren and of the particular temptations, against which they need to\nbe warned. Of such examples we find a large stock ready to hand in the\nliterature of fairy tales, fables, and stories. In our next lecture\ntherefore we shall begin to consider the use of fairy tales, fables, and\nstories as means of creating in children those habits which are\nessential to the safe guarding and unfolding of their moral life.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[7] So important is environment in supporting self-consciousness, that\neven adults, when suddenly transported into entirely new surroundings,\noften experience a momentary doubt as to their identity.\n\n\n\n\nPRIMARY COURSE.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nTHE USE OF FAIRY TALES.\n\n\nThere has been and still is considerable difference of opinion among\neducators as to the value of fairy tales. I venture to think that, as in\nmany other cases, the cause of the quarrel is what logicians call an\n_undistributed middle_--in other words, that the parties to the dispute\nhave each a different kind of fairy tale in mind. This species of\nliterature can be divided broadly into two classes--one consisting of\ntales which ought to be rejected because they are really harmful, and\nchildren ought to be protected from their bad influence, the other of\ntales which have a most beautiful and elevating effect, and which we can\nnot possibly afford to leave unutilized.\n\nThe chief pedagogic value they possess is that they exercise and\ncultivate the imagination. Now, the imagination is a most powerful\nauxiliary in the development of the mind and will. The familiar anecdote\nrelated of Marie Antoinette, who is said to have asked why the people\ndid not eat cake when she was told that they were in want of bread,\nindicates a deficiency of imagination. Brought up amid the splendor of\ncourts, surrounded by luxury, she could not put herself in the place of\nthose who lack the very necessaries. Much of the selfishness of the\nworld is due not to actual hard-heartedness, but to a similar lack of\nimaginative power. It is difficult for the happy to realize the needs of\nthe miserable. Did they realize those needs, they would in many cases be\nmelted to pity and roused to help. The faculty of putting one's self in\nthe place of others is therefore of great, though indirect, service to\nthe cause of morality, and this faculty may be cultivated by means of\nfairy tales. As they follow intently the progress of the story, the\nyoung listeners are constantly called upon to place themselves in the\nsituations in which they have never been, to imagine trials, dangers,\ndifficulties, such as they have never experienced, to reproduce in\nthemselves, for instance, such feelings as that of being alone in the\nwide world, of being separated from father's and mother's love, of being\nhungry and without bread, exposed to enemies without protection, etc.\nThus their sympathy in a variety of forms is aroused.\n\nIn the next place, fairy tales stimulate the idealizing tendency. What\nwere life worth without ideals! How could hope or even religion\ngerminate in the human heart were we not able to confront the\ndisappointing present with visions which represent the fulfillment of\nour desires. \"Faith,\" says Paul, \"is the confidence of things hoped for,\nthe certainty of things not seen.\" Thus faith itself can not abide\nunless supported by a vivid idealism. It is true, the ideals of\nchildhood are childish. In the story called Das Marienkind we hear of\nthe little daughter of a poor wood-cutter who was taken up bodily into\nheaven. There she ate sweetmeats and drank cream every day and wore\ndresses made of gold, and the angels played with her. Sweetmeats and\ncream in plenty and golden dresses and dear little angels to play with\nmay represent the ideals of a young child, and these are materialistic\nenough. But I hold nevertheless that something--nay, much--has been\ngained if a child has learned to take the wishes out of its heart, as it\nwere, and to project them on the screen of fancy. As it grows up to\nmanhood, the wishes will become more spiritual, and the ideals, too,\nwill become correspondingly elevated. In speaking of fairy tales I have\nin mind chiefly the German _Maerchen_ of which the word fairy tale is but\nan inaccurate rendering. The _Maerchen_ are more than mere tales of\nhelpful fairies. They have, as is well-known, a mythological background.\nThey still bear distinct traces of ancient animism, and the myths which\ncenter about the phenomena of the storm, the battle of the sun with the\nclouds, the struggle of the fair spring god with the dark winter demons,\nare in them leading themes. But what originally was the outgrowth of\nsuperstition has now, to a great extent at least, been purified of its\ndross and converted into mere poetry. The _Maerchen_ come to us from a\ntime when the world was young. They represent the childhood of mankind,\nand it is for this reason that they never cease to appeal to children.\nThe _Maerchen_ have a subtile flavor all their own. They are pervaded by\nthe poetry of forest life, are full of the sense of mystery and awe,\nwhich is apt to overcome one on penetrating deeper and deeper into the\nwoods, away from human habitations. The _Maerchen_ deal with the\nunderground life of nature, which weaves in caverns and in the heart of\nmountains, where gnomes and dwarfs are at work gathering hidden\ntreasures. And with this underground life children have a marvelous\nsympathy. The _Maerchen_ present glowing pictures of sheltered firesides,\nwhere man finds rest and security from howling winds and nipping cold.\nBut perhaps their chief attraction is due to their representing the\nchild as living in brotherly fellowship with nature and all creatures.\nTrees, flowers, animals wild and tame, even the stars, are represented\nas the comrades of children. That animals are only human beings in\ndisguise is an axiom in the fairy tales. Animals are humanized--i. e.,\nthe kinship between animal and human life is still strongly felt, and\nthis reminds us of those early animistic interpretations of nature,\nwhich subsequently led to doctrines of metempsychosis. Plants, too, are\noften represented as incarnations of human spirits. Thus the twelve\nlilies are inhabited by the twelve brothers, and in the story of\nSnow-white and Rose-red the life of the two maidens appears to be bound\nup with the life of the white and red rosebush. The kinship of all life\nwhatsoever is still realized. This being so, it is not surprising that\nmen should understand the language of animals, and that these should\ninterfere to protect the heroes and heroines of the _Maerchen_ from\nthreatened dangers. In the story of the faithful servant John, the\nthree ravens flying above the ship reveal the secret of the red horse,\nthe sulphurous shirt, and the three drops of blood, and John, who\nunderstands their communications, is thereby enabled to save his\nmaster's life. What, again, can be more beautiful than the way in which\nthe tree and the two white doves co-operate to secure the happiness of\nthe injured Cinderella! The tree rains down the golden dresses with\nwhich she appears at the ball, and the doves continue to warn the prince\nas he rides by that he has chosen the wrong bride until Cinderella\nherself passes, when they light on her shoulders, one on her right and\nthe other on her left, making, perhaps, the loveliest picture to be\nfound in all fairy lore. The child still lives in unbroken communion\nwith the whole of nature; the harmony between its own life and the\nenveloping life has not yet been disturbed, and it is this harmony of\nthe human with the natural world that reflects itself in the atmosphere\nof the _Maerchen_, and makes them so admirably suited to satisfy the\nheart of childhood.\n\nBut how shall we handle these _Maerchen_ and what method shall we employ\nin putting them to account for our special purpose? I have a few\nthoughts on this subject, which I shall venture to submit in the form of\ncounsels.\n\nMy _first counsel_ is: Tell the story; do not give it to the child to\nread. There is an obvious practical reason for this. Children are able\nto benefit by hearing fairy tales before they can read. But that is not\nthe only reason. It is the childhood of the race, as we have seen, that\nspeaks in the fairy story to the child of to-day. It is the voice of an\nancient, far-off past that echoes from the lips of the story-teller. The\nwords \"once upon a time\" open up a vague retrospect into the past, and\nthe child gets its first indistinct notions of history in this way. The\nstories embody the tradition of the childhood of mankind. They have on\nthis account an authority all their own, not indeed that of literal\ntruth, but one derived from their being types of certain feelings and\nlongings which belong to childhood as such. The child as it listens to\nthe _Maerchen_, looks up with wide-opened eyes to the face of the person\nwho tells the story, and thrills responsive as the touch of the earlier\nlife of the race thus falls upon its own. Such an effect, of course, can\nnot be produced by cold type. Tradition is a living thing, and should\nuse the living voice for its vehicle.\n\nMy _second counsel_ is also of a practical nature, and I make bold to\nsay quite essential to the successful use of the stories. Do not take\nthe moral plum out of the fairy-tale pudding, but let the child enjoy it\nas a whole. Do not make the story taper toward a single point, the moral\npoint. You will squeeze all the juice out of it if you try. Do not\nsubordinate the purely fanciful and naturalistic elements of the story,\nsuch as the love of mystery, the passion for roving, the sense of\nfellowship with the animal world, in order to fix attention solely on\nthe moral element. On the contrary, you will gain the best moral effect\nby proceeding in exactly the opposite way. Treat the moral element as\nan incident; emphasize, it indeed, but incidentally. Pluck it as a\nwayside flower. How often does it happen that, having set out on a\njourney with a distinct object in mind, something occurs on the way\nwhich we had not foreseen, but which in the end leaves the deepest\nimpression on the mind. The object which we had in view is long\nforgotten, but the incident which happened by the way is remembered for\nyears after. So the moral result of the _Maerchen_ will not be less sure\nbecause gained incidentally. An illustration will make plain what I\nmean. In the story of the Frog King we are told that there was once a\nyoung princess who was so beautiful that even the Sun, which sees a\ngreat many things, had never seen anything so beautiful as she was. A\ngolden ball was her favorite plaything. One day, as she sat by a well\nunder an old linden tree, she tossed the ball into the air and it fell\ninto the well. She was very unhappy, and cried bitterly. Presently a\nfrog put his ugly head out of the water, and offered to dive for the\nball, on condition, however, that she would promise to take him for her\nplaymate, to let him eat off her golden plate and drink out of her\ngolden cup and sleep in her little snow-white bed. The princess promised\neverything. But no sooner had the frog brought her the ball than she\nscampered away, heedless of his cries. The next day as the royal family\nsat at dinner a knock was heard at the door. The princess opened and\nbeheld the ugly toad claiming admittance. She screamed with fright and\nhastily shut the door in his face. But when the king, her father, had\nquestioned her, he said, \"What you have promised, you must keep\"; and\nshe obeyed her father, though it was sorely against her inclination to\ndo so. That was right, children, was it not? One must always obey, even\nif one does not like what one is told to do. So the toad was brought in\nand lifted to the table, and he ate off the little golden plate and\ndrank out of the golden cup. And when he had had enough, he said, \"I am\ntired now, put me into your little snow-white bed.\" And again when she\nrefused her father said: \"What you have promised you must keep. Ugly\nthough he is, he helped you when you were in distress, and you must not\ndespise him now.\" And the upshot of the story is that the ugly toad,\nhaving been thrown against the wall, was changed into a beautiful\nprince, and of course some time after the prince and the princess were\nmarried.\n\nThe naturalistic element of the story is the changing of the prince into\na toad and back again from a toad into a prince. Children are very fond\nof disguises. It is one of their greatest pleasures to imagine things to\nbe other than they are. And one of the chief attractions of such stories\nas the one we have related is that they cater to the fondness of the\nlittle folks for this sort of masquerading. The moral elements of the\nstory are obvious. They should be touched on in such a manner as not to\ndivert the interest from the main story.\n\nMy _third counsel_ is to eliminate from the stories whatever is merely\nsuperstitious, merely a relic of ancient animism, and of course whatever\nis objectionable on moral grounds. For instance, such a story as that of\nthe idle spinner, the purport of which seems to be that there is a\nspecial providence watching over lazy people. Likewise all those stories\nwhich turn upon the success of trickery and cunning. A special question\narising under this head, and one which has been the subject of much\nvexed discussion, is in how far we should acquaint children with the\nexistence of evil in the world, and to what extent we can use stories in\nwhich evil beings and evil motives are introduced. My own view is that\nwe should speak in the child's hearing only of those lesser forms of\nevil, physical or moral, with which it is already acquainted, but\nexclude all those forms of evil which lie beyond its present experience.\nOn this ground I should reject the whole brood of step-mother stories,\nor rather, as this might make too wide a swath, I should take the\nliberty of altering stories in which the typical bad step-mother occurs,\nbut which are otherwise valuable. There is no reason why children should\nbe taught to look on step-mothers in general as evilly disposed persons.\nThe same applies to stories in which unnatural fathers are mentioned. I\nshould also rule out such stories as that of The Wolf and The Seven\nLittle Goats. The mother goat, on leaving the house, warns her little\nones against the wolf, and gives them two signs by which they can\ndetect him--his hoarse voice and black paws. The wolf knocks and finds\nhimself discovered. He thereupon swallows chalk to improve his voice and\ncompels the miller to whiten his paws. Then he knocks again, is\nadmitted, leaps into the room, and devours the little goats one by one.\nThe story, as used in the nursery, has a transparent purpose. It is\nintended to warn little children who are left at home alone against\nadmitting strangers. The wolf represents evil beings in general--tramps,\nburglars, people who come to kidnap children, etc. Now I, for one,\nshould not wish to implant this fear of strangers into the minds of the\nyoung. Fear is demoralizing. Children should look with confidence and\ntrust upon all men. They need not be taught to fear robbers and\nburglars. Even the sight of wild animals need not awaken dread. Children\nnaturally admire the beauty of the tiger's skin, and the lion in their\neyes is a noble creature, of whose ferocity they have no conception. It\nis time enough for them later on to familiarize themselves with the fact\nthat evil of a sinister sort exists within human society and outside of\nit. And it will be safe for them to face this fact then only, when they\ncan couple with it the conviction that the forces of right and order in\nthe world are strong enough to grapple with the sinister powers and hold\nthem in subjection.\n\nAnd now let us review a number of the _Maerchen_ against which none of\nthese objections lie, which are delicious food for children's minds, and\nconsider the place they occupy in a scheme of moral training. It has\nbeen already stated that each period of human life has a set of duties\npeculiar to itself. The principal duties of childhood are: Obedience to\nparents, love and kindness toward brothers and sisters, a proper regard\nfor the feelings of servants, and kindness toward animals. We can\nclassify the fairy tales which we can use under these various heads. Let\nus begin with the topic last mentioned.\n\n\n_Tales illustrating Kindness toward Animals._\n\nThe House in the Woods.--The daughter of a poor wood-cutter is lost in\nthe woods, and comes at night to a lonely house. An old man is sitting\nwithin. Three animals--a cow, a cock, and a chicken--lie on the hearth.\nThe child is made welcome, and is asked to prepare supper. She cooks for\nthe old man and herself, but forgets the animals. The second daughter\nlikewise goes astray in the woods, comes to the same house, and acts in\nthe same way. The third daughter, a sweet, loving child, before sitting\ndown to her own meal, brings in hay for the cow and barley for the cock\nand chicken, and by this act of kindness to animals breaks the spell\nwhich had been cast upon the house. The old man is immediately\ntransformed into a prince, etc.\n\nThe Story of the Dog Sultan.--Sultan is old, and about to be shot by his\nmaster. The wolf, seeing his cousin the dog in such distress, promises\nto help him. He arranges that on the morrow he will seize a sheep\nbelonging to Sultan's master. The dog is to run after him, and he, the\nwolf, will drop the sheep and Sultan shall get the credit of the rescue.\nEverything passes off as prearranged, and Sultan's life is spared by his\ngrateful owner. Some time after the wolf comes prowling around the\nhouse, and, reminding his friend that one good turn deserves another,\ndeclares that he has now come for mutton in good earnest. But the dog\nreplies that nothing can tempt him to betray the interests of his\nmaster. The wolf persists, but Sultan gives the alarm and the thief\nreceives his due in the shape of a sound beating.\n\nThe point of special interest in the beautiful story of Snow-white and\nRose-red above referred to is the incident of the bear. One cold\nwinter's night some one knocks at the door. Snow-white and Rose-red go\nto open, when a huge black bear appears at the entrance and begs for\nshelter. He is almost frozen with the cold, he says, and would like to\nwarm himself a bit. The two little girls are at first frightened, but,\nencouraged by their mother, they take heart and invite the bear into the\nkitchen. Soon a cordial friendship springs up between Bruin and the\nchildren. They brush the snow from his fur, tease, and caress him by\nturns. After this the bear returns every night, and finally turns out to\nbe a beautiful prince.\n\nThe Story of the Queen Bee tells about three brothers who wander through\nthe world in search of adventures. One day they come to an ant-hill.\nThe two older brothers are about to trample upon the ants \"just for the\nfun of it.\" But the youngest pleads with them, saying: \"Let them live;\ntheir life is as dear to them as ours is to us.\" Next they come to a\npond in which many ducks are swimming about. The two older brothers are\ndetermined to shoot the ducks \"just for the fun of it.\" The youngest\nagain pleads as before, \"Let them live,\" etc. Finally, he saves a\nbee-hive from destruction in the same manner. Thus they journey on until\nthey come to an enchanted castle. To break the spell, it is necessary to\nfind and gather up a thousand pearls which had fallen on the\nmoss-covered ground in a certain wood. Five thousand ants come to help\nthe youngest to find the pearls. The second task imposed is to find a\ngolden key which had been thrown into a pond near the castle. The\ngrateful ducks bring up the key from the bottom. The third task is the\nmost difficult. In one of the interior chambers of the castle there are\nthree marble images--three princesses, namely, who had been turned into\nstone. Before the spell took effect they had partaken, respectively, of\nsugar, sirup, and honey. To restore them to life it is necessary to\ndiscover which one had eaten the honey. The Queen Bee comes in with all\nher swarm and lights on the lips of the youngest and so solves the\nproblem. The enchantment is immediately dissolved. All these stories\nillustrate kindness to animals.\n\nAmong stories which illustrate the _respect due to the feelings of\nservants_ may be mentioned the tale of Faithful John, who understood the\nlanguage of the ravens and saved his master from the dangers of the red\nhorse, etc., a story which in addition impresses the lesson that we\nshould confide in persons who have been found trustworthy, even if we do\nnot understand their motives. In the popular tale of Cinderella the\npoints especially to be noted are: The pious devotion of Cinderella to\nher mother's memory, and the fact that the poor kitchen drudge,\nunderneath the grime and ashes which disfigure her, possesses qualities\nwhich raise her far above the proud daughters of the house. The lesson\ntaught by this story that we should distinguish intrinsic worth from the\naccidents of rank and condition, is one which can not be impressed too\nearly or too deeply.\n\nUnder the heading of _brotherly and sisterly love_ belongs the lovely\ntale of Snow-white. The little dwarfs are to all intents and purposes\nher brothers. They receive and treat her as a sister, and she returns\ntheir affection in kind.\n\nThe story of the Twelve Brothers, whom their sister redeems by seven\nyears of silence at the peril of her own life, is another instance of\ntenderest sisterly devotion combined with self-control. This story,\nhowever, needs to be slightly altered. In place of the cruel father (we\nmust not mention cruel fathers) who has got ready twelve coffins for his\nsons, in order that all the wealth of his kingdom may descend to his\ndaughter, let us substitute the steward of the palace, who hopes by\nslaying the sons and winning the hand of the daughter, to become king\nhimself.\n\nFinally the story of Red Riding Hood illustrates the cardinal virtue of\nchildhood--_obedience to parents_. Children must not loiter on the way\nwhen they are sent on errands. And Riding Hood loiters, and hence all\nthe mischief which follows. She is sent to bring wine and cake to her\ngrandmother. The example of such attentions as this serves to quicken in\nchildren the sentiment of reverence for the aged. Children learn\nreverence toward their parents in part by the reverence which these\ndisplay toward the grandparents. Another point is that Red Riding Hood,\nto quiet her conscience, when she strays from the straight path deceives\nherself as to her motives. She says, \"I will also gather a bunch of wild\nflowers to please grandmother.\" But her real purpose is to enjoy the\nfreedom of the woods, and the proof is that presently she forgets all\nabout grandmother. There is one objection that has sometimes been urged\nagainst this story, viz., the part which the wolf plays in it. But the\nwolf is not really treated as a hostile or fearful being. He meets Red\nRiding Hood on the way, and they chat confidentially together. He\nappears rather in the light of a trickster. But, it is objected, that he\ndevours the grandmother and, later on, Red Riding Hood herself. Very\ntrue; but the curious fact is that, when his belly is cut open, the\ngrandmother and Red Riding Hood come out intact. They have evidently not\nbeen injured. Children have very defective notions of the human body,\nwith the exception of such external parts as hands, feet, and face. In\nan examination recently conducted by Prof. G. Stanley Hall in regard to\nthe contents of childrens' minds at the time they enter school, it was\nfound that ninety per cent of those questioned had no idea where the\nheart is located, eighty-one per cent did not know anything about the\nlungs, ninety per cent could not tell where their ribs are situated,\netc. Of the internal organs children have no idea. Hence when the story\nsays that the grandmother is swallowed by the wolf, the impression\ncreated is that she has been forced down into a sort of dark hole, and\nthat her situation, while rather uncomfortable, no doubt, is not\notherwise distressing. The ideas of torn and mangled flesh are not\nsuggested. Hence the act of devouring arouses no feeling of horror, and\nthe story of Red Riding Hood, that prime favorite of all young children,\nmay be related without any apprehension as to its moral effect.\n\nThen there are other stories, such as that of the man who went abroad to\nlearn the art of shuddering--an excellent example of bravery; the story\nof the seven Suabians--a persiflage of cowardice; the story of the\n_Marienkind_ which contains a wholesome lesson against obstinacy, etc. I\nhave not, of course, attempted to cover the whole ground, but only to\nmention a few examples sufficient to show along what lines the selection\nmay be made. The ethical interests peculiar to childhood are the heads\nunder which the whole material can be classified.\n\nThe value of the fairy tales is that they stimulate the imagination;\nthat they reflect the unbroken communion of human life with the life\nuniversal, as in beasts, fishes, trees, flowers, and stars; and that\nincidentally, but all the more powerfully on that account, they quicken\nthe moral sentiments.\n\nLet us avail ourselves freely of the treasures which are thus placed at\nour disposal. Let us welcome _das Maerchen_ into our primary course of\nmoral training, that with its gentle bands, woven of \"morning mist and\nmorning glory,\" it may help to lead our children into the bright realms\nof the ideal.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nTHE USE OF FABLES.\n\n\nThe collection of fables which figures under the name of AEsop has to a\nvery remarkable degree maintained its popularity among children, and\nmany of its typical characters have been adopted into current\nliterature, such as the Dog in the Manger, the Wolf in Sheep's Clothing,\nKing Log, and King Stork, and others. Recent researches have brought to\nlight the highly interesting fact that these fables are of Asiatic\norigin. A collection of Indian and, it is believed, Buddhist fables and\nstories traveled at an early period into Persia, where it became known\nas the Pancha-Tantra. The Pancha-Tantra was translated into Arabic, and\nbecame the source of the voluminous Kalilah-wa-Dimnah literature. The\nArabic tales in turn migrated into Europe at the time of the Crusades\nand were rendered into Greek, Hebrew, and Latin. In this form they\nbecame accessible to the nations of Europe, were extensively circulated,\nand a collection of them was wrongly, but very naturally, ascribed to a\nfamous story-teller of the ancient Greeks--i. e., to AEsop. The arguments\non which this deduction is based may be found in Rhys Davids's\nintroduction to his English translation of the Jataka Tales.[8] This\nauthor speaks of AEsop's fables as a first moral lesson-book for our\nchildren in the West. We shall have to consider in how far this\ndescription is correct--that is to say, in how far we can use the fables\nfor moral purposes. The point to be kept in mind is their Asiatic\norigin, as this will at once help us to separate the fables which we can\nuse from those which must be rejected. A discrimination of this sort is\nabsolutely necessary. I am of the opinion that it is a serious mistake\nto place the whole collection as it stands in the hands of children.\n\nTo decide this question we must study the _milieu_ in which the fables\narose, the spirit which they breathe, the conditions which they reflect.\nThe conditions they reflect are those of an Oriental despotism. They\ndepict a state of society in which the people are cruelly oppressed by\ntyrannical rulers, and the weak are helpless in the hands of the strong.\nThe spirit which they breathe is, on the whole, one of patient and\nrather hopeless submission. The effect upon the reader as soon as he has\ncaught this clew, this _Leitmotiv_, which occurs in a hundred\nvariations, is very saddening. I must substantiate this cardinal point\nby a somewhat detailed analysis. Let us take first the fable of the Kite\nand the Pigeons. A kite had been sailing in the air for many days near a\npigeon-house with the intention of seizing the pigeons; at last he had\nrecourse to stratagem. He expressed his deep concern at their unjust and\nunreasonable suspicions of himself, as if he intended to do them an\ninjury. He declared that, on the contrary, he had nothing more at heart\nthan the defense of their ancient rights and liberties, and ended by\nproposing that they should accept him as their protector, their king.\nThe poor, simple pigeons consented. The kite took the coronation oath in\na very solemn manner. But much time had not elapsed before the good kite\ndeclared it to be a part of the king's prerogative to devour a pigeon\nnow and then, and the various members of his family adhered to the same\nview of royal privilege. The miserable pigeons exclaimed: \"Ah, we\ndeserve no better. Why did we let him in!\"\n\nThe fable of the Wolf in Sheep's Clothing conveys essentially the same\nidea. The fable of the Lion and the Deer illustrates the exorbitant\nexactions practiced by despots. A fat deer was divided into four parts.\nHis majesty the lion proposed that they be suitably apportioned. The\nfirst part he claimed for himself on account of his true hereditary\ndescent from the royal family of Lion; the second he considered properly\nhis own because he had headed the hunt; the third he took in virtue of\nhis prerogative; and finally he assumed a menacing attitude, and dared\nany one to dispute his right to the fourth part also.\n\nIn the fable of the Sick Lion and the Fox, the fox says: \"I see the\nfootprints of beasts who have gone into the cave, but of none that have\ncome out.\" The fable of the Cat and the Mice expresses the same thought,\nnamely, that it is necessary to be ever on one's guard against the\nmighty oppressors even when their power seems for the time to have\ndeserted them. The cat pretends to be dead, hoping by this means to\nentice the mice within her reach. A cunning old mouse peeps over the\nedge of the shelf, and says: \"Aha, my good friend, are you there? I\nwould not trust myself with you though your skin were stuffed with\nstraw.\"\n\nThe fable of King Log and King Stork shows what a poor choice the people\nhave in the matter of their kings. First they have a fool for their\nking, a mere log, and they are discontented. Then Stork ascends the\nthrone, and he devours them. It would have been better if they had put\nup with the fool. The injustice of despotic rulers is exemplified in the\nfable of the Kite and the Wolf. The kite and the wolf are seated in\njudgment. The dog comes before them to sue the sheep for debt. Kite and\nwolf, without waiting for the evidence, give sentence for the plaintiff,\nwho immediately tears the poor sheep into pieces and divides the spoil\nwith the judges. The sort of thanks which the people get when they are\nfoolish enough to come to the assistance of their masters, is\nillustrated by the conduct of the wolf toward the crane. The wolf\nhappened to have a bone sticking in his throat, and, howling with pain,\npromised a reward to any one who should relieve him. At last the crane\nventured his long neck into the wolf's throat and plucked out the bone.\nBut when he asked for his reward, the wolf glared savagely upon him, and\nsaid: \"Is it not enough that I refrained from biting off your head?\" How\ndangerous it is to come at all into close contact with the mighty, is\nshown in the fable of the Earthen and the Brazen Pot. The brazen pot\noffers to protect the earthen one as they float down stream. \"Oh,\"\nreplies the latter, \"keep as far off as ever you can, if you please;\nfor, whether the stream dashes you against me or me against you, I am\nsure to be the sufferer.\"\n\nThe fables which we have considered have for their theme the character\nof the strong as exhibited in their dealings with the weak. A second\ngroup is intended to recommend a certain policy to be pursued by the\nweak in self-protection. This policy consists either in pacifying the\nstrong by giving up to them voluntarily what they want, or in flight,\nor, if that be impossible, in uncomplaining submission. The first\nexpedient is recommended in the fable of the Beaver. A beaver who was\nbeing hard pressed by a hunter and knew not how to escape, suddenly,\nwith a great effort, bit off the part which the hunter desired, and,\nthrowing it toward him, by this means escaped with his life. The\nexpedient of flight is recommended in the fable of Reynard and the Cat.\nReynard and the cat one day were talking politics in the forest. The fox\nboasted that though things might turn out never so badly, he had still a\nthousand tricks to play before they should catch him. The cat said: \"I\nhave but one trick, and if that does not succeed I am undone.\" Presently\na pack of hounds came upon them full cry. The cat ran up a tree and hid\nherself among the top branches. The fox, who had not been able to get\nout of sight, was overtaken despite his thousand tricks and torn to\npieces by the hounds. The fable of the Oak and the Reed teaches the\npolicy of utter, uncomplaining submission. The oak refuses to bend, and\nis broken. The supple reed yields to the blast, and is safe. Is it not a\nlittle astonishing that this fable should so often be related to\nchildren as if it contained a moral which they ought to take to heart?\nTo make it apply at all, it is usually twisted from its proper\nsignification and explained as meaning that one should not be\nfool-hardy, not attempt to struggle against overwhelming odds. But this\nis not the true interpretation. The oak is by nature strong and firm,\nwhile it is the nature of the reed to bend to every wind. The fable\nsprings out of the experience of a people who have found resistance\nagainst oppression useless. And this sort of teaching we can not, of\ncourse, wish to give to our children. I should certainly prefer that a\nchild of mine should take the oak, and not the reed, for his pattern.\nThe same spirit is again inculcated in the fable of the Wanton Calf. The\nwanton calf sneers at the poor ox who all day long bears the heavy yoke\npatiently upon his neck. But in the evening it turns out that the ox is\nunyoked, while the calf is butchered. The choice seems to lie between\nsubserviency and destruction. The fable of the Old Woman and her Maids\nsuggests the same conclusion, with the warning added that it is useless\nto rise against the agents of tyranny so long as the tyrants themselves\ncan not be overthrown. The cock in the fable represents the agents of\noppression. The killing of the cock serves only to bring the mistress\nherself on the scene, and the lot of the servants becomes in consequence\nvery much harder than it had been before.\n\nWe have now considered two groups of fables: those which depict the\ncharacter of the mighty, and those which treat of the proper policy of\nthe weak. The subject of the third group is, the consolations of the\nweak. These are, first, that even tyrannical masters are to a certain\nextent dependent upon their inferiors, and can be punished if they go\ntoo far; secondly, that the mighty occasionally come to grief in\nconsequence of dissensions among themselves; thirdly, that fortune is\nfickle. A lion is caught in the toils, and would perish did not a little\nmouse come to his aid by gnawing asunder the knots and fastenings. The\nbear robs the bees of their honey, but is punished and rendered almost\ndesperate by their stings. An eagle carries off the cub of a fox; but\nthe fox, snatching a fire-brand, threatens to set the eagle's nest on\nfire, and thus forces him to restore her young one. This is evidently a\nfable of insurrection. The fable of the Viper and the File shows that it\nis not safe to attack the wrong person--in other words, that tyrants\nsometimes come to grief by singling out for persecution some one who is\nstrong enough to resist them though they little suspect it. The fable of\nthe four bulls shows the effect of dissensions among the mighty. Four\nbulls had entered into a close alliance, and agreed to keep always near\none another. A lion fomented jealousies among them. The bulls grew\ndistrustful of one another, and at last parted company. The lion had now\nobtained his end, and seized and devoured them singly. The fickleness of\nfortune is the theme of the fable of the Horse and the Ass. The horse,\nrichly caparisoned and champing his foaming bridle, insults an ass who\nmoves along under a heavy load. Soon after the horse is wounded, and,\nbeing unfit for military service, is sold to a carrier. The ass now\ntaunts the proud animal with his fallen estate. The horse in this fable\nis the type of many an Eastern vizier, who has basked for a time in the\nsunshine of a despot's favor only to be suddenly and ignominiously\ndegraded. The ass in the fable represents the people. There remains a\nfourth group of fables, which satirize certain mean or ridiculous types\nof characters, such as are apt to appear in social conditions of the\nkind we have described. Especially do the fables make a target of the\nfolly of those who affect the manners of the aristocratic class, or who\ntry to crowd in where they are not wanted, or who boast of their high\nconnections. The frog puffs himself up so that he may seem as large as\nthe ox, until he bursts. The mouse aspires to marry the young lioness,\nand is in fact well received; but the young lady inadvertently places\nher foot on her suitor and crushes him. The jackdaw picks up feathers\nwhich have fallen from the peacocks, sticks them among his own, and\nintroduces himself into the assembly of those proud birds. They find him\nout, strip him of his plumes, and with their sharp bills punish him as\nhe deserves. A fly boasts that he frequents the most distinguished\ncompany, and that he is on familiar terms with the king, the priests,\nand the nobility. Many a time, he says, he has entered the royal\nchamber, has sat upon the altar, and has even enjoyed the privilege of\nkissing the lips of the most beautiful maids of honor. \"Yes,\" replies an\nant, \"but in what capacity are you admitted among all these great\npeople? One and all regard you as a nuisance, and the sooner they can\nget rid of you the better they are pleased.\"\n\nMost of the fables which thus far have been mentioned we can not use.\nThe discovery of their Asiatic origin sheds a new, keen light upon their\nmeaning. They breathe, in many cases, a spirit of fear, of abject\nsubserviency, of hopeless pessimism. Can we desire to inoculate the\nyoung with this spirit? The question may be asked why fables are so\npopular with boys. I should say, Because school-boy society reproduces\nin miniature to a certain extent the social conditions which are\nreflected in the fables. Among unregenerate school-boys there often\nexists a kind of despotism, not the less degrading because petty. The\nstrong are pitted against the weak--witness the fagging system in the\nEnglish schools--and their mutual antagonism produces in both the\ncharacteristic vices which we have noted above. The psychological study\nof school-boy society has been only begun, but even what lies on the\nsurface will, I think, bear out this remark. Now it has come to be one\nof the commonplaces of educational literature, that the individual of\nto-day must pass through the same stages of evolution as the human race\nas a whole. But it should not be forgotten that the advance of\ncivilization depends on two conditions: first, that the course of\nevolution be accelerated, that the time allowed to the successive stages\nbe shortened; and, secondly, that the unworthy and degrading elements\nwhich entered into the process of evolution in the past, and at the time\nwere inseparable from it, be now eliminated. Thus the fairy-tales which\ncorrespond to the myth-making epoch in human history must be purged of\nthe dross of superstition which still adheres to them, and the fables\nwhich correspond to the age of primitive despotisms must be cleansed of\nthe immoral elements they still embody.\n\nThe fables which are fit for use may be divided into two classes: those\nwhich give illustrations of evil,[9] the effect of which on the young\nshould be to arouse disapprobation, and those which present types of\nvirtue. The following is a list of some of the principal ones in each\ncategory:\n\n_An Instance of Selfishness._ The porcupine having begged for\nhospitality and having been invited into a nest of snakes,\ninconveniences the inmates and finally crowds them out. When they\nremonstrate, he says, \"Let those quit the place that do not like it.\"\n\n_Injustice._ The fable of the Kite and the Wolf, mentioned above.\n\n_Improvidence._ The fable of the Ant and the Grasshopper; also the fable\nentitled One Swallow does not make Summer, and the fable of the Man who\nKilled the Goose that laid the Golden Eggs.\n\n_Ingratitude._ The fable of the snake which bit the countryman who had\nwarmed it in his breast.\n\n_Cowardice._ The fable of the Stag and the Fawn, and of the Hares in the\nStorm.\n\n_Vanity._ The fables of the Peacock and the Crane, and of the Crow who\nlost his Cheese by listening to the flattery of the fox.\n\n_Contemptuous Self-confidence._ The Hare and the Tortoise.\n\n_The Evil Influence of Bad Company._ The Husbandman and the Stork.\n\n_Cruelty to Animals._ The Fowler and the Ringdove; the Hawk and the\nPigeons.\n\n_Greediness._ The Dog and the Shadow.\n\n_Lying._ The fable of the boy who cried \"Wolf!\"\n\n_Bragging._ The fable of the Ass in the Lion's Skin.\n\n_Deceit._ The fable of the Fox without a Tail.\n\n_Disingenuousness._ The fable of the Sour Grapes.\n\n_A Discontented Spirit._ The fable of the Peacock's Complaint.\n\n_Equal Graces are not given to all._ The fable of the Ass who leaped\ninto his Master's Lap.\n\n_Borrowed Plumes._ The fable of the Jackdaw and the Peacocks, mentioned\nabove.\n\n_Malice._ The fable of the Dog in the Manger, who would not eat, neither\nlet others eat.\n\n_Breaking Faith._ The fable of the Traveler and the Bear.\n\n_To Fan Animosity is even Worse than to Quarrel._ The fable of the\nTrumpeter.\n\nThe value of these fables, as has been said, consists in the reaction\nwhich they call forth in the minds of the pupils. Sometimes this\nreaction finds expression in the fable itself; sometimes the particular\nvice is merely depicted in its nakedness, and it becomes the business of\nthe teacher distinctly to evoke the feeling of disapprobation, and to\nhave it expressly stated in words. The words tend to fix the feeling.\nOften, when a child has committed some fault, it is useful to refer by\nname to the fable that fits it. As, when a boy has made room in his seat\nfor another, and the other crowds him out, the mere mention of the fable\nof the Porcupine is a telling rebuke; or the fable of the Hawk and the\nPigeons may be called to mind when a boy has been guilty of mean\nexcuses. On the same principle that angry children are sometimes taken\nbefore a mirror to show them how ugly they look. The fable is a kind of\nmirror for the vices of the young.\n\nOf the fables that illustrate virtuous conduct, I mention that of\nHercules and the Cart-driver, which teaches self-reliance. Hercules\nhelps the driver as soon as the latter has put his own shoulders to the\nwheel. Also the fable of the Lark. So long as the farmer depends on his\nneighbors, or his kinsmen, the lark is not afraid; but when he proposes\nto buckle to himself, she advises her young that it is time to seek\nanother field. The fable of the Wind and the Sun shows that kindness\nsucceeds where rough treatment would fail. The fable of the Bundle of\nSticks exemplifies the value of harmony. The fable of the Wolf, whom the\ndog tries to induce to enter civilization, expresses the sentiment that\nlean liberty is to be preferred to pampered servitude. The fable of the\nOld Hound teaches regard for old servants. Finally, the fable of the\nHorse and the Loaded Ass, and of the Dove and the Ant, show that\nkindness pays on selfish principles. The horse refuses to share the\nass's burden; the ass falls dead under his load; in consequence, the\nhorse has to bear the whole of it. On the other hand the dove rescues\nthe ant from drowning, and the ant in turn saves the dove from the\nfowler's net.\n\nThe last remark throws light on the point of view from which the fables\ncontemplate good and evil. It is to be noted that a really moral spirit\nis wanting in them; the moral motives are not appealed to. The appeal\nthroughout is to the bare motive of self-interest. Do not lie, because\nyou will be found out, and will be left in the lurch when you depend for\nhelp on the confidence of others. Do not indulge in vanity, because you\nwill make yourself ridiculous. Do not try to appear like a lion when you\ncan not support the character, because people will find out that you are\nonly an ass. Do not act ungratefully, because you will be thrust out of\ndoors. Even when good conduct is inculcated, it is on the ground that it\npays. Be self-reliant, because if you help yourself others will help\nyou. Be kind, because by gentle means you can gain your purpose better\nthan by harshness. Agree with your neighbors, because you can then, like\nthe bundle of sticks, resist aggression from without. That lying is\nwrong on principle; that greediness is shameful, whether you lose your\ncheese or not; that kindness is blessed, even when it does not bring a\nmaterial reward; that it is lovely for neighbors to dwell together in\npeace, is nowhere indicated. The beauty and the holiness of right\nconduct lie utterly beyond the horizon of the fable. Nevertheless, as we\nhave seen when speaking of the efficient motives of conduct,\nself-interest as a motive should not be underrated, but should be\nallowed the influence which belongs to it as an auxiliary to the moral\nmotive. It is well, it is necessary, for children to learn that lying,\nbesides being in itself disgraceful, does also entail penalties of a\npalpable sort; that vanity and self-conceit, besides being immoral, are\nalso punished by the contempt of one's fellows; that those who are\nunkind, as the horse was to the ass, may have to bear the ass's burden.\nThe checks and curbs supplied by such considerations as these serve the\npurpose of strengthening the weak conscience of the young, and are not\nto be dispensed with, provided always they are treated not as\nsubstitutes for but as auxiliaries to the moral motives, properly\nspeaking.\n\nAs to the place in the primary course which I have assigned to the\nfables, I have the following remark to offer: In speaking of fairy\ntales, it was stated that the moral element should be touched on\nincidentally, and that it should not be separated from the other, the\nnaturalistic elements. The pedagogical reason which leads me to assign\nto the fables the second place in the course, is that each fable deals\nexclusively with one moral quality, which is thus isolated and held up\nto be contemplated. In the stories which will occupy the third place a\nnumber of moral qualities are presented in combination. We have,\ntherefore, what seems to be a logical and progressive order--first,\nfairy tales in which the moral is still blended with other elements;\nsecondly, a single moral quality set off by itself; then, a combination\nof such qualities.\n\nThe peculiar value of the fables is that they are instantaneous\nphotographs, which reproduce, as it were, in a single flash of light,\nsome one aspect of human nature, and which, excluding everything else,\npermit the entire attention to be fixed on that one.\n\nAs to the method of handling them, I should say to the teacher: Relate\nthe fable; let the pupil repeat it in his own words, making sure that\nthe essential points are stated correctly. By means of questions elicit\na clean-cut expression of the point which the fable illustrates; then\nask the pupil to give out of his experience other instances illustrating\nthe same point. This is precisely the method pursued in the so-called\nprimary object lessons. The child, for instance, having been shown a red\nball, is asked to state the color of the ball, and then to name other\nobjects of the same color; or to give the shape of the ball, and then to\nname other objects having the same shape. In like manner, when the pupil\nhas heard the fable of the Fox and the Wolf, and has gathered from it\nthat compassion when expressed merely in words is useless, and that it\nmust lead to deeds to be really praiseworthy, it will be easy for him\nout of his own experience to multiply instances which illustrate the\nsame truth. The search for instances makes the point of the fable\nclearer, while the expression of the thought in precise language, on\nwhich the teacher should always insist, tends to drive it home. It will\nbe our aim in the present course of lectures to apply the methods of\nobject teaching, now generally adopted in other branches, to the\nearliest moral instruction of children--an undertaking, of course, not\nwithout difficulties.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[8] Buddhist Birth Stories; or Jataka Tales, translated by T. W. Rhys\nDavids.\n\n[9] I remarked above that fables should be excluded if the moral they\ninculcate is bad, not if they depict what is bad. In the latter case\nthey often may serve a useful purpose.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nSUPPLEMENTARY REMARKS ON FABLES.\n\n\nApart from the collection which figures under the name of AEsop, there\nare other fables, notably the so-called Jataka tales, which deserve\nattention. The Jataka tales contain deep truths, and are calculated to\nimpress lessons of great moral beauty. The tale of the Merchant of Seri,\nwho gave up all that he had in exchange for a golden dish, embodies much\nthe same idea as the parable of the Priceless Pearl, in the New\nTestament. The tale of the Measures of Rice illustrates the importance\nof a true estimate of values. The tale of the Banyan Deer, which offered\nits life to save a roe and her young, illustrates self-sacrifice of the\nnoblest sort. The Kulavaka-Jataka contains the thought that a forgiving\nspirit toward one's enemies disarms even the evil-minded. The tale of\nthe Partridge, the Monkey, and the Elephant teaches that the best seats\nbelong not to the nobles or the priests, to the rich or the learned, not\neven to the most pious, but that reverence and service and respect and\ncivility are to be paid according to age, and for the aged the best\nseat, the best water, the best rice, are to be reserved. The tale of\nNanda, or the Buried Gold, is a rebuke to that base insolence which\nvulgar natures often exhibit when they possess a temporary advantage.\nThe tale of the Sandy Road is one of the finest in the collection. It\npictures to us a caravan wandering through the desert under the\nstarlight. The guide, whose duty it was to pilot them through this sea\nof sand, has, it appears, fallen asleep at his post from excessive\nweariness, and at dawn the travelers discover that they have gone\nastray, and that far and wide no water is in sight wherewith to quench\ntheir burning thirst. At this moment, however, the leader espies a small\ntuft of grass on the face of the desert, and, reasoning that water must\nbe flowing somewhere underneath, inspires his exhausted followers to new\nexertions. A hole sixty feet deep is dug under his direction, but at\nlength they come upon hard rock, and can dig no farther. But even then\nhe does not yield to despair. Leaping down, he applies his ear to the\nrock. Surely, it is water that he hears gurgling underneath! One more\neffort, he cries, and we are saved! But of all his followers one only\nhad strength or courage enough left to obey. This one strikes a heavy\nblow, the rock is split open, and lo! the living water gushes upward in\na flood. The lesson is that of perseverance and presence of mind in\ndesperate circumstances. The tale entitled Holding to the Truth narrates\nthe sad fate of a merchant who suffered himself to be deceived by a\nmirage into the belief that water was near, and emptied the jars which\nhe carried with him in order to reach the pleasant land the sooner. The\nJataka entitled On True Divinity contains a very beautiful story about\nthree brothers, the Sun prince, the Moon prince, and the future Buddha\nor Bodisat. The king, their father, expelled the Moon prince and the\nfuture Buddha in order to secure the succession to the Sun prince alone.\nBut the Sun prince could not bear to be separated from his brothers, and\nsecretly followed them into exile. They journeyed together until they\ncame to a certain lake. This lake was inhabited by an evil spirit, to\nwhom power had been given to destroy all who entered his territory\nunless they could redeem their lives by answering the question, \"What is\ntruly divine?\" So the Sun prince was asked first, and he answered, \"The\nsun and the moon and the gods are divine.\" But that not being the\ncorrect answer, the evil spirit seized and imprisoned him in his cave.\nThen the Moon prince was asked, and he answered, \"The far-spreading sky\nis called divine.\" But he, too, was carried away to the same place to be\ndestroyed. Then the future Buddha was asked, and he answered: \"Give ear,\nthen, attentively, and hear what divine nature is;\" and he uttered the\nwords--\n\n\n     \"The pure in heart who fear to sin,\n     The good, kindly in word and deed,\n     These are the beings in the world\n     Whose nature should be called divine.\"\n\n\nAnd when the evil spirit heard these words, he bowed, and said: \"I will\ngive up to you one of your brothers.\" Then the future Buddha said, \"Give\nme the life of my brother, the Sun prince, for it is on his account\nthat we have been driven away from our home and thrust into exile.\" The\nevil spirit was overcome by this act of generosity, and said, \"Verily, O\nteacher, thou not only knowest what is divine, but hast acted divinely.\"\nAnd he gave him the life of both his brothers, the Sun prince as well as\nthe Moon prince.\n\nI could not resist the temptation of relating a few of these tales. They\nare, as every one must admit, nobly conceived, lofty in meaning, and\nmany a helpful sermon might be preached from them as texts. But, of\ncourse, not all are fit to be used in a primary course. Some of them\nare, some are not. The teacher will have no difficulty in making the\nright selection. To the former class belongs also No. 28 of the\ncollection,[10] which is excellently adapted to impress the lesson of\nkindness to animals. Long ago the Buddha came to life in the shape of a\npowerful bull. His master, a Brahman, asserted that this bull of his\ncould move a hundred loaded carts ranged in a row and bound together.\nBeing challenged to prove his assertion, he bathed the bull, gave him\nscented rice, hung a garland of flowers around his neck, and yoked him\nto the first cart. Then he raised his whip and called out, \"Gee up, you\nbrute. Drag them along, you wretch!\" The bull said to himself, \"He calls\nme wretch; I am no wretch.\" And keeping his forelegs as firm as steel,\nhe stood perfectly still. Thereupon the Brahman, his master, was\ncompelled to pay a forfeit of a thousand pieces of gold because he had\nnot made good his boast. After a while the bull said to the Brahman, who\nseemed very much dispirited: \"Brahman, I have lived a long time in your\nhouse. Have I ever broken any pots, or have I rubbed against the walls,\nor have I made the walks around the premises unclean?\" \"Never, my dear,\"\nsaid the Brahman. \"Then why did you call me wretch? But if you will\nnever call me wretch again, you shall have two thousand pieces for the\none thousand you have lost.\" The Brahman, hearing this, called his\nneighbors together, set up one hundred loaded carts as before, then\nseated himself on the pole, stroked the bull on the back, and called\nout, \"Gee up, my beauty! Drag them along, my beauty!\" And the bull, with\na mighty effort, dragged along the whole hundred carts, heavily loaded\nthough they were. The bystanders were greatly astonished, and the\nBrahman received two thousand pieces on account of the wonderful feat\nperformed by the bull.\n\nThe 30th Jataka corresponds to the fable of the Ox and the Calf in the\nAEsop collection. The 33d, like the fable of the Bundle of Sticks,\nteaches the lesson of unity, but in a form a little nearer to the\nunderstanding of children. Long ago, when Brahmadatta was reigning in\nBenares, the future Buddha came to life as a quail. At that time there\nwas a fowler who used to go to the place where the quails dwelt and\nimitate their cry; and when they had assembled, he would throw his net\nover them. But the Buddha said to the quails: \"In future, as soon as he\nhas thrown the net over us, let each thrust his head through a mesh of\nthe net, then all lift it together, carry it off to some bush, and\nescape from underneath it.\" And they did so and were saved. But one day\na quail trod unawares on the head of another, and a disgraceful quarrel\nensued. The next time the fowler threw his net over them, each of the\nquails pretended that the others were leaving him to bear the greatest\nstrain, and cried out, \"You others begin, and then I will help.\" The\nconsequence was that no one began, and the net was not raised, and the\nfowler bagged them all. The 26th Jataka enforces the truth that evil\ncommunications corrupt good manners, and contains more particularly a\nwarning against listening to the conversation of wicked people. Thus\nmuch concerning the Jataka tales.\n\nThere exists also a collection of Hindu fairy tales and fables, gathered\nfrom oral tradition by M. Frere, and published under the title of Old\nDeccan Days. A few of these are very charming, and well adapted for our\npurpose. For example, the fable of King Lion and the Sly Little Jackals.\nThe story is told with delightful _naivete_. Singh-Rajah, the lion-king,\nis very hungry. He has already devoured all the jackals of the forest,\nand only a young married couple, who are extremely fond of each other,\nremain. The little jackal-wife is terribly frightened when she hears in\ntheir immediate vicinity the roar of Singh-Rajah. But the young husband\ntries to comfort her, and to save their lives he hits on the following\nexpedient: He makes her go with him straight to the cave of the terrible\nlion. Singh-Rajah no sooner sees them than he exclaims: \"It is well you\nhave arrived at last. Come here quickly, so that I may eat you.\" The\nhusband says: \"Yes, your Majesty, we are entirely ready to do as you bid\nus, and, in fact, we should have come long ago, as in duty bound, to\nsatisfy your royal appetite, but there is another Singh-Rajah mightier\nthan you in the forest, who would not let us come.\" \"What!\" says the\nlion, \"another Singh-Rajah mightier than I! That is impossible.\" \"Oh!\nbut it is a fact,\" say the young couple in a breath; \"and he is really\nmuch more terrible than you are.\" \"Show him to me, then,\" says\nSingh-Rajah, \"and I will prove to you that what you say is false--that\nthere is no one to be compared with me in might.\" So the little jackals\nran on together ahead of the lion, until they reached a deep well. \"He\nis in there,\" they said, pointing to the well. The lion looked down\nangrily and saw his own image, the image of an angry lion glaring back\nat him. He shook his mane; the other did the same. Singh-Rajah\nthereupon, unable to contain himself, leaped down to fight his\ncompetitor, and, of course, was drowned. The fable clothes in childlike\nlanguage the moral that anger is blind, and that the objects which\nexcite our anger are often merely the outward reflections of our own\npassions. In the fable of the Brahman, the Tiger, and the Six Judges,\nwe have a lesson against ingratitude, and also against useless\ndestruction of animal life. In the fable of the Camel and the Jackal,\nthe latter does not appear in the same favorable light as above. The\njackal and the camel were good friends. One day the jackal said to his\ncompanion: \"I know of a field of sugar-cane on the other side of the\nriver, and near by there are plenty of crabs and small fishes. The crabs\nand fishes will do for me, while you can make a fine dinner off the\nsugar-cane. If there were only a way of getting across!\" The camel\noffered to swim across, taking the jackal on his back, and in this way\nthey reached the opposite bank. The jackal ate greedily, and had soon\nfinished his meal; thereupon he began to run up and down, and to\nexercise his voice, screaming lustily. The camel begged him to desist,\nbut in vain. Presently the cries of the jackal roused the villagers.\nThey came with sticks and cudgels and cruelly beat the camel, and drove\nhim out of the field before he had had time to eat more than a few\nmouthfuls. When the men were gone at last, the jackal said, \"Let us now\ngo home.\" \"Very well,\" said the camel, \"climb on my back.\" When they\nwere midway between the two banks, the camel said to the jackal: \"Why\ndid you make such a noise and spoil my dinner, bringing on those cruel\nmen, who beat me so that every bone in my body aches? Did I not beg you\nto stop?\" \"Oh,\" said the jackal, \"I meant no harm. I was only singing a\nbit. I always sing after dinner, just for amusement.\" They had by this\ntime reached the place where the water was deepest. \"Well,\" said the\ncamel, \"I also like innocent amusements. For instance, it is my custom\nto lie on my back after dinner and to stretch myself a bit.\" With that\nhe turned over, and the jackal fell into the stream. He swallowed\npailfuls of water, and it was only with the utmost difficulty that he\nsucceeded in reaching the bank. He had received a salutary lesson on the\nsubject of inconsiderate selfishness--a fault very common with children,\nwhich such a story as this may help to correct.\n\nAs to the modern fables, I fear they will yield us but a scanty harvest.\nThe fables of La Fontaine, where they depart from AEsopian originals, are\nhardly suitable for children, and those of the German poet Gellert\nimpress me, on the whole, in the same way, though a few of them may be\nadded to our stock. For instance, the fable of the Greenfinch and the\nNightingale. These two birds occupy the same cage before the window of\nDamon's house. Presently the voice of the nightingale is heard, and then\nceases. The father leads his little boy before the cage and asks him\nwhich of the two he believes to have been the sweet musician, the\nbrightly colored greenfinch or the outwardly unattractive nightingale.\nThe child immediately points to the former, and is then instructed as to\nhis error. The lesson, of course, is that fine clothes and real worth do\nnot always go together. The fable of the Blind and the Lame Man teaches\nthe advantages of co-operation. The Carriage Horse and the Cart Horse\nis a fable for the rich. Possibly the fable of the Peasant and his Son,\nwhich is directed against lies of exaggeration, may also be utilized,\nthough I realize that there are objections to it.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[10] Buddhist Birth Stories; or Jataka Tales.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nSTORIES FROM THE BIBLE.\n\n\n_Introduction._--It will have been noticed that in choosing our\nillustrative material we have confined ourselves to what may be called\nclassical literature. The German _Maerchen_ has lived in the traditions\nof the German people for centuries, and is as fresh to-day as Snow-white\nherself when she woke from her trance. The fables, as has been shown,\nhave been adopted into the language and literature of Persia, of Arabia,\nof the nations of Europe, and are still found in the hands of our own\nchildren. Let us continue to pursue the same method of selection.\nInstead of relying on juvenile literature just produced, or attempting\nto write moralizing stories specially adapted for the purpose in hand,\nlet us continue, without excluding invention altogether, to rely mainly\non that which has stood the test of time. In the third part of our\nprimary course we shall use selected stories from the classical\nliterature of the Hebrews, and later on from that of Greece,\nparticularly the Odyssey and the Iliad. The stories to which I refer\npossess a perennial vitality, an indestructible charm. I am, I trust, no\nblind worshiper of antiquity. The mere fact that a thing has existed for\na thousand or two thousand years is not always proof that it is worth\npreserving. But the fact that after having been repeated for two\nthousand years a story still possesses a perfectly fresh attraction for\nthe child of to-day, does indeed prove that there is in it something of\nimperishable worth. How is this unique charm of the classical literature\nto be explained? What quality exists in Homer, in the Bible, enabling\nthem, despite the changes of taste and fashion, to hold their own? The\nnovels of the last century are already antiquated; few care to read\nthem. The poetry of the middle ages is enjoyed only by those who\ncultivate a special taste for it. Historical and scientific works hardly\nhave time to leave an impression before new books appear to crowd them\nout. But a few great masterpieces have survived, and the truth and\nbeauty of these the lapse of ages, it seems, has left unaltered. Mr.\nJebb remarks[11] that Homer aims at the lucid expression of primary\nmotives, and refrains from multiplying individual traits which might\ninterfere with their effect, and that this typical quality in Homer's\nportraiture has been one secret of its universal impressiveness. The\nHomeric outlines are in each case brilliantly distinct, while they leave\nto the reader a certain liberty of private conception, and he can fill\nthem in so as to satisfy his own ideal. We may add that this is just as\ntrue of the Bible as of Homer. The biblical narrative, too, depicts a\nfew essential traits of human nature, and refrains from multiplying\nminor traits which might interfere with the main effect. The Bible, too,\ndraws its figures in outline, and leaves every age free to fill them in\nso as to satisfy its own ideal. Thus the biblical story, as conceived in\nthe mind of Milton, reflects the Puritan ideal; the same story, narrated\nin a modern pulpit or Sunday-school, will inevitably reflect, to a\ngreater or less degree, the modern humanitarian ideal, and this liberty\nof interpretation is one cause of the vitality of the Bible. But it may\nbe asked further, How did Homer, how did the biblical writers, succeed\nin producing such universal types, in drawing their figures so correctly\nthat, however the colors may thenceforth be varied, the outlines remain\nforever true? He who should attempt at the present day to give\nexpression to the most universal traits of human nature, freed from the\ncomplex web of conditions, disengaged from the thousand-fold minor\ntraits which modify the universal in particular instances, would find it\ndifficult to avoid one or the other of two fatal errors. If he keeps his\neyes fixed on the universal, he is in danger of producing a set of\nbloodless abstractions, pale shadows of reality, which will not live for\na day, much less for a thousand years. If, on the other hand, he tries\nto keep close to reality he will probably produce more or less accurate\ncopies of the types that surround him, but the danger will always be\nthat the universal will be lost amid the particulars. By what quality in\nthemselves or fortunate constellation of circumstances did Homer and the\nbiblical writers succeed in avoiding both these errors, in creating\ntypes of the utmost universality and yet imparting to them the breath of\nlife, the gait and accent of distinctive individuality? I imagine that\nthey succeeded because they lived at a time when life was much less\ncomplex than it is at present, when the conversation, the manners, the\nthoughts, the motives of men were simple. They were enabled to\nindividualize the universal because the most universal, the simplest\nmotives, still formed the mainspring in the conduct of individuals. It\nwas not necessary for them to enter into the barren region of\nabstraction and generalization to discover the universal. They pictured\nwhat they actually saw. The universal and the individual were still\nblended in that early dawn of human history.\n\nWe have thus far spoken of Homer and the Bible jointly. But let us now\ngive our particular attention to the biblical narrative. The narrative\nof the Bible is fairly saturated with the moral spirit; the moral issues\nare everywhere in the forefront. Duty, guilt and its punishment, the\nconflict of conscience with inclination, are the leading themes. The\nHebrew people seem to have been endowed with what may be called \"a moral\ngenius,\" and especially did they emphasize the filial and fraternal\nduties to an extent hardly equaled elsewhere. Now it is precisely these\nduties that must be impressed on young children, and hence the biblical\nstories present us with the very material we require. They can not, in\nthis respect, be replaced; there is no other literature in the world\nthat offers what is equal to them in value for the particular object we\nhave now in view. Before proceeding, however, to discuss the stories in\ndetail, let me remind you that in studying them a larger tax is made on\nthe attention of children, and a higher development of the moral\njudgment is presupposed, than in the previous parts of our course; for\nin them a succession of acts and their consequences are presented to the\nscholar, on each of which his judgment is to be exercised. Those who\nteach the biblical stories merely because it has been customary to\nregard the Bible as the text-book of morals and religion, without,\nhowever, being clear as to the place which belongs to it in a scheme of\nmoral education, will always, I doubt not, achieve a certain result. The\nstories will never entirely fail of their beneficial effect, but I can\nnot help thinking that this effect will be greatly heightened if their\nprecise pedagogic value is distinctly apprehended, and if the\npreparatory steps have been taken in due course. It seems to me that the\nmoral judgment should first be exercised on a single moral quality as\nexhibited in a single act before it is applied to a whole series of\nacts; and hence that the fable should precede the story.\n\nIn making our selection from the rich material before us we need only\nkeep in mind the principle already enunciated in the introductory\nlectures--that the moral teaching at any period should relate to the\nduties of that period.\n\n\n_Adam and Eve in Paradise._\n\nThis is a wonderful story for children. It deserves to be placed at the\nhead of all the others, for it inculcates the cardinal virtue of\nchildhood--obedience. It is also a typical story of the beginning, the\nprogress, and the culmination of temptation. Will you permit me to\nrelate the story as I should tell it to little children? I shall\nendeavor to keep true to the outlines, and if I depart from the received\nversion in other respects, may I not plead that liberty of\ninterpretation to which I have referred above.\n\nOnce upon a time there were two children, Adam and Eve. Adam was a fine\nand noble-looking lad. He was slender and well built, and fleet of foot\nas a young deer. Eve was as beautiful as the dawn, with long golden\ntresses, and blue eyes, and cheeks like the rose. They lived in the\nloveliest garden that you have ever heard of. There were tall trees in\nit, and open meadows where the grass was as smooth as on a lawn, and\nclear, murmuring brooks ran through the woods. And there were dense\nthickets filled with the perfume of flowers, and the flowers grew in\nsuch profusion, and there were so many different kinds, each more\nbeautiful than the rest, that it was a perfect feast for the eyes to\nlook at them. It was so warm that the children never needed to go\nin-doors, but at night they would just lie down at the foot of some\ngreat tree and look at the stars twinkling through the branches until\nthey fell asleep. And when it rained they would find shelter in some\nbeautiful cavern, spreading leaves and moss upon the ground for a bed.\nThe garden where they lived was called Paradise. And there were ever so\nmany animals in it--all kinds of animals--elephants, and tigers, and\nleopards, and giraffes, and camels, and sheep, and horses, and cows; but\neven the wild animals did them no harm. But the children were not alone\nin that garden: their Father lived with them. And every morning when\nthey woke up their first thought was to go to him and to look up into\nhis mild, kind face for a loving glance, and every evening before they\nwent to sleep he would bend over them. And once, as they lay under the\ngreat tree, looking at a star shining through the branches, Adam said to\nEve: \"Our Father's eye shines just like that star.\"\n\nOne day their Father said to them: \"My children, there is one tree in\nthis beautiful garden the fruit of which you must not eat, because it is\nhurtful to you. You can not understand why, but you know that you must\nobey your Father even when you do not understand. He loves you and knows\nbest what is for your good.\" So they promised, and for a time\nremembered. But one day it happened that Eve was passing near the tree\nof the fruit of which she knew she must not eat, when what should she\nhear but a snake talking to her. She did not see it, but she heard its\nvoice quite distinctly. And this is what the snake said: \"You poor Eve!\nyou must certainly have a hard time. Your Father is always forbidding\nyou something. How stern he is! I am sure that other children can have\nall the fruit they want.\" Eve was frightened at first. She knew that her\nFather was kind and good, and that the snake was telling a falsehood. He\ndid not always forbid things. But still he had forbidden her to eat of\nthe fruit, and she thought that was a little hard; and she could not\nunderstand at all why he had done so. Then the snake spoke again:\n\"Listen, Eve! He forbade you to eat only of it. It can do no harm just\nto look at it. Go up to it. See how it glistens among the branches! How\ngolden it looks!\" And the snake kept on whispering: \"How good it must be\nto the taste! Just take one bite of it. Nobody sees you. Only one bite;\nthat can do no harm.\" And Eve glanced around, and saw that no one was\nlooking, and presently with a hasty movement she seized the fruit and\nate of it. Then she said to herself: \"Adam, too, must eat of it. I can\nnever bear to eat it alone.\" So she ran hastily up to Adam, and said:\n\"See, I have some of the forbidden fruit, and you, too, must eat.\" And\nhe, too, looked at it and was tempted, and ate. But that evening they\nwere very much afraid. They knew they had done wrong, and their\nconsciences troubled them. So they hurried away into the wood where it\nwas deepest, and hid themselves in the bushes. But soon they heard their\nFather calling to them; and it was strange, their Father's voice had\nnever sounded so sad before. And in a few moments he found them where\nthey were hiding. And he said to them: \"Why do you hide from me?\" And\nthey were very much confused, and stammered forth all sorts of excuses.\nBut he said: \"Come hither, children.\" And he looked into their eyes, and\nsaid: \"Have you eaten of the fruit of which I told you not to eat?\" And\nAdam, who was thoughtless and somewhat selfish, spoke up, and said:\n\"Yes, but it was Eve who gave me of it; she led me on.\" And Eve hung her\nhead, and said: \"It was the snake that made me eat.\" Now the snake, you\nknow, was no real snake at all; she never saw it, she only heard its\nvoice. And, you know, when we want to do anything wicked, there is\nwithin every one of us something bad, that seems to whisper: \"Just look!\nMere looking will do no harm\"; and then: \"Just taste; no one sees you.\"\nSo the snake was the bad feeling in Eve's heart. And their Father took\nthem by the hand, and said: \"Tomorrow, when it is dawn, you will have to\nleave this place. In this beautiful Paradise no one can stay who has\nonce disobeyed. You, Adam, must learn to labor; and, you, Eve, to be\npatient and self-denying for others. And, perhaps, after a long, long\ntime, some day, you will come back with me into Paradise again.\"\n\nIt is a free rendering, I admit. I have filled in the details so as to\nbring it down to the level of children's minds, but the outlines, I\nthink, are there. The points I have developed are all suggested in the\nBible. The temptation begins when the snake says with characteristic\nexaggeration: \"Is it true that of _all_ the fruit you are forbidden to\neat?\" Exaggerating the hardships of the moral command is the first step\non the downward road. The second step is Eve's approach to look at the\nfruit--\"and she saw that it was good for food, and pleasant to the\neyes.\" The third step is the actual enjoyment of what is forbidden. The\nfourth step is the desire for companionship in guilt, so characteristic\nof sin--\"and she gave also unto her husband with her, and he did eat.\"\nThe next passage describes the working of conscience, the fear, the\nshame, the desire to hide, and then comes the moral verdict: You are\nguilty, both of you. You have lost your paradise. Try to win it back by\nlabor and suffering.\n\n\n     NOTE.--I would add to what has been said in the text, that the\n     pupils are expected to return to the study of the Bible, to read\n     and re-read these stories, and to receive a progressively higher\n     interpretation of their meaning as they grow older. If in the above\n     I have spoken in a general way of a Father and his two children, it\n     will be easy for the Sunday-school teacher to add later on that the\n     Father in the story was God.\n\n\n\n_Cain and Abel._\n\nIn teaching the story of the two brothers Cain and Abel the following\npoints should be noted. The ancients believed that earthly prosperity\nand well-being depended on the favor of God, or the gods, and that the\nfavor of the gods could be secured by sacrifice. If any one brought a\nsacrifice and yet prosperity did not set in, this was supposed to be a\nsign that his sacrifice had not been accepted. On the other hand, to say\nof any person that his sacrifice had been accepted, was tantamount to\nsaying that he was happy and prosperous. Applying this to the story of\nCain and Abel, we may omit all mention of the bringing of the\nsacrifices, which presents a great and needless difficulty to children's\nminds, and simply make the equivalent statement that Abel was prosperous\nand Cain was not.\n\nAgain, Cain is not represented as an intentional murderer. The true\ninterpretation of the story depends on our bearing this in mind. It is\nerroneous to suppose that a brand was fixed on Cain's forehead. The\npassage in question, correctly understood, means that God gave Cain a\nsign to reassure him that he should not be regarded by men as a common\nmurderer. With these prefatory remarks the story may be told somewhat as\nfollows:\n\nLong ago there lived two brothers. The name of the elder was Cain, and\nof the younger Abel. Cain was a farmer. He toiled in the sweat of his\nbrow, tilling the stubborn ground, taking out stones, building fences.\nWinter and summer he was up before the sun, and yet, despite all his\nlabor, things did not go well with him. His crops often failed through\nno fault of his. He never seemed to have an easy time. Moreover, Cain\nwas of a proud disposition. Honest he was, and truthful, but taciturn,\nnot caring much to talk to people whom he met, but rather keeping to\nhimself. Abel, on the other hand, was a shepherd. He led, or seemed to\nlead, the most delightfully easy life. He followed his flocks from one\npasture to another, watching them graze; and at noon he would often lie\ndown in the shade of some leafy tree and play on his flute by the hour.\nHe was a skillful musician, a bright, talkative companion, and\nuniversally popular. He was a little selfish too, as happy people\nsometimes are. He liked to talk about his successes, and, in a perfectly\ninnocent way, which yet stung Cain to the quick, he would rattle on to\nhis brother about the increase of his herds, about his plans and\nprospects, and the pleasant things that people were saying of him. Cain\ngrew jealous of his brother Abel. He did not like to confess it to\nhimself, but yet it was a fact. He kept comparing his own life of\ngrinding toil with the easy, lazy life of the shepherd--it was not quite\nso lazy, but so it seemed to Cain--his own poverty with the other's\nwealth, his own loneliness with Abel's popularity. And a frown would\noften gather on his brow, and he grew more and more moody and silent. He\nknew that he was not in the right state of mind. There was a voice\nwithin him that said: \"Sin is at thy door, but thou canst become master\nover it.\" Sin is like a wild beast crouching outside the door of the\nheart. Open the door ever so little, and it will force its way in, and\nwill have you in its power. Keep the door shut, therefore; do not let\nthe first evil thought enter into your heart. Thus only can you remain\nmaster of yourself. But Cain was already too far gone to heed the\nwarning voice. One day he and Abel were walking together in the fields.\nAbel, no doubt, was chatting in his usual gay and thoughtless manner.\nThe world was full of sunshine to him; and he did not realize in the\nleast what dark shadows were gathering about his brother's soul. Perhaps\nthe conversation ran somewhat as follows: He had just had an addition to\nhis herd, the finest calf one could imagine: would not Cain come to\nadmire it? And then, to-morrow evening he was to play for the dancers on\nthe green, at the village feast: would not Cain join in the\nmerry-making? When the solitary, embittered Cain heard such talk as this\nthe angry feeling in his heart rose up like a flood. Overmastered by his\npassion, with a few wild, incoherent words of rage he turned upon his\nbrother and struck him one fierce blow. Ah, that was a relief! The\npent-up feeling had found vent at last. The braggart had received the\nchastisement he deserved! And Cain walked on; and for a time continued\nto enjoy his satisfaction. He had just noticed that Abel, when struck,\nhad staggered and fallen, but he did not mind that. \"Let him lie there\nfor a while; he will pick himself up presently. He may be lame for a few\ndays, and his milk-white face may not be so fair at the feast, but that\nwill be all the better for him. It will teach him a lesson.\"\nNevertheless, when he had walked on for some distance he began to feel\nuneasy. He looked around from time to time to see whether Abel was\nfollowing him, and the voice of conscience began to be heard, saying,\n\"Cain, where is thy brother?\" But he silenced it by saying to himself,\n\"Am I my brother's keeper? Is he such a child that he can not take care\nof himself--that he can not stand a blow?\" But he kept looking back more\nand more often, and when he saw no one coming, he came at last to a dead\nhalt. His heart was beating violently by this time; the beads of\nperspiration were gathered on his brow. He turned back to seek his\nmissing brother. Then, as he did not meet him, he began to run, and\nfaster and faster he ran, until at last, panting and out of breath, with\na horrible fear hounding him on, he arrived at the place where he had\nstruck the blow. And there he saw--a pool of blood, and the waxen face\nof his brother, and the glazed, broken eyes! And then he realized what\nhe had done. And it is this situation which the Bible has in view in the\nwords, \"Behold, thy brother's blood cries up from the earth against\nthee.\" And then as he surveyed his deed in stony despair, he said to\nhimself, \"I am accursed from the face of the earth\"--I am unworthy to\nlive. The earth has no resting-place for such as I. But a sign was given\nhim to show him that his life would not be required of him. He had not\ncommitted willful murder. He had simply given the reins to his violent\npassion. He must go into another land, where no one knew him, there\nthrough years of penance to try to regain his peace of soul. The moral\nof the story is: Do not harbor evil thoughts in the mind. If you have\nonce given them entrance, the acts to which they lead are beyond your\ncontrol. Cain's sin consisted in not crushing the feeling of envy in the\nbeginning; in comparing his own lot with that of his more favored\nbrother and dwelling on this comparison, until, in a fit of insane\npassion, he was led on to the unspeakable crime which, indeed, he had\nnever contemplated, to which he had never given an inward assent. The\nstory also illustrates the vain subterfuges with which we still seek to\nsmother the consciousness of guilt after we have done wrong, until the\ntime comes when our eyes are opened and we are compelled to face the\nconsequences of our deeds and to realize them in all their bearings. The\nstory of Cain and Abel is thus a further development of the theme\nalready treated in simpler fashion in the story of Adam and Eve, only\nthat, while in the latter case the filial duty of obedience to parents\nis in the foreground, attention is here directed to the duty which a\nbrother owes to a brother. It is a striking tale, striking in the\nvividness with which it conjures up the circumstances before our minds\nand the clearness with which the principal motives are delineated; and\nit contains an awful warning for all time.\n\nThe question here presents itself, whether we should arrange the\nbiblical stories according to subjects--e. g., grouping together all\nthose which treat of duty to parents, all those which deal with the\nrelations of brothers to brothers, etc.--or whether we should adopt the\nchronological arrangement. On the whole, I am in favor of the latter. It\nis expected that the pupils, as they grow older, will undertake a more\ncomprehensive study of the Bible, and for this they will be better\nprepared if they have been kept to the chronological order from the\noutset. Another more practical reason is, that children tire of one\nsubject if it is kept before their minds too long. It is better,\ntherefore, to arrange the stories in groups or cycles, each of which\nwill afford opportunity to touch on a variety of moral topics. It will\nbe impossible to continue to relate _in extenso_ the stories which I\nhave selected, and I shall therefore content myself in the main with\ngiving the points of each story upon which the teacher may lay stress.\n\n\n_The Story of Noah and his Sons._\n\nDescribe the beauty of the vine, and of the purple grapes hanging in\nclusters amid the green leaves. How sweet is this fruit to the taste!\nBut the juice of it has a dangerous property. Once there lived a man,\nNoah, who had three sons. He planted a vine, plucked the grapes, but did\nnot know the dangerous property of the juice. The second son, on seeing\nhis father in a state of intoxication, allowed his sense of the\nridiculous to overcome his feeling of reverence. But the eldest and the\nyoungest sons acted differently. They took a garment, covered their\nfather with it, and averted their faces so as not to see his disgrace.\nThe moral is quite important. An intelligent child can not help\ndetecting a fault now and then even in the best of parents. But the\nright course for him to take is to throw the mantle over the fault, and\nto turn away his face. He should say to himself: Am I the one to judge\nmy parents--I who have been the recipient of so many benefits at their\nhands, and who see in them so many virtues, so much superior wisdom? By\nsuch reasoning the feeling of reverence is even deepened. The momentary\nsuperiority which the child feels serves only to bring out his general\ninferiority.\n\n\n_The Abraham Cycle._\n\nThere is a whole series of stories belonging to this group, illustrating\nin turn the virtues of brotherly harmony, generosity toward the weak,\nhospitality toward strangers, and maternal love. Abraham and Lot are\nnear kinsmen. Their servants quarrel, and to avoid strife the former\nadvises a separation. \"If thou wilt go to the left,\" he says, \"I will\nturn to the right; if thou preferrest the land to the right, I will take\nthe left.\" Abraham, being the older, was entitled to the first choice,\nbut he waived his claim. Lot chose the fairer portion, and Abraham\nwillingly assented. \"Let there be no strife between us, for we be\nbrethren.\" The lesson is, that the older and wiser of two brothers or\nkinsmen may well yield a part of his rights for harmony's sake.\n\nAbraham's conduct toward the King of Sodom is an instance of generosity.\nThe story of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah may be introduced by\ndescribing the Dead Sea and the surrounding scene of desolation. The\nmoral lies in the circumstance that ill treatment of strangers brought\ndown the doom. Hospitality toward strangers is one of the shining\nvirtues of the Old Testament heroes. Even at the present day strangers\nare still despised and ridiculed by the vulgar, their foreign manners,\nlanguage, and habits seeming contemptible; the lesson of hospitality is\nnot yet superfluous.\n\nThe story of _Hagar and her Child_ I should recast in such a way as to\nexclude what in it is repellent, and retain the touching picture of\nmaternal affection. I should relate it somewhat as follows: There was\nonce a little lad whose name was Ishmael. He had lost his father and had\nonly his mother to cling to. She was a tall, beautiful lady, with dark\neyes which were often very sad, but they would light up, and there was\nalways a sweet smile on her lips whenever she looked at her darling boy.\nIshmael and his mother, Hagar, had never been separated; they were all\nin all to each other. One day it happened that they walked away from\ntheir home, which was near the great, sandy desert. Ishmael's mother was\nin deep distress, there was something troubling her, and every now and\nthen a tear would steal down her cheeks. Ishmael was sad, too, because\nhis mother was, but he did not dare to ask her what it was that grieved\nher, fearing to give her pain. So they walked on and on, holding each\nother's hands in silence. But at last they saw that they had lost their\nway; and they tried first one direction, and then another, thinking that\nit would bring them back toward home, but they only got deeper and\ndeeper into the vast, lonely desert. And the sun burned hot and hotter\nabove their heads, and little Ishmael, who had tried to keep up like a\nbrave lad, at last became so parched with thirst, and so faint with want\nof food, and so tired with walking--for they had wandered about for\nmany, many hours--that he could go on no farther. Then his mother took\nhim up in her arms and laid him under a bush, where there was a little\nshade. And then, oh then, how her poor heart was wrung, and how she wept\nto see her darling in such suffering, and how she cried for help! Then\nshe sat down on the glaring sand at some distance away, and turned her\nface in the direction opposite to where Ishmael was lying; for she said,\n\"I can not bear to see my boy die.\" But just as she had given up all\nhope, suddenly she saw a noble-looking man, wearing the dress of the\nBedouins, approach her. He had come from behind one of the sand hills,\nand it seemed to her as if he had come down straight from the sky. He\nasked her why she was in such grief, and when she told him, and pointed\nto her little son, he said: \"It is fortunate that you have come to this\nplace. There is a beautiful oasis close by.\" An oasis, children, is a\nspot of fruitful green earth right in the midst of the desert, like an\nisland in the ocean. And the man took the boy up and carried him in his\narms, and Hagar followed after him. And presently, when they came to the\noasis, they found a cool, clear spring, full of the most delicious\nwater, and palm-trees with ever so many dates on them, and all the\npeople who lived there gathered around them. And the man who had been\nso kind proved to be the chief. And he took charge of Ishmael's\neducation, showed him how to shoot with the bow and how to hunt, and was\nlike a real father to him. And when Ishmael grew up he became a great\nchief of the Bedouins. But he always remained true to his mother, and\nloved her with all his heart.\n\nI am strongly in favor of omitting the story of the _Sacrifice of\nIsaac_. I do not think we can afford to tell young children that a\nfather was prepared to draw the knife against his own son, even though\nhe desisted in the end. I should not be willing to inform a child that\nso horrible an impulse could have been entertained even for a moment in\na parent's heart. I regard the story, indeed, as, from an historical\npoint of view, one of the most valuable in the Bible; it has a deep\nmeaning; but it is not food fit for children. A great mistake has been\nmade all along in supposing that whatever is true in religion must be\ncommunicated to children; and that if anything be very true and very\nimportant we ought to hasten to give it to children as early as\npossible; but there must be preparatory training. And the greatest\ntruths are often of such a kind as only the mature mind, ripe in thought\nand experience, is fitted to assimilate.\n\nOne of the most charming idyls of patriarchal times is the story of\n_Rebecca at the Well_. It illustrates positively, as the story of Sodom\ndoes negatively, the duty of hospitality toward strangers. \"Drink, lord,\nand I will give thy camels drink also,\" is a pleasant phrase which is\napt to stick in the memory. Moreover, the story shows the high place\nwhich the trusted servant occupied in the household of his master, and\noffers to the teacher an opportunity of dwelling on the respect due to\nfaithful servants.\n\n\n_The Jacob Cycle._\n\nWhat treatment shall Jacob receive at our hands, he, the sly trickster,\nwho cheats his brother of his birthright and steals a father's blessing?\nYet he is one of the patriarchs, and is accorded the honorable title of\n\"champion of God.\" To hold him up to the admiration of the young is\nimpossible. To gloss over his faults and try to explain them away were a\nsorry business, and honesty forbids. The Bible itself gives us the right\nclew. His faults are nowhere disguised. He is represented as a person\nwho makes a bad start in life--a very bad start, indeed--but who pays\nthe penalty of his wrong-doing. His is a story of penitential\ndiscipline.\n\nIn telling the story, all reference to the duplicity of Rebecca should\nbe omitted, for the same reason that malicious step-mothers and cruel\nfathers have been excluded from the fairy tales.\n\nThe points to be discussed may be summarized as follows:\n\n_Taking advantage of a brother in distress._--Jacob purchases the\nbirthright for a mess of pottage.\n\n_Tender attachment to a helpless old father._--Esau goes out hunting to\nsupply a special delicacy for his father's table. This is a point which\nchildren will appreciate. Unable to confer material benefits on their\nparents, they can only show their love by slight attentions.\n\n_Deceit._--Jacob simulates the appearance of his older brother and\nsteals the blessing. In this connection it will be necessary to say that\na special power was supposed to attach to a father's blessing, and that\nthe words once spoken were deemed irrevocable.\n\n_Jacob's penitential discipline begins._--The deceiver is deceived, and\nmade to feel in his own person the pain and disappointment which deceit\ncauses. He is repeatedly cheated by his master Laban, especially in the\nmatter which is nearest to him, his love for Rachel.\n\n_The forgiveness of injuries._--Esau's magnanimous conduct toward his\nbrother.\n\n_The evil consequences of tale-bearing and conceit._--It is a\nsignificant fact that Joseph is not a mere coxcomb. He is a man of\ngenius, as his later career proves, and the stirrings of his genius\nmanifest themselves in his early dreams of future greatness. Persons of\nthis description are not always pleasant companions, especially in their\nyouth. They have not yet accomplished anything to warrant distinction,\nand yet they feel within themselves the presentiment of a destiny and of\nachievements above the ordinary. Their faults, their arrogance, their\nseemingly preposterous claims, are not to be excused, but neither is\nthe envy they excite excusable. One of the hardest things to learn is to\nrecognize without envy the superiority of a brother.\n\n_Moral cowardice._--Reuben is guilty of moral cowardice. He was an\nopportunist, who sought to accomplish his ends by diplomacy. If he, as\nthe oldest brother, had used his authority and boldly denounced the\ncontemplated crime, he might have averted the long train of miseries\nthat followed.\n\n_Strength and depth of paternal love._--\"Joseph is no more: an evil\nbeast has devoured him. I will go mourning for my son Joseph into the\ngrave.\" It is a piece of poetic justice that Jacob, who deceived his\nfather in the matter of the blessing by covering himself with the skin\nof a kid, is himself deceived by the blood of a kid of the goats with\nwhich the coat of Joseph had been stained.\n\nIn speaking of the temptation of Joseph in the house of Potiphar, it is\nenough to say that the wife conspired against her husband, and\nendeavored to induce Joseph to betray his master. A pretty addition to\nthe story is to be found in the Talmud, to the effect that Joseph saw in\nimagination the face of his father before him in the moment of\ntemptation, and was thereby strengthened to resist.\n\n_The light of a superior mind can not be hidden even in a\nprison._--Joseph wins the favor of his fellow-prisoners, and an\nopportunity is thus opened to him to exercise his talents on the largest\nscale.\n\n_Affliction chastens._--The famine had in the mean time spread to\nPalestine. The shadow of the grief for Joseph still lay heavily on the\nhousehold of the patriarch. Joseph is lost; shall Benjamin, too, perish?\nIt is pleasant to observe that the character of the brothers in the mean\ntime has been changed for the better. There is evidently a lurking sense\nof guilt and a desire to atone for it in the manner in which Judah\npledges himself for the safety of the youngest child. And the same\nmarked change is visible in the conduct of all the brothers on the\njourney. The stratagem of the cup was cunningly devised to test their\nfeelings. They might have escaped by throwing the blame on Benjamin.\nInstead of that, they dread nothing so much as that he may have to\nsuffer, and are willing to sacrifice everything to save him. When this\nnew spirit has become thoroughly apparent, the end to which the whole\ngroup of Jacob stories pointed all along is reached; the work of moral\nregeneration is complete. Jacob himself has been purified by affliction,\nand the brothers and Joseph have been developed by the same hard\ntaskmaster into true men. The scene of recognition which follows, when\nthe great vice-regent orders his attendants from the apartment and\nembraces those who once attempted his life, with the words, \"I am\nJoseph, your brother: does my father still live?\" is touching in the\nextreme, and the whole ends happily in a blaze of royal pomp, like a\ntrue Eastern tale.\n\nA word as to the _method_ which should be used in teaching these\nstories. If the fairy tale holds the moral element in solution, if the\nfable drills the pupil in distinguishing one moral trait at a time, the\nbiblical stories exhibit a combination of moral qualities, or, more\nprecisely, the interaction of moral causes and effects; and it is\nimportant for the teacher to give expression to this difference in the\nmanner in which he handles the stories. Thus, in the fables we have\nsimply one trait, like ingratitude, and its immediate consequences. The\nsnake bites the countryman, and is cast out; there the matter ends. In\nthe story of Joseph we have, first, the partiality of the father, which\nproduces or encourages self-conceit in the son; Joseph's conceit\nproduces envy in the brothers. This envy reacts on all concerned--on\nJoseph, who in consequence is sold into slavery; on the father, who is\nplunged into inconsolable grief; on the brothers, who nearly become\nmurderers. The servitude of Joseph destroys his conceit and develops his\nnobler nature. Industry, fidelity, and sagacity raise him to high power.\nThe sight of the constant affliction of their father on account of\nJoseph's loss mellows the heart of the brothers, etc. It is this\ninterweaving of moral causes and effects that gives to the stories their\npeculiar value. They are true moral pictures; and, like the pictures\nused in ordinary object lessons, they serve to train the power of\nobservation. Trained observation, however, is the indispensable\npreliminary of correct moral judgment.\n\n\n_The Moses Cycle._\n\nThe figures of the patriarchs and the prophets appeal to us with a fresh\ninterest the moment we regard them as human beings like ourselves, who\nwere tempted as we are, who struggled as we are bound to do, and who\nacted, howsoever the divine economy might supervene, on their own\nresponsibility. Looked at from this point of view, the figure of Moses,\nthe Liberator, approaches our sympathies at the same time that he towers\nin imposing proportions above our level. Let us briefly review his\ncareer. Like Arminius at a later day, he is educated at the court of the\nenemies of his people. In dress, in manners, in speech, he doubtless\nresembles the grandees of Pharaoh's court. When he approaches the well\nin Midian, the daughter of Jethro exclaims, \"Behold, an Egyptian is\ncoming!\" But at heart he remains a Hebrew, and is deeply touched by the\ncruel sufferings of his race. His first public intervention on their\nbehalf takes place when he strikes down and kills a native overseer whom\nhe detects in the act of maltreating a Hebrew slave. This is\ncharacteristic of the manner in which reformers begin. They direct their\nfirst efforts against the particular consequences of some great general\nwrong. Later on they perceive the uselessness of such a procedure and\ntake heart to attack the evil at its source. Moses flees into the\ndesert. The lonely life he leads there is necessary to the development\nof his ideas. Solitude is essential to the growth of genius. The\nburning bush is the outward symbol of an inward fact. The fire which can\nnot be quenched is in his own breast, and out of that inward burning he\nhears more and more distinctly the voice which bids him go back and free\nhis people. But when he considers the means at his disposal, when in\nfancy he sees his people, a miserable horde of slaves, pitted against\nthe armed hosts of Pharaoh, he is ready to despair; until he hears the\ncomforting voice, which says, \"The Eternal is with thee; the\nunchangeable power of right is on thy side: it will prevail!\" Like\nJeremiah, like Isaiah, like all great reformers, Moses is profoundly\nimbued with the sense of his unfitness for the task laid upon him. He\npleads that he is heavy of speech. He can only stammer forth the message\nof freedom. But he is reassured by the thought that a brother will be\nfound, that helpers will arise, that the thought which he can barely\nformulate will be translated by other lesser men into a form suitable\nfor the popular understanding. He returns to Egypt to find that the\ngreatest obstacle in his way is the lethargy and unbelief of the very\npeople whom he wishes to help. This again is a typical feature of his\ncareer. The greatest trials of the reformer are due not to the open\nenmity of the oppressor, but to the meanness, the distrust and jealousy,\nof those whom oppression has degraded. At last, however, the miracle of\nsalvation is wrought, the weak prevail over the mighty, the cause of\njustice triumphs against all apparent odds to the contrary. The slaves\nrise against their masters, the flower of Egyptian chivalry is\ndestroyed. Pharaoh rallies his army and sets out in pursuit. But the\nHebrews, under Moses's guidance, have gained the start, and escape into\nthe wilderness in safety.\n\nFreedom is a precious opportunity--no more. Its value depends on the use\nto which it is put. And therefore, no sooner was the act of liberation\naccomplished, than the great leader turned to the task of positive\nlegislation, the task of developing a higher moral life among his\npeople. But here a new and keener disappointment awaited him. When he\ndescended from the mount, the glow of inspiration still upon his face,\nthe tablets of the law in his hand, he saw the people dancing about the\ngolden calf. It is at this moment that Michel Angelo, deeply realizing\nthe human element in the biblical story, has represented the form of the\nliberator in the colossal figure which was destined for Pope Julius's\ntomb. \"The right foot is slightly advanced; the long beard trembles with\nthe emotion which quivers through the whole frame; the eyes flash\nindignant wrath; the right hand grasps the tablets of the law; in\nanother moment, we see it plainly, he will leap from his sitting posture\nand shatter the work which he has made upon the rocks.\" This trait, too,\nis typical. Many a leader of a noble cause has felt, in moments of deep\ndisappointment, as if he could shatter the whole work of his life. Many\na man, in like situation, has said to himself: The people are willing\nenough to hail the message of the higher law to-day, but to-morrow they\nsink back into their dull, degraded condition, as if the vision from the\nmount had never been reported to them. Let me, then, leave them to their\ndreary ways, to dance about their golden calf. But a better and stronger\nmood prevailed in Moses. He ascended once more to the summit, and there\nprostrated himself in utter self-renunciation and self-effacement. He\nasked nothing for himself, only that the people whom he loved might be\nbenefited ever so little, be raised ever so slowly above their low\ncondition. And again the questioning spirit came upon him, and he said,\nas many another has said: The paths of progress are dark and twisted;\nthe course of history seems so often to be in the wrong direction. How\ncan I be sure that there is such a thing as eternal truth--that the\nright will prevail in the end? And then there came to him that grand\nrevelation, the greatest, as I think, and the most sublime in the Old\nTestament, when the eternal voice answered his doubt, and said: \"Thou\nwouldst know my ways, but canst not. No living being can see my face;\nonly from the rearward canst thou know me.\" As a ship sails through the\nwaters and leaves its wake behind, so the divine Power passes through\nthe world and leaves behind the traces by which it can be known. And\nwhat are those traces? Justice and mercy. Cherish, therefore, the divine\nelement in thine own nature, and thou wilt see it reflected in the world\nabout thee. Wouldst thou be sure that there is such a thing as a divine\nPower? be thyself just and merciful. And so Moses descended again to his\npeople, and became exceeding charitable in spirit. The Bible says: \"The\nman Moses was exceeding humble; there was no one more humble than he on\nthe face of the earth.\" He bore with resignation their complaints, their\nmurmurings, their alternate cowardice and foolhardiness. He was made to\nfeel, like many another in his place, that his foes were they of his own\nhousehold. He had an only brother and an only sister. His brother and\nsister rose up against him. His kinsmen, too, revolted from him. He\nendured all their weakness, all their follies; he sought to lift them by\nslow degrees to the height of his own aims. He set the paths of life and\ndeath before them, and told them that the divine word can not be found\nby crossing the seas or by searching the heavens, but must be found in\nthe human heart; and if men find it not there they will find it nowhere\nelse. And so, at last, his pilgrimage drew to a close. He had reached\nthe confines of Palestine. Once more he sought the mountain-top, and\nthere beheld the promised land stretching far away--the land which his\neyes were to see but which he was never to enter. Few great reformers,\nindeed few men who have started a great movement in history, and have\nbeen the means of producing deep and permanent changes in the ideas and\ninstitutions of society, have lived to see those changes consummated.\nThe course of evolution is slow, and the reformer can hope at best to\nsee the promised land from afar--as in a dream. Happy he if, like\nMoses, he retains the force of his convictions unabated, if his\nspiritual sight remains undimmed, if the splendid vision which attended\nhim in the beginning inspires and consoles him to the end.\n\nThe narrative which has thus been sketched touches on some of the\nweightiest problems of human existence, and deals with motives both\ncomplex and lofty. I have entered into the interpretation of these\nmotives for the purpose of showing that they are too complex and too\nlofty to be within the comprehension of children, and that it is an\nerror, though unfortunately a common one, to attempt to use the grand\ncareer of a reformer and liberator as a text for the moral edification\nof the very young. They are wholly unprepared to understand, and that\nwhich is not understood, if forced on the attention, awakens repugnance\nand disgust. Few of those who have been compelled to study the life of\nMoses in their childhood have ever succeeded in conquering this\nrepugnance, or have drawn from it, even in later life, the inspiration\nand instruction which it might otherwise have afforded them. For our\nprimary course, however, we can extract a few points interesting even to\nchildren, thus making them familiar with the name of Moses, and\npreparing the way for a deeper interest later on. The incidents of the\nstory which I should select are these: The child Moses exposed on the\nNile; the good sister watching over his safety; the kind princess\nadopting him as her son; the sympathy manifested by him for his\nenslaved brethren despite his exemption from their misfortunes. The\nkilling of the Egyptian should be represented as a crime, palliated but\nnot excused by the cruelty of the overseer. Special stress may be laid\nupon the chivalric conduct of Moses toward the young girls at the well\nof Midian. The teacher may then go on to say that Moses, having\nsucceeded in freeing his people from the power of the Egyptian king,\nbecame their chief, that many wise laws are ascribed to him, etc. The\nstory of the spies, and of the end of Moses, may also be briefly told.\n\nThe mention of the laws of Moses leads me to offer a suggestion. I have\nremarked above that children should be taught to observe moral pictures\nbefore any attempt is made to deduce moral principles; but certain\n_simple rules_ should be given even to the very young--must, indeed, be\ngiven them for their guidance. Now, in the legislation ascribed to Moses\nwe find a number of rules fit for children, and a collection of these\nrules might be made for the use of schools. They should be committed to\nmemory by the pupils, and perhaps occasionally recited in chorus. I have\nin mind such rules as these:[12]\n\n1. Ye shall not lie. (Many persons who pay attention only to the\nDecalogue, and forget the legislation of which it forms a part, seem not\nto be aware that there is in the Pentateuch [Lev. xix, 11] a distinct\ncommandment against lying.)\n\n2. Ye shall not deceive one another.\n\n3. Ye shall take no bribe.\n\n4. Honor thy father and thy mother.\n\n5. Every one shall reverence his mother and his father. (Note that the\nfather is placed first in the one passage and the mother first in the\nother, to indicate the equal title of both to their children's\nreverence.)\n\n6. Thou shalt not speak disrespectfully of those in authority.\n\n7. Before the hoary head thou shalt rise and pay honor to the aged.\n\n10. Thou shalt not spread false reports.\n\n11. Thou shalt not go about as a tale-bearer among thy fellows.\n\n12. Thou shalt not hate thy neighbor in thy heart, but shalt warn him of\nhis evil-doing.\n\n13. Thou shalt not bear a grudge against any, but thou shalt love thy\nneighbor as thyself.\n\n8. Thou shalt not speak evil of the deaf (thinking that he can not hear\nthee), nor put an obstacle in the way of the blind.\n\n9. If there be among you a poor man, thou shalt not harden thy heart,\nnor shut thy hand from thy poor brother, but thou shalt open thy hand\nwide unto him, and shalt surely lend him sufficient for his need.\n\n14. If thou seest the property of thine enemy threatened with\ndestruction, thou shalt do thy utmost to save it.\n\n15. If thou findest what is not thine own, and the owner is not known\nto thee, guard it carefully, that thou mayest restore it to its rightful\nowner.\n\n16. Thou shalt not do evil because many others are doing the same evil.\n\nBearing grudges, lying, mocking those who (like the deaf and blind) are\nafflicted with personal defects, appropriating what is found without\nattempting to discover the owner, seeking to excuse wrong on the plea\nthat many others are guilty of it--all these are forms of moral evil\nwith which children are perfectly familiar, and against which they need\nto be warned. It is more than strange that such commandments as the\nsixth and eighth of the Decalogue (the commandment against murder and\nagainst adultery, forsooth), which are inapplicable to little children,\nshould be made so much of in primary moral instruction, while those\nother commandments which do come home to them are often overlooked. The\ntheory here expounded, that moral teaching should keep pace with the\nexperience and intelligence of the child, should save us from such\nmistakes.\n\nTo proceed with the stories, the book of Joshua offers nothing that we\ncan turn to account, nor do the stories of Jael, Deborah, and Gideon\ncontain moral lessons fit for the young. Sour milk is not proper food\nfor children, nor do those stories afford the proper moral food in\nwhich, so to speak, the milk of human kindness has turned sour. The\nlabors of Samson, the Hebrew Hercules, are likewise unfit to be used at\nthis stage, at least for the purpose of moral instruction. The story of\nthe daughter of Jephtha, the Hebrew Iphigenia, is exquisitely pathetic,\nbut it involves the horrible idea of human sacrifice, and therefore had\nbetter be omitted. The acts and speeches of Samuel mark an epoch in the\nhistory of the Hebrew religion, and are of profound interest to the\nscholar. But there are certain features, such as the killing of Agag,\nwhich would have to be eliminated in any case; then the theological and\nmoral elements are so blended that it would be difficult if not\nimpossible to separate them; and altogether the character of this mighty\nancient seer, this Hebrew Warwick, this king-maker and enemy of kings,\nis above the comprehension of primary scholars. We shall therefore omit\nthe whole intervening period, and pass at once from the Moses cycle to\n\n\n_The David Cycle._\n\nThe first story of this group is that of _Naomi and Ruth_, the\nancestress of David. Upon the matchless beauty of this tale it is\nunnecessary to expatiate. I wish to remark, however, in passing that it\nillustrates as well as any other--better perhaps than any other--the\npeculiar art of the biblical narrative to which we have referred above.\nIf any one at the present day were asked to decide whether a woman\nplaced in Ruth's situation would act rightly in leaving her home and\nfollowing an aged mother-in-law to a distant country, how many pros and\ncons would he have to weigh before he would be able to say yes or no?\nAre her own parents still living, and are they so situated that she is\njustified in leaving them? Are there other blood relations who have a\nprior claim on her? Has she raised expectations at home which she ought\nnot to disappoint, or undertaken duties which ought not to be set aside\nin deference to a sentiment no matter how noble? Of all such side issues\nand complications of duty which would render a decision like hers\ndifficult in modern times, the story as we have it before us is cleared.\nAll minor traits are suppressed. It is assumed that she has a right to\ngo if she pleases, and the mind is left free to dwell, unimpeded by any\ncounter-considerations, upon the beauty of her choice. This choice\nderives its excellence from the fact that it was perfectly free. There\nwas no tie of consanguinity between Naomi and her. The two women were\nrelated in such a way that the bond might either be drawn more tightly\nor severed without blame. Orpah, too, pitied her mother-in-law. She\nwept, but she returned to her home. We can not, on that account, condemn\nher. It was not her bounden duty to go. Ruth, on the other hand, might\nperhaps have satisfied her more sensitive conscience by accompanying her\nmother-in-law as far as Bethlehem, and then returning to Moab. But she\npreferred instead exile and the hardships of a life among strangers. Not\nbeing a daughter, she freely took upon herself the duties of a daughter;\nand it is this that constitutes the singular merit of her action. In\ntelling the story it is best to follow the original as closely as\npossible. \"Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to desist from following\nafter thee, for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I\nwill lodge: thy people shall be my people: where thou diest will I die\nand there will I be buried.\" Where in universal literature shall we find\nwords more eloquent of tender devotion than these? It will be noticed\nthat I have left out the phrase \"and thy God shall be my God\" for two\nreasons. No matter how much we may love another person, religious\nconvictions ought to be held sacred. We have no right to give up our\nconvictions even for affection's sake. Moreover, the words correctly\nunderstood are really nothing but an amplification of what has preceded.\nThe language of Ruth refers throughout to the proposed change of\ncountry. \"Whither thou goest, I will go; where thou lodgest, I will\nlodge: thy folk shall be my folk; where thou diest, I will die.\" And the\nphrase \"Thy God shall be my God\" has the same meaning. The ancients\nbelieved that every country has its God, and to say \"Thy God shall be my\nGod\" was tantamount to saying \"Thy country shall be my country.\" It is\nbetter, therefore, to omit these words. Were we to retain them, the\nimpression might be created that Ruth contemplated a change of religion\nmerely to please the aged Naomi, and such a step from a moral point of\nview would be unwarrantable. It was this Gentile woman Ruth who became\nthe ancestress of the royal house of David.\n\nThe story of _David's life_ is replete with dramatic interest. It may\nbe arranged in a series of pictures. First picture: David and\nGoliath--i. e., skill pitted against brute strength, or the deserved\npunishment of a bully. Every boy takes comfort in this story. Second\npicture: David and Jonathan, their arms twined about each other's neck,\na beautiful example of youthful friendship. Especially should the\nunselfishness of Jonathan be noted. He, the Hebrew crown prince, so far\nfrom being jealous of his rival, recognized the superior qualities of\nthe latter and served him with the most generous fidelity. Third\npicture: David the harper, playing before the gloomy, moody king, whom\nan evil spirit has possessed. It should be noted how difficult is the\ntask incumbent upon Jonathan of combining his duty to his father and his\naffection for his friend. Yet he fails in neither. Fourth picture:\nDavid's loyalty manifest. He has the monarch in his power in the camp,\nin the cave, and proves that there is no evil intention in his mind. The\nwords of Saul are very touching, \"Is it thy voice I hear, my son David?\"\nFifth picture: the battle, the tragical end of Saul and Jonathan. The\ndirge of David floats above the field: \"The beauty of Israel is slain\nupon the high places. How are the mighty fallen!\" etc. A second series\nof pictures now begins. David is crowned king, first by his clansmen,\nthen by the united tribes. David, while besieging Bethlehem, is athirst\nand there is no water. Three of his soldiers cut their way to the well\nnear the gate, which is guarded by the enemy, and bring back a cup of\nwater. He refuses it, saying: \"It is not water, but the blood of the men\nwho have risked their lives for me.\" Omitting the story of Bathsheba, we\ncome next to the rebellion of Absalom. The incidents of this rebellion\nmay be depicted as follows: First, Absalom in his radiant beauty at the\nfeast of the sheep-shearer. Next, Absalom at the gate playing the\ndemagogue, secretly inciting the people to revolt. Next, David ascending\nMount Olivet weeping, the base Shimei, going along a parallel ridge,\nflinging stones at the king and reviling him. David remarks: \"If my own\nson seek my life, how shall I be angry with this Benjamite?\" Next, the\ndeath of Absalom in the wood. Finally, David at the gate receiving the\nnews of Absalom's death, and breaking forth into the piercing cry: \"O my\nson Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee! O\nAbsalom, my son, my son!\" It is the story of a rebellious and undutiful\nchild, and illustrates by contrast the unfathomable depth of a father's\nlove, of a love that yearns even over the wicked, over the lost.\n\nThe points of the stories included in the David cycle are: skill and\ncourage triumphant over brute strength, unselfish friendship, loyalty, a\nleader's generosity toward his followers, and parental love. The\narrangement of the words in the lament of David for his son deserves to\nbe specially noted. It corresponds to and vividly describes the rhythmic\nmovements of the emotions excited by great sorrow. From the life of\nSolomon we select only the judgment, related in I Kings, iii. We may\ncompare with it a similar story, showing, however, interesting\nvariations, in the Jataka tales.\n\nWith this our selections from the Old Testament narrative come to an\nend. The ideal types are exhausted, and the figures which now appear\nupon the scene stand before us in the dry light of history.\n\nFrom the New Testament we select for the primary course the story of the\nGood Samaritan, as illustrative of true charity. Selected passages from\nthe Sermon on the Mount may also be explained and committed to memory.\nThe Beatitudes, however, and the parables lie outside our present\nlimits, presupposing as they do a depth of spiritual experience which is\nlacking in children.\n\n\n     NOTE.--It should be remembered that the above selections have been\n     made with a view to their being included in a course of unsectarian\n     moral instruction. Such a course must not express the religious\n     tenets of any sect or denomination. Much that has here been\n     omitted, however, can be taught in the Sunday schools, the\n     existence of which alongside of the daily schools is, as I have\n     said, presupposed in these lectures. I have simply tried to cull\n     the moral meaning of the stories, leaving, as I believe, the way\n     open for divergent religious interpretations of the same stories.\n     But I realize that the religious teacher may claim the Bible wholly\n     for his own, and may not be willing to share even a part of its\n     treasure with the moral teacher. If this be so, then these\n     selections from the Bible, for the present, at all events, will\n     have to be omitted. They can, nevertheless, be used by judicious\n     parents, and some if not all of the suggestions they contain may\n     prove acceptable to teachers of Sunday schools.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[11] In his Introduction to Homer.\n\n[12] I have taken the liberty of altering the language here and there,\nfor reasons that will be obvious in each case.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\nTHE ODYSSEY AND THE ILIAD.\n\n\nAs we leave the field of biblical literature and turn to the classic\nepic of Greece, a new scene spreads out before us, new forms and faces\ncrowd around us, we breathe a different atmosphere.\n\nThe poems of Homer among the Greeks occupied a place in many respects\nsimilar to that of the Bible among the Hebrews. At Athens there was a\nspecial ordinance that the Homeric poems should be recited once every\nfourth year at the great Panathenaic festival. On this occasion the\nrhapsode, standing on an elevated platform, arrayed in rich robes, with\na golden wreath about his head, addressed an audience of many thousands.\nThe poems were made the subject of mystical, allegorical, and\nrationalistic interpretation, precisely as was the case with the text of\nthe Bible. As late as the first century of our era, the first book\nplaced in the hands of children, the book from which they learned to\nread and write, was Homer. Xenophon in the Symposium has one of the\nguests say: \"My father, anxious that I should become a good man, made me\nlearn all the poems of Homer, and now I could repeat the whole Iliad\nand Odyssey by heart.\"[13]\n\nWe shall not go quite to the same length as Xenophon. We should hardly\nthink it sufficient in order to make a good man of a boy to place Homer\nin his hands. But we do believe that the knowledge of the Homeric poems,\nintroduced at the right time and in the right way, will contribute to\nsuch a result.\n\nLet us, however, examine more closely in what the value of these poems\nconsists.\n\nUlysses is the hero of the Odyssey, Achilles of the Iliad. Ulysses is\npre-eminently the type of resourceful intelligence, Achilles of valor.\nIn what way will these types appeal to our pupils? As the boy develops\nbeyond the early period of childhood, there shows itself in him a spirit\nof adventure. This has been noticed by all careful educators. Now, there\nis a marked difference between the spirit of adventure and the spirit of\nplay. Play consists in the free exercise of our faculties. Its\ncharacteristic mark is the absence of taxing effort. The child is said\nto be at play when it frolics in the grass, when it leaps or runs a\nrace, or when it imitates the doings of its elders. As soon, however, as\nthe exertion required in carrying on a game becomes appreciable, the\ngame is converted into a task and loses its charm. The spirit of\nadventure, on the contrary, is called forth by obstacles; it delights in\nthe prospect of difficulties to be overcome; it is the sign of a fresh\nand apparently boundless energy, which has not yet been taught its\nlimitations by the rough contact with realities. The spirit of adventure\nbegins to develop in children when the home life no longer entirely\ncontents them, when they wish to be freed from the constraint of\ndependence on others, when it seems to them as if the whole world lay\nopen to them and they could dare and do almost anything. It is at this\ntime that children love to read tales of travel, and especially tales of\nthe sea, of shipwreck, and hair-breadth escapes, of monsters slain by\ndauntless heroes, of rescue and victory, no matter how improbable or\nimpossible the means. Now success in such adventures depends largely on\ncourage. And it is good for children to have examples even of physical\ncourage set before them, provided it be not brutal. The craven heart\nought to be despised. Mere good intentions ought not to count. Unless\none has the resolute will, the fearless soul, that can face difficulties\nand danger without flinching, he will never be able to do a man's work\nin the world. This lesson should be imprinted early. A second\nprerequisite of success is presence of mind, or what has been called\nabove resourceful intelligence. And this quality is closely allied with\nthe former. Presence of mind is the result of bravery. The mind will act\neven in perilous situations if it be not paralyzed by fear. It is fear\nthat causes the wheels of thought to stop. If one can only keep off the\nclog of fear, the mind will go on revolving and often find a way of\nescape where there seemed none. Be not a coward, be brave and\nclear-headed in the midst of peril--these are lessons the force of which\nis appreciated by the growing pupil. The Iliad and Odyssey teach them on\nevery page.\n\nBravery and presence of mind, it is true, are commonly regarded as\nworldly, rather than as, in the strict sense, moral qualities. However\nthat may be--and I, for one, am inclined to rank true courage and true\npresence of mind among the highest manifestations of the moral\nnature--these qualities when they show themselves in the young soon\nexert a favorable influence on the whole character, and serve especially\nto transform the attitude of the child toward its parents. Hitherto the\nyoung child has been content to be the mere recipient of favors; as soon\nas the new consciousness of strength, the new sense of independence and\nmanliness has developed, the son begins to feel that he would like to\ngive to his parents as well as to receive from them; to be of use to his\nfather, and to confer benefits, as far as he is able, in the shape of\nsubstantial services. These remarks will find their application in the\nanalysis of the Odyssey, which we shall presently attempt.\n\nThe Odyssey is a tale of the sea. Ulysses is the type of sagacity, as\nwell as of bravery, his mind teems with inventions. In the boy\nTelemachus we behold a son struggling to cut loose from his mother's\nleading-strings, and laudably ambitious to be of use to his parents. In\nthe Odyssey we gain a distinct advance upon the moral results obtained\nfrom the study of the biblical stories. In the Bible it is chiefly the\nlove of parents for their children which is dwelt upon, in the Odyssey\nthe devotion of children to their parents; and this, of course, marks a\nlater stage. In the Odyssey, too, the conjugal relation comes into the\nforeground. In the Bible, the love of the husband for his wife is\nrepeatedly touched upon. But the love of the wife for the husband is not\nequally emphasized, and the relations between the two do not receive\nparticular attention. The joint authority of both parents over their\nchildren is the predominant fact, the delicate bonds of feeling which\nsubsist between the parents themselves are not in view. And this again\ncorresponds to the earlier stage of childhood. The young child perceives\nthe joint love which father and mother bear toward it, and feels the\njoint authority which they exercise over it. But as the child grows up,\nits eyes are opened to perceive more clearly the love which the parents\nbear to one another, and its affection for both is fed and the desire to\nserve them is strengthened by this new insight. Thus it is in the\nOdyssey. The yearning of Ulysses for his wife, the fidelity of Penelope\nduring twenty years of separation, are the leading theme of the\nnarrative, and the effect of this love upon their son is apparent\nthroughout the poem.\n\nLet us now consider the ethical elements of the Odyssey in some detail,\narranging them under separate heads.\n\n1. _Conjugal affection._ Ulysses has been for seven years a prisoner in\nthe cave of Calypso. The nymph of the golden hair offers him the gift of\nimmortality if he will consent to be her husband, but he is proof\nagainst her blandishments, and asks for nothing but to be dismissed, so\nthat he may see his dear home and hold his own true wife once more in\nhis arms.\n\n\n     \"Apart upon the shore\n     He sat and sorrowed. And oft in tears\n     And sighs and vain repinings passed the hours,\n     Gazing with wet eyes on the barren deep.\"[14]\n\n\nI would remark that, as the poem is too long to be read through\nentirely, and as there are passages in it which should be omitted, it is\nadvisable for the teacher to narrate the story, quoting, however, such\npassages as give point to the narrative or have a special beauty of\ntheir own. Read the description of Calypso's cave v, 73, ff. Penelope\nmeantime is patiently awaiting her husband's return. Read the passages\nwhich describe her great beauty, especially that lovely word-picture in\nwhich she is described as standing by a tall column in the hall, a maid\non either side, a veil hiding her lustrous face, while she addresses the\nsuitors. The noblest princes of Ithaca and the surrounding isles entreat\nher hand in marriage, and, thinking that Ulysses will never return, hold\nhigh revels in his house, and shamelessly consume his wealth. Read the\npassage ii, 116-160, describing Penelope's device to put off the\nsuitors, and at the same time to avert the danger which would have\nthreatened her son in case she had openly broken with the chiefs. The\nlove of Penelope is further set vividly before us by many delicate\ntouches. Every stranger who arrives in Ithaca is hospitably entertained\nby the queen, and loaded with gifts, in the hope that he may bring her\nsome news of her absent lord, and often she is deceived by wretches who\nspeculate on her credulous grief. See the passage xiv, 155. During the\nday she is busy with her household cares, overseeing her maids, and\nseeking to divert her mind by busy occupation; but at night the silence\nand the solitude become intolerable, and she weeps her eyes out on her\nlonely couch. How the love of Penelope influences her boy, who was a\nmere babe when his father left for Troy, how the whole atmosphere of the\nhouse is charged with the sense of expectancy of the master's return, is\nshown in the passage ii, 439, where Telemachus says:\n\n\n     \"Nurse, let sweet wine be drawn into my jars,\n     The finest next to that which thou dost keep,\n     Expecting our unhappy lord, if yet\n     The nobly born Ulysses shall escape\n     The doom of death and come to us again.\"\n\n\nThe best cheer, the finest wine, the best of everything is kept ready\nagainst the father's home-coming, which may be looked for any day, if\nhaply he has escaped the doom of death. There is one passage in which\nwe might suspect that the poet has intended to show the hardening effect\nof grief on Penelope's character, xv, 479. Penelope does not speak to\nher old servants any more; she passes them by without a word, apparently\nwithout seeing them. She does not attend to their wants as she used to\ndo, and they, in turn, do not dare to address her. But we may forgive\nthis seeming indifference inasmuch as it only shows how completely she\nis absorbed by her sorrow.\n\nA companion picture to the love of Ulysses and Penelope is to be found\nin the conjugal relation of Alcinous, king of Phaeacia, and his wife\nArete, as described in the sixth book and the following. This whole\nepisode is incomparably beautiful. Was there ever a more perfect\nembodiment of girlish grace and modesty, coupled with sweetest\nfrankness, than Nausicaa? And what a series of lovely pictures is made\nto pass in quick succession before our eyes as we read the story! First,\nNausicaa, moved by the desire to prepare her wedding garments against\nher unknown lover's coming, not ashamed to acknowledge the motive to her\nown pure heart, but veiling it discreetly before her mother; then the\nband of maidens setting out upon their picnic party, Nausicaa holding\nthe reins; next the washing of the garments, the bath, the game of ball,\nthe sudden appearance of Ulysses, the flight of her companions, the\nbrave girl being left to keep her place alone, with a courage born of\npity for the stranger, and of virtuous womanhood.\n\n\n       \"Alone\n     The daughter of Alcinous kept her place,\n     For Pallas gave her courage and forbade\n     Her limb to tremble. So she waited there.\"\n\n\nWho that has inhaled the fragrance of her presence from these pages can\never forget the white-armed Nausicaa! Then follows the picture of the\npalace, a feast for the imagination, the most magnificent description, I\nthink, in the whole poem.\n\n\n     \"For on every side beneath\n     The lofty roof of that magnanimous king\n     A glory shone as of the summer moons.\"\n\n\nRead from l. 100-128, book vii. Next we witness the splendid hospitality\nproffered to the stranger guest. For again and again in this poem the\nnoble sentiment is repeated, that the stranger and the poor are sent\nfrom Jove. Then we see Ulysses engaged in the games, outdoing the rest,\nor standing aside and watching \"the twinkle of the dancer's feet.\" The\nlanguage, too, used on these occasions is strikingly noble, so courteous\nand well-chosen, so simple and dignified, conveying rich meanings in the\nfewest possible words. What can be finer, e. g., than Nausicaa's\nfarewell to Ulysses?\n\n\n     \"Now, when the maids\n     Had seen him bathed, and had anointed him\n     With oil, and put his sumptuous mantle on,\n     And tunic, forth he issued from the bath,\n     And came to those who sat before their wine.\n     Nausicaa, goddess-like in beauty, stood\n     Beside a pillar of that noble roof,\n     And, looking on Ulysses as he passed,\n     Admired, and said to him in winged words--\n     'Stranger, farewell, and in thy native land\n     Remember thou hast owed thy life to me.'\"\n\n\nNausicaa, it is evident, loves Ulysses; she stands beside a pillar, a\nfavorite attitude for beautiful women with Homer, and as Ulysses passes,\nshe addresses to him those few words so fraught with tenderness and\nrenunciation. Ulysses's own speech to Arete, too, is a model of\nsimplicity and dignity, possessing, it seems to me, something of the\nsame quality which we admire in the speeches of Othello. But throughout\nthis narrative, pre-eminent above all the other figures in it is the\nfigure of the queen herself, of Arete. Such a daughter as Nausicaa could\nonly come from such a mother. To her Ulysses is advised to address his\nsupplication. She is the wise matron, the peace-maker who composes the\nangry feuds of the men. And she possesses the whole heart and devotion\nof her husband.\n\n\n       \"Her Alcinous made his wife\n     And honored her as nowhere else on earth\n     Is any woman honored who bears charge\n     Over a husband's household. From their hearts\n     Her children pay her reverence, and the king\n     And all the people, for they look on her\n     As if she were a goddess. When she goes\n     Abroad into the streets, all welcome her\n     With acclamations. Never does she fail\n     In wise discernment, but decides disputes\n     Kindly and justly between man and man.\n     And if thou gain her favor there is hope\n     That thou mayst see thy friends once more.\"\n\n\nWe have then as illustrations of conjugal fidelity: the main picture,\nUlysses and Penelope; the companion picture, Alcinous and Arete; and, as\na foil to set off both, there looms up every now and then in the course\nof the poem, that unhappy pair, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, the latter,\nthe type of conjugal infidelity, from which the soul of Homer revolts.\nThis foil is very skillfully used. At the very end of the poem, when\neverything is hastening toward a happy consummation, Ulysses having\nslain the suitors and being about to be reunited with his wife, we are\nintroduced into the world of shades, where the ghost of Agamemnon once\nmore rehearses the story of Clytemnestra's treachery. At that moment the\nspirits of the suitors come flying down to Hades, and the happier\ndestiny of Ulysses is thus brought into clearer relief by contrast.\n\nThe next ethical element of which I have to speak is the _filial\nconduct_ of Telemachus. In him the spirit of adventure has developed\ninto a desire to help his father. In the early part of the poem he\nannounces that he is now a child no longer. He begins to assert\nauthority. And yet in his home he continues to be treated as a child.\nThe suitors laugh at him, his own mother can not bear to think that he\nshould go out into the wide world alone, and the news of his departure\nis accordingly concealed from her. Very fine are the words in which her\nmother's love expresses itself when she discovers his absence:\n\n\n     \"And her knees failed her and her heart\n     Sank as she heard. Long time she could not speak;\n     Her eyes were filled with tears, and her clear voice\n     Was choked; yet, finding words at length, she said:\n     'O herald! wherefore should my son have gone?'\n\n                               \"... Now, my son,\n     My best beloved, goes to sea--a boy\n     Unused to hardship and unskilled to deal\n     With strangers. More I sorrow for his sake\n     Than for his father's. I am filled with fear.\"\n\n\nShe lies outstretched upon the floor of her chamber overcome with grief\n(iv, 910). Telemachus, however, has gone forth in search of his sire. He\nfinds a friend in Pisistratus, the son of Nestor, and the two youths\njoin company on the journey. They come to the court of Menelaus, King of\nSparta. There, as everywhere, Telemachus hears men speak of his great\nfather in terms of the highest admiration and praise, and the desire\nmounts in his soul to do deeds worthy of such a parent. What better\nstimulation can we offer to growing children than this recital of\nTelemachus's development from boyhood into manhood? His reception at the\ncourt of Menelaus affords an opportunity to dwell again upon the\ngenerous and delicate hospitality of the ancient Greeks. First, the\nguest is received at the gates; then conducted to the bath and anointed;\nthen, when he is seated on a silver or perchance a golden throne, a\nhandmaiden advances with a silver ewer and a golden jug to pour water on\nhis hands; then a noble banquet is set out for his delectation; and only\nthen, after all these rites of hospitality have been completed, is\ninquiry made as to his name and his errand. \"The stranger and the poor\nare sent from Jove.\" The stranger and the poor were welcome in the\nGrecian house. Telemachus returns to Ithaca, escapes the ambush which\nthe murderous suitors had set for him, and arrives just in time to help\nhis father in his last desperate struggle. It is he, Telemachus, who\nconveys the weapons from the hall, he who pinions the treacherous\nMelantheus and renders him harmless. He quits himself like a\nman--discreet, able to keep his counsel, and brave and quick in the\nmoment of decisive action.\n\nThe third element which attracts our attention is the resourceful\nintelligence of Ulysses, or his _presence of mind_ amid danger. This is\nexhibited on many occasions; for instance, in the cave of Polyphemus;\nwhere he saves his companions by concealing them in the fleece of the\ngiant's flock, and at the time of the great shipwreck, before he reaches\nPhaeacia. His raft is shattered, and he is plunged into the sea. He\nclings to one of the fragments of the wreck, but from this too is\ndislodged. For two days and nights he struggles in the black, stormy\nwaters. At last he approaches the shore, but is nearly dashed to pieces\non the rocks. He swims again out to sea, until, finding himself opposite\nthe mouth of a river, he strikes out for this and lands in safety.\nPallas Athene has guided him. But Pallas Athene is only another name for\nhis own courage and presence of mind. In the same connection may be\nrelated the story of Ulysses's escape from the Sirens and from the twin\nperils of Scylla and Charybdis. The Sirens, with their bewitching songs,\nseek to lure him and his companions to destruction. But he stops the\nears of his companions with wax so that they can not hear, and causes\nhimself to be bound with stout cords to the mast, so that, though he may\nhear, he can not follow. There is an obvious lesson contained in this\nallegory. When about to be exposed to temptation, if you know that you\nare weak, do not even listen to the seductive voices. But no matter how\nstrong you believe yourself to be, at least give such pledges and place\nyourself in such conditions that you may be prevented from yielding.\nFrom the monster Charybdis, too, Ulysses escapes by extraordinary\npresence of mind and courage. He leaps upward to catch the fig-tree in\nthe moment when his ship disappears beneath him in the whirlpool; then,\nwhen it is cast up again, lets go his hold and is swept out into safe\nwaters.\n\nThe fourth ethical element which we select from the poem is the\n_veneration shown to grandparents_. I have already remarked, in a former\nlecture, that if parents wish to retain the reverence of their children\nthey can not do better than in their turn to show themselves reverent\ntoward their own aged and enfeebled parents. Of such conduct the Odyssey\noffers us a number of choice examples. Thus Achilles, meeting Ulysses in\nthe realm of shades, says that the hardest part of his lot is to think\nof his poor old father, who has no one now to defend him, and who,\nbeing weak, is likely to be neglected and despised. If only he, the\nstrong son, could return to the light of day, how he would protect his\naged parent and insure him the respect due to his gray hairs! Penelope\nis advised to send to Laertes, Telemachus's grandfather, to secure his\naid against the suitors. But with delicate consideration she keeps the\nbad news from him, saying: \"He has enough grief to bear on account of\nthe loss of his son Ulysses; let me not add to his burden.\" Again, how\nbeautiful is the account of the meeting of Laertes and Ulysses after the\nreturn and triumph of the latter. On the farm, at some distance from the\ntown, Ulysses seeks his aged father. Laertes is busy digging. He, a\nking, wears a peasant's rustic garb and lives a life of austere\nself-denial, grieving night and day for his absent son. When Ulysses\nmentions his name, Laertes at first does not believe. Then the hero\napproaches the bent and decrepit old man, and becomes for the moment a\nchild again. He brings up recollections of his earliest boyhood; he\nreminds his father of the garden-patch which he set aside for him long,\nlong ago; of the trees and vines which he gave him to plant; and then\nthe father realizes that the mighty man before him is indeed his son.\n\nThe structural lines of the Odyssey are clearly marked, and can easily\nbe followed. First, we are shown the house of Ulysses bereft of its\nmaster. The noisy crowd of suitors are carousing in the hall; the\ndespairing Penelope weaves her web in an upper chamber; the resolve to\ndo and dare for his father's sake awakens in Telemachus's heart. Next\nUlysses on the way home, dismissed by Calypso, arrives at Phaeacia, from\nwhich port without further misadventures he reaches Ithaca. The stay in\nthe palace of the Phaeacian king gives an opportunity for a rehearsal of\nthe previous sufferings and adventures of the hero. Then follow the\npreparations for the conflict with the suitors; the appearance of\nUlysses in his own palace in the guise of a beggar; the insults and\nblows which he receives at the hands of his rivals and their menials;\nthe bloody fight, etc. In relating the story I should follow the course\nof the poem, laying stress upon the ethical elements enumerated above.\nThe fight which took place in the palace halls with closed doors should\nbe merely mentioned, its bloody details omitted. The hanging of the\nmaidens, the trick of Vulcan related in a previous book, and other minor\nepisodes, which the teacher will distinguish without difficulty, should\nlikewise be passed over. The recognition scenes are managed with\nwonderful skill. The successive recognitions seem to take place\ninversely in the order of previous connection and intimacy with Ulysses.\nThe son, who was a mere babe when his father left and did not know him\nat all, recognizes him first. This, moreover, is necessary in order that\nhis aid may be secured for the coming struggle. Next comes Argus, the\ndog.\n\n\n     \"While over Argus the black night of death\n     Came suddenly as he had seen\n     Ulysses, absent now for twenty years.\"\n\n\nNext comes the nurse Eurycleia, who recognizes him by a scar inflicted\nby the white tusk of a boar whom he hunted on Parnassus's heights; then\nhis faithful followers; last of all, and slowly and with difficulty, the\nwife who had so yearned for him. Her impetuous son could not understand\nher tardiness. Vehemently he chid her: \"Mother, unfeeling mother, how\ncanst thou remain aloof, how keep from taking at my father's side thy\nplace to talk with him and question him? Mother, thy heart is harder\nthan a stone.\" But she only sat opposite to Ulysses and gazed and gazed\nand wondered. Ulysses himself, at last, in despair at her impenetrable\nsilence, exclaimed, \"An iron heart is hers.\" But it was only that she\ncould not believe. It seemed so incredible to her that the long waiting\nshould be over; that the desire of her heart should really be fulfilled;\nthat this man before her should be indeed the husband, the long-lost\nhusband, and not a mocking dream. But when at last it dawned upon her,\nwhen he gave her the token of the mystery known only to him and to her,\nthen indeed the ice of incredulity melted from her heart, and her knees\nfaltered and the tears streamed from her eyes, \"and she rose and ran to\nhim and flung her arm about his neck and kissed his brow, and he, too,\nwept as in his arms he held his dearly loved and faithful wife.\" \"As\nwelcome as the land to those who swim the deep, tossed by the billow\nand the blast, and few are those who from the hoary ocean reach the\nshore, their limbs all crested with the brine, these gladly climb the\nsea-beach and are safe--so welcome was her husband to her eyes, nor\nwould her fair white arms release his neck.\"\n\nAnd so with the words uttered by the shade of Agamemnon we may fitly\nclose this retrospect of the poem:\n\n\n     \"Son of Laertes, fortunate and wise,\n     Ulysses! thou by feats of eminent might\n     And valor dost possess thy wife again.\n     And nobly minded is thy blameless queen,\n     The daughter of Icarius, faithfully\n     Remembering him to whom she gave her troth\n     While yet a virgin. Never shall the fame\n     Of his great valor perish, and the gods\n     Themselves shall frame, for those who dwell on earth,\n     Sweet strains in praise of sage Penelope.\"\n\n\nWell might the rhapsodes in the olden days, clad in embroidered robes,\nwith golden wreaths about their brows, recite such verses as these to\nthe assembled thousands and ten thousands. Well might the Hellenic race\ntreasure these records of filial loyalty, of maiden purity, of wifely\ntenderness and fidelity, of bravery, and of intelligence. And well may\nwe, too, desire that this golden stream flowing down to us from ancient\nGreece shall enter the current of our children's lives to broaden and\nenrich them.\n\nI have not space at my command to attempt a minute analysis of the\nIliad, and shall content myself with mentioning the main significant\npoints. The Iliad is full of the noises of war, the hurtling of arrows,\nthe flashing of swords, the sounding of spears on metal shields, the\ngroans of the dying, \"whose eyes black darkness covers.\" The chief\nvirtues illustrated are valor, hospitality, conjugal affection, respect\nfor the aged. I offer the following suggestions to the teacher. After\ndescribing the wrath of Achilles, relate the meeting of Diomedes and\nGlaucus, their hostile encounter, and their magnanimous embrace on\ndiscovering that they are great friends. Read the beautiful passage\nbeginning with the words, \"Even as the generations of leaves, such are\nthose likewise of men.\" Dwell on the parting of Hector and Andromache.\nNote that she has lost her father, her lady mother, and her seven\nbrothers. Hector is to her father, mother, brother, and husband, all in\none. Note also Hector's prayer for his son that the latter may excel him\nin bravery. As illustrative of friendship, tell the story of Achilles's\ngrief for Patroclus, how he lies prone upon the ground, strewing his\nhead with dust; how he follows the body lamenting; how he declares that\nthough the dead forget their dead in Hades, even there he would not\nforget his dear comrade. Next tell of the slaying of Hector, and how\nAchilles honors the suppliant Priam and restores to him the body of his\nson. It is the memory of his own aged father, which the sight of Priam\nrecalls, that melts Achilles's heart, and they weep together, each for\nhis own dead. Finally, note the tribute paid to Hector's delicate\nchivalry in the lament of Helen.[15]\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[13] See Jebb's Introduction to Homer.\n\n[14] The quotations are taken from Bryant's translation of the Odyssey.\n\n[15] In connection with the Homeric poems selections from Greek\nmythology may be used, such as the story of Hercules, of Theseus, of\nPerseus, the story of the Argonauts, and others. These, too, breathe the\nspirit of adventure and illustrate the virtues of courage, perseverance\namid difficulties, chivalry, etc.\n\n\n\n\nGRAMMAR COURSE.\n\nLESSONS ON DUTY.\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n\nTHE DUTY OF ACQUIRING KNOWLEDGE.\n\n\nIn setting out on a new path it is well to determine beforehand the goal\nwe hope to reach. We are about to begin the discussion of the grammar\ncourse, which is intended for children between twelve and fifteen years\nof age, and accordingly ask: What result can we expect to attain? One\nthing is certain, we must continue to grade our teaching, to adapt each\nsuccessive step to the capacities of the pupils, to keep pace with their\nmental development.\n\nThe due gradation of moral teaching is all-important. Whether the\ngradations we propose are correct is, of course, a matter for\ndiscussion; but, at all events, a point will be gained if we shall have\nbrought home forcibly to teachers the necessity of a graded, of a\nprogressive system.\n\nIn the primary course we have set before the pupils examples of good and\nbad conduct, with a view to training their powers of moral perception.\nWe are now ready to advance from percepts to concepts. We have\nendeavored to cultivate the faculty of observation, we can now attempt\nthe higher task of generalization. In the primary course we have tried\nto make the pupils perceive moral distinctions; in the grammar course we\nshall try to make them reason about moral distinctions, help them to\ngain notions of duty, to arrive at principles or maxims of good conduct.\nThe grammar course, therefore, will consist in the main of lessons on\nduty.\n\nWhat has just been said, however, requires further explanation to\nprevent misapprehension. I have remarked that the pupil is now to reach\nout toward concepts of duty, and to establish for himself maxims or\nprinciples of conduct. But of what nature shall these maxims be? The\nphilosopher Kant has proposed the following maxim: \"So act that the\nmaxim underlying thy action may justify itself to thy mind as a\nuniversal law of conduct.\" According to him, the note of universality is\nthe distinctive characteristic of all ethical conduct. The school of\nBentham proposes a different maxim: \"So act that the result of thy\naction shall tend to insure the greatest happiness of the greatest\nnumber.\" Theologians tell us so to act that our will may harmonize with\nthe will of God. But pupils of the grammar grade are not ripe to\nunderstand such metaphysical and theological propositions. And,\nmoreover, as was pointed out in our first lecture, it would be a grave\ninjustice to teach in schools supported by all ethical first principles\nwhich are accepted only by some. We are not concerned with first\nprinciples. We exclude the discussion of them, be they philosophical or\ntheological, from the school. But there are certain secondary\nprinciples, certain more concrete rules of behavior, which nevertheless\npossess the character of generalizations, and these will suffice for\nour purpose. And with respect to these there is really no difference of\nopinion among the different schools and sects, and on them as a\nfoundation we can build.\n\nIt is our business to discover such secondary principles, and in our\ninstruction to lead the pupil to the recognition of them. The nature of\nthe formulas of duty which we have in mind--formulas which shall express\nthe generalized moral experience of civilized mankind, will appear more\nplainly if we examine the processes by which we arrive at them. An\nexample will best elucidate: Suppose that I am asked to give a lesson on\nthe duty of truthfulness. At the stage which we have now reached it will\nnot be enough merely to emphasize the general commandment against lying.\nThe general commandment leaves in the pupil's mind a multitude of doubts\nunsolved. Shall I always tell the truth--that is to say, the whole\ntruth, as I know it, and to everybody? Is it never right to withhold the\ntruth, or even to say what is the contrary of true, as, e. g., to the\nsick or insane. Such questions as these are constantly being asked. What\nis needed is a rule of veracity which shall leave the general principle\nof truth-speaking unshaken, and shall yet cover all these exceptional\ncases. How to arrive at such a rule? I should go about it in the\nfollowing manner, and the method here described is the one which is\nintended to be followed throughout the entire course of lessons on duty.\nI should begin by presenting a concrete case. A certain child had broken\na precious vase. When asked whether it had done so, it answered, \"No.\"\nHow do you characterize such a statement? As a falsehood. The active\nparticipation of the pupils in the discussion is essential. Properly\nquestioned, they will join in it heart and soul. There must be constant\ngive and take between teacher and class. Upon the fulfillment of this\ncondition the value of this sort of teaching entirely depends. The\nteacher then proceeds to analyze the instance above given, or any other\nthat he may select from those which the pupils offer him. The child says\nno when it should have said yes, or a person says black when he should\nhave said white. In what does the falsehood of such statements consist?\nIn the circumstance that the words spoken do not correspond to the\nfacts. Shall we then formulate the rule of veracity as follows: Make thy\nwords correspond to the facts; and shall we infer that any one whose\nwords do not correspond to the facts is a liar? But clearly this is not\nso. The class is asked to give instances tending to prove the\ninsufficiency of the proposed formula. Before the days of Copernicus it\nwas generally asserted that the sun revolves around the earth. Should we\nbe justified in setting down the many excellent persons who made such\nstatements as liars? Yet their words did not correspond to the facts.\nVery true; but they did not intend to deviate from the facts--they did\nnot know better. Shall we then change the formula so as to read: Intend\nthat thy words shall conform to the facts? But the phrase \"correspond to\nthe facts\" needs to be made more explicit. Cases occur in which a\nstatement does correspond to the facts, or, at least, seems to do so,\nand yet a contemptible falsehood is implied. The instance of the truant\nboy is in point who entered the school-building five minutes before the\nclose of the exercises, and on being asked at home whether he had been\nat school, promptly answered \"Yes\"; and so he had been for five minutes.\nBut in this case the boy suppressed a part of the facts--and, moreover,\nthe essential part--namely, that he had been absent from school for five\nhours and fifty-five minutes. Cases of mental reservation and the like\nfall under the same condemnation. The person who took an oath in court,\nusing the words, \"As truly as I stand on this stone,\" but who had\npreviously filled his shoes with earth, suppressed the essential\nfact--viz., that he had filled his shoes with earth.\n\nShall we then formulate the rule in this wise: Intend to make thy words\ncorrespond to the essential facts? But even this will not entirely\nsatisfy. For there are cases, surely, in which we deliberately frame our\nwords in such a way that they shall not correspond to the essential\nfacts--for instance, if we should meet a murderer who should ask us in\nwhich direction his intended victim had fled, or in the case of an\ninsane person intent on suicide, or of the sick in extreme danger, whom\nthe communication of bad news would kill. How can we justify such a\nprocedure? We can justify it on the ground that language as a means of\ncommunication is intended to further the rational purposes of human\nlife, and not conversely are the rational purposes of life to be\nsacrificed to any merely formal principle of truth-telling. A person\nwho, like the murderer, is about to use the fact conveyed to him by my\nwords as a weapon with which to kill a fellow-being has no right to be\nput in possession of the fact. An insane person, who can not use the\ntruthful communications of others except for irrational ends, is also\noutside the pale of those to whom such tools can properly be intrusted.\nAnd so are the sick, when so enfeebled that the shock of grief would\ndestroy them. For the rational use of grief is to provoke in us a moral\nreaction, to rouse in us the strength to bear our heavy burdens, and, in\nbearing, to learn invaluable moral lessons. But those who are physically\ntoo weak to rally from the first shock of grief are unable to secure\nthis result, and they must therefore be classed, for the time being, as\npersons not in a condition to make rational use of the facts of life. It\nis not from pain and suffering that we are permitted to shield them.\nPain and suffering we must be willing both to endure and also to inflict\nupon those whom we love best, if necessary. Reason can and should\ntriumph over pain. But when the reasoning faculty is impaired, or when\nthe body is too weak to respond to the call of reason, the obligation of\ntruth-_telling_ ceases. I am not unaware that this is a dangerous\ndoctrine to teach. I should always take the greatest pains to impress\nupon my pupils that the irrational condition, which alone justifies the\nwithholding of the truth, must be so obvious that there can be no\nmistake about it, as in the case of the murderer who, with knife in\nhand, pursues his victim, or of the insane, or of the sick, in regard to\nwhom the physician positively declares that the shock of bad news would\nendanger life. But I do think that we are bound to face these\nexceptional cases, and to discuss them with our pupils. For the latter\nknow as well as we that in certain exceptional situations the best men\ndo not tell the truth, that in such situations no one tells the truth,\nexcept he be a moral fanatic. And unless these exceptional cases are\nclearly marked off and explained and justified, the general authority of\ntruth will be shaken, or at least the obligation of veracity will become\nvery much confused in the pupil's mind. In my opinion, the confusion\nwhich does exist on this subject is largely due to a failure to\ndistinguish between inward truthfulness and truthfulness as reflected in\nspeech. The law of inward truthfulness tolerates no exceptions. We\nshould always, and as far as possible, be absolutely truthful, in our\nthinking, in our estimates, in our judgments. But language is a mere\nvehicle for the communication of thoughts and facts to others, and in\ncommunicating thoughts and facts we _are_ bound to consider in how far\nothers are fit to receive them. Shall we then formulate the rule of\nveracity thus: Intend to communicate the essential facts to those who\nare capable of making a rational use of them. I think that some such\nformula as this might answer. I am not disposed to stickle for this\nparticular phraseology. But the formula as stated illustrates my\nthought, and also the method by which the formulas, which we shall have\nto teach in the grammar course are to be reached. It is the inductive\nmethod. First a concrete case is presented, and a rule of conduct is\nhypothetically suggested, which fits this particular case. Then other\ncases are adduced. It is discovered that the rule as it stands thus far\ndoes not fit them. It must therefore be modified, expanded. Then, in\nsuccession, other and more complex cases, to which the rule may possibly\napply are brought forward, until every case we can think of has been\nexamined; and when the rule is brought into such shape that it fits them\nall, we have a genuine moral maxim, a safe rule for practical guidance,\nand the principle involved in the rule is one of those secondary\nprinciples in respect to which men of every sect and school can agree.\nIt needs hardly to be pointed out how much a casuistical discussion of\nthis sort tends to stimulate interest in moral problems, and to quicken\nthe moral judgment. I can say, from an experience of over a dozen years,\nthat pupils between twelve and fifteen years of age are immensely\ninterested in such discussions, and are capable of making the subtilest\ndistinctions. Indeed, the directness with which they pronounce their\nverdict on fine questions of right and wrong often has in it something\nalmost startling to older persons, whose contact with the world has\nreconciled them to a somewhat less exacting standard.\n\nBut here a caution is necessary. Some children seem to be too fond of\ncasuistry. They take an intellectual pleasure in drawing fine\ndistinctions, and questions of conscience are apt to become to them mere\nmatter of mental gymnastics. Such a tendency must be sternly repressed\nwhenever it shows itself. In fact, reasoning about moral principles is\nalways attended with a certain peril. After all, the actual morality of\nthe world depends largely on the moral habits which mankind have formed\nin the course of many ages, and which are transmitted from generation to\ngeneration. Now a habit acts a good deal like an instinct. Its force\ndepends upon what has been called unconscious cerebration. As soon as we\nstop to reason about our habits, their hold on us is weakened, we\nhesitate, we become uncertain, the interference of the mind acts like a\nbrake. It is for this reason that throughout the primary course, we have\nconfined ourselves to what the Germans call _Anschauung_, the close\nobservation of examples with a view of provoking imitation or\nrepugnance, and thus strengthening the force of habit. Why, then,\nintroduce analysis now, it may be asked. Why not be content with still\nfurther confirming the force of good habits? My answer is that the force\nof habit must be conserved and still further strengthened, but that\nanalysis, too, becomes necessary at this stage. And why? Because habits\nare always specialized. A person governed by habits falls into a certain\nroutine, and moves along easily and safely as long as the conditions\nrepeat themselves to which his habits are adjusted. But when confronted\nby a totally new set of conditions, he is often quite lost and helpless.\nJust as a person who is solely guided by common sense in the ordinary\naffairs of life, is apt to be stranded when compelled to face\ncircumstances for which his previous experience affords no precedent. It\nis necessary, therefore, to extract from the moral habits the latent\nrules of conduct which underlie them, and to state these in a general\nform which the mind can grasp and retain, and which it will be able to\napply to new conditions as they arise. To this end analysis and the\nformulation of rules are indispensable. But in order, at the same time,\nnot to break the force of habit, the teacher should proceed in the\nfollowing manner: He should always take the moral habit for granted. He\nshould never give his pupils to understand that he and they are about to\nexamine whether, for instance, it is wrong or not wrong to lie. The\ncommandment against lying is assumed, and its obligation acknowledged at\nthe outset. The only object of the analysis is to discern more exactly\nwhat is meant by lying, to define the rule of veracity with greater\nprecision and circumspectness, so that we may be enabled to fulfill the\ncommandment more perfectly. It is implied in what I have said that the\nteacher should not treat of moral problems as if he were dealing with\nproblems in arithmetic. The best thing he can do for his pupils--better\nthan any particular lesson he can teach--will be to communicate to them\nthe spirit of moral earnestness. And this spirit he can not communicate\nunless he be full of it himself. The teacher should consecrate himself\nto his task; he should be penetrated by a sense of the lofty character\nof the subject which he teaches. Even a certain attention to externals\nis not superfluous. The lessons, in the case of the younger children,\nmay be accompanied by song; the room in which the classes meet may be\nhung with appropriate pictures, and especially is it desirable that the\nfaces of great and good men and women shall look down upon the pupils\nfrom the walls. The instruction should be given by word of mouth; for\nthe right text-books do not yet exist, and even the best books must\nalways act as a bar to check that flow of moral influence which should\ncome from the teacher to quicken the class. To make sure that the pupils\nunderstand what they have been taught, they should be required from time\nto time to reproduce the subject matter of the lessons in their own\nlanguage, and using their own illustrations, in the form of essays.\n\nAnd now, after this general introduction, let us take up the lessons on\nthe duties in their proper order. What is the proper order? This\nquestion, you will remember, was discussed in the lecture on the\nclassification of duties. It was there stated that the life of man from\nchildhood upward, may be divided into periods, that each period has its\nspecial duties, and that there is in each some one central duty around\nwhich the others may be grouped. During the school age the paramount\nduty of the pupil is to study. We shall therefore begin with the duties\nwhich are connected with the pursuit of knowledge. We shall then take up\nthe duties which relate to the physical life and the feelings; next, the\nduties which arise in the family; after that the duties which we owe to\nall men; and lastly we will consider in an elementary way the civic\nduties.\n\n_The Duty of acquiring Knowledge._--In starting the discussion of any\nparticular set of duties, it is advisable, as has been said, to present\nsome concrete case, and biographical or historical examples are\nparticularly useful. I have sometimes begun the lesson on the duty of\nacquiring knowledge by telling the story of Cleanthes and that of\nHillel. Cleanthes, a poor boy, was anxious to attend the school of Zeno.\nBut he was compelled to work for his bread, and could not spend his days\nin study as he longed to do. He was, however, so eager to learn that he\nfound a way of doing his work by night. He helped a gardener to water\nhis plants, and also engaged to grind corn on a hand-mill for a certain\nwoman. Now the neighbors, who knew that he was poor, and who never saw\nhim go to work, were puzzled to think how he obtained the means to live.\nThey suspected him of stealing, and he was called before the Judge to\nexplain. The Judge addressed him severely, and commanded him to tell the\ntruth. Cleanthes requested that the gardener and the woman might be sent\nfor, and they testified that he had been in the habit of working for\nthem by night. The Judge was touched by his great zeal for knowledge,\nacquitted him of the charge, and offered him a gift of money. But Zeno\nwould not permit him to take the gift. Cleanthes became the best pupil\nof Zeno, and grew up to be a very wise and learned man, indeed one of\nthe most famous philosophers of the Stoic school. The story of Hillel\nruns as follows: There was once a poor lad named Hillel. His parents\nwere dead, and he had neither relatives nor friends. He was anxious to\ngo to school, but, though he worked hard, he did not earn enough to pay\nthe tuition fee exacted at the door. So he decided to save money by\nspending only half his earnings for food. He ate little, and that little\nwas of poor quality, but he was perfectly happy, because with what he\nlaid aside he could now pay the door-keeper and find a place inside,\nwhere he might listen and learn. This he did for some time, but one day\nhe was so unlucky as to lose his situation. He had now no money left to\nbuy bread, but he hardly thought of that, so much was he grieved at the\nthought that he should never get back to his beloved school. He begged\nthe door-keeper to let him in, but the surly man refused to do so. In\nhis despair a happy thought occurred to him. He had noticed a skylight\non the roof. He climbed up to this, and to his delight found that\nthrough a crack he could hear all that was said inside. So he sat there\nand listened, and did not notice that evening was coming on, and that\nthe snow was beginning to fall. Next morning when the teachers and\npupils assembled as usual, every one remarked how dark the room seemed.\nThe sun too was shining again by this time quite brightly outside.\nSuddenly some one happened to look up and with an exclamation of\nsurprise pointed out the figure of a boy against the skylight. Quickly\nthey all ran outside, climbed to the roof, and there, covered with snow,\nquite stiff and almost dead, they found poor Hillel. They carried him\nindoors, warmed his cold limbs, and worked hard to restore him to life.\nHe was at last resuscitated, and from this time on was allowed to attend\nthe school without paying. Later he became a great teacher. He lived in\nPalestine at about the time of Jesus. He was admired for his learning,\nbut even more for his good deeds and his unfailing kindness to every\none. The question is now raised, Why did Cleanthes work at night instead\nof seeking rest, and why did Hillel remain outside in the bitter cold\nand snow? The pupils will readily answer, Because they loved knowledge.\nBut why is knowledge so desirable? With this interrogatory we are fairly\nlaunched on the discussion of our subject. The points to be developed\nare these:\n\nFirst, knowledge is indispensable as a means of making one's way in the\nworld. Show the helplessness of the ignorant. Compare the skilled\nlaborer with the unskilled. Give instances of merchants, statesmen,\netc., whose success was due to steady application and superior\nknowledge. Knowledge is power (namely, in the struggle for existence).\n\nSecondly, knowledge is honor. An ignorant person is despised. Knowledge\nwins us the esteem of our fellow-men.\n\nThirdly, knowledge is joy in a twofold sense. As the perception of light\nto the eye of the body, so is the perception of truth to the eye of the\nmind. The mind experiences an intrinsic pleasure in seeing things in\ntheir true relations. Furthermore, mental growth is accompanied by the\njoy of successful effort. This can be explained even to a boy or girl of\nthirteen. Have you ever tried hard to solve a problem in algebra?\nPerhaps you have spent several hours over it. It has baffled you. At\nlast, after repeated trials, you see your way clear, the solution is\nwithin your grasp. What a sense of satisfaction you experience then. It\nis the feeling of successful mental effort that gives you this\nsatisfaction. You rejoice in having triumphed over difficulties, and the\ngreater the difficulty, the more baffling and complex the problems, the\ngreater is the satisfaction in solving them.\n\nFourthly, knowledge enables us to do good to others. Speak of the use\nwhich physicians make of their scientific training to alleviate\nsuffering and save life. Refer to the manifold applications of science\nwhich have changed the face of modern society, and have contributed so\nlargely to the moral progress of the world. Point out that all true\nphilanthropy, every great social reform, implies a superior grasp of the\nproblems to be solved, as well as devotion to the cause of humanity. In\naccordance with the line of argument just sketched the rule for the\npursuit of knowledge may be successively expanded as follows:\n\nSeek knowledge that you may succeed in the struggle for existence.\n\nSeek knowledge that you may gain the esteem of your fellow-men.\n\nSeek knowledge for the sake of the satisfaction which the attainment of\nit will give you.\n\nSeek knowledge that you may be able to do good to others.\n\nThese points suffice for the present. In the advanced course we shall\nreturn to the consideration of the intellectual duties. I would also\nrecommend that the moral teacher, not content with dwelling on the uses\nof knowledge in general, should go through the list of subjects which\nare commonly taught in school, such as geography, history, language,\netc., and explain the value of each. This is too commonly neglected.\n\nHaving stationed the duty of acquiring knowledge in the center, connect\nwith it the various lesser duties of school life, such as punctual\nattendance, order, diligent and conscientious preparation of home\nlessons, etc. These are means to an end, and should be represented as\nsuch. He who desires the end will desire the means. Get your pupils to\nlove knowledge, and the practice of these minor virtues will follow of\nitself. Other matters might be introduced in connection with what has\nbeen mentioned, but enough has been said to indicate the point of view\nfrom which the whole subject of intellectual duty should, as I think, be\ntreated in the present course.\n\n\n\n\nXII.\n\nDUTIES WHICH RELATE TO THE PHYSICAL LIFE.\n\n\nOf the duties which relate to the physical life, the principal one is\nthat of self-preservation, and this involves the prohibition of suicide.\nWhen one reflects on the abject life which many persons are forced to\nlead, on their poverty in the things which make existence desirable and\nthe lack of moral stamina which often goes together with such\nconditions, the wonder is that the number of suicides is not much\ngreater than it actually is. It is true most people cling to life\ninstinctively, and have an instinctive horror of death. Nevertheless,\nthe force of instinct is by no means a sufficient deterrent in all\ncases, and the number of suicides is just now alarmingly on the\nincrease. If we were here considering the subject of suicide in general\nwe should have to enter at large into the causes of this increase; we\nshould have to examine the relations subsisting between the increase of\nsuicide and the increase of divorce, and inquire into those pathological\nconditions of modern society of which both are the symptoms; but our\nbusiness is to consider the ethics of the matter, not the causes. The\nethics of suicide resolves itself into the question, Is it justifiable\nunder any circumstances to take one's life? You may object that this is\nnot a fit subject to discuss with pupils of thirteen or fourteen. Why\nnot? They are old enough to understand the motives which ordinarily lead\nto suicide, and also the reasons which forbid it--especially the most\nimportant reason, namely, that we live not merely or primarily to be\nhappy, but to help on as far as we can the progress of things, and\ntherefore that we are not at liberty to throw life away like an empty\nshell when we have ceased to enjoy it. The discussion of suicide is\nindeed of the greatest use because it affords an opportunity early in\nthe course of our lessons on duty to impress this cardinal truth, to\ndescribe upon the moral globe this great meridian from which all the\nvirtues take their bearings. However, in accordance with the inductive\nmethod, we must approach this idea by degrees. The first position I\nshould take is that while suffering is often temporary, suicide is\nfinal. It is folly to take precipitately a step which can not be\nrecalled. Very often in moments of deep depression the future before us\nseems utterly dark, and in our firmament there appears not one star of\nhope; but presently from some wholly unexpected quarter help comes.\nFortune once more takes us into her good graces, and we are scarcely\nable to understand our past downheartedness in view of the new happiness\nto which we have fallen heirs. Preserve thy life in view of the brighter\nchances which the future may have in store. This is a good rule as far\nas it goes, but it does not fit the more trying situations. For there\nare cases where the fall from the heights of happiness is as complete as\nit is sudden, and the hope of recovering lost ground is really shut out.\n\nTake from actual life the case of a husband who fairly idolized his\nyoung wife and lost her by death three months after marriage. We may\nsuppose that in the course of years he will learn to submit to his\ndestiny. We may even hope that peace will come back to his poor heart,\nbut we can not imagine that he will ever again be happy. Another case is\nthat of a person who has committed a great wrong, the consequences of\nwhich are irreparable, and of which he must carry the agonizing\nrecollection with him to the grave. Time may assuage the pangs of\nremorse, and religion may comfort him, but happiness can never be the\nportion of such as he.\n\nStill another instance--less serious, but of more frequent\noccurrence--is that of a merchant who has always occupied a commanding\nposition in the mercantile community, and who, already advanced in\nyears, is suddenly compelled to face bankruptcy. The thought of the\nhardships to which his family will be exposed, of his impending\ndisgrace, drives him nearly to distraction. The question is, would the\nmerchant, would those others, be justified in committing suicide?\nCertainly not. The merchant, if he has the stuff of true manhood in him,\nwill begin over again, at the bottom of the ladder if need be, will work\nto support his family, however narrowly. It would be the rankest\nselfishness in him to leave them to their fate. The conscience-stricken\nsinner must be willing to pay the penalty of his crime, to the end that\nhe may be purified even seven times in the fire of repentance. And even\nthe lover who has lost his bride will find, if he opens his eyes, that\nthere is still work for him to do in life. The world is full of evils\nwhich require to be removed, full of burdens which require to be borne.\nIf our own burden seems too heavy for us, there is a way of lightening\nit. We may add to it the burden of some one else, and ours will become\nlighter. Physically, this would be impossible, but morally it is true.\nThe rule of conduct, therefore, thus far reads, Preserve thy life in\norder to perform thy share of the work of the world. But the formula,\neven in this shape, is not yet entirely adequate, for there are those\nwho can not take part in the work of the world, who can only\nsuffer--invalids, e. g., who are permanently incapacitated, and whose\ninfirmities make them a constant drag on the healthy lives of their\nfriends. Why should not these be permitted to put an end to their\nmiseries? I should say that so long as there is the slightest hope of\nrecovery, and even where this hope is wanting, so long as the physical\npain is not so intense or so protracted as to paralyze the mental life\naltogether, they should hold out. They are not cut off from the true\nends of human existence. By patient endurance, by the exercise of a\nsublime unselfishness, they may even attain on their sick-beds a height\nof spiritual development which would otherwise be impossible; and, in\naddition, they may become by their uncomplaining patience the sweetest,\ngentlest helpers of their friends, not useless, assuredly, but shining\nexamples of what is best and noblest in human nature. The rule,\ntherefore, should read: Preserve thy life in order to fulfill the duties\nof life, whether those duties consist in doing or in patiently\nsuffering. As has been said long ago, we are placed on guard as\nsentinels. The sentinel must not desert his post. I think it possible to\nmake the pupil in the grammar grade understand that suicide is selfish,\nthat we are bound to live, even though life has ceased to be attractive,\nin order that we may perform our share of the world's work and help\nothers and grow ourselves in moral stature. This does not, of course,\nimply any condemnation of that vast number of cases in which suicide is\ncommitted in consequence of mental aberration.\n\nIn the advanced course we shall have to return to this subject, and\nshall there refer _in extenso_ to the views of the Stoics. The morality\nof the Stoic philosophers in general is so high, and their influence\neven to this day so great, that their defense, or rather enthusiastic\npraise of suicide,[16] needs to be carefully examined. I am of the\nopinion that we have here a case in which metaphysical speculation has\nhad the effect of distorting morality. Metaphysics in this respect\nresembles religion. On the one hand the influence of religion on\nmorality has been highly beneficial, on the other it has been hurtful in\nthe extreme--instance human sacrifices, religious wars, the\nInquisition, etc. In like manner, philosophy, though not to the same\nextent, has both aided morality and injured it. I regard the Stoic\ndeclamations on suicide as an instance of the latter sort. The Stoic\nphilosophy was pantheistic. To live according to Nature was their\nprincipal maxim, or, more precisely, according to the reason in Nature.\nThey maintained that in certain circumstances a man might find it\nimpossible to live up to the rational standard; he might, for instance,\ndiscover himself to be morally so weak as to be unable to resist\ntemptation, and in that case it would be better for him to retire from\nthe scene and to seek shelter in the Eternal Reason, just as, to use\ntheir own simile, one who found the room in which he sat filled to an\nintolerable degree with smoke would not be blamed for withdrawing from\nit. It was their pantheism that led them to favor suicide, and in this\nrespect it is my belief that the modern conscience, trained by the Old\nand New Testaments, has risen to a higher level than theirs. We moderns\nfeel it impossible to admit that to the sane mind temptation can ever be\nso strong as to be truly irresistible. We always can resist if we will.\nWe can, because we ought; as Kant has taught us to put it. We always can\nbecause we always ought.\n\n\n     NOTE.--Despite the rigorous disallowance of suicide in general\n     plainly indicated in the above, I should not wish to be understood\n     as saying that there are no circumstances whatever in which the\n     taking of one's life is permissible. In certain rare and\n     exceptional cases I believe it to be so. In the lecture as\n     delivered I attempted a brief description of these exceptional\n     cases, too brief, it appeared, to prevent most serious\n     misconception. I deem it best, therefore, to defer the expression\n     of my views on this delicate matter until an occasion arrives when\n     I shall be able to articulate my thought in full detail, such as\n     would here be impossible.\n\n\nFrom the commandment \"Preserve thy life\" it follows not only that we\nshould not lay violent hands upon ourselves, but that we should do all\nin our power to develop and invigorate the body, in order that it may\nbecome an efficient instrument in the service of our higher aims. The\nteacher should inform himself on the subject of the gymnastic ideal of\nthe Greeks and consider in how far this ideal is applicable to modern\nconditions. In general, the teacher should explore as fully as possible\nthe ethical problems on which he touches. He should not be merely \"one\nlesson ahead\" of his pupils. Really it is necessary to grasp the whole\nof a subject before we can properly set forth its elements. A very\nthorough normal training is indispensable to those who would give moral\ninstruction to the young.\n\nThe duties of cleanliness and temperance fall under the same head as the\nabove. In speaking of cleanliness, there are three motives--the\negoistic, the aesthetic, and the moral--to which we may appeal. Be\nscrupulously clean for the sake of health, be clean lest you become an\nobject of disgust to others, be clean in order to retain your\nself-respect. Special emphasis should be laid on secret cleanliness.\nIndolent children are sometimes neat in externals, but shockingly\ncareless in what is concealed from view. The motive of self-respect\nshows itself particularly in secret cleanliness.\n\nThe duty of temperance is supported by the same three motives.\nIntemperance undermines health, the glutton or the drunkard awakens\ndisgust, intemperance destroys self-respect. To strengthen the\nrepugnance of the pupils against intemperance in eating, contrast the\nway in which wild beasts eat with that in which human beings partake of\ntheir food. The beast is absorbed in the gratification of its appetite,\neats without the use of implements, eats unsocially. The human way of\neating is in each particular the opposite. Show especially that the act\nof eating is spiritualized by being made subservient to friendly\nintercourse and to the strengthening of the ties of domestic affection.\nThe family table becomes the family altar. Call attention also to the\neffects of drunkenness; point out the injuries which the drunkard\ninflicts on wife and children by his neglect to provide for them, by the\noutbursts of violence to which he is subject under the influence of\nstrong drink; describe his physical, mental, and moral degradation; lay\nstress on the fact that liquor deprives him of the use of his reason.\nWith respect to temperance in food, there are one or two points to be\nnoted. I say to my pupils if you are particularly fond of a certain\ndish, sweetmeats, for instance, make it a rule to partake less of that\nthan if you were not so fond of it. This is good practice in\nself-restraint. I make out as strong a case as possible against the\nindulgence of the candy habit. Young people are not, as a rule, tempted\nto indulge in strong drink; but they are tempted to waste their money\nand injure their health by an excessive consumption of sweets. It is\nwell to apply the lesson of temperance to the things in which they are\ntempted. For the teacher the following note may be added: Of the senses,\nsome, like that of taste, are more nearly allied to the physical part of\nus; others, like sight and hearing, to our rational nature. This\nantithesis of the senses may be used in the interest of temperance.\nAppeal to the higher senses in order to subdue the lower. A band of\nkindergarten children, having been invited on a picnic, were given the\nchoice between a second plate of ice cream, for which many of them were\nclamoring, and a bunch of flowers for each. Most of them were\nsufficiently interested in flowers to prefer the latter. In the case of\nyoung children, the force of the physical appetite may also be weakened\nby appealing to their affection. During the later stage of adolescence,\nwhen the dangers which arise from the awakening life of the senses\nbecome great and imminent, the attention should be directed to high\nintellectual aims, the social feelings should be cultivated, and a taste\nfor the pleasures of the senses of sight and hearing--namely, the\npleasures of music, painting, sculpture, etc.--should be carefully\ndeveloped. Artistic, intellectual, and social motives should be brought\ninto play jointly to meet the one great peril of this period of life.\n\n\nDUTIES WHICH RELATE TO THE FEELINGS.\n\nUnder this head let me speak first of fear. There is a distinction to be\ndrawn between physical and moral cowardice. Physical cowardice is a\nmatter of temperament or organization. Perhaps it can hardly ever be\nentirely overcome, but the exhibition of it can be prevented by moral\ncourage. Moral cowardice, on the other hand, is a fault of character. In\nattempting to formulate the rule of conduct, appeal as before to the\negoistic motive, then to the social--i. e., the desire for the good\nopinion of others--and lastly to the moral motive, properly speaking.\nFear paralyzes; it fascinates its victim like the fabled basilisk.\nNothing is more common than a sense of helpless immobility under the\ninfluence of fear. There is a way of escape. You might run or leap for\nyour life, but you can not stir a limb. What you need to do is to turn\naway your attention by a powerful effort of the will from the object\nwhich excites fear. So long as that object is before you the mind can\nnot act; the mind is practically absent. What you need is presence of\nmind. Let the teacher adduce some of the many striking instances in\nwhich men in apparently desperate straits have been saved by presence of\nmind. The rule thus far would read: Be brave and suppress fear, because\nby so doing you may escape out of danger. In the next place, by so doing\nyou will escape the reproaches of your fellow-men, for cowardice is\nuniversally condemned as shameful. Cite from Spartan history examples\nshowing in the strongest light the feeling of scorn and contempt for the\ncoward. There are, however, cases where death is certain, and where\nthere is no support like that of public opinion to sustain courage. What\nshould be the rule of duty in such cases? Take the case of a person who\nhas been shipwrecked. He swims the sea alone, he is still clinging to a\nspar, but realizes that in a few minutes he must let go, his strength\nbeing well-nigh spent. What should be his attitude of mind in that\nsupreme moment. The forces of nature are about to overwhelm him. What\nmotive can there be strong enough to support bravery in that moment? The\nrule of duty for him would be: Be brave, because as a human being you\nare superior to the forces of nature, because there is something in\nyou--your moral self--over which the forces of nature have no power,\nbecause what happens to you in your private character is not important,\nbut it is important that you assert the dignity of humanity to the last\nbreath.\n\nAfter having discussed courage, define fortitude. Point out the\nimportance of strength of will. Contrast the strong will with the\nfeeble, with the wayward, the irresolute, and also the obstinate will,\nfor obstinacy is often the sign of weakness rather than of strength.\nSee, for useful hints on this subject, Bain's The Emotions and the Will.\n\nWhat happens to thy little self is not important. This is the leading\nthought which shall also guide us in the discussion of _Anger_. In\nentering on the subject of anger begin by describing the effects of it.\nQuote the passage from Seneca's treatise on anger, showing how it\ndisfigures the countenance. Point out that anger provokes anger in\nreturn, and is therefore contrary to self-interest. Call to your aid the\nsocial motive by showing that under the influence of anger we often\novershoot the mark and inflict injuries on others which we had not\nintended. Finally, show that indulgence in anger is immoral. In what\nsense is it immoral? Anger is an emotional reaction against injury. When\na child hurts its foot against a stone, it is often so unreasonably\nangry at the stone as to strike it. When an adult person receives a\nblow, his first impulse is to return it. This desire to return injury\nfor injury is one of the characteristic marks of anger. Another mark is\nthat anger is proportional to the injury received, and not to the fault\nimplied. Every one knows that a slight fault in another may occasion a\ngreat injury to ourselves, while, on the other hand, a serious fault may\nonly cause us a slight inconvenience. The angry person measures his\nresentment by the injury, and not by the fault. Anger is selfish. It is\nfed and pampered by the delusion that our pleasures and pains are of\nchief importance. Contrast with anger the moral feeling of indignation.\nAnger is directed against the injury received, indignation solely\nagainst the wrong done. The immoral feeling prompts us to hate wrong\nbecause it has been inflicted on us. The moral feeling prompts us to\nhate wrong because it is wrong. Now, to the extent that we sincerely\nhate wrong we shall be stirred up to diminish its power over others as\nwell as over ourselves; we shall, for instance, be moved to save the\nevil doer who has just injured us from the tyranny of his evil nature;\nwe shall aspire to become the moral physicians of those who have hurt\nus. And precisely because they have hurt us, they have a unique claim on\nus. We who know better than others the extent of their disease are\ncalled upon more than others to labor with a view to their cure. In this\nconnection the rule of returning good for evil should be explained. This\nrule does not apply alike in all cases, though the spirit of it should\nalways inspire our actions. If a pickpocket should steal our purse, it\nwould be folly to hand him a check for twice the amount he has just\nstolen. If a hardened criminal should draw his knife and wound us in the\nback, it would be absurd to request him kindly to stab us in the breast\nalso. We should in this case not be _curing_ him, but simply confirming\nhim in his evil doing. The rule is: Try to free the sinner from the\npower of sin. In some cases this is best accomplished by holding his\nhand, as it were, and preventing him from carrying out the intended\nwrong. In other cases by depriving him of his liberty for a season,\nsubjecting him to wholesome discipline, and teaching him habits of\nindustry. Only in the case of those who have already attained a higher\nmoral plane, and whose conscience is sensitive, does the rule of\nreturning good for evil apply literally. If a brother has acted in an\nunbrotherly way toward you, do you on the next occasion act wholly in a\nbrotherly way toward him. You will thereby show him how he ought to have\nacted and awaken the better nature in him.\n\nCertain practical rules for the control of anger may be given to the\npupil. Suppress the signs of anger; you will thereby diminish its force.\nTry to gain time: \"When you are angry, count ten before you speak; when\nyou are very angry, count a hundred.\" Having gained time, examine\nrigorously into your own conduct. Ask yourself whether you have not been\npartly to blame. If you find that you have, then, instead of venting\nyour wrath on your enemy, try rather to correct the fault which has\nprovoked hostility. But if, after honest self-scrutiny, you are able to\nacquit yourself, then you can all the more readily act the part of the\nmoral physician, for it is the innocent who find it easiest to forgive.\nIt is also useful to cite examples of persons who, like Socrates, have\nexhibited great self-control in moments of anger; and to quote proverbs\ntreating of anger, to explain these proverbs and to cause them to be\ncommitted to memory. I advise, indeed, that proverbs be used in\nconnection with all the moral lessons. Of the manner in which they are\nto be used I shall speak later on.\n\nThe last of the present group of duties which we shall discuss relates\nto the feelings of vanity, pride, humility. Vanity is a feeling of\nself-complacency based on external advantages. A person is vain of his\ndress or of his real or supposed personal charms. The peacock is the\ntype of vanity. Though the admiration of others ministers to vanity, yet\nit is possible to be vain by one's self--before a mirror, for instance.\nThe feeling of pride, on the other hand, depends upon a comparison\nbetween self and others. Pride implies a sense of one's own superiority\nand of the inferiority of others. Both feelings are anti-moral. They\nspring, like moral cowardice and anger, from the false belief that this\nlittle self of ours is of very great importance. There is no such thing\nas proper pride or honest pride. The word pride used in this connection\nis a misnomer. Vanity is spurious self-esteem based on external\nadvantages. Pride is spurious self-esteem based on comparison with\nothers. Genuine self-esteem is based on the consciousness of a\ndistinction which we share with all humanity--namely, the capacity and\nthe duty of rational development. This genuine self-esteem has two\naspects--the one positive, the other negative. The positive aspect is\ncalled dignity, the negative humility. True dignity and true humility\nalways go together. The sense of dignity arises within us when we\nremember the aims to which as human beings we are pledged; the sense of\nhumility can not fail to arise when we consider how infinitely in\npractice we all fall below those aims. Thus while pride depends on a\ncomparison of ourselves with others, the genuinely moral feeling is\nexcited when we consider our relation to the common ends of mankind. On\nthe one hand, we are indeed privileged to pursue those ends, and are\nthereby exalted above all created things and above the whole of the\nnatural world with all its stars and suns. Upon this consideration is\nfounded the sense of dignity. On the other hand, we can not but own how\ngreat is the distance which separates even the best of us from the goal,\nand this gives rise to a deep sense of humility. The rule of conduct\nwhich we are considering is a rule of proper self-estimation. Estimate\nthy worth not by external advantages nor by thy pre-eminence above\nothers, but by the degree of energy with which thou pursuest the moral\naims. To mark off the distinction between vanity and pride on the one\nhand and dignity on the other, the teacher may contrast in detail the\nlives of Alcibiades and Socrates.\n\nIn connection with the discussion of anger and of pride, define such\nterms as hate, envy, malice. Hatred is anger become chronic. Or we may\nalso say the state of mind which leads to passionate paroxysms in the\ncase of anger is called hate when it has turned into a settled inward\ndisposition. In other respects the characteristic marks of both are the\nsame. Envy is the obverse of pride. Pride is based on real or fancied\nsuperiority to others. Envy is due to real or fancied inferiority. Pride\nis the vice of the strong, envy of the weak. Malice is pleasure in the\nloss of others irrespective of our gain.\n\nI have observed on a previous occasion that the feelings considered by\nthemselves have no moral value. Nevertheless, we have now repeatedly\nspoken of moral feelings. The apparent contradiction disappears if we\nremember that all feelings of the higher order presuppose, and are the\necho of complex systems of ideas. The moral feelings are those in which\nmoral ideas have their resonance; and those feelings are valuable in\nvirtue of the ideas which they reflect. The feeling of moral courage\ndepends on the idea that the injuries we receive at the hands of fortune\nare not important, but that it is important for us to do credit to our\nrational nature. The feeling of moral indignation depends on the idea\nthat the injuries we receive from our fellow-men are not important, but\nthat it is important that the right be done and the wrong abated. The\nfeelings of moral dignity and humility combined depend on the idea that\nit does not signify whether the shadow we cast in the world of men be\nlong or short, but only that we live in the light of the moral aims.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[16] See, e. g., the famous passage in Seneca, De Ira, iii, 15.\n\n\n\n\nXIII.\n\nDUTIES WHICH RELATE TO OTHERS.\n\n\nFILIAL DUTIES.\n\nWe began our course of moral instruction with the self-regarding duties,\nand assigned the second place to the duties which relate to others.\nThere is an additional reason besides the one already given for keeping\nto this order.\n\nIf we were to begin with the commandments or prohibitions which relate\nto others--e. g., the sixth, eighth, and ninth commandments of the\nDecalogue--the pupil might easily get the impression that these things\nare forbidden solely because they involve injuries to others, but that\nin cases where the injury is inconsiderable, or not apparent, the\ntransgression of moral commandments is more or less excusable. There are\nmany persons who seem unable to understand that it is really sinful to\ndefraud the custom-house or to neglect paying one's fare in a horse-car.\nAnd why? Because the injury inflicted seems so insignificant. Now, it is\nof the utmost consequence to impress upon the pupil that every action\nwhich involves a violation of duty to others at the same time produces a\nchange in the moral quality of the agent, that he suffers as well as the\none whom he wrongs. The subjective and objective sides of transgression\ncan not in point of principle and ought not in actual consciousness to\nbe separated. If, therefore, we begin by enforcing such duties as\ntemperance the pupil will at once feel that the violation of the law\nchanges his inward condition, degrades him in his own eyes, lowers him\nin the scale of being. The true standpoint from which all moral\ntransgression should be regarded will thus be gained at the outset, and\nit will be comparatively easy to maintain the same point of view when we\ncome to speak of the social duties.\n\nTo start discussion on the subject of the filial duties, relate the\nstory of AEneas carrying his aged father, Anchises, out of burning Troy;\nalso the story of Cleobis and Bito (Herodotus, i, 31). Recall the\ndevotion of Telemachus to Ulysses. Tell the story of Lear and his\ndaughters, contrasting the conduct of Regan and Goneril with that of\nCordelia. An excellent story to tell, especially to young children, is\nthat of Dama. AEneas and Telemachus illustrate the filial spirit as\nexpressed in services rendered to parents, but opportunity to be of real\nservice to parents is not often offered to the very young. The story of\nDama exhibits the filial spirit as displayed in acts of delicacy and\nconsideration, and such acts are within the power of all children. The\nstory is located in Palestine, and is supposed to have occurred at the\ntime when the temple at Jerusalem was still standing. Dama was a dealer\nin jewels, noted for possessing the rarest and richest collection\nanywhere to be found. It happened that it became necessary to replace a\nnumber of the precious stones on the breastplate of the high priest, and\na deputation was sent from Jerusalem to wait on Dama and to select from\nhis stock what was needed. Dama received his distinguished visitors with\nbecoming courtesy, and on learning their mission spread out before them\na large number of beautiful stones. But none of these were satisfactory.\nThe stones must needs be of extraordinary size and brilliancy. None but\nsuch might be used. When Dama was informed of this he reflected a\nmoment, then said that in a room occupied by his old father there was a\ncabinet in which he kept his most precious gems, and that among them he\nwas sure he could find what his visitors wanted. He bade them delay a\nfew moments, while he made the necessary search. But presently he\nreturned without the jewels. He expressed the greatest regret, but\ndeclared that it was impossible to oblige them. They were astonished,\nand, believing it to be a mere trader's trick, offered him an immense\nprice for the stones. He answered that he was extremely sorry to miss so\nprofitable a transaction, but that it was indeed beyond his power to\noblige them now--if they would return in an hour or two he could\nprobably suit them. They declared that their business admitted of no\ndelay; that the breastplate must be repaired at once, so that the priest\nmight not be prevented from discharging his office. And so he allowed\nthem to depart. It appears that when Dama opened the door of the room\nhe saw his old father asleep on the couch. He tried to enter\nnoiselessly, but the door creaked on its hinges, and the old man started\nin his sleep. Dama checked himself, and turned back. He said, \"I will\nforego the gain which they offer me, but I will not disturb the slumbers\nof my father.\" The sleep of the old father was sacred to Dama. Children\nare often thoughtless in breaking noisily into a room where father or\nmother is resting. Such a story tends to instill the lesson of\nconsideration and of reverence.\n\nReverence is the key-note of filial duty. You will remember that Goethe,\nin Wilhelm Meister, in those chapters in which he sketches his\npedagogical ideal, bases the entire religious and moral education of the\nyoung on a threefold reverence. He applies the following symbolism: The\npupils of the ideal pedagogical institution are required to take, on\ndifferent occasions, three different attitudes. Now they fold their arms\non their breast, and look with open countenance upward; again they fold\ntheir arms on their backs, and their bright glances are directed toward\nthe earth; and again they stand in a row, and their faces are turned to\nthe right, each one looking at his neighbor. These three attitudes are\nintended to symbolize reverence toward what is above us, toward what is\nbeneath us, and toward our equals. These three originate and culminate\nin the true self-reverence. In speaking of filial duty, we are concerned\nwith reverence toward what is above us. The parent is the physical,\nmental, and moral superior of the child. It is his duty to assist the\nchild's physical, mental, and moral growth; to lift it by degrees out of\nits position of inferiority, so that it may attain the fullness of its\npowers, and help to carry on the mission of mankind when the older\ngeneration shall have retired from the scene. The duty of the superior\ntoward the inferior is to help him to rise above the plane of\ninferiority. The receptive and appreciative attitude of one who is thus\nhelped is called reverence. But we must approach the nature of parental\nduty more closely, and the following reflections may put us in the way:\nNo man can attain the intellectual aims of life without assistance. A\nscientist inhabiting a desert island and limited to his own mental\nresources could make little headway. The scientist of to-day utilizes\nthe accumulated labors of all the generations of scientists that have\npreceded him, and depends for the value of his results on the\nco-operation and the sifting criticism of his contemporaries. And as no\none can get much knowledge without the help of others, so no one is\njustified in seeking knowledge for his own private pleasure, or in\nseeking the kind of knowledge that happens to pique his vanity. For\ninstance, it is a violation of intellectual duty to spend one's time in\nacquiring out-of-the way erudition which is useful only for display. The\npursuit of knowledge is a public not a private end. Every scholar and\nman of science is bound to enlarge as far as he can the common stock of\ntruth, to add to the scientific possessions of the human race. But in\norder to do this he must question himself closely, that he may discover\nin what direction his special talent lies, and may apply himself\nsedulously to the cultivation of that. For it is by specializing his\nefforts that he can best serve the general interests of truth. The same\nholds good with respect to the pursuit of social ends--e. g., the\ncorrection of social abuses and the promotion of social justice. The\nreformer of to-day stands on the shoulders of all the reformers of the\npast, and would have little prospect of success in any efforts he may\nmake without the co-operation and criticism of numerous co-workers. Nor,\nagain, is it right for him to take up any and every project of reform\nthat may happen to strike his fancy. He ought rather to consider what\nparticular measures under existing circumstances are most likely to\nadvance the cause of progress, and in what capacity he is specially\nfitted to promote such measures. Justice and truth are public, not\nprivate ends. The highest aim of life for each one is to offer that\ncontribution which he, as an individual, is peculiarly fitted to make\ntoward the attainment of the public ends of mankind. The individual when\nliving only for himself, absorbed in his private pleasures and pains, is\na creature of little worth; and his existence is of little more account\nin the scheme of things than that of the summer insects, who have their\nday and perish. But the individual become the organ of humanity acquires\na lasting worth, and his individuality possesses an inviolable sanctity.\nThe sacredness of individuality in the sense just indicated is a\nleading idea of ethics--perhaps it would not be too much to say, the\nleading idea.\n\nAnd now we can state more exactly the nature of parental duty. It is the\nduty of the parent, remembering that he is the guardian of the permanent\nwelfare of his child, to respect, to protect, to develop its\nindividuality--above all, to discover its individual bent; for that is\noften latent, and requires to be persistently searched out. It is the\nduty and the privilege of the parent to put the child, as it were, in\npossession of its own soul.\n\nAnd upon this relationship filial reverence is founded, and from it the\nprincipal filial duties may be deduced. Because the child does not know\nwhat is best for it, in view of its destiny, as described above, it is\nbound to obey. Obedience is the first of the filial duties. Secondly,\nthe child is bound to show gratitude for the benefits received at the\nhands of its parents. The teacher should discuss with his pupils the\nprincipal benefits conferred by parents. The parents supply the child\nwith food, shelter, and raiment; they nurse it in sickness, often\nsacrificing sleep, comfort, and health for its sake. They toil in order\nthat it may want nothing; they give it, in their fond affection, the\nsweet seasoning of all their other gifts. It is well to bring these\nfacts distinctly before the pupil's mind. The teacher can do it with a\nbetter grace than the parent himself. The teacher can strengthen and\ndeepen the home feeling, and it is his office to do so. The pupil\nshould go home from his moral lesson in school and look upon his parents\nwith a new realization of all that he owes them, with a new and deeper\ntenderness. But the duty of gratitude should be based, above all, upon\nthe greatest gift which the child obtains from his parents, the help\nwhich it receives toward attaining the moral aim of its existence.\n\nI do not include the commandment \"Love thy parents\" among the rules of\nfilial duty, for I do not think that love can be commanded. Love follows\nof itself if the right attitude of reverence, obedience, gratitude be\nobserved. Love is the sense of union with another. And the peculiarity\nof filial love, whereby it is distinguished from other kinds of love, is\nthat it springs from union with persons on whom we utterly depend, with\nmoral superiors, to whom we owe the fostering of our spiritual as well\nas of our physical existence.\n\nBut how shall the sentiment of filial gratitude express itself?\nGratitude is usually displayed by a return of the kindness received. But\nthe kindness which we receive from parents is such that we can never\nrepay it. It is of the nature of a debt which we can never hope fully to\ncancel. We can do this much--when our parents grow old, we can care for\nthem, and smooth the last steps that lead to the grave. And when we\nourselves have grown to manhood and womanhood, and have in turn become\nparents, we can bestow upon our own offspring the same studious and\nintelligent care which our parents, according to the light they had,\nbestowed on us, and thus ideally repay them by doing for others what\nthey did for us. But this is a point which concerns only adults. As for\nyoung children, they can show their gratitude in part by slight\nservices, delicacies of behavior, the chief value of which consists in\nthe sentiment that inspires them, but principally by a willing\nacceptance of parental guidance, and by earnest efforts in the direction\nof their own intellectual and moral improvement. There is no love so\nunselfish as parental love. There is nothing which true parents have\nmore at heart than the highest welfare of their children. There is no\nway in which a child can please father and mother better than by doing\nthat which is for its own highest good. The child's progress in\nknowledge and in moral excellence are to every parent the most\nacceptable tokens of filial gratitude. And this leads me to an important\npoint, to which reference has already been made. It has been stated that\neach period of life has its distinct set of duties; furthermore, that in\neach period there is one paramount duty, around which the others may be\ngrouped; and, lastly, that at each successive stage it is important to\nreach backward and to bring the ethical system of the preceding period\ninto harmony with the new system. Of this last point we are now in a\nposition to give a simple illustration. The paramount duty of the school\nperiod is to acquire knowledge; the paramount duty of the previous\nperiod is to reverence parents. But, as has just been shown, reverence\ntoward parents at this stage is best exhibited by conscientious study,\nand thus the two systems are merged into one.[17]\n\n\nTHE FRATERNAL DUTIES.\n\nThus much concerning the filial relations. We pass on to speak of the\nfraternal duties; the duties of brothers to brothers and sisters to\nsisters; of brothers to sisters and conversely; of older to younger\nbrothers and sisters and conversely. The fraternal duties are founded\nupon the respect which equals owe to equals. The brotherly relation is\nof immense pedagogic value, inasmuch as it educates us for the\nfulfillment later on of our duties toward all equals, be they kinsmen or\nnot. As between brothers, the respect of each for the rights of the\nother is made comparatively easy by natural inclination. The tie of\nblood, close and constant association in the same house, common\nexperience of domestic pleasures and sorrows--all this tends to link the\nhearts of the brothers together, and thus the first lessons in one of\nthe hardest duties are given by Love, the gentlest of school-masters.\nBut the word equality must not be misconceived. Equality is not to be\ntaken in its mathematical sense. One brother is gifted and may\neventually rise to wealth and fame, another is Nature's step-child; one\nsister is beautiful, another the opposite. If the idea of equality be\npressed to a literal meaning, it is sure to give rise to ugly feelings\nin the hearts of the less fortunate. How, then, shall we define equality\nin the moral sense? A superior, as we have seen, renders services which\nthe inferior can not adequately return. Equals are those who are so far\non the same level as to be capable of rendering mutual services, alike\nin importance, though not necessarily the same in kind. Equals are\ncorrelative to one another. The services of each are complementary to\nthose of the other. The idea of _mutual service_, therefore, is\ncharacteristic of the relation of brothers, and the rule of duty may be\nformulated simply, Serve one another. From this follow all the minor\ncommands and prohibitions which are usually impressed upon children,[18]\nand also the far loftier counsels which apply only to adults.\n\nIt will be perceived that the rule of mutual service, when carried to\nits highest applications, presupposes the principle of individual\ndifferentiation, to which we have already attached so much weight. This\nprinciple is fundamental to fraternal as well as to paternal and filial\nduty. For precisely to the extent that brothers are distinctly\nindividualized can they supplement each other and correlate their\nmutual services. One can not indeed overlook the patent fact that\nbrothers who are unlike in nature frequently repel each other, and that\nin such cases the very closeness of the relation often becomes a source\nof extreme irritation, and even of positive agony. But, on the other\nhand, there is no surer sign of moral ripeness than the ability to enter\ninto, to understand, to appreciate a nature totally unlike one's own,\nand thus to some extent to appropriate its excellences. The very fact,\ntherefore, that we at first feel ourselves repelled should be taken as a\nhint that this natural repulsion is to be overcome. For every type of\ncharacter needs its opposite to correct it. The idealist, for instance,\nneeds the realist, if he would keep his balance. And our uncongenial\nbrothers, precisely because they are at first uncongenial, if we will\nbut remember that they are, after all, our brothers, and that it is our\nduty to come into harmonious relations with them, can best help us to\nthis fine self-conquest, this true enrichment and enlargement of our\nmoral being.\n\nA word may be added as a caution to parents and teachers. The way to\ncreate brotherly feeling among the young is to treat them impartially,\nto love them with an equal love. Those who love and are beloved by the\nsame person are strongly induced to love one another. In the next place,\nwhen disputes arise, as is perhaps unavoidable, the parent or teacher\nshould, as a rule, enter patiently into the cause and not cut off\ninquiry because the whole matter seems trivial. The subject matter of\nthe dispute may be insignificant enough, but the satisfaction of the\nsense of justice of the young is of the greatest significance. When the\nsense of justice is outraged, be the cause never so trivial, a feeling\nof distrust against the parent is generated, and of incipient hatred\nagainst the brother who may have provoked the unjust decision.\n\nI have yet to speak of the duties of older to younger brothers and\nsisters. If it is difficult to serve two masters, it is hardly pleasant\nto be asked to serve half a dozen. The youngest children in a large\nfamily are often placed in this position. There is, in the first place,\nthe authority of the parents, which must be respected; then, in\naddition, each of the grown-up sons and daughters is apt to try to\nexercise a little authority on his or her own account. The younger ones\nnaturally resent this petty despotism, and disobedience and angry\nrecriminations are the unpleasant consequences. It is often necessary\nthat elder sons and daughters should have partial charge of the younger.\nThey can in all cases make their authority acceptable by representing it\nas delegated, by having it understood that they regard themselves merely\nas substitutes in the parents' place. There must be unity of influence\nin the home, or else the moral development of the young will be sadly\ninterfered with. There must be only a single center of authority,\nrepresented by the parents, and all minor exercise of authority should\nbe referred back to that center. \"Father and mother wish me to help\nyou\"; \"Father and mother will be pleased if you do so and so; let me\ntry to show you how\"--if the method of management implied in such words\nas these be adopted, the younger children will look upon the elder as\ntheir friends and be glad to accept advice and direction.\n\nLastly, a word about the relation between brothers and sisters, and\nconversely. This relationship is qualified by the difference of sex. A\ncertain chivalry characterizes the attitude of the brother toward the\nsister, a certain motherliness that of the sister toward the brother.\nThe relation may be and often is a very beautiful one. The peculiar\nmoral responsibility connected with it is that the sister is usually the\nfirst woman whom the brother knows at all intimately and as an equal,\nand that his notions of womanhood are largely influenced by the traits\nwhich he sees in her, while the brother is usually the first man whom\nthe sister knows as a companion, and her ideas of men are colored by\nwhat she sees in him.\n\nTo illustrate the fraternal relation I have been in the habit of\nrecalling the stories from the Old Testament which bear upon this\nsubject. I have also given an account of the life of the brothers Jacob\nand William Grimm. There was only a year's difference between them.\nJacob Grimm, in the eulogy on William, which he delivered before the\nBerlin Academy in the year 1860, says: \"During the slowly creeping years\nof our school life we slept in the same bed and occupied the same room.\nThere we sat at one and the same table studying our lessons. Later on\nthere were two tables and two beds in the same room; and later still,\nduring the entire period of our riper manhood, we still continued to\noccupy two adjoining rooms, always under the same roof.\" All their\nproperty, and even their books, they held in common; what belonged to\nthe one belonged to the other. They visited the university together in\nthe same year; they both took up, in deference to their mother's wish,\nthe same study, that of the law, which they alike hated, and then they\nturned in common to the study of philology, in which both delighted and\nboth achieved such great distinction. They published their first\nimportant works in the same year; and as they slept together in the same\nbed when they were children, so now they sleep side by side in the\ngrave.\n\nI refer to the story of Lear and his daughters to show that the common\nlove for the parents is necessary to sustain the love of brothers and\nsisters toward one another. Lear had estranged the affection of Goneril\nand Regan through his partiality for Cordelia. The two women, who had no\nlove for their father, hated each other; and Goneril, who was the first\nto cast him out, poisoned her sister.\n\nTo illustrate the relations of brothers to sisters, I give an account of\nthe beautiful lives of Charles and Mary Lamb. To show the redeeming\npower of womanhood as represented in a sister, I explain to older\npupils the story which underlies Goethe's drama of Iphigenia. Orestes is\nsick; and what is his malady? His soul has been poisoned by remorse.\nBelieving himself to be the executive arm of justice, he committed a\ngreat crime, and now he is torn by the pangs of conscience, and his mind\nis forever dwelling on that scene in which he was a fatal actor. And how\ndoes Iphigenia heal him? She heals him by the clear truthfulness of her\nnature, which the play is designed to bring out. With the light of\ngenuine womanhood which emanates from her she illuminates anew his\ndarkened path. By the force of the good which he learns to recognize in\nher he is led to a new trust in the redeeming power of the good in\nhimself, and thus to start out afresh in a life of courage, hope, and\nactive effort. The teacher should analyze and cause to be committed to\nmemory the various beautiful proverbs which bear upon the subject of\nfraternal duty.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[17] It may also be pointed out to the pupil that a part of the task of\nintellectual and moral training, which originally belongs entirely to\nthe parents, has by them been intrusted to the teachers, and that\nsomething of the reverence which belongs to the former is now due to the\nlatter.\n\n[18] Do not quarrel over your respective rights; rather be more eager to\nsecure the rights of your brother than your own. Do not triumph in your\nbrother's disgrace or taunt him with his failings, but rather seek to\nbuild up his self-respect. Help one another in your tasks, etc.\n\n\n\n\nXIV.\n\nDUTIES TOWARD ALL MEN.\n\n\nJUSTICE AND CHARITY.\n\nJUSTICE.--The subject of justice is a difficult one to treat. Justice in\nthe legal sense is to be distinguished from justice in the moral sense.\nWe are concerned only with the latter. How much of it can we hope to\ninclude in such a course of instruction as this? We can, I think,\nexplain the essential principle and give a few of its most important\napplications. What is this principle? Human society is an organism, and\nthe perfection of it depends upon the degree to which the parts related\nare differentiated. Unity of organization is the end, differentiation is\nthe means. The serving of universal ends is the aim, the emphasizing of\nindividuality the means. The principle which underlies the laws of\njustice I take to be respect for individuality of others. And this may\nbe expressed in the rule, Respect the individuality of every human\nbeing. It might, indeed, appear at first sight as if justice had to do\nonly with those points in which all men are alike, and took no notice of\nthe differences that subsist between them. Thus justice enjoins respect\nfor the life of others; and in regard to this all men are exactly on a\npar, all men are equally entitled to live. But justice also commands us\nto respect the convictions of others, however different they may be from\nour own. And it is but a finer sense of justice which keeps us from\nintruding on the privacy of others, which leads us to show a proper\nconsideration for the ways and idiosyncrasies of others, and in general\nto refrain from encroaching on the personality of others. The principle\nof justice may also be expressed in the rule, Do not interfere with the\nindividual development of any one.\n\n\nAPPLICATIONS OF THE PRINCIPLE OF JUSTICE.--\n\n1. _Do not kill._ By taking away the life of a human being we should of\ncourse cut off all chance of that person's further development. This\nrequires no comment. But certain casuistical questions arise in\nconnection with this command. Is it right to kill another in\nself-defense? The difficulty involved might be put in this way: A\nburglar breaks into your house by night and threatens to kill you. You\nhave a weapon at hand and can save yourself by killing him. Now it is\nevident that one of two lives must be taken. But would it not be more\nmoral on your part to say: I, at least, will not break the commandment.\nI would rather be killed than kill? This question serves to show to what\nabsurdities a purely formal principle in ethics can lead, as we have\nalready seen in the discussion of truthfulness. The problem of the duel\nand that of the taking of the life of others in war also belong under\nthis head, but will be reserved for the advanced course.\n\n2. _Respect the personal liberty of others._ Slavery, under whatever\nform, is an outrage on justice. The slave is degraded to be the mere\ninstrument of his master's profit or pleasure. Let the teacher point out\nin what particulars the slave is wronged, and show the evil effects of\nthe institution of slavery on the character of the master as well as of\nthe slave. Question--Is it right to speak of wage-slavery, for instance,\nin cases where the hours of labor are so prolonged as to leave no time\nfor higher interests, or where the relations of the laborer to his\nemployer are such as to impair his moral independence?\n\n3. _Respect the property of others._ Unless we are careful we may at\nthis point commit a grave wrong. Upon what moral considerations shall\nthe right of property be based? The school, especially the moral lessons\nwhich are imparted in it, should certainly not be placed in the service\nof vested interests. On the other hand, the school should not fill the\npupils' minds with economic theories, which they are incapable of\nunderstanding, and of which the truth, the justice, the feasibility are\nstill hotly disputed. We are therefore taking a very responsible step in\nintroducing the idea of property at all into our moral lessons. And yet\nit is too great and important to be ignored. Some writers have advanced\nthe theory that the right in question rests on labor, and they regard it\nas a self-evident proposition, one which, therefore, might safely be\ntaught to the young, that every person is entitled to the products of\nhis labor. Jules Simon says (see Paul Janet, Elements of Morals, English\ntranslation, p. 66): \"This earth was worth nothing and produced\nnothing. I dug the soil, I brought from a distance fertilizing earth; it\nis now fertile. This fertility is my work; by fertilizing it, I made it\nmine.\" American writers have eloquent passages to the same effect. But\nthis proposition certainly does not appear to me self-evident, nor even\ntrue. Chiefly for the reason that \"my labor\" and \"my skill\" are not\noriginal, but derivative factors in production. They are very largely\nthe result of the labor and the skill of generations that have preceded\nme, that have built up in me this brain, this skill, this power of\napplication. The products of my labor would indeed belong to me if my\nlabor were really mine, if it were not to an incalculable extent the\nconsequent of social antecedents, in regard to which I can not claim the\nleast merit. The attempt to found the rewards of labor upon the merit of\nthe laborer seems to me a perfectly hopeless one.\n\nLet me add that it is one thing to say that he who will not work shall\nnot eat, and a very different thing to say that he who works shall enjoy\nwhat he has produced. The former statement merely signifies that he who\nwill not contribute his share toward sustaining and improving human\nsociety is not entitled to any part in the advantages of the social\norder, though the charity of his fellow-men may grant him, under certain\nconditions and in the hope of changing his disposition, what he is not\nentitled to as of right. But the question what the share of the laborer\nought to be is one that can not be settled in the rough-and-ready\nmanner above suggested, and the considerations involved are, in truth,\nfar too numerous and complex to be introduced at this stage. The whole\nquestion will be reopened later on. For the present it must suffice to\nstate certain purely moral considerations on which the right of property\nmay be made to rest. The following are the ideas which I should seek to\ndevelop: Property is justified by its uses. Its uses are to support the\nexistence and promote the mental and moral growth of man. The physical\nlife itself depends on property. Even in a communistic state the food\nany one eats must be his property in the sense that every one else is\ndebarred from using it. The moral life of men depends on property. The\nmoral life is rooted in the institution of the family, and the family\ncould not exist without a separate domicile of its own and the means of\nproviding for its dependent members. The independence and the growth of\nthe intellect depend on property. In short, property is an indispensable\nadjunct of _personality_. This I take to be its moral basis. What I here\nindicate, however, is an ideal right which the existing state of society\nby no means reflects. By what methods we may best approach this ideal,\nwhether by maintaining and improving the system of private property in\nland or by state ownership, whether by capitalistic or socialistic\nproduction, etc., are questions of means, not of ends, and raise\nproblems in social science with which here we have not to deal.\n\nQuestion--If the present social arrangements are not morally\nsatisfactory, if e. g., certain persons possess property to which on\nmoral grounds they are not entitled, should not the commandment against\nstealing be suspended so far as they are concerned? The present system\nof rights, imperfect as it is, is the result of social evolution, and\ndenotes the high-water mark of the average ethical consciousness of the\nworld up to date. Respect for the existing system of rights, however,\nimperfect as it is, is the prime condition of obtaining a better system.\n\n4. _Respect the mental liberty of others._ Upon this rule of justice is\nfounded the right to freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and what\nis called the freedom of conscience. Point out the limitations of these\nvarious rights which follow from the fact of their universality.\n\n5. _Respect the reputation of your fellow-men._ Refrain from backbiting\nand slander. Bridle your tongue. This undoubtedly is a rule of justice.\n\"Who steals my purse steals trash,\" etc. The respect of our fellow-men\nis in itself a source of happiness and a moral prop, and, besides, the\ngreatest help in achieving the legitimate purposes of life. He who has\nthe confidence of others has wings to bear him along. He who is\nsuspected for any reason, true or false, strikes against invisible\nbarriers at every step. Nothing is so sensitive as character--a mere\nbreath may tarnish it. It is therefore the gravest kind of injury to our\nneighbors to disseminate damaging rumors, to throw out dark hints and\nsuggestions with respect to them, to impugn their motives. But is it\nnot a duty to denounce evil and evil-doers and to put the innocent on\ntheir guard against wolves in sheep's clothing? Yes, if we are sure that\nour own motives are perfectly disinterested, that we are not in the\nleast prompted by personal spite or prejudice. For if we dislike a\nperson, as every one knows, we can not judge him fairly, we are prone to\nattribute to him all manner of evil qualities and evil intents which\nexist only in our own jaundiced imagination. Very often a person against\nwhom we had at first conceived a distinct dislike proves on nearer\nacquaintance to be one whom we can esteem and even love. We should be\nwarned by such experiences to hold our judgments in suspense, and not to\nallow injurious words to pass the lips. The vast moral importance of\nbeing able to hold one's tongue, the golden resources of silence, should\nbe emphasized by the teacher.\n\nA series of lessons on good manners may be introduced at this point. The\nceremonies of social intercourse, the various forms in which refined\npeople show their deference for each other, the rule not to obtrude self\nin conversation, and the like, are so many illustrations of the respect\nwhich we owe to the personality of our fellow-men. Good manners are the\naesthetic counterpart of good morals, and the connection between the two\ncan easily be made plain.\n\n6. _Speak the truth._ Inward truthfulness is a self-regarding duty;\nsocial truthfulness is a form of justice. Words represent facts. The\nwords we speak to our neighbor are used by him as building-stones in\nthe architecture of his daily conduct. We have no right to defeat the\npurposes of his life, to weaken the dwelling he is erecting, by\nsupplying him with worthless building material.\n\nUpon exactly the same ground is based the duty of keeping one's\npromises, viz., that our fellow-men build on our promises. Promises made\nin a legal form are called contracts and can be enforced. Promises not\nmade in legal form are equally binding from a moral point of view. It\nshould be borne in mind, however, that conditional promises are canceled\nwhen the stipulated conditions do not occur, and, furthermore, that\nthere are certain tacit conditions implied in all promises whatsoever. A\nperson who has promised to visit a friend on a certain day and dies in\nthe interval is not supposed to have broken his promise; nor if any one\nmakes a similar promise and a heavy snowstorm should block the roads or\nif he should be confined to his bed by sickness is he likely to be\naccused of breaking his promise. The physical possibility of fulfilling\nthem is a tacit condition in all promises. It is also a tacit condition\nin all promises that it shall be morally possible or consistent with\nmorality to keep them. A young man who has promised to join a gang of\nburglars in an attack on a bank and who repents at the last moment is\nmorally justified in refusing to keep his pledge. His crime consisted in\nhaving made the promise in the first place, not in refusing to fulfill\nit at the last moment. A person, however, who promises to pay usurious\ninterest on a loan of money and who then takes advantage of the laws\nagainst usury to escape payment is a double-dyed rogue, for his\nintention is to cheat, and he uses the cloak of virtue as a screen in\norder to cheat with impunity. Let the teacher discuss the casuistical\nquestion whether it is right to keep a promise made to robbers--e. g.,\nif we should fall into the hands of brigands, and they should make it a\ncondition of our release that we shall not betray their hiding-place.\n\nJustice is based on positive respect for the individuality of others,\nbut its commands may all be expressed in the negative form: Do not kill,\ndo not infringe the liberty, the property of others, do not slander, do\nnot lie, etc. It is often held, however, that there is a positive as\nwell as a negative side to justice, and the two sides are respectively\nexpressed in the formulas: Neminem laede and suum cuique--Hurt no one\nand give every one his due. Of positive or distributive justice we meet\nwith such examples as the following: In awarding a prize the jury is\nbound in justice to give the award in favor of the most deserving\ncompetitor. The head of a department in filling a vacancy is bound in\njustice to avoid favoritism, to promote that one of his subordinates who\ndeserves promotion, etc. But it seems to me that this distinction is\nunimportant. Give to each one his due is tantamount to Do not deprive\nany one of what is due him. If the prize or the place belongs to A we\nshould, by withholding it from him, invade the rights of A as much as\nif we took money out of his purse. The commands are negative, but the\nvirtue implied is positive enough, because it depends on positive\nrespect for human nature. Do not infringe upon the sacred territory of\nanother's personality is the rule of justice in all cases.\n\nCHARITY.--How shall we distinguish charity from justice? It is said that\nevery one is justified in claiming from others what belongs to him as a\nmatter of right, but that no one can exact charity. The characteristic\nmark of charity is supposed to be that it is freely given. But if I\nhappen to be rich and can afford to supply the need of another am I not\nmorally bound to do so, and has not my indigent neighbor a real claim\nupon me? Again, it has been said that the term justice is applied to\nclaims which are capable of being formulated in general rules and\nimposed alike on all men in their dealings with one another, while in\nthe case of charity both the measure and the object of it are to be\nfreely determined by each one. We are free, according to this view, to\ndecide whether a claim upon us exists or not; but, the claim once having\nbeen admitted, it is as binding upon us as any of the demands of\njustice. But, while this is true, I hold that nevertheless there exists\na clear distinction between the virtues of justice and charity. We owe\njustice to our equals, charity to our inferiors. The word \"inferior\" is\nto be understood in a carefully limited sense. An employer owes his\nworkmen, as a matter of justice, the wages he has agreed to pay. Though\nthey may be socially his inferiors, in regard to this transaction they\nare his equals. They have agreed to render him certain services and he\nhas agreed to return them an equivalent.\n\nJustice says Do not hinder the development of others; Charity says\nAssist the development of others. The application of the rule of charity\nwill make its meaning clear.\n\n1. Justice says do not destroy life; Charity says save life. Rescue from\nthe flames the inmates of a burning house; leap into the waves to save a\ndrowning fellow-creature. Such persons are dependent on your help. They\nare therefore with respect to you in an inferior position.\n\nDiscuss with the class the limitations of this duty. I am not bound to\njump into the water, for instance, when I see a person drowning unless I\ncan swim. In fact, it would be culpable foolhardiness in me to do so.\nDiscuss the following casuistical case: A child is lying on the railroad\ntrack and a locomotive is rapidly approaching. Am I bound to make the\nattempt to draw it away from the track? Does it make any difference\nwhether I am single or the father of a family and have others dependent\non me? In general, the attempt to save should not be made unless there\nis a distinct chance of succeeding without the sacrifice of one's own\nlife; but we are justified in taking great risks, and courage and\nself-reliance are evinced in the degree of risk we are willing to take.\nThere are cases, however, in which the deliberate sacrifice of one life\nfor another is in the highest degree praiseworthy when, namely, the\nlife to be saved is regarded as far more precious than our own. Instance\nthe soldier who intercepts the thrust which is aimed at the life of his\ngeneral. Instance the parent who in the Johnstown flood was seen to push\nhis child to a place of safety and was then swept away by the current.\n\n2. _Assist the needy._ This may be done by giving bread to the hungry,\nclothing to the naked, shelter to the homeless, by caring for the sick,\nadvancing loans to those who are struggling toward self-support, etc.\nThe rule of charity is based on respect for the personality of others.\nWe are required to assist those who are too weak to hold their own, with\na view of putting them on their feet again. The aim of all charity\nshould be to make those who are dependent on it independent of it. From\nthis point of view all mere almsgiving, all that so-called charity which\nonly serves to make the dependent classes more dependent, stands\ncondemned. But the true test of charity, upon which the greatest stress\nshould be laid, is to be found in the way it reacts upon the charitable\nthemselves. Right relations, whatever their nature, are always mutually\nbeneficial. Does the deed of charity react beneficially on the doer? is\nthe test question to be asked in every instance. Take the case of a\nperson who gives large sums to the poor in the hope of seeing his name\nfavorably mentioned in the newspapers. The motive in this case is\nvanity, and the effect of this spurious sort of charity is to increase\nthe vanity of the donor. The reaction upon him, therefore, is morally\nharmful. Again, take the case of a person who gives capriciously, at the\nbidding of impulse, without considering whether his gifts are likely to\nbe of lasting benefit to the recipients. He is confirmed in his habit of\nyielding to impulse, and the reaction is likewise morally injurious. On\nthe other hand, the retroactive effects of true charity are most\nbeneficial. In the first place, a reaction will take place in the\ndirection of greater simplicity in our own lives. A person can not be\nseriously and deeply interested in the condition of the poor, can not\ntruly realize the hardships which they suffer, without being moved to\ncut off superfluous expenditure. Secondly, true charity will teach us to\nenter into the problems of others, often so unlike our own; to put\nourselves in their places; to consider how we should act in their\ncircumstances; to fight their battles for them; and by this means our\nmoral experience will be enlarged, and from being one, we become, as it\nwere, many men. True charity will also draw closer the bond of\nfellowship between the poor and us, for we shall often discover virtues\nin them which we do not possess ourselves; and sometimes, at least, we\nshall have occasion to look up with a kind of awe to those whom we are\naiding. In connection with the discussion of charity, let the teacher\nrelate the biographies of John Howard, Sister Dora, Florence\nNightingale, Elizabeth Fry, and others, who have been distinguished for\ntheir devotion to the suffering.\n\n3. _Cheer up the sad._ Explain that a bright smile may often have the\nvalue of an act of charity. In general, emphasize the duty of\nsuppressing irritability, ill humor, and moodiness, and of contributing\nto the sunshine of our households.[19]\n\n4. _Console the bereaved._ The afflicted are for the moment weak and\ndependent; it is the office of loving charity to make them independent.\nHere the same train of reasoning is applicable as above in the case of\nthe poor. It serves no useful purpose merely to sit down by the side of\nthe sorrowful and to weep with them. They do need sympathy, but they\nalso need, at least after the first paroxysms of grief have subsided, to\nbe roused.\n\nThe true cure for suffering is action. Those who suffer need to be\nnerved to action; they need to be shown, above all, the new duties which\ntheir situation entails. He who can point out to them the way of duty,\nand can give them of his own strength to walk in that way, is their best\nfriend--he is the true consoler.\n\n5. I have yet to speak of mental charity and of moral charity. Mental\ncharity is practiced by the wise teacher, who puts his pupils on the\nroad to knowledge, who helps them to discover their true vocation, and\nwho, when they are involved in doubt and difficulty, succeeds in giving\nthem the clew by which they can find an exit into mental clearness and\nlight.\n\n6. Moral charity is practiced by those who bend down to the sinful and\nthe fallen, and awaken in them a new hope and trust in the good and in\nthemselves. The charity which effects moral regeneration is perhaps the\nhighest type of all, and of this I know no more fitting nor more sublime\nexample than the dealing of Jesus with the outcasts of society.\n\n\n     NOTE.--Without attempting to forestall further philosophical\n     analysis, we may perhaps assume, as a working hypothesis, as a\n     provisional principle of deduction in ethics, the principle of\n     organization. The individual is an organ of humanity. It is his\n     duty to discharge, as perfectly as possible, his special functions;\n     hence the need of insisting on respect for individuality\n     throughout. Even the self-regarding duties would have no meaning\n     were not the complex whole in view, in the economy of which each\n     member is required to perform his part. As in every organism, so in\n     this, each separate organ serves, and is served in turn by all the\n     others, and can attain its highest development only through this\n     constant interaction. To complete the thought, it would be\n     necessary to add that certain organs are more closely connected\n     than others, and form lesser organisms within and subservient to\n     the whole. This, however, is merely thrown out as a suggestion\n     addressed to the student of ethics.\n\n\nTHE DUTY OF GRATITUDE.--Upon this subject much might be said, did not\nthe fact that the time at our command is nearly exhausted warn us to use\neven greater brevity than heretofore in dealing with the topics that\nremain. To bring out the right relations between benefactor and\nbeneficiary, let the teacher put the question, Why is it wrong to cast\nup the benefits we have conferred to the one who has received them? And\nwhy, on the other hand, is it so base in the latter to show himself\nungrateful. The reason is to be found in the respect due to the\npersonality of others, to which we have so often alluded. Kant says that\nevery human being is to be treated as an end in himself, and not merely\nas a means or a tool. In effect, the person who ignores benefits says to\nhis benefactor: You are my tool. It is unnecessary for me to recognize\nyour services, because you are not an independent person to be\nrespected, but a creature to be made use of at pleasure. Ingratitude is\na slur on the moral personality of others. On the other hand, he who\ncasts up benefits practically says you have forfeited your independence\nthrough the favors you have accepted. I have made your personality\ntributary to mine.\n\nAn excellent rule is that of Seneca. The benefactor should immediately\nforget what he has given; the beneficiary should always remember what he\nhas received. True gratitude is based on the sense of our moral\nfellowship with others. The gifts received and returned are mere tokens\nof this noble relationship (as all gifts should be). You have just given\nto me. I will presently give to you twice as much again, or half as\nmuch, it matters not which, when occasion arises. We will further each\nother's aims as best we can, for the ends of each are sacred to the\nother.\n\nDUTIES TO SERVANTS.--Having spoken of the duties which we owe to all\nmen, I may here refer to certain special duties, such as the duties\ntoward servants. These may also be introduced in connection with the\nduties of the family, after the filial and fraternal duties have been\nconsidered. I have space only to mention the following points:\n\n1. Servants are laborers. The same respect is due to them as to all\nother laborers.\n\n2. They are not only laborers, but in a special sense helpers. They are\nmembers of the household in a subordinate capacity, and in many cases\nidentify themselves closely with the interests of the family. They are,\nas it were, lay brothers and lay sisters of the family. From these\nconsiderations may be deduced the duties which we owe toward servants.\n\nDUTIES WITH REGARD TO ANIMALS.--I can not admit that we have duties\ntoward animals. We can not very well speak of duties toward creatures on\nwhich we in part subsist; but there are duties with respect to animals.\nMan is a rational being, and as such takes a natural delight in that\norderly arrangement and interdependence of parts which are the visible\ncounterpart of the rational principle in his own nature. We ought not to\nstep on or heedlessly crush under our feet even a single flower. Much\nless should we ruthlessly destroy the more perfect organism which we see\nin animals. Add to this that animals are sentient creatures, and that\nthe useless infliction of pain tends to develop cruelty in us. As a\npractical means of fostering kindness toward animals, I suggest the\nfollowing: Get your pupils interested in the habits of animals.\nFamiliarity in this case will breed sympathy. Speak of the building\ninstincts of bees; of the curious structures raised by those wonderful\nengineers, the beavers. Give prominence to the love for their young by\nwhich the brute creation is brought into closer connection with the\nhuman family. Mention especially the fidelity which some animals show\ntoward man (the saving of human lives by St. Bernard dogs, etc.), and\nthe uses which we derive from the various members of the animal\ncreation. As to the fact that we use animals for our sustenance, the\nhighest point of view to take, I think, is this, that man is, so to\nspeak, the crucible in which all the utilities of nature are refined to\nhigher spiritual uses. Man puts the whole of nature under contribution\nto serve his purposes. He takes trees from the forest in order to build\nhis house, and to fashion the table at which he takes his meals; he\nbrings up metal from the depths of the earth and converts it into tools;\nhe takes clay and forms it into vessels. He also is permitted to pluck\nflowers wherewith to garnish his feasts, and to make them the tokens of\nhis love; and in the same manner he may actually absorb the life of the\nlower animals, in order to transform and transfigure it, as it were,\ninto that higher life which is possible only in human society. But it\nfollows that he is a mere parasite and an interloper in nature, unless\nhe actually leads the truly human life.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[19] For the teacher I add point 4. The duties mentioned under 5 and 6\nmay be practiced in a simple way by the young in the form of aiding\ntheir backward schoolmates, and observing the right attitude toward\nthose of their companions who are in disgrace.\n\n\n\n\nXV.\n\nTHE ELEMENTS OF CIVIC DUTY.\n\n\nIt should be the aim of the school not only to connect the system of\nschool duties with the duties of the previous period, but also to\nprepare the pupils morally for the period which follows. The school is\nthe intermediate link between life in the family and life in society and\nthe state. The course of moral instruction, therefore, culminates for\nthe present in the chapter on civic duties. Needless to say that at this\nstage the subject can be considered in its elements only.\n\nThe claims of the state upon the moral attachment of the citizen can\nhardly be presented too warmly. Life in the state as well as in the\nfamily is indispensable to the full development of character. Man, in\nhis progress from childhood to old age, passes successively through\never-widening circles of duty, and new moral horizons open upon him as\nhe grows out of one into the other. One of the largest of these circles,\nand, in respect to moral opportunities, one of the richest and most\nglorious, is the state. It may be said that the whole state exists\nideally in every true citizen, or, what amounts to the same, that the\ntrue citizen embraces the interests of the state, as if they were his\nown, and acts from the point of view of the total body politic.\nIncreased breadth of view and elevation of purpose are the moral\nbenefits which accrue to every one who even honestly attempts to be a\ncitizen in this sense.\n\nMuch attention is paid in some schools to the machinery of our\ngovernment. The pupils are expected to learn the exact functions of\nmayors, city councils, and legislative bodies, the provisions relative\nto the election of the President, etc. But while these things ought to\nbe known, they relate, after all, only to the externals of government;\nand it is far more important to familiarize the pupils with the\nanimating spirit of political institutions, with the great ideas which\nunderlie the state. There are especially three political ideas to which\nI should give prominence; these are, the idea of the supremacy of the\nlaw; the true idea of punishment; and the idea of nationality. After we\nhave instilled these ideas, it will be time enough to dwell with greater\nparticularity on the machinery by which it is sought to carry them into\neffect.\n\nWhat method shall we use for instilling these ideas? The same which\nmodern pedagogy applies in every branch of instruction. The rule is,\nProceed from the known to the unknown; in introducing a new notion,\nconnect it with some analogous notion already in the pupil's possession.\nThe school offers excellent opportunities for developing the two ideas\nof law and punishment. In every school there exists a body of rules and\nregulations, or school laws. It should be made plain to the scholars\nthat these laws are enacted for their own good. The government of the\nschool should be made to rest as far as possible on the consent and\nco-operation of the governed. That school which does not secure on the\npart of the scholars a willing acceptance of the system of restraints\nwhich is necessary for the good of the whole, is a failure. In such an\ninstitution the law-abiding spirit can never be fostered.\n\nThe play-ground, too, affords a preliminary training for future\ncitizenship. On the play-ground the scholars learn to select and to obey\ntheir own leaders, to maintain the rules of the game, and to put down\nany infraction of them, whether in the shape of violence or fraud. They\nalso learn to defer to the will of the majority--a most important\nlesson, especially in democratic communities--and to bear defeat\ngood-humoredly.[20]\n\nThe true idea of punishment should be brought home to the scholars\nthrough the discipline of the school. The ends of punishment are the\nprotection of the community and the reformation of the offender. Nowhere\nbetter than in the little commonwealth of the school can these moral\naspects of punishment be impressed; nowhere better can the foundation be\nlaid for the changes which are so urgently needed in the dealings of the\nstate with the criminal class. Everything, of course, depends upon the\ncharacter of the teacher. His reputation for strict justice, the moral\nearnestness he displays in dealing with offenses, his readiness to\nforbear and forgive upon the least sign of genuine repentance--these are\nthe means by which he can instill right notions as to what discipline\nshould be. It has been suggested that, when a particularly serious case\nof transgression occurs, the teacher can sometimes produce a profound\nmoral effect on the class by submitting the case to them as a jury and\nasking for their verdict.\n\nThe idea of nationality I regard as fundamental in political ethics.\nThere is such a thing as national character, national genius, or\nnational individuality. When we think of the Greeks, we think of them as\npre-eminent for their achievements in art and philosophy; of the\nHebrews, as the people of the Bible; of the Romans, as the founders of\njurisprudence, etc. And on turning to the modern nations we find that\nthe talents of the English, the Germans, the French, the Italians, etc.,\nare no less diversified. Morally speaking, it is the mission of each\nnation in correlation with others to contribute to the universal work of\ncivilization its own peculiar gifts. The state may be regarded as that\norganization of the public life which is designed _to develop the\nnational individuality_; to foster the national genius in whatever\ndirection it may seek to express itself, whether in industry, art,\nliterature, or science; to clarify its aims, and to raise it to the\nhighest pitch of beneficent power.\n\nDoubtless this idea, as stated, is too abstract to be grasped by the\nyoung; but it can be brought down to their level in a tangible way. For\nthe national genius expresses itself in the national history, and more\nespecially is it incorporated in those great leaders, who arise at\ncritical periods to guide the national development into new channels. It\nis at this point that we realize anew the important support which the\nteaching of history may give to the moral teaching.[21] Thus the\npolitical history of the United States, if I may be permitted to use\nthat as an illustration of my thought, may be divided into three great\nperiods. The struggle with nature occupied the earliest period--that of\ncolonization; in this period we see the American man engaged in subduing\na continent. The struggle for political freedom fills the period of the\nRevolution. The struggle for a universal moral idea lends grandeur to\nour civil war. The story of these three great struggles should be\nrelated with such clearness that the idea which dominated each may stand\nout in relief, and with such fervor that the pupils may conceive a more\nardent love for their country which, at the same time that it holds out\nimmeasurable prospects for the future, already possesses such glorious\ntraditions. There is, however, always a great danger that patriotism may\ndegenerate into Chauvinism. Against this, universal history, when taught\nin the right spirit, is the best antidote. A knowledge of universal\nhistory is an admirable check on spurious patriotism. In teaching it,\nit is especially desirable that the contribution which each nation has\nmade to the progress of the world be noted and emphasized. Let the\nteacher speak of the early development of the literature and of the\ninventive spirit of the despised Chinese; of the high civilization which\nonce flourished on the banks of the Nile; of the immortal debt we owe to\nGreece and Rome and Judea. Let the young be made acquainted with the\nimportant services which Ireland rendered to European culture in the\nearly part of the middle ages. Let them learn, however briefly, of the\npart which France played in the overthrow of feudalism, of the wealth of\nGerman science and literature and philosophy; let them know how much\nmankind owes to the Parliaments of England, and to the stout heart and\nstrong sense which made parliaments possible. It is not by underrating\nothers, but by duly estimating and appreciating their achievements, that\nwe shall find ourselves challenged to bring forth what is best in\nourselves.\n\nThere is still another reason why, especially in American schools, the\nteaching of universal history should receive far greater attention than\nhitherto has been accorded to it. The American people are imbued with\nthe belief that they have a problem to solve for all mankind. They have\nset out to demonstrate in the face of doubt and adverse criticism the\npossibility of popular self-government. They have thus consecrated their\nnational life to a sublime humanitarian idea. And the sense of this\nconsecration, echoing in the utterances of many of their leading\nstatesmen, has more or less permeated the whole people. But the mission\nthus assumed, like the burden on the shoulders of Christophorus, is\nbecoming heavier at every step. The best citizens recognize that the\nproblem of popular self-government, so far from being solved, is but\nbeginning to disclose itself in all its vast complexity, and they\nrealize more than ever how necessary it is to get every possible help\nfrom the example and experience of older nations. The political lessons\nof the past can not indeed be mastered in the public schools. But a\npreliminary interest in European history may be created, which will pave\nthe way for profitable study later on.\n\nFurthermore, the American people have extended a most liberal invitation\nto members of other nationalities (with few restrictions, and these of\nrecent origin) to come and join in working out the destinies of the new\ncontinent. Not only is an asylum granted to the oppressed--this were the\nlesser boon--but the gates of citizenship have been opened wide to the\nnew-comers. What does this mean, if not that the foreigners who come,\nunless indeed they belong to the weak and dependent classes, are wanted;\nand wanted not only in their capacity as workers to aid in developing\nthe material resources of the country, but as citizens, to help in\nperfecting what is still imperfect, to assist in building up in time, on\nAmerican soil, the true republic.\n\nIn return for this privilege the citizens of foreign birth owe it to\ntheir adopted country to place the best of their racial gifts at its\nservice. Much that the citizens of foreign birth bring with them,\nindeed, will have to be eliminated, but, on the other hand, many of\ntheir traits will probably enter as constituent elements into the\nnational character. The Anglo-Saxon race has now the lead, and will\ndoubtless keep it. But in the melting-pot of the American commonwealths\nthe elements of many diverse nationalities are being mixed anew, and a\nnew nationality distinctively American is likely to be the final outcome\nof the process. Thus both the humanitarian ideal and the actual make-up\nof the people betray a cosmopolitan tendency, and it is this tendency\nwhich, more perhaps than anything else, gives to American political life\nits characteristic physiognomy. If this be so, if the foreign elements\nare so numerous and likely to be so influential, it is surely important\nthat the foreign races, their character and their history, be studied\nand understood.\n\nBesides explaining the political ideas, I should briefly describe the\nactual functions of government. Government protects the life and\nproperty of its citizens against foreign aggression and violence at\nhome. Government maintains the binding force of contracts. Government\nreserves to itself the coinage of money, carries the mails, supports\npublic education, etc. In a word, government assumes those functions\nwhich can be discharged more satisfactorily or more economically by the\njoint action of the community than if left to private individuals or\ncorporations. But government also undertakes the duty of protecting the\nweaker classes against oppression by the stronger, as is shown by\nfactory legislation in the interest of women and minors. How far this\nfunction may profitably be extended is open to discussion; but that it\nhas been assumed in all civilized countries is a fact which should be\nnoted.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[20] _Vide_ Dole, \"The American Citizen.\"\n\n[21] See remarks on this subject in the third lecture.\n\n\n\n\nXVI.\n\nTHE USE OF PROVERBS AND SPEECHES.\n\n\nFor the use of my classes I have made a collection of proverbs from the\nBible, from Buddha's Dhammapada, from the Encheiridion of Epictetus, the\nImitation of Christ, and other ancient and modern sources. Some of these\nbelong to the advanced course, others can be used in the grammar course.\nI have time to mention only a few, in order to illustrate the method of\nusing them.\n\nThe habit of committing proverbs or golden sayings to memory without a\nprevious analysis of their meaning serves no good purpose whatever.\nProverbs are the condensed expression of the moral experience of\ngenerations. The teacher should search out the experiences to which the\nproverbs refer. Proverbs may be compared to those delicate Eastern\nfabrics which can be folded up into the smallest compass, but which,\nwhen unfolded, are seen to cover a large space. The teacher should\nexplore the territory covered by the proverb. Take, for example, such a\nsaying as this, \"Blessed be he who has the good eye.\" What is the good\neye? The eye that sees the good in others. Is it easy to see the good in\nothers? Yes, if we are fond of them; but if we are not, we are likely to\nsee only the evil. But suppose there is no good to be seen, at least\nnot on the surface; why, then the good eye is that which sees the good\nbeneath the surface, which, like the divining-rod, shows where in human\ncharacter gold lies buried, and helps us to penetrate to it. But even\nthis does not exhaust the meaning of the proverb. The good eye is that\nwhich, as it were, sees the good into others, sends its good influence\ninto them, makes them good by believing them to be so. The good eye is a\ncreative eye. Or take the proverb, \"A falsehood is like pebbles in the\nmouth.\" Why not say a falsehood is like a pebble? No, one falsehood is\nlike many pebbles. For every falsehood tends to multiply itself, and\neach separate falsehood is like a pebble--not like bread, which we can\nassimilate, but like a stone, a foreign body, alien to our nature.\nMoreover, the proverb says, A falsehood is like pebbles in the mouth;\nwhich means that these stony falsehoods will choke us, choke the better\nlife in us, unless we cast them out. Again, take such sayings as these\nfrom the Dhammapada: \"As rain breaks through an ill-thatched house,\npassion will break through an unreflecting mind.\" Explain what kind of\nreflection is needed to keep off passion. \"He who is well subdued may\nsubdue others.\" Show what kind of self-control is meant, and in what\nsense others are to be subdued. \"He who holds back anger like a rolling\nchariot, him I call a real driver; other people are but holding the\nreins.\" \"Let a man overcome anger by love; let him overcome evil by\ngood; let him overcome the greedy by liberality, the liar by truth.\"\nDescribe the sort of brake by means of which the rolling chariot of\nanger may be checked in mid-course, and the efficacy of goodness in\novercoming evil. From the Encheiridion it occurs to me to mention the\nsaying, \"Everything has two handles: the one by which it can be borne,\nthe other by which it can not be borne.\" Epictetus himself gives an\nillustration: \"If your brother acts unjustly toward you, do not lay hold\nof the act by that handle wherein he acts unjustly, for that is the\nhandle by which it can not be borne; but lay hold of the other, that he\nis your brother, and you will lay hold of the thing by that handle by\nwhich it can be borne.\" There are also many other illustrations of this\nnoble maxim. Disappointment has two handles, the one by which it can be\nborne, the other by which it can not. Affliction has two handles.\nIllustrate profusely; search out the meaning in detail.\n\nThere is a mine of practical wisdom in these sayings. There exist\nproverbs relating to all the various duties which have been discussed in\nour course; proverbs relating to the pursuit of knowledge; many and\nbeautiful proverbs on the filial and fraternal duties, on courage, on\nhumility, on the importance of keeping promises, on kindness to animals,\non the moral end of civil society. Proverbs should be classified under\ntheir proper heads and used as occasion offers. Permit me, however, to\nadd one word of caution. It is a mistake to teach too many proverbs at a\ntime, to overload the pupil's mind with them. The proverbs selected\nshould be brief, pithy, and profoundly significant. But there should not\nbe too many at a time. It is better to return to the same proverb often,\nand to penetrate deeper into its meaning every time. The value of the\nproverbs is that they serve as pegs in the memory, to which long chains\nof moral reflection can be attached. They are guide-posts pointing with\ntheir short arms to the road of duty; they are voices of mankind\nuttering impressive warnings, and giving clear direction in moments when\nthe promptings of self-interest or the mists of passion would be likely\nto lead us astray.\n\nIt may also be well to select a number of speeches which embody high\nmoral sentiments, like some of the speeches of Isaiah, the speech of\nSocrates before his judges, and others, and, after having explained\ntheir meaning, to cause them to be recited by the pupils. Just as the\ndelivery of patriotic speeches is found useful for inculcating patriotic\nsentiments, so such speeches as these will tend to quicken the moral\nsentiments. He who repeats the speech of another for the time being puts\non the character of the other. The sentiments which are uttered by the\nlips live for the moment in the heart, and leave their mark there.\n\n\n\n\nXVII.\n\nTHE INDIVIDUALIZATION OF MORAL TEACHING.\n\n\nThis subject is of the greatest importance. It really requires extended\nand careful treatment, but a few hints must suffice. The teacher should\nremember that he is educating not boys and girls in general, but\nparticular boys and girls, each of whom has particular faults needing to\nbe corrected and actual or potential virtues to be developed and\nencouraged. Therefore a conscientious study of the character of the\npupils is necessary. This constitutes an additional reason why moral\ninstruction should be given in a daily school rather than in a Sunday\nschool, the opportunities for the study of character being vastly better\nin the former than they can possibly be in the latter. The teacher who\ngives the moral lessons, in undertaking this study, should solicit the\nco-operation of all the other teachers of the school. He should request\nfrom time to time from each of his fellow-teachers reports stating the\ngood and bad traits observed in each pupil, or rather the facts on which\nthe various teachers base their estimates of the good and bad qualities\nof the scholars; for the opinions of teachers are sometimes unreliable,\nare sometimes discolored by prejudice, while facts tell their own\nstory. These facts should be collated by the moral teacher, and, with\nthem as a basis, he may endeavor to work out a kind of chart of the\ncharacter of each of his pupils. It goes without saying, that he should\nalso seek the co-operation of the parents, for the purpose of\ndiscovering what characteristic traits the pupil displays at home; and\nif the reputation which a pupil bears among his companions, can be\nascertained without undue prying, this, too, will be found of use in\nforming an estimate of his disposition. The teacher who knows the\nspecial temptations of his pupils will have many opportunities, in the\ncourse of the moral lessons, to give them pertinent warnings and advice,\nwithout seeming to address them in particular or exposing their faults\nto the class. He will also be able to exercise a helpful surveillance\nover their conduct in school, and to become in private their friend and\ncounselor. Moreover, the material thus collected will in time prove\nserviceable in helping us to a more exact knowledge of the different\nvarieties of human character--a knowledge which would give to the art of\nethical training something like a scientific basis.[22]\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[22] See some remarks on types of character in my lecture on the\nPunishment of Children.\n\n\n\n\nRECAPITULATION.\n\n\nLet us now briefly review the ground we have gone over in the present\ncourse. In the five introductory lectures we discussed the problem of\nunsectarian moral teaching, the efficient motives of good conduct, the\nopportunities of moral influence in schools, the classification of\nduties, and the moral status of the child on entering school.\n\nIn mapping out the primary course we assumed as a starting-point the\nidea that the child rapidly passes through the same stages of evolution\nthrough which the human race has passed, and hence we endeavored to\nselect our material for successive epochs in the child's life from the\nliterature of the corresponding epochs in the life of the race.\n\nIn regard to the method of instruction, we observed that in the fairy\ntales the moral element should be touched on incidentally; that in\nteaching the fables isolated moral qualities should be presented in such\na way that the pupil may always thereafter be able to recognize them;\nwhile the stories display a number of moral qualities in combination and\nhave the value of moral pictures.\n\nIn the primary course the object has been to train the moral\nperceptions; in the grammar course, to work out moral concepts and to\nformulate rules of conduct. The method of getting at these rules may\nagain be described as follows: Begin with some concrete case, suggest a\nrule which apparently fits that case or really fits it, adduce other\ncases which the rule does not fit, change the rule, modify it as often\nas necessary, until it has been brought into such shape that it will fit\nevery case you can think of.\n\nIn planning the lessons on duty which make up the subject matter of the\ngrammar course, we took the ground that each period of life has its\nspecific duties, that in each period there is one paramount duty around\nwhich the others may be grouped, and that each new system of duties\nshould embrace and absorb the preceding one.\n\nIt remains for me to add that the illustrations which I have used in the\ngrammar course are intended merely to serve as specimens, and by no\nmeans to exclude the use of different illustrative matter which the\nteacher may find more suitable. Furthermore, I desire to express the\nhope that it may be possible, without too much difficulty, to eliminate\nwhatever subjective conceptions may be found to have crept into these\nlessons, and that, due deduction having been made, there may remain a\nsubstratum of objective truth which all can accept. It should be\nremembered that these lectures are not intended to take the place of a\ntext-book, but to serve as a guide to the teacher in preparing his\nlessons.\n\nI hope hereafter to continue the work which has thus been begun. In the\nadvanced course, which is to follow the present one, we shall have to\nreconsider from a higher point of view many of the subjects already\ntreated, and in addition to take up such topics as the ethics of the\nprofessions, the ethics of friendship, conjugal ethics, etc., which have\nhere been omitted.\n\nI shall also attempt to indicate the lines for a systematic study of\nbiographies, and to lay out a course of selected readings from the best\nethical literature of ancient and modern times.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX.\n\nTHE INFLUENCE OF MANUAL TRAINING ON CHARACTER.[23]\n\n\nManual training has recently been suggested as one of the means of\ncombating the criminal tendency in the young, and this suggestion is\nbeing received with increasing favor. But until now the theory of manual\ntraining has hardly begun to be worked out. The confidence which is\nexpressed in it is based, for the most part, on unclassified experience.\nBut experience without theory is altogether insufficient. Theory, it is\ntrue, without experience is without feet to stand. But experience\nwithout the guiding and directing help of theory is without eyes to see.\nI shall now offer, in a somewhat tentative way, a few remarks intended\nto be a contribution to the philosophy of manual training as applied to\nthe reformation of delinquent children. I shall confine myself, however,\nto one type of criminality in children--a not uncommon type--that of\nmoral deterioration arising from weakness of the will.\n\nIn the first place, let us distinguish between feeling, desiring, and\nwilling. A person who is without food feels hunger. A person who, being\nhungry, calls up in his mind images of food, will experience a desire. A\nperson who adopts means to obtain food performs an act of the will. A\nRussian prisoner in Siberia who suffers from the restraints of\nconfinement is in a state of feeling. The same person, when he recalls\nimages of home and friends, is in a state of desire; but when he sets\nabout adopting the means to effect his escape, concerts signals with his\nfellow-prisoners, undermines the walls of his dungeon, etc., he is\nperforming acts of the will. Permit me to call particular attention to\nthe fact that the will is characterized at its birth by the intellectual\nfactor which enters into it; for the calculation of means to ends is an\nintellectual process, and every conscious act of volition involves such\na process. If the will is thus characterized at its birth, we can at\nonce anticipate the conclusion that any will will be strong in\nproportion as the intellectual factor in it predominates. It was said by\none of the speakers that \"an ounce of affection is better than a ton of\nintellect.\" Give me a proper mixture of the two. Give me at least an\nounce of intellect together with an ounce of affection. There is great\ndanger lest we exaggerate the importance of the emotions for morality.\nThe opinion is widely entertained that good feeling, kind feeling,\nloving feeling, is the whole of morality, or, at least, the essential\nfactor in it. But this opinion is surely erroneous. The will may be\ncompared to the power which propels a ship through the waves. Feeling is\nthe rudder. The intellect is the helmsman.\n\nLet me give illustrations to bring into view the characteristics of a\nstrong and of a weak will. Great inventors, great statesmen, great\nreformers, illustrate strength of will. We note in them especially\ntenacity of purpose and a marvelous faculty for adjusting and\nreadjusting means to ends. Persons who are swayed by the sensual\nappetites illustrate weakness of will. We note in them vacillation of\npurpose, and the power of adjusting means to ends only in its\nrudimentary form. The ideas of virtue are complex. No one can illustrate\nvirtue on a high plane unless he is capable of holding in mind long\ntrains and complex groups of ideas. The lowest vices, on the other hand,\nare distinguished by the circumstance that the ends to which they look\nare simple, and the means employed often of the crudest kind. Thus,\nsuppose that a person of weak will is hungry. He knows that gold will\nbuy food. He adopts the readiest way to get gold. Incapable of that long\nand complex method of attaining his end, which is exhibited, for\ninstance, by the farmer who breaks the soil, plants the corn, watches\nhis crops, and systematizes his labors from the year's beginning to its\nend, he takes the shortest road toward the possession of gold--he\nstretches forth his hand and takes it where he finds it. The man of weak\nwill, who has a grudge against his rival, is not capable of putting\nforth a sustained and complex series of efforts toward obtaining\nsatisfaction, for instance, by laboring arduously to outstrip his rival.\nHe is, furthermore, incapable of those larger considerations, those\ncomplex groups of ideas relating to society and its permanent interests,\nwhich check the angry passions in the educated. He gives free and\nimmediate rein to the passion as it rises. He takes the readiest means\nof getting satisfaction: he draws the knife and kills. The man of weak\nwill, who burns with sensual desire, assaults the object of his desire.\nThe virtues depend in no small degree on the power of serial and complex\nthinking. Those vices which are due to weakness of will are\ncharacterized by the crudeness of the aim and the crudeness of the\nmeans.\n\nTo strengthen the will, therefore, it is necessary to give to the person\nof weak will the power to think connectedly, and especially to reach an\nend by long and complex trains of means.\n\nLet us pause here for a moment to elucidate this point by briefly\nconsidering a type of criminality which is familiar to all guardians of\ndelinquent children. This type is marked by a group of salient traits,\nwhich may be roughly described as follows: Mental incoherency is the\nfirst. The thoughts of the child are, as it were, slippery, tending to\nglide past one another without mutual attachments. A second trait is\nindolence. A third, deficiency in the sense of shame; to which may be\nadded that the severest punishments fail to act as deterrents.\n\nMental incoherency is the leading trait, and supplies the key for the\nunderstanding of the others. Lack of connectedness between ideas is the\nradical defect. Each idea, as it rises, becomes an impulse, and takes\neffect to the full limit of its suggestions. A kind thought rises in the\nmind of such a child, and issues in a demonstrative impulse of\naffection. Shortly after, a cruel thought may rise in the mind of the\nsame child; and the cruel thought will, in like manner, take effect in a\ncruel act. Children answering to this type are alternately kind,\naffectionate, and cruel. The child's indolence is due to the same\ncause--lack of connectedness between ideas. It is incapable of sustained\neffort, because every task implies the ability to pass from one idea to\nrelated ideas. The child is deficient in shame, because the sense of\nshame depends on a vivid realization of the idea of self. The idea of\nself, however, is a complex idea, which is not distinctly and clearly\npresent to such a child. Lastly, the most severe punishments fail to act\nas deterrents for the same reason. The two impressions left in the mind,\n\"I did a wrong,\" \"I suffered a pain,\" lie apart. The memory of one does\nnot excite the recollection of the other. The thought of the wrong does\nnot lift permanently into consciousness the thought of the pain which\nfollowed. The punishment, as we say, is quickly forgotten. If,\ntherefore, we wish to remedy a deep-seated defect of this kind, if we\nwish to cure a weak will, in such and all similar cases we must seek to\nestablish a closer connection between the child's ideas.\n\nThe question may now be asked, Why should we not utilize to this end the\nordinary studies of the school curriculum--history, geography,\narithmetic, etc.? All of these branches exercise and develop the faculty\nof serial and complex thinking. Any sum in multiplication gives a\ntraining of this kind. Let the task be to multiply a multiplicand of\nfour figures by a multiplier of three. First the child must multiply\nevery figure in the multiplicand by the units of the multiplier and\nwrite down the result; then by the tens, and then by the hundreds, and\ncombine these results. Here is a lesson in combination, in serial, and,\nfor a young child, somewhat complex thinking. Let the task be to bound\nthe State of New York. The child must see the mental picture of the\nState in its relation to other States and parts of States, to lakes and\nrivers and mountains--a complex group of ideas. Or, let it be required\nto give a brief account of the American Revolution. Here is a whole\nseries of events, each depending on the preceding ones. Why, then, may\nwe not content ourselves with utilizing the ordinary studies of the\nschool curriculum? There are two reasons.\n\nFirst, because history, geography, and arithmetic are not, as a rule,\ninteresting to young children, especially not to young children of the\nclass with which we are now dealing. These listless minds are not easily\nroused to an interest in abstractions. Secondly, it is a notorious fact\nthat intellectual culture, pure and simple, is quite consistent with\nweakness of the will. A person may have very high intellectual\nattainments, and yet be morally deficient. I need hardly warn my\nreflective hearers that, when emphasizing the importance for the will of\nintellectual culture, I had in mind the intellectual process as applied\nto acts. To cultivate the intellect in its own sphere of contemplation\nand abstraction, apart from action, may leave the will precisely as\nfeeble as it was before.\n\nAnd now, all that has been said thus far converges upon the point that\nhas been in view from the beginning--the importance of manual training\nas an element in disciplining the will. Manual training fulfills the\nconditions I have just alluded to. It is interesting to the young, as\nhistory, geography, and arithmetic often are not. Precisely those pupils\nwho take the least interest or show the least aptitude for literary\nstudy are often the most proficient in the workshop and the\nmodeling-room. Nature has not left these neglected children without\nbeautiful compensations. If they are deficient in intellectual power,\nthey are all the more capable of being developed on their active side.\nThus, manual training fulfills the one essential condition--it is\ninteresting. It also fulfills the second. By manual training we\ncultivate the intellect in close connection with action. Manual training\nconsists of a series of actions which are controlled by the mind, and\nwhich react on it. Let the task assigned be, for instance, the making of\na wooden box. The first point to be gained is to attract the attention\nof the pupil to the task. A wooden box is interesting to a child, hence\nthis first point will be gained. Lethargy is overcome, attention is\naroused. Next, it is important to keep the attention fixed on the task:\nthus only can tenacity of purpose be cultivated. Manual training enables\nus to keep the attention of the child fixed upon the object of study,\nbecause the latter is concrete. Furthermore, the variety of occupations\nwhich enter into the making of the box constantly refreshes this\ninterest after it has once been started. The wood must be sawed to line.\nThe boards must be carefully planed and smoothed. The joints must be\naccurately worked out and fitted. The lid must be attached with hinges.\nThe box must be painted or varnished. Here is a sequence of means\nleading to an end, a series of operations all pointing to a final object\nto be gained, to be created. Again, each of these means becomes in turn\nand for the time being a secondary end; and the pupil thus learns, in an\nelementary way, the lesson of subordinating minor ends to a major end.\nAnd, when finally the task is done, when the box stands before the boy's\neyes a complete whole, a serviceable thing, sightly to the eyes, well\nadapted to its uses, with what a glow of triumph does he contemplate his\nwork! The pleasure of achievement now comes in to crown his labor; and\nthis sense of achievement, in connection with the work done, leaves in\nhis mind a pleasant after-taste, which will stimulate him to similar\nwork in the future. The child that has once acquired, in connection with\nthe making of a box, the habits just described, has begun to master the\nsecret of a strong will, and will be able to apply the same habits in\nother directions and on other occasions.\n\nOr let the task be an artistic one. And let me here say that manual\ntraining is incomplete unless it covers art training. Many otherwise\nexcellent and interesting experiments in manual training fail to give\nsatisfaction because they do not include this element. The useful must\nflower into the beautiful, to be in the highest sense useful. Nor is it\nnecessary to remind those who have given attention to the subject of\neducation how important is the influence of the beautiful is in\nrefining the sentiments and elevating the nature of the young. Let the\ntask, then, be to model a leaf, a vase, a hand, a head. Here again we\nbehold the same advantages as in the making of the box. The object is\nconcrete, and therefore suitable for minds incapable of grasping\nabstractions. The object can be constantly kept before the pupil's eyes.\nThere is gradual approximation toward completeness, and at last that\nglow of triumph! What child is not happy if he has produced something\ntangible, something that is the outgrowth of his own activity,\nespecially if it be something which is charming to every beholder?\n\nAnd now let me briefly summarize certain conclusions to which reflection\nhas led me in regard to the subject of manual training in reformatory\ninstitutions. Manual training should be introduced into every\nreformatory. In New York city we have tested a system of work-shop\nlessons for children between six and fourteen. There is, I am persuaded,\nno reason why manual training should not be applied to the youngest\nchildren in reformatories. Manual training should always include art\ntraining. The labor of the children of reformatories should never be let\nto contractors. I heartily agree with what was said on that subject this\nmorning. The pupils of reformatories should never make heads of pins or\nthe ninetieth fraction of a shoe. Let there be no machine work. Let the\npupils turn out complete articles, for only thus can the full\nintellectual and moral benefits of manual training be reaped.\nAgriculture, wherever the opportunities are favorable, offers, on the\nwhole, the same advantages as manual training, and should be employed\nif possible, in connection with it.\n\nI have thus far attempted to show how the will can be made strong. But a\nstrong will is not necessarily a good will. It is true, there are\ninfluences in manual training, as it has been described, which are\nfavorable to a virtuous disposition. Squareness in things is not without\nrelation to squareness in action and in thinking. A child that has\nlearned to be exact--that is, truthful--in his work will be predisposed\nto be scrupulous and truthful in his speech, in his thought, in his\nacts. The refining and elevating influence of artistic work I have\nalready mentioned. But, along with and over and above all these\ninfluences, I need hardly say to you that, in the remarks which I have\noffered this evening, I have all along taken for granted the continued\napplication of those tried and excellent methods which prevail in our\nbest reformatories. I have taken for granted that isolation from\nsociety, which shuts out temptation; that routine of institutional life,\nwhich induces regularity of habit; that strict surveillance of the whole\nbody of inmates and of every individual, which prevents excesses of the\npassions, and therefore starves them into disuse. I have taken for\ngranted the cultivation of the emotions, the importance of which I am\nthe last to undervalue. I have taken for granted the influence of good\nexample, good literature, good music, poetry, and religion. All I have\nintended to urge is that between good feeling and the realization of\ngood feeling there exists, in persons whose will-power is weak, a\nhiatus, and that manual training is admirably adapted to fill that\nhiatus.\n\nThere is another advantage to be noted in connection with manual\ntraining--namely, that it develops the property sense. What, after all,\napart from artificial social convention, is the foundation of the right\nof property? On what basis does it rest? I have a proprietary right in\nmy own thoughts. I have a right to follow my tastes in the adornment of\nmy person and my house. I have a right to the whole sphere of my\nindividuality, my selfhood; and I have a right in _things_ so far as I\nuse them to express my personality. The child that has made a wooden box\nhas put a part of himself into the making of that box--his thought, his\npatience, his skill, his toil--and therefore the child feels that that\nbox is in a certain sense his own. And as only those who have the sense\nof ownership are likely to respect the right of ownership in others, we\nmay by manual training cultivate the property sense of the child; and\nthis, in the case of the delinquent child, it will be admitted, is no\nsmall advantage.\n\nI have confined myself till now to speaking of the importance of manual\ntraining in its influence on the character of delinquent children. I\nwish to add a few words touching the influence of manual training on\ncharacter in general, and its importance for children of all classes of\nsociety. I need not here speak of the value of manual training to the\nartisan class. That has been amply demonstrated of late by the many\ntechnical and art schools which the leading manufacturing nations of\nEurope have established and are establishing. I need not speak of the\nvalue of manual training to the future surgeon, dentist, scientist, and\nto all those who require deftness of hand in the pursuit of their\nvocations. But I do wish to speak of the value of manual training to the\nfuture lawyer and clergyman, and to all those who will perhaps never be\ncalled upon to labor with their hands. Precisely because they will not\nlabor with their hands is manual training so important for them--in the\ninterest of an all-round culture--in order that they may not be entirely\ncrippled on one side of their nature. The Greek legend says that the\ngiant Antaeus was invincible so long as his feet were planted on the\nsolid earth. We need to have a care that our civilization shall remain\nplanted on the solid earth. There is danger lest it may be developed too\nmuch into the air--that we may become too much separated from those\nprimal sources of strength from which mankind has always drawn its\nvitality. The English nobility have deliberately adopted hunting as\ntheir favorite pastime. They follow as a matter of physical exercise, in\norder to keep up their physical strength, a pursuit which the savage man\nfollowed from necessity. The introduction of athletics in colleges is a\nmove in the same direction. But it is not sufficient to maintain our\nphysical strength, our brute strength, the strength of limb and muscle.\nWe must also preserve that spiritualized strength which we call\nskill--the tool-using faculty, the power of impressing on matter the\nstamp of mind. And the more machinery takes the place of human labor,\nthe more necessary will it be to resort to manual training as a means of\nkeeping up skill, precisely as we have resorted to athletics as a means\nof keeping up strength.\n\nThere is one word more I have to say in closing. Twenty-five years ago,\nas the recent memories of Gettysburg recall to us, we fought to keep\nthis people a united nation. Then was State arrayed against State.\nTo-day class is beginning to be arrayed against class. The danger is not\nyet imminent, but it is sufficiently great to give us thought. The chief\nsource of the danger, I think, lies in this, that the two classes of\nsociety have become so widely separated by difference of interests and\npursuits that they no longer fully understand one another, and\nmisunderstanding is the fruitful source of hatred and dissension. This\nmust not continue. The manual laborer must have time and opportunity for\nintellectual improvement. The intellectual classes, on the other hand,\nmust learn manual labor; and this they can best do in early youth, in\nthe school, before the differentiation of pursuits has yet begun. Our\ncommon schools are rightly so named. The justification of their support\nby the State is not, I think, as is sometimes argued, that the State\nshould give a sufficient education to each voter to enable him at least\nto read the ballot which he deposits. This is but a poor equipment for\ncitizenship at best. The justification for the existence of our common\nschools lies rather in the bond of common feeling which they create\nbetween the different classes of society. And it is this bond of common\nfeeling woven in childhood that has kept and must keep us a united\npeople. Let manual training, therefore, be introduced into the common\nschools; let the son of the rich man learn, side by side with the son of\nthe poor man, to labor with his hands; let him thus practically learn to\nrespect labor; let him learn to understand what the dignity of manual\nlabor really means, and the two classes of society, united at the root,\nwill never thereafter entirely grow asunder.\n\nA short time ago I spent an afternoon with a poet whose fame is familiar\nto all. There was present in the company a gentleman of large means,\nwho, in the course of conversation, descanted upon the merits of the\nprotective system, and spoke in glowing terms of the growth of the\nindustries of his State and of the immense wealth which is being\naccumulated in its large cities. The aged poet turned to him, and said:\n\"That is all very well. I like your industries and your factories and\nyour wealth; but, tell me, do they turn out men down your way?\" That is\nthe question which we are bound to consider. _Is this civilization of\nours turning out men_--manly men and womanly women? Now, it is a\ncheering and encouraging thought that technical labor, which is the\nsource of our material aggrandizement, may also become, when employed in\nthe education of the young, the means of enlarging their manhood,\nquickening their intellect, and strengthening their character.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[23] An address delivered before the National Conference of Charities\nand Correction, at Buffalo, July, 1888.\n\n\n\n\nD. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS.\n\nMISCELLANEOUS WORKS OF HERBERT SPENCER.\n\n\n_EDUCATION: Intellectual, Moral, and Physical._ 12mo. Paper, 50 cents;\ncloth, $1.25.\n\n     CONTENTS: What Knowledge is of most Worth?--Intellectual\n     Education.--Moral Education.--Physical Education.\n\n\n_SOCIAL STATICS._ By HERBERT SPENCER. New and revised edition, including\n\"The Man _versus_ the State,\" a series of essays on political tendencies\nheretofore published separately. 12mo. 420 pages. Cloth, $2.00.\n\n     Having been much annoyed by the persistent quotation from the old\n     edition of \"Social Statics,\" in the face of repeated warnings, of\n     views which he had abandoned, and by the misquotation of others\n     which he still holds, Mr. Spencer some ten years ago stopped the\n     sale of the book in England and prohibited its translation. But the\n     rapid spread of communistic theories gave new life to these\n     misrepresentations; hence Mr. Spencer decided to delay no longer a\n     statement of his mature opinions on the rights of individuals and\n     the duty of the state.\n\n     CONTENTS: Happiness as an Immediate Aim.--Unguided Expediency.--The\n     Moral-Sense Doctrine.--What is Morality?--The Evanescence\n     [? Diminution] of Evil.--Greatest Happiness must be sought\n     indirectly.--Derivation of a First Principle.--Secondary Derivation\n     of a First Principle.--First Principle.--Application of this First\n     Principle.--The Right of Property.--Socialism.--The Right of\n     Property in Ideas.--The Rights of Women.--The Rights of\n     Children.--Political Rights.--The Constitution of the State.--The\n     Duty of the State.--The Limit of State-Duty.--The Regulation of\n     Commerce.--Religious Establishments.--Poor-Laws.--National\n     Education.--Government Colonization.--Sanitary\n     Supervision.--Currency Postal Arrangements, etc.--General\n     Considerations.--The New Toryism.--The Coming Slavery.--The Sins of\n     Legislators.--The Great Political Superstition.\n\n\n_THE STUDY OF SOCIOLOGY._ The fifth volume in the International\nScientific Series. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.\n\n     CONTENTS: Our Need of it--Is there a Social Science?--Nature of the\n     Social Science.--Difficulties of the Social Science.--Objective\n     Difficulties.--Subjective Difficulties, Intellectual.--Subjective\n     Difficulties, Emotional.--The Educational Bias--The Bias of\n     Patriotism.--The Class-Bias.--The Political Bias.--The Theological\n     Bias.--Discipline.--Preparation in Biology.--Preparation in\n     Psychology.--Conclusion.\n\n\nNew York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.\n\n\n     \"This work marks an epoch in the history-writing of this\n     country.\"--_St. Louis Post-Dispatch._\n\n[Illustration: COLONIAL COURT-HOUSE. PHILADELPHIA, 1707.]\n\n_THE HOUSEHOLD HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES AND ITS PEOPLE._ FOR YOUNG\nAMERICANS. By EDWARD EGGLESTON. Richly illustrated with 350 Drawings, 75\nMaps, etc. Square 8vo. Cloth, $2.50.\n\n\n_FROM THE PREFACE._\n\nThe present work is meant, in the first instance, for the young--not\nalone for boys and girls, but for young men and women who have yet to\nmake themselves familiar with the more important features of their\ncountry's history. By a book for the young is meant one in which the\nauthor studies to make his statements clear and explicit, in which\ncurious and picturesque details are inserted, and in which the writer\ndoes not neglect such anecdotes as lend the charm of a human and\npersonal interest to the broader facts of the nation's story. That\nhistory is often tiresome to the young is not so much the fault of\nhistory as of a false method of writing by which one contrives to relate\nevents without sympathy or imagination, without narrative connection or\nanimation. The attempt to master vague and general records of kiln-dried\nfacts is certain to beget in the ordinary reader a repulsion from the\nstudy of history--one of the most important of all studies for its\nwidening influence on general culture.\n\n[Illustration: INDIAN'S TRAP.]\n\n     \"Fills a decided gap which has existed for the past twenty years in\n     American historical literature. The work is admirably planned and\n     executed, and will at once take its place as a standard record of\n     the life, growth, and development of the nation. It is profusely\n     and beautifully illustrated.\"--_Boston Transcript._\n\n     \"The book in its new dress makes a much finer appearance than\n     before, and will be welcomed by older readers as gladly as its\n     predecessor was greeted by girls and boys. The lavish use the\n     publishers have made of colored plates, woodcuts, and photographic\n     reproductions, gives an unwonted piquancy to the printed page,\n     catching the eye as surely as the text engages the mind.\"--_New\n     York Critic._\n\n[Illustration: GENERAL PUTNAM.]\n\n     \"The author writes history as a story. It can never be less than\n     that. The book will enlist the interest of young people, enlighten\n     their understanding, and by the glow of its statements fix the\n     great events of the country firmly in the mind.\"--_San Francisco\n     Bulletin._\n\n\nNew York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Moral Instruction of Children, by Felix Adler\n\n*** ","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"##\n\nTHE DIRT CHRONICLES\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2011 by Kristyn Dunnion\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form by any means\u2014graphic, electronic, or mechanical\u2014without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a licence from Access Copyright.\n\nARSENAL PULP PRESS  \n\n#101-211 East Georgia St.  \nVancouver, BC  \nCanada V6A 1Z6  \narsenalpulp.com\n\nThe publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of British Columbia through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program for its publishing activities.\n\nEfforts have been made to locate copyright holders of source material wherever possible. The publisher welcomes hearing from any copyright holders of material used in this book who have not been contacted.\n\nLyrics reprinted with permission.\n\n\"Black Iron Heart\" written and composed by A Storm of Light. \"Object, Refuse, Reject Abuse\" and \"Deaf, Dumb and Male\" written and composed by DIRT.\n\n\"In The Air Tonight,\" Words & Music by Phil Collins, \u00a9 Copyright 1981 Philip Collins Limited. Imagem Music. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.\n\nAn earlier draft of \"Stargazing at Eddie's\" was published by Fab 310, December 2006.  \nAn excerpt from \"Ferret Hunt\" was published in _Winterplay! Pinkplaymags,_ December 2009.\n\nThis is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons either living or deceased is purely coincidental.\n\nBook design by Shyla Seller  \nAuthor photograph by Jamie Carlisle  \nCover photography by Lachlan Black, www.flickr.com\/photos\/thebadseed\/\n\nPrinted and bound in Canada\n\nLibrary and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:\n\nDunnion, Kristyn, 1969-  \nThe dirt chronicles [electronic resource] \/ Kristyn Dunnion.\n\nElectronic monograph in PDF format.  \nIssued also in print format.  \nISBN 978-1-55152-431-3\n\nI. Title.\n\nPS8557.U552D57 2011a C813\u2032.6 C2011-903324-0\n\n## Acknowledgments\n\nThis book is dedicated to the kids.\n\nIn loving memory of Will Munro (1975\u20132010), pied punk piper who brought us all together, and Elizabeth \"Luscious\" Baxter (1978\u20132010), who fed us her generous, incomparable love.\n\nThank you to Carolyn Beck, Anne Laurel Carter, Anna Kerz, Shannon Quinn, and Cheryl Rainfield, who gave tremendous encouragement and critiqued earlier drafts. Thank you to Greg Hawkes, Annie Ouellette, and Annetta and Patrick Dunnion for consultation on vital matters. To Cherish Violet Blood and Tammy Manitowabe who first brought me to Wiky on the Red Pepper Arts Spectacle bus. To John MacDonald, for keeping it real.\n\nThe author gratefully acknowledges the Toronto Arts Council and the Ontario Arts Council for financial support.\n\n##\n\n## Contents\n\nMigrant\n\nTwo Ton: An Opera in Three Acts\n\nStargazing at Eddie's\n\nSeven-Dollar Blow\n\nHappy House\n\nToddlers and Tiaras\n\nPig House Party\n\nShaker Baker\n\nBig House\n\nPiggy Goes to Market\n\nFerret Hunt: A Three-Act Play\n\nLedge\n\nBush\n\nAbout the Author\n\n# Migrant\n\n(for Patrick)\n\nYou can blame me for coming up with the plan. But it wasn't so much _forcible confinement_ or _abduction_ like the papers said. Hell, I rescued this kid from a life of hard labour and petty disappointment. He was born in the wrong place at the wrong time and, frankly, I consider it an act of man-love solidarity, like assisted suicide.\n\nI'd nursed a wicked hangover all day and was finally heading home in the Coupe, sipping a premixed Caesar I kept tucked between my legs. Folks out to see the lake on a Sunday drive, maybe get an ice cream down at the docks, they'd seen my hand-painted sign: Larry's Putt Putt Minigolf come to slap down their money, have a game with the kids. Sadists, if they knew how little I wanted their business that day with my headache, my dry mouth and withered ego. They were flies buzzing. Their shrieking kids fought over the clubs. Worn out, sweaty and bickering, they were now going home, just like me, east or west on the two-lane highway that followed the Lake Erie shoreline, County Road 20. The sun burned its way to the horizon, overheating the car. Heading west, I had to squint behind the steering wheel, having lost my sunglasses during last night's debauchery. The windows were all the way down, but driving sixty clicks was not making much breeze.\n\nI cranked the radio\u2014\"101 FM, the home of rock and roll, baby!\" The steady drum intro, the opening discord, the distorted voice: \"Iron Man,\" off Black Sabbath's genius second album. I air-drummed on the wheel, banged my soon-to-be-long-again hair to the beat. I croaked along with Ozzy. The bass line thumped through my dashboard; it jangled the keys that hung by my knee. I wanted to gun it, travel at light speed, and sail in time with the music.\n\nBut right ahead of me about a dozen men rode their bicycles in a line at the very edge of the asphalt. A dozen buttoned-up, long-sleeved, cotton-polyester white shirts, all in a row. They wore deep-billed baseball caps\u2014ones with John Deere or Del Monte logos\u2014low over their shining jet hair, shade for the setting sun. They were going home too, back to the shacks they lived in during the months they worked in Ontario. There wasn't enough room to really pass them safely, and the east-bound cars were not budging. Bikes often got bullied into the gravel shoulder on this stretch of road, even beyond it, sometimes landing in the deep ditches that collect run-off rain water from the fields. Probably because of that, no one other than migrant workers ever rode along here. Christ, they had no other way to get around. I may be a First Class Ass, as Sharon liked to say, but I'm not a road hog.\n\nI was at the tail end of their parade, debating whether or not to pass them all. That's when I first noticed the kid, one dark rebel in the line of white-and-beige clothes. I thought I was hallucinating. I leaned into the glare. I took my foot off the gunner, let the engine purr down. _No_. It just so happened he was wearing a Sabbath 1978 World Tour T-shirt, faded black. I used to have the same one. His black hat was swivelled sideways and his red bandanna was tied around his face like a bank robber's, I guess to keep out field dust, whipped up by the cars.\n\nI kept pace with the kid and watched out the side window. He immediately turned toward the music. He tugged the bandanna down and grinned, his dazzling smile a lightning bolt that split his handsome brown face almost in two. A balloon expanded inside my chest, making it tight and hot in there. Devil horns up, the kid shook his hand at me. I shook mine back. The kid belted out the chorus and I joined in. We were heavy metal brothers, separated at birth.\n\nBehind me some jackass honked. I gave the one-finger salute out my window. Can't even have a quality rock-and-roll moment with a stranger, for Chrissakes. The driver shook his hands from behind the wheel of his Honda Civic. Times have changed when you can drive foreign around here and _not_ be worried about a slit tire or a fist fight. Mostly we got Chryslers and GM trucks, even though the auto industry pretty much laid off every other uncle. Someone else honked farther back in the line of cars forming behind me, our procession dragging into the sunset ahead. Honda Civic jackass behind me edged into the oncoming lane. He wanted to pass on a solid with hardly a breath before the oncoming car. I rode the line to block him, tell him what's what.\n\nSharon always called me a stubborn man. _Maybe_. But the hell I was heaving off for some 'tard in an import. I drained my Caesar and lobbed the empty bottle into the back seat. I was beginning to consider myself the kid's bodyguard, a dark green 1969 Impala patrolling beside his bike, like we were in a gang. I waited for the instrumental part of the song, where the drums go crazy and your blood runs faster. I revved my engine. Giving the cyclists a wide berth, I gunned it, scaring the east-bound cars. I peeled away, the kid still rocking it old-school, thumbs up. I laid some fast tracks. About a quarter mile up, I cut a sharp right onto a side road, fishtailing into the dirt, sending a spray of small stones and dust onto that twat Honda that was trying to keep up with me.\n\nAh, did that kid ever make my day.\n\nBut seriously, you got to know those shirts aren't easy to come by. Not even here in Ass Crack, Ontario, where the mullet never left and acid-wash jeans are still raring to go. Later that night, I decimated the neighbours with _The Number of the Beast_ , my nearly forgotten Iron Maiden record. I downed a quart of rye and ginger ale. I dug through my drawers, the hall closet, the now empty second bedroom (Sharon's World), and even the mildewy boxes in the garage. I was searching for lost treasure\u2014ripped posters I once worshipped on my bedroom walls, concert shirts I'd long since outgrown, my vinyl collection, my most sacred teenaged belongings. Underneath a box of _Star Wars_ action figures was the dispossessed electric guitar and amp of my youth. I'd forgotten all about it. _Poor baby_. I opened the dusty case. The sunburst Fender glared. I lifted it. \"Shh, shh,\" I slurred. I dragged the amp into the living room and cleared out a corner.\n\nAfter Sharon moved in, I'd packed my crap up, bit by bit. She complained she had no space for her shit. _Sharon_. What the hell had I been thinking? Clearly I would've been a famous musician by now, if I hadn't let that woman run my life. I left my rediscovered things strewn about the bungalow and in piles on the lawn. The mess announced my triumphant return to bachelorhood. Maybe I'd even get a roommate, a partner in crime! Still, no matter how many cupboards I rifled through, how much crap I dumped on the floor, I couldn't find that one missing box. _Where was the damn shirt?_\n\nI stumbled through the living room, tripped on an open suitcase and landed on the worn out couch. I decided to stay there. I was hammered again. My last thought, before passing out, was highly unoriginal and not worth repeating.\n\nI woke with a pain between my eyes. My mossy tongue rotted in my foul mouth. Sunlight from the living room window burned a thin strip across the couch, across my face. My pits reeked. My skin was clammy. No surprise, really. In Ass Crack, summers are hot, humid. By mid-morning your clothes stick to you, your hair goes frizzy and awful. Noon, it's unbearable. You wouldn't know that unless you're from here or you been here.\n\nI thought about the hot drive to work. About sitting in that stifling shack where I rented out the clubs. Who would choose to do this today? I was my own boss. Then I thought about my Visa bill, cable, alimony\u2014to make any money, I'd have to deal with people. I'd have to sit there and smile and try not to let my ghastly beer farts scare them off. _Groan_. I rolled over, blocking the hot sun strip with my shoulder. I faced the back of the ratty couch. It was the Summer of Suck.\n\nWhen you're a kid, you live for it. No school, no job. You bust out in all your heated glory like a feral Tom running the neighbourhood, all day long and half the night, too. When you get sick of the heat or if you have cousins visiting, you go down to Lake Erie. There's always someone there. You go west to Cedar Beach; there's the broken pier you dive off, the best spot being right by the warning sign about rocks. Or off the bridge, where you find one or two old men trolling for catfish. There's Ken's Variety and Bait Shoppe, where you get candy and ice cream and worms for your line. The actual beach has usually got dead fish on the sand, clumps of stinking seaweed, tampon applicators, and broken glass. But the water is not too deep and the waves are nice and big.\n\nWhen you're a teenager, you get the beach bonfires going at night. You steal booze from your parents' stash or you pay that old wino in town an extra dollar to buy a bottle at the liquor store. You get kids to bring their teenaged cousins so you can all check each other out. You roast marshmallows, you try to make out. Someone always drinks too much and then they puke.\n\nWhen you're an adult, though, you mostly just stay in town or out on the concession roads, wherever you live, and suffer the heat. You get up and go to work and earn your shit pay. You come home, eat too much, and sweat in front of the television. You drink yourself to sleep. You dream of an air conditioner on sale at the Walmart.\n\nYes, sir. Ass Crack is hot and flat and the fields run for miles, except where the roads cut through. Nowadays the fields are almost all covered by aluminum-framed plastic greenhouses, hundreds of them everywhere, unending. Fields or greenhouses, you still need hard workers to turn and plant and tend and pick food from dirt. To lug those heavy tomato crates, those fruit baskets, those apples and cherries, peppers and squash. I did it myself for a few years: detassling corn with the other pot-smoking burn-outs when I was sixteen, finally tall enough. Nearly broke my back picking beans and strawberries, too. Nowadays, kids don't do that. They got machines for the corn, and foreigners for the picking.\n\n\"Seems to me our only real shortage is hard-working Canadians.\" I drained more of my beer and belched. \"'Spite of all those layoffs.\" I looked around the pub for a response. A circle of large, balding men glared. One particularly neckless dude wearing a Windsor Spitfires jersey growled.\n\n\"You're too good for fieldwork?\" I said. \"You got something better to do?\"\n\nThe beer-bellied dude at the next barstool told me to shut up. He was solid, like a Kenmore fridge. His nostrils flared.\n\nThe bartender slapped my bill on the bar. \"I'd pay that before Donny here kicks your teeth in,\" he said.\n\n\"My point,\" I continued, \"is nobody here wants to break their back in the heat for shit money. Cushy union brats.\"\n\nDonny stood up. \"Get your ass out of here, goof.\" He pushed me hard in the chest.\n\nNo one had touched me in a long time.\n\nThe bartender tapped the circled total on my bill. I pulled out my wallet.\n\n\"Used to be Frenchies, come pick the fruit,\" I mumbled. \"Then Haitians. Now it's Mexicans. Salvadorans.\" My chest glowed where Donny's meaty hand had been. In my confused state, it felt a bit like love.\n\nThe bartender did not give me my change.\n\n\"Ah, fuck it,\" I said. I walked towards the door. \"You'd think there'd be open minds in a big city like Windsor. Can't even talk to some people.\"\n\nI left, but not before urinating on the front stoop.\n\n_Take that, assholes._\n\nThe other thing about Windsor, any city really, is you can't see a thing in the night sky, all those buildings, that electric light. But out in the country, now that's darkness. Sky so black you can taste it. And the stars\u2014it's like God puked up a glow stick. Barns as large as ships: invisible in the night, unless they're splattered with oncoming headlights. The horses, the pigs are all tucked into their stalls. Hens curled up quiet as cats around the yard. No cows here, no rolling hills for grazing, nothing like that. It's dead flat.\n\nCops just sit out at the Fifth Concession, that notorious country road, and turn out their lights. They see everyone coming down from the bypass, coming back from Windsor like me, or from the bush parties or whatnot, and they clock you without batting a lash. Unless you're in the habit of driving blind, like I am, when you outsmart those fucks at their own game and shut off _your_ headlights. Which reminded me to roll up the window\u2014didn't need to tip them off with my favourite station filling the air with power chords: Steppenwolf, Rush, April Wine. Driving blind, I didn't even need to stop at the signs. I'd just plow straight home fast as I liked, tight as I was. I could always see some joker coming at me, right, cuz he'd have _his_ lights on. I sang out loud when they cued up Led Zeppelin: \"Been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time.\"\n\nI was thumping the steering wheel, keeping the beat. I'd already forgotten those knobs at the bar. I was remembering being sixteen, getting my licence, shitting myself, and driving for the first time on this very road in broad daylight. I had reached over to change the radio station and ended up in a twelve-foot ditch\u2014true story. Right about here. Driving just ain't right without music. Around here, folks got a healthy respect for country classics, a mild curiosity about the blues\u2014what started it all\u2014but mostly, a god-sworn allegiance to classic rock.\n\nThat got me thinking. A guy doesn't just give away his concert shirts. No, sir. That's unheard of. I was wondering about that rebel Mexican, working the fields and wearing the Sabbath. How the hell did _he_ get a hold of that shirt? Maybe that makes me a jerk, but honestly. And why couldn't I find mine? I used to wear it every day of the week. Obviously, I was not at that show; it was given to me on my thirteenth birthday by a favourite uncle when he found out I loved metal. He'd _been there_ , in person. It was a rite of passage, getting that holy relic. I'd give my left nut to teleport back in time and tailgate party my way around, worshipping at the band's platform heels.\n\n_Who am I kidding?_ I'd give them both.\n\nI woke with a start. It was this side of dawn; I could tell by the strange light that stole through the window where my bedroom curtains did not quite meet in the middle. I looked out of habit but, of course, Sharon wasn't on her side. I blinked.\n\nIt was obvious. Some dude, possibly even a buddy of mine I hadn't seen in years, probably keeled over and died. His mother or worse, his wife or live-in girlfriend, probably packed up those hallowed shirts and dropped them down at the charity Goodwill. _The nerve_. That Mexican kid might have scored an entire lifetime supply of rock and metal paraphernalia for a few bucks.\n\n_And why shouldn't he?_\n\nThat was Sharon's voice haunting me from beyond divorce court.\n\n_Is he less deserving than you and your fat, balding friends?_\n\nThat'd be just like her, take the side of a kid from a place she'd never even been, over her own husband.\n\n_I have so been there. On our goddamned honeymoon, you prick._\n\nAh, Sharon. You got me there.\n\nThe following Sunday, also hungover, I decided to close the shop early. In fact, I couldn't wait for this one family to finish their game. The parents looked vaguely familiar and were probably dweebs I'd hated in high school. They wore matching polo shirts, like from some depressing Sears Catalogue photo shoot. The kids fought. They were a whole new brand of ugly, a screeching, snotting ad for birth control. Watching them made me hate the world a little bit more than I already had when I'd got up that morning. Made me want to lock up this stupid shop and burn it to the ground. I reimbursed them half, since they played half the course, and kicked them the hell out.\n\n\"Now you look here,\" said the father.\n\n\"Look at my dick,\" I replied. The eyebrows, the open mouths.\n\nI slammed the door of the Coupe and cracked a lukewarm beer. I drove straight ahead into the heart of Leamington, where our town's tomatoes get turned into ketchup in their big Heinz factory. I drove deep into the relaxed pulse of the town's innards. It was full of farm workers on their day off. They were everywhere. They ran errands, phoned home, wired money. They sat on the town benches that were usually just real estate agent ads. Workers leaned against the giant photos of those smiling phonies in their beige suits. Canadians, I realized, don't enjoy ourselves. We go about our uptight business all day and relax, or not, when we get home. Mexicans seemed to know how to use public space, how to spend time together. I decided to park the car and join them.\n\nI walked up and down the main drag, looked into windows, nodded and smiled at people. They nodded back. I followed one group of workers who headed toward the information centre in town, an enormous all-weather tomato where some kid sat all day, bored as a stick, reading Harry Potter, in case anyone stopped and asked for directions or wanted tourist brochures. _As if_. The men turned onto a path I'd never noticed. It was hidden by the giant tomato and a line of large thorny bushes, Ash no doubt. I hesitated briefly. That path led into what used to be an old parking lot. Smells found me almost immediately\u2014smoke and meat, spices, and roasting corn. I could hear Spanish voices laughing and singing. The lot had been transformed into some kind of square.\n\nI felt like Alice in goddamned Wonderland.\n\nAbout fifty men were hanging out in this alternate universe. Some drank from small dark bottles of beer, others from round flasks they kept at their sides. They were having a good time, nothing rowdy, just relaxing. There were a few benches, all taken, and in one corner there was an old metal container being used as a giant barbecue. Meat sizzled on a makeshift grill, corn in the husk smoked along the edges. Two men worked the grill and filled plates for the others. Nearby was a second smaller grill with a flat sheet on top. A dark-haired woman was forming patties from pale dough, tortillas maybe; she slapped them into shape with expert hands and placed them on the hot metal sheet. She laughed as she worked, her voice drawing the shy men closer, waiting for the food to be ready.\n\nMy stomach rumbled. Eating had not interested me lately, but these were some pretty good smells.\n\nA large-bottomed guitar was brought out, and a man began to play. It had a deep bass sound. He played a simple tune the others seemed to know. It was a bit rollicking, but as the other instruments joined in\u2014an accordion, a regular guitar, a horn\u2014it had an altogether different effect. Men began to sing. Larger bottles made their way around. I could have used a belt, whatever it was. This strange music drew me in. It was like country, but slower and more halting. Like a slightly drunken waltz. I liked it and didn't like it at the same time. There was something about the plaintive calling in the voices that popped up from the small knots of men in the yard that tugged at my insides and threatened to let loose some uncontrollable emotion.\n\nI panicked. I looked around and noticed several of the other men's eyes darting away. I was the only white Canadian here. Those around me were silent, even when I said hello. They kept their eyes on the ground and did not reply. The nearest ones had stopped joking around, too. I was spoiling the party. Fun crusher, me? I stumbled backwards, and blundered my way toward the path. The hush spread around me like a pox, and I felt every pair of shining dark eyes upon my back. I hurried, fatally, and twisted my weak ankle, an old hockey injury. I thrashed about in the Prickly Ash before falling heavily to the ground.\n\nThe silence was remarkable. Even the music stopped. I could see the path from down there and decided to crawl onto it, thinking it was less conspicuous than standing back up to announce my situation. I hoped no one noticed. As if on cue, there was a resounding burst of laughter; chuckling baritones, a giggling alto choir, and several higher-pitched hilarious sopranos, who succeeded only in provoking the whole square into louder fits of hysteria.\n\nHumiliated, I lurched forward on my hands and knees, still tangled in the bush. Thorns tore at my flesh. A pair of Converse knock-offs blocked my way. I looked up. It was the kid again, wearing that same shirt. The kid's black hair was longer than the other men's, about my own length. His eyes were two black stones that shone wetly: pupils indistinguishable from iris, they were so dark. He reached out a calloused hand. He was muscular from working the fields and pulled me up easily. His skin was surprisingly soft to touch. He smelled of earth and Sunlight detergent and of a faint manly sweat that was not bad.\n\n\"Thanks, man,\" I said awkwardly. I was several inches taller than him. I stared at the shirt which fit him very well. There was a familiar tear on the left sleeve. I rubbed the matching scar on my arm\u2014skateboarding wipe-out. A splotch of white paint along the shirt hem was a ghost from grade ten art class. This _was_ my bloody shirt!\n\nHe shrugged. \"You got the nice car, right? The Coupe?\"\n\nHe had an accent, but his English was better than I expected. I nodded.\n\n\"Bet it's a fun ride.\" He spoke softly.\n\nMy cheeks burned. Blood and sweat trickled down my neck. I pulled a thorn from my scratched hand. I needed to get the hell out of there. I wanted my shirt back. I jangled the keys. \"Want to find out?\"\n\nThere was that jigsaw smile again, lighting up his face.\n\n\"You like Sid Vicious?\"\n\n\"What? That punk?\" I sneered. I had regained my confidence and cynicism by then, zipping along the main drag.\n\n\"You don't like punk rock?\" Geraldo said this with total disbelief.\n\nI refused to reply.\n\nWe were cruising the strip, the Leamington \"L,\" the way it was done back when I was in school. You went from the McDonald's drive-through to the town centre just past the giant tomato, took a right, and rode the strip right to the very end of the dock, slammed on your brakes, then turned around and did the whole thing over again only in reverse. Most of the action used to be either down at the docks or up in the McDonald's parking lot\u2014girls smoking and tossing their bleached hair, dudes looking to fight, couples making out. In grade eleven I'd hooked up with Sharon on this very piece of real estate.\n\n\"Seriously?\" Geraldo sniffed his Big Mac. He took a bite. \"More than anything,\" he said, his mouth full, \"I want to be in a punk band.\"\n\nWell, I nearly pulled over and made him give me the shirt off his narrow back. I was speechless. I opened an emergency beer that he passed me from the glove compartment.\n\n\"No, but why can't you like metal and also like punk? That's silly. It's all rock and roll, man.\"\n\nI choked on the warm beer. It sprayed from my mouth, hit the windshield, dribbled down my chin, wetting the collar of my shirt. I coughed and breathed deeply. Those heretic words from Geraldo's mouth washed over me as my chest relaxed and I wiped the set line from around my mouth, loosening the tension in my jaw. For the first time in my life, I heard some truth in that statement. Geraldo sounded almost reasonable.\n\nLater, I let him take the wheel. \"You know how to drive, right?\n\n\"Oh yeah,\" he said. \"I been driving since I was nine years old.\"\n\nIt was some time before Geraldo elaborated. He meant he'd been driving the village _tractor_ since he was nine, which is a very different thing. He drove slowly, carefully, right down the middle of the road. The tip of his tongue stuck out at one corner from concentrating. He had a glazed smile plastered on his stunned face. He did okay, considering he freaked if I urged him beyond thirty-five kilometres an hour. We kept to the back roads, and any company we met simply passed us, leaving the Coupe covered in fine dust.\n\n\"Take a left and park.\" I had to draw the line somewhere. Even combines were booting past.\n\nWe sat at the top of the ridge, closest thing to a hill in these parts. There was a nice view of the farmland below that stretched a mile or two down to the shore. Sharon and I used to come here to neck in the old days. Before she moved in, of course. Before my parents died, leaving the bungalow to me, suddenly making me the most popular guy at school. _Larry, party at your house, right?_ Right.\n\n\"This used to be lake.\" I pointed to the farm land below us.\n\n\"Heh?\" His eyebrows arched. I noticed they were graceful like a woman's: not too hairy.\n\n\"A-gwa,\" I said loudly. \"A long time ago all that was water. Now it's soil. Dirt.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" He nodded gravely. \"My grandmother's village had that, only the opposite. It got covered up. Disappeared.\" He gripped the steering wheel. I watched the muscles move up his forearm, along his bicep.\n\n\"Oh.\" I inhaled. The smell of him filled me. I opened the passenger window the rest of the way. \"What's it like in Mexico?\"\n\n\"Very different. You never been?\" He leaned toward me when he asked that.\n\nI felt stuck in this seat, bare without the steering wheel in front of me, like the car wasn't mine anymore. I cleared my throat. \"Just on my honeymoon. Some beach resort.\"\n\n\"Where is your wife?\" Geraldo's eyes glittered from his soft face.\n\n\"Where'd you get that shirt?\"\n\n\"Some lady was selling her ex-husband's stuff at a yard sale.\" He laughed. \"Like, she was really mad at him. I paid only fifty cents.\"\n\nI drained the can and crushed it, one-handed, and tossed it out the window. \"Geraldo, let me tell you something. Don't ever get married. It'll ruin your life.\"\n\n\"I am already. I had to marry, to come to Canada.\"\n\nI looked at him blankly.\n\n\"Your government said this. We must be married and go to church if we want to work. So we won't stay here and get Canadian girlfriends. Make Mexi-Can babies.\" He laughed.\n\n_Was this true?_ That shut me right up.\n\n\"We make a deal. We have a little room, but she do what she wants, and me too.\"\n\n\"Huh.\"\n\n\"She is pretty, but she don't like men. Now the others leave her alone. And me, I want\u2014\"\n\n\"To be in a punk rock band,\" I said.\n\nHe nodded vigorously.\n\n\"Well, Geraldo. You sure got your shit together, don't you?\" It was about then that I decided to let him keep the fucking shirt. Suddenly, I didn't care if I never saw it again.\n\nAfter I dropped Geraldo at the laneway to his farm, I headed home. I needed an actual cold beer and a talk with Jack Daniels. I poured the amber liquid over a big chunk of ice. _I'll sip it_ , I thought. _Just a little_. I wondered what Sharon was doing tonight, wherever she was. Sunday nights we used to go bowling, back in the day. Or down to Cedar Beach. In winter we'd rent movies and pile quilts around us on the couch to stay warm. We're talking about ten years ago, before I got the heaters fixed.\n\n_Try fifteen, jerk._\n\nI poured a second helping.\n\nSharon used to say she loved that I could crush a beer can in one hand. She loved to fiddle with my long hair. Then suddenly it bugged her. She wanted it cut off.\n\n_And grow up while you're at it, Larry._\n\nFuck ice cubes. I pulled straight from the bottle.\n\n\"Arrgh!\" I yelled at the large amp. I plugged in, turned that bad boy on. The guitar was seriously out of tune. It needed new strings. I managed to blast a few notes into the dark bungalow. My hands were stiff, too clumsy to do anything right. I gulped more whiskey. The burn comforted my throat.\n\nWhy did broads fall for you the way you were\u2014holding your liquor, cracking your jokes, feathering your hair while the rest of those turds from your class went bald\u2014then demand you change? As soon as they owned your space, they wanted you to turn the music down, stop watching the playoffs. They cried if you didn't do the dishes or if you didn't do them _right_ ; when you didn't notice their new hairdo; when you told them to lay off the chips or they'd never fit into their skinny jeans again. What is life for, anyway? You head off to that shit job she found (minigolf, seriously?), wearing a phony shirt with a clip-on tie that _she_ bought. You come home for a crap dinner and lite beer, and find her banging some dude who looks a bit the way you _used to_ , before she cut off your balls and zipped them into her purse, forever.\n\n_Ah, Sharon._\n\nThat Geraldo had the right fucking idea.\n\nAll summer long, it was green and black and gold and red: walks in the fields, Sunday drives along the lakeshore in the Coupe. There was beer and whiskey. There were awkward moments, standing too close or bumping against him or stumbling together across the lawn, loaded. A buzz ran through me, electric, that zapped whenever Geraldo's skin brushed mine. I'd shake it off and drink more. There was music, lots of it, blasted from my stereo and from my amp. Geraldo had a gift. He could play that guitar, make it sing like I never could. His face shone with joy when he wailed on it, chugging steadily and ripping off some scorching solo. I stared at him outright then. I felt like some groupie creep, a pre-teen girl with my very own private boy band in the living room.\n\nLate August was yellow and fiery orange. Geraldo grew slightly stooped from bending and picking, from the even longer days of heavy lifting and lugging that was harvest. His eyes sparkled less; he had little energy for playing guitar or anything else. By then I had stopped opening the shop during the week. Instead, I would drive out to the fields at first light and work alongside the men, all the burning hours of day and into the cooler night. My body ached from it, my hands were ruined, but it made me feel real to sweat and bend and dig and haul. I'd bring something for lunch, something for me and Geraldo. In the shade of a leafy tree, we'd eat these lousy sandwiches and shoot the shit. He'd try out lyrics for his imaginary band, Migrant, but mostly we'd just sit in our hot stink and chug water before going back to work.\n\nUnbelievably, some fields remained untouched other than by feasting birds if it cost more to pick and transport the produce than the owners would be paid for it. Instead, the food was left to rot. Neighbours would come after dark to fill their quiet baskets\u2014midnight picking. Eventually, the soil would be turned over, tomatoes and all. Explosive harvest reds drained into mid-fall grey-browns. The air grew crisp. The nights got cold. Every year at this time, the workers were rounded up and sent home, back to Mexico, and our world returned to its usual cold, white winter.\n\nMigrant workers were not eligible for E.I. even though they paid Canadian taxes. I roared when I first heard that, but Geraldo quietly said, \"We signed English papers.\" Like that explained it all. When I trumpeted something about workers' rights, he smiled cynically. His dark eyes pierced me. \"We have the right to remain silent,\" he said, and opened a fresh beer. \"You complain, and they take you off the list. You can't come back next year. Then your whole family goes hungry and ashamed.\" The guilt was almost unbearable. It occurred to me for the first time that he might _never_ come back.\n\nWe were sitting in the Coupe on the ridge one night when I finally asked about that. He was too tired to go all the way to my place and come back for daybreak together. He smiled sadly. \"Maria warned me on the phone,\" he said. \"The village thinks you're a _chupacabra_ , a goatsucker.\"\n\nI knew the other workers didn't even talk to him, if they could help it. But it never occurred that they'd blame _me_ , the strange gringo, for poisoning him. I was stunned. Geraldo didn't know if they'd asked the farmer to take his name off the return list, or if the boss man himself had decided.\n\n\"Either way,\" he said, \"I'm different. They don't like that.\"\n\nGuilt ate at me. That's when the plan started simmering. Years ago, driving home from the bar, I'd seen farm hands lined up along the side of the road. Boss man was handing back their special work permits as each man stepped onto the bus\u2014a shitty loaner school bus. They were packed up and driven straight to Toronto Pearson airport in the middle of the night. _Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars_. It reminded me of an old photo I'd seen at school, an American plantation owner leading a chain gang of slaves to market. Don't get me wrong, not all farmers are racist a-holes, far from it. They're working harder than you or I to make a living so the rest of us can eat. Frankly, if we ungrateful fucks paid more attention to how food got onto our dinner plates, we'd know how hard it is for farmers to break even.\n\nStill, I felt no regret chugging northeast on the 401 on that particular pre-dawn day, keeping pace with Geraldo's crew bus, none whatsoever. What I couldn't believe was that the thing didn't stop, not even once, on the four-and-a-half hour drive. I had to pull over to take a leak and get a jumbo coffee to keep my eyes open, which meant another pit stop in twenty minutes. I lost track of the bus, but finally caught up with it as it choked and shuddered curbside, in front of Terminal Three.\n\nThe men wore their hats low, as usual. They shivered in sweaters. Our fall was cold for them. It crept in and chilled their inside parts. I think it scared them. Might have felt like death. They shuffled from foot to foot, holding their bags and souvenirs\u2014toys for the children they'd been missing, gifts for their wives. Boss man hadn't seen me yet, but the rest sure had. Blame radiated from their turned backs. I felt dirty, old, _wrong_ in ways I never had before. For a minute I wondered if I should really go ahead with the plan. Maybe Geraldo's life would not be ruined after all. Maybe they would forgive him back in their land, in their own language, far from North America and its rampant diseases: greed, sloth, lust, pride. If so, Geraldo and his pretty fake wife might just work things out.\n\n_Shit._ I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. It was now or never.\n\nThe idea was simple. Create a diversion, stuff him in the trunk, get the hell out of there. The tricky part was the distraction. None of the workers would risk helping. Geraldo had fretted about how it would all come to pass. \"Details, details,\" I'd said, and changed the subject, thinking I could wing it. Be truly _in the moment_. In fact, I was starting to panic, not seeing Geraldo in the crowd of men, not knowing if he'd noticed my car sitting about thirty feet behind the bus. I bit my knuckle worrying. I turned off the engine.\n\nThen a taxi van pulled up behind the bus and in front of me. Crying, shouting family members with oversized luggage spilled out. There was a colossal intergenerational argument; a dog yapped from underneath a large woman's arm. A second cab arrived with the rest of their group. It was a travelling carnival of chaos\u2014weeping in-laws, couples struggling with all their crap, several nose-picking, stumbling children.\n\n_God help them all._\n\nI turned the engine back on and slowly inched up beside the taxis, blocking them in. I parked, got out, and nonchalantly opened the huge trunk. I scanned the line of workers. I whistled to myself. Suddenly, there he was. Geraldo slipped past the other men, weaving amongst the hysterical family members. Geraldo chucked his bag into the huge open trunk. He almost didn't notice the guitar case and amp in there.\n\n\"It's yours,\" I said, and blushed uncontrollably.\n\n\"No way!\" His eyes sparkled. His smile brightened the early morning haze. \"Thanks, man.\"\n\nHe hugged me hard to his chest. His hot breath singed my neck, my left ear. Wherever his body touched mine\u2014hands on my back, torso against my own, thighs burning against my jeans\u2014those parts melted away, hot and strange. I'd never own them in the same way again.\n\nThen he was curled inside the trunk, an arm around the case, one thumb up, still smiling. I whistled some more, slammed down the lid. I slid behind the wheel. I turned the engine over, changed gear, and chugged away, past the arguing, weeping family, past the school bus and driver, past the line of men who now stared at me openly, in shock. In disgust. One pointed an accusing finger. I can feel it to this day.\n\nI turned the radio up so Geraldo could hear it, too. Pink Floyd was ending, thankfully, and Judas Priest was singing \"Breaking the Law.\" I nosed the Coupe back onto the highway and we headed south, into the deep belly of sin city, down to Torannah. If ever there was a place for a Mexican runaway who dreamed of starting a punk band, I guessed this'd be it. He had an address, a phone number, one name in a city of five million. Most important, he had a backup if he needed it. As I had already told him, the second room in my bungalow was totally clear now. It was his for the taking. He could do what he wanted, and me, too.\n\n# Two Ton: An Opera in Three Acts\n\n## _Act One: Soft Rock_\n\nHim: flying down Yonge Street, ripping past lanes of stalled traffic, weaving between all those cars. Him: zigzagging the wrong way through intersections, his delivery satchel strapped around his barrel chest, a two-way radio squawking at his shoulder. I noticed that particular bike courier in the downtown core more than all the others. It was his bright blond hair that got my attention, and the bigness of him. He was a gladiator, an urban warrior and, most notably, I never saw him without a wide, gleaming smile.\n\nWe couldn't have been less alike. I was his shadow: thin, dark-haired, introverted. I hated drawing attention to myself and was afraid of trying new things. I followed rules, not even jaywalking with the rushing hordes each morning. Not even when he and the other couriers blocked the honking cars with their insolent dawdling, completely immobilizing the street with their bike tricks and general disregard for traffic bylaws.\n\nI worked in the tallest, blackest tower, forty-seven floors up. I scratched out a meagre salary in an office of overworked accountants. This was thanks to the charity of one of my father's former schoolmates who gave me the job. I was the whipping boy of two aging receptionists, Gladys and Helen. Each morning Gladys turned on the adult contemporary radio station while Helen made my To Do list. I filed and fetched, took messages, made the tea, all while Phil Collins bleated mercilessly in the background. \"I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord.\" I did everything Gladys and Helen did not want to do, but never exactly the way they preferred. I was of no real significance, except perhaps as an object of their daily contempt. They often smiled while sounding sharp, which confused me. They were like two birds of prey\u2014one taller and beakier, the other shorter and more feathered. Both perched at the edge of their seats expectantly, knitted sweaters ruffled around their bony shoulders. They exhibited a maternal shrewdness that frightened me, and I often hid in the hall closet when I heard them calling my name.\n\nWith Gladys and Helen, my gender imposed a certain further expectation, a specific skill set. When things got jammed, when things ran out, they called on me. I could usually refill paper and ink without total mishap, but what to do when the machines went on the fritz? Let me be very clear. I was not, _am_ not, a man of handy abilities. I can't hammer or saw or drill to save my life. It was luck, surely, or a wave of total synchronicity that somehow coincided with me placing my bewildered hands on one noncompliant machine and its subsequently choking itself back to life.\n\nGladys and Helen clapped. They looked at me in a new light, like I wasn't _completely_ useless after all. Satisfied that I had a knack for fixing things, they continued to call on me whenever the equipment failed. That spark of curious surprise returned whenever I performed the ritual and it resulted in some unlikely degree of success. Each time I wondered\u2014had I some paranormal ability like the comic book characters I'd worshipped as a child? Wariness and skepticism crept into those silly ideas, those blossoms of hope, and killed them. Surely I was an imposter. It would only be a matter of time before the ugly truth was exposed.\n\nGradually, I spent more time in the copier room, the sectioned-off pen with the machines, the electronic animals that _seemed_ to thrive under my quiet murmurings and casual pats. I hid in the mysterious folds of this new persona, however false it may have been. I was Mister Fix-It to the old birds. _Machine Man_ , I silently corrected. I daydreamed a spandex suit for myself, a cape, a more muscular body, and perfect vision. From my new post behind the copy room door, I could see out to reception as all sorts of well-dressed peons minced past. They rarely noticed me, but I started to recognize everyone who came and went.\n\nGladys and Helen were forever gossiping about the other staff when they weren't clucking over the sales pull-out in the daily paper. Randolph had gout, likely due to his drinking. Penny cheated on her husband and was seeing a dapper accountant down the hall. The new manager had a gambling problem, and Sylvia next door was bulimic; they'd heard her ritually cleansing after a carrot cake had gone missing from the lunch room. Gladys and Helen were equally relentless in documenting their own mundane affairs: I heard all about their bone spurs, their parking tickets, their irritated bowels. All this with Celine Dion screeching on the radio\u2014honestly, it was too much to bear.\n\nSurely this was some social science experiment. _It had to be!_ I had less in common with other people than I'd ever imagined. Hall & Oates sang \"Private Eyes.\" I despised everyone, I realized, the two receptionists most ardently. I fantasized about their sudden injury: elevator accidents, lunch-room poisonings, a tainted water cooler. I was living inside my own detached brain almost exclusively.\n\nPerhaps they noticed. When either Gladys or Helen had to enter the copier room alone to send or collect faxes, each would give nervous sidelong glances at me and leave as quickly as possible. More than once I'd heard them talking. \"There's something wrong with that boy,\" Helen said. \"He's not all there,\" Gladys agreed, and I snorted with delight. Then Helen said, \"Can you imagine his poor girlfriend?\" and Gladys clucked her tongue savagely. \"What we women have to put up with.\" That froze me, and I thought of Linda.\n\nLinda was a friendly girl from my college chemistry class who'd Facebooked me out of the blue, almost a year after graduation. She had asked me to the movies week after week without incident. Then about a month ago, she had insisted I come to her place for a drink. She'd left me in the living room, presumably to get our beers, and returned from the kitchen fully naked. Certain that my mediocrity and inexperience would prevail, I nevertheless tried to oblige her, however she instructed. The sex was not all I'd hoped it would be. No doubt Linda was even more disappointed. In the ensuing weeks, more half-hearted attempts brought similar results. At times I climaxed almost immediately, more out of stress and surprise than pleasure. Other times I could not find release no matter what ingenious tricks _Cosmo_ suggested she attempt. It was not the love affair of the century, of this I was certain. Somehow I hadn't expected sex to be so mechanical and awkward. But I continued to try my best, so to hear the old biddies taking Linda's part without knowing us at all, well, that pushed a limit.\n\nIt was in my new station, the copier room, that I caught regular glimpses of the blond courier as he breezed in and out. Two Ton was his name. \"How are my girls?\" he'd ask in his faint Eastern European accent. My enthralled supervisors cackled. When the sounds of Air Supply filled the office, he sang loudly to \"Every voman in the vorld!\" The old broads would bat their lashes and cross their ankles. He left pink cheeks and giddy smiles in his wake. Gladys and Helen would inevitably spend the next forty-five minutes recalling his jokes, his various attributes, his astounding physique. For once I yearned to hear them as they listed his superior qualities. I hummed along with Lionel Richie. Two Ton was so refreshing compared to the other people in my office. He was so much of what I longed to be, so much that I never _could_ be. I began making excuses to follow him.\n\nThe first time it was quite by accident. I had taken a late lunch break and, on my way back up the tower, I alone shared an elevator with him. The small space closed in around us. His scent filled it; the heat from his body charged the air. I felt faint from all the pheromones, the testosterone flooding from him. I couldn't think of anything to say. He, for once, was silent. I felt him looking at me, and I could hardly breathe. An instrumental version of Led Zeppelin's \"Black Dog\" was piped into the airless chamber. The elevator chimed as we sped upward. When the doors opened on my floor, I had to hide in the men's room for several minutes just to compose myself.\n\nFrom then on, whenever Gladys or Helen had errands, I would gallantly offer my assistance. I'd even go so far as to pay for their diet colas or low-fat cappuccinos, just so I might catch a glimpse of him elsewhere in the building, striding past tinted doors, spreading his charm along with the padded envelopes, packages, and waybills he delivered. Sometimes he took unmarked staircases and narrow corridors for short cuts. He made long-distance calls on unattended phone lines. He drank free espressos, ate food from catered lunch trays when no one else was looking. Some days he took smoke breaks in hidden garden squares with incredible statues or in elite balconies decorated by gorgeous planters bursting with colour. Two Ton worked the building like it was a hive and he the one autonomous bee who evaded the unrewarding menial chores that the rest of us drones were genetically predisposed to accept.\n\nOne summer afternoon I followed him into an unmarked room. It was a swanky CEO's private washroom and classical music was playing. The room had beautifully tiled floors, large clean mirrors, granite counters. There were cloth towels and fragrant soaps. To the left was an area that included a shower and sauna. I walked quickly into the first available stall and sat on a designer toilet seat. I could hear him urinating in the stall next to me. Even Two Ton's piss had a heady, masculine aroma to it, and it disabled me in some strange way. He didn't flush, I noted with delight. I took it as an act of defiance; it was synonymous with spraying a hydrant in this elite world of powerful men. I listened as he washed his hands carefully, whistling along with the sonata, and didn't dare open my door until the main door had clicked shut behind him.\n\nI gasped. Two Ton was still standing inside the men's room, blocking the exit. His eyes followed me as I limped toward the nearest sink. I kept my head down while the water ran hot over my soapy hands. Violins sawed away, building to a frenzy; minor chords crashed loudly.\n\n\"Vat is this?\" he said.\n\nI made eye contact with him using the mirror. \"W-what is what?\"\n\nHe stepped towards me. \"This.\" He nodded toward the speakers. \"The music. If you know vat the name is.\" He twirled his bike-lock key on a string around and around his large index finger.\n\n\"Uh, sure.\" I was transfixed by the little silver thing.\n\nHe smiled. \"So you gonna tell me?\"\n\n\"Oh. Debussy. Claude Debussy.\"\n\n\"Huh. I think I hear it in a movie or something.\"\n\n\"Probably.\" My hands were red from the scalding water.\n\n\"Like, scary movie, maybe. Sound like something bad might happen. You know?\"\n\nI swallowed. The steam from the taps was starting to obliterate my reflection in the mirror.\n\n\"Be careful. You gonna burn yourself,\" he said.\n\nIt was as if he broke the spell with those words. I pulled my hands away\u2014they were throbbing. I couldn't turn off the tap.\n\nTwo Ton was beside me then. I felt the fabric of his shirt against my bare forearm. He turned off the faucet and rested one big hand on my shoulder. He squeezed my flesh and patted it lightly. \"Debussy. Thanks.\"\n\nThen he was gone for real. The door swung shut. I stood fumbling with the second sink, trying to turn on the cold tap to soak my injured fingers.\n\nAfter that, I began thinking about Two Ton even more. At the end of each day, I crawled out of the tall, black beast of an office tower and showed my paleness to the fading sun, among hundreds of other beetles, pouring from the nest. I looked for him in the streets as I trudged along in second-hand dress shoes that pinched my toes, spectacles sliding down the bridge of my nose. From streetcar windows I'd scan for a glimpse of his big, blond head. Sometimes I'd spot him in a tight knot of smaller couriers, laughing and smoking a joint right on the marbled front steps of some upscale hotel. I found myself retelling his jokes, relating anecdotes about him to Linda during our increasingly pained silences. She thought he was my friend and wanted to invite him for dinner. I said he was married and needed to be home with his wife. I stopped saying his name out loud, but even Linda had become fascinated with him. Why this bothered me, I wasn't sure. I only became certain that I did not want to share him anymore, that I did not want her taking him away from me, from my imaginary companionship. She was like all the other women he encountered\u2014easily smitten. Her face lit up when she asked about him, so much that I lied again, saying he had switched companies and no longer came to my building.\n\nThen I began to dream about him. He figured even more prominently in that nether world of image and nuance. He rescued me from drowning, he taught me how to snare forest animals, he reset my broken bones in an alpine climbing disaster, and carried me to safety. Once, his bike refused to work and only I could telepathically correct the problem. He beamed graciously and was forever indebted to me. Sometimes I awoke feverish, nausea and guilt souring my mouth.\n\nIn our office, all the ladies were dressing more provocatively, even Gladys and Helen. They wore higher heels and more lipstick, did strange things to their hair and faces. Whitney Houston sang \"You Give Good Love\" as they cantered through the office. Then they gathered mid-morning, expectantly. When Two Ton arrived, lightly glistening with sweat, carrying a stack of mail, each one tried to steal more of his attentions. They baked loaves for him, offered coffee, water, juice. He flirted with them equally, leaving each one even more hopeful for his next visit.\n\nMen liked him, too, I noticed, albeit grudgingly. You couldn't _not_ like him; he was so capable and athletic. He had an easy way about him that made other guys, suits or not, want to measure up. One morning I actually overheard our Big Boss, who rarely even _made appearances_ in this department, exchange pleasantries, shake hands, and chat him up about a possible career change, perhaps an interview in sales where his networking could really pay off. I held my breath. Two Ton turned down the offer so gently that neither the boss nor I realized it until a moment after he was gone. I exhaled.\n\nAt lunch I couldn't eat my sandwich. Karen Carpenter crooned \"Rainy days and Mondays get me down.\" I felt a sharp pain lodge in my throat. When I opened my mouth, a sob broke from it. Something was dreadfully wrong.\n\n## _Act Two: White Noise_\n\n\"We never go anywhere.\" Linda pouted just a bit.\n\nI couldn't argue. It was true. So, in an attempt to seem normal, I agreed to go camping with her during the long weekend in July. I hadn't used a sleeping bag since I was ten. I hadn't started a fire since I burned my diary in junior high. I hated insects and was desperately afraid of drowning. I knew this was a bad idea. Linda did, too, deep down. We both suspected she really wanted to break up with me. It was a doomed journey, but she'd already rented a car. At the last minute, no doubt terrified at the prospect of spending all that time alone in the woods with me, she'd invited a couple of girlfriends along.\n\nKaren and Brittany were vacuous and had an irritating habit of singing out loud with the radio commercials. \"You deserve a break today!\" \"Why buy a mattress anywhere else?\" One would finish the other's sentences, an eerie echo of their mediocre mind-meld. Linda was more at home with their inane banter than she had been with me in all our dating history. _Who is this strange woman?_ I thought, as she drove and tossed her ponytail over the headrest so that the Siamese twins, joined at the IQ, could play with her bleached-out hair. She laughed as I'd never heard before. She burped loudly, competitively, and sang along with Kylie Minogue to the radio edit version of \"Red-blooded Woman.\"\n\nI coughed. Had I really imposed my sweaty incompetent self into her private life? I was incredulous. I fiddled with the radio, leaving it between stations so static hissed in their ears and they could no longer sing their three-part harmony. The white noise also set me on edge. _When will we get to the campsite? Might I stab these girls with a marshmallow roaster? Couldn't I take some pills and just die?_\n\nI tried to tune them out and watched the drama in the BMW ahead of us. Some alpha male was arguing with his wife, gesticulating wildly. I watched him ream out his better half, the kids, even the dog, all the way down Spadina Avenue. What a shitty way to start their weekend. Suddenly there was a crash. The next thing you know, his SUV was wrapped around the guardrail and our car was rammed up his bumpered ass. There were the stuttered thuds of all those other miserable carloads slamming into us. It was quiet. Doors opened and shut, faces got red. Mouths opened. There was yelling. Finger pointing. Cell phones popping open. Sirens started up in the distance, and cars honked loudly.\n\nWe were all fine. _Physically_.\n\n\"Wow,\" I said after a long pause. I undid my seat belt. My ears were ringing. I found my crumpled glasses on the dashboard. I put them back on. Linda looked at me as though I was a stranger. Her blonde hair was lopsided, the derelict ponytail askew. \"Are you all right?\" I asked. She blinked. The other girls were just as silent. I peered into the back seat; Karen had lipstick smeared across her face. A broken chunk of it was mashed against her cheek. The girls were in shock, maybe. Brittany sniffled. I felt as though I should do something, anything, but I had no idea what that might be. I got out of the car. I closed the door. The three girls looked like those dogs at the pound, their big eyes welling up inside the smeary glass partition.\n\n_What did they want from me?_ I hated this, the whole mess. People began to crowd around, their voices raised and their arms waving, pointing.\n\nJust then, who came chugging around the bend, no-handed on his gorgeous, custom-built bike, but Two Ton. His T-shirt was wrapped around his head like a turban, and his skin warmed to the open sky. His wide chest and abs were clearly defined. I felt a strangeness in my belly. Blood pumped through me. His heavy bike lock chain hung around his neck so that he looked like some Eastern European gangster. He guffawed at the wreck, at our bad luck, and at the joke of his self-powered thin metal frame coasting past us. He was an evolved creature pedalling away from this ecological disaster. We all stood silent, watching him glide past into a sleek future without us. He was so cheerful, so free, as he sped toward the next exit that led down to the waterfront trails.\n\nMy bike was on the roof rack, heating in the sun. I didn't think twice. I unfastened it, flipped it down to the hot asphalt, and opened the back seat door. My backpack was there, wedged in between the girls. I grabbed it, hopped on my bike, and raced to catch up. I left behind my percentage of the groceries, a prepaid gas card, and a wicked stash of premium weed, scored from my roommate at Linda's request. It was wonderfully liberating, the best ride of my life. Those hundreds of metres along the highway, uninterrupted asphalt all my own: Two Ton a small blip on the road ahead of me, the girls, the cars, the chaos, and conflict left far behind. I beamed like some demented kid, catching fruit flies in my teeth. I choked them down when I laughed out loud. I hooted, tried standing on my pedals to really catch the wind. It billowed up my shirt and made the fabric flap with joy.\n\nTwo Ton was down at the water skipping stones and drinking beer from a can when I caught up. I stood awkwardly, waiting. Again, I had nothing to say to him, nothing to offer. I spat out some mashed bugs. Not too far away seagulls shrieked and fought over a bag of potato chips. Two Ton looked at me carefully, not smiling.\n\n\"Hi,\" I said. I coughed and spat out another batch of bug saliva.\n\nHe nodded, seemed to make a decision, and tossed me a beer from his pack. His hands hung long at his sides, swinging beside his ham-hock thighs that poured from ripped jean shorts. I sat down and opened the can. Beer foamed up over my fingers as I slurped it.\n\n\"You're the black tower guy,\" he said.\n\n\"Uh...\" I wasn't sure what he meant.\n\n\"The photocopy dude.\"\n\nI shrugged. \"Mister Machine,\" I said quietly and licked my foam moustache nervously.\n\n\"Mister Machine, hmm?\" He said it evenly. Not especially friendly. Not how he usually sounded at work. \"You follow me around?\"\n\nI started to think this was a terrible idea. \"Uh...\" I swallowed the beer. I wondered if he was going to beat the crap out of me and spoil all those Golden Boy fantasies I'd been having\u2014the ones where we saved each others' lives and hung out doing guy things, like playing squash and fishing off the end of some lonely pier.\n\n\"You gay?\" The way he said that word made it seem bolder and a bit uglier than I had recently come to think of it. It shocked me that he'd say the word aloud, that _I'd_ be suspected of such a thing, that he'd reduced it all down to something so base, so pedestrian.\n\n\"I have a girlfriend,\" I said, in a warbling voice. It sounded phony, even to me.\n\n\"I don't,\" he said. And that was it.\n\nIn an instant, everything changed. My growing obsession with him, the dreams I'd had, the roiling heat in my belly, the fact that I'd deserted my girlfriend in a crisis to follow his godlike body to the beach. This clearly was something quite different from a regular fraternal overture. In that flash I realized how transparent my own undiagnosed longing must be. I blinked, stupidly.\n\n_Gay._  \nHe turned away from me and tossed one more flat stone so that it skipped in a graceful curve leading away from us five, six times, before settling to the sandy bottom. He was just that kind of guy. I watched him differently now, up close, without the affable weekday veneer that I supposed was his armour in the corporate world. Then he turned suddenly, held a hand up to shade his eyes from the bright sun. He was looking right at me.\n\n\"You coming?\" he said. It wasn't a question. Not really.\n\nHe hopped on his bike and I followed. I don't know how I managed to ride all the way across town to his warehouse loft. The traffic sounds merged with heavy construction machinery as we passed road crews and skeleton sites of future condos. Drills blasted through cement, trucks beeped in reverse and dumped their loads onto the dry ground. I couldn't breathe\u2014from the dust and physical exertions and from the strangeness of it all, the day, the turn of events, my good fortune. \"Red-blooded woman!\"\n\nAt the warehouse, he hoisted his bike on his shoulder and took the stairs two at a time, up to the fourth floor. I was sweating, shaking with fatigue. My nose ran from the effort, and I was terrified that I might faint, might fall backwards and be crushed under the weight of my rusting bicycle. Somehow I willed myself up those same stairs. The hallway was deserted when I got there. I stood still, trying to catch my breath. I wondered if this still might end badly. He might leap out at me, for instance, and his courier friends could lynch me, or worse, mock my apparent desire.\n\n\"Hello?\" I called. \"Two Ton?\" And then the door ahead on my left swung open. Two Ton stood in the doorway wearing nothing but his chain lock draped across his perfect chest. I dropped my bike.\n\nHe smiled lazily and leaned deeper into the wooden frame. He chugged from a new can of beer and watched me carefully. He was built, as they say, like a brick shit house. Like he hadn't been born so much as unloaded from a refrigerator box, already assembled. Tall, yes, but with large, square shoulders that his massive arms dropped from. A nipple on one of his smooth pecs winked at me from behind the thick chain. Hints of his ribs framed his muscled belly. I looked to the hard flat area below his navel. He had those shelf-like muscles above his hips that male models and athletes get. His thighs, as I already knew, were perfectly formed. I stared at his overdeveloped calves, down to his bare feet. Two Ton cleared his throat loudly. I looked back up at his wide grin, his beaming face, but not before noting his ample and aroused genitals.\n\n\"Coming?\" He was enjoying my obvious distress. He raised his hands playfully, like he was under casual arrest, and turned slowly. His back was a wide muscled expanse, his buttocks perfectly toned. I had never seen such beauty, never in my life. What could he possibly want with me? Bubbles of feeling choked me. I thought I might weep, he was so perfect. Two Ton glanced over his shoulder and winked. \"I promise I von't hurt you,\" he said. \"Much.\"\n\nI left my bike on the hallway floor and stepped forward.\n\n## _Act Three: Blackened Metal_\n\nI spent Labour Day weekend in the strange kingdom of Two Ton's loft. He talked easily and brought me out of my shell. He was naked most of the time, but I never tired of looking at him. He was comfortable in his body as he moved around the space, pointing out his various treasures. Two Ton didn't have a television. There were books, a record player, some albums, little carvings he made with a knife, some cracked dishes. He had extension cords strung up, power bars taped to the walls, old lamps stuck haphazardly on tiny shelves he had nailed erratically to the wooden support beams. Whatever he possessed, he said proudly, he had mostly pulled from other people's trash.\n\n\"Hey, look,\" he said. He waved a CD at me. Claude Debussy. \"I listened after that time, you know. It reminds me of black metal. So intense.\"\n\nI had no idea what he meant, but I was thrilled that he remembered our encounter in the men's room. That he cared enough about that sonata to locate a copy, and that I had been the one to tell him the composer's name.\n\nWe drank endless beers from his old fridge and crushed the empty cans dramatically, then tossed them into a growing pile in the corner. There was a hot plate and a plug-in kettle, but we ate spaghetti cold, right out of the can. He juggled tennis balls. We pelted them against the bare wall until a neighbour pounded loudly and swore at us in French. We smoked joint after joint; time stopped altogether. He played Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Slayer. We sang with Rob Halford to \"Living After Midnight,\" Two Ton in his marvellous baritone, me an alto who attempted falsetto now and again, which brought us to fits of laughter. My life, whatever it had been, no longer existed. My name no longer mattered. He called me _Mister_ or sometimes _Machine,_ which made me smile. I was in that perfect moment, and though I could scarcely believe it, Two Ton seemed to like me.\n\nWe worked our way through his music collection, a great deal of which included black metal bands, Norwegian and otherwise. The drumming was intense\u2014long repetitive instrumental passages with shrieking, grunting vocals and fast tremolo picking on distorted guitars. Some songs were slower with atmospheric wailing and foreboding gloom. I'd never heard most of it before: Bathory, Venom, Darkthrone. Two Ton gave a lecture on the history of the first and second waves of black metal, talked about Swedish and Norwegian rivalry, and described the battles of various metal subcultures: death, doom, gothic, glam, industrial, sludge, speed, stoner\u2014the list was endless. His detailed knowledge impressed me. He was an open encyclopedia to a world I knew nothing about. The music loosed a primitive urge in me that grew the more I drank and smoked. I collapsed on his torn couch and closed my eyes. I imagined wolves, priestesses, medieval weapons, revenge. \"Feed on my black iron heart!\"\n\nWhen I opened my eyes, Two Ton was kneeling on the floor in front of me. He placed his warm hands on my thighs and looked at me intently. I felt the stirrings almost immediately. It seemed to be what he was waiting for. Two Ton effortlessly peeled off my shirt. He undid my jeans, yanked them down around my ankles. He massaged my astonished flesh as I struggled to tug the pants over my large feet. I was naked. I tried to hide myself from him, kept my arms folded over my thin chest, but he pulled those back too, like they were just another layer of clothing. He stared into my nervous face and told me exactly what he would do, and then he did each purposeful thing. At some point we were on the floor rolling, kissing. Then we were half on his old futon mattress. He held me, sometimes stroked my face, talked quietly to me, and watched me closely, as though to gauge meaning from every surprised little sound I made. I didn't know my own skin until he brought heat to it. I was as cherished as any bride, blank as any slate. I grew bold touching him, trying to learn what he liked, what I liked.\n\nIn between exertions, we lay in tangled sheets on his bed. He slept soundly, curled into me, his even breath warming my neck. He was a boy then, perfect and passive, and that's when I stared outright: his chiselled profile, the cleft chin, those pale lashes. I traced his smooth flesh with my fingers. I was perplexed by his beauty and bruised by his attentions. I felt profoundly alive, I realized. As though my whole life had been a series of bumbling missteps that had eventually lead right to this perfect moment in time.\n\nTwo Ton would wake suddenly from these naps and begin speaking of his old life, the one he had before coming to Canada. He was from some country in the eastern end of Europe that nobody ever pronounced properly. \"Anyvay,\" he said, \"my village changed names so much\u2014every time some army march through it\u2014even _I_ don't know vat to call it now.\"\n\n\"Plus,\" he said to my undoubtedly uncomprehending face, \"every time they march, they destroy more of the crops me and my father plant. Hard to be a farmer ven there's nothing to farm.\" Then he playfully decked me with a pillow.\n\nI threw myself and the pillow on top of him, tried to tackle him, but he crushed me in a suffocating embrace. He squeezed the air from my lungs. My eyes bulging, face reddening, he kissed me tenderly. It was gentle torture, but torture nonetheless. This time when we did it, he paired every sensual gesture with an uncomfortable one. He'd move his wet mouth along me slowly, but only while I was pinned in a half nelson. He'd tease my nipples, but choke me simultaneously. I hated and loved it. At first I struggled, but there was no point. He knew what he wanted. He knew what I wanted too, and that was the miracle. That he could see me for what I had always been when nobody else bothered to wonder. Not even me. \"Black Metal ist Krieg!\"\n\nLater he elaborated about that land of his. He said, \"Those hungry soldiers take everything. The best food, even the good soil, goes avay vith them.\" It got sucked into the soles of their battered army boots, leaving angry sand behind. Dirt, unable or unwilling to support the potatoes and sugar beets, cabbage and onions. Dirt that one year finally gave up, even on itself, and let the wind send it stinging into the drying river beds. While he spoke, I tugged on his fingers, thick like sausage and always slightly curled from use, from gripping handlebars and hoisting heavy bags. And before that, from lifting machinery, cleaning stalls, and roping calves.\n\n\"But how did you end up here?\" I asked again. I wanted to know exactly how fate had delivered this gift to me, what stars had aligned for this unexpected purpose. How could he come from some mud-entrenched village on the other side of the world and end up in Toronto, racing through the business district delivering packages for a pittance? Better yet, how had I ended up _here_ , crushed in his embrace, sweated upon, kissed and cursed so equally?\n\nTwo Ton lit a cigarette. He exhaled and, after a bit, passed it to me. He said, \"My father, he vas old and sick. He had nothing. He couldn't pay his loans for seed and equipment. He vould not even pay one cent to that bank. It humiliated him.\"\n\nI passed the smoke back and he took hits off it, staring into space. Two Ton swigged the last of his beer, then dropped the end of the cigarette into the can. He swished it around, and I heard the faint hiss as it extinguished itself.\n\n\"All the men in my family\u2014father, grandfather, great-grandfather, uncles\u2014ve have this same farm. Grow the same food every year. The village eats our food\u2014some others, too, but mostly ours. This is vat ve do.\" He told this part like it was a story from an old book, familiar and comforting.\n\nI thought of my own father then. I had no idea if he had such a legacy, if he was shouldering some masculine code handed down to him by his father, and so on. I scarcely remembered my grandfather. My father was a stooped, mild man of medium build, who quietly left for work each morning. He quietly returned around six o'clock each night and ate my mother's meals while listening to her chatter, always seeming vaguely removed from it all. He'd relax in front of the television. He sometimes read a newspaper or a mystery novel, until he'd stand up and say goodnight to all present, then quietly go down the hallway to bed. Like clockwork. Who knew what the man actually thought about anything?\n\nTwo Ton said that, to deepen the frown between his brows, all his father had to do was look up the road at dust blowing from the empty field, or out back at the dull brown land, or to the empty barn where the animals had once been, or at the flat-tired truck he'd driven to market twice every week since he was eleven years old. \"This vent on for a long time,\" he said. He leapt over to the fridge and grabbed another can of beer, opened it, and slurped at the foam. \"Until von day.\" Two Ton's eyes glittered. \"My father got out of his creaky chair; he make a pile of all the coins he finds in the house. He writes a letter to me. All his thoughts, you know?\" He walked back and sat on the edge of the mattress with me.\n\nI leaned closer. I lay my warm hands on either side of his spine, flattened them against the places where his lungs would be. I could feel his heart pumping inside there, strong and regular.\n\n\"He smokes. He cleans the ash. Then he picks up his coat, his hat, and his gun and valks in straight line past the fields, into the bush.\" Two Ton turned and stared right through me. \"He use his last bullet.\"\n\nWe were quiet for a while. I had no idea what to say, but my hands smoothed his skin, like he was one of the broken copiers at work. Two Ton seemed distant, aloof. He was perhaps tired of me being there. It had been two or three days and, after all, we were virtual strangers. I had never spent such a long uninterrupted period of time with anyone. I'd never heard anything so personal.\n\n\"What did the note say?\" I finally asked.\n\nTwo Ton reached over to the orange crate he used as a nightstand and pulled out a small painted box. Inside was a piece of folded paper, thick and cream-coloured, but smudged from being handled. He tossed it to me. His father's handwriting was careful: squared off at the top and bottom loops, like he'd used a ruler almost, and the letters, so many consonants, slanted sharply to the right, like they were marching headlong into the far side of the paper, in danger of falling off the edge if they arrived too soon. I had no idea what they spelled out, or even what language it was.\n\nI waited for Two Ton to translate those life-altering phrases. What damning insights had his father inked? What great-grandmother's recipe, what bastard child or torrid love affair, what ugly family secrets might be revealed in such a letter? I found myself wondering what my own father might attempt to share in such a profound moment. Two Ton scratched at the light hairs on his chest. He leaned toward me and drank another long gulp. His eyes bore through me; they shone and provoked a shiver from me. I struggled to comprehend all he was not saying. I didn't know how to comfort him or if he even wanted that.\n\n\"What did you do next?\"\n\n\"Easy,\" he said. He spoke quietly. \"I drink the last beer. Then I cut up the last bread and eat it, sitting in my father's chair. Later, when the moon comes out, I lay down on the bed and cry. Finally, I sleep. In the morning, I pack a few things in a bag and just leave. I travelled. I did some crazy things, you know,\" he said, his voice catching. \"Some time, I just heard about coming to Canada, and so I did that. And now, you see, here I am.\"\n\nI smiled when he said that. But I noticed he didn't. His face was impassive. Like the flat, smooth stones he had skipped at the lakefront.\n\nOn Monday morning, I woke with a furry tongue, my head in a vice. I stank. Two Ton was not in bed. He was standing by the large open window in an antique wash basin, an oversized tin bucket with edges that reached just below his knees. He had rigged a garden hose to the sink faucet and had duct-taped a shower head on the end of the hose. He showered in cold water, lathered up with soap stolen from one of the office washrooms, and then rinsed again. It occurred to me that this was slightly more barbaric than the amenities offered at the campground Linda had booked.\n\n_Linda. That poor girl._\n\n\"You're avake,\" he said loudly. \"Good.\" He stepped out of the basin, turned off the tap, and towelled himself off, all in the same movement. \"I have to do some things today. Not vork, but, you know.\"\n\nI looked around the room. My knapsack was on the floor in one corner, my things vomited up from it, strewn the length of the room. I moved slowly, collecting familiar items as I went. A sock. My damp shorts. A box of condoms meant for the terrible sex with Linda, emptied now, with torn wrappers scattered around the room. It hurt when I bent to pick them up. The long bike ride, the stairs, the beer, the sweaty wrestles\u2014it was all much more than I was accustomed to. I dressed myself. I washed my face and rinsed my mouth but couldn't spit out the dread that burned at the back. I could hardly look at him, certainly not in the eyes.\n\n\"You're like a voman,\" he guffawed. \"You should eat a sandwich.\" He was slapping peanut butter onto slices of bread and dropping large dollops of jam on top. He handed me a folded-over piece and thumped my shoulder blade in some kind of manly gesture. I winced. He ate several sandwiches just like this while I choked through that single one. The peanut butter stuck in my throat. I could hardly swallow, even though I kept sipping from a large glass of water.\n\nHe was dressing quickly, moving purposefully around the room. He gathered his wallet, bike lock, keys, cap. He was oppressively cheerful. He was putting on other layers, too, the invisible ones that bricked him far away from me, hundreds of ocean miles between us, and I simply could not stay the maudlin waves from flooding. _This_ \u2014whatever had happened here in his room, whatever affection and intimacy he had poured over me the past few days\u2014this was all gone. The air was changed. Two Ton smelled different. I was his shadow once more, and I could hardly bear it. The thought of seeing him at the office, me on a stool in the copier room, him captivating the maven gatekeepers out front, it sickened me.\n\n\"Ve had good times,\" he said at last, jingling his keys by the door. I was tying my shoelace, peering at him through my dark bangs. \"Don't pout,\" he said. \"I don't like that.\"\n\nOf course it only made things worse.\n\nOut in the hallway the remains of my bicycle glared at me. It was my fault. I had abandoned it, not thought of it once the whole time I was inside Two Ton's loft. The front wheel was missing, the gears were stripped. My pedals were gone. The seat-less post glared obscenely at me. Two Ton swore. \"I forgot to varn you about my neighbours,\" he said. He looked sad. To see a bike desecrated, well, that truly hurt him, I could tell.\n\n\"I'll take the bus,\" I said. I couldn't begin to carry the thing home. Not now.\n\n\"Hey,\" he said, and it was more the conspiratorial sound of his indoor voice, the intimate one I had heard all weekend. \"I fix it. I bring it to the black tower ven it's ready.\" He stood in the cavernous hallway, dust sifting through the beams of light that filtered down from high windows of the warehouse. Sunlight played on his face and his large form; shadows crept over unexpected places. He was still the unapproachable guy I saw downtown, but the other one, the gentle-rough one I'd just come to know, that part of him was visible once again, too.\n\n\"Okay.\" I stammered. \"If you want.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" he said. He stepped toward me. \"I bring it and ve ride. See that lake again or some place.\"\n\nI would collapse, surely, or so I thought.\n\nTwo Ton came closer still, and put his warm hand on my neck. \"Maybe come here, too. Mister.\" His lips brushed mine. Then he was off, riding down the hallway, wheels thumping down the stairs. He was whistling, and the mournful tune echoed in the empty stairwell. Downstairs, the main door squeaked open, then slammed shut behind him. When I stood on my toes and peered out the window, I could just make out his blond head, the bigness of him, the grace of his figure, as he sped down the alley away from me.\n\n# Stargazing at Eddie's\n\n\"I'd-a never tapped that if I'd a known she was such a ho. How 'bout it? You ride that?\"\n\nI say, \"A-a-as if,\" and Eddie chuckles, long and low. I hate when he girl talks.\n\nEddie passes a wee pinner of a joint, really just the filter. I suck 'til my mouth burns.\n\n\"Sh-shit.\" I toss the thing somewhere and pour Pabst Blue Ribbon on my sore lip. I crank back the smoke, try to keep it all in longer. I cough. Smoke and air and beer snort out my nose, even though I'm used to this stinkweed. A burn bubble grows where the ember touched my mouth.\n\nEddie says, \"Easy, Ray-Ray. Where'd you throw that roach?\"\n\nI shrug.\n\nEddie feels around for it with his big hands. I keep coughing, crapping my lungs out. Eddie and me are on his roof smoking, drinking, and bullshitting. His white mom sticks her head out the bedroom window and yells, \"Get down here, you're gonna break the bloody ruff,\" but we don't.\n\nEddie yells, \"Get your fat ass up here and make me!\" and she goes, \"Fuck, you're like your dad,\" and slams the window, and that's that for a while. Which is good, cuz even though I know she can't climb up and get us, she creeps me right out.\n\nEddie rips off his studded cap and roughs up his hair. In grade school he wanted to feather it like all the other toughs, but he couldn't. Not with his dad's nappy hair. Now he's punk. He shaves the sides and his tufty baby dreads stick up on top and all down the back, too. Like a Mohawk warrior. He plops the cap back on, sideways.\n\nHe says, \"Okay. Who's the hottest chick in our school?\"\n\nI spark up another joint so I don't have to answer.\n\nHe pokes me. \"Well?\"\n\nI roll my eyes. \"They're all d-d-dogs.\"\n\nEddie laughs and slaps the roof. \"You're funny, Ray-Ray. They're no porn queens, you're frigging right. Except maybe Mary Lou.\"\n\nI don't say anything and neither does he. I guess he's thinking about Mary Lou, who is ugly and boring and has really big boobs. We drink more beer. Eddie starts talking his usual crap about running away, about going to the big smoke, and us getting factory jobs and making lots of cash.\n\n\"We'll score hot babes,\" he says.\n\n\"Humph.\"\n\n\"They'll like me tall and dark, and you all tiny and white. We'll tag team.\"\n\nBut we both know that women don't like me. They think I'm too soft.\n\n\"We'll burn that city down, be so hot,\" he says. \"We'll start a band.\"\n\nThing is, Eddie never fills in the details. Like, how the hell would we even _get_ to the city, let alone start a band? \"W-w-we don't have no b-bus money,\" I say.\n\nEddie sucks his teeth. \"We won't take an old bus. We'll drive.\"\n\n\"Without a c-c-car?\" _On a beginner's licence?_ `\n\n\"Always poking holes in my ideas, Ray-Ray.\" Eddie sounds annoyed, like I'm the only thing stopping him from being a rich city millionaire, right this very minute.\n\nAfter a bit I say, \"We c-could hitch. On a t-t-truck.\"\n\n\"You're right,\" he says, happy again. \"That's how I snuck out of Bluewater\u2014in the back of a bread truck, got the hell right out of there. Didn't go hungry, neither. Not 'til they brought me back, anyways.\"\n\nEddie tells me that story over again, how he was stuck with some dirt bag trying to finish him off at the boys' detention centre. That _plus_ a white power gang jumping him every time he turned a corner. \"Brown boys got to stick together in juvie. But we all different kinds of brown\u2014Native, Latino, Asian. One brother blacker than me, that's it.\"\n\nEddie almost never made it out, except in a box.\n\n\"Wouldn't want to go back, neither. You would not believe the shit you have to do to get by, Ray-Ray.\"\n\nHis voice is thick with bad memories. I wonder what exactly happened to him there. There and all those other places he's been sent. It always takes him a while to settle when he comes back. Then, living with his Monster Mom, he goes bonkers, fucks shit up, and gets hauled off all over again. It's always a circle with him.\n\nEddie says, \"In fact, you and me probably couldn't even be friends there, what with the way they stack it up colour-wise. We'd get the beat down.\"\n\nI've heard all these stories before, but I don't care. I like the sound of his deep voice. Eddie's musky scent fills my nose\u2014that and the smell of the night air, and Old Red's garbage sweetly stewing down the lane, and the white tobacco flowers from the fields even farther away.\n\n\"It's not t-t-too bad here,\" I say, when he stops talking to light another smoke. I look up at the stars. Look over to the transformer behind Old Red's place. Hear it humming. Look down at the other trailers, the bungalows. Hear Eddie's Tom, Big Fat Rat Catcher, yowl as he slinks out from under a parked car. He's hunting a skunk that crosses the dirt road, then stops right in the middle. I drain my beer and lob the empty King can in a beauty arc, over the crabgrass past Old Red's garbage, so it lands in the dirt like a bomb. The skunk freaks. It flips around, tail up, legs spread, and its head sways back and forth, back and forth, sniffing the night air. A dog starts barking, down aways. Big Fat Rat Catcher stares right at me, like I wrecked his routine.\n\n\"Hole!\" Eddie knuckle punches the back of my head.\n\n\"Ow, feh-fuck.\"\n\n\"You want it to stink up the whole place?\"\n\n\"N-no,\" I says, \"But you di-didn't have to h-h-hit me.\" I blink.\n\n\"Goof.\"\n\nThe skunk prances away and doesn't spray, after all. I watch the white tip of its tail disappear into the dark bushes. Big Fat Rat Catcher blinks and is gone too.\n\nEddie burps loud and long. It bounces off Old Red's siding, and we laugh at the echo. In the background, we can hear his mom's TV. She must have opened the window again. She's chain-smoking in bed, probably wearing her lacy see-through pyjamas, watching the late-late show and the even later commercials. The ones that go on forever, selling shit you don't need\u2014no money down, don't pay 'til next year\u2014mattresses, couches, kitchen crap, cars. A zombie studio audience claps and cheers.\n\nEddie pulls the tab on another Pabst Blue Ribbon. Foam covers his fingers. He slurps it up quick. Beer dribbles off his wide lips, down his chin. Beer glistens on his thick fingers.\n\nI lick my sore lip.\n\nHe shakes his hand, shakes the beer drops that land on the shingled roof between us. Eddie leans back on his elbows, looks up at the sky. He's right good-looking, especially now, in spite of his buck teeth. Like a movie man with the light on him in all the right parts. I look away. Bend my knee to block my sudden boner.\n\n\"Want more?\" he says, so I reach for it, but he pulls the can away.\n\nI say, \"G-give me some,\" and he says, \"M-m-make me,\" and laughs again.\n\nHe rolls away and chugs the beer. He keeps rolling along the flat roof, holding the can up, not spilling much. Finally I stand up and lunge, but he scoots away quick. He's still laughing. I'm lopsided from the beers and the weed.\n\n\"Whoa.\"\n\n\"Easy there, Ray-Ray.\" Then he kicks me in the back of my knee and I fall, plop, beside him. Practically on him and such.\n\n\"Sh-shit.\"\n\n\"Don't spill it, goof.\"\n\n\"Cut it out, Eddie,\" yells his mom. \"What are ya, goddamn bowling?!\" She's got the window open again. She's probably leaning her head out, stretching her neck in a crick, trying to figure out what all's going on.\n\nWe crack up. I'm still laughing, and he pokes my ribs. I block. He fakes. He pokes again, and his big hands are faster than mine. He lands them almost every time. Those hard fingers jab my arm pit, stomach, ribs, whoops, my crotch, my armpit. I twist away. He pinches my nipple hard.\n\n\"Ow, feh-fuck's sake,\" I say, and he turns up the volume on my knob.\n\n\"Ow, m-mother f-f-fuck,\" I yell and elbow him. He's still kneeling on top of me, tweaking my nip. He drips beer on me.\n\n\"Open your mouth, whore,\" he says, dead serious.\n\n\"Ark.\" The warm beer pees right on my face. Beer bounces off my shut mouth, splashes my eyes, and pools in my neck, soaks my long hair and the top of my T-shirt.\n\n\"Look at me,\" he says.\n\nI look at him, and he looks good. Streetlight falls on his cheek, his lip; it outlines the tufts of his hair when his cap falls off. His arm muscles flex from holding me and hurting me and measuring out the beer. The lettering on his Ramones shirt glows white against his darker skin.\n\n\"Open your twat mouth.\"\n\nSo I do. I open it, right, and catch the stream. And what do you know; I pop wood again, right under him. He's leaning right on it and staring back at me. _He might punch me_ , I think. _Or throw me off the roof._ But he don't. He moves around a little, holds the can near his belt buckle, and still pours it into my mouth. I trance out, let the beer pour right in me and through me until it is all gone. And when Eddie unzips, when he slowly pulls it out, I almost lose it right then.\n\nI don't move a muscle, though. I don't even breathe.\n\nHis is nice, alright. I already seen it dozens of times. Eddie's always whipping it around in gym class, or when we're loaded, pissing in a ditch somewhere. Other times, too. I usually look away; don't want nobody thinking I'm a Gaylord. But now it's all I can see; the fat head of it sticking out a bit, the rest filling his hand.\n\n\"What are you waiting for?\" he says.\n\nI don't want to talk and ruin everything.\n\n\"Get it out, Ray-Ray,\" and I don't miss a heartbeat. I want to grind against him but he says, \"Easy, Ray-Ray. Don't be no fag.\"\n\nI'm pinned under him, confused. I don't know the rules, don't even know what game we're playing. So I follow his lead. His hand moves slowly. He says, \"Why don't you like talking about girls, Ray-Ray?\"\n\n\"Huh?\" I stroke, light as I can.\n\n\"Don't you like them?\"\n\n\"I d-don't know.\"\n\nWhen he speeds up, I do too. When he spits in his hand to work that in, so do I. Eddie leans closer, still above me, and says, \"Well? Who do you like?\"\n\nI hold myself in a tight fist, count to five, and breathe.\n\n_Don't make me talk,_ I think.\n\n\"Say it,\" he hisses.\n\n\"O-okay. I like you, Eddie.\"\n\n\"Thought so.\" His eyes don't leave mine, not once. \"How long you been liking me, huh?\"\n\nI shrug. _How long is forever?_\n\n\"Guess.\"\n\n\"Since that time you was tuh-tuh-trashed a-at Junior's b-bush party.\" That night Eddie got loaded and picked a fight with some out-of-town boys. Then he disappeared.\n\n\"You were looking for me?\" His whisper is hoarse.\n\n\"Uh huh.\" I lick my lip. I couldn't find him at the fire, in the back lot, or with the other kids down at the pits. I thought those guys were maybe finishing him off, for good.\n\n\"You came here?\" His hand moves up and down.\n\nI nod. I hate what else happened that night. Don't want to ruin everything. _Why'd I start talking about this stupid night_?\n\n\"Tell me.\" Eddie breathes hard, his mouth hangs open, his eyes are fixed, just like a humping dog.\n\n\"She would-wouldn't leave me alone.\" I hold myself tight, trying not to go limp. There's a roaring in my ears, my head rattles. I squeeze my eyes shut.\n\nWhen I open them, Eddie's face is even closer. His lips are right near mine. They brush my cheekbone. \"Hey. Ray-Ray.\" He's not touching himself now; he's touching my hair instead. \"You okay?\"\n\nI nod.\n\n\"I did come home that night.\" He licks his lips. His beer breath heats up my skin. I wish he would kiss me, but I'm not stupid. \"I was watching you. Right through the window. Watching her suck that pretty thing of yours.\"\n\n_He was watching me._ I gulp. _He thinks mine is pretty._\n\nEddie whispers, \"Did you wish it was me instead?\"\n\nI nod.\n\nHis hand goes back down but he keeps his face right beside mine.\n\n\"Me too,\" he says.\n\n_Holy shit_ , I think. I'm burning from the belly, hot in the balls, and my face cripples up. A vein explodes in my brain. Eddie thrusts once, twice. He groans in my ear, and we shoot onto each other, onto the roof, into the night.\n\nHe relaxes beside me. We're panting. Blood thumps in my ears, my chest. His skin is hot, his breath ruffles my hair and tickles my ear. His pulse, his heart beat, bangs in time with mine.\n\n_I love you_ , I want to say. _I'm yours. I am nothing without you._\n\nEddie sits up.\n\n_I wonder if he'll kiss me now._ I lick my lips, in case. But he don't.\n\nEddie clears his throat. I wait for what he is about to say. I wonder if this means he's my boyfriend. If this is how it'll be from now on with us. But Eddie doesn't say a thing. Eddie doesn't even look at me.\n\nCool air blows between us. I poke my tongue out and touch the tiny balloon, the blister on my lip. Eddie opens a new can of beer. He does up his pants, uses the bottom of his shirt to mop the sweat off his face. He drinks. He's all put together. He looks the same as before, softer in the face, but he's far away again, like nothing happened. For all I know, he's thinking about Mary Lou.\n\nI'm still hanging out, shrivelled, pruney. The wet spots could be snot drying on my skin, pulling it tighter. My stomach weeps.\n\n\"Eddie, get your ass down here and bring your pretty faggot afore I kick you right off that ruff, ya hear me?\" She's as loud as an eighteen-wheeler still, but the harsh edge is rubbed down some. It's warmed up, and there's a catch in her voice. We look at each other and we look away quick, cuz we both know what that means.\n\n\"Hope you're good to go,\" says Eddie and slaps me on the back.\n\nThat's when I start to close in on myself. That's when I want to cry or scream or punch something. Jump off this low roof. Run away. Hitch to some ugly, scary city. Throw myself to the wolves, to the wind. But I don't. I bite my sore lip and pull up my jeans. I tuck it away and zip up, button. Jiggle and shake into place. Stand up. Wobble. I follow Eddie across the roof slow, and over the edge slower, and swing myself down through her window, last.\n\nShe looks pretty good, in all. A bit like Eddie, only with big soft tits, frosted hair, nail polish, a hairy bush. Like Eddie with an even dirtier mouth, an even harder hit. Why, when that one winds up, you knock yourself. You see stars, alright.\n\n# Seven-Dollar Blow\n\n\"That guy's got the ugliest dick I ever sucked.\"\n\nDarcy doesn't say a thing, just keeps rocking back and forth, heel toe, heel toe. He's biting the skin of one itchy arm, peering through his greasy red bangs. He's wearing his huge \"Psychiatric Help 5\u00a2, the Doctor is in!\" T-shirt. Fucking Charlie Brown. Makes him look pre-teeny, younger than he really is, which is good for business.\n\n\"Plus he tried to rip me off.\"\n\nI lean on the brick wall in the alley, right beside him, and adjust my balls. I bought them at a sex store in the joke section. Pant stuffers. But they've saved my ass more than a few times, let me tell you. I tuck the soft silicone thing into my Y-fronts, average sized dick and balls, and it works. The lump looks pretty good, especially in my ripped-up jeans, though I wouldn't want to be caught pants-down, if you get me. Dudes are always peeking, too. Always trying to get more than what they paid for. Anyways, it feels good having my dick lump, my crotch bump. Definitely better than _not_ having it. Sometimes I find myself hanging around, hands down the front of my pants, just mindlessly massaging those soft greying parts. Calms me right down.\n\nI tap a Marlboro out of my pack, put it in my mouth. I feel around for my new lighter. Darcy grabs the smoke out of my mouth and puts it in his own. I tap out another and light them both with a flourish.\n\nDarcy nods at the lighter. His eyebrow arches.\n\n\"Oh, yeah. Got this from that American dude last night. The New Yorker.\" I hold the smoke in my lungs as long as I can, then blow it all out noisily. A piece of tobacco sticks to the tip of my tongue.\n\n\"Mister white pants?\" says Darcy in his strange scratchy voice.\n\nI say, \"Ha ha. Yep, Mister white pants.\" I spit the tobacco piece onto the sidewalk. _Mister talked too much, took too long, and had a fat, dirty wiener_. \"You'd think anyone who'd wear such clean pants would at least wash the cheese off their dick, right?\"\n\nDarcy shakes his head. We smoke for a bit. Cars zip by and some drivers slow down and check us out, but they keep going.\n\nAfter a bit Darcy says, \"So what were you saying?\"\n\n\"Nothing, man.\" I shrug. \"I'm just standing here. I'm not saying nothing.\"\n\n\"No,\" he says. \"Before. You were saying you got ripped off.\"\n\n\"Did I?\" I take one last drag, then flick the butt in a tall arc, right into the gutter. \"Oh yeah,\" I say. \"Yeah, that guy just now _totally_ tried to rip me off. Slips me a bill all rolled up tight and tries to book it, right, but he's not all zipped yet, so I grab what's still poking outta his fly, right? I got his thing in one hand and unroll the money with the other: a fuckin' fiver! So I says, 'It's ten.' And he whines, 'You said seven.' And I go, 'It _was_ seven, now it's ten.' He's bugging me so I give him a bit of a twist, and he jumps and is all, 'You said it would be the best seven-dollar blow job I ever had,' and I'm like, 'It _would_ have been, but now it's the best _ten_ -dollar blow job you ever had cuz you tried to rip me off, and also cuz you have the ugliest dick I ever put in my mouth.' Ha ha.\"\n\nDarcy laughs too.\n\n\"And I'm leavin,' right, and he goes, he goes, 'By the way, my sister gives way better head... for free!'\"\n\n\"No way, dude,\" says Darcy. He laughs so hard he starts coughing.\n\n\"Way. But that's the biz for you, right? You never fucking know.\"\n\nDarcy's still laughing when I flag my next trick. A middle-aged dude with glasses and a receding hairline, driving an old Tercel. He's wearing a rumpled button-down shirt that's grey around the collar. Probably got his work tie in the glove compartment. He looks like my math teacher from grade nine\u2014pasty skin, dandruff flakes on his shoulders. His wife\u2014I have no doubt at all that he's married\u2014probably hates him. Probably hasn't given him head in years. _I'm charging double_. Darcy waves me off, still chuckling. He's never gonna make any cash tonight.\n\nLater, I find Darcy back in our spot. He's twitched, freaking. I hate him like this.\n\n\"Sly,\" he whines. \"Come on, man.\"\n\nI say, \"Jeez.\" He's green in the face. Those pain pills his gay doctor slipped him are finally all gone. _Party's over_. Now he's jonesing, scratching at the invisible wrigglies under the skin of his arms, bringing up blood with his sharp, dirty nails.\n\n\"Please?\" He screws up his lips, and I see the tremor ripping right through him.\n\nI grunt. \"Fine. But you already owe me twenty. I want it back. Tonight.\"\n\n\"Sure, yeah. Thanks, man.\"\n\nHe lunges down the alley with me. Usually we go behind the can or down the street a ways, but he can't wait. That's obvious. We just fully fire up that nice rock I got after my last guy, and get a fast buzz going. I don't need it yet, but why not? It sure perks Darcy up. Getting high takes his mind off the gut rot and the three-day migraine and the sub-skin crawlers. Getting high helps him forget about his itchy arms so maybe they might even start to scab over proper for once. Getting high helps me forget how much I hate doing this shit for money. So it's totally worth it, right?\n\n\"Hey,\" I say.\n\nDarcy looks at me, right in the eyes, like he hasn't done in a long while. I know he sees me, right? He sees what I really am and not what I'm stuck with, this pathetic half-formed body. I smile and maybe I laugh a bit; I get nervous when people look at me too long. He zooms in real close 'til his sour breath warms my face and bits of his ginger hair poke me. He's calmer now. He's focussed and quiet while the chemicals shoot through him. Darcy kisses me. Kisses me warm and soft and a bit wet, just the tip of his shy tongue touching my own, creeping over into my mouth quietly. His lips move slow and sometimes suck and sometimes slide over mine, that tip of his tongue still there reminding me of what it can do. What it would like to do. And all I feel is my mouth and his mouth and the heat spreading in my crotch, the blood rushing away from my brain.\n\nThe sky gets dark and streetlights blink on. The pigs are cracking down tonight. Some nosy neighbours are complaining about the action again. Don't like the boys hanging around, playing with our own titties on the sidewalk. Don't like us swinging around the bus-stop pole, smoking on the corner. Don't like the tires screeching and car doors slamming and stereo music getting loud then quiet when the cars peel off into the night. Don't like their husbands sneaking out for a beer at the corner bar and spending grocery money on a hand job in Kiddie Porn Park. Don't like finding used condoms on the ground the next morning, either, but then, where are we supposed to put them? Don't want their husbands fucking with no latex, right? They just can't win, those broads.\n\nDarcy paces up and down our corner. He's wearing a new shirt with wide stripes, long sleeves. It has a white collar with a few snaps at the top, like some frat guy shirt. Some kind of university shirt. He wipes his nose on the too-long sleeve of one arm. He looks relieved to see me. \"The King cruised by with a wagon. He picked up Lil' Brat.\" He spits.\n\n\"Shit.\" You don't want the King to catch you, that's for sure\u2014meanest cop in town, obsessed with hunting street kids. He calls it pest control, like we're rats or some kind of bug. The nervous twitch under my eye starts up.\n\n\"Where were you?\"\n\nDarcy's eyes shift one way, then the other. He's sketched.\n\n\"Fuck it,\" I say. \"I can't get busted. Let's jet.\" Darcy knows I'm already on probation. Not to mention the complications of getting thrown in the slammer when I'm obviously a boy except for the few inches between my legs. The shit I _should_ have been born with, but _wasn't_. Then, if I don't get murdered in the clink, it's off to the shrink factory for me, suits and nurses trying to brainwash me into being a proper biological girl specimen.\n\n\"Where to?\" says Darcy. He's bugging.\n\n\"I don't know. You got that twenty you owe me?\"\n\nHe blushes. \"I did. But, well, now I don't.\"\n\nI finger the designer name on his chest pocket. \"Nice shirt.\"\n\nHe cracks a smile. \"That big courier gave it to me.\" He blushes again.\n\n\"Which one?\" But I already know the answer. I can even see him wearing the shirt, filling it all out perfectly, whizzing past us on his skinny tires, that satchel strapped around him. That blond one, the big beautiful one, the one we all love. He spins around on one wheel doing bike tricks on our corner, smoking spliffs between calls.\n\nI smell Darcy's betrayal. The wall of secrecy he slapped up when I wasn't looking, when I was out working and he was lounging around, available. There's a small stab in my belly, the jealous knife. I try to bury it. Can't have any of that, right? I don't even know who I'm jealous for: Darcy or that other boy.\n\nDarcy shrugs. His long-sleeved arms swing wildly, like some cartoon guy. Then he starts pacing again. We're broke. It's not the warmest night. The sky might open up and dump rain all over us, any minute. I have one small rock left. Four cigarettes\u2014three, cuz now Darcy's smoking again.\n\n\"Why do I always got to think for both of us?\"\n\n\"You're good at it,\" he says. \"Good at using your head, ha ha.\"\n\nI want to punch him, but instead I swallow hard. I don't want to be alone tonight. \"Bathhouse?\"\n\n\"Naw,\" says Darcy. \"I'm not in the mood for those fuckers. No clubs, no bullshit.\"\n\n\"Underpass?\" But we both owe money to some dealers over there, so I know that won't fly. It's too late for the drop-in where we crash sometimes. Darcy's sister put out an R.O. on him so we can't go there, and Henry, well, Henry is definitely out of the question.\n\n\"What about your vegan hippies? Can we go there?\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Darcy twiddles his fingers on his chin. \"Probably not. Not supposed to hang there if you're fucked up. House rules.\"\n\nI snort. \"What are they, straight edge? No wonder you're never there.\"\n\n\"Too far, anyways.\" Darcy snaps his fingers and says, \"What about the Professor?\"\n\n\"Aw, that dude is away somewhere. Out of the country or something. Can't stay with him.\"\n\n_But we could stay at his place, right?_\n\n\"No, goof, it's _this_ street.\" I stop on the corner, but Darcy keeps going. \"Fine, be that way,\" I shout after him.\n\nHe keeps walking down the main drag of the gaybourhood. He's stubborn, but he's usually wrong when it comes to directions. He'll come back when he figures it out. I lean on a parking meter and pull up my hood. It's getting colder.\n\nIt's dinner time, that lonely twilight hour. Gay men run in and out of the expensive shops. There's a cheerful sign in the butcher's window right in front: \"Our meat's not cheap but neither are you.\" Inside, a well-dressed man leans over the counter and points: organic beef, lamb shanks, lean spiced sausage.\n\nMy stomach growls. Looking at that meat reminds me of the time Darcy got the great idea to go cattle rustling. We had this rich old trick in Cabbagetown who had a nice big patio for summer parties. We discovered his deluxe new barbecue while squatting his garage last spring. Darcy's idea was to steal raw meat from the grocery store. So we smuggled it out in our pants, right, and carried it bare-handed all the way down to the old man's house to try and talk him into buying it, cash on the spot. _Ha ha._ Made some money that day, didn't we?\n\nMe and Darcy have panhandled this whole strip long enough to know the drill: Starbucks' lattes in the morning, brunch at noon, afternoon shopping, dinner with a friend. Then a long night of drinking, dancing, and debauchery. Around here, most men like their meat as fresh and pink as the boys they invite over later, after the scraps are tossed.\n\nDarcy runs back down the street toward me as the sky opens up. \"Shit, you were right,\" he yells. I'd laugh, but we're busy running. Down comes the rain: big drops, surprisingly cold and stinging. Almost hail.\n\n\"There,\" he shouts. He points to a tiny fenced-in front yard with a large boulder as a centrepiece. He leaps over the wrought iron and lunges around several flower pots.\n\n\"There was no rock!\" Darcy's not listening. This thing is so large it must have been driven from goddamn Sudbury, driven down Highway 69 in some kind of reinforced flat-bed four-by-four, a truck from my ghostly past.\n\nHe says, \"It was this place with the rock, so shut up,\" and I cuff him. I'm still kind of mad about the courier. Darcy looks around for the spare key. He peers under the doormat and in the mailbox and digs up some of the orange flowers from the garden. \"Fuck,\" he yells.\n\nThe rain is pouring down his face, drilling into the ground, slopping mud all over his sneakers and the draggy hems of his pants. He's about to smash the wee glass pane on the front door when we notice a man inside, staring at us. He's wearing an apron and oven mitts and he's holding a frying pan in one hand. In the other is an oven-mitted cell phone. He looks a bit scared but mostly surprised. He waves the phone down towards the mess of flowers at Darcy's feet. Now he's pissed.\n\n\"I told you it's the wrong house.\" I book it.\n\n\"I coulda sworn that was it,\" he says, when he catches up to me. He's laughing, imitating the dude. His hair is plastered to his forehead. That awful shirt is completely soaked.\n\n\"Shut up.\" I cut across another fenced yard and duck behind the shrubs that block the front door. I move the mat. The key is right there, small and hopeful. It isn't breaking and entering if you got a key, right?\n\nInside it's quiet and dark. It smells musty. Darcy locks the door and puts the chain across. He squeaks his wet shoes down the hall and into the living room.\n\n\"Take your shoes off,\" I yell. \"Seriously.\"\n\n\"What are you, my mom?\"\n\nI take mine off, pull the wet hoodie over my head, and peek around the corner into the living room. There are bookshelves all around. Stacks of books lay on the ground in front of them. Books spill off the coffee table. Books support a dying plant. Books underneath the phone. There's a small TV covered in more books. There are a couple of old chairs. Darcy collapses on the professor's big leather couch, muddy shoes smearing the little pillow at one end.\n\n\"Fuckwad. Look at the mess.\"\n\nDarcy sucks his teeth. He slowly reaches for his shoes, one then the next, and tosses them at my head. I catch and drop them on the plastic tray by the door. The small recycling bin beside the boot tray is full of old newspapers. And on the very top is the temporary cancellation notice\u2014for one whole month.\n\n\"Uh, this dude is away for a while,\" I say.\n\n\"Awesome.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm washing my clothes, right?\" I know where the machines are from the last time I came over. The professor gently touched my clothes and asked if I wanted them cleaned. He didn't make a big fuss about it, just showed me where everything was and how to turn on the washer. _He wouldn't mind_ , I think. I go straight down the hall, through the small kitchen, open the closet door, and there it still is.\n\n\"Do mine, too,\" says Darcy. He follows me to the kitchen. He rips off the preppy shirt, his pants fall around his feet. He pulls his dirty socks off, then his Tasmanian Devil boxers, not a blink of an eye. He's naked and absentmindedly tugs his ball sac, scratches his bony chest. His skin is so white, the veins show through. Blue veiner: that's what chicken hawks call him at the bathhouse. When Darcy first got to town, he sure made some money. The men couldn't keep off him. Now, he's no runway model, but at least his arm sores aren't oozing.\n\n\"I'm hungry, yo.\" Darcy opens one cupboard, pokes around, slams the door, opens another. \"Fuck, this guy has no food.\" He tosses a few things onto the counter, packages of ramen. They fall to the kitchen floor. \"I want Kraft dinner.\"\n\nI dump soap into the washer, turn the dials, and start the water flowing. Darcy's stuff is all in there. My socks: one, two. My hoodie: empty the pockets. My shirt goes in. I duck and check my chest from habit. The scars are healed up pretty good now, faint lines near my jujube nipples. I never had tits to speak of, always more like pecs anyways, so the surgery wasn't too drastic. Like, I can take my shirt off in public if I want, and no one is any the wiser. Except other trans guys, right? I don't know how we can tell. Smell it, probably. Sniff each other right out of a crowd, we can. My muddy jeans get slogged into the machine, and I debate the underwear. They're wet, not fresh either. But I hate even Darcy seeing me.\n\n\"Take it off, sugar loaf.\" He swings his bony hips at me.\n\n\"Shut up.\" But he's not even looking.\n\n\"Can you believe this dude doesn't even have proper cereal? Like, what is this shit?\" He shakes a box of bran into a pile on the floor. \"I want Cocoa Puffs!\"\n\n_Fuck it_. I pull off the tighty whities and toss them in. I slam the washer lid down. I cup my hands in front to hold my dick in place and head for the bathroom. \"Just don't make a friggin' mess,\" I say before shutting the door. I put in the stopper and fill the tub with hot water. There's a bottle of something smelly so I squeeze a bit under the tap: a real bath with bubbles. I step in, jump out, hop around holding my burned foot. _Shit shit shit shit_. I take a dump while the water cools. It's been a while since I got to use such a nice clean toilet. With soft paper, too. I flush and even spray the air a bit with the faggy freshener. Now the water is perfect. I hunker down so it covers me, comes right up to my bottom lip when I lie back. I decide my dick should have a bit of a rinse, too. I soap it up and wring it. Dirty water runs out. I rinse it a few more times, and it starts to look pinker. It looks less like a part of me and more like something I once paid money for. I prop it on the edge of the tub and lie back again. I look at it up there. It looks at me. Then I submerge myself totally.\n\nLying underwater I can hear Darcy cranking the knobs on the TV. \"This shit don't work,\" he yells. He comes into the bathroom. \"I'm bored.\"\n\n\"Knock much?\"\n\nDarcy yawns in the mirror. His eyes crinkle up and his mouth stretches wide. The red hair sprays around his face like a demented halo. He leans forward and starts picking at his teeth. He finds a toothbrush in the drawer and loads it up with minty paste. He scrubs carefully, like he's remembering the instructions from a long ago manual. I gather up what's left of the bubbles and station them above my crotch. Darcy spits and rinses. He smiles at me in the mirror. \"I can see your boobies,\" he says.\n\n\"Shut up.\"\n\nHe looks hurt. \"I didn't mean it like that. I meant boy boobies. Boys have boobs, too, you know.\" He puts his big toe in the tub water and wiggles it around. He splashes me and I grab his cold foot.\n\n\"You stink.\"\n\n\"So clean me,\" he says, and plops right on top, knees and elbows cracking against the porcelain tub. We wrestle a bit, send waves over the edge, onto the tile floor. Our bones clack together; it's a tight squeeze even for two skinny boys. Finally Darcy settles himself at one end, his head resting on one side of the faucet, his legs stretched out so his feet pop up beside my shoulders. My legs rest over his narrow torso, my feet near his face. He blows bubbles with his mouth. He smiles at me strangely, then up pop a series of large bubbles from the middle of the tub.\n\n\"Gross!\"\n\nHe says, \"Ha ha. There's your bubble bath.\"\n\n\"Your feet stink,\" I say. He waggles them on either side of me.\n\n\"Yours are dirty, too.\"\n\n\"So wash them.\" I chuck the wet cloth in his face.\n\n\"Don't be like that,\" he says. \"You get so mad all the time.\" He looks at me for a minute. Then he sends another loud bubble to the surface by my leg.\n\n\"What the\u2014?\"\n\nDarcy is in hysterics.\n\nHe grabs my foot and slides the soap bar in between my toes. When he gets near the little one, my foot twitches, and he holds it tight in his hands. He rubs along the bottom, all the way to my rough heel. He presses around the heel, traces the sides of my foot, massages deep in the arch and in the sore, neglected ball of it. He pulls the toes again, slowly, twisting them a tiny bit just before letting go.\n\nMy voice wobbles when I ask him where he learned to do that.\n\n\"My mom used to make me rub her feet all the time when I was little,\" he says. \"They got sore from hookin' in high heels.\" He sings this last part and rolls his shoulder, shakes his wet hair like a dog. \"My sister bossed me around and made me paint her nails. No wonder I'm queer.\"\n\nWe laugh. Darcy adds more hot water. He has to stand up so he doesn't get burned. He sits in front of me, my legs cramped around his, like we're riding a toboggan downhill. I soap up the cloth again and slop it loudly against his narrow back.\n\n\"What would happen if the King caught us?\"\n\nDarcy flinches. \"Seriously?\"\n\n\"Uh huh.\" I wash his pale back, long strokes, up and down.\n\n\"Well, the first time I heard about him was from this kid. This cute little hustler, Jake. He had some story about the King snatching up kids and selling them off. Like permanently. For snuff or other fucked-up movies, for dungeon boys, that sort of thing. Everyone thought Jake was on the pipe too much, though. He was always borrowing money and scamming, right?\"\n\nThis Jake sounds a lot like someone else I know. I trace my finger from one freckle to the next on Darcy's back, past his sharp shoulder blades and the knobby bumps of his spine.\n\n\"So Jake was going on about it, right, saying the King was on the hunt. He was scared shitless, trying to hide, even trying to get out of town, trying to bum more money off everyone, but no one would give him any. Cuz he already owed.\"\n\nDarcy sighs and shivers when I dribble more water down his back.\n\n\"Then what happened?\"\n\n\"Then he disappeared, all of a sudden. Nobody's seen him since.\"\n\n\"Maybe he did leave town,\" I say. \"Maybe he went home.\"\n\n\"Naw. He wouldn't. Not if half the shit he said about his parents was true.\"\n\n\"Maybe the social workers got him. Maybe he went to fosters,\" I say.\n\n\"Nope.\" Darcy wriggles his shoulders. \"Rub me.\"\n\nI slop the wet cloth on his skinny back again. We sit in silence for a while.\n\n\"Well, he could've gone anywhere,\" I say.\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"That kid,\" I say. \"Jake.\"\n\n\"Oh, him. Well, he could've, but he didn't.\" Darcy sounds pretty sure of himself.\n\n\"How the hell do you know?\" I don't know why this makes me so mad. It scares me, more than anything.\n\n\"Because I know. I saw pictures.\" Darcy's voice is tight, scratchier than usual.\n\n\"What kind of pictures?\" I say.\n\n\"The dead kind.\"\n\nI drop the cloth in the water. \"Where'd you see those? At some creep's place?\"\n\n\"No.\" Darcy's voice sounds strangled. His shoulders hunch forward.\n\n\"Are you crying?\" I try to twist him around but we're rammed in that tub, and there's no room.\n\n\"No,\" he says loudly. Darcy's shoulders start to shake. He gasps. A high-pitched sound squeezes out of him. I don't know what to do. I've never seen him like this.\n\n\"What's wrong?\" I say, but that's dumb. _Everything's_ wrong and we both know it.\n\nDarcy sobs while he talks. He sounds just like a little kid. \"I-I just feel bad. I never believed that boy, and now he's fucking dead.\"\n\nFinally we twist around a bit so I can hold his wet face against me. His boney white self jabs at me, all angles. He knocks against the tub and splashes water around. The ugly sounds that cough out of him are more like a dog barking than a boy crying.\n\nI ask him more questions, but Darcy just howls. He won't say anything else. Like where he saw the pictures, or who had them. Or what exactly happened to Jake. I get the feeling he knows a whole lot more, though. He's scared. _Wigged right out_. As though it could happen to him.\n\n_And it could_ , I think. _To any of us._\n\nHis terrible fear infects me, quick as the hep, quick as the bug, quick as any bad thing at all. I think about Lil' Brat, smart as a fox and twice as mean, gone with the King today. _What will happen to him?_\n\nDarcy calms down after a while and we add more hot to the tub. His dirt and stink are finally washing off. He fiddles with the cloth for a bit but eventually settles against my chest again. His wet hair pokes in my eyes and mouth but I don't mind. I lean back and let the water do its thing. I don't know where to put my arms so I just kind of hug them around his front. It feels nice. My dick falls in the water and he picks it up, squeezes it softly, and holds onto it.\n\n\"You don't mind, do you, Sly?\"\n\n\"What, you playing with my dick again?\" We chuckle. I can feel his laugh rumble against me and it's better than before, better than his heaving, awful cries.\n\n\"Let's stay here for a long time, Sly.\"\n\n\"Okay. Til the Professor comes back.\" But I wonder how soon it'll be before he gets bored or starts jonesing, before he paces up and down the hall, restless, edgy, and needing some kind of fix.\n\n\"No, I mean the tub. Let's stay in this tub forever.\"\n\nI say, \"Okay.\"\n\nBecause in this business, you just never fucking know.\n\n# Happy House\n\nHome is the Factory squat. From the first time I climbed through that broken window with some kids from the shelter, I knew it was my place. I could take my boots off here. Maybe even sleep a whole night without getting my shit fucked with. Just like the first night I met Oreo. When I saw her\u2014a gorgeous punk warrior smiling brightly\u2014a light turned on in that empty inside space, and I knew she was meant for me.\n\nThe Factory is not an address you can write on social worker forms. Can't get your welfare delivered here. It's totally under the radar, a boarded-up chair factory in the Junction. It's hidden from the rest of the city by a wall of trees and tangled bush, like a prickly moat in some fairy tale. The slaughterhouse next door is a small, sinister-looking thing. It reeks. An abandoned lot separates us from them, but that smell is everywhere. Not like meat, or even raw meat, but the gag-worthy smell of pig shit and rotting entrails and old blood. No one else would even try to live up here, not with that stink.\n\nSo, home is a smelly, red-bricked fortress with giant padlocked warehouse doors on one side. We use the regular-sized door at the back; locks stripped off, doorknob gone. We got electricity\u2014some kid wired it up a year or so ago\u2014but there's lots of natural light. We ripped boards off some of the windows. Up high in the loft section there are even more windows, not all broke. It's a mess, but we're slowly clearing it out. Some kids call it the Pig House on account of next door, but we're against that. One, we're vegans and don't insult animals. Two, we totally hate cops. Three, the _slaughterhouse_ is the Pig House and _our place_ is the Factory, end of story. Someone started calling it Fairy Mountain since our squat is now fully gay, but people started thinking F.M. was a completely different place, like a whole new squat someplace else in Toronto. Totally confusing! So really, we are just the Factory squatters, and that's that.\n\nThe Factory has rules like anyplace, but it's better than shelters and foster care and the Boys' and Girls' Home before that. Obviously, it's way better than living on the street, getting beat on and hassled and eating rape for breakfast, like you do. Going hungry and losing your mind, friends turning on you. Always on the make. At the Factory we do chores to fix the place up. We dumpster dive food and cook together, have house meetings, that sort of thing. Sometimes we have punk shows in the main space, or DIY workshops about silk-screening, basic plumbing, worm composting, whatever. Lots of kids pass through in the summer: rail riders, touring bands, punk nomads. If they stay, they got to cook or fix shit or teach stuff. They got to make the Factory a better place for being there. That's rule number one.\n\nAlso up there, not exactly number two or anything, but up near the top, is this other rule about not oppressing other people with your bullshit. I thought that would mean not being a racist asshole or a homophobe and stuff like that. Apparently it also means not rubbing your \"monogamous romance\" in other people's faces because this can be boring and offensive. You can have all the sex you want with as many people as possible, but so help you if you fall for one girl and want to be with _just_ her. Like, as a couple, which is seriously my situation with Oreo. Personally, I don't think it's fair, but that's what it is to live in a freegan collective\u2014plenty of compromise!\n\nSo here we are again, me and Oreo, standing in the gravel driveway _outside_ the Factory for another Relationship Talk. At least it's not raining.\n\n\"Oh, shit.\" Oreo, adorable as she is, looks totally guilty when I wave the paper.\n\n\"You wrote this, don't pretend you didn't,\" I say. \"That's your handwriting.\" Not to mention her signature skull and crossbones decorating the page.\n\nShe opens her mouth but a truck downshifts, brakes, and pulls onto our little road. I can't hear her, just see her mouth moving. We dive behind the corner. The truck churns up small stones and spits them out as it passes. I hear squealing, and when I peek, I see all those round snouts through the dirty cages. They're heading next door.\n\n_Poor little piggies._\n\nWe wait for the dust to settle and the truck to park itself and the roaring engine to quiet before we continue.\n\n\"It's supposed to be a surprise.\" Muscles ripple along Oreo's arm when she points at the large heading. \"See? Ferret's _surprise_ birthday party. It's a to-do list, babe.\"\n\n\"Obviously,\" I say. \"But you shouldn't have left it lying around where I'd see it.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" she says. She looks pretty bummed. \"That sucks.\"\n\nShe has written everything out carefully with extra swirls and lightning bolts around each number on the list:\n\n1. dumpster dive vegan cake\n\n2. draw a funny birthday card\n\n3. write love poem for Ferret\n\n4. make brilliant playlist for party\n\n5. check with squat about party!!\n\n\"Oreo, I don't want a birthday party.\" My stomach knots just thinking about it.\n\n\"How do you know? You've never had one.\" Oreo kisses me. She tugs my blue dreadlocks, twirls one end between her fingers.\n\n\"I shouldn't have told you that. Just cuz I haven't _had_ something doesn't mean I _want_ it.\"\n\nOreo chuckles. \"You sure about that, babe?\" She flashes a perfect, flirty smile.\n\n\"Uh, yeah.\" I think about every creep who says I'm only a dyke because I haven't had \"the right one\" yet.\n\nHer warm hands creep playfully inside the waistband of my combat pants. Her fingers rub the tickly spot above my crack. \"Come on, Ferret.\" She gives me a slobbery zerbert on the cheek. \"It'll be fun.\" She smiles. Oreo has really nice teeth\u2014evenly spaced, white. The tip of her tongue pokes out at me. Farther back I see the silver flash of her piercing. She says, \"You'll get to be the centre of attention.\"\n\n\"I hate that.\" My head droops onto her shoulder.\n\n\"Okay, you'll get to sit on the sidelines and see your friends having a great time.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" I squish my face into the crook of her neck and tug her long braid. She smells like honey cake, the lotion we shoplifted at the pharmacy. When she talks, I feel her voice rumbling from inside her chest. I trace the neckline of her ripped Slayer shirt, touch her warm skin with my finger. She is the most beautiful colour ever: coffee with cream. She is taller and darker, bigger and braver than me.\n\n\"If you don't like it, you don't have to have another one.\" Oreo looks hopeful, something I don't feel too often. \"I already made my list. Please?\"\n\n\"I just want to be with you.\"\n\n\"Me and you are together all the time. You should have fun with friends.\" Her smile and her shining eyes and the way her beautiful face lights up when she has her hands shoved down my pants make me buckle.\n\n\"I don't even know when my real birthday is.\" If you get dumped at the Boys' and Girls' Home without a proper birth certificate, without a note or some weeping, incapable mother to tell them about you, they just assign a date.\n\n\"Saturday night sounds good.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" I hate to disappoint her.\n\n\"I'll get you Sour Cherry Blasters.\" She wiggles an eyebrow.\n\nI sigh. \"Oh, all right.\"\n\n\"Ferret's having a party!\" Oreo bounces up and down. \"It's gonna be sick. You wait.\"\n\nMy knees wobble when she kisses me. Heat spreads in my belly. Oreo smiles and pulls me towards the Factory door. Like I said, you can have all the sex you want in there, just don't flaunt a Meaningful Relationship.\n\nWe step from the hot, bright outside world with its sun and its buzzing, flying creatures into the dark, dank Factory. Cement floors and boarded windows make it cool inside, even though it's the blazing end of August. The Factory smells musty. Old. Exposed brick with oversized storage units line the walls. Giant iron chains hang off pulleys in the corner by the padlocked loading dock. Oreo and I zip past the open kitchen area with the long dinner table to the back corner where our mattress is hidden behind shelves and a tall wall unit. Oreo's shirt is already off. She yanks my studded belt. I pull our makeshift curtain across the rope guide and hook it in place. Our corner smells like incense sticks and vanilla candle wax and patchouli oil and sawdust and, of course, slaughterhouse. Oreo pulls me down on top of her. We roll and giggle and kiss. Oreo whispers into my mouth, \"Happy beerthday, dear Ferret, happy beerthday to you.\"\n\nLater that afternoon, we're crashing through the tangled bush that surrounds the squat. We're taking the back way to Special Friend Discount, the sketchy convenience store, to get my Sour Cherry Blasters. At night, we cut through the open field and just walk down the gravel lane that the pig trucks use, which is faster. But during daylight we keep it on the down-low.\n\nSpecial Friend has the basics: dust-covered groceries, porn, tampons, and junk food. Most Special Friend customers buy cartons of illegal cigarettes straight from the reserve, cash only, and only if no one else is in the store. And only if the cashier recognizes you. And not if they think you might be a narco, out to bust their ass.\n\n\"Out of everything we've ever dumpstered, how come there's never been any Sour Cherry Blasters? Don't you think that's weird?\"\n\nOreo thinks about it for a minute as we continue down the steep hill, crushing overgrown weeds with each step.\n\n\"We always have more food at the Factory than we need, right?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" she says. The path widens and she grabs my hand so we can walk side by side.\n\n\"All the ripe fruits and veggies we can eat, tons of it organic. Day-old bread, doughnuts, noodles, you name it. But no Sour Cherry Blasters, not ever.\"\n\nOreo says, \"Maybe stores never throw them out. Maybe people like us are so busy eating them, they never get wasted. If you stop buying them, you could maybe score them for free.\"\n\n\"Maybe. I can't wait, though. I want some now.\"\n\nWe cross the railway tracks and pop out of some greenery onto the sidewalk of a small street that leads to the Junction, past all these old homes. Most are dilapidated, renovated into cheap rooming houses or bizarre churches with long names. Some are yuppie investments, with new roofs and pretty front gardens. One or two are boarded-up wrecks. Special Friend is only a couple blocks farther.\n\n\"Surreal,\" says Oreo, looking back at the now-hidden path that leads to the squat.\n\n\"We're invisible in there.\" Oreo rubs her neck where my mouth marked her. \"It's like we don't even exist.\"\n\n\"In a good way, though.\" I laugh and swing her hand in mine. It's still sunny, hot. I'm with my girl. I have a safe place to live and good food, even some friends. I'm happy, for once in my life, invisible or not. That feeling\u2014the sudden realization that things could maybe get better for me\u2014tingles in my spine.\n\nOreo giggles. \"Ferret, you got burrs all over.\" She pulls one off my sleeve. \"There's more.\" She crouches down and works at the ones on my combat pants.\n\n\"You, too.\" We pick them off each other for a minute or two. I can't reach the ones on the back of my shirt. The street is deserted except for us. The houses on either side have blinds or curtains in the windows. Nobody's spying, so I take my shirt right off and keep picking at the burrs. Oreo inspects my pant seams, all the way up to the crotch.\n\n\"Whoa,\" I say, smiling at her.\n\nOreo laughs and lifts me up. I wrap my legs around her. We kiss for a long time. My shirt flutters to the ground. I forget what we're doing, where we're supposed to be going.\n\nThere's the sound of an engine. There are brakes.\n\n\"Well, well. Looky here.\" The low voice cuts through our lips, severs our bodies. We'd recognize it anywhere. I scramble down, and Oreo steps in front of me.\n\nIt's the King. He likes to be called the King because he sounds like Elvis. He does his black hair the same way, too, greased up with sideburns. He is also the King because he rules this city, at least as far as junkies and hookers and street kids go. The cop car is parked beside the curb facing the wrong way. The King leans out his open window. The door opens, and he stands up, and up. When he walks toward us he grows even taller; his blue uniform gets bigger with each step.\n\nMy leg shakes. My mouth goes dry. My shirt is only a pace or two away on the other side of Oreo, but my feet are heavy cement blocks that won't budge.\n\n\"Some reason you're not wearing a shirt?\" He stands close to us, too close, and he rests one large hand on his hip, right near the black holster that holds his shiny gun.\n\nOreo says, \"It's not against the law. Not in Ontario.\" Her chin juts out. Anger pinks her cheeks.\n\n_Oh, shit._\n\n\"You think people want to look at your flat tits?\" He looks disgusted, like I'm a bug he'll squash. \"Think everyone wants to watch your disgusting lezzie show?\"\n\n\"Put your shirt on, Ferret.\" There's a tic in Oreo's cheek. _She might blow_.\n\nI bend down for the shirt, but the King steps on it with his huge polished shoe. \"You'll put that on when I say so.\" He's not even looking at me, just staring right back at Oreo.\n\nI keep my hold on the fabric, in case he lifts his foot. I'm crouched low, trying to cover myself. I have a close-up of his shiny cop shoes and his hemmed pants.\n\n\"Get up.\" His voice is mean. It feels like a stomach kick; it hurts all the way through. He snaps his meaty fingers in my face. He's standing so close to Oreo that he's pressed against her.\n\n\"Don't talk to her like that,\" says Oreo.\n\nThe King puts one large hand around Oreo's neck and grabs my bare shoulder with the other. His squeeze sends spasms through my dangling arm. His fingers could break me. \"I'll talk to her any goddamn way I please, dyke. I will say and do whatever I like. I'm the law.\"\n\nOreo struggles to get away, but he presses harder. Her face darkens. She makes awful sounds, choking, gasping for air.\n\n\"You unfuckable little sluts make me sick, you know that?\" He covers us both with his coffee breath. His nose is red and veiny at the end. Spit flies from the corner of his mouth when he talks. \"Now. Put your filthy shirt back on.\"\n\nI would. I want to have as many layers as possible between my insides and him, but he's still holding me, threatening to snap my very bones.\n\nHe shoves me. I stumble. I land half on the sidewalk, half on the grass. He's got Oreo by the throat with both hands now. He lowers his face and he's saying something, I don't know what. He's squeezing the life out of her, right in front of me, and there's nothing I can do. I grab my top and try to put it on. My fingers tremble. My left arm, the one he hurt, hangs numb. I might be crying. Every inch of me screams to run, run, but I can't leave Oreo with this monster.\n\n\"Please.\" My voice falters. \"We'll go, okay?\"\n\nHe squeezes harder. Oreo's eyes bulge. One of her boots kicks out like a puppet dancing. I panic. My breath shortens into small gasps. I feel dizzy watching, but can't look away.\n\n\"You'll go when I say so.\"\n\nOreo's face is a terrible colour. Veins stand out on her temples. Finally the King releases his hold. That's when I exhale.\n\nOreo collapses. She retches. Her hands flutter to her throat. She stays curled on the ground. This is terrible, to see her humiliated like this.\n\n\"Public indecency, mischief, loitering... I could nail you with any of those. But you're not worth the paperwork. So get the fuck outta here before I change my mind!\"\n\nI'm beside her, hands petting, trying to calm her down. I tug on her arm. I try to lift her. Her eyes snap open. Now she's up. We run down the street, past the shuttered old houses with the sagging porches, toward Special Friend. The King follows us to the corner in his car. Then the car turns and slowly chugs away in the other direction. Oreo coughs. She spits on the sidewalk. There are marks coming up around her neck that cover my love bite completely.\n\nWhat happens next is terrible, too heartbreaking to watch. Oreo kicks the newspaper machine on the corner over and over, denting the side of it. She howls. That probably really hurt. Oreo paces the sidewalk punching the air, swearing, screaming, pulling her long black hair out of its braid.\n\nI sit on the cement stairs of the convenience store and wait for it to pass. She's in a rage, that's for sure. She can't help it. You just got to know that about her and when it comes, you step away. Let her do her thing. You definitely do not want to be up in her face. The first time I even saw Oreo she was in the pit at an all-ages hardcore show downtown. She noticed how some guy wouldn't leave me alone. She gave him what for and, of course, he snotted back to her. So she slugged him. To be punched by a girl, even a butch one, was embarrassing for a punk. But when he hit Oreo back, he invited the beat down of his puny existence. Oreo knew how to fight, and that day she did it for me.\n\nToday, though, there's no one else to hit. No physical release to extinguish this hate inferno the King sparked up.\n\nThe store owner comes outside and waves a cell phone around. Oreo stops yelling.\n\n\"No trouble,\" he says. He turns and says something in Korean to his wife, who is huddled inside, peering out from behind the long-distance phone-card posters on the front door.\n\n\"Please,\" I say to him. \"No phone.\"\n\n\"No trouble, no phone,\" he says, looking warily at Oreo. She's standing in the street, her back to us. Her torso heaves with each breath. Her hands hang at her sides in loose fists, defeated.\n\n\"Please.\" I feel my eyes well up and have to look away from him.\n\nEventually he goes back inside with his wife and they both stare out the front door until I walk towards Oreo.\n\n\"Hey.\"\n\nShe sniffs loudly.\n\n\"I don't feel like candy anymore,\" I say.\n\nShe nods.\n\n\"Let's go home.\" I touch her back lightly. She flinches. I wait. She wipes her face with her sleeve. She spits into the street. Then she takes my hand and we walk back the way we came. We don't say a word when we pass the spot where it all went down, we just keep walking.\n\nOreo hits the path first. She moves fast in long robotic strides. One of her steps flattens a patch of long grass. In its wake I notice a small piece of paper. I stop to pick it up. It's a typed message from a fortune cookie. It says, \"Happy celebration happy, Wong's House of Love.\"\n\n\"Yeah, right,\" I mutter. But still, I fold it and put it in my pocket for safekeeping.\n\n# Toddlers and Tiaras\n\n(For Doris)\n\nMe and Darcy sit on the rusty fire escape outside the old lady's apartment window. We're waiting for our show to start. It's sweaty hot; the night air is heavy, with no breeze at all, not even five floors up. I shift. My bony ass hurts and angry red stripes mark the backs of my bare legs. Darcy pulls his T-shirt up over his face but keeps the collar around his forehead, tucked behind his ears. Then he twists the cotton material into a thing that he ties up like a turban on his head, covering his greasy red hair.\n\n\"Freak.\"\n\n\"It's my tiara, Sly,\" he says. He tries to grab a cigarette from my pack but I slap him. He sighs. We both know the smoke would snake right in there, through the open window, and the old lady would smell it, and she'd know we were perched out here again. Last week she threw a pot of dirty dishwater at us, and that was not great.\n\n\"Wish we had some chips.\" He farts.\n\n\"Shut up, Darcy. She'll hear us.\"\n\n\"As if. She's fucking deaf.\" He does it again, louder and longer.\n\n\"Yeah? I bet her nose works just fine.\"\n\nHe laughs. \"Listen, if your Professor friend had an effing TV we wouldn't have to be here. I'll probably get a disease sitting on this contraption.\"\n\nI don't say anything, but we both know Darcy already has the hep, and he didn't get it climbing fire escapes. Plus, we're _lucky_ we can stay at the Professor's. We're _lucky_ we're not out on the street getting our asses beat by people we owe or by the cops, who hate us. We're lucky the frigging King didn't scoop us up in his latest raid and that he hasn't tracked us down since.\n\n\"It better not be a highlights show,\" says Darcy.\n\n\"Shh. It's starting,\" I say, as canned laughter bursts out. We sneak right up to the window, lean our elbows on the sill. We're a foot away from the back of her couch with the crocheted blanket on it, maybe two from the back of her head. Her white hair is combed neatly, and she's got a long braid wrapped around, tucked into a bun, and pinned in place. If we lean to one side, we can see her big old TV directly in front. It's like we're at the drive-in, sitting in the back seat.\n\nThe theme song swells, the trailer rolls, and we hunch closer. We shimmy our shoulders in time to the music. Darcy claps his hands lightly to the beat. Inside, the old lady hums off key. After the song, the show host announces this is the second-last show of the season\u2014they're kicking three more girls off tonight. Then there's a commercial break, time for the old lady to make her sandwich. She grunts when she leans forward and slowly stands. She shuffles into the kitchen. We hear plates banging around and the fridge door slam.\n\nNow we lean right through the window, everything from the waist up. We reach over the back of the couch to pet the stuffed dogs all piled up on it. One of them, a worn-out Dalmatian, stares its googly eyes at me. I make it growl softly, then bite Darcy's scabby arm.\n\n\"Quit it,\" he whispers.\n\n\"Arrrugh,\" I bark back.\n\nThe glow of the television lights up the shelves around the stand. There are dozens of ceramic dogs flickering in the blue light, all sitting on old lady doilies. Some of them beg paws-up, some have tongues flapping out the side of their china mouths, some leap with painted frisbees in their teeth. She has a Dogs of the Year calendar up on the wall\u2014from 1987.\n\n\"Think she has any weed stashed?\" he asks hopefully.\n\n\"Yeah, right.\" Last week, when we first came here, it was to score pills from the bathroom cabinet. But as it turned out, the old lady was watching Darcy's favourite show. So instead of robbing her, we just chilled and watched from outside until she caught us, like.\n\nThe fridge door bangs again. We crouch down. The lady has it timed pretty good. She shuffles back into the living room just as the commercials end. The couch springs creak when she plops down, and we peek our heads up. She's got her sandwich on a small plate. It's cut in half diagonally. She picks one triangle up and stuffs it in her mouth.\n\n\"Onions?\" whispers Darcy. He wrinkles his nose.\n\nI elbow him.\n\nThe old lady sets her plate with half a sandwich down on the side table. She flicks crumbs off her lap. She claps as they open the curtain and the little girls stand ready, toes pointed, hands clasped, those concrete smiles holding up their faces. Beady-eyed mothers hover on the sidelines. The host waves from centre stage and trills out names: Ashleigh, Morghan, Rhianna, Tressa. Lyndsey, Tarabelle, Crystal Dawn.\n\nThe old lady heaves herself up and raises a fist toward the television.\n\n\"Aw, why she got to stand right there?\" Darcy sucks his teeth.\n\nWe lean to the right, to the left, to opposite sides at the same time, trying to see past her. She's short and wide. She's got her hands on her hips and she's yelling at the judges. Not in English, in some other language.\n\n\"She sure sounds mad,\" says Darcy.\n\n\"Seriously.\"\n\nDarcy crosses his arms over his bare chest. \"I mean, why have a couch if you're not going to sit on it?\"\n\n\"Beats me.\"\n\nShe waves her hand one last time in disgust, then slowly bends to sit back down. She lands heavily and some of the stuffed dogs avalanche into a pile around her. \"Bah,\" she says. She picks up the Dalmatian and sniffs it.\n\nOn television, the girls move stiffly around the tiny stage and wave. We get close-ups of each one, cut to prerecorded snippets when the girls forget they are on camera. Rhianna rolls her shoulder: Rhianna, collapsed in her hotel room as the adults argue about which dress she should wear. Morghan and Tressa, the prudey sisters, twirling: Morghan and Tressa eating too much cake and getting yelled at by their mother. Tarabelle shuffle-steps: Tarabelle falls asleep while her arch-nemesis practices walking in the hallway, her mother shaking her head: \"No, do it again. No. Do you want to keep your pretty dress? So do it right.\"\n\nThen there's Crystal Dawn. Darcy and the old woman start clapping. Crystal Dawn is definitely their favourite. She's the creepiest, only three and a half, but she has the plastic made-up face of a forty-year-old. Her smile is frosty, and her eyes shine like a store-bought doll, like all the little girls who compete in these pageants. She waves triumphantly. Crystal Dawn is so outrageous, she gets an entire shame video all to herself. They edit seconds from each of her temper tantrums to recreate the whole gorgeous mess. It's like flip books you make in school when you're bored. It starts with the first bottom lip twitch. Then the shaking, silent, stretching open mouth as her face gets red and wrinkly. She sucks in air\u2014we all hold our breaths. Finally, it's the money shot: the unapologetic howl! Her drooling, snotting, rage assault! We're addicted to it, all three of us. The whole continent, really.\n\n\"Wow,\" I say. \"That never gets dull.\"\n\nDarcy nods. \"I wish _I_ could cry like that.\"\n\nI don't say it, but he pretty much _did_ cry like that, just last week when we first landed at the Professor's.\n\n\"Oh, not again,\" groans Darcy.\n\nAs if the tantrum video is not enough, the show producers cut back to Crystal Dawn's notorious piss scene. Inside, the old lady sighs loudly. She reaches for the other half of her sandwich. She doesn't want to watch this either.\n\n\"There she goes,\" I say happily.\n\nFlashback: Crystal Dawn crouches backstage, sticks out her bum, and pees through her lace-trimmed Christian Lacroix panties. She looks like an angry animal, red-faced, fists clenched, yellow curls bobbing. Crystal Dawn's mother, a hefty lump of a woman, screams and shakes her. \"Those cost 425 bucks, you brat! That's coming out of your prize money!\"\n\nThe old lady hollers.\n\nDarcy almost gives up on Crystal Dawn every time he sees this clip. \"She has no respect for French design!\"\n\n\"She's not even in kindergarten. How's she supposed to respect anything?\"\n\nInside, the lady drops her plate; it clatters to the floor and she bellows. We duck. We stay crouched down 'til she's quiet, just the show blasting. The host says the panty pee scene has had more YouTube hits than the inaugural address. Crystal Dawn's baby voice booms: \"I did a bad mistake, but tonight I'm gonna be perfect.\"\n\nThe old lady murmurs. We peek over the sill. Darcy gurgles with excitement. Crystal Dawn _is_ in top form. Her helmeted up-do sparkles with rhinestones, golden ringlets pasted into place. Her eyes shine from the lubricating drops her mother puts in right before she hits the stage. She's got her tan sprayed on, and her flippers tucked in her mouth to cover those crooked teeth. She's wearing a pink and white cupcake, the short tutu all the littlest girls wear. When she walks across the stage, she swivels her hips. Her hands flit like birds with rigor mortis. Her shoulders roll aggressively. She winks at the judges. She's killing the competition, and she knows it!\n\n\"Oh, she's wearing the Jon Ben\u00e9t booties,\" squeals Darcy. \"Bold move. She'll totally win now.\"\n\n\"Not if they call Children's Aid, she won't.\"\n\n\"Children's Hate? You want to sic those dried-up social workers on Crystal Dawn? What's wrong with you?\"\n\nHe thinks I despise these girls since I hated being one myself.\n\n\"Crystal Dawn's mother is a great manager, Sly. Her stylist has impeccable taste!\"\n\n\"Whatever.\"\n\n\"You know, I used to dream about being in pageants. Only _my_ mom didn't care enough to put me in them.\"\n\n\"You want a mother like that? That can't stay out of her track pants long enough to make another baby to pimp out?\"\n\n\"At least they can see their children's _potential_.\"\n\n\"Potential of a cum-crusted death in a scary basement?\"\n\nThe lady stiffens. I duck down again instinctively.\n\nDarcy whispers, \"It's swimsuit time. Look.\"\n\nThey're all lined up in their fruity two pieces, but I stare at the space off-stage and at the crowd during the sweeping camera shots. I'm looking for the forgotten siblings: a truly ugly step-sister, some invisible brother, or unloved cousin. Maybe a henpecked husband, guarding the miniature designer dresses, yawning. Somebody real. Someone you can sink your teeth into.\n\nDuring the next commercial break, the lady goes into her kitchen. We lie flat on our backs. Darcy tries to think who we can score off of.\n\n\"I thought you wanted to get clean.\"\n\n\"I did. But now I'm not so sure,\" he says. \"Being sober is boring.\"\n\n\"Oh, so I'm boring?\" I ask, pouting.\n\n\"I didn't say that. You're so touchy.\"\n\n\"Anyways,\" I say, \"being bored is better than being dead.\"\n\n\"Ooh.\" Darcy pokes my arm.\n\nI push his finger away. One week hiding out at the Professor's and Darcy has forgotten all about being scared to death, about being hunted by the King. He wants back in the game.\n\nHe says, \"I know I freaked. I was wigging. But I'm fine now. I just want to get high.\"\n\n_I did a bad mistake but tonight I'm gonna be perfect._\n\nI shrug Crystal Dawn's voice out of my head. \"Well, we're shit outta luck, man.\"\n\n\"Maybe not. A lot can change in a few days,\" he says.\n\n\"We're still broke. We still owe a lot of money. Actually, _you_ owe a lot of money, but somehow I always get stuck paying.\" Fuck if that don't piss me off.\n\n\"You make me sound like an asshole,\" he says cheerfully.\n\n\"The pigs are probably still looking for us. So we won't be making any money tonight.\"\n\n\"Fuck,\" says Darcy.\n\n\"Pretend we're on _Celebrity Rehab_. Famous people pay a lot to be someplace they can't get high. We got it for free.\"\n\n\"You're whack.\" Darcy snaps his fingers. \"The courier! We could stop by his place, see what he's got.\" Darcy sparkles just thinking of that big blond boy.\n\n\"He took you to his place?\" A lump hardens in my stomach.\n\n\"So?\" Darcy's eyes shift. \"How do you think I got his sweater?\" His lip curls into a sneer.\n\nI remember the night he showed up wearing it, while I was working double time. The night of the storm, when we ended up crashing the Professor's pad.\n\n\"Well, without a GPS tracker you'll never find your way back there.\" I try to joke, but there's an edge to my voice.\n\nHis face tightens. He knows it's true, so he can't exactly argue. Darcy sighs. \"I wish I was a girl model. I bet they get all the drugs they want. Plus I'd wear dresses everyday.\"\n\n\"Why?\" I snort.\n\n\"My legs look good in them. And they come off lickety-split.\" He smiles prettily. \"When's the last time you wore one?\"\n\n\"First day of kindergarten. My mom made me. Teacher made me line up with the girls and I was like, _no, I'm a boy_. I kept going into the boys' line, and she kept pulling me out, so I kicked her. I put the frigging dress in the garbage. They called my mom cuz I was running around in my underwear, yelling.\"\n\n\"Troublemaker.\"\n\n\"Yeah, we used to fight all the time. She didn't get it.\" I chuck a small stone over the edge of the stairs, hear it hit the gravel parking lane below.\n\n\"She probably _got_ it, she just didn't _like_ it.\"\n\n\"I guess.\"\n\n\"So, you hate this show?\"\n\n\"Kind of,\" I say. \"It's so fake, all the stuff they do to them. But it's like they're making little girly monsters, which is cool.\"\n\n\"If you hate it so much, why watch it?\"\n\n\"Well, you love it. So it reminds me what a Gaylord you are!\" I laugh and Darcy steamrolls me, and that makes me laugh even harder.\n\n\"Hallo!\" There's a sharp rap on the window ledge.\n\nWe sit up. The old lady must be standing behind the couch. She's right at the window. I put my hands up to block whatever she'll throw this time.\n\n\"Okay, we're leaving,\" says Darcy. He scrambles toward the steps, grabs the railing for balance.\n\n\"S'okay. S'okay,\" she says and motions us to come closer.\n\nI don't move.\n\n\"Hold dat.\" She passes two flowered plates through the open window. Each one has a little sandwich on it, cut diagonally. Darcy takes them, his mouth hanging open. \"You gif me plates beck after.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" I say finally. We sit back down on the stairs with our snack. Darcy sniffs his like a hungry dog. He looks at me. I shrug. She nods and waves: _go ahead_. The bread is strange\u2014dark, heavy. When I put a bit in my mouth, it is soft and good. Darcy digs in, takes a big bite, and hums while he chews. I take another small mouthful. There are slabs of cold butter on it. Then there's some kind of filling, cream cheese with chopped green onions. Nothing I ever ate before. The creamy part is salty and also a bit sweet. It tastes good. The lady smiles at us and then she sits back down on the couch.\n\nFor the final few minutes of the show, we actually lean farther in the window. We don't have to be quiet or anything. \"Kreestal Don, number von,\" says the lady. She sticks her wrinkly thumb up. Darcy sticks his thumb up, too. I'm out-voted.\n\n\"Crystal Dawn definitely has personality,\" I say.\n\n\"Charisma,\" says Darcy.\n\n\"She can't take the pressure,\" I say. \"Not of being Little Miss West Virginia.\"\n\n\"Vat you say.\" The lady frowns at me. \"Shoosh.\"\n\nDarcy says, \"Yeah, Sly. _Shoosh_.\"\n\nThe host is about to announce the results. \"Which three will it be tonight?\" There is a drum roll. The mothers rub their good luck charms. Tarabelle, who forgot her choreography half-way through the song, she's gone. No surprise there. She wails as one of the handlers leads her off stage. The camera bounces back and forth over the tense faces of the remaining contestants. The cake eaters, Morghan and Tressa, look terrified. Rhianna is pale. _Did she wear the right dress after all?_ Apparently. It's Morghan and Tressa who get kicked off for poor performances and bad attitude, according to the judges. They leave the stage shame-faced, one biting her lower lip, the other wiping at tears.\n\nCrystal Dawn is safe! Darcy and the old lady cheer. The host reminds us there are only four girls left\u2014the heat is on! Next week promises to be even more scandalous. One of the parents is caught sabotaging another girl's props in the green room.\n\nDarcy hands back our plates. \"That was really good,\" he says.\n\nThe lady looks at us. Her old blue eyes see past our dirt and bruises, my messy hair, and the sores on Darcy's arms. \"Next veek, you bring cheeps. I like peekle flavour, yes?\"\n\nWe nod. _Yes_.\n\n# Pig House Party\n\nEveryone who squats the Factory has to agree on something like having a party, so I figure it'll never happen. Which is perfect because it won't be _my_ fault. It'll be the fault of our dumb-ass collective who can't agree on anything, not even what to have for breakfast. So I write \"party\" on the house meeting agenda, right after \"dishes.\"\n\n\"Washing dishes is bougie,\" says Cricket. We're all sitting at the kitchen table except for Cricket, who sits cross-legged _on_ the table, painting his nails bright blue to match his mohawk. \"The bougie middle class, afraid of germs, so scared to think about what happens to stuff once it's no longer perfect. That's why they obsess on dishwashing and laundry and floor cleaners. They don't want to face the reality that life is one big organic mess and we're all going to die.\" He blows on his nails.\n\nDigit scratches his facial hair. He is trying to grow a goatee like Anton LaVey so he will look more evil for his future black metal band, but right now it's just itchy chin scruff. He sighs and finally pipes up in his heavy Acadian accent. \"What's the big deal? Hif you need someting, take it. Hif it's dirty, wash it! We got to be more independent, _tabarnak_.\" He adjusts his bullet belt, which hangs around the hips of his skinny jeans.\n\n\"Exactly,\" says Oreo. She chews the end of her long black braid. She's been quiet all meeting, hardly even paying attention. Her voice is hoarse, still messed up from yesterday's run-in with the King. Bruises are coming up on her pretty brown skin. \"Even Zapatistas wash their plates.\" She points to the photo taped above the sink; guerrillas cleaning their dishes in a river, their semi-automatic weapons lying on the grassy bank.\n\n\"Yuppie propaganda,\" says Cricket. He tightens the lid on the nail polish and flutters his hands.\n\nOreo says, \"That's authentic revolutionary footage.\"\n\nCricket says, \"Whatever. It's not like we have an entire military campaign hunting us like the Zapatistas did. We can afford to leave a few plates around. What about our grey water politics?\"\n\nWe look at the propped-open window where we scoop water from the rain barrel outside. We use rainwater to wash dishes and ourselves. The leftover dish and bath water is for plants and to flush the toilet when it's full.\n\n\"The entire planet is in a water crisis, and Oreo wants us to wash dishes? Unreal.\"\n\nOreo's eyes narrow. \"I just want everyone to pull _his_ own weight.\"\n\n\"Point taken,\" I say quickly. I signal Cricket to cut it out. Oreo is in no mood. That cop fucked us up, and not just physically. The King broke something inside Oreo, something I don't know how to fix.\n\n\"Oh, don't get all essentialist on me, Oreo. Gender is a social construct; this squat is living proof. Washing dishes has nothing to do with whatever I might have between my legs!\" Cricket rolls his eyes.\n\n\"Not today,\" says Oreo. Her voice breaks.\n\n\"Fine,\" he says loudly. Cricket yanks up his patched hood and pulls the drawstrings tight, so his face disappears completely. There are funny lumps where his mohawk bends under the weight of the fabric.\n\n\"Man, you always got to talk about penis,\" says Digit. \"Why you don't just wash your plate? Hit's easy.\"\n\nOreo has a spark of life back in her now. \"Yeah, don't start what you can't finish, Cricket. I'm sick of cleaning up after white boys.\"\n\nDigit sighs again, loudly. \"Alright, everyone _try_ to wash their own dish, and also _try_ not to be total jerks.\" He drums his knuckles on the table in front of him. \" _\u00c7a marche_?\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"Seriously, guys. I want dat in the minutes,\" says Digit. \"For the people who _isn't_ here, who probably _should_ be more _serieux_ about the collective. In New Brunswick, we don't have dis kind of ting. You get in the group or you get out, you know?\"\n\nHe means red-headed Darcy. Darcy used to panhandle at the underpass with me, over a year ago. He's been around town and then some, always got his hand in some shit or other. He came to a punk show a while back and decided he was moving in, at least part time.\n\n\"Are we gonna talk about him or what?\" says Oreo.\n\n\"It's not on the agenda,\" says Cricket in a muffled voice. \"And we don't talk about people when they aren't here, remember?\"\n\nOreo says, \"That kid is sketch. We said no junkies in the squat. We _have_ to talk about it.\"\n\nDigit says, \"He have some bad friends. He owe a lot of money, I hear dat for sure.\"\n\nI say, \"He needs someplace safe. He seems sick. Where else can he go?\"\n\nCricket says, \"Well, where is he right now for our meeting? We're not an effing drop-in, we're a intentional freegan community!\"\n\nI say, \"So we want to change the world but not help the people who live in it?\"\n\nCricket sighs loudly.\n\nDigit scratches his face again. \"Who's writing da minutes?\"\n\nCricket loosens his hoodie and peers out. \"Oh crap, I'm supposed to.\" He rummages for a pen that works and for paper in the recycling box. There is a terrific lull while he scribbles down the stuff we've been talking about for the past hour: _Don't forget to compost. Worm bucket is outside, other organics in the back field. Whose turn is it to water the plants? Our tomatoes are almost ripe! Let's dumpster less food so we waste less, or let's invite people over so they can help us eat it all._ And: _Oreo wants us to wash our dishes so she can stop being an uptight bougie twat._\n\n\"Okay, I'm ready,\" he says. \"Damn, I wrecked a nail.\"\n\nDigit says, \"Who's chairing the meeting?\"\n\n\"Oh. I am.\" I clear my throat. \"So, uh, next item. Oreo was thinking we should have a party for my birthday next Saturday. What do you think? Probably a big hassle. Imagine how many dirty dishes there'll be.\"\n\n\"Very funny,\" says Oreo.\n\nCricket stops flitting his blue fingernails around, and says it's a _great_ idea. \"Maybe we can even make some cash, selling beers and whatnot.\"\n\nI cringe.\n\nOreo frowns. \"No money. This is for Ferret.\"\n\nCricket says, \"So, how you gonna pay back that fifty bucks you owe?\"\n\nOreo says nothing, and I say nothing. Fifty bucks is a lot. I get my welfare in a few days, but Oreo wants to use some of it to get stuff for the party. Stuff we can't barter or beg or dumpster for ourselves.\n\nDigit yawns, says we should get some bands to play, like _his_ new band, only they haven't really started jamming yet, but they'd be able to _maybe_ play some songs by then. \"Maybe one or two. Black fucking metal.\" He makes devil horns with his fingers.\n\nOreo says, \"No way, man. I'm DJing for Ferret so she can dance. We need something with a beat.\"\n\nThen Digit says, \"Maybe we should have other DJs, too, for _musicale diversit\u00e9,_ \" and Oreo says, \"Like _who_? Who is more diverse than an Ojibwe lesbian dance party like me?\"\n\nDigit says, \"Not a more diverse person, I mean some good music.\"\n\nOreo sticks her tongue out and crosses her eyes.\n\nI laugh.\n\nDigit says that at his first band practice, which turned into a tremendous beer and barf festival, he met Nefarious Rancor who's visiting _from New York._ \"I can probably hook that up,\" he says. \"He does brutal solo shit. The band is usually booked for, like, months, but he's in town right now. Only he _might_ want some money to play.\"\n\nAnd Cricket says, \"Oh yeah? Well, I heard that dude's in rehab, and his rich Thornhill parents are paying for it, and that's the _only_ reason he's here. Anyway, how are we gonna pay some metal Gaylord if we don't even charge cover?\"\n\n\"He's not gay, he's bisexual,\" says Digit quickly. \"I hear that, anyways.\"\n\n\"We're not charging cover,\" says Oreo. \"It's a birthday party. And I wouldn't complain about rich parents if I were you, Cricket.\"\n\nCricket ignores her completely. \"What about hot Geraldo's band, Migrant? That would be wicked. People will totally come for that.\"\n\n\"I love Migrant!\" I say.\n\n\"Why don't you ask your mom for some cash?\" Oreo asks Cricket, sneering.\n\n\"Okay, let's not talk about parents,\" I say quickly.\n\nI don't have any, so it doesn't matter to me. But this is the kind of thing that can get ugly fast. Digit grew up between the curb and the closet, no joke. Oreo's mom and aunt were killed by a drunk driver on New Year's Eve two years ago in Sudbury. But Cricket's family wires him money whenever he needs it, thinking he lives in residence at the university. The fact that he chooses to live the freegan life strictly for political reasons while still attending classes is great and all, but sometimes it rubs Oreo the wrong way.\n\n\"All right, I'm sorry.\" Cricket is quiet for almost an entire minute.\n\n\"Happy break,\" I say. We do that sometimes if stuff gets tense. Just move around in that big old building, skateboard up and down the long length of it, maybe have a snack.\n\nCricket stays put, dejected. He hates being reminded of his race, gender, and class privilege. It makes him feel less radical. Digit shrugs and says he'll make everybody peanut butter sandwiches on the bagels we scored today. _Typical Digit, always thinking of the group_. Oreo lies on the floor and stretches like a cat.\n\nI go for a walk in the field between the Factory and the slaughterhouse. Really it's just an empty lot, a no-man's land where folks have been dumping shit for years. I like to look at our brick building, especially on a night like tonight with all those pretty stars out and with an almost-full moon pouring down, lighting up our house from space.\n\n\"Hey, Ferret.\"\n\nThe voice comes from over by the slaughterhouse. It's Eddie, sitting on the ledge having a smoke break. When he waves, the motion-sensitive outdoor security light blinks on. He's in the spotlight now, wearing coveralls and the long, bloody rubber apron and tall rubber boots. I don't want to be rude so I go over, even though I hate the whole pig blood situation.\n\n\"What up?\" Eddie smiles and his buck teeth gleam. There's gore smeared on his chin. Eddie is tall and thin with skin darker than Oreo's. Blurry ink\u2014homemade tattoos\u2014decorate the sides of his shaved head, neck, and hands. Probably covers everything in between, too. Eddie lets anyone practice on him as long as it's free.\n\n\"Looks like we're having a party Saturday. You should come.\"\n\n\"Hmm. We don't go out too much.\"\n\n\"But it's my birthday. You got to come. Bring your boyfriend.\"\n\n\"Oh, Ray-Ray? Yeah. He's pretty shy, but...\" Eddie wipes his nose with his forearm. Blood smears across his cheek.\n\nI nod. _Me, too_.\n\nIf you can get past his stutter, Ray-Ray is totally cool. His delicate hands, big eyes, that long, white-blond hair\u2014he's like some fragile princess from a far-off time. Eddie is his dragon-slayer prince.\n\n\"I don't really party anymore,\" he says, like an apology. \"Gave up the crank, all that shit. I'm doing good, too.\"\n\n\"Way to go. Just come say hi. It'd be nice.\"\n\nEddie takes one last drag off his smoke and flicks the butt to the ground where all the others are. \"Break's over.\" He smiles again. Then he goes through the side door, back into the killing machine, and I cross the field toward our place.\n\nEddie's probation officer got him the job, and it's true, he's been on the straight-and-narrow ever since, working hard, looking after his boy. He told me the saddest thing about working the slaughterhouse was that he had to give up bacon, which he used to love. His mother bitched when he visited the trailer park, \"Why didn't you bring some meat fresh off the conveyor?\" Something about watching hundreds of animals get lined up, hosed off, then electrocuted or bashed on the head every day, something about that changes you, I guess. Eddie's job is to reach up and, in that flickering moment when the pigs are harnessed into submission and hopefully stunned, to gut them, one after the other. I've seen him work, and it's not pretty. His gloved arms go right inside the steaming hot mess of their insides while they are technically still alive. The smell never leaves him, the stench of their blood and their shit as it pours out onto his boots and onto the concrete floor, the screaming and grunting. That killed his love of bacon.\n\nI re-read the fortune from my pocket, the one I found on the path yesterday: _happy celebration happy_. Then I light a match and set it on fire. I whisper the phrase for luck while it burns in my fingers. I drop the last piece in the grass and watch 'til it's nothing but ash. _There_. I walk past mattresses with rusting coils popped out, old fridges, trashed cars with weeds growing up though the busted-out parts in their dented frames. Something scurries past\u2014probably a rat, the way it skitters and bounces. I feel better. Being in nature always clears my head.\n\nBack at the Factory, Cricket draws happily. Oreo blasts her favourite Dirt EP. She and Cricket shout the final chorus: \"Object Refuse Reject Abuse!\"\n\nIn the ensuing silence Digit pouts because his band got nixed from the lineup. \"What does Migrant got dat we don't?\" he says.\n\nCricket says, \"First of all, you don't have a name. You don't even have a guitar, man. You're not a band 'til you have something to play and an effing name. Then by all means, call me.\" Cricket shrieks and waves his cellphone in the air. \"Geraldo texted back\u2014Migrant is totally in!\"\n\nDigit grunts. He fiddles with some metal piping he found in the dump.\n\nOreo says, \"DJ Silo's said yes, too. We'll alternate spinning. She's awesome.\"\n\nCricket says, \"No club kids. No fucking poseurs, no way. I'm putting that on the flyer\u2014they'll bring the bougie pigs.\"\n\nI say, \"Flyer?\"\n\nEveryone looks up, startled, like they've forgotten me.\n\n\"Why do we need a flyer if it's just a few folks getting together for my birthday? I don't even have that many friends.\"\n\n\"Sure you do, Ferret. There's everyone at the drop-in and the underpass, there's the Frenchies in Parkdale, and our girl posse.\" Oreo is ticking off one finger for each group. She waves four fingers at me.\n\n\"Those people don't even know me. They're your friends.\"\n\nCricket says, \"Girls, can you keep your monogamous relationship issues private?\"\n\nI say, \"It's not about our relationship, it's about how many people do you want in our place? Like, is this party for me or is it for the squat or what?\"\n\n\"Hit's for all of us,\" says Digit. \"But let's not go crazy.\" He picks up a piece of wood that was lying around, and balances it on top of the metal he's wired together. \"Hey, if I sand dis and attach hit like dis, we can use hit for the birtday cake. Look.\" The wood rotates smoothly on its new-found perch; it's a punk-rock, custom-built Lazy Susan.\n\n\"Wow,\" I say. \"Digit, you're the best.\"\n\n\"Just what we need. More bougie kitchen crap!\" says Cricket. \"Well, I'm definitely inviting my new boyfriend. Oh my god, he is so hot. Maybe he'll bring his courier friends.\"\n\n\"Your imaginary boyfriend,\" says Digit. He rolls his eyes.\n\n\"Oh, he exists,\" says Cricket. \"And he's going to be existing in my pants on Saturday night, so get _\u00fcber_ it.\"\n\n\"Word,\" says Oreo. They high five, which is nice, since they've been bickering all night.\n\n\"Okay,\" I say. \"Invite whoever you want; it's for all of us. Let's not get busted, though.\"\n\nEveryone is like, _Fuck that, we're not having no cops here._\n\nAn image of the King pops into my head. I feel that sore spot on my shoulder where he bruised me. Oreo and I look at each other. No way do we want to run into that pig again. Suddenly, Oreo laughs, something I haven't heard in a while. She cues up N.W.A.'s \"Fuck tha Police.\"\n\n\"Spin it, girlfriend!\" Cricket leaps off the table. He spanks his own bum as he dances around the room. Oreo joins in, laughing. _That's better._\n\n\"Eh. Can we ave hardcore and metal, or is dat too much to ask?\" Digit hates dance music. \"Otherwise I won't bodder inviting anyone.\" He's sanding the board now, and it looks pretty good.\n\n\"Maybe,\" shouts Cricket.\n\n\"Maybe not,\" shouts Oreo.\n\nI say, \"What should I do?\"\n\nOreo pulls me close and sways in time to the music. \"You just figure out what you're gonna wear, Ferret. It's your party.\"\n\n\"Hmm. This _is_ what I wear.\" I look down: dirty patched combat pants, heavy metal belt, scuffed boots, some ripped stinking shirt over a vintage bra I've never washed, a few pounds of leather and metal jewellery. Oreo hugs me tighter.\n\nCricket shouts, \"Some girls wear skirts. They're hot. You should try it.\"\n\nOreo nods and smiles.\n\nI don't say anything, but I wonder.\n\nBy Saturday night, we are wired. We take turns washing our crusty dishes. When no one is looking, I throw a couple into the dump\u2014they're just too disgusting. Oreo stacks her second-hand speakers around the room, tapes down the wiring, sets her turntables out, lines up her vinyl underneath. We haul out the generator for this, since we'd probably blow the low power still humming in this building. Oreo tests the system, and it sounds amazing. We have some serious bass happening in the Factory. Digit clamps an old lamp to the table for light. He sets his homemade Lazy Susan on the kitchen table and the big cake on top. Oreo scored it from the health food dumpster. It's gorgeous vegan, gluten-free fudge, and it smells incredible. Some loser would have paid forty bucks for it, but technically it's past the expiry date. The top isn't even crushed. I lick some icing off the box. _Mmm_. Cricket clears a dance floor. Digit and me put our stuff away in cupboards and staple fabric over the fronts so people won't go through our shit.\n\nAt the last minute, I change into a short skirt from the free bin at the drop-in. I pull fishnets over my bruised legs and put on more makeup than usual. I feel like some drag queen, lurching around in borrowed shoes with a two-inch heel. But there's something else. I feel\u2014not exactly pretty, but _special_. Like something good could happen to me, now that I'm paying attention. _Happy celebration happy_.\n\n\"Hooka, what?\" Cricket slaps my behind when I stagger past.\n\n\"Seriously, Cricket. Do I look alright?\"\n\n\"Yep, you clean up pretty good, Ferret,\" and that makes me smile.\n\nOreo's eyes light up when she sees me. She whistles at my short skirt. There's that electric thing again, that zap of possibility. \"You look good enough to eat.\" In these shoes, we're the same height, eye to eye, boob to boob. I kiss her at this new angle and that calms me. It reminds me of the only things that matter: this place, our friends, and us.\n\n\"I still wish we were alone.\"\n\n\"Oh we _will_ be, don't you worry.\" She kisses me again and trails her fingers down my back. She rubs my neck, my shoulders, even the one that is still sore from the King. She tugs on my skirt and smiles, and I'm glad I did it. I'm glad I tried something new.\n\nSoon people drop by. Kids who used to live here, who did workshops, shows, that sort of thing. There are kids from downtown, from the hardcore scene, and the drop-in. Some bring their dogs, and most of them get along. Geraldo arrives in an old van with his gear, and Digit helps set up the drum kit and plug in the PA and mic. Crust punks pile to the front of the long room as Geraldo tunes his guitar. Then the small girl playing bass fills the Factory with a subterranean rumble. The dreadlocked drummer clicks his sticks together and suddenly the band explodes in a frenzy of sound. Kids drop their bags and push into each another, they writhe and slam, and the more everyone moves, the warmer it gets. The music stops as suddenly as it begins. People whistle and cheer. \"This song is for the keeds in my country,\" Geraldo says breathlessly into the mic. \"It's called, 'Food Not Clowns: We Can't Eat Your Bombs.'\" Drumsticks click again, bass and guitar barf an onslaught of high-speed chords into the air, kids sweat and shout and bash into each other in a joyous frenzy. I can hardly breathe until the song's over two minutes later.\n\n\"Migrant kicks _ass_!\" I shout to Oreo. She smiles and squeezes me, shields me from a spazzed-out boy in the make-shift pit. When the set ends a few songs later, kids pour outside to get air, to cool off, and Geraldo starts packing up the cords and pedals while wiping sweat from his face and neck. Oreo helps them clear out their gear\u2014so does Digit, who is apparently not holding a grudge about the whole band thing. In fact, he looks downright friendly, chatting up Geraldo, who apologizes for cutting out early. Migrant has another gig across town tonight and they have to jet. Oreo switches a patchcord and gets a CD playing, and kids gradually drift back inside.\n\nEveryone is excited to be at the Factory for one big bash before summer ends. Oreo turns up the music and people dance. _This is fun_ , I think. Kids tell me happy birthday; they go out of their way to be friendly, and I think, _Oreo was right. They do like me!_\n\nMore people come, people I don't recognize. They barrel through the back door. They bring fancy beer and expensive booze. Some of them make fun of our place, wrinkle their noses. They pile their purses and bags near the door. It's hard to get in and out with all their stuff in the way. They scare off the crust punks with their perfume and soap and the smells of their hairspray and who knows what else. Clean, shiny people sit on the couches we pulled from the dump, on our makeshift chairs, and up the ladder rungs that lead to the loft. Rich kids dance in the main room of the Factory. They laugh and gossip and gulp fruity drinks. Girls wear sparkly clothes with large earrings, tight pants, and strappy, bright sandals. Some of them want different music, and they start to bug Oreo, asking for shit we'd never play here\u2014Britney and Fergie and Beyonc\u00e9. I see that tic in Oreo's cheek, which is not good. Oreo plays it cool, though. No fighting; she just tells them to go fuck her mother if they don't like her tunes.\n\n\"Did you hear what she said to me?\" A whiny blonde gets pulled by the arm. Her friends glare at Oreo.\n\nA couple punks sneak over to the rich kids' pile, start sifting through the designer bags. I could say something, but fuck it. It's not like those clean kids belong here.\n\n\"Are they from your university?\" I whisper to Cricket. He's pouring vodka from one of their large bottles.\n\n\"Fuck, yeah. Bougie poseurs. I'm making you a birthday drink. It's on them.\"\n\n\"But how did they find our place?\"\n\n\"Probably DJ Silo, that top-forty sellout. She's in my queer studies class.\"\n\n\"You think _they're_ queer?\" I can't believe it. They're so shiny.\n\n\"Oh, honey, they're not queer; they're the gay-lesbian enemy\u2014mainstreaming homos. We're nothing like them, don't worry.\"\n\n\"Huh.\" I look at all these girls again. Some of them are pretty touchy-feely, kissing and standing close. Some of them are definitely checking Oreo out; they blush and giggle and try to talk to her. My stomach tightens with worry. I grab a beer from the fridge and gulp it. I don't want to ruin anyone's fun, but seriously.\n\n\"Digit!\" I have to yell, and he still can't hear me over the music and all those voices. I chuck my beer cap and hit him square in the back of the head. He grins when he sees that it's me.\n\n\"Ay, _bonne f\u00eate, ma fille_!\" He pushes his way over to me, beside the cake.\n\n\"Digit, are these your friends?\" I trace the cake edge with my finger and lick the icing.\n\n\" _Absolument non_. Great party, eh?\" He swigs some beer. \"This is nothing. More than 200 people reply on Facebook.\"\n\nI'm speechless.\n\n\"Don't worry, it's not like I attach a map or someting. It's cool.\"\n\nBut I wonder. Crickets' flyers are all over the place. The slaughterhouse is marked with a drawing of a pig, and there's a giant X for the Factory. It says: Pig House Party, B.Y.O.E. Fuck you, Club Kid Poseurs.\n\n\" _Salut, toi_!\" Digit gives devil horns to someone in the crowd.\n\nI take my heels off and climb onto the ledge by the kitchen sink. I wobble. Now I'm taller than everyone, and I can see almost the whole main room. I try to count\u2014in twos, in small groups\u2014but nobody stands still long enough. I get sixty, then almost eighty; that can't be right. I forgot the upstairs. Maybe seventy. I round up, I round down, I give up. The Factory is full.\n\n\"Whatcha doin,' girl?\" Cricket's obviously had another drink.\n\n\"Trying to count. Digit says 200 people replied on Facebook...\"\n\n\"Digit posted on Facebook? He's such an ass.\" Cricket helps me down and holds my arm while I put the dreaded shoes back on.\n\n\"We should eat that cake, honey.\"\n\n\"Everyone?\"\n\n\"Uh-uh. Just you and me. Fuck Facebook. Fuck the bourgeoisie!\" With that, Cricket stabs the cake's dark centre with our butcher knife. \"I killed the cake,\" he shouts, and a few people turn to watch. He keeps stabbing. We laugh and grab handfuls, rich and moist. I smear some on his mouth. Cricket plasters my face.\n\n\"Mmmmmph.\" I'm chewing and swallowing and savouring this thing like love that fills my mouth. \"Wow.\"\n\n\"Ferret, itsh all over yer fash,\" he says, and slobbers up another dollop of frosting.\n\nDigit is suddenly there, mouth open. \" _Qu'est-ce que vous faites_?\"\n\nCricket scoops and smears it on Digit.\n\nDigit grabs the knife from Cricket and accuses him, \"English cake killer!\"\n\nCricket shoves another handful into Digit's open mouth. \"Born again! Cake resurrection!\"\n\nDigit howls. He doesn't laugh often, but once he gets going he can't stop. His face turns red, veins pop on his temples like angry worms. He coughs and snorts and drools. Saliva strands hang from his open, cake-filled mouth. Tears stream from his squinty eyes. He collapses on the table, shaking. It's contagious. I can't stop either, not even when Oreo is beside us, not even when she grabs my hair and licks that cake right off and smooshes her clean face into my dirty chocolate mouth. _Our best house meeting ever_.\n\nThe back door opens. A new crowd pushes in through the people who are trying to push out. People want to smoke outside or take a piss and can't find our toilet. Some complain about the no-flushing rule. Tall Eddie comes in, dragging Ray-Ray. I wave. Eddie raises his bottle.\n\nCricket shakes off his carb coma when he sees the big blond head of the new guy he likes, that bike courier. He pushes through some bum-shaking dancers, dragging me along behind. He smiles and the blond brick wall of a man smiles back. Cricket introduces me; Two Ton tips his cap.\n\n\"Ah, your birthday cake,\" he says, and wipes a bit of chocolate from my cheek.\n\nWe drink to that. Cricket offers pills. I can tell he likes the guy cuz he doesn't even get mad when Two Ton takes more than one. In fact, Cricket _smiles_. What an E-tard.\n\n\"I hope you don't mind, Ferret. I invite a little friend to come for your party. Darcy, a skinny red-haired boy.\"\n\nI smile. \"That's the kid who moved in. I haven't seen him all week. I hope he's okay.\" The pill sticks in my throat so I wash it down with beer. Maybe it's the free booze talking, but right now I decide I don't mind all these people any more.\n\nCricket says, \"I heard he got picked up by the cops.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Two Ton looks confused. \"I see him today. He says he gonna bring his other friend tonight. I forget his name. Cute boy,\" he says and winks at me.\n\n\"I like cute girls.\"\n\nTwo Ton shrugs. \"Oh well. More of them for me and Creek-it.\" And then he cracks that big smile of his, mesmerizing Cricket even more.\n\nStrangers keep coming. I stop counting. There's probably double the number of people there were earlier. The Factory is overrun. Scuffles break out\u2014someone can't find their wallet, their cell phone. Some other gadget goes missing, a purse is lost. Accusations are loud, fingers point. Oreo just bumps up the volume. Cricket pours drinks for the victims, for the accused\u2014from other people's bottles. People shed layers of clothing they don't need; it's hard to keep the beers cold. The walls sweat.\n\nSuddenly I feel the swell inside; the tingly numbness spreads, and my skin feels warm. Cricket's pills are kicking in. Everything is magic now. Little Darcy shows up, beaten and sketched out, nervous as a mouse; I pull him onto the dance floor and twirl.\n\n\"You okay?\" The words fill my mouth and take longer to say than they should.\n\nHe tries to shake my hand loose, but I pull him closer. \"I heard you got nabbed by the cops.\"\n\nHe licks his swollen lip. His eyes shift back and forth; he blurts something then stops.\n\nThe music is wicked intense\u2014Oreo is smokin' the heavy beats. I dance Darcy over to the turntables, and he disappears while I kiss Oreo. She looks so hot with her headphones on, her smile lighting up the place. All those other girls, those fancy rich girls, they can fuck off. Oreo kisses me back, and I can't wait to be alone with her. The floorboards bounce back up against my shoes. I move to the middle of the throng, strangers dancing close. We crush together, apart, together, for hours, it seems, world without end. Oreo spins fast breaks, stutters the vinyl, teases metal classics into her electronic weirdness, then lets the drum and bass kick heavy and dark. I am smiling. _I'm really having fun_. Even if all these people don't know me, even if they don't know who we are, everybody's having an awesome time together in _our_ house. It's a brilliant party.\n\nI don't even notice them at first, the sirens blend so beautifully. The spinning red lights reflect off skin: faces, closed eyes, bare bellies. Then the snare drum pops over our heads, so much like gunfire. I'm dancing slowly, swaying, my eyes are open, taking it all in. My arms outstretched, I'm in the middle of all those hot bodies, sucking up the sounds, the pictures. It is some sick dance video: Cricket's arms up flailing, a raised stick, his face contorting.\n\nTall Eddie sees over the whole crowd, he yells something to me\u2014I don't hear him, but we talk with our eyes; he's freaking out. I don't understand. He pushes Ray-Ray through the people, tosses him toward the open kitchen window. Ray-Ray is up on the ledge. He looks back at Eddie, then he jumps, his long white hair streaking after him. _Eddie._ Someone hits Eddie on the shoulder with a long stick. Eddie turns, ready to throw a punch but instead his body pulsates with electricity, he sails backwards, limbs flailing, his eyes roll to white. I'm staring, surprised at his funny dance. _Who came dressed up like that_? I think. _Who came in a uniform?_\n\nTwo Ton throws his beer in the uniform's face and dives out the same window as Ray-Ray, the one near our rain barrel. He's gone. People stare. Uniforms\u2014there's more than one\u2014move through the crowd, and bodies part like water. There's pushing and shoving and the sticks come out: bodies jerk and twitch. Feet shoot out from underneath, they kick and slide to the killer music. Kids push me, step on me. I'm swarmed, can't move. Suddenly, people fall down in front of me.\n\nI see Digit's back; he's still eating the rest of that cake in the corner, he's licking icing off that butcher knife, and men are yelling at him. He turns, slowly, knife raised, and there's a loud pop, a sound that cracks over top of the music, and Digit's head snaps backwards; there's a dark spot spreading across his chest. The knife goes flying and his body lands by the sink. He convulses, red spurts streak the walls and broken window behind him. Kids scream. A girl beside me vomits. There's that pig we hate. The King is standing over there, gun still raised, the smell of it burning my nostrils. The King turns and stares at me. _He sees me see_.\n\nI need Oreo. She's shaking those dreads, cueing up something new. I yell, but her headphones block me. She's zoned. The King is behind her. She has no idea. I run. My heels catch in a pile of clothes. I wave my arms as I fall\u2014I'm frantic. Then Oreo sees me, sees my terror, and so does the King. I'm trapped by the couch, trying to kick off those shoes. They both watch me flail, one behind the other. The King smiles as his stick lands on Oreo's temple. Pain flashes across her face, I feel it. Oreo's mouth goes slack; she crumples out of sight. I roar. The pretty inside light that only Oreo brings me flares up and out; it burns to black and is gone.\n\nThe King gives a hand signal. Someone cuts the generator: music stops, lights go out. Ghosts of kids are screaming, grabbing their stuff, and running in the blue black. They move fast, but not fast enough. The back door is blocked. Headlights beam through the windows, red lights spin. A line of cops grab and handcuff kids when they push their way out. Kids are freaking. Their silhouettes pile out the windows then scramble right back in; they're getting beaten out there, they're getting tased.\n\nMeanwhile, kids trample me. I crawl toward the last place I saw Oreo, calling her name, trying to protect myself. High-heeled shoes snap my wrist, Docs smash my face. I curl up underneath the turntables\u2014no Oreo. Shoes stampede on all sides; they stomp past me in a blur. But one polished pair stops right in front. Big black cop shoes, with hemmed blue pants. I know exactly whose they are, too.\n\n# Shaker Baker\n\n_Nothing_.\n\nThat's all there is at first.\n\n_I'm dead_ , I think. _Finally._\n\nThen the pain kicks in: the rolling ache in my head builds to stabbing points in each eye socket. My stomach twists and bloats with gas. The crazy-making itch starts up again, like worms chewing through sub-layers of skin, skin that holds my bones and bruises all together. I massage my jaw; it's sore from clenching my teeth. I clear my throat and hork out chemical-flavoured post-nasal drip.\n\nOkay. I sigh. So I'm alive.\n\nWherever I am in the world, I'm also lying on the floor between a wall and an old couch. Actually, I'm halfway inside the back of the couch. _Hiding from the cops_. The fabric is torn away. I can see the wood frame, springs above me, little bugs crawling around, the stuffing pulled out of cushions and neatly piled up in tiny rolled balls of fluff. A pyramid of fluff balls, all the same size, all carefully stacked and counted. That was me, last night, tweaked, fiddling with that stuffing for hours, right after taking my transistor radio apart and lining up the pieces along the baseboard, biggest to smallest, darkest to lightest. Wires and plastic parts, dials and buttons, the coded flat metal pieces all glare at me. _What the hell was I thinking?_\n\nI pat the chest pocket of my cotton shirt. I can feel the baggies in there, should be two of them left, with clear chunks of beautiful Vancouver meth\u2014an eighth of an ounce, at least. I wiggle my toes. Packets of other stuff I picked up during the raid are hidden in my shoes. _My stash_.\n\nI pull myself out from behind the couch slowly. My stick legs drag behind, heavy and numb, like they're somebody else's. Sunlight blasts through open windows. It's squinty bright and way too quiet. _Morning_. I'm in the Factory, alright, even if it's unrecognizable. I know the smells: sawdust and sheet metal, spilled beer, dirty laundry, rotting bags of dumpstered food. Over top it all is the hot stench of pig shit from the slaughterhouse next door.\n\nI remember Ferret twirling me around last night at the party, trying to get me on the dance floor. She always stood up for me. Cricket and Oreo, even Digit\u2014a hell of a nice boy\u2014knew better than to trust a basehead like me. _How could I dance?_ Me, tweaked, knowing the cops were right outside, knowing I brought them to the doorstep. Desperate to find Sly before the raid. My stomach cramps just thinking about it. I freeze, hold my gut. My ass puckers, but I don't shit myself. The cramp loosens, the pain rolls away again. I scratch my scabby arms. I pick at my lips.\n\n\"Ferret? Anybody?\" My voice is a screechy mess.\n\nNo one answers. Pigeons purr in the loft. Water drips steadily. Outside, a truck downshifts. Its brakes squeal, just like the pigs it carries. I hear it chug up the long gravel drive.\n\nMy legs tingle pins and needles. I limp along the dirty floor, past Oreo's smashed turntable, all that broken vinyl. There's glass from the side windows everywhere. Boards hang by rusty nails where the other pigs, the cops, bashed them with sticks. There's yellow tape across the doors, the windows. I lean against a fallen speaker, pick up a half empty beer. It's warm, but there's no cigarette floating inside. I rinse my mouth and spit on the floor. The chemical taste doesn't go away, but at least I'm not as dry. My hands shake when I set the bottle back down. _I need water_.\n\nThe Factory is a big old mess. Shelves collapsed in a heap when one cop took an axe to them. That was terrible; the loud whacks, the looks on all those kids' faces. Clothes, art, photographs\u2014everything they had, pulled from the broken shelves, thrown into piles on the floor. The big room reeks like piss, and I remember seeing one cop whip it out and spray the piles. An axe blade trail leads along the food cupboards, across the makeshift kitchen counter, up the blood-splattered wall. _Blood_. I shudder. _The shooting_. I pick my lips some more. I stare at the floor, at the stains, for an hour or maybe only a minute\u2014it's hard to tell.\n\n_Water._\n\nI lick my bumpy dry lips. Water trickles out of a chopped-up pipe; it drips down and runs along the slanted floor, all the way over to the far side of the long room. A tiny man-made lake ripples with each new drop. I tilt my head back underneath the pipe and fill my mouth. It tastes weird, cool but tinny, a bit like earth. It reminds me that I have to pee.\n\n_Sly_ , I think miserably. _What happened to Sly?_ I never saw him last night, not on the dance floor\u2014as if he'd dance. Not in the bathroom lineup, not outside in the dark field, or upstairs in the make-out loft. Maybe he stayed at the Professor's. Maybe he was still mad at me for taking off, for scoring and leaving. _Maybe_. After the cops burst in, the place was an effing zoo. Kids screaming, pushing, cops yelling, giving out the beats, handcuffs snapping shut. The best part was everyone dropping their stash.\n\n_Time for a wake-up call._ I jiggle from one foot to the other. My bladder presses. _A snort will get the brain cells working._\n\nI touch my chest pocket; want to save the meth, but maybe a toot of that rich-kid coke...\n\nOutside, a car door slams shut. Then another. That snaps me awake. There's a digital _bleep_ and radio static. Deep-down man voices. Gravel crunches under their heavy boots. I don't have time to climb to the loft, and there's nothing left to hide behind, so I scramble back to the couch and stuff my aching body behind it, though I can't crawl right inside it, back into the filth.\n\n\"Whew,\" one guy says as the door creaks open. \"Stinks.\" He laughs nervously. His radio chirps. \"So, what're we looking for exactly? The girl's probably long gone by now.\"\n\n\"Leftovers.\" This voice is lower than the other, hollow and mean like an ulcer. _Constable Earl King_. I listen to his deliberate steps as he walks through the Factory. They stop.\n\nAir catches in my chest. I try to slow up my breathing, but I can't. I'm panting. My hands and feet run cold. There's no stopping it, hot piss soaks my jean shorts, pools under my bare leg. It runs along the downward slant of the old floor. It runs underneath the whole length of the couch. I can taste the sick at the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.\n\nOne pair of feet walks around the place. One stands still.\n\n\"What a mess,\" the other guy says. \"God, don't these kids bathe?\" He stomps his foot and sighs loudly. \"Piss. Stinks like piss.\"\n\nThe King grunts. The King is climbing the loft ladder. I can tell by the sounds of his heavy steps on each creaking rung, by the ladder bouncing against the wall when he moves, by the way his deep voice echoes longer in the big room. He says, \"Rats, roaches, pigeons, and street kids. City's full of vermin.\"\n\n\"Yep. We got our hands full.\" The second man sounds farther away. Maybe still near the entrance, or in the kitchen. He drops something, it clatters to the ground. It rolls and rolls all the way over to the couch. \"Shit,\" he says. He walks slowly. His steps get louder; I feel each one through the floor boards. He stops. Leather creaks, and his knee pops when he bends down.\n\nI feel his hand on my sneaker. He tugs hard, then drops it with a gasp. I hear him drag the couch away from the wall. \"What the\u2014\"\n\nThere's no use pretending. I open my eyes. I waggle my fingers at him.\n\nHe's blond with pink cheeks and looks tall, especially because I'm sprawled down on the floor. The red stripe runs all the way up the outer seam of his dark pants. It's the nicer one, Officer P. Anderson, the King's partner. He inspects his fingers, the ones that touched my shoe, for cooties.\n\n\"Well, well,\" he says. \"Not our girl. It's the informant.\"\n\nI clear my throat. No words come out. I try to compose myself. I sit up, my back straight against the cement wall, like a debutante.\n\nThe King's voice booms from the upper loft. \"So we got our redhead back.\"\n\nMy skin prickles.\n\nThe King climbs down the creaky ladder while he talks. \"Darcy Jones. Good tip last night. We got a lot more than we expected.\"\n\nI remember them beating their way through the party, having a field day.\n\n\"An unlawful gathering in a dangerous location\u2014trespassing, drug trafficking, underage drinking, weapons...\" He lists them off on his big fingers.\n\nOfficer Anderson says, \" _I_ think this was a meth lab. Don't you, Earl?\"\n\n_No way_ , I think. _I'd have never left this place if they were cooking crystal._\n\nI say, \"The only thing they baked here was lentils. Tofu.\"\n\nAnderson laughs meanly. \"Darcy doesn't understand.\"\n\n\"Nobody likes a meth lab in their neighbourhood, Darcy,\" says the King. He speaks slowly, loudly, like I'm a retard. \"People don't care _what_ we do to them, as long as we get rid of them. So, for our purposes, this dump was a meth lab. Got it?\"\n\nMy brain is hardly working. I'm still stuck thinking that they actually _had_ a meth lab and were holding out on me. _Effing vegans._\n\nThe King says, \"We sent some scumbags back to jail last night. Hopefully their bitch lawyers won't spring them too soon.\"\n\n\"Oh, and the hospital,\" says Officer Anderson. \"Right? Sent that kid to the ICU.\"\n\n\"Won't be walking out any time soon,\" says the King. \"You came through for us, Darcy.\" His deep voice sounds almost proud of me.\n\nI smile, but I'm not sure if I should.\n\n\" _I_ didn't think you would, to be honest,\" says Anderson. His hands are fists on his hips. I'm staring at his belt buckle, a silver rectangle like a little doorframe leading nowhere nice.\n\n\"Didn't find your girl-boy, though,\" says the King. \"Too bad. I wanted to get a closer look at that freak.\"\n\n_Sly_. A guilt pang twists my guts. I told him about Sly being trans. How he is a boy born into the wrong girl body. \"He wasn't here last night,\" I say, my voice cracking.\n\nThe King is right beside Anderson now. Two big men\u2014one pale with pink cheeks, one dark with a big veiny nose\u2014a wall of blue.\n\nAnderson says, \"Who would have thought so much could go down on Fairy Mountain?\" He chuckles.\n\nThe King says, \"Hmmph.\" Then he says, \"Get up. What's in your pockets?\"\n\nI get up slowly. There's a wet stain on my jean shorts. I pull my front pockets inside out \u2013 nothing. I turn around and wiggle my hips slowly, to show him there's nothing back there either.\n\n\"Did you piss yourself?\" The King looks disgusted. \"Clean up. I still need you for a couple more jobs today, Darcy.\"\n\nI clear my throat to talk. \"But you said we'd be even if I told you about the party.\" My hidden foil packets are burning holes right through me. I got a crack attack coming on. I can make do with a joint to calm my nerves if I have to, but seriously? I need a bump, a line of coke, or a hit of something speedy, just to get back in the game.\n\nHe says, \"Shut the fuck up.\" His hit sends me flat against the wall. _Whush._ All the things bumping around in my head fly clean out of there. \"You're _never_ gonna be even, got that? You do _what_ I say, _when_ I say it. You know what happens if you don't play? You're done. Permanently. \"\n\nPhotos of that boy he killed, him all cut up and beaten, that pretty hustler we don't see around anymore, bolt through my brain like lightning. I don't say anything. I don't cry. It's like that hit sends me back to myself, wakes me up and gets my brain working again, almost as good as a chemical.\n\n_I know all about hitting_ , I think. _Oh, yes._\n\nI pick up the first piece of clothing I find, a button-down shirt someone left on the arm of the couch, and shove my arms into the sleeves, pulling it over my T-shirt. I sidle behind the couch, away from them, and smooth the fabric over the pocket that holds my goods.\n\nAnderson says, \"We need you to find someone, Darcy. Someone who was at the party.\"\n\n\"Emily Stuart.\" The King pronounces it loud and sharp, so the last name sounds like a spit.\n\nI say, \"I don't know anyone named that.\" I cough. I'm looking for pants in all the stuff left behind by the party kids.\n\n\"Oh, yes you do. She was living here.\" Anderson steps toward me and waves papers in my face. \"Having her welfare delivered to the drop-in centre.\"\n\n\"I already told you who lives here\u2014Cricket, Oreo, Digit, and Ferret.\" _And me_. \"That's it. There's no Emily No One.\" I root through a pile of clothes. There's a silver scarf, a light jacket, a pair of giant white sunglasses.\n\nAnderson checks something on his paper. \"James David Smith, a.k.a. Cricket, the fag with the blue hair. Got him. Oreo Ahkwa-blah-blah-kwe\u2014are they serious? More like Lesbo Broken Nose.\" He laughs meanly. \"Digit is Andr\u00e9 Savoie, the kid on life support. Emily Stuart, missing in action.\"\n\n\"What do you mean life support?\" I put the sunglasses on top of my head and drape the scarf over my shoulder. I can tell it looks good, even without a mirror.\n\nThe King grabs my arm and nearly rips it out of the socket. \"Listen, you little fuck. She's a skinny dyke with dirty blue dreads. She was wearing fishnets and a skirt. Ring any bells?\"\n\n\"Oh, that's Ferret. Why didn't you say so?\"\n\nThe King drops my arm. I shake it out.\n\n\"That hurt,\" I say. Now I know. The King reminds me of someone\u2014one of my long-ago dads. It's so familiar, all of it.\n\nOfficer Anderson scribbles in his notes. \"Stuart, also known as Ferret.\"\n\n\"The best thing about these little cunts,\" says the King, \"is they're like rats in a trap. They'll chew off their own legs to escape, never mind what they'll do to each other.\"\n\nThe King's eyes are flat, unblinking. I stare him down while I undo my wet shorts; they drop to the floor with a slap. My bare skin prickles into goose bumps. My thing shrivels up like a small turtle. I see his eyes drop down to look at me. I step out of the crumpled shorts and slowly walk past him toward another pile of stuff farther away.\n\n\"Hurry up, Princess,\" says Anderson. \"It's not a fashion show. We got work to do.\"\n\nI swish the silver scarf over my shoulder. The long end of it tickles my bare bum. I pick up a pair of red spandex shorts some girl probably wore under her skirt. I step into them, pull them up over my shoes, all the way to the waist. _Perfect_.\n\n\"Fine,\" I say. I put the sunglasses low on my nose and sashay over to the back door. \"Coming, officers?\"\n\nThe King opens the car door for me. I raise my hand, _Ta_. I slide across the wide back seat and cross my legs. I tap my sneaker on the divider that separates me from the front seat. I can feel the packages shimmy around in there. _I need a bump_. The King slams my door. He gets in the front, slams that door, too. I can see the grey in the back of his hair. I never noticed it before. _Salt and pepper, so distinguished_. The radio bleeps. Anderson gets in his side and, voil\u00e0, another slam. The King calls the dispatcher, says they're investigating the old chair factory crime scene. Tracking a witness. Following leads. He hangs up the radio. He opens his window, spits. Finally, he starts the engine.\n\nAnderson says, \"Fuck-load of paper work for one bullet, wouldn't you say?\"\n\nThe King says, \"Shut up.\"\n\n\"No, seriously. Was it worth it?\"\n\n\"Maybe. If those douchebag lawyers don't screw it up.\"\n\n_One little bullet._\n\nI remember the gun last night, the sound and smell of it, the way everyone freaked. Everyone else ploughing their way out of the Factory, and me with my eyes on the floor, on hands, pockets; me seeing flashes of silver, little clear baggies, and tiny pill boxes, the fancy ones those rich kids shake around. Crumb-snatcher me, picking it all up, hiding in the back of the couch for hours, quietly tweaking, organizing my fluff balls while chaos blew through the Factory, and later, while the cops did their thing and closed the place down.\n\n_Great party._\n\n\"We're taking you to all the hot spots, Darcy,\" says Officer Anderson. \"The underpass, the drop-in, the parks. You'll be hitting the streets, asking around, then meeting up with us every hour or so.\"\n\n_Good_ , I think. _I can totally get high and keep my buzz on. The only question is\u2014back to crystal light, or should I save that for better times? Should I shake and bake the coke, cook up some crack, and sell it around? That'd be good for coin._\n\n\"We need you to find Emily. Uh\u2014Ferret.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because we lost her,\" says Anderson.\n\n\"Shut up,\" says the King.\n\n\"Sorry. But we _had_ her. Then we didn't.\"\n\nThe King turns around, his eyebrows hunch in toward the deep frown in the middle of his forehead. \"She witnessed the shooting last night. We need her cooperation. Your job is to tell people, even if they don't ask, that Andr\u00e9, uh, Digit needs her to come forward. Got it?\"\n\n\"Hmm,\" I say. \"That's easy.\"\n\n\"You tell people we got the shooter. Edward. But we need the witness.\"\n\n_I'm important_. I pretend the King is my chauffeur. I sit very tall, chin up, my new sunglasses on. _I'm Lady Gaga. Beyonc\u00e9. I'm Michael Effing Jackson._\n\nThe car rolls down the gravel laneway. We swerve to let another pig truck through. I fall against the door with the sudden movement.\n\n\"Shit,\" says the King.\n\nThe big truck stops and reverses, pulls up and stalls right beside the police car.\n\n\"Shit,\" says Anderson.\n\nWhen the engine cuts, all you can hear is the animals squealing, snorting, and grunting. The smell of them and their manure fills the car. I cover my nose with the scarf.\n\n\"Phoo,\" says Anderson. He waves his hand in front of his face.\n\nThe truck revs up again. The engine shudders and chokes to life; it roars and partially drowns out the terrified pig sounds. The driver honks and gestures. He wants us to back up, to give him some more room. The King stays put. Dust churns up around us. Exhaust blasts out the back end of the big machine. The driver manages to squeeze his truck beside us after all.\n\nI stare out the window\u2014all those stacked crates, those round snouts, those big asses and flapping ears cruise past. One big pig, brown with lighter blobs on it, stares right back at me. We're only a couple feet apart, me and this pig, and only the cruiser glass and the crate wall between us. Those small pink eyes find mine and won't look away. I take off my glasses. I blink. The pig blinks back. Then the cop car lurches ahead and I can't see it anymore, even when I twist to look out the back window. The King turns right at the end of the lane. My stomach cramps up again. I grit my teeth and squeeze my butt cheeks together 'til the pain rolls away. _Close call_.\n\nThe King lays on the accelerator. Dust blows in his window, wind fills my mouth. I put my glasses back on, wrap the silver scarf over my hair like a movie star.\n\n_This is nothing_ , I think. _As long as I have shit to snort and shit to bake and shit to tell the cops, I'll be just fine._\n\nThe drop-in is usually packed on Sundays\u2014free food, free laundry. It's warm and dry. It's loud. Kids trying to watch a movie, kids shooting pool, kids making a mess in the kitchen. Sundays you can work off your hangover, shower, catch up on the weekend gossip, crash out for a bit in the corner. Visit High Heaven. Chill with the gang. Most days, it'd be easy to get the word out about Ferret. Thing is, today there's no one, just the blonde social worker and the Knitter. I hear needles clickety-click from across the room.\n\n\"Hey,\" I say.\n\nThe Knitter nods.\n\n\"Where is everyone?\"\n\nHe shrugs. His hands and those long needles keep moving. At his feet a ball of multi-coloured yarn unrolls a bit more with each jerk of his mammoth forearms. The finished knitting hangs down all the way to the floor. The Knitter is the largest security dude at the drop-in. Someone said he used to be a pro wrestler. I wouldn't be surprised. His neck is thicker than my thigh.\n\n\"Nice. You making a sweater-dress?\"\n\nHe grunts.\n\n\"Wait, wait, let me guess. A poncho? I think they're in for fall.\"\n\nHis eyebrows bash into each other when he frowns. \"Scarf,\" he says in his bottomless-pit voice.\n\n\"Wow,\" I say. \"That's a pretty long scarf. Even for you.\"\n\nHe pauses and looks right at me. His eyes are close-set in his huge face with his enormous bald head. \"What do you mean?\" he rumbles.\n\n\"Well, you're a big man and all. But it takes a certain _something_ to pull off such an extreme scarf.\" I flick the end of my silver fabric for effect. \"I can give you some tips, like for wrapping it and making turbans, that sort of thing. It's one of my specialties.\"\n\n\"I'm not gonna _wear_ it,\" he says gruffly. \"It's part of my recovery.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" I tap my shoe on the ground. \"Recovery from what?\"\n\n\"Smoking and drinking and stuff.\"\n\n\"Does it work?\" I push my sunglasses up onto my head and peer closer at his big hands.\n\n\"Addictions, man. You never stop thinking about it, but if you keep your hands busy, you don't do it. See?\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Truth is, he's probably right. There's no _way_ he could spark up a joint or open a bottle or shoot himself up with those gargantuan fingers fiddling away.\n\n\"When you give it up, you still got to recover from all the damage you did. Mentally, physically, spiritually. I knit. It helps.\" He stops talking as abruptly as he started. He goes back to his work, clickety-clack, and I shrug my shoulders. _Who effing knew?_\n\n\"Hello, Darcy,\" says the chunky blonde in the kitchen area.\n\n\"Pame-lah,\" I sing her name. \"Have you seen Fairy-Ferret?\"\n\n\"Not today. You aren't the first to come looking for her, either. She in trouble?\" She sets her knife down and gives me a hard stare.\n\n\"No. Cops want her for a witness. Someone shot Digit, you know.\"\n\n\"I do. It's just terrible.\" She sniffs loudly. I notice her eyes are red.\n\n\"Are you crying?\"\n\n\"Maybe. He's a good kid. Never hurt anyone. Is it true he owed Eddie money?\"\n\nI shrug. _Eddie?_ Fuck, _I_ owe Eddie.\n\nPamela picks up the knife and goes back to mutilating fruit for a salad that only the Knitter will eat. She's always trying to shove food down our throats.\n\nI lean against the kitchen counter like it's a ballet bar. I point my sneakers and lift my knobby legs up high.\n\n\"Feet down when I'm working.\" She swats my foot.\n\nThat's when I swipe the baking soda from the top shelf under the counter. I tuck it in the front of my red shorts, smooth my long shirt over top.\n\nI yawn, and she pops a piece of something awful in my mouth.\n\n\"Don't spit it out,\" she says. \"It's papaya. Good for digestion.\"\n\nThe rubbery lump sits uninvited on my tongue.\n\n\"What and when was your last meal?\"\n\n\"Uh...\" I can't remember. I'm chewing and swallowing the fruit, but it might just fly right back up and out of me.\n\n\"Here.\" She shoves a bottle of orange juice at me. \"Scurvy's not just for pirates anymore. Argggh.\"\n\nI roll my eyes. Pamela is so embarrassing. Good thing none of the hot boys are here. I take a bottle of water instead. I can use it with soda to cook the crack.\n\n\"May I use the harm reduction closet?\"\n\nPamela's face twitches. \"I wish you would eat something first.\"\n\n\"Ah, mama, I ain't hungry.\" I bat my lashes at her.\n\nShe sighs. \"There's no one in there right now. Do you need help with anything?\" Her voice goes up thin and squeaky at the end. That's how I know she is not really down with the whole shooting up or smoking crack in the \"safe\" room thing. It was definitely _not_ her idea to get it going, but she wants us to like her so bad she goes along with it.\n\n\"Fresh pipes, screens, and lip balm are all in the basket,\" she says. \"Needles, too.\"\n\n_That's good_ , I think. Because once I finish off all my charity cocaine\u2014I'll have a snort while I gear up, then shake and bake so I can free-base some of that beautiful stuff\u2014I'm back to firing rocks in a pipe like usual.\n\n\"Don't forget to put the exhaust fan on this time. And take some condoms for later, okay?\"\n\nI take the water and stuff a few sugar cookies in my shirt pocket. Then I make a beeline for High Heaven, which is what _we_ call the closet.\n\n\"Thanks for the ride.\" I blow him a kiss. \"I had a great time. Call me.\"\n\nThe King glares. He spits out his open window. Then he guns it, exhaust blowing out the back of the cop car.\n\nI sashay down the alley, toward Kiddie Porn Park. It's a bit early, but soon the boys and hos will slink out with the alley cats. Pros and dealers chase the day walkers, with their strollers and lattes and dogs on leashes, their rollerblades. Day walkers go home for pork chops and prime-time TV while we work the trade all night long. So it goes.\n\nI'm itching to bang some more of that lottery blow; now I'm convinced snorting is a waste of good drugs. The needles and crack kits didn't fit in my shirt pocket, so Pamela gave me a fanny pack for my gear. It's around my waist, tucked inside my tight red shorts, hidden by my shirt layers. _More junk in my trunk_.\n\nI jump on the merry-go-round, and one of the straggling mothers gives me a dirty look. I hiss, Goth style. I pump with one foot in the sand, speeding the thing up and hang on as it twirls around and around, fast. I laugh out loud. Especially when she grabs her kid from the sandbox and stuffs him, crying, into a stroller and pushes him away.\n\n\"Bye bye,\" I yell after her. I lie down, flat on my back, look up at the spinning sky until the thing slows down.\n\n\"Yo, Darcy. What up, man? Where you been?\"\n\nI can't see him, but I know the voice: it's Lil' Brat. Two brown hands grab the merry-go-round rail. He runs, pulling the thing around fast again. Sand sprays up from the ground, into my open mouth. Lil' Brat yells and dives on top of me. He shrieks again, right in my ear. \"Get off\u2014\" I start coughing. I can't breathe.\n\n\"I'm a pussy-pop yo face,\" he says.\n\nHe bounces on top of me, humping my red shorts while we spin around and around. \"How much to let me fuck your tight ass, blue veiner?\"\n\nI shriek.\n\nAnother mother stomps past with twins. She shakes her massive diaper bag at us.\n\nI'm laughing and coughing and wheezing.\n\n\"You know I want to get my ting right up you,\" he says, loud enough for the lady to hear. She walks faster and he yells, \"Oh yeah, baby.\"\n\nLil' Brat rolls off me. I feel for the fanny pack; it's still there. I shake my sneakers. The foil packages rattle.\n\nWhen the merry-go-round stops completely, Lil' Brat climbs up and sits in the centre. He's wearing a skin-tight pink shirt, cropped above the nipples. You can see his tight abs, toned belly, sharp hip bones. His tight white shorts show off his booty stack. He's wearing rhinestone-studded pink flats, and his hair is braided with beads. He rubs his own titties and strikes a pose. \"So, where you been?\"\n\nWhen I catch my breath I say, \"Who cares? Let's bang,\" and he says, \"Alright.\"\n\nWe crawl inside the miniature plastic castle on the playground, and I cook it up fast in my new kit. I offer him a needle, still in the plastic, but he says, \"Don't waste it,\" so we share one instead. We jam it, one after the other. This shit is good\u2014Lil' Brat smiles and nods. We lean back against the plastic walls and chill.\n\nI'm thinking about the rest of what I got. _Should I shoot it or snort it or shake and bake that shit?_ I never had so much all at once.\n\n\"Me and Sly got a place,\" I say, after a while. \"Over in the gaybourhood. In some dude's house while he's away.\"\n\n\"You married or what?\" Lil' Brat laughs.\n\n\"No way. Just stepped out for a bit. All that shit going down. You got picked up, right?\"\n\n\"Hell, yeah. Threatened to send me back to Africville if I don't get my shit together. So I sucked his dick and he let me go.\"\n\n\"Who, the King? No way.\" I can't believe he'd pick Lil' Brat over me.\n\n\"Naw, that guy is messed. I mean the blond. Anderson.\" Lil' Brat's white teeth shine in the gloom. \"He likes a brown girl.\"\n\n\"Huh.\" Usually I can tell right away if I can sex my way out of a jam. With these pigs, it never got me out of anything, just back in deeper. \"What do you think of the King?\"\n\n\"Creep show.\"\n\n\"I think he's handsome in that Bad Daddy kind of way. Like an old movie.\"\n\n\"Maybe an old _scary_ movie.\"\n\n\"I think he likes me.\"\n\nLil' Brat laughs. \"Shit.\"\n\n\"You think I'm joking?\"\n\n\"You watch yourself, Darcy. Pigs hate kids. And the King hates us even worse.\"\n\n\"Maybe, maybe not. Imagine the King driving me all over town, getting me fries in the drive-through, Slurpies at 7-Eleven. Picking up little presents at work and slipping them under my pillow at night.\" I had a trick that did that all the time. I told him it was lame, but now I think it's kind of nice.\n\n\"You _must_ be high,\" he says, laughing.\n\n\"Don't be tripping just because I'm in love and important now\u2014\"\n\nLil' Brat waves his hand in my face. \"Love, hah. Speaking of important, I saw Ray-Ray this morning. That boy is a _mess_. Can't find his man. Says Eddie's locked up.\"\n\n\"Yeah. He shot Digit.\"\n\n\"What? Eddie don't pack. He's wild, but he's not all that.\"\n\n\"That's the word. Ferret, she seen it, and cops want her for a witness. You know where she's at?\"\n\n\"What? She's at Ray-Ray's, freaking out _with_ him.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" I smile. Things are falling into place. I figure we can dose some more, chill. I can find the King when I'm good and ready. I can take him right over there, right to Ferret _and_ Ray-Ray. He'll be so impressed. _You came through for us, Darcy_. I remember his velvet voice booming around the Factory, filling the huge space. _Just like Elvis Presley_. Then the hit\u2014he sure can pack one.\n\n\"I got to go talk to her in a bit.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Bust that out again, Darcy. That's some good shit you got.\"\n\nI smile. It sure is.\n\n# Big House\n\n\"You're in the Big House now, young man. C North, number eighteen.\" Screw opens the cell door for me.\n\nMen's voices echo off the grey walls, grey floors, grey bars. TVs hang from the ceiling in the middle of the hallway, all of them blaring different channels. Doors slam, buzzers blast through tinny speakers, engines rumble. Underneath all that is the whirl of electrical systems, the hum of fluorescent lights. My heels dig into the floor, all on their own.\n\nScrew pushes me. He slams the door. \"Play nice, Leroy,\" he says to the lump in the top bunk.\n\nThe lump grunts.\n\nScrew whistles as he walks all the way back to the range doors next to the elevators. Back to his chair and his dog-eared magazine and his half-eaten bag of chips.\n\nThe lump waves a tattooed arm in the air. \"That's right. You in the Big House now.\"\n\nI never been in _real_ jail before, but I know this ain't the Big House. We're in the frigging Don Jail, not Penetang. Not Kingston.\n\nLeroy sits up. \"You best hit the showers. I be smelling you all the way up here. That ain't right.\" He wrinkles his nose. He's got three teardrops tattooed beside his right eye. I don't miss his colours, neither.\n\nI lean against the bars, feel the metal press into my back. I do reek, truth. My stink reaches right up my nose into my brain. But I don't know about the whole prison shower thing. Like, if it's how you see on TV, I'd rather rot. I look around the place. It's small, I'd say eight by eight.\n\n\"There be no singing, no whistling, no humming. None of that in here, you feel me? Unless you a bull or a punk.\"\n\nI shrug.\n\n\"Corner man say you the youngest felon on the range. That's why they stick you with just me, not three up like the others.\" He points across the way. I see two guys in the bunks and one lying on a blue mat on the floor. \"Uh huh. Corner man say you waitin' on remand.\"\n\nLeroy jumps down from the bed. He is older and darker and shorter than me. More solid, lots of muscle packed in tight. Probably got twenty, maybe twenty-five pounds on me. His orange jumpsuit is undone to his waist with the long sleeves tied around his middle. He passes a big hand over his shaved head. \"You speak English?\"\n\nI nod. Truth is, I don't know what to expect. This cell is smaller than juvie. In Goderich we had units; we had space to move around. Same with all those group homes.\n\n\"You want trouble?\"\n\nI shake my head.\n\n\"Good. You got people?\"\n\nI look down at my jail shoes\u2014blue sneakers with flat white soles, no laces. Even a piece of string is a weapon in here. Ma hasn't returned my message, let alone come down.\n\n\"You got a suit?\"\n\nI clear my throat. \"Legal aid.\" My voice cracks. I haven't used it in a while.\n\n\"Ah, shit. What the charge?\"\n\nI raise my eyebrow. I'm not exactly sure. Breaking probation, definitely. Public drunkenness, probably. Might have had some dirt on me when they got me\u2014not much, though. Possession, maybe, but not trafficking.\n\n\"They put you in here with me; that mean you done somethin' real bad. You ain't going nowhere, no time soon.\"\n\n\"You said they put me here cuz I'm young.\" I look at him hard. I don't know if he's messing with me.\n\nLeroy points. \"Don't dis me. You new, so I cut you some slack. But don't you go dissin' me.\"\n\nI suck my teeth.\n\nHe paces between the bunk beds and the urinal, three steps one way, three steps back. \"Maybe corner man put you here cuz he owe me. Maybe he knows I like a young man.\"\n\nI blink. Don't know if I heard it right.\n\n\"Nice ink,\" he says, nodding at my tats, which peek out at the cuffs and collar. \"You know, you good lookin'. 'Cept for those teeth\u2014and that stink.\" Leroy points to the bunk bed. \"I'm on top, case girlfriend didn't notice.\"\n\n\"Don't call me that.\" I brace myself. The smell of the antiseptic pucks they drop in the urinal mixed with piss and all that bad air\u2014a stable of men, snorting and stamping like horses\u2014it's choking me. The paint-chipped, graffiti-covered walls are closing in. _Rest in Pieces_ it says in black marker, right above the bed. My muscles tense.\n\n\"Relax. I'm just playin' witchoo, Beige. But I do like me a tall boy.\" Leroy smiles and pouts his full lips. He looks me up and down. I swallow hard. A guy in the cell across the hall catcalls.\n\nI know how it works in juvie; jail can't be too different. You get or you get got. You slam the first motherfucker who messes with you, else they all be tapping your business and pushing you around. I learned that when I was nine years old in foster, and nothing nobody says will ever change my mind on that.\n\n\"My name is fucking Eddie.\" I feel the burn at the back of my throat, the tightness in my belly.\n\n\"Okay. But you askin' for a whole lotta trouble.\"\n\nI lunge. My fist sends him flying to the wall behind. His head hits, bounces off it. Sounds bad. I'm on him like skin before he recovers, nailing him in the gut and in the kidneys when he twists away from me. He presses his face against the cold wall. I clock another, but he pushes off the wall like a jungle cat. He springs high and catches me hard in the face. I fall back against the metal bunk. He lands a couple to my ribs. I'm stuck. My jumpsuit's caught on the metal bed frame and he bats my head like it's a ball of yarn. The cloth tears free. I pop him right in the face, bang his mouth up good. He spits blood on the floor over by the urinal and laughs. I exhale. I'll fucking stomp him. I throw a couple more hard ones, catch a couple right back. Guys in the next cells bang on the bars and cheer for Leroy. There's no bulls coming to split us up. In juvie, this shit would be done by now. Screws would jump in for sure.\n\nLeroy puts up his hand and shrinks from me. \"Hold up. You skinny but you can hit, I get it.\" He's bending down. Looks like he's folding, which surprises me. We're both breathing hard.\n\n\"Aagh,\" I yell. I want to lay into him again, punch all this hate out of me, but he backs into the corner with the miserable urinal. I can't fight him like that. _Fucking pussy._\n\n\"Okay, tall boy. Eddie. You made your point. I be done teasing you. Peace.\" He stretches his hand out to shake.\n\nI turn away to the foot end of the bunk bed near the cell door I just came in. I breathe slow, let the rage drain away. Blood stops pounding in my ears; I can hear all the other jail sounds starting up again. Men yell at Leroy for cutting short. Nobody roots for me. It's not a death match. It's about rank. I take small steps, shift my weight from one foot to the other, like I'm walking it off, only I'm not going anywhere. There's no place to go. I lean on the bars and peer down the hall. Bull's still way down there, reading his magazine. I shake out my legs, feel the bruises heat up on me. My head throbs from his hits. Finally, I walk over to Leroy.\n\n\"Alright, man.\" I reach for his large tattooed hand. I don't even see it coming. His kick is lightning. It's deadly, aimed right for my balls. The room spins, I gag, and I go down.\n\nLeroy straddles me while I moan and curse. He's got me pinned good. My hands cup my sac. He's sitting right on top of the whole works. \"You got to learn the rules. When I say you stink, that mean you hit the showers. You mind your bizness here, show some respect. You ain't got colours. That mean you ain't got friends. You feel me?\" Men's voices roar; men bang the cell bars, all the way down the hall. \"I got friends. _That's_ how you get by around here, girlfriend.\"\n\nI say, \"What the\u2014\"\n\nHe slams my head into the cement floor. _Lights out_.\n\nI dream of Ray-Ray. He's standing on the roof of Ma's trailer, looking out at the tobacco fields. The sun's going down fast, like in a sped-up film. Colours change all around. The dark rises up, making his long white hair and the blue of his jeans pop. \"Ray-Ray, man, talk to me,\" I say. But he won't. He's got his back turned. \"Please.\" I'm sad in the dream, all alone. When he finally twists, his green face is rotted out. There are worms in his stinking skin. He's some kind of zombie.\n\nI open my eyes. Leroy's heavy man smell is all over me. I can taste it. I'm tucked into bed. Bottom bunk. My head kills. Like someone took a bat to it. The fluorescent lights stab at my eyes. I raise an arm to shield them. I feel lower with my other hand; my swollen nuts ache real bad, but at least I still got my jumpsuit on. Day one and I'm already sick of this place.\n\n\"You feeling okay, girlfriend Eddie?\" Leroy is pissing at the urinal. He looks at me over his shoulder. He's got a shiner coming on and his lip is busted.\n\nThere's a sad pit in my gut, a dark hole left from that dream. _This_ is what you get for wanting someone, for giving a shit, I think. _Fucking Ray-Ray_.\n\n\"Watch your aim,\" I say.\n\n\"How's your balls? They still warm?\"\n\n\"Fuck you.\"\n\n\"Ha ha,\" he says. \"You clocked me good, so don't feel bad. Fucking split this shit up.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"Hell, yeah,\" he says, zipping up and turning around. \"Look at me. Look what you did to my pretty face.\" He smiles. He's got gold caps on a few of his teeth. \"Got a bump on the back of my head bigger than your knob, too.\" He laughs. \"So come on, tell me how bad your nuts ache.\"\n\n\"Lots.\" I sit up slowly, clutching my business. I swing my legs slowly over the side of the bed. \"Ugh. You smash my head around?\"\n\n\"Hell, yeah. Cops probably did on your way down, too.\"\n\n\"Don't remember. Think I got concussed.\" It'd explain the weird dreams, for one.\n\n\"It called neuromuscular incapacitation.\" The big words roll off his tongue in a sing-song voice.\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"You got tased, Eddie friend. Corner man heard.\"\n\n\"Really?\" My mind's a swamp. Pictures come in batches, but they don't make sense. The party. Cops. Ray-Ray\u2014pushing him out the window, making sure he'd get away. Then I was falling, flopping, banging off the floor. _Tased._\n\n\"You didn't say you was in for murder.\"\n\nI look at him. \"What?\" My mouth dries out.\n\n\"No wonder you here with me. You best get cozy. And you best get a more expensive suit, else you be locked up with the Feds 'til you an old man.\"\n\n\"Some kid got shot at the party I was at. I didn't even see it. Cops took me out.\" I shake my head. _This does not add up_.\n\n\"Well, pigs be saying _you_ shot the boy. Little Frenchie from out east. And the news saying that kid died last night in the hospital. So now, pigs be saying you a murderer. You feel me?\"\n\nMy stomach lurches. I almost heave the grey porridge from breakfast right up on the cell floor. I lay down on my cot and cover my face with my hands. Questions ricochet around my aching head. A picture comes into my head of that wiry little French kid\u2014Digit from New Brunswick\u2014the metal head from the Factory squat. Him, dead? _Impossible._\n\nI remember sitting in cuffs for so long: the lineup, the strip search, the coveralls. Being brought to this cell and all the bullshit with Leroy. Before that, there was the joke of bail court, my pussy lawyer fucking shit up and getting me sent here for who knows how long. Other lawyers got their kids out with promises from parents or social workers, court dates pending. My guy was not so good. He said, \"Complications. You win some, you lose some.\" _Stupid fuck_.\n\nBefore that was the 14-Division tank for a day and a half, me with all the winos and wife beaters, a few crust punks with priors, most of the other party kids having been let go with a warning. The clean sparkly ones got phone calls, got picked up, got grounded. The ones caught holding or who had a record or whatnot, we stayed in the pen all weekend and went to bail court Monday morning. We got slapped over to legal aid.\n\nGossip about a kid in hospital, about a shooting, about the suspect already in custody; that made the rounds fast enough. A shooting at the squat, now that was news.\n\n_The fucking Factory party._\n\nWhen me and Ray-Ray got there, the place was already packed. I didn't know most of those kids, Ray-Ray neither. We didn't even really want to be there\u2014me cuz I been trying to quit the drugs and Ray-Ray on account of his stutter. We stuck with our own kind, squat kids and crust punks, some from the drop-in. At one point, the clean kids outnumbered the crusts and some minor shit went down\u2014drinks were drunk, drugs and wallets disappeared. The hustle don't ever leave the hustler. There was the cake and the butcher's blade\u2014puny compared to what I use at the slaughterhouse. Digit was laughing, standing beside me, eating chocolate icing right off the knife. I remember seeing those cops and pushing Ray-Ray to the open window, so he'd get out safe. His long white hair got lit up by headlights when he went through. I stared after him: the back of his Iron Maiden shirt, his beautiful ass in those tight jeans, the red of his Converse sneakers on the window ledge before he jumped out. I was thinking, _at least my boy is safe_. I was pretty fucked up. I remember going down hard. That's about it. I sure don't remember no gun.\n\n_Who the hell would be packing at the Factory squat?_\n\nIn the Don, my dreams stay messed up. Ray-Ray is there, soft and sweet in his body. His wet mouth finds me night after night and I wake, the sheet sticking to my belly and chest. Sex finds me even when the rest of the dream goes wrong. One night he smiles and kisses me, but his soft hair falls out in clumps, filling my hands. Another night his face is blank. He wants to tell me something, but I can't hear on account of him having no mouth. I say, \"Ray-Ray, speak up, man,\" but he can't. An invisible wall keeps us apart. I panic. Then he grows a mouth, like it's painted on, and it opens right up. He screams, calls me a no-good, calls me a worthless ugly bitch, a fucking moron. I'm crying, \"Don't be that way,\" but he gets even meaner. I'm like a little kid. I just want him to like me, but he don't.\n\nI wake from that one in a sweat. _Fuck, he sounded like my ma\u2014with her hateful screeching_. I'd probably cry if I knew how. I think on how I used to bug her about my dad, about wanting to meet him. Wanting to know the dark side of me. She'd say, \"You'll meet him soon enough at this rate. In Penetang, doing life at Oak Ridge forensics.\"\n\nThe fluorescents buzz, cell doors clang, the intercom bell blasts. I been here over a week\u2014no visitors, not even the lawyer, no calls, no nothing to take my mind off it, neither. I got a bad taste in my mouth and a worse feeling in my gut.\n\n_Fuck Ray-Ray_. He's out there doing who-knows-what, and I'm in lock up. Still in that bottom bunk.\n\nLeroy's large hand drops down from the top bunk. He pretends to knock. \"You feeling bad, Eddie? You need to get high?\"\n\n\"No.\" I been more or less clean for four months. Other than beers and a little something extra at that party. Been going to work right on time, paying the rent, meeting the probation officer, eating up whatever Ray-Ray made for supper each night, playing with Big Fat Rat Catcher. Behaving\u2014just like a good man should. Even thinking about doing the effing GED, get my grade twelve after all. _Now what for?_\n\nLeroy swings down to the floor. He leans his face into the bottom bunk. \"Eddie,\" he says, like he's already made up his mind. \"I'm gonna set you up like you never been. Take your mind off things. You'll thank me.\" He drops a small foil package on my chest. \"Shit is good,\" he says. \"This shit is real good.\"\n\nI hold the packet in my hand. I shake it back and forth. When even the pillow over my head can't muffle the constant noise from down the hall, I say, _Fuck it_. And I take a closer look at what Leroy gave me.\n\n\"Let's think about your future, Edward.\"\n\nI cringed.\n\nShe really pronounced the \"k\" in think. That was the social services lady at the youth detention centre in Goderich, the blonde one with the streaks and the bright pink lips. I was getting processed on my last day, getting ready to leave that place for good. You always had to meet with one of those ladies on the way in and on the way out. If they liked you, sometimes one of them would meet you half way through the sentence; sometimes she'd get special clearance to take you down by the lake for a sandwich or fries, leave the joint to go talk about your life plans out at the beach. Maybe they'd put you in a support group or a class or something. I never got that with any of them, especially not this blonde. Man, she hated me. I could smell it on her.\n\n\"You won't be coming back to this detention centre again, Edward.\"\n\n\"Eddie,\" I said.\n\nShe blinked. \"You'll be too old, for one thing.\" She smiled and I could see the lipstick smeared on her front teeth. It looked pretty crazy, like a kid scribbled over top of them with a fat pink marker.\n\n\"Your life could continue to be a series of bad choices that lead to terrible consequences\u2014no diploma, no job, no money. Drugs, drinking, crime. Boys like you become men like that. They don't usually live long.\" She smiled tightly, this time no teeth at all. She leaned forward, over the stack of files on her big desk. She had pretty big boobs and they were getting closer to my face.\n\nI sat rigid, arms crossed. I stared her down.\n\n\"Or you might start making some smart choices instead. You turn eighteen in a couple of months; your record will be wiped clean in time, if you stay out of trouble. You could finish high school, get a job.\" She stood up and walked around the cramped office.\n\nNow I could read the Keys for Success poster that was on the wall behind her chair. It had a bunch of keys on a chain and each one had a word written on it.\n\n\"You might change things around for yourself. Make your mother proud.\"\n\nI pushed back, scraping my chair on the scuffed tile floor. \"Miss, don't talk about my mother.\"\n\n\"Sore point, I see.\" She walked back toward her desk so she could look me in the face. \"Your mother struggled to do right by you, even when that meant giving you to _other_ families so you would have more structure and opportunities than she could give you herself, Edward.\"\n\n\"It's Eddie.\" I clenched my teeth.\n\n\"You know, you've had a lot more chances than many kids get.\" She crossed her arms, too.\n\n_At what_? I thought. _Sucking foster cock_?\n\n\"You might leave this self-destructive path you're on and still become a useful member of society.\" Her words were hopeful, but her face and her voice and, most of all, her eyes, were not. \"You don't have to turn out like your father.\"\n\nRight then I wanted to become anyone at all, anyone who would not have to listen to her bullshit, that is. She moved directly behind me, but I refused to twist in my chair. She'd have to preach to the back of my head. I stared at the stupid poster. The keys for success were: Self-esteem, Confidence, Honesty, and Courage.\n\n\"What's it going to be, Edward?\" She was clicking her pen right behind my head.\n\nAs if it was that simple. You wake up and say, _I'm going to be a fireman_ or whatever, and fuck this shit of a life you've got dragging you down.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\nI didn't answer. My thirty minutes were almost up. She got paid whether or not I talked, and there was a long line of kids waiting out there on the range.\n\nShe threw the pen on her desk\u2014that surprised me. She stomped back to her chair and tossed my big file at me: pages and pages of shit talk by other people just like her, fosters and shrinks and screws. Some paper fell on the floor around me, some landed in my lap. Words jumped out at me from all over the papers: _defiant, delusional, hyperactive, violent_. There were long science words: _schizo-something, psychotic,_ _paranoid_. You name it, someone said it about me.\n\n\"What's 'developmentally delayed'?\" I asked. \"You mean retarded? Someone thinks I'm retarded?\" I sucked my teeth. _As if_.\n\n\"When you don't communicate it's really difficult to know what _if anything_ is going on in your head, Edward.\" Her consonants were stinging face slaps.\n\nI sat for another minute or two in silence. Those words burned the pit of my stomach. They were everywhere. And none of them were mine. Papers spilled off my lap, off the desk. They piled up on the floor around my feet.\n\nShe opened her office door. I turned my head and could read the large poster that made her office stand out from all the others in this hallway: \"You can't pimp this ride: Say no to gangs.\" It was a picture of a black hearse with a shiny casket sticking out the back.\n\n\"This session is over. Good luck, Edward.\"\n\nThat blonde would love to see me now, not even a year later, snorting H with a macho gang leader, locked in the Don, framed for murder. On the street, gangbangers die young; in jail it's the opposite. Here, you need buddies if you want to get through each day. Leroy tells me what's what: don't reach past a man's food tray, don't let no one eat off your plate, no cutting in line, don't drum your fingers on the table. Watch where you're going, don't _ever_ fucking bump into a man. _Politics_. Then there's the shower room, yard time, chores. If you want to use the goddamn pay phone, even, you got to _be_ somebody or _know_ somebody. I still fuck up, being hyper, being new. Sometimes Leroy smoothes it over for me. Sometimes I get a hauling.\n\nLeroy signals one of his boys down the hall\u2014he wants more dirt. He knows all fifty guys on the range, knows the corner man real good, and he's the one who runs shit. He knows folks on the other ranges, too. Little foil packages make their way, pocket to hand, cell to cell, all the way down to us. Even some of the bulls are in on it. Leroy been keeping me up for days now, says I don't owe. Not yet. He's pretty much bringing me in, but I stall.\n\n\"You got yourself a better offer?\" he asked the other day, eyebrow up.\n\n\"Naw. Just, I'm not from here. I get it, but I never had that kind of thing, right? Colours.\"\n\n\"They not just colours, Eddie. They brothas.\"\n\nAnd that made me think on all those other \"brothers\" I had, houses full of them, boys who hate the new kid, hate the whole world, boys looking to fight, boys looking to fuck. Always watching your back and still never seeing it coming. Thinking you got a buddy but instead you just get messed again. I got real weak, thinking on all that.\n\nNow Leroy's chopping the powder on top of a hard cover Don Jail library book with the crisp edge of his lawyer's card. He's teaching me the trade proper, and also all about the In-Justice system. Way better than a GED diploma.\n\n\"Eddie,\" he says. \"Remand mean you here now 'til you good and done with the judge, 'til you either sentenced or you set free, charges dropped. But they courts behind schedule, so we stuck waitin'. Sometimes months just sitting here, not even convicted of nothing. You feel me?\" He makes two stubby lines on the book. \"Judge give you two years or less, you likely finish it out here. You get more than two years, they probably send you to the Feds. Plus they shorten your time on account of this hole being fucked. One day in the Don equals three regular jail days, feel me?\"\n\nLeroy snorts the first line and inhales deeply a few times, shaking his head. \"Or like, if that dead kid was special, maybe he got rich parents? Court might bump you up a bit, time-wise. Speaking of bump, here you go.\"\n\nI snuffle the other line. It blazes up my sinus cavity and hits the back of my throat. I sniff, rub my nose, and swallow the chemical drip. I feel the rush immediately.\n\n\"Probably, though, you here for the long haul,\" he says.\n\nThat depresses the hell right out of me.\n\n\"See, if they gots the murder weapon, if they gots evidence, then that's something. Or an eyeball, a witness, what seen the deed. But if all they gots is bitches _hypothisaying_ shit, then that don't mean fuck-all.\"\n\nI nod. It makes sense. Mostly, it just makes me feel better.\n\n\"That's what you need this fag suit for. He may be homo, but he good in court. This fagmother _hate_ the pigs. I say you call _him_. We work it out after, what the bill cost, feel me? You pull some jobs, work my crew, you be out even sooner than you know.\" He taps the book cover with the card again.\n\nI slump back on my mattress and let the drugs course through. The lights and noise dim; it's like a giant spider spins a downy web and I'm tucked safely inside. Lately it's harder to remember Ray-Ray unless I'm high. He comes to me quick on the H; I can hear him, I can smell his skin and feel the tickly ends of his hair brush against my face when we kiss.\n\nLeroy mutters something. He does another line or two and eventually swings up onto his own mattress above. The springs creak and pop as he settles. Then there's just the now-familiar lump of his body in the saggy bed, inches above me.\n\nI think back to the night of the party again, to the moment of seeing that cop, the King, coming right at me through the crowd. Being tall is good and bad. Good, cuz I see far; bad, cuz everyone sees me too. I remember my head swinging around, scanning exits, checking the cops making their way through the joint, kids oblivious: Oreo DJing, Ferret dancing at the edge of the crowd. _Ferret!_ She saw me, before it all went fuzzy. _Maybe that's important_ , I think, _maybe she saw something_. And then I drift right off to that lush land of dreams.\n\nMy turn. I spread. They pat me down all over. I'm clean. There's at least ten of us down here, but only six places for visitors. The guy ahead of me gets a nod. He walks down the last bit of hallway toward the metal doors at the end. I follow him, but the bull puts his arm up right in front of me.\n\n\"Wait.\" He chews gum and smirks at me, his hairy arm like a toll bridge right in front of my neck, his beefy hand planted on the wall beside me.\n\n\"No way, man,\" I say. You only get forty minutes for a visit and this asshole took his own sweet time to bring me down. It's half wasted already.\n\n\"Afraid so. There's always tomorrow.\" He checks his flip chart and laughs. \"Oh yeah, this is your second visit this week. No tomorrow for you.\"\n\n\"It's my _first_. First ever, since I been in here.\"\n\n\"Nope. Your little friend came Monday\u2014guess you didn't hear your name. Still counts as a visit.\" He shrugs and taps the edge of the clipboard with his pen.\n\n\"Fuck.\" I clench and unclench my fists.\n\nThere's a sharp whistle from the line behind me. One of Leroy's friends. The screw looks up. He frowns. He swears, too. Leroy's buddy shakes his fingers, some signal I haven't learned yet, and nods at me. I nod back.\n\nMy screw yells at the bull down by the metal doors. That bull grabs the collar of the man ahead of me, just going through to the visiting room. Brother gets yanked back. I'm pushed forward.\n\n\"Your lucky day, punk,\" says my screw.\n\nI look in his eyes and see so much. _Surprise, anger, a little fear_. Colours do mean something around here, it never fails.\n\n\"Exactly,\" I say. And I strut past the other growling brother.\n\nThe visiting room is painted puke yellow, the first colour I've seen in days, other than our orange coveralls. I get pointed to the last empty chair. There's a bullet-proof glass in the middle that separates the inmates from the visitors. On the other side there's women with their kids, there's a whole family, a couple lawyers. And Ray-Ray.\n\nI sit down and stare through the glass. It's pretty smeary, so that fucks with being able to see him proper. He picks up a phone and holds it to the side of his head. It's on a short wire, so he has to lean close to the cubicle wall. His mouth moves, but I can't hear what he's saying. _Like that dream_ , I think. He waves his phone in the air and points to my side of the table.\n\n\"Shit.\"\n\nI pick up the phone on my side and there it is, the tinny echo, the click of some screw listening, and the small sound of Ray-Ray's breath.\n\n\"H-hi, Eddie.\" He blinks. He smiles, but he's unsettled. He jumps at every blast of the intercom. He looks nervously at the other inmates and their visitors, at the bulls pacing back and forth behind me.\n\n\"Hey.\" I slide my chair as close as I can. I hunch over my side of the table, closer to the glass. His eyelids roll down part way. His nostrils flare. He looks away.\n\nI push back in my chair and clear my throat. _I stink._\n\n\"It's sh-sh-sure loud.\" He smiles sadly.\n\n\"You get used to it.\" Actually, I was thinking how it's way quieter than on the range where we're locked in our cells all day.\n\n\"I thought w-w-we'd b-be alone.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" I swallow. I stare at his hands, his long fingers, slender wrists, and bare forearms. I can taste the salt from his skin, right at the base of his throat, if I try hard enough.\n\n\"M-miss you.\" He looks miserable.\n\nI nod. I bite my lip hard against the rush of emotion that burns my throat, threatening to escape and out me in front of the other men. I bury my face in my hands and press down on my eyelids. I can't. _Not here_. I feel eyes on me, eyes of the dude sitting to my right.\n\n\"Eddie?\" He leans as close as he can.\n\nHis voice whispers from the speaker part of the phone. Like it's a million miles away. I spread my fingers wide and stare at him through the slats; I memorize his face. The small freckle beside his top lip. The pale skin stretched under his eyes, light purple, the tiny folds in his delicate eyelids, the long thick lashes brushing his cheek. The white fuzz that covers his skin. It hurts to not be able to feel the soft fluff of it and then to tease him. _My little man peach._\n\nMy breath stops up in my chest.\n\n\"Eddie.\"\n\nI drop one hand to the table top and hold the phone proper. I clear my throat.\n\n\"They say you killed Digit. Shot him.\"\n\nI snort. \"With what? How'd I shoot someone without a gun?\"\n\n\"I know you d-didn't.\" He looks hurt.\n\n\"So?\" I hear the hardness in my voice.\n\n\"S-s-so it looks bad.\" He coughs. \"Th-they're saying he owed you money.\"\n\nI suck my teeth. \"He ain't owed me. Even _if_ , I don't pack.\"\n\n\"The-they say you grabbed a cop gun, right off the man.\"\n\n\"I'm no killer.\" Like I have to defend myself to him.\n\n\"I'm j-just s-s-saying, is all.\" Ray-Ray folds into himself a bit.\n\n\"Who's this 'they'? _Our_ friends? Who's saying shit about me?\" I grip the edge of the table. I'm shouting.\n\nScrew smacks the edge of my table with his stick.\n\n\"Sorry, sir.\" I exhale. I get my shit together and he walks away.\n\n\"In the p-p-paper. The n-news. Say you were f-f-fucked up on d-dust and f-f-freaked out, like.\" Ray-Ray is shrinking away from me; he looks tiny in that plastic chair.\n\nMy eyes burn. _Me, in the paper?_ My knuckles turn white. I'm still gripping the table top. There's a balloon inside me, getting bigger, straining to pop my chest wide open. The thud of blood rushing through my temples is all I hear.\n\n\"Did I?\" My voice squeaks. All those typed words fly at me, piles of social-work papers filled with long words I don't understand. _Am I a murderer too?_\n\n\"No! I m-mean, I don't think so. Y-you were messed up b-but\u2014\" Ray-Ray's eyes shift one way, then the next. \"It's just, it d-d-don't look so g-good, Eddie. And you know, the k-k-King. He's hard.\"\n\nMy mouth runs dry.\n\nRay-Ray won't look at me. He lowers the phone.\n\n\"What's that fat fuck doing? Huh? What he doing?\" _I sound like Leroy_.\n\nRay-Ray's head stays down. I look at his part; it goes straight most of the way to the centre of his head, just a small detour where the hair grows up in circular pattern. A tiny cyclone of white. His hair is greasy, I notice, hanging limply from the scalp. I see one splat of a tear on his side of the table.\n\n_Shit._\n\nHe lifts the receiver again. \"The k-King is the one t-t-talking. Said it was _his_ g-gun.\"\n\n_No shit_ , I think. And the picture starts to fall into place for me. I think about Leroy's lawyer. About owing favours.\n\n\"Listen, Ray-Ray. I think I got some help in here, but I don't know how long it'll take. You know, to straighten all this out. I don't want to be worrying about you, too.\"\n\nAll this time I been feeling sorry for me, but I never thought how it could be on Ray-Ray. He's soft. He couldn't do a day inside, and maybe he can't do it out in the city on his own, either.\n\n\"I hate that you're alone. How's Big Fat Rat Cat? I miss our place.\"\n\nRay-Ray looks up, his eyes rimmed red. He sniffs loudly. \"I ain't there, Eddie. I d-d-didn't have r-rent. Your b-boss called to say you're f-f-fired, and the landlady k-kicked me out. F-f-fat Ratty's gone. I lost him c-c-crossing t-town.\" He inhales sharply, a terrible sound squeezing from his throat.\n\nMy stomach cramps hard and tight. _No job, no place, no stuff even? Big Fat Rat Catcher\u2014gone?_ All the air rushes out of me, all of it gone at once.\n\nWhen I can talk, I say, \"Where you staying? Shit, Ray-Ray.\"\n\nHe shrugs again. Now I notice the small things; pale bruises at the top of his forearms, where the sleeves of his Iron Maiden shirt end. The grimy white parts. The almost golden colour of his skin. It looks good on him, but it's the sick coming up. He probably smells different, not that I'd notice, given the company I been keeping.\n\n\"You hustling?\"\n\nHe nods, miserably.\n\n\"Ray-Ray, listen to me, man.\" I swallow hard, to keep the bile down where it belongs. \"You get out of this town. Go home. Go to my ma's, go wherever. Stay with Old Red if my ma's too fucked. You listening? You got to get out of here.\"\n\nI can hardly see him now, through the red flaring in my brain, through the water in my eyes. \"Get out of town. I'll come find you soon as I can.\"\n\nThe intercom blasts louder, longer. Bulls hit the tables, yelling at all us sad sacks to get up, up, line up, back to the wing, chaos breaking out all over with chairs scraping back and last-minute goodbyes getting louder across the room.\n\n_Ferret!_\n\n\"Hey,\" I'm yelling loud enough to be heard. \"Find Ferret!\" Screw grabs my shoulder, yanks me out of the chair in front of Ray-Ray's surprised face. I'm still holding the phone. \"She's my eyeball. My witness.\"\n\nRay-Ray shakes his head. \"She's g-gone, Eddie.\"\n\nThe guard grabs the phone from me and hangs it up.\n\nRay-Ray's mouth drops open, like some terrible thought has just occurred to him. \"What?\" I yell, through the glass partition.\n\nBut I'm dragged into line with a thump on the shoulder blade, I'm shoved along with the others, and Ray-Ray's white hair, his tiny pale self grows smaller in my side vision until I duck past the metal door frame, and he disappears completely.\n\nThat night I pace the cell until Leroy yells at me. \"Chill, motherfuck.\"\n\nI punch the air a few times, kick the cement wall beside the urinal.\n\n\"Eddie. You got to settle yourself. A man needs quiet in here. You got to respect that.\"\n\n_I need out of this shit hole_ is what I think. Need to get out where I can breathe and think and fix things, but that is not going to happen. I feel the weight of this place, the metal and concrete and the stink of it, the hate of it, the constant watching and listening, and it tears me right up inside.\n\nLeroy passes me two tablets.\n\nI pop them in my mouth. I don't even ask what they are.\n\n\"Talk,\" he says, his big arms crossed.\n\n\"I want your suit.\"\n\nLeroy smiles wide. \"Good choice, Eddie.\" He chuckles and the low rumble of that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. \"That mean you ready to play?\"\n\nI nod, but don't even look when I hear the zipper on his jumpsuit come all the way down, and the sound of the fabric as it drops in a pile to the cement floor.\n\n# Piggy Goes to Market\n\n\"How're we supposed to get any money for you? State you're in.\" An old hard-faced woman barks at me. She holds a basin in her wrinkly hands. When she leans forward, I hear the sloosh, sloosh of water. She sets the basin on the cement floor.\n\nWe're in a cellar. There are no windows. Three lit bulbs hang from sockets around the room. Cobwebs waft from rafters. The floor and walls are cold. There's a staircase, narrow and mean, that goes upstairs. On the other side is a metal door, which I now know is bolted from the outside. I have no idea what time of day it is, not even what day it might be.\n\nThe Factory birthday party, the last day of my real life, was so long ago.\n\nThe woman wrings out a puffy sponge, and the falling water sounds like skin ripping. Her hands are old, big-knuckled. Like they've wrung out a lot of hot cloths, wiped up a lot of mess over the years. The loose skin under her arms shakes when she cleans me. The yellowed pit of her arm shows through the faded housedress she's wearing. It stinks a sharp, sour warmth into my face when she moves closer to remove my scraps of clothes.\n\nI can't talk, not that I want to. My jaw is popped; my mouth hangs open, and saliva pools and spills in long trails, down to my lap. Sometimes it goes on her cloth, her arm. She wipes it away, annoyed. She soaps and rinses me, but the parts she touches don't belong to me anymore. She pushes my head back and I start to choke on my own spit. I can't swallow or spit, can't get my lips to work. My mouth feels broken. Ugly sounds choke out until she finally sets me back right. Even she's disgusted.\n\n\"You must-a seen something. Done something. You're not like the others, not one bit.\" She stands over me, hands on her wide hips, head cocked to one side. Then she shuffles over to the stairs and heaves herself onto the bottom step. \"Earl? What the hell am I s'posed to do with this sack a shit? You leaving her down here or what?\"\n\nThere are bellows from above, thunder. _Like Elvis but louder_.\n\nMy leg shakes. I whimper. Hot piss runs down my thighs.\n\nShe shuffles back and sees my new mess. \"Now look what you done.\"\n\nShe carries the basin to the centre of the room where there's a drain. She dumps the dirty water down and then refills it from the tap of an old sink. It takes the woman a long time and lots of fresh basins to clean me, but she keeps trucking over to dump out the old, pour in the new. As much as she tries, she can't get the stink of his body, his bad breath, off me. It's inside my head permanently: his animal scent, that boozy sweat, his piss-stinking uniform.\n\nShe grunts with effort and mutters while she works. \"Can't take you upstairs like this. Turn their stomachs, you will.\" Twice more she heaves herself back onto the bottom step to holler up to him, the King, the man she calls Earl.\n\n_Creak, creak. Yell, yell._\n\n\"Not like you can go anyplace, state you're in. Might as well let you rot.\"\n\nI hover above my lump of a body. I fly around, see dust float in the air, see the mouse turds trailed along the floorboards, spiders spinning. I see myself\u2014a bloated, bruised monster.\n\n_If only I'd been arrested with the others. If only I was in jail. If only I was with Oreo._\n\nI see Oreo's face, the King's stick landing on her temple, her eyes twitching shut, her body slumping to the ground, me crawling and fighting my way through the mob to get to her, too late. None of this would've happened if I'd been right by her side, like I wanted to be. If we hadn't had the stupid party. Since the first night I met Oreo, nothing truly bad had happened to me, nobody had messed around with me. Not until the King.\n\n\"Locked your Indian butch up tight. She's a fighter,\" he'd said the night he picked me up, and his deep laugh had filled the cop car.\n\nThe old woman grabs hold of my dreadlocks and yanks me back to reality. _Here and now, the cellar_. \"Probably got the bugs. Dirty.\" She clucks her tongue.\n\nShame warms my cheeks. I see a glint of silver in her hand and gasp.\n\n\"Quiet.\" She pulls a few dreads, then saws at them, down near my scalp.\n\n_She's cutting my hair!_\n\nI squeal. I lean away but she pulls harder, making my eyes water. _She's strong for an old broad_.\n\n\"What kind of hair is this, anyway? Blue!\" She drops a handful onto the floor. It looks like a small dead animal. She grabs a new section and pulls, working the scissors near the roots. \"Them others was pretty, not you.\" More dreads fall. \"Them others got us good money. You're nothing but a punch bag whore.\"\n\nI cry. It hurts so much to know this horrible woman is cutting the punk right out of me, taking the very last bit of me away from myself.\n\n\"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?\"\n\nI hiccup.\n\nShe shakes her gnarled hands about my head, sends the loose hairs fluttering. My ears are naked. The back of my neck itches.\n\n\"Now you're more like a boy. Hmmph.\" She stands back to look at her work. Her flat, Chinatown slippers trample the pile of my hair.\n\n_I hate you,_ I want to hiss.\n\nShe shakes her head, shuffles to the stairs again, and shuffles back with a pile of clothes. She drops them beside the dreads. \"I ain't dressing you. The clothes is here, so put 'em on. You won't sell, bare like that. Too skinny. Likely wait a day or two. Get your bruise up. So they know what to do with you.\" She exhales when she bends to pick up the basin. She grunts when she stands back up. Dumping the last of the water down the drain, the old woman slams the basin onto the cement floor, tosses the sponge inside it.\n\nI don't move.\n\n\"You ain't broke all your bones. Get dressed! I want those towels.\"\n\nI still don't move. _I wish I were dead._\n\n\"Suit yourself, mule. Sleep with the rags, all I care. Sleep without your soup, too.\" She stomps heavily up the old stairs, one arthritic step at a time. \"Earl, take me home,\" she hollers. \"I had enough of this place.\"\n\n_Creak, creak. Creak, creak. Slam. Click. Bolt._\n\nThere's thunder again from above. The King sounds drunk and sloppy and something else. _Why doesn't he come back down?_ The voices are ugly loud, his low rumbling and her higher screech, call and response, like some warped hymn from the church orphanage when I was a kid. I think I hear an engine outside, a car starting up. After that it's quiet for a long time. No floorboards squeak, no voices rumble. I drift in and out, not sleeping, not awake.\n\nA door slams someplace above me. I open my eyes. It feels later, but I can't say for sure. The light bulbs glare just as they did when I was first hauled into this dank cell, when the King carried me in blindfolded and dropped me on the floor.\n\nI remember the hood lifting, the heavy fabric being pulled off roughly, some of my dreads caught with it. I was sitting, broken, staring at his shiny cop boots on the grey cement, not saying a word. He was impatient. \"Should've got rid of you by now.\" I looked him in the eyes, in those flat soulless pits, and silently dared him. He had a strange look on his face\u2014not sure what. But he left, locking and bolting the metal door behind him.\n\nOther noises gradually start up\u2014distant footsteps, doors, the thrum of electrical systems, power being generated. Vibrations tremble their way through the wood and steel and glass. A thumping bass shakes the rafters; muffled dance music. Sometimes I hear car engines, motors revving faintly outside. Sometimes the floorboards creak above, but nobody comes when I scream. Mostly there's just the rhythmic throb of dance hits shaking the foundations of the building. It might be Britney.\n\nSo they want to sell me off. That means the King can't beat me anymore, not if they want to make any money. _Will he rape me again?_ Would he still want the same pile of half-broken bones? If he's human, even partly, he won't come back down. He won't want to see what he's done to me.\n\n_Unless he means to kill me._\n\nI blink.\n\nI slowly stretch out, flat on my back. My bones clack into place. I breathe as deeply as I can. My mouth tilts to one side to let the spit pool out. I start at my toes and move them slowly, identifying the hurts, the stiffness. I work my way up my body doing a pain inventory while the bass lines thump above me. _That's AC\/DC_ , I think. _And Nine Inch Nails_. My thighs are hot with bruises, my hips feel torn. I try not to think about my crotch. It is swollen, mashed beyond recognition. Like it belongs to someone else. It burns _inside_ , like that pig branded my soft pink tissue. Like he pounded his name into me, scarring me, taking that pretty place of mine away from me forever.\n\nA sob burns right up from my belly. If I let myself remember the weight of him crushing me, the stink of his breath on my face, the sick pull and slap, the animal mechanics of it, then I will only ever want to die.\n\nI skip up higher on my body, away from those throbbing, mutilated parts. I touch my ribs lightly with one hand. Probably cracked, they're so tender; even when I breathe, it hurts. I can still feel his large hands on my neck, just like how he wrapped them around Oreo's throat that day in the Junction. It's swollen, probably will be marked for days, just like hers. The inside part, my throat, is screamed raw. Not that anyone heard, not in the deserted parking lot where they drove me, him and his blond schizoid partner. It was an old routine they'd worked out long ago, like some married couple going to Sunday dinner.\n\n\"Cherry Beach?\" asked the blond.\n\n\"Naw, Rogers Road,\" said the King. \"I'll drop you home on my way to the club.\"\n\nThe horror settled into my bones when they turned off the ignition in that industrial wasteland, that ghost-filled decrepit lot.\n\nI exhale and try to lift the lower part of my aching jaw so it'll click back into place. I feel little pops under my fingertips when I open my mouth wider and close it gently. The King forced it open. He nearly killed me then, stuffing my throat, choking me from the inside and out. I gag thinking about it. My eyes and nose run. I cover my face with sore hands, bruised from fighting back, from blocking their hits, from trying to cover myself. The blond didn't rape me\u2014not because he's nicer, he just couldn't get it up. Not even when the King laughed at him.\n\n\"Not my fault she's too ugly.\"\n\nI begged him to help me, to end it, but he just turned away. That blond stood lookout while I was pulverized into nothing.\n\nAbove me, beyond the floorboards, I hear the tell-tale drum line, the insistent retro guitar riffs, the hair-shaking, head-banging chorus: \"Pour some sugar on me!\" I catch myself singing along. I'd know Def Leppard anywhere, even as a battered hostage locked in a dirty cellar.\n\nThat's what I get for hiding a radio under my pillow every night of my pre-teen life, earphones tangled in my regulation long hair. Radio rock lulled me to sleep, American commercials filled my dreams. Until Sister Anne, the mean one with the hairy face mole, discovered my secret and confiscated the goods. My lemon-yellow radio, my only friend, gone forever!\n\nI curl onto my side, fetal. I gently touch my head. Hair tufts unevenly. I'm cold without my dreads. There they sit, painted the colours of the ocean: purples and blues with murky green tips, my beautiful hair staring back at me from that hateful pile. It's right next to the clothes she brought, which I refuse to consider. I roll away and stare at the opposite grey wall.\n\n\"That's the King.\"\n\nThe kid, a pretty hustler boy, nodded his chin slightly when the cop car cruised past our spot at the Spadina-Lake Shore underpass for the third time that morning. No dirty fingers pointing, no rude gestures, no swearing. The kid kept his head down. He stayed in the middle of our group. When he paced in tiny circles, his baggy pants dragged through the long grass of the island that separates east- and west-bound traffic. Each time cops drove by, we had to hide our buckets and squeegees; the City had passed some bylaw about traffic interference. Some days, pigs would be cracking down all over Toronto; other days they didn't give a shit. On that particular morning I didn't know what the cop wanted. That kid did, though, and he fretted. I remember his voice, the one who first warned us. _What was his name?_ I had thought he was a girl for the longest time, with that mussy hair and delicate skin. Pretty.\n\nHe'd said, \"Yep, that's the King. And if he wants you, he'll take you to market.\"\n\nIt was the first I'd heard of the King, although I'd seen him in his car circling like a shark.\n\n_Jake._ His name was Jake.\n\nAbout a year before I met Oreo and moved into the Factory, I used to camp down at that underpass with some other kids, like red-headed Darcy. We cleaned windshields at the lights and made pretty good money some days. Jake had been there a while before me but not long after. He just disappeared. Someone said he went back home, back to that small town that puked him up in the first place. Someone else said, \"No way, man. He'd never go back there.\"\n\nThat was also the summer I met Cricket. He was out of high school, graduated, though nobody knew it. He was slumming downtown with the punks, pretending to be homeless. As it turns out, he would sneak home to Rosedale some nights, living his double life. Cricket was bummed when Jake went missing. He thought Jake had _revolutionary potential_. I think Cricket just wanted to do it with him. Cricket wanted to start a squat like Andy Warhol's Factory. He tried to convince Jake to join his arts collective, but Jake was more interested in smoking crack and flirting Cricket's money out of his wallet. Cricket never got more than a grope or two, maybe some kisses, but he funded one hell of a habit for the boy. Back then, Cricket was always rattling on about the Paris Commune and Bolsheviks and crap like that. Jake said he'd _been_ to Paris and never seen any commies. \"Paris, France?\" asked Cricket and Jake had blushed, \"No\u2014Paris, Ontario.\"\n\nNext we heard Jake got trapped and rescued by some hard-nosed social workers, fostered out to some suburban family. He was cute, sure, and not old enough to get his own welfare and apartment, but nobody really believed that story. I figured he'd turn up sometime, but no.\n\nThat day at the underpass, the last time any of us ever saw Jake, Cricket was shaking his squeegee in the burning noon sun, cursing \"the bougie pigs.\" He was ranting about our rights, trying to get us agitated _and_ organized. Jake shrank back from the curb, chewed his nails and flitted nervously; he was bugging people for money, but he already owed most of us and we were totally broke, so that went nowhere. Jake was freaking out. He grabbed my arm\u2014it was a cold, hard grip in spite of the hot day. \"He'll take you to market,\" he'd said again to me, in a panicked voice.\n\nI thought, _this kid is tweaked_ , and shook him off.\n\nI called the next set of lights, ran up with my dripping squeegee. I smiled and cleaned the glass. It was a dad driving a frowning wife and some kids who were trapped in the back, looking miserable. The dad gave me a toonie and stared at my tits. _Ugh_. When I hopped back onto the curb, Jake was already gone, who knows where.\n\n_To market_. Although I never thought he meant it literally.\n\nMy stomach growls: _I'm hungry_. I'd forgotten all about food, being in this cellar. In that parking lot, that car. On the street for a couple days before that. I hadn't eaten much then, either.\n\nAnd I'm something else: _angry_.\n\nDarcy's skittish face comes to me\u2014sketched out at the party. Right before the raid. And again at Ray-Ray's place, right before the King busted down the door. Darcy, phony as fuck and just as high, tripping like some delusional princess. He couldn't even look at me, the traitor.\n\n_Darcy_ , I think, _did you know what they would do to me? Did you know I'd rather die than be torn apart by those pigs?_\n\nI lick my swollen lip. _So thirsty_. My muscles seize up in the damp cellar, my joints stiffen on the cold floor. I sit up slowly. My jaw clicks when I move my mouth, but it hurts less. I can swallow. I can spit. I'm not dead yet. And I do not want to be touched, not ever again.\n\nUpstairs music pumps away, loud as ever. _It must be a bar or a dance club_. That means there are people up there, lots of them, probably, and that's a good thing.\n\nI look at what she left me to wear: white spandex shorts, long striped socks, a baby doll cotton dress, white pinafore, and shiny black buckled shoes. _Raggedy Porno Ann_. I have nothing else to put on, so what the hell. It takes a long time to fit my limbs into the proper holes. It hurts most to raise my left arm\u2014those ribs must be cracked. When I pull the shorts on, I don't even look down. Don't want to see my battered girl parts. I'd give anything for an ice pack to press _down there_. The shoes are a full size too big, slightly scuffed. _Who wore them before me?_\n\nNext, I check the metal door. It's definitely bolted. I jiggle the doorknob, slam against the door with all my weight. Nothing but the rattle of the heavy bolt. I remember the sound of it sliding into place, just like the one at the top of the stairs. Oreo could charm this open with her tools and her steady hand and her way with things. My throat burns when I think of her, my insides ache all the more. _Shh, shh_ , I tell myself. The cold metal feels good against my swollen face.\n\nI limp to the stairs and sit on the bottom step. The music sounds louder here. _Creak_. I lean against the second step. _Crack_. An old board breaks loose\u2014the wood comes free when I tug hard at one end. _Nice._ Now I have a weapon: a spider-infested two-by-four with rusty nails at either end. I rinse the thing off in the sink, wash the sticky white nests down the drain. I notice daddy longlegs crawling up the underside of the board, elaborate webs trailing from the wood. I chuck it. _Fuck_. Silky tendrils cling to me. I grunt, swiping at myself frantically. Panic bubbles up and I gasp.\n\n_Like a spider can hurt me now._\n\nOreo would laugh. She would cup her big hands around one of them and let it creep over her fingers or hang from a fine thread or hold one dangling from a twitching leg. She would croon, call it _grandmother_.\n\nBut Oreo is not here.\n\nI drink from the tap. I rinse my face with cold water. I go get the piece of wood. The last little monster makes a getaway across the grey floor, a mangled leg hanging uselessly, trailing behind. _Poor thing_. She looks like me. Using the basin, I tap three long, rusty nails out of the board. I put them in my pinafore pocket. The last nail is already bent pretty good. It's too hard to remove. I hit it a few more times to make sure it'll stay at a ninety-degree angle. It's my rusty basement bayonet, and I practice waving it around with my good arm. I crawl up the stairs and press my ear against that door. The music is loudest here. The techno bass line vibrates the whole door. The knob shines at me. I turn the deadbolt handle, and the whole door gives slightly. I exhale for what feels like the first time since climbing the stairs. The King locked this door with his key from the outside, and I've undone it. But there's still a bolt on the other side, maybe even a second lock.\n\nI jiggle the handle, bang against the door. I scream. I slam that door with the full weight of my body. I slam my aching shoulder into it over and over. My voice goes hoarse. My shoulder throbs. I slide down to sit on the top step and breathe heavily. Sweat trickles along my hairline, down my back. Blood thumps in my chest, my ears roar. I lick my sore lips. I'm dizzy and have to grab the wall so I don't fall down the stairs.\n\n_Hannah fucking Montana?_ Unbelievable. This shit music might kill me before the cops can! When I get out of here, Oreo will find this part of the story so funny. I can hear her laughing, see those gorgeous teeth shining between full lips, her long braid swinging. _You slay me, Ferret_. If I try hard enough, I can imagine the smell of her skin.\n\nI never had that kind of thing before\u2014love. Suddenly there was Oreo, standing right beside me, protecting me. Making everything come to life, like magic. I was so scared to believe it. What if she freaked and took off? Cricket always said, \"Lesbians are delusional and co-dependent. Ferret, you're a blind monogamist!\" But I didn't care. I only wanted to be with her, safe and happy, and not afraid of the whole world anymore.\n\nI feel vibrations through the flooring under my butt before I hear the heavy footsteps approaching on the other side of the door. I leap up and bang into the wood, my voice too hoarse to make sounds.\n\nThe steps stop right on the other side. I rattle the handle.\n\nThere's a knock on the door. \"Earl? That you?\" A low voice, a man out there.\n\n_He thinks I'm the King._\n\nI rattle the doorknob again and knock back.\n\n\"You fucking lock yourself in there again? Christ.\" I hear the faint jingle of keys. The voice is nattering on.\n\nI brace myself against the far wall and hold the wooden board up high. The bolt slides across. Music blares through the tiny crack in the door.\n\n\"\u2014only got a ten-minute break, you know\u2014\"\n\nI hurl myself against the door, sending the man backward onto the floor.\n\n\"What the\u2014?\"\n\nI'm on top of him, smashing the board over his bald head. The rusty nail scrapes angry lines across his red face. I pound that broken board into his face until it sticks. The man screams. The nail has sunk in, it's in his face somewhere near his eye, and he bats at it blindly. Blood comes out. My stomach heaves. He pulls at his black shirt uselessly. It says Fillies on the pocket. He rolls partway onto his stomach and sends me flying off him with jabs of his hard knees. His shirt says Security in big white letters on the back. I have no strength left, am gulping for air, every bit of me throbs in pain, I have no weapon. The big man crawls away from me, wood still hanging from his bloody face. His broad shoulders heave with each grunt. He holds the board in place with one hand and uses the other to get to his feet. He staggers toward the open door. I lurch to my feet. I push as hard as I can, and the big bald man falls down, down the stairs, crashing and bellowing. There's a terrible thud when he lands. The white letters on the back of his shirt glow from the darkness of the cellar floor. He's dead quiet. I slam the door and take the keys, still hanging from the lock. I slide the bolt over. My shaking hands put the keys in my apron pocket.\n\n_What have I done?_\n\nMy eyes dart around the space, my brain tries to make sense of it. It's well lit but not very clean. There's a stool with a crossword puzzle folded on top. A paper plate with a piece of pizza on the table beside it. I stuff that into my apron, greasy napkin and all. Music pounds from the other side of a solid door.\n\nFillies. A strip club. Any second someone could come barrelling through and find me. There are two more doors at the other end; one is plain black, the other a metal door marked with an exit sign. I push that one open.\n\nI'm outside. It's nighttime. The air is warm and there is a breeze. It's a half-empty lot; there's a car and a shiny motorcycle parked out back. Further back is a large dumpster. Beyond that is an alleyway. I don't see anybody. I shut the door behind me, creep alongside the car and make a run for the dumpster. I crouch beside it. My breath comes ragged, shallow. All those sore ribs bang away at my insides, making it hard to think. The longer I stay put, the more I notice the dumpster's stink, garbage stewing in the summer heat. Scattered at my feet are chip bags, broken vials, used condoms. Just down the alley, maybe a few feet away, cars drive past. They honk and squeal tires and blare music. Their engines rev, voices spill from them, laughing, hooting. The city is still here, pulsing its beat of regular nighttime madness, existing all this time without me.\n\nI hear the grinding gears of a city bus, hear the ding of its door opening, the churning motor when it stands at the curb letting people on, letting people off. _My chariot awaits_. And I know right where I'm going. Where else but back to the Factory squat? Back to the hot stink of the slaughterhouse, the itch of the grassy field, the rotting dump: home.\n\n_Come and get me, Pig. I double dare you._\n\n# Ferret Hunt: A Three-Act Play\n\n## _Act One: Safe House_\n\nCricket waves goodbye to the sleazebag landlord and shuts the door to our very own filthy, east-end rooming house. I can hardly breathe. The place stinks of dead mice and piss-soaked old men. He opens the reeking bar fridge on the other side of the small room, slams it shut. There's an electric hotplate on top. In a closet with a broken door is a leaky toilet and rusting sink. Cricket paid one hundred dollars cash for a week\u2014money his parents gave him to buy textbooks for next semester, which starts in a few days.\n\nCricket pulls a cobweb from the tip of his blue mohawk. \"Ew. We have our safe house, now we just need to find our girl.\"\n\n\"Great.\" My voice cracks. Lately I'm either raging or weeping, sometimes both at the same time. I lean out the dirty window ledge so he won't notice my eyes getting wet. I dab gently with a corner of my shirt. First, my face is still sore from the King's beat-down, and second, I don't want to smear the mascara and eye shadow Cricket piled on earlier, using samples at the mall. \"I just can't believe no one's seen her,\" I say for the hundredth time. \"It's been over a week since the raid.\"\n\nA hot breeze gusts in, bringing shouts and traffic sounds from Gerrard Street below. Bollywood music erupts from the downstairs restaurant when customers open the front door. I smell deep fryer and curry. My stomach gurgles. I slump onto the cracked linoleum floor with my back to the wall.\n\n\"Don't worry, Oreo, you'll be great as an undercover stripper. Pretend you're on a rerun episode of _Charlie's Angels_.\" Cricket squeezes my shoulder. His body heat closes in on me in the stuffy room. \"Soon we'll all be together again.\"\n\n_Except for Digit_. I stare at Cricket until he looks away. The unsaid words hang heavy in the gloom.\n\nI jiggle the CD player we found in the trash. I want to crush it between my strong hands, destroy it, burn this rage out of me so I can snap back to my old useful self.\n\nAll we know is while we were getting our asses ridden at 14 Division, Ferret somehow escaped from the Factory squat party raid and eventually hid out with Ray-Ray. Ray-Ray and Darcy say cops picked her up a couple days later. Not just _any_ cops\u2014the King himself was hunting her. He knew her real name and everything. By the time they let me out of bail court, Ferret was long gone. Her name didn't turn up anywhere in the system when the drop-in worker started digging.\n\n\"We should tell Ray-Ray and Darcy where we are. Ferret might hook up with them again. What do you think, Oreo? I mean, where else would she go?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Drop-in is off limits, shelters too.\" We heard the King's harassing all the kids downtown, even more than usual. \"She doesn't have family.\"\n\n\"Seriously. Ray-Ray's our best bet.\"\n\nBut I wonder. How far will I go to save Ferret? _All the way, whatever it takes_. \"With Eddie in jail, maybe Ray-Ray's ratting. He'd do anything to help his boyfriend. Wouldn't you?\"\n\n\"Hmmph,\" says Cricket. \"I'd do anything to spring myself, since I don't _have_ a boyfriend.\"\n\n\"Well, you already did that.\" I blow into the CD player's dusty parts.\n\n\"Pure luck,\" he says, smiling.\n\n_Pure rich white luck_ , I think.\n\n\"I can't wait to see you in drag, Oreo.\" Cricket unzips his backpack and dumps everything onto the floor. He sorts it all: the makeup, lingerie, and hooker shoes we shoplifted from Gerrard Square mall. A bottle of vodka stolen from his mother. He empties his pockets\u2014a handful of change, an unopened condom, the clean square card with his dad's big-time lawyer name on it.\n\n\"On second thought, you keep this.\" He hands the card to me. \"I know the number. If anything goes down again, just remember to say, 'Officer, am I free to go?' And, 'I would like to call my lawyer.'\"\n\nLike it's a game with different rules for each player.\n\n\"That judge owed your dad some kind of favour, huh?\"\n\nCricket blushes. \"The pigs, too. I'm lucky the charges got reduced. Trespassing and drinking in public? Please, that's nothing.\"\n\nCricket's older, so he didn't get the extra $125 for being underage.\n\nHe says, \"I pay a fine and do some community service, whatever. I wonder if volunteering with my revolutionary arts collective counts.\"\n\nI shake my head.\n\n\"Well, if I go to jail, it better be for political reasons, not for getting down at a house party.\"\n\nI laugh. \"Honey, you'll never do hard time. You'll be out on bail eating take-out and watching _America's Next Top Model_ before you can zip those prison pants.\"\n\nMeanwhile Eddie and boys like him\u2014mixed-race, tattooed, buck-toothed boys raised by the system\u2014they rot on remand. That stokes the angry fire that burns inside me.\n\n\"Whatever, girlfriend.\" Cricket waves his hand at me. \" _You_ didn't do too bad either, Oreo. Possession of one joint? Please.\"\n\n\"I got beat up. My face is still a mess. I already had a record, so now I'm on probation.\" I shake my head. \"It's bullshit.\"\n\n\"Still, could've been way worse.\"\n\n\"The squat is shut down permanently, all our stuff is destroyed. My girlfriend got kidnapped by a psycho cop, and Digit is\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't say it.\"\n\n\"\u2014and Eddie's in jail. Does it need to get worse?\" I bang my head on the window sill once, twice.\n\n\"Take it easy, Oreo.\" He looks worried.\n\n_Okay._ I breathe deeply. Don't want to completely lose it.\n\n\"You know, getting arrested was not fun in _my_ condition\u2014the Ecstasy-Viagra combo, euphoric with a rock-hard dick for hours. Awkward! I would have totally gotten laid by my bike courier if we hadn't got busted.\" He sighs loudly. \"And I had to toss my amazing stash. It was selling like hotcakes.\"\n\n\"Wish I had my tools here,\" I say. Making something, fixing something, anything at all, would make me feel better. _Large and in charge_.\n\n\"Maybe I would've got a boyfriend in jail,\" he says wistfully.\n\nA sudden memory from the party slams into my brain. I was spinning, headphones on, didn't hear the cops, the yelling. I was zoned. Then I looked up to see Ferret's terrified face, right as that cop's stick cracked my head. I remember coming to as he dragged me outside. The King threw me against his car to cuff me; my knees buckled. Then, with the bracelets on nice and tight, he sucker-punched me in the face. \"Squaw dyke,\" he said in that sinister low voice. I lay on the ground outside the Factory in all that chaos, blood dripping out of my nose, him leering above me, light bouncing off his silver belt buckle.\n\nCricket waves a hand in front of my face. \"Should we talk about Digit now?\"\n\n\"No.\" I jump up and pace back and forth from the window to the fridge. I still can't believe he got shot. _Who brings a gun to a vegan dance party?_\n\n\"Couldn't even say goodbye with all those cops parked in front of his hospital room. Ray-Ray heard his folks came all the way from New Brunswick. He was hooked up to machines.\" He sniffs loudly.\n\nWhen I picture Digit leaving the hospital, it's on the back of some leather daddy's motorcycle. It's on his mud-covered ATV, or a skateboard he made out of found objects, not in a wheelchair. Not in a wooden box.\n\nI swear and punch the stained wall.\n\n\"Easy, Oreo.\"\n\nOne night this summer, me and Digit and Ferret were lying in the field outside the Factory, shooting the shit about where we grew up. I told them about Manitoulin Island, where I'm from, Wikwemikong unceded territory. I wanted to take Ferret home. Wanted her to meet Phoebe, my Auntie's woman who helped raise me. I wanted to take her to the powwow. So she could see that part of me that's always getting watered down around white people. She could hear the drums and singers, smudge with burning sage, and watch the dancers in their beautiful regalia; Hoop Dancing, Men's Fancy, Iron Man and Iron Woman. She could start to know those proud parts of me, who I really am.\n\nDigit wanted to come, too. \"Some tings remind me of Neguac, my village,\" he said. \"We catch oysters dere, you know. Each day, every day. I'm supposed to stay wit da oysters and find some girl who's not my cousin to make babies.\" Digit's accent got thicker the longer he talked about home. He loved it as much as he hated it: ripping around on four-wheelers, chucking dirt bombs at the _\u00e9cole criss, tabarnak_ , sneaking beers from his drunk uncle's broken barn fridge. Lighting blue angels to impress a girl. \"Hi burn my hass so bad, you know, but still she don't like me. She go out wit my friend hinstead!\" Ferret and I shrieked when he re-enacted it, dropping his pants and lighting a fart as it reverberated from his bare backside. _Digit._\n\nCricket wipes at his eyes with a pair of pink panties from the pile of things. He's blabbing still, going on about Digit.\n\n\"We can't do anything for Digit. Let's find Ferret.\" My knuckles are warm from denting the drywall. \"I wish none of this ever happened.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" says Cricket. \"That party was a stupid idea.\"\n\n\"Fuck you.\" The party was _my_ idea for Ferret's birthday, and _I'm_ the one who talked her into having it. \"I didn't invite all those university bitches. I didn't post it on Facebook. How do you think the cops found out?\"\n\nHe clears his throat. \"I'm not the enemy, Oreo.\"\n\n\"You sure?\" I feel mean. I imagine ripping his throat wide open with my bare hands. \"You came out of this pretty clean.\"\n\nCricket says, \"Do you want me here or not? I should leave. If my parents find out I'm not at Frosh week they'll cut me off. I can't afford tuition. Maybe that doesn't matter to you. But I'd be completely on my own.\"\n\n_Like the rest of us have been for years_. \"Boo fucking hoo.\"\n\nCricket's mouth pops open, but he doesn't argue.\n\nI spin away from him. I march over and yank the window as high as it'll go.\n\n\"This place is a dump.\" Cricket is making nervous small talk.\n\nI say, \"It's so un-bougie. I thought you'd love it.\"\n\n\"Very funny. There's a difference between un-bougie and downright ugly. Speaking of which, are you ready to get in drag?\"\n\nI grunt. \"I don't know about this plan.\" I kick off my boots, drop my combat pants, ripped T-shirt, boxers, and dirty socks into a pile. I sniff my pits\u2014they are pretty ripe. I try to wash them in the crap sink with a sliver of dried old soap. I let them dry by the window. The breeze feels good on my bare skin. I shove on the push-up bra with its stiff little hooks, the lace panties, the strange belt with the tiny snaps. It takes a while to get everything in the right place. Finally, I roll the matching stockings over my strong legs. I struggle with the metal clips dangling from the belt. \"This is harder than it looks.\"\n\n\"I'll help with the garters.\" Cricket kneels at my feet. He looks up\u2014the bra is working, I can tell by the shock on his face. \"You know, Oreo, if I was even remotely bisexual...\"\n\n\"Ugh.\" I stuff my fishnetted feet into second-hand stilettos. I stumble. \"Ugh. How am I supposed to dance if I can't even walk?\"\n\nCricket presses his hand on my back lightly. \"Shoulders back. Spread your feet wider. You have to find your new centre of balance.\"\n\nI lurch forward. My left foot slides and I wipe out, land right on my lace-covered ass. \"Shit. I can pop the panel from an ignition tumbler and hotwire a car in three minutes, but I can't cross the room in a pair of heels.\"\n\n\"I'd be there in a heartbeat if they'd hire _me_. Sadly, this patriarchal establishment does not pimp my gender.\" He stares at me down on the floor and says, \"Hmmm.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nHe pours two glasses of vodka. \"I'm thinking.\"\n\nI say, \"I wish you could come with me.\" And suddenly I do. I mean it just as much as I wished him away earlier.\n\n\"Honey, I'd blow your cover like nine inches at the bathhouse. Here, drink.\"\n\nI take a swig, cough. \"Do you really think Ferret's at this peeler bar?\"\n\nHe sits on top of the bar fridge and the hot plate. They creak a warning. \"I hope so. I mean I do and I don't. Ray-Ray saw the King take her. He did something with her, took her somewhere, and it's not the detention centre.\"\n\nMy stomach twists at the thought. I know what can happen to homeless girls, working girls, Native girls. All over the country our betrayed bodies get swallowed by lakes, by the ocean, and sometimes spat back up on the sand, some dog walker or early-morning jogger finding our parts.\n\n\"Darcy heard she might be in the upper lounge at the strip club. I guess it pays to have shady roommates after all, huh? Darcy says that's where the King dumps all his fresh meat for the international buyers. Dopes them up, whores them out.\"\n\nMy mouth waters with sick. _What would be worse\u2014death or forced prostitution_?\n\n\"Sorry,\" he says. \"I know this is hard.\"\n\n\"I still don't get why he'd do that to Ferret. She never hurt anyone. Why would he even bother?\"\n\n\"Maybe because he can.\"\n\n\"What's that supposed to mean?\"\n\n\"He's a schizoid power tripper. She's an orphan, a street punk. Queer. Who the hell is going to stop him?\"\n\n\"I'll kill that fucking pig myself.\" I'm grinding my teeth, squeezing my fists. I want to destroy something, kick the shit out of somebody, anything to let loose this rage. I wonder why it's not _me_ who's missing in action, a statistic waiting to happen. _I didn't protect her. My girlfriend is gone, and it's my fault_. I want to howl, want to rip out my hair and beat my chest.\n\n\"Chill, Oreo.\"\n\n\"How would you feel if it was _your_ lover?\" Heat rises in my cheeks. I remember the sound of the King's voice, the things he said to me that day on the sidewalk. Things he's probably doing to Ferret.\n\n\"She's my friend, too.\" Cricket looks hurt, but that fuels me. \"I wish you'd let me talk to my dad. He might know someone...\"\n\n\"Your dad might get favours at the cop shop or in court. Tell him to help Eddie. But Ferret doesn't need a lawyer. She needs a bounty hunter. Does your dad have a gun?\"\n\nCricket's eyes widen.\n\n\"I'm serious. I don't want to fuck with the King and run. He'll find us. He pulls strings all over, nobody knows how far. He runs this town. If I'm facing off, I'm taking him right out.\" Panic rises in my chest.\n\n\"Don't joke, Oreo.\"\n\n\"Who's joking? Nobody else is gonna help. Nobody else gives a shit about us.\" My voice shakes. I'm yelling, and Cricket shrinks into himself. He moves farther away from me. I want to scream, _you sheltered little bitch_. I want to hit him, slap some meanness out of me and some sense into him.\n\n\"I don't want anything bad to happen to her either,\" he says quietly.\n\n\"Bad shit has been happening our whole lives,\" I yell. \"The squat wasn't just a cool hangout. It was her home. We're her family. We have to do something!\"\n\nI picture Ferret hurt, scared, feeling like I do, but all alone. _My girl_. I choke back a sob that has been lodged inside, ever since the party raid. When I find her, I'll take her north. Get out of this ugly city for good. I lean out the open window, take deep breaths. Stuff is happening outside\u2014families going for dinner, couples holding hands\u2014and none of it matters. I tell myself that Ferret is still alive.\n\n_But Digit isn't. Why should Ferret be?_\n\n\"What if it's too late?\" My voice sounds small. Not mine at all.\n\n\"It's not. But we need to get cracking. Darcy says the club has security cameras. Maybe we can get the tapes, get the place busted.\"\n\n\"Busted by who? Cops took her, cops sell the girls, and cops own the fucking club!\"\n\n\"They can't _all_ be in on it,\" says Cricket.\n\n\"Oh yeah? Those blue brothers only protect each other.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" He looks down at his fair trade sneakers.\n\nI can feel the King's big hands closing around my throat, stopping my air, the way they did on the sidewalk right in front of Ferret. The way everything closed in on me while he hissed into my ear, \"I'm gonna rip you apart. You don't even know pain yet. I'm your worst nightmare, you hear me?\"\n\n\"Oreo. You listening?\"\n\nI shake my head. It's so hard to pay attention to the sounds coming out of other people's mouths these days.\n\n\"I was saying, make sure you don't do anything dumb tonight. Case the joint, but don't be obvious. If you can send Ferret a message, that's a total bonus, but don't go all He-Man.\"\n\nI blink a few times.\n\n\"No crying, Oreo. It took twenty minutes just to cover your black eye. I didn't steal enough shadow, so don't mess them up. If you see the King, get the hell out. Promise?\" He swipes at my face with some powder from the pile of stuff on the table. He waves a lip gloss at me. \"For later.\"\n\n\"Shit.\" I finish my drink. I stand up. I don't know what I'd do if I saw the King face-to-face right now. I might surprise everyone and bawl.\n\n\"We still got to do your hair.\"\n\nI slump on the floor at Cricket's feet. He combs my hair out of the long braid I always wear.\n\n\"Ferret needs us. So get in there, get some dancer cred. This is an official undercover operation, Oreo. You make your brotha-from-anotha-motha proud! Chin down, honey. Work it like you own it, like you rentin' all night long.\"\n\nCricket snaps his painted fingers and moves like liquid across the tiled floor. He makes it look so easy.\n\n## _Act Two: Strip Club_\n\nHours later, I'm at Fillies in the dark reddish glow. Lights flash on the bar and the stage. Mirrors reflect my angry face from all angles. I gasp. With all the makeup, with my waist-length hair hanging loose, I look like my dead mother. Dance hits pound through the space, through my chest. I'd do anything to slip the DJ a decent playlist. The manager is a creep show wearing a stinky Hawaiian shirt and bad toup\u00e9e, right out of a cartoon. He points me to the dressing room\u2014a decrepit hole with a couple of toilets, rusted sinks, bad lighting. It smells like dirty crotch and a side order of bourbon.\n\n\"Carly, give her the tour,\" he says. He waits for me to take off my jacket. He frowns at the bear clan tattoo that covers one shoulder. I stick my chest out further. He grunts, gives a slight nod, and leaves.\n\nThe other girls ignore me. They're different degrees of naked, white and skinny, black and skinny, lots of brown girls, too. They wear thongs, leather, and lace. They do their makeup, drink, and gossip.\n\n\"Come on, hon,\" says an older blonde woman. _Carly_. \"Let's get you settled.\"\n\nHer voice reminds me of Auntie Tam: gravel and whiskey. She smiles a wide, white set of teeth with a frosted pink frame. When she strolls down the dingy hall in her fringed cowboy boots, I watch the sway of her womanly hips. She points out the important stuff\u2014the stage, the regulars, the private booths where you make the real coin. She tells me to sit and watch the experienced dancers. I ask her what's upstairs, and her face shuts tight, a garage door closing. She leaves. One after the other, girls attack the stage like it's a pommel horse in gym class. They pull fancy tricks, slide into splits; they hump the pole and bounce their dimpled bums in customers' faces.\n\n_I'm not playing that game_ , I decide. I wouldn't even know how.\n\nAround midnight I lurch on stage for my very first solo. I wobble in the stolen shoes. A third drink loosens my limbs, but Cricket's pill gives me the courage to get up in front of everyone. Bottles and glasses clink through the din of voices. My music doesn't start; the strung-out DJ misses another cue. My legs shake. I flick my long hair and inhale deeply. Catcalls from the audience knot my stomach.\n\n_I'm dancing for Ferret_ , I tell myself.\n\nFinally, my song starts. The droney doom metal matches my oxy groove. I close my eyes and let the music tell me how to move. Slowly, I snake my arm above my head. I roll my neck and my long hair tickles my bare shoulders. My body undulates. I roll my shoulder and peer over it toward the crowd, lashes lowered. It's impossible to see anything past the row of bright lights. There are shadows at the edge of the stage, but that's all. I picture Ferret out there in the club, watching. Each step brings me closer to my memories: Ferret smiling and twirling at the Factory dance party, Ferret's soft skin, Ferret writhing beneath me. I'm on stage and at the same time, I'm far away from this terrible place. I'm back at the Factory, before the raid, curled in our nest.\n\nThe song ends. I'm lying on the stage touching myself. I roll over and notice the money on the stage. The floor feels cool on my skin. Part of me wants to sink into it, just melt through it and disappear. The other part wants to count money and buy another drink.\n\nA white man leans forward with a fifty dollar bill in his outstretched hand. _Half a week at the rooming house_. I crouch, both hands filled. I am an animal on the road, a car bearing down upon me, sad eyes for headlights, soft hands for a grill. The next dancer, an athletic blonde, is already cleaning the pole with anti-bacterial wipes. I grab the bill and the rest of the money. I stomp down the rickety stairs to the change room.\n\n\"Song's too long, Pocahontas,\" says the manager.\n\nI imagine stabbing his fat gut as I towel off. Instead I check my makeup in the mirror above the sink.\n\n\"And don't get weird on stage. This ain't no art bar.\"\n\nI ignore him and apply more lip gloss, something I haven't worn since I was a closeted fourteen-year-old, back on the Rez.\n\nIt's after one a.m. I'm alone in a dark corner. No sign of the King, no sign of Ferret. The dancers won't talk. There's nothing but rat shit and empties in the basement\u2014and a locked furnace room. Another backstage locked door might lead upstairs. One big bouncer reamed me out when he found me fiddling with it. If I had my tools, I'd pop both open in a heartbeat. Meanwhile, I'm terrible at this other job: flirting with men, crawling on their laps to get them hard. All I want is to beat the crap out of them.\n\n\"Hey, kiddo.\" It's Carly, sidling up with two drinks. \"How you doing?\"\n\n\"My feet hurt and I want to go home.\"\n\nShe smiles and hands me a glass.\n\n\"No thanks,\" I say. \"I'm trying to not get wasted.\"\n\n\"Relax, it's water. That bozo over there thinks he bought us gin tonics.\" Carly raises a glass and blows a kiss to the bald lump of a man who pumps his arm feverishly in return. \"I get tap water and split the difference with the waitress.\"\n\n\"Smart. Thanks.\" We sip while a girl twirls around the pole to Bon Jovi. _Wanted dead or alive._\n\n\"Bozo would like a lap dance with you after,\" she says.\n\n\"I'd rather give him a vasectomy.\"\n\nCarly laughs, a scratchy cackle. \"Don't mean to pry. Lord knows we all have our reasons, but this doesn't seem like your kind of place.\"\n\nI look at her: fake tan, streaked hair, boob job, glow-in-the-dark booty shorts. I see manicured hands with a couple of age spots. Foundation caked in tiny crow's feet at the edge of mascara-framed eyes. She's been around the block. I decide to tell her the truth. \"I'm not really a dancer.\"\n\n\"No shit.\"\n\n\"I'm looking for my girlfriend. I think she's upstairs.\"\n\nCarly moves in closer. \"This a joke?\"\n\n\"No.\" I stare her down. I wonder if she'll rat me out to the fat jerk manager. \"She's shorter than me, white, got blue dreads. She's pretty. Punk pretty.\"\n\nCarly shakes her head. \"I don't know half of what goes on up there, but none of it's good.\"\n\n\"The locked door backstage goes upstairs, right?\"\n\n\"That's one way.\" She scans the bar carefully. \"This is serious, kiddo.\"\n\n\"No shit.\"\n\nShe nods her chin. \"There's a camera's right there. Not sure if there's actual tape running. Be hard to get up there without that big goon noticing. He's not friendly. But he's not the worst.\"\n\nThe stage light follows a girl doing flips. She lands in a bridge with her legs spread wide, front and centre.\n\n\"Do you know the King?\" I say it straight up, no emotion.\n\nHer eyes narrow. \"A girl would be smart to stay the hell away from him.\"\n\n\"My girlfriend never had a choice.\"\n\nShe doesn't take her eyes off mine. She could be protecting him, or warning me, I can't tell. Carly leans against the bar ledge. She looks away. I wonder if this conversation is over.\n\n\"I don't want to get you in any trouble. Sorry.\"\n\nShe looks at me again. \"Sure about this? No good will come of it.\"\n\nI nod.\n\n\"A real James Dean, aren't you?\" She gives me a sad smile. Carly finishes her water. \"I'd try tomorrow. Earl\u2014the King\u2014doesn't usually come in on weekends.\" She points a manicured finger to the main bar. \"Wait staff are busier, and security spends more time circulating. They'll be distracted. I'll do some pussy shots by the DJ booth at the end of my first routine, draw the light. Not sure how you'll get through without a key. You better hustle. Manager finds out, you're done for. And I don't mean fired.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Carly.\"\n\n\"You be careful. I mean it.\" There's a frown line on her brow that isn't good for business. She squeezes my forearm. \"Hell, I'm gonna worry about you, now. I'm gonna need a real drink after all.\"\n\nIt's four a.m. when the cab Carly called stops in front of the rooming house. The driver jots something down as I get out. He peels away, leaving me in the street wearing lingerie and a jacket Carly lent me. My regular clothes and boots disappeared from the locker room. Carly says one of the dancers stole them, like a hazing ritual. My key gets stuck in the lock. I yank on the doorknob. Someone gallops down the stairs. The door rips open, almost from its hinges.\n\n\"Ohmygodyou'refinallyhome.\"\n\nI follow Cricket upstairs in the dark. The hall light is burned out, so we feel our way along the disgusting walls. Cricket is wired. \"You know, there are a lot of freaks living here. They've been bugging me for smokes. One guy tried to give me mouldy salami.\" He shudders. \"He stuck slices under the door!\"\n\nInside our ugly room I unbuckle the hated shoes and drop them: _One, two_.\n\n\"Plus I was getting worried about you.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"I _was_. I was worried you'd meet some hot guy and decide to go straight and make babies instead of come back and pay for this luxury room with your stripper tips.\" He smiles charmingly.\n\n\"No worries there.\" I think of the blobby, faceless men from the club: jocks, gangsters, pervs. They're not even real people. Just lonely creeps.\n\nCricket counts my money while I rub my swollen feet.\n\n\"Wow. You're rich.\"\n\n\"This girly stuff is hard work. I don't even know how to lap dance, by the way. I actually fell off a chair trying.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"I couldn't take his money, it was that bad. I ended up shaking hands with the dude.\" I comb my hair with my fingers and quickly braid it back the way I normally wear it.\n\nCricket snorts. \"We can practice, Butch-tard. Did you make any friends?\"\n\n\"As if,\" I say, yawning. \"Those broads are not stripping for the sisterhood. One was nice.\" Carly's face and her sugar-rough voice come back to me. She's hot, in a not-my-type kind of way.\n\nCricket folds a few bills into his own pocket. \"Choreographer's fee,\" he says sweetly. \"Still got to pay for the stash I dropped.\" He puts the rest in a pile at my feet. \"You're going make lots of money if you get this right.\"\n\n\"I'm going to find Ferret if I get it right.\"\n\n\"Did you see the King?\"\n\nI shake my head. I tell him what little I got from Carly.\n\n\"Well, that's a start. Maybe tomorrow we'll get upstairs.\"\n\nThe thought of going back to that place makes me nauseous. \"I didn't learn anything. We don't even know if Ferret's there. My feet are killing me, I got molested all night by gross dudes, and probably got a fucking STD from the furniture.\"\n\n\"Not if you wore a condom,\" jokes Cricket.\n\n\"Jackass.\"\n\n_Another night without Ferret._ She could be anywhere. The enormity sinks into my bones. How could Ferret be held in the same evil place I'd been all night, with the sleazy manager and those mean girls? Wouldn't I sense her? I gag and choke down the bile. I punch the wall as hard as I can. The drywall buckles into a hole slightly larger than my fist. My hand throbs. Someone bangs back from the other side.\n\n\"Easy, girl.\"\n\nI lie on the dirty floor and press my ragged knuckles into my eye sockets. The familiar rage burns my veins, eating me inside out.\n\nCricket says, \"Shh. I promise we'll find her. Tomorrow.\"\n\n_But what happens to her tonight?_\n\n## _Act Three: Break and Enter_\n\nLight fills our curtainless room. Dust floats in the sunshine, whirling about, going nowhere. It makes me think about my life in a depressing way, like I'm following the broken footsteps of so many women in my family. It's like we just keep falling into the same shitty circumstances, like nothing will ever change for us.\n\nA brown spider spins a web inches from my face. _Hello, Grandmother_. Her legs keep working on the fine thread, and that makes me feel better.\n\n\"Morning, sunshine,\" says Cricket. We're lying side by side on a pile of dirty clothes.\n\nI groan. \"Already?\" I had been dreaming of long-ago happy times in Phoebe's kitchen up north: Phoebe and Aunt Sue, Auntie Tam, me, and my mom were making fry bread, whitefish, wild rice. In the dream, they were trying to tell me something. _But what?_ The words are gone.\n\nCricket says, \"Maybe some punk rock will help.\"\n\n\"Ow.\" I'm sore from sleeping on the floor, everything hurts from wearing those killer heels all night, from dancing\u2014if you can call it that. I'm dry-mouthed and achy from the painkillers, the vodka. I roll over carefully. \"We don't have music.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes we do!\" Cricket shakes a CD. \"You fixed that box, whatever you did. Last night, while you were at the club, I went back to the squat. I got so excited about the money I forgot to tell you. Cop tape is all over the place, shit's trashed. A pipe broke, there's water everywhere. But I found some clothes and music. Isn't that awesome? No drugs, though.\" He presses play and the anarcho-punk Dirt CD fills the ugly space. Cricket shouts the chorus to \"Deaf, dumb, and male!\"\n\nI shut it off. \"Did anyone see you?\" I can't believe his stupid grinning face.\n\n\"Naw. The cop out front was reading porn. Never even noticed.\"\n\n\"You brought back music?\"\n\n\"You love this CD!\"\n\n\"Why didn't you get my fucking tool kit? My picks, my cutters? Fuck, Cricket. That's the shit we need if we want to rescue Ferret. I can't pass as a stripper\u2014I'm not fooling anyone.\" I want to punch his lights out.\n\nCricket ejects the CD. \"I found your pants. I brought them for you.\" His voice is pinched and clipped, like an uptight little jerk, like he might cry womanly tears all over me. He tosses a bag beside me.\n\n_Fucking baby._\n\n\"At least you got that right. I can't be walking around Gerrard Street in this.\" I pull at the stupid lingerie I'm still wearing.\n\n\"You can have my other sneakers,\" he says, setting them on the floor near me. \"Or just a buy a new pair with all your money.\"\n\n\"We'll need that money to get out of town or get settled, asshole.\" He has _two_ pairs of designer shoes from our wreck of a home, and nothing that we actually need. _Food. Tools. Supplies_.\n\n\"You don't have to be such a bitch.\" He's crying, as predicted. \"I'm going dumpstering,\" he blubbers, and slams the door behind him.\n\nI lie there fuming. _Stupid spoiled Cricket can bloody well go home if he wants_. It's not like _I_ have a rich family to bail me out, or a beautiful house to run to. My mom and Aunt Sue are dead. _Bam._ Both killed on New Year's Eve. A two-car collision, two dead women; one drunk asshole walks away from the wreck. Tam took it even harder than me. Our family cabin couldn't hold us with all that grief. Last I heard, she was living rough in Winnipeg, trying to forget. She ran west and I came south, leaving Sue's girlfriend Phoebe to deal with it all.\n\nI breathe deeply. I'm more alone than I like to admit. Suddenly, the thought that Cricket might leave is scary. And that I might somehow deserve it, for how I'm treating him.\n\nInside the bag are my pants, an old black pair, covered in patches, comfortable and familiar. _Mine_. Another thing stares back at me. _Ferret's favourite hoodie_. It's covered in band patches, pins, and buttons; it's customized with metal accessories and spikes along the edge of the hood. She worked so hard to make it perfect, her most prized possession. I clutch it and inhale her scent from the fabric: a hint of patchouli, something like oranges and vanilla mixed together, and there\u2014 _there!_ Her earthy, tangy skin smell underneath it all: _Ferret_.\n\nI let loose for the first time since the party. Hot tears roll down my face. Snot drips. I weep, holding the hoodie to my face. Smelling her is a shovel hit on the head. I hear her low voice, see her beautiful face with its sharp cheekbones, those big brown eyes, full lips\u2014gone. I bawl until there's nothing left. Then I pull the sleeves over my hands, the hood on my head, and zip it all the way up. I pretend she's right with me, spooning.\n\nThe next time I open my eyes, Cricket is eating naan bread. \"That cute cook saw me in the dumpster and instead of getting mad he gave me all this free food. I think he likes me.\" Cricket sounds as flamboyant as ever. He opens the containers: curried vegetables, channa, chutney, and spicy pickles. Good smells make their way to my corner. I sit up at last. I stick a dirty finger into one bowl.\n\n\"Mmm.\" I can't remember my last meal. Spices make my nose run. Salty sweet tickles my mouth. My stomach twists.\n\n\"Yum,\" he says, scooping curry with a piece of naan.\n\n\"Thanks, Cricket.\"\n\n\"It's nothing,\" he says. But he won't look me in the eye, so I know he's still hurt.\n\n_Just like a girl._\n\n\"I mean it. For everything.\" I can't talk about the hoodie yet, but he sees me wearing it, plain as day. \"Sorry about before.\" He must know I'm trying, at least.\n\nHe shrugs. He eats.\n\nWe plough through the containers. We lick each one clean, and the plastic spoons too. I wipe my face on Ferret's sleeve. Cricket burps and finally smiles. Food gives us hope. _Maybe things aren't quite so bad_.\n\nCricket's grey eyes are a bit watery. His face is still tight. I get it; deep down all he wants is approval. He\u2014the braggy soapboxer, the one lecturing us with his politics and visions and boring rules\u2014right now, he just wants me to like him.\n\n\"Let's go to the club. We'll pick up some tools on the way. We can totally break in before all the security dudes show up for work.\" I'm like a bloodhound with a fresh scent for the trail, rested and fed and single-minded. \"I just need a screwdriver and a paperclip. Some pliers would be awesome.\"\n\nHe looks like a little kid. Like he knows I can turn on a dime and beat him, but is desperately hoping I won't.\n\n\"Honest, Cricket,\" I say, swallowing that awful guilt. \"We'll be okay.\"\n\nIn morning light, the club looks pathetic. It sits on some expensive real estate, the busy corner of an east-end intersection. The sign, not lit up, not blinking in neon ecstasy, is benign. Alleys run on either side of the building. We each follow one; they meet at the back where there's a dumpster and space for the manager to park. Staff use the back door; ash piles and cigarette butts mark their smoke breaks. Small square windows with crappy blinds line the top of the building. Cricket knocks the two security cameras out of commission with his slingshot and some rocks from the laneway. That gives him a swagger.\n\n\"Oreo, check it out.\" Cricket points to a door without a handle or lock. Around the edges there are smudges and imprints in the dust; people use it regularly. \"Someone lets them in.\" The weeds have been cleared by the entrance. When I stand in the main alley, the dumpster blocks Cricket and the door from my view.\n\n_Clever._\n\n\"Think anyone's inside?\" says Cricket.\n\n\"Maybe a cleaner. Maybe not. We got to hurry. The day shift starts at noon.\"\n\nThe sound of an engine fills the back alley. Cricket and I dive behind the dumpster. The car drives slowly toward us; it stops. Exhaust billows up from the other side of the dumpster. There's a crackle of static, a digital bleep. Cricket's eyes widen. He mouths the word \"pig.\" I'm too scared to actually peek, but it sounds like a radio dispatcher. A taxi. _Or a cop_. The car crawls forward the rest of the way past us, down the gravel lane. It doesn't stop again, and no one gets out.\n\n\"Whew,\" he says.\n\nMy legs shake when I stand.\n\n\"That's the dressing room.\" I point to a basement window. We creep closer. The curtain is pushed to one side so we can see the line of sinks and lockers. \"The hall on the right leads to the kegs and the empties. I checked last night. The furnace is on the left. There could be other hidden rooms, though.\"\n\n\"She has to be down there,\" says Cricket. \"Or up there,\" pointing to the row of small windows. There's no movement or light coming from any of them.\n\n\"Fuck it. I'm going in.\" I'm a dog with a bone, and no one can take it from me. \"Better now, before the staff show up.\"\n\n\"Wait, Oreo\u2014\"\n\n\"Keep six.\"\n\nI take the thin-tipped flathead screwdriver we just ripped off from the hardware store down the street and tap it hard on the window pane. It cracks; lines ripple outward. One more tap. Glass falls into the basement. I reach in carefully and turn the lock. Then I slip the screwdriver under the wooden frame at the bottom and lift it up a notch. I raise the window smoothly. Cricket holds it up for me while I ease myself into the basement. I land on my feet. Cricket lowers the window and stays outside. I give him thumbs up.\n\nI move through the shitty dressing room into the hallway. Stairs leading up to the club are in front of me. On the right is the beer and empties room. On the left is a padlocked door with a sign: \"Keep Out. Furnace.\"\n\n_Fuck you_ , I think.\n\nThe tiny screwdriver fits inside the lower part of the keyhole. Then I take the paperclip from my back pocket. I'd already straightened it out using needle-nose pliers at the hardware store, then bent the end ninety degrees, making a little hook. I slip the modified paperclip into the top of the keyhole. It's hard to see, but you usually don't get to look at much when you're picking. It's all in the feel, in the clicks you hear, the subtle difference in pressure as you pick with the paperclip and torque with the driver. My hands make the tools tango; I keep an even pressure on the bottom with the screwdriver and, at the same time, tap and push the individual pins up and out of the way with the pick, clearing the cylinder one pin set at a time. I work it lightly at first, testing the spring of the internal pins and pushing each set out of the way with a click. Padlocks usually have three or four sets. This one has three, by the feel of things. It takes a couple of minutes but finally, the thing pops.\n\nI open the door. The smell of dead mice fills my nose. I leave the lock hanging in the metal clasp and step forward. It's darker in this room. _Should've grabbed a flashlight_. I walk with one hand out front, one to the side, using the clammy wall as a guide. My eyes gradually adjust. I see a furnace, big and squat. Large pipes run to and from it. The floor and walls are cold cement. There's a dirty window on the far wall\u2014that's the main street out front. Feet and legs walk past every now and then, making sounds that stop me from inching forward, clipping steps getting louder, smaller feet pattering quickly. Voices boom and fade. There is a scrape, a creak, closer and louder than the outside noises. I freeze. I hold my breath, waiting to hear more. _Nothing_.\n\nIn front of me, one panel of wall is darker than the rest. I move toward it. It's a steel door, colder than the cement walls. I run my fingertips back and forth across it. There's a heavy bolt, which I draw back and set in place. I find the knob, the raised circle of a deadbolt keyhole.\n\n_Can I do this?_\n\nThere's a soft thud behind me. _Clink_. I drop the screwdriver. _Fuck_. I grip the paperclip tightly between the fingers of my left hand. I bend down and feel the gritty floor with the other. Stuff sticks to my fingers. Something brushes them\u2014a centipede? I feel the whoosh of many legs, like Ferret's eyelashes on my cheek. The thing stretches along the flesh of my hand. I fling it away in the dark. I jump and my shoe hits the damn screwdriver.\n\n_Got it._\n\nSweat trickles down my back. My pits are wet. I exhale, nice and slow. I feel this new lock and imagine how it looks; the outer circle, the inner small circle with the keyhole and, hidden inside, the cylinder with the pin sets I need to tap into place. Slipping the screwdriver tip into the bottom of the keyhole is pretty easy. I gently twist the screwdriver until I feel that whole inner circle move to the right; I hold it there. Fitting the paperclip in neatly above it is harder. I feel it catch inside\u2014this time, I rake across the pin sets, push the paperclip in and out to scramble them. Then I start with the pin set farthest back from the opening. There's five pin sets in this deadbolt and it takes several minutes for me to tap each one out of the way. Finally, the lock springs. The heavy door swings open toward me. _I'm fucking Houdini Helen Keller. I rock!_ I can't wait to brag off on this stunt.\n\nIt smells worse in here, worse than the rest of the basement: like urine and sweat and stale air, like shit. Like other bad things. I cover my mouth and nose with my sleeve. I step inside. It's a small room without windows. Three lit bulbs hang from the cobwebby ceiling. There's an old wooden staircase on the far side. The cement floor slopes down in the middle toward one large drain. It's a cell, like an animal's pen. There's an old sink with a drippy facet, a basin and sponge, a raggedy towel. I walk into the centre of the awful room and that's when I see them.\n\nFerret's coloured dreads, cut off and piled by the floor drain.\n\n\"What the\u2014\" I pick one up, touch it softly with my finger. Blue with a touch of purple, greenish on the ends where the colour washed out. _They're hers, alright_.\n\nBehind me the door creaks. I look up in time to see him grin. It's the King looking strange without his uniform. Hair greased as usual, but like someone's dad might look, pants belted, a clean shirt buttoned right up.\n\n\"Well, looky who's here,\" he says in his full voice. \"My newest dancer. Carly told me all about you. How's your face?\"\n\nIn a flash it comes back to me\u2014my talk with Carly, my disappeared clothes, the cab driver who brought me right to my door, as she insisted.\n\n\"I can always count on you kids to make my job easier. You're stupid, predictable, you rat each other out. And you believe anything a junkie whore tells you.\" The King's mean laugh fills the cellar.\n\nI'm a cement pillar. There's his voice and white noise, static all around me.\n\nThe King is so tall he has to duck to avoid hitting his head on the rafters when he steps closer. He's so wide he blocks the whole door, frame to frame. \"Your skinny bitch is gone. But have I got a surprise for you.\" He slams the heavy door shut.\n\n# Ledge\n\nI didn't set out to kill no one. Probably don't look that way. But I can't even squash a spider. Hardly swat a fly, myself. I never could. Ask Eddie, he'll tell you.\n\nStanding in the slaughterhouse and watching that dirty cop, the man they call the King, come after her like that, it was hard. Made me think of all the people who had come after me, all the times they had their way and I went along with it, you know. I guess you'd say I snapped. Just seemed natural to do something, make it stop.\n\nAnyways, truth is I really had nothing left to lose.\n\nI went back to the slaughterhouse from habit, from when I'd visit Eddie on break and bring over his supper. We used to sit on the brick ledge that jutted out from the side of the building, me watching him eat, then we'd smoke a cigarette, and then we'd have a nice long goodbye kiss, and he'd go back to work. He'd go, \"Ray-Ray, that was one kick-ass sandwich.\" And I'd feel good about it. Fried tofu and mayonnaise or cheese slices and mustard or peanut butter with lots of drippy strawberry jam, just the way Eddie liked.\n\nWith Eddie in jail now and Ferret disappeared, I was pretty much on my own. I'd still go over to sit on the ledge when I was fucked up or scared and had nowhere else to be. Ever since the squat next door got raided, ever since the shooting, the slaughterhouse had run on reduced hours due to all the traffic coming round: cops, politicians, the news. There'd been layoffs and talk of closing the place for good. Sometimes there'd be guys on short shift; some I recognized, some I didn't. Other times it'd be empty. Either way, I'd sit in our old spot. If no one else was around, I'd talk to Eddie out loud, as if he was right there with me and not locked up in the Don waiting on remand. Funny, I hardly stuttered then, neither.\n\nI'd say, \"Eddie, you'll be out soon. You'll be back with me, like you should. We'll find a new place, you'll get a new job. We'll start over.\"\n\nOf course he wasn't there in person, so he didn't answer.\n\nThen I'd think about Big Fat Rat Catcher, how he escaped out of that box and took off like a furry shot into the street, and that'd shut me right up for a while. I couldn't do anything right without Eddie, not even look after his damn cat. If I could at least find Fat Ratty, running wild in some alley, then maybe our luck might change. That's what I'd think.\n\nSometimes it was hard to picture Eddie the way he used to look. Instead, I'd see him in that terrible orange jail jumpsuit they wear. Him on the other side of the visitors' glass holding that phone, trying not to look me in the eye. I'd shake it right outta my head and remember further back, before things went really rotten, to our hometown and the trailer park, our shitty school. Eddie shooting spitballs off the end of his ruler, sticking gum in girls' hair. Him goofing off and getting yelled at, getting kicked down to the office or suspended. He'd dribble imaginary basketballs down the hallway; shoot them at teachers' heads, _score!_ Drill the edge of his desk with two pencils like a black-metal drummer. Eddie always got on other people's nerves, half on purpose, half accidental. Loud and rough, I knew he was meant for me, long before he ever did.\n\nSitting on the slaughterhouse ledge, I'd smoke a joint and remember how weed chilled Eddie out. He'd sit still longer, talk slower, bullshit about what we might do\u2014start a band, steal a car, run away. He'd talk about us having money and luck and people giving a shit.\n\nSometimes I'd even believe him.\n\nGetting high with Eddie back in our school days also meant sometimes we'd make out. Which was magic, those first few times, but then he'd avoid me for days. He'd even join in when the jocks made fun of me. _W-w-what's w-wrong, R-Ray R-Ray?_ Once he punched me in the face, right after he came. _Fucking faggot_. His hate for this thing that flared up between us, making our dicks hard\u2014it nearly killed us both. He'd go on rampages, smashing store windows, shitting in front of the mayor's office, stealing stuff. Social workers would swoop in and give him a stint in some boys' home or in juvie, depending.\n\nThose were awful times for me\u2014lonely, dead-end days. I had no friends. I lived with my aunt. Her boyfriend drove a big rig and was on the road most of the time, thank Christ. Otherwise he'd sit in the trailer drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, eating BBQ chips, and staring at my cousin Lena's tits. Lena was white blonde, like me, but older. She wanted to be a tattoo artist and get the hell out of that stupid town. She practiced on squash from our pathetic roadside garden, which pissed off my aunt, since no one would pay for them covered in blue demons with bony wings and bare-breasted women, horns sprouting from their foreheads. Once Lena tattooed her own knuckles with a math compass and had to be taken to Emergency when they got so infected she couldn't hold a pencil for all the green pus. My aunt drove us in a rainstorm, me riding shotgun, half hanging out the window, reaching to clean the windshield with a rag since her wipers were broke, and Lena stuck between us, cursing and straddling the gear shift.\n\nLena was the first person who really gave Eddie the time of day, other than me. After the whole knuckle incident, no one else would let her practice. When he got sprung from Goderich one summer, he hung around our place pretty much every day, and she went to work on him. He didn't care what she did or where she did it, just wanted his whole body covered eventually. \"Be a giant jigsaw puzzle,\" he'd said.\n\nHe'd haul off his shirt, his jeans, and lay down. His dark skin was nice, scarred, but he was lean, not filled out yet. Just peeking at him would get me heated up. Lena would tie back her long pale hair and scratch away at his skin, leaving ink blobs and outlines, scabs to heal. I wondered if she was _into_ him the way I was, and if they'd start messing around too. I wondered if I would die, or just wither. I couldn't stand having him around all the time and not being _with_ him. I'd lie in the tobacco fields and imagine myself disintegrating, all my dust blowing away, bit by bit. I didn't know what would happen to me if I didn't leave that town.\n\n\"If I was a girl, this would be normal,\" I'd said to him one night after doing it on his ma's roof. \"You wouldn't hate on me the way you do.\"\n\n\"If you was a girl, I'd fuck you and be done with it. I wouldn't give a shit about you.\" Then he looked me in the eye and asked if it was true. _Was I really going to pack a bag and leave him?_\n\n\"Not you. I'm leaving everything.\" I was crying and not bothering to hide it, for once.\n\nThat's when he kissed me for the first time. Not hard, not fighting or wanting something off me. Just him kissing me as I'd imagined he might all those years, minus my snotty nose.\n\n\"Do what you gotta, man,\" he said.\n\nI hiccupped loudly. My lips burned.\n\n\"Think I'll go with you, though.\"\n\nAnd he kissed me again, just the same way. It was the start of something totally new between us, and nothing can ever take that away. Not the King, not the Don fucking Jail, not some shit-talking lawyer. And not the men who take turns with me now and throw down some coin.\n\nLena read our cards before we left. She wanted to have the tarot as a back up in case tattooing didn't work out, and she was getting pretty good. Eddie shuffled the deck. He picked cards and lay them on the back porch table. She flipped them over, one by one. Grinning demons, nude goddesses smirked at us. In the centre was the Hanged Man, a terrifying skeleton in a noose. My stomach lurched.\n\n\"Something's ending,\" she said quickly. \"Well, you're moving, so that makes sense. Don't fret, it ain't all bad.\"\n\nHe said, \"I guess not.\"\n\n\"You got a lot of water coming your way,\" she said, pointing to some whirling blue-black cards. \"Cups. That's emotion, you know.\" She frowned.\n\nLater my aunt said, \"That boy was born under a bad sign. Don't need to read tea leaves to see that plain as day.\"\n\nWhich is kind of true. Eddie never did have any luck at all, other than me. And what good was I?\n\nSo you see. That night, sitting outside, smoking my lonely joint, I heard some awful crying. I followed the sounds into the slaughterhouse through the open side door, right to the killing room. It was dark in there, pretty empty. Just the silver ceiling tracks with their chains hanging down, their shining hooks on the ends. There she was, like a ghost in the shadows\u2014long socks, shorts, and some kind of skirt glowing white in the back corner, a darker shape moving around her. I flicked on the big overhead lights. It was the King, his black hair greased into a pompadour like usual. He blinked against the bright light. He wasn't wearing his uniform and that made him seem softer than usual, older, maybe. He could have been any of the men cruising us on the corner. And behind him, half under him, it was Ferret, alright. Whatever was left of her. When I seen him crouched over her like that, I had to do something.\n\n\"You better run, cuz you're next,\" he yelled, still holding her down.\n\nI wasn't even scared. He'd already taken everything from me.\n\nI just punched the red \"safety,\" the way Eddie always did after his break, and pulled the long, black lever, hard as I could. Those machines start up pretty quick. One huge hanging chain on a pulley moved down its ceiling track, swinging close behind him. The hook at the end gleamed. He didn't see it coming, he was staring me down from across the room. The chain kept moving forward and the hook swung heavily back again. It struck him. He looked surprised. Ferret grabbed onto the King's sweater sleeve to pull herself up. He shook his arm violently but she clung to it; she was like a rag doll flopping. I ramped up the speed and the chain jerked again, smacking into his broad back. Ferret slammed against his chest with her whole weight then slid to the ground. The King stumbled backward onto the hook. His mouth dropped open. It must have pierced into his back. Air whooshed out of him with a funny sound. I pulled another lever; the machinery almost ground to a halt, then shook back to high hear. The chain and the hook with the King attached to it began shortening as it retracted toward the ceiling. The hook lifted him right up. His body dangled, legs kicking like a giant puppet. Then there was another gear grinding, a jolt, and his weight shifted. He screamed when that big hook pierced all the way through, his middle settling around it. His hands clutched for the hook tip, and I'll never forget his ugly face opening up like that, his throat screaming itself raw with the pain.\n\nThe chain jerked again, bringing the King down the track, closer to me. My hand was still on the lever. I remember the feel of it frozen there. My legs were slow and woozy like syrup. I thought I might puke.\n\n\"Let me down, you fucking cunt.\"\n\nEddie would laugh at that. _Couldn't be nice to save his own life_. The King was a couple feet away. Blood pumped steadily out of him, soaking the front of his clothes, pouring over his hands, dripping onto the already stained cement floor. I looked into his red eyes, his veiny face, his Elvis hair, and I wasn't sorry. Not one bit.\n\nNormally the pigs would be stunned by this point, from electroshock or a bolt pistol to the back of the head. They'd be hanging upside down by the back legs, and this was when Eddie would do his thing, knifing the carotid artery and the jugular vein, bleeding them to death.\n\nI could've left him there.\n\nMeanwhile, Ferret had got up. I squinted. She looked different. Her dreads were all cut off. She was wearing some crazy get-up, all skin and bones. She'd been missing for quite a while already. Nobody knew what happened after the King came and took her from my old place. Mine and Eddie's. After Darcy ratted us out. Kids put bets that we'd never see her again. But here she was. Ferret was hurt bad. She was bruised and swollen in the face, dead in the eyes. She limped carefully around the machinery. She avoided the King flailing. She seen him up there, couldn't believe it probably.\n\nShe stood beside me. We looked up at him, and he swore. He squirmed and kicked and screamed. I was thinking how could we try and get him to admit what he'd done\u2014killed Digit and framed Eddie for murder. Who knows what else?\n\n\"You fucking diseased shits, let me down.\"\n\nFerret and I looked at each other. We looked back at the King. He was pretty pale. He was losing a lot of blood.\n\n\"If you sp-spring Eddie yu-yu-you can live.\"\n\nHis eyes lost focus for a sec. Then he stared hard at me. \"Screw you, faggot.\"\n\nI gulped.\n\n\"I fucked your gold star butch,\" he growled at Ferret. \"She was even tighter than you.\"\n\nI felt her body tense, saw her hands ball into fists.\n\n\"No.\" Ferret said this loudly. \" _No_ ,\" she shouted. Her body shook. She repeated that word, screaming and spitting with a hate that scared me.\n\nThen Ferret reached behind me and took a long rubber apron off Eddie's old shelf. She draped it over herself the way he used to. It was too big for her and dragged on the floor. She tied it loose around her small waist, then picked up a knife, just like the one Eddie used every day on shift. It was big for her, too. She wasn't used to hauling it around the way he was. She had to use both hands just to lift it.\n\nThe King muttered some more. Told us what he'd do when he got down from there. What he'd do to us, to all of us.\n\nFerret goes, \"Shut up, Earl.\"\n\nThat must have been his real name, I guess. I still couldn't move. I couldn't say a word. I just watched. It took a long time. We'd all seen Eddie at work. Mostly you'd wish you hadn't. Those aren't pictures you can erase from your mind easy. Ferret had the general idea, but was not used to doing this sort of thing, obviously. Even after his head came off\u2014not cleanly, either, that took a lot of work\u2014the rest of him kicked and twitched. Blood sprayed, it hit us in the face, it coated the walls. It was gruesome. The smell was awful. Let's just say she finally finished him off and dumped him where the rest of the meat was kept, in the freezing cold storage, where it got boxed and sent out to be eaten. I might have helped carrying stuff, I don't even remember.\n\nAfter all that, we hosed down the floor, the walls, the hooks, the apron. The slippery knife. Our shoes. We didn't know what to do about his clothes, his belt, but there was a separate place for all the terrible pig parts nobody could sell\u2014and that's where we dumped them in the end. We put everything else back where it belonged. And then we went outside to sit on the ledge.\n\nWe sat there a long time not talking. We'd have smoked, but we didn't have any. Our feet matched up, side by side, leaving prints in the soft ground. I was looking down at them and at the arc of cigarette butts flicked all around. This ledge was where all the men used to take their break, Eddie included. There were hundreds of pinched filters stubbed out in the ground. Each one marked a long shift, ten to twelve hours cut up into manageable parts, just like the meat inside.\n\n\"W-we make a good p-p-pair,\" I said at last.\n\nThat's when she started to cry, and me, too.\n\n\"None of this was supposed to happen,\" she sobbed.\n\n\"C-course n-not.\" I was supposed to be with my Eddie, Ferret with Oreo. All of us, all us reject kids, should've been left alone to make our own way in this fucked-up world, the best we could.\n\nI leaned closer to Ferret. Her shoulder pressed against me. Her hands were messed up, splintered something bad. I held them gently. There was blood around her nails still. My own fingers were filthy, the skin chewed, hangnails angry red.\n\nIt was that special bold sky time, just before dawn. Dark blues burst out of black, clouds of colour brooding around the city. I tried not to look at the Factory anymore, cop tape flapping in the breeze, orange construction flags posted here and there. The city was going to demolish it. They'd taken the roof off with a wrecking ball already. It was so wrong. Like a half-dead thing, still crawling. The slaughterhouse would be closed for good, too. The soil would be treated, and then they'd start building. A drawing of the condos stood at the end of the gravel road, next to the little information office the company put up the other day.\n\nIf you bought in now, you could save a bundle off your new luxury home.\n\n# Bush\n\n\"So now you're up here hanging with the Rezbians. How's that for ya?\" Phoebe cracks open a Blue Light for Ferret. Before Ferret can answer, Phoebe says, \"Sorry about the beer. Doc says I got to watch my calories. I says, 'You want to love a little less of _all this_?' and he goes, 'That's what I'm telling ya, Phoebe Marie. You got to shave a few pounds off your lovely behind.'\" Phoebe chuckles, and the mountain that is her, glorious her, shakes in her Moose FM T-shirt. Her laugh turns to a cough that sounds like an outboard motor turning over in her big bosom.\n\n\"It's good to see you, Phoebes,\" I say. Phoebe is older and heavier and more tired since I left two years ago. Her feet bother her so much she's using a cane now. But her smile still lights up the room and her hugs, those warm, strong arms of hers, still squeeze the badness right out of me. I've got a goofy smile plastered on my face in spite of the shit we've waded through just to be here, now.\n\nFerret sips her beer. I squeeze her hand. I can tell by her worried face that she doesn't know what to make of things. She keeps looking sideways to the front door where our backpacks sit in a mud-sprayed lump, all we have left on this earth.\n\nPhoebe runs a hand through her greying hair. \"Now don't be polite, Oreo; be yourself. Sure yous aren't hungry?\"\n\nFerret shakes her head. Food smells fill the little house, but there is nothing vegan about them. I nudge her with my pointy chin. She doesn't budge. It's been over a day since we ate anything other than extra-strength Wake-Ups. My stomach is sour and tight from them, and can't take food yet. The pills kept us up for the whole trek north from Toronto. Hitching can be fun, but not when you're tired and beat up and broken-hearted, not with every cop in the province hunting your ass. You got to be alert, and then some.\n\nAfternoon sun pours in the big window of Phoebe's front room, onto the back of my head, making me dozy. Chemicals twitch in random parts of my body, but the tension I've been carrying in my shoulders, my back, starts to unwind. My feet throb now that I've kicked off my rank boots. Me and Ferret are wedged between a dozen hand-made cushions on Phoebe's dog couch, covered in the bristly fur of her old mutt, Jack Daniels. Jack Daniels is lying on the front porch, keeping six.\n\n_For sure I thought we'd never make it._\n\nPhoebe sits across from us in her favourite chair, an old La-Z Boy recliner that faces the big window so she can see everyone going up and down the main paved road that cuts our land in half. She knows when the mail is in, when Andy's General Store has got the fresh meat delivery, and if Alan Fox is late to call the seven o'clock bingo.\n\n\"I know if the RCMP are coming almost before they do,\" she says. \"Tribal Police get the heads up, and they'd call me first. I don't know what exactly happened to yous girls, but you're safe here.\"\n\nI don't know what to say to her, where to start. I pick the skin around a torn cuticle on my dirty fingers.\n\n\"I know what sent you running away from here, Oreo, and that was bad. Whatever chased you back must be way worse.\"\n\nI nod. I stretch my arm around Ferret's shoulders, and say, \"It is, Phoebe. It's messed up. Last thing I want is to get you in trouble, though.\"\n\n\"I figure I can handle my bad self just fine.\" Phoebe is not smiling, but her voice is. It's warm and rough and in charge. \"This is your home, Oreo. Time you come back to it.\"\n\nShe gestures behind her, meaning my mom's house next door. I walked the long way around to Phoebe's bungalow porch, just so I wouldn't have to look at it.\n\n\"You okay?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" I say. \"Just tired. Long haul, lots of stops.\"\n\nIt started out pretty good. We caught our first truck going north all the way to Owen Sound. We dumpstered bagels from behind an artsy caf\u00e9, and one of the cashiers gave us free coffee. She let us crash in the back corner until they locked the doors late that night. Then Ferret lay low while I panhandled, keeping one eye on news headlines to make sure there was no mention of us and the whole cop-killing thing back in Toronto. I was looking for a drive north and got pointed to a high school teacher\u2014nice, kind of dorky. She promised to pick us up in front of the caf\u00e9 at six a.m. and take us to the ferry docks in Tobermory, where we could cross over to the island first thing. She didn't mind giving us a lift at all. I wanted to stuff this act of kindness in my mouth and swallow it, to keep it safe. Instead, I crawled under a park bench with Ferret and nestled my face on the back of her neck, whispering the plan. The hard knot in my stomach loosened just thinking about going home, finally. By the time morning rolled around, of course, things had gone bad for us, as usual.\n\n_Doesn't matter_ , I tell myself. _We got here anyways._\n\nI try to forget it all\u2014the drunk boys who found us in the park early that morning and had to be fought off. Someone called the cops. This scared off the assholes, but lost us our ride with the nice teacher. Frigging pigs skulked around uselessly, drinking coffee and shooting the shit for an hour, right in front of the bush we hid behind. Later, we took the first ride we could, even though we ended up going the long way, up 69 north to Sudbury where we sat for half a day at a truck stop, waiting for a ride without a hand-job clause in the fine print. Finally we caught a four-by-four with headbangers who raced to Espanola to pick up weed, smoked it, then drove way below the speed limit to the Island, crossing the swing bridge at Little Current at dawn. _What a shit show_.\n\nI focus on the here and now\u2014Phoebe and her small, familiar house. Ferret\u2014skinny and bruised and scared, her pretty dreads cut off so she looks like a half-starved boy: seriously damaged goods but still alive, at least. Me\u2014holding it together the best I can.\n\nI realize that Phoebe's mouth has been moving and I have no idea what she's saying. She looks at me strangely and moves her mouth some more. \"You all right, Oreo? Jeez, you've been gone some time, huh?\"\n\n\"It's good to be back, Phoebe. Thanks.\" I kick my feet up on the coffee table and try to smile, even though I feel wrung out and dry as an old rag.\n\n\"Comfortable?\" Phoebe playfully swats my feet with her cane. \"What kind of manners you learn down south?\" Phoebe winks at Ferret. \"White folks turned you into a savage, that's what.\" She laughs, a belly laugh with a thigh slap to go with it that makes me feel even more at home. \"Yous going to the arena dance Friday?\"\n\nFerret's fingers tighten their hold on my thigh. Her forehead creases deeply so I know the last thing she wants to do is go to the damn dance.\n\n\"We'll see,\" I say.\n\nPhoebe says, \"We don't get your punk bands up here. Dances are pretty much it. If you don't go, you might be bored before you know it.\"\n\n\"It's probably better if no one knows we're here,\" I say quickly. Sooner or later I'm going to have to tell Phoebe the real truth: that we're not just _in trouble_ , as she put it, but seriously on the lam. Possibly even wanted for first-degree murder, for killing a city cop. Which would make her an accessory to the crime, and that doesn't sit right.\n\nI stroke Ferret's almost bald head. Each stroke softens the lines in her forehead, lowers the lids of her eyes. If she were a cat, she'd maybe start to purr.\n\nPhoebe raises an eyebrow. \"How else you gonna get the gossip wheels spinning? I can only do so much damage on the Facebook.\" She points her cane to the computer in the corner.\n\n\"What?\" My stomach churns.\n\n\"Sure enough. I updated my status: 'Long-lost Indian warrior returns to the Rez, dragging her young wife.' What do you think? That'll get tongues wagging, eh?\"\n\n\"Ha,\" I say, weakly. \"You didn't use my name, did you?\"\n\n\"Course not.\" Phoebe says to Ferret, \"I bet you never got to hear any embarrassing stories about Oreo. Never had anyone to tell them, huh?\"\n\n\"Uh, no,\" Ferret says quietly. Her eyes are huge right now, dark and shining.\n\n\"That's too bad. I'm the only one around who knows.\" She tries to say it lightly, but it's not. It's hard and sad and leaves an angry echo bouncing around the room. I guess I never thought much about how she felt, being left alone up here with the memories, with all our ghosts.\n\nI walk to the front door and look out the window, press my forehead against the glass. No one is driving, no one is walking. There's just the main road with tall grass on either side. There are houses at intervals all the way down, as far as you can see. As a kid, it was great. You could run wild, play where you wanted. But at twelve, thirteen, it was boring and claustrophobic. I hated how you knew everything about everyone else, and they knew everything about you, too. I'd watch MuchMusic, wear tons of eyeliner, and dream about moving south to start a band, dream about meeting lots of other gays and eventually getting a girlfriend. Once Aunt Tam said, \"So go there. Go find out like everyone else that the city is a burial ground, nothing but a place to go and die alone.\"\n\nA sudden lump sits in my throat like a clogged drain. Of course I didn't listen to Tam, who probably knew a thing or two about living rough in the city. Who might be doing more of the same right now, wherever she is, out west. Summers were fun at first\u2014meeting other punks and partying, hooking up with girls. In the city, nobody gave a shit what we did, as long as we didn't do it on or near their property. Later, it was more work. Fighting for a place to sleep, for food, to not get raped or fucked with, running from cops and thugs and jocks. Always fighting, always running. That gets harder to take.\n\n\"Oreo, go get my glasses from the bedroom,\" says Phoebe brightly. \"Now Ferret,\" she says, \"did Oreo ever tell you how she got her name?\"\n\nI groan.\n\nFerret kisses my cheek. She says in a sing-song voice, \"She's dry and crusty on the outside and gooey sweet inside?\"\n\n\"That's right. Now what you don't know about Oreo is...\"\n\nPhoebe's kitchen is smaller than I remember. The little gas stove is busy as ever. There's the culprit, a large pot simmering on the back burner. I lift the hot lid. _Moose stew_. The smell hits me hard. One thing, I haven't been around cooked meat in a long time, especially not wild game. But mostly those smells remind me of my mom and the aunties. They'd have it bubbling, be baking scones or bannock, sometimes have wild rice in another small pot. Good times happened in this kitchen and in ours. Fights got worked out, jokes told over and over again, marriages were arranged, repaired, and dissolved around these Formica tables with Phoebe and my mom, with my aunties holding court, the swag lamps collecting all of our secrets in their dusty bulbs.\n\nPhoebe's voice fills the small house as I walk through it, touching stuff, noticing all her special things crammed into every imaginable space, including her Red Rose Tea company figurine collectibles. Even if I can't hear exactly what she's saying, there's the ebb and flow of her throaty laugh, the rumble of her imitating someone; there's the timid murmur of Ferret answering a question.\n\nPhoebe's bedroom smells like Vicks VapoRub and sweetgrass. Her dresser is cluttered with photographs, some new ones of people I don't even know\u2014like her life kept going after the accident. Right in the centre, though, there used to be a big, framed picture of them all: Phoebe and Aunt Sue front and centre, Aunt Tam, my mom, and even Jack Daniels. In Toronto, whenever I thought about my family, I'd remember this blown-up photo of them laughing together. But it's not here. For some reason that makes me mad. I can almost remember holding the camera, my chubby kid fingers lining up the zoom box on the bunch of them, and clicking the button. Sometimes I just _think_ I remember it because I've heard the story so many times\u2014that I grabbed Tam's camera and hollered while they horsed around on Phoebe's front porch. \"Nobody move a muscle!\"\n\nOther than the photos and piles of loose change on the dresser, there are a bunch of pill bottles. I pick them up and shake them, but I don't know what the long words mean, other than Oxycontin and the Perc family\u2014Cet and Dan\u2014which would be great for making quick cash on the street. Great for blanking out, for coping. I set the bottles back down. Phoebe's got the diabetes. She's got heartache, too, and no matter how many pills her young doctor gives her, they can't cure that.\n\nPhoebe's glasses are nowhere to be found. I walk back to the kitchen, check the ledge behind the old yellow curtains that hang in the window above the sink. There's her same table with the three and a half chairs around it, the broken one being the thing that saved Aunt Sue from an enraged black bear that came up onto the front porch one spring, years ago. Auntie Sue, her lover, had moved in by then. My mom, Tam, and I were at our place next door having supper when we heard Sue scream. My mom came out with the rifle but never had to use it, since Phoebe was waving the kitchen chair in the muzzle of this huge animal up on its hind legs, roaring into Sue's terrified face.\n\n\"Ith Phoebe a thuperhero?\" Phoebe exaggerates my little-kid high-octave voice.\n\n\" _Aaniin_ , I'm right here,\" I call into the front room. \"I can hear what you're saying, you know.\"\n\nFerret giggles when I peek around the corner.\n\n\"Shush, I'm telling my story,\" Phoebe says. \"Where's my glasses?\"\n\n\"I have no idea.\"\n\n\"Oh shit, they're around my neck.\" Phoebe pulls the silver chain she's wearing and out from the neck of her T-shirt comes a pair of eyeglasses. \"And so you see, Ferret, from the time Oreo was a wee toothless critter, she's always known the truth\u2014that I have magical powers and can talk to the bears. I said to that sonuvabitch, 'You get the hell away from my woman! If anyone's eating her tonight, it's me!'\"\n\nFerret laughs for real, and so do I, even though I've heard that story a hundred times.\n\n\"We're Bear Clan. Oreo ever tell you that?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she says. \"It's on her tattoo.\"\n\n\"First thing I got inked when I was in Toronto. So I wouldn't forget where I came from.\" I stretch the neck of my T-shirt over my shoulder to show Phoebe.\n\nPhoebe puts on her glasses and blinks a few times while she adjusts to the prescription lenses. She shakes her cane toward me and says, \"Oreo, Hon, that's real nice. But you don't need a tattoo to know who you are. That runs all through you, day and night, in your blood. No one can take it away from you, not if you don't let them.\"\n\nPhoebe leans forward and grunts as she puts her weight onto the cane and slowly stands up. She looks real tired. \"I was gonna get out the big book, but that can wait.\" She waves at a stack of phonebooks and newspapers in one corner, but I know she means _our_ big book, the family album, which is probably on the bottom of that pile. If just _thinking_ about one photo can mess me up, I can't imagine flipping through a lifetime.\n\n\"Make yourselves at home while I have a rest. Oreo, if you want to go next door, the key is in my cupboard like always.\" Phoebe shuffles toward the kitchen. Eventually I hear the springs of her bed creak when she sits on the mattress.\n\nFerret exhales loudly and slumps back onto the couch. \"What should we do, Oreo?\"\n\nBut I'm already tapping on the keyboard, scrolling down the computer screen to check exactly what Phoebe posted. I delete her status update. No one has commented on it yet.\n\nFerret rocks back and forth on the couch. Her breathing is shallow. She's working up from serious anxiety toward a full-on panic attack. Not pretty.\n\nThe thing about Ferret, she's not hard\u2014she's tough enough, she's got heart and she's wily\u2014but she's got no meanness whatsoever. Ray-Ray even less. That boy is a Popsicle. So wasting that rapist, that psycho cop, it's weighing heavy on them both.\n\n\"Ferret, listen to me.\"\n\nI wait for her to slow her breathing a bit and to stop rocking frenetically.\n\n\"First, I want to find out who knows we're here.\" It wouldn't take much. A do-gooder social worker, a kid with a grudge, even a friend who said something to the wrong person could fuck us up.\n\n\"Who even knows where you're from?\"\n\n_Digit, but he's dead._\n\n\"Cricket knows I'm Native, but he never remembers anything else. He says it's too complicated.\"\n\n\"Ray-Ray actually listens to people.\" Ferret exhales slowly.\n\n\"Yeah, I'm not worried about Ray-Ray anymore. I even told him to come up here if he needs a place.\"\n\n\"What about the drop-in worker, Pamela?\"\n\nI press my fists against my closed eyes. _Pamela._ I remember hearing her talk about coming to Wiky for the annual powwow. And how proud I was to tell her that I was _from_ here, that my family _came_ from these parts, and how she'd never forget that, seeing as she'd been here. \"Shit.\"\n\n\"She'll talk, all right.\"\n\nMy foot taps restlessly while I keep surfing. \"I told Pamela I hadn't been here in years and might never come back.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Yeah. I thought I wouldn't. Not 'til all that shit went down and you were gone. All I wanted was to bring you here so we could be safe.\" My voice cracks.\n\nFerret climbs onto my lap and kisses my ear, my throat. She squishes her face against mine. \"We'll never be safe, will we?\"\n\n\"Actually, we could never be safer, now that _he's_ dead.\" My voice wavers. Ferret told me everything that happened, everything the King did. And what he was planning to do, if she hadn't escaped. Every time I think about it, I choke back vomit. I have to breathe deeply and keep moving, so the hate doesn't stop up my veins and cripple me forever.\n\nOn the CBC website is a photo of the King, \"a brave law officer, a hero gone missing.\" _Not dead, at least_. Beside the article are the words, in a large bold font, Police Search for Persons of Interest. It's a photo of Ferret and me in front of the Factory squat, our arms around each other, smiling defiantly into the camera.\n\n\"Shit.\" I bite my bottom lip.\n\n\"Anyone with information is asked to contact police. Crime Stoppers offers up to $2,000 for anonymous tips leading to the capture and arrest of wanted criminals,\" reads Ferret out loud. \"That's a lot of money.\"\n\nOur friends, our neighbours, they all hate being poor. But luckily for us, I think they hate cops more.\n\n\"Does that mean they don't know what happened to him yet?\" Ferret looks sick.\n\nWe can't tear our eyes away from that picture of the King. I hate his stupid face, his leering mouth, and his Elvis hair. I can smell the pomade, his boozy, tainted breath. I still feel his fists pounding me, his hands choking me, his belt buckle scraping my soft skin, the metal parts slapping onto the hard floor.\n\n\"Oreo?\"\n\nThe room spins. Ferret shakes my shoulders gently. I open my eyes wide.\n\n\"So they haven't found any... parts yet.\" Ferret looks wigged out.\n\n\"Babe,\" I say, trying to get my shit together. The last thing Ferret needs now is to have to take care of me. \"They might never find out. So you got to figure out how to carry this thing. I wish it was me that did it; you have no idea how much. It wouldn't wreck me the way it might you\u2014if you let it.\"\n\nIn fact, sometimes all I can think about is how much I wish _my_ hands had pulled the lever that severed his limbs and let him bleed out, that _I_ had cut his dead body down from the slaughterhouse chains myself. Maybe then I would believe he was truly gone, and his bloated face would stop jumping out at me from shadows, like in some cheesy horror movie. Maybe then I could purge this poison from me, this thing that is shrinking me from the inside out.\n\nFerret sits up taller. \"You're right. Maybe they never will find out the truth.\" She clenches her jaw. \"Lots of people knew what he was into. Think of all those women he trafficked. Anyone could have wanted revenge. Lots of people wanted him dead.\"\n\nI nod.\n\nI scroll down slowly, so the picture of him gradually disappears. Ferret slumps against me when the last of him is gone. Hot tears roll down her face, trickle onto my skin. They run down my neck, into my T-shirt. Saliva pools in her mouth and drips out when she cries louder. Her shoulders shake. She gasps, and there is another sound, an ugly hacking sound. It is me crying, too, which is a total shock.\n\n\"I'm s-sick from all the things he did to me,\" I say. Sick of not owning my girl body, my boy body. Sick with his DNA all over me, inside me. \"Nothing belongs to me anymore.\"\n\nFerret knows what I am trying to say. She smoothes my long hair, re-braids it, and pets my heaving shoulders. She says, \"We are still alive, Oreo, you and me. That pig is dead, and he deserved it. And it almost was a different end to this story. So now we got to keep moving, we got to keep living, and make the most of it, whatever happens next.\"\n\nI wipe my face and blow my nose.\n\nFerret is pulling it together, but this is my land. I need to step up. An image of our summer camp comes to me, though I haven't been there since I was a kid, foraging for berries and roots and edible plants, fishing in the cold lake, sleeping under the stars and in rough shelters.\n\n\"Alright then, Ferret. We're going bush side.\"\n\nWhile Ferret showers and changes her clothes, I take Phoebe's key and go next door. Just looking at the neglected house makes my chest burn, my breath come fast and shallow. Peeling paint hangs in strips; the porch screen has been ripped open by an animal. The wooden steps creak under my feet. The key fits in the lock, turns, but the door sticks. I heave my shoulder against it once, twice. It scrapes open, and the musty smell explodes. Curtains are drawn on every window. I step inside, right through an elaborate spider web hanging in the dark. _Sorry, Grandmother_.\n\nBed sheets drape the furniture like Halloween ghosts. The front room feels damp; the rug is rotting. My mom's bedroom is bare\u2014stripped bed, dresser cleared, nothing on the walls. The drawers and closet are empty except for her bush jacket, her work gloves, and boots, which I put in my knapsack. The room I shared with the aunties is a trip\u2014half closed down and half preserved like some teenage museum. Band posters are still plastered around the room near my old bed. It's a punk shrine: Siouxie Sioux, Mot\u00f6rhead, Nina Hagen, Amebix. A couple of Sue's childhood toys\u2014a dolly, a plastic piggy bank\u2014perch on top of the dresser. Her adult life had been next door with Phoebe, so who knows what happened to all those things? Tam's stuff is packed in boxes, labelled with her name. Another stack of boxes glare at me, my name scrawled across them in black marker. _Phoebe had to deal with that, alone_.\n\nThe kitchen is the hardest part. I shut my eyes, but can still see their faces, hear them laughing, shouting, gossiping. The missing framed photo smiles into me from the middle of the round table. A close-up of Phoebe and Aunt Sue, slim and brown and laughing, their arms around each other, their hair loose and beautiful. They look like teenagers, like me and Ferret, but were probably into their twenties. My mom and Aunt Tam are in the background, also laughing. Tam is holding Jack Daniels\u2014he's just a pup, his tongue lapping at her chin. They're on Phoebe's front porch, but the shot is crooked and the proportions are wonky; the big camera slipped in my hands and aimed at the sky above them, just higher than the porch roof. Looking at it now, the picture seems to have been a warning or some kind of prophecy. The focus is on the up and away, the sky, the place where spirits roam.\n\nI find the rest of the things I need in the pantry and hall closet: matches, hunting knife, compass, our old tent, a sleeping bag, a medium-sized pot and pan. There are dry soup mixes, cans of beans, an opener. Each thing I wipe and pack reminds me of something else we'll need: rope, a small axe, duct tape. The Browning BPS Hunter is still there, all twenty-eight inches of its walnut finish, an extra loaded clip, and the gun-cleaning kit, too. I lift it and look down the sights. I aim out the back window at the nowhere road. I remember learning to shoot with my mom, the pull and release, the smell of a shot fired.\n\nThis is all the stuff we'll need while we wait it out into the fall. We'll leave at dawn, the best time to start a new plan, a new life. Phoebe will know where we're headed, no doubt about it. We have no place else to be and nowhere else to go. I figure we'll be okay as long as I can remember all those things my mom and the aunties taught me. Time is different when you're living with the land, different than in the city where you fight against it just to survive. Once we get there, we'll be in no rush, Ferret and me. We'll be in no rush at all.\n\nKristyn Dunnion is a self-professed \"Lady punk warrior\" and the author of the novels _Big Big Sky, Missing Matthew_ , and _Mosh Pit_ (all Red Deer Press). She studied English Literature and Theatre at McGill University and earned a Masters Degree in English at the University of Guelph. She performs creeptastic art as Miss Kitty Galore, and is also the bass player for dykemetal heartthrobs, Heavy Filth. She lives in Toronto.\n\nPhotograph by Jaimie Carlisle.\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \nTHE ARNIFOUR AFFAIR\n\nA Colin Pendragon Mystery\n\nGREGORY HARRIS\n\nKENSINGTON BOOKS\n\nwww.kensingtonbooks.com\n\nAll copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.\nTable of Contents\n\nTitle Page  \nDedication  \nCHAPTER 1  \nCHAPTER 2  \nCHAPTER 3  \nCHAPTER 4  \nCHAPTER 5  \nCHAPTER 6  \nCHAPTER 7  \nCHAPTER 8  \nCHAPTER 9  \nCHAPTER 10  \nCHAPTER 11  \nCHAPTER 12  \nCHAPTER 13  \nCHAPTER 14  \nCHAPTER 15  \nCHAPTER 16  \nCHAPTER 17  \nCHAPTER 18  \nCHAPTER 19  \nCHAPTER 20  \nCHAPTER 21  \nCHAPTER 22  \nCHAPTER 23  \nCHAPTER 24  \nCHAPTER 25  \nCHAPTER 26  \nCHAPTER 27  \nCHAPTER 28  \nCHAPTER 29  \nCHAPTER 30  \nCHAPTER 31  \nCHAPTER 32  \nCHAPTER 33  \nCHAPTER 34  \nACKNOWLEDGMENTS  \nTeaser chapter  \nCopyright Page\n\nFor Russ, who changed everything forever\nCHAPTER 1\n\nThe subject, as it so often is, was murder.\n\nIt was late in the afternoon, between the time when the sun has dropped sufficiently to be blocked from the city's streets, yet before it has gone low enough for the shadows cast by the buildings to have grown into one continuous black void. Colin and I were sitting by the fireplace in our study, me in the thrall of the American writer Stephen Crane's latest bit of fiction, while he was working up a sweat curling his dumbbells, when a great clattering of horses' hooves arose from the street below.\n\nI laid my book down and went to the window, where I spied an elegant black carriage next to the curb pulled by two fine blue-black steeds. The carriage looked capable of seating a dozen people, yet revealed only a single family crest on its door: a vulture devouring a slain lamb under a thistle bush. It seemed its owner had either a fine sense of humor or extraordinary self-awareness.\n\n\"It appears we have company,\" I announced.\n\n\"Do we?\" Colin muttered, still hoisting the weights back and forth.\n\n\"A coach has just pulled up. There's a crest on its door, but I don't recognize it.\"\n\n\"Oh?\" He came over and took a brief glance out the window, dumbbells in tow, before bounding back to the fireplace. \"That would be the crest of the once formidable Arnifour family.\"\n\n\"Arnifour?\" A distant clanging was set off in my head. \"Now why does that name sound familiar?\"\n\n\"Because they've been a part of the gentry for generations,\" he said as he shoved the dumbbells onto an upper shelf in a nearby bookcase, \"although their fortunes have contracted in diametrical opposition to our good Queen's waistline. Yet while Victoria remains the Queen, the Arnifours have become quite toothless and impotent in their waning years. Never a good combination.\" He snickered.\n\nI chuckled as I watched a dainty ankle covered in swirls of burgundy fabric present itself from within the carriage, followed by a delicate hand held out to the driver. \"It's a lady,\" I said.\n\n\"Mrs. Behmoth,\" Colin hollered down the stairs, \"we've got company!\"\n\n\"I 'eard. I ain't deaf,\" she called back. \"Who the 'ell comes out at this 'our anyway? I ain't puttin' me shoes back on, I'll tell ya that. Me dogs are already snarlin' like beasts.\"\n\n\"Always so dainty.\" He chuckled, hastily mopping his face with a handkerchief.\n\nThe sound of Mrs. Behmoth thudding her way from the kitchen to the small foyer drifted up, and I was relieved to hear the clack of shoes back on her feet in spite of her protestations. The door creaked on its hinges before the muffled hum of sibilant voices too far away to decipher could be heard.\n\nI went back to my chair as Colin picked up a small penknife and scrap of fine steel wool from the mantel, and started working at coaxing the antique blade back to its former luster. \"Must you always be playing with weapons when someone comes to call?\"\n\n\"I'm not playing.\" He frowned. \"I'm preserving history.\"\n\n\"Still,\" I said as I heard the stairs begin to groan under the weight of Mrs. Behmoth and our guest, \"it could be misconstrued as intimidating to our fairer clientele.\"\n\nHe waved me off. \"You're worried about intimidating someone who has a slaughtered lamb being eaten by a vulture for a family crest?\"\n\nI conceded the point.\n\nMrs. Behmoth filled our doorway as she ushered in an elderly woman wearing a tightly curled brown wig intended for someone half her age atop of which sat a small curved bonnet cocked to one side and heavily laden with frilly lace. Her dress was as coquettish as a debutante's, with a flurry of bows and adornments across the bosom. There was heavy makeup smeared across the deep crevices of her face and a silver dollar\u2013sized bit of cardinal rouge on each cheek. \"The Lady Arnifour,\" Mrs. Behmoth announced, accepting the Lady's cloak and unceremoniously tossing it on the coatrack.\n\n\"Do come in,\" Colin said with the flash of a smile. \"I only hope this inopportune hour does not portend too distressing a matter at hand.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Pendragon,\" she said as she collapsed onto the settee. \"It is a most dreadful situation that brings me to your door this night.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear that.\" He cast a glance at Mrs. Behmoth still hovering in the doorway. \"Then we'll need some tea, please.\"\n\n\"Yer supper's almost ready.\" She scowled.\n\n\"I don't mean to be a bother\u2014\"\n\n\"It ain't no bother, Yer Ladyship, but that roast is sure as Hades gonna turn ta leather if it ain't served on time.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless,\" Colin's voice tightened, \"tea. Thank you.\"\n\n\"I really don't require anything more than a few minutes of your time, Mr. Pendragon.\" She turned toward Mrs. Behmoth. \"Please don't trouble yourself.\"\n\nMrs. Behmoth shrugged agreeably before heading back downstairs.\n\nColin exhaled brusquely. \"She basically raised me.\"\n\n\"She's refreshingly disarming.\" Lady Arnifour gave a brief smile as her eyes flicked over to me before darting back to Colin. \"Mr. Pendragon?\" She leaned toward him slightly, her voice as thin as a whisper. \"Might it be possible for us to speak in private? The matter upon which I seek your assistance contains a degree of . . . delicacy\u2014\"\n\n\"You have nothing to worry about then. Mr. Pruitt is my most trusted companion and should be considered an extension of myself. Your confidence will be well kept by us both. Now do tell us what's brought you here.\"\n\nOur guest stiffened as she continued to stare at him. It was clear she was not used to being countermanded. \"Well . . .\" Her eyes flew back and forth a moment. \"It's my husband. . . .\" She hesitated. \"He was murdered nearly a fortnight ago and my young niece, who was with him at the time, was savagely attacked and remains in a coma even now.\"\n\n\"How dreadful.\" Colin arched an eyebrow at me as I suddenly recalled why her name had sounded familiar.\n\n\"Surely you read of his death in the papers?\" she said.\n\n\"Newspapers are a dreary business,\" he scoffed. \"And have you ever read an accurate accounting of anything? No, I leave the perusal of those to Mr. Pruitt,\" his eyes slid to me, \"who usually keeps me informed of such goings-on.\" I could only shrug. \"But it's always better if you tell me of it yourself anyway. From the beginning, if you please.\"\n\n\"Oh my.\" She sagged back onto the settee, looking increasingly fragile. \"It's such a nasty business.\"\n\n\"Murder tends to be.\"\n\nHer brow furrowed and I took that moment to speak up lest she think he was trifling with her. \"Hearing the event in your own words is far more likely to allow us to gain insight into the crime than reading some sensationalized account in the paper.\"\n\nTo my relief, Lady Arnifour's face softened as she heaved a heavy sigh. \"I suppose you're right. As it is, Scotland Yard has withheld several details from the papers; they claim it's for the sake of their investigation, but they've seemed so muddled by it all,\" she groused before drawing in a deep breath and appearing to gird herself to begin. \"Ten nights ago my husband took his customary walk after supper. Unless he was ill, he never missed his excursions.\n\n\"On this particular night he somehow managed to make it all the way down to the northwest corner of our property. We have a barn there in which we store hay and other feed for our horses and cattle. It's a considerable distance, Mr. Pendragon, and I am not exaggerating. And while I freely admit that my husband was several years younger than I, neither was he a young man.\" Her eyelids ticked slightly as though she had just confided something we would not otherwise have presumed. \"How he got as far as he did, and why he would choose to do so, I cannot say.\"\n\n\"How far are we talking?\" Colin snatched up his penknife and absently started buffing it again.\n\n\"Half a dozen kilometers at the least.\"\n\n\"And you don't believe him to have been in the habit of going such a distance?\"\n\n\"It would've been impossible. He was seldom gone more than an hour and I can assure you, Samuel couldn't have walked a fourth of that distance in that amount of time.\"\n\n\"I see,\" Colin muttered. \"Do go on.\"\n\nLady Arnifour watched his hands flutter assiduously over the blade for a minute before she finally resolved to continue. \"That night, for whatever reason, Samuel got himself all the way down to that barn, and when he did, he apparently came upon our niece, Elsbeth. Elsbeth is my late sister's only child. Samuel and I have raised her from infancy. My sister did not survive the birth and there was no one else,\" she said deliberately. When she dropped her eyes I knew better than to inquire about the father. \"It was not uncommon for Elsbeth and our daughter, Kaylin, to go riding together.\" She stopped and clutched at her throat. \"Thank heavens Kaylin stayed in that night.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" Colin said. \"And your niece remains in a coma?\"\n\nLady Arnifour's hand continued to hover at her throat in evident distress. \"Yes, Mr. Pendragon. My niece received a horrible blow to her face during the attack. She was found near my husband's body and has yet to regain consciousness. The doctor . . .\" She shook her head as she yanked a handkerchief from her sleeve. \"I'm afraid he's been unable to offer much in the way of comfort regarding her recovery.\"\n\nColin laid the penknife down and peered at Lady Arnifour. \"This is indeed a double tragedy then.\"\n\nShe dabbed the handkerchief to her nose in an oddly self-conscious manner and it suddenly made me wonder if perhaps she'd done it more for our benefit than hers. \"Yes,\" was all she said.\n\n\"You must forgive me,\" Colin pressed on with uncharacteristic restraint, \"but I must ask you precisely how your husband was killed?\"\n\n\"A terrible blow to the back of his head,\" she fairly whispered.\n\n\"Supper's almost ready!\" Mrs. Behmoth took that moment to holler up from downstairs.\n\nI bolted from my seat and rushed across the room to the landing. \"We'll be down as soon as we've finished with our guest,\" I hissed. \"You will kindly refrain from shrieking up the stairs again.\" She scowled at me before huffing back to her kitchen. \"I'm so sorry,\" I said as I came back to the study, not at all surprised to find that Colin had not even moved.\n\n\"She has a good heart.\" Colin flashed a quick grin as I sat down again. \"Please go on, Lady Arnifour. Tell me what our esteemed Scotland Yard has made of all this. Have they formed any theories yet? Or are they still trying to decide who should ask the questions and who should write them down?\"\n\nI shot a hasty glance at Lady Arnifour and found her seemingly oblivious to his contempt of the Yarders.\n\n\"The inspector assigned to my husband's murder informed me this afternoon that my groundskeeper, Victor Heffernan, and his son, Nathaniel, have become his primary suspects.\" Her voice had become quite overwrought. I watched as her gaze slid about the room as though she was unable to comfortably settle it anywhere, and thought it yet another curious gesture on her part. Colin leaned forward in a way that suggested he had caught it as well.\n\n\"But the inspector is wrong?\" he asked.\n\n\"I would stake my very reputation on it.\"\n\n\"And would you be referring to Inspector Emmett Varcoe?\"\n\nLady Arnifour started. \"How could you know that?\"\n\n\"Your estate is under his jurisdiction.\"\n\nI could see she was impressed, though in truth that was exactly the sort of thing he should be expected to know.\n\n\"It's hardly a surprise you believe him wrong.\" Colin sat down and leaned back in his chair. \"The man's ineptitude is matched only by his ignorance of his own shortcomings\u2014 proving that failing upward is neither an art nor a science. But we needn't concern ourselves with him just yet. Why don't you tell me how it is you're so certain he's mistaken?\"\n\nLady Arnifour fixed her eyes on Colin before sliding delicately forward on the settee and throwing a discreet glance backwards, as though Mrs. Behmoth might actually have roused herself to creep up the stairs and eavesdrop. \"This is difficult . . . ,\" she mumbled.\n\n\"It usually is.\" He flashed a mischievous grin. \"So tell me, were you having it off with your groundskeeper?\"\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon!\" She bolted to her feet with remarkable speed, both hands streaking to her d\u00e9colletage as though to physically shield her honor.\n\n\"You misunderstand . . . ,\" I blurted out as I too hopped up. He'd fooled me, as I hadn't seen that coming. \"Let me get us all a brandy,\" I barreled on. \"A touch of brandy will settle everyone's nerves.\" God knew it would mine. I hurried to the liquor cabinet and flipped over three snifters, pouring little more than a finger into two of the glasses, but adding a healthy shot more to the third. I noticed that Mrs. Behmoth had been into the sherry again, for cooking purposes she would insist, and then steeled myself as I turned back to our guest.\n\nLady Arnifour had moved to the fireplace and stood staring into the flames as though her dignity might be regained somewhere in among them. I scowled at Colin, but he seemed wholly unconcerned as he fished out a silver crown and began absently spinning it around between the fingers of his right hand. Only then did it occur to me that as Lady Arnifour had failed to storm out of the room with righteous indignation, there was likely some kernel of truth to his question.\n\n\"Lady Arnifour . . .\" I handed her a snifter, taking care to avert my gaze so as not to discomfort her further.\n\n\"You're very kind,\" she muttered, and I caught a bit of a flush beneath her heavily powdered cheeks.\n\n\"You mentioned . . . ,\" I chose my words carefully, \". . . that you disagree with Inspector Varcoe's assessment. Might you tell us why?\" I shot Colin another warning glance as I pressed a snifter into his free hand, his other continuing to swirl the coin effortlessly, and was rewarded with a comparable rolling of his eyes.\n\n\"Victor Heffernan is a good man,\" she began slowly, keeping her gaze on the fire. \"His family has worked for my family for three generations and that doesn't even include his son Nathaniel. I've known Victor since we were children. I was present at Nathaniel's birth. My husband and I have always been fond of the Heffernans. There's simply no reason why Victor or Nathaniel would want to hurt Samuel or Elsbeth. It's inconceivable. As I told you before, I would stake my reputation on it.\" She turned and glared at us as though daring us to disagree. \"I can see that you've earned every facet of your reputation, Mr. Pendragon, but I would still like you to take this case. So will you prove that Mr. Heffernan and his son are innocent of this terrible crime?\"\n\n\"And if the perpetrator does turn out to be your Mr. Heffernan or his son?\"\n\nShe blanched slightly, her face drawing rigid as though she'd been struck. \"I do not fear the truth,\" she said, but there was little conviction in her words.\n\n\"Then I am your man.\" He gave her a quick tilt of his head as he snatched the coin into the palm of his hand. \"But you do understand, Lady Arnifour, that the truth is seldom what we want it to be.\"\n\n\"I only ask that you live up to the best of your reputation.\"\n\nHe smirked, but gave no other quarter to her having chastised him. \"I think I've already proven that I shall not disappoint you.\" He flashed her a rakish smile that showed off his dimples. \"We will be out tomorrow to have a look around.\"\n\nLady Arnifour nodded earnestly before downing her brandy in a single ferocious gulp. \"I shall look forward to it,\" she said as she set her glass on the mantel and glided past us.\n\n\"There are two things you must do, however.\" Colin spoke up before she reached the landing. \"If you've not already done so, you must hire a guard to sit with your niece twenty-four hours a day. We cannot risk the chance that whoever committed this crime might wish to correct their unfinished business. Your niece could solve this case quite handily.\"\n\n\"A guard has been in place from the first night.\"\n\n\"Then there is only the matter of my fee,\" he gestured toward me, \"and I shall leave that to the two of you.\"\n\nI escorted our new client to the front door as we discussed an agreement, quickly coming to terms on a figure she had not hesitated to accept. Colin's repute does preclude most clients from balking at his fee.\n\n\"What did you make of that?\" Colin asked, carefully pouring the contents of his untouched snifter back into the decanter, as I reentered the room.\n\n\"It's a horrible crime. The poor niece.\"\n\n\"Indeed.\" He finished with his glass and did the same with mine. \"Yet Her Ladyship hardly seems the grieving widow.\"\n\n\"I'm sure their marriage was arranged and you know those things just never seem to turn out well.\"\n\n\"Tell that to dear Victoria. She seems unwilling to ever let off mourning Albert. If it weren't for my father and his scheming with her stable man, John Brown\u2014\"\n\n\"That's nothing but rumor.\"\n\n\"Ah, Ethan, ever na\u00efve.\" He chuckled. \"As to Lady Arnifour . . .\" He moved to the fireplace. \"She not only lies to herself every time she looks in a mirror, but she was most certainly lying to us tonight. There is much more to this crime than she's letting on. It's preposterous to think that she would place her reputation on the line for a groundskeeper.\"\n\n\"I thought I could hear her forefathers spinning when she said that.\" I laughed.\n\n\"It will be most interesting to meet this Victor Heffernan. And we shall see if I am not right about him and the Lady.\"\n\nI chuckled. \"And what if you are right about the two of them?\"\n\nHe looked at me with a mischievous grin. \"Then we shall have our first motive.\"\nCHAPTER 2\n\nWe set off for the Arnifour estate on the outskirts of London only after the new day had eased past one o'clock, jouncing along the cobbled roadways in the cab Colin had procured. We had chosen this specific time of day as there are few things as indulgent as teatime in the finer homes. Finger-sized sandwiches of cucumber and butter, petit crown-shaped biscuits, thinly sliced hard-cooked eggs, cream cheese with minced olives atop water wafers: all the delicacies Mrs. Behmoth has had no patience for. We came through the massive stone archway that marked the edge of the Arnifour property, catching our first glimpse of the family home: a rambling Greco-Roman structure in the shape of an elongated U rising from the green hillsides around it like a white monolith. A double row of Ionic columns adorned its fa\u00e7ade and there were well over a dozen chimneys crowning its rooftop. As our carriage rose and dipped over the uneven hills, the house was never lost completely from view, but rather stretched out like an imposing anomaly, reminding all that it did not dwell within its surroundings, it ruled them.\n\nIt was only after we gained the final hill that we could see how this seemingly regal building showed its age every bit as much as its overly lacquered mistress. Its wooden columns were chipped and flaking while the stone block fa\u00e7ade covering its lower half was in need of both cleaning and repair. Both wings of the house had boards fastened across their windows, leaving only the long central section showing signs of habitation. And even there the large French doors fronting the portico revealed that many of those outlying rooms were devoid of furniture.\n\n\"It would seem . . . ,\" Colin mused as our cab rounded the driveway at the main entrance, \". . . that this tea will likely be less than we were hoping for.\"\n\n\"Now don't start,\" I scolded. \"These people are dealing with a terrible tragedy.\"\n\n\"This entire estate is something of a tragedy.\"\n\n\"It is a wonder she didn't blink at your fee.\"\n\n\"She'd have been stuck with the inspector if she had,\" he said as he climbed out of the cab.\n\nWhile I made quick arrangements for the driver to wait for us by paying only half his fee, Colin availed himself of one of the door's large, scripted-A iron knockers. As I joined him on the porch I noticed that the massive doors were warped and weather-beaten as they abruptly yawned open to reveal a thin, pinch-faced woman dressed entirely in black. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled taut into a bun. She offered nary a smile nor a nod of welcome.\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon and Mr. Pruitt?\" she asked with obvious disdain.\n\n\"Well done,\" Colin answered. \"You've saved me a card.\"\n\nHer brow furrowed as she glared at him. \"I will remind you this is a house in mourning.\"\n\n\"Indeed. . . .\" He arched an eyebrow.\n\nWhether she understood his inference or not I cannot say, but she did finally feint to the side and allow us entry. Colin gave a tight smile and passed so close to her that she was forced to take an awkward step back while I, on the other hand, gave her as much room as I could.\n\nWe were ushered into the study and directed to a pair of brocade armchairs. Dutifully obeying the housekeeper's silent bidding, we settled into the chairs and watched as she turned with the rigidity of a Queen's guard and left through a rear door.\n\n\"That woman has disapproval refined to an art.\"\n\n\"Whatever could she be so sour at us for?\"\n\n\"An excellent question.\" Colin stood up and began to inspect an oil painting of a grim family hanging above the mantel. \"This must be the Arnifour family in happier times.\" The portrait showed a stilted, balding man with a sour face seated next to a woman obviously older than him, with three stoic children shy of their teens\u2014one boy and two girls\u2014standing behind them. The woman at the portrait's center was clearly a twenty-some-years-younger version of our client. \"It is extraordinary how unhappy some people look when being immortalized.\"\n\n\"I don't remember you looking much better in that portrait your father had done when you were living in Bombay,\" I needled, recalling the equally stuffy rendition of Colin and his father.\n\nHe scowled at me a moment, but his expression quickly slid into a warm, generous smile, his dimples flashing and his eyes sparkling like sapphires as he said, \"It's a pleasure to see you again.\"\n\nI turned as Lady Arnifour ambled into the room, appearing even more haggard in the harsh daylight. \"I regret I cannot say the same. How I wish this were a social call.\" She sat on the edge of a sofa across from me.\n\n\"I appreciate how difficult this is for you,\" he said as he came and sat down next to her.\n\n\"Do you, Mr. Pendragon? Have you suffered the loss of a loved one to murder?\"\n\nColin flicked his eyes at me and I knew what he was asking. I returned a slight nod and he said, \"Mr. Pruitt has, but I have not. Yet I would suspect there are few who do not understand what it means to lose someone they love.\"\n\n\"How perfectly maudlin.\" A disheveled, rail-thin man in his early thirties stood in the doorway the housekeeper had exited through, clenching the doorjamb so tightly that I wondered if he had an infirmity that left him unsteady on his feet. \"Comparing war wounds, are we?\"\n\nLady Arnifour glowered at her son, yet he seemed either unaware or unconcerned as he stalked into the room with a gait that was at once as unstable as it was cocksure. I guessed his infirmity to be intoxication.\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon.\" He stuck out a hand and gave a protracted bow that seemed more mocking than deferential.\n\n\"Eldon!\" Lady Arnifour snapped.\n\nColin stood up and pumped the younger man's hand, flashing him a rogue's grin. \"Such a formal greeting. I assume you are doing your best to adapt to your new role as lord of the manor?\"\n\nEldon's eyebrows shot up as he pulled himself to his full height, several inches taller than Colin, a slow smile spreading across his face. \"Yes.\" He smirked at his mother. \"That would be me. Lord of the manor.\"\n\n\"You will excuse my son's insolence,\" Lady Arnifour scoffed as she snatched up a small bell from the table beside her. \"His manners tend to wither with the advancing day.\"\n\n\"Now, Mother . . .\" Eldon dropped into a chair near me. \"Let's not be priggish. I'd much prefer to hear what Mr. Pendragon has to say about Father's murder.\" He settled his gaze on Colin, in whose furrowed brow I noticed the seeds of distaste. There was clearly no love lost between this son and his father. \"Tell me, do you agree with Mother's contention regarding the innocence of the sainted Mr. Heffernan?\"\n\n\"Do you disagree?\" Colin shot back.\n\n\"I would sooner stake my bits to a fence post, Mr. Pendragon. It's not prudent to disagree with Mother.\" He forced a laugh that did not cover the unsettling rage that momentarily shifted behind his eyes.\n\nBefore either Colin or Lady Arnifour could respond, however, the mirthless housekeeper returned with a silver tray piled high with sandwiches and a tea set.\n\n\"Perfect timing, Mrs. O'Keefe,\" Lady Arnifour said as she began fussing over the tray, slowly regaining her composure.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\" Mrs. O'Keefe exited as hastily as she had come. The only warmth she'd shown, and that only rudimentary, was when she'd addressed her mistress. She'd not even given Eldon the slightest look. He seemed ever the misfit, or perhaps something more.\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon . . .\" Lady Arnifour held out a cup of tea. She was about to do the same for me when Eldon popped out of his chair.\n\n\"Perhaps our guests would like something to invigorate their tea?\"\n\n\"Really, Eldon,\" Lady Arnifour rebuked. \"It's not even a proper hour.\"\n\n\"That's never stopped the Arnifours,\" he sneered.\n\n\"Tell me . . . ,\" I interrupted to keep things from denigrating further, \"do you still cultivate your land?\"\n\n\"Not anymore. Mrs. O'Keefe tends a small garden out back, but it's been generations since these lands were properly worked. It's too much, I suppose . . . the staff, the upkeep, the toil\u2014\"\n\n\"The expense . . .\" Eldon chuckled. \"That's why this old pile looks as tired as it does. The family gentry forgot how to earn its keep a long time ago.\"\n\n\"That's enough!\" Lady Arnifour banged her cup back onto its saucer. \"I will not have you talk about your heritage that way.\"\n\nHe waved her off. \"We can hardly sully the Arnifours or your Langhems any more than they've already done to themselves.\"\n\n\"I've had all I'm going to tolerate!\" she snapped. \"You may take your leave.\"\n\nEldon shrugged and stood up. \"And there you have it, gentlemen. The lord of the manor can still be dismissed by his doting mother.\" A smile thick with resentment spread across his face. \"It's been a pleasure.\"\n\n\"I should very much like to speak with you later,\" Colin called to him.\n\n\"You'll have to get dispensation from the dowager empress!\" he growled as he stalked out.\n\n\"You must forgive my son. My husband and I married later in life and my children were born to me at a time when most women are finished with such duties. I remember thinking them little miracles,\" she grimaced, \"but Eldon's never been well and I cannot help but wonder if my choice to bear him at such an age had an impact.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you did everything you could,\" I said.\n\nColin smirked. \"I'd say it has more to do with your son's passion for drink than your age at conception. Either way, it serves no purpose to blame yourself.\"\n\n\"That's . . . , \" Lady Arnifour paused before giving an awkward grin, \". . . very kind of you, Mr. Pendragon,\" she finally said. \"Now tell me,\" she shifted in her seat, \"how can I assist your investigation?\"\n\n\"I should like to ask a few questions, after which we shall need to go out and see where the attack occurred,\" he said.\n\n\"Of course.\" She nodded, a hand nervously fluttering up to her face. \"I'll have someone take you.\"\n\n\"Excellent. Now you mentioned that your husband and niece met at the barn that night. What makes you think they didn't meet along the way? That perhaps she gave him a ride? Wouldn't that explain his covering such a distance in so short a time?\"\n\n\"I think not, Mr. Pendragon. My husband was not a small man. There'd never have been room for him to get onto her horse. Samuel was of average height, but he was quite stout.\"\n\n\"I see. And has Inspector Varcoe shared with you his theory on how your husband covered that distance?\"\n\n\"He brought up precisely what you've suggested. An inauspicious beginning to your investigation, it would seem.\" She gave a flinty smile.\n\nColin arched an eyebrow but held his tongue as he sipped his tea and snatched up a petit four. \"And what alerted the household that something was wrong that night?\"\n\n\"Nathaniel saw smoke on the horizon. The barn where my husband and niece were found had been set on fire.\"\n\n\"On fire?\" Colin leaned forward. \"You didn't mention that yesterday.\"\n\n\"It hardly seems relevant.\"\n\n\"How a thing seems is seldom how it is.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" she said, but there was little resolve in her words.\n\n\"And what of Mr. Heffernan and his son, Nathaniel? Has the inspector rounded them up yet?\"\n\n\"He's allowing them to stay here at my behest. But I fear he's only biding his time. It would be a tragedy if they were arrested, Mr. Pendragon, and this family has suffered enough already.\"\n\nColin offered a quick smile, one that left me wondering what notions were racing about in his mind. \"Permit me one last question. Has the inspector found the weapon used in the attack?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I didn't suppose he would.\" He drained his tea and stood up. \"That would require actual detection. May I trouble you to have someone escort us down to what's left of the barn then?\"\n\n\"I shall have Mr. Heffernan take you. It will give you an opportunity to speak with him.\"\n\n\"Outstanding.\" Colin leaned forward and grabbed two more petit fours, palming them into a napkin and sliding them into his pocket. \"I should also like to speak with your daughter\u2014Kaylin, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes. But I'm afraid she's not here just now. All of this business has put her quite on edge, so I've sent her to stay with a friend in town. If you'd like, I'll arrange to have her meet you at your flat one afternoon?\"\n\n\"That would be ideal. The sooner the better.\"\n\nWe followed Lady Arnifour through the rear door Mrs. O'-Keefe had used and found ourselves in a sparse hallway that opened onto a large, immaculate kitchen. It was the most pristine space I had ever seen. Not a speck, not a smudge anywhere save for the harsh, black-clad personage of Mrs. O'Keefe peeling carrots into a rubbish can at a well-worn table.\n\n\"Have you seen Mr. Heffernan?\" Lady Arnifour asked.\n\n\"Out back, ma'am. Trimming roses last I saw.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\nWe filed through the kitchen and out back, and I was aware of being under the watchful gaze of Mrs. O'Keefe the entire time.\n\nA compact vegetable garden ran along the back of the house just off the kitchen, displaying an assortment of lettuce, tomatoes, cabbage, carrots, broccoli, cucumber, spinach, and a few other bits of greenery I did not recognize. Just beyond was a hedge of boxwoods clipped to precision, but it wasn't until I looked out among the array of rosebushes beyond that I noticed the thick man attending them. He had a plaid cap slipped down on one side of his head and the plain gray-green jumper of a groundsman. I knew at once it had to be Victor Heffernan.\n\n\"Here you are,\" Lady Arnifour fairly purred.\n\n\"Ma'am.\" He stood up and I saw that he was barely taller than our hostess.\n\n\"You must be Mr. Heffernan.\" Colin stuck out his hand.\n\n\"If you aren't here to arrest me, you can call me Victor. Everyone does.\"\n\n\"I assure you, Victor,\" Colin smiled amiably, \"I have no interest in arresting anyone.\"\n\nVictor Heffernan stared at Colin, a dark curling mustache an accent mark above his lips, and appeared to be trying to determine whether we meant trouble. Colin kept smiling, revealing nothing, his dimpled grin as natural as the rose petals Victor had been fussing among. He appeared to be about twice as old as Colin's thirty-eight years, but even so, I could tell he had no idea what to make of us.\n\n\"This is Colin Pendragon.\" Lady Arnifour came forward in a peculiarly maternal way. \"I've hired him to prove you and Nathaniel innocent of this tragedy.\" She let her voice drift off as though she was overcome by the very thought.\n\n\"Now, now . . .\" Victor reached out and patted his mistress's hand with marked intimacy. \"Don't get yourself worked up again.\"\n\nLady Arnifour gave a tight smile and took a slight step back, effectively moving out of his reach. Victor seemed to realize his indiscretion and suddenly stumbled backwards, carelessly slicing off the top of an errant rose. I was beginning to believe that Colin's initial assessment of the alibi Lady Arnifour could provide this man might be true.\n\n\"Would you take them down to see what's left of the barn?\" she said. \"I simply cannot bear to go.\"\n\n\"Of course. I'll go hitch up the buckboard.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\" Lady Arnifour gave him a gentle nod as he headed off. \"I'll wait for you in the study.\"\n\n\"When we come back I'd like to check on your niece.\" Colin tipped his chin toward me. \"Mr. Pruitt knows something of wounds and healing and such.\"\n\n\"But I'm not a doctor,\" I pointed out.\n\nHe clapped my shoulder. \"That he's not, but he can be a fount of medical bric-a-brac just the same.\"\n\nI fought to keep from scowling at him as I caught Lady Arnifour glancing my way. What little knowledge I possess was learned by necessity during a regrettable tenure spent in the coarser areas of the city during my youth. It is not something I prefer to advertise, so I was relieved when Victor and his buckboard came rounding the corner of the house. Two minutes later the three of us were trundled onto the open seat of the wagon heading for the farthest reaches of the Arnifour estate.\nCHAPTER 3\n\nOur journey began in relative silence with only the occasional snort of the horse to interrupt the steady drone of our wheels as we rocked along the dirt ruts of the driveway, me watching the breadth of their property unfold while Colin appeared to be studying nothing in particular as he smoothly coaxed another crown between the fingers of his hand. The moment we turned off the path and started out across an open field, however, Colin turned to Victor and began peppering him with questions about the family history.\n\n\"Barnaby Langhem was given this property and the title of Baron by King George the Third, himself,\" he said with evident pride. \"Lord Langhem was Lady Arnifour's great-grandfather and was one of the men responsible for keepin' that poor man on the throne until long after he shoulda been removed.\" He snickered. \"Not six months later the King had a violent fit and accidentally throttled Lord Langhem, which meant that the land, but not the title, was passed on to his eldest son, Jacob. That's when the great house was built\u2014paid for by a royal decree under the circumstances. That's when the whole Langhem family moved in and my family first began workin' for them.\n\n\"Everybody prospered under Jacob, but his life also came to a sudden end not more than ten years later. He either slipped in the mud stirred up by a downpour and was run over by a funeral carriage making haste to a plot before it was turned into a quagmire, or the carriage cut a corner too close and ran him down. Whichever the case, the outcome was the same.\n\n\"That left the estate and all its lands to Jacob's eldest son, Alanon.\" He heaved a weary sigh and I knew the story was becoming personal. \"Alanon liked women and drink, and spent more time going through the Langhem fortune than addin' to it. He and his wife only had one child\u2014a daughter, the future Lady Arnifour herself.\"\n\n\"What about bastards?\" Colin muttered.\n\nVictor shrugged. \"None that I ever heard about.\"\n\n\"And what happened to him?\" I asked before Colin could toss out another indelicacy.\n\n\"Unfortunately, he lived into his eightieth year before he finally took a tumble out an upper-story window into the garden below. Destroyed the family's prize roses, not to mention the damage he'd done to the Langhem name and fortune. A real pity.\"\n\n\"And as his only surviving heir,\" Colin interrupted, \"Lady Arnifour inherited the estate, such as it is.\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"Must have been a shock to the Earl to discover he'd married into a family almost as penniless as his own.\"\n\nVictor glanced at Colin and shrugged self-consciously. \"I wouldn't know about that,\" he said, but his manner suggested otherwise.\n\nA moment later we skirted around a stand of trees and caught our first glimpse of the charred remains of a small building a short distance off. \"The barn . . . ,\" Colin muttered as he flipped the coin into his vest pocket and stared at the approaching destruction. It was impossible to notice anything else beyond the hulking blackened wreck, its remains baking in the sun like some great sea creature's carcass that had managed to wash up on this waterless terrain. Only the stinging residue of charred wood lingered to assault the nostrils.\n\nVictor pulled the horse up short and Colin hopped out, walking in a sideways arc around the ruined barn. \"Did the Earl and Lady Arnifour raise their family here then?\"\n\n\"They did. Lady Arnifour has spent her whole life here. Born and reared in that very house.\"\n\n\"And the niece too?\" he asked as he continued to take slow, careful steps toward the wreckage, studying the ground meticulously as he drew nearer as though the earth itself might reveal some clue.\n\n\"Yes,\" Victor muttered as he stared out at the horizon, an odd look of discomfort clouding his gaze.\n\nWe both watched Colin kick at something with the toe of his boot and then crouch down to inspect it. Only after he stood up and brushed his hands against his slacks, having lost interest in whatever he'd been pawing at, did I turn back to Victor and ask, \"How long ago did Alanon Langhem die?\"\n\n\"Eldon was just a tot. Must be almost thirty years ago.\"\n\n\"He must've been pretty angry when he learned she'd married a title without the means to pluck him out of debt.\" Colin chuckled. \"That's so often the way: antiquated titles without a farthing for a piss pot.\"\n\nVictor shrugged.\n\n\"Tell me something,\" Colin called out from within the remains of the barn. \"Who came out here the night of the attack?\"\n\n\"Lord Eldon, Nathaniel, and me.\"\n\n\"Did you take any notice as to how the blaze was started?\"\n\nI watched as Victor's face registered an obvious level of confused disbelief. \"Kerosene,\" he said. \"The whole place smelled of kerosene just like it does now.\"\n\nColin smiled without even bothering to throw a glance at us. \"Quite so.\" He wandered around a minute, glancing at what was left, toeing a few fallen timbers and running his fingers down the black framework. All the while his eyes flicked from place to place and I knew he was trying to take everything in, to remember it. \"Why don't you tell me about that night,\" he said as he sauntered out the far side.\n\n\"There's not much to tell,\" Victor said, his gaze still locked on the horizon. \"It was after supper. Nathaniel and I eat in the kitchen with Mrs. O'Keefe. I was done first, same as always, and had gone out to the stable by the house to check on the horses, and that's when I noticed Miss Elsbeth's horse was gone. Don't get me wrong; there's nothing unusual in that. She and Lady Kaylin often go out for a ride in the evening.\"\n\n\"But was it unusual for Elsbeth to go alone?\"\n\n\"Not really.\" Victor lifted his cap and scratched his scalp, glancing down at his feet. \"She goes off by herself as often as not. She's an independent sort.\" He smiled, and for a moment I thought I detected a note of pride. \"She always takes care of herself . . . ,\" he started to say, and then winced as he registered the irony of his words. \" 'Til that night.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Colin replied absently, drawn more to the scorched earth than anything Victor was saying. \"Go on.\"\n\n\"I was putting the tack up and tending a mare when Nathaniel came running in shouting about seein' smoke on the horizon. We didn't know it was the barn. From the house it looked like part of the woods was on fire.\"\n\n\"How long had you been in the stable before Nathaniel came in?\"\n\n\"About an hour, maybe less.\"\n\nMore than enough time for Nathaniel to have come down here, perpetrated the attack, and returned to the stable to report the smoke, I realized. His father certainly wasn't providing much of an alibi.\n\n\"And what happened then?\" Colin prodded.\n\n\"I grabbed two horses straightaway. Didn't even bother with saddles. But before we could get the bridles in place Lord Eldon came out hollering about the smoke and insisting on goin' with us. Mind you, he can't ride bareback, so I had to take the time to get a third mount ready before we could get under way. As soon as his horse was sorted Lord Eldon took off. Didn't wait for us.\"\n\nI could tell he was still aggrieved by Eldon's behavior; the extra time he had cost them, and his determination to get under way first, but he did not dare utter the words.\n\n\"Do continue,\" Colin said without seeming to have taken note.\n\n\"Nathaniel and I followed Lord Eldon and we all ended up here.\"\n\nI thought his story came to a decidedly abrupt conclusion.\n\n\"So . . .\" Colin put his hands on his hips and turned toward us, having apparently finished investigating the ground. \"Eldon got here first\u2014\"\n\n\"By a deer's breath. It was past supper, Mr. Pendragon, and you can be sure Lord Eldon had consumed his share of drink by then. Nathaniel and I were able to catch up to him by the time we got here.\"\n\n\"But you didn't overtake him.\"\n\n\"Lord Eldon was riding like Death himself was chasing him. I'd say his condition kept him from realizing just how reckless he was being.\"\n\n\"Of course. And what did you find when you got here?\"\n\n\"The barn was in flames. Most of it had already collapsed.\" He gestured with his chin. \"Just like you see now. Nathaniel spotted the Earl. He was laid out just about where you're standing,\" he said, his brow slowly furrowing.\n\nColin gave a quick smile and I knew he'd already figured that out. \"And Elsbeth?\" he asked. \"Where was she found?\"\n\n\"On the other side. Closer to the woods. We never would've even looked for her if I hadn't seen her horse stamping at the tree line.\" He gestured to the woods just beyond.\n\n\"The horse hadn't run off?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" Victor said proudly. \"The Arnifours have fine animals. Trained never to abandon their riders. Nathaniel and I seen to that.\"\n\n\"Impressive.\"\n\n\"It was Nathaniel who found Miss Elsbeth too.\" He dropped his gaze again. \"It was terrible.\"\n\n\"Was she unconscious when you found her?\" Colin asked as he headed off in the direction Victor had gestured.\n\n\"Yes, sir. It was her face. . . .\" He sucked in a deep breath and shook his head again. \"I didn't think she was alive.\"\n\n\"And the Earl? Had he been beaten the same way?\"\n\n\"No, sir. He was the opposite of Miss Elsbeth. He was facedown with the back of his head stove in. Whoever hit him meant to kill him. An awful sight.\" He kept his gaze lowered and I couldn't tell if he was swamped by the memory or if it was something else.\n\n\"Did you find any sort of weapon nearby?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Elsbeth was about here then?\" Colin called as he reached a position a dozen or so yards beyond the ruined barn.\n\nVictor barely glanced up. \"About that.\"\n\nColin knelt to the ground and fingered several spots before standing up and finally coming back around to where Victor and I were. \"It was clearly a most unfortunate scene,\" he said as he reached us.\n\n\"Yes, it was.\"\n\n\"I only need trouble you with two more questions.\"\n\nVictor nodded.\n\n\"Did you notice if the Earl had been robbed?\"\n\n\"No, sir. But the inspector found a roll of bills in his pocket and said he still had his gold watch on him.\"\n\n\"It's always important to rule out the obvious,\" Colin murmured. \"Which brings me to my last question. Did it appear that Elsbeth had been violated in any way?\"\n\n\"No . . . no . . .\" He shook his head rapidly and looked almost ready to swoon.\n\n\"She was fully clothed?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Her dress was not torn or mussed about in any way?\"\n\n\"No, sir. There was nothing of the kind like that. Nothing at all.\"\n\n\"Thank you. I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable, but I trust you understand the need for such questions.\"\n\nVictor Heffernan nodded but did not reply. It made me wonder if he thought he'd said too much, too little, or simply feared that he sounded guilty in spite of himself.\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\"There's definitely a familial resemblance,\" Colin said as he gazed down at Elsbeth. \"I'd say the Langhems have the dominant gene pool.\"\n\n\"I don't know how you can see any such thing with all the damage that's been done to her,\" I answered. Her face was a rainbow of mottled blues, yellows, greens, and purples, and it was obvious that she had suffered multiple fractures to her nose and cheeks given the distortion of the bones beneath. However she had once looked, she would never be the same again, assuming she survived at all.\n\n\"Well . . . ,\" he allowed. \"Try using a bit of imagination.\"\n\n\"Imagination, is it?\" I said, glad we were alone with her.\n\n\"I'd say she was attractive\u2014before the attack.\"\n\n\"Does that matter?\"\n\nHis gaze shot over to me. \"Everything matters. And that includes both the way a person looks and how they are perceived. Physical beauty can be a motivator, a crutch, a distraction, or a curse. And the lack of it every bit the same.\"\n\n\"I suppose you have a point.\"\n\n\"Other than her injuries,\" he pressed, \"what are the first things you notice about her?\"\n\nI looked down at her battered face and knew that these were indeed the only things I had made note of thus far. \"Well . . .\" I cleared my throat as I studied her and tried to decipher what he meant for me to see. \"I'd say she's about twenty and has long brown hair. She's very slight, really just a slip of a thing, and she's breathing so shallowly that I can hardly see her moving at all.\"\n\n\"There . . . ,\" he said with finality. \"All things physical.\"\n\n\"Well, I can't very well say she's a compelling conversationalist.\"\n\n\"No, but you could have pointed out the meticulousness of her room, or the color of her bedding, or even the high-necked and positively unremarkable dressing gown she's wearing, all of which speak volumes about who she is.\"\n\n\"I don't think I like this game.\"\n\n\"Just keeping you honest.\"\n\n\"What have you learned so far?\"\n\n\"Several things. I know that the Earl was knocked to the ground by a blow that most certainly came from someone atop a horse. I know that he was running when he was struck down, and that he persisted in pulling himself along the ground by his elbows for another fifteen feet before the killer finally dismounted and came right up beside him, and then beat him with the absolute intent to kill.\n\n\"As for this poor girl . . . ,\" he turned his gaze back to Elsbeth, \". . . she was running for the woods when she was struck, the assailant having once again mounted his horse. She collapsed on the spot and was left in the condition we find her now, though I would presume her attacker thought her to be dead.\"\n\n\"You figured all that out by pawing at the ground around that barn?!\"\n\n\"It was very telling, especially since much of the grass had been burned away. If we'd been able to get a look at it before the whole of Inspector Varcoe's buffoons descended upon it, I'm sure I'd be a damn sight closer to telling just who did this.\" He shook his head and let out a sigh. \"But the one thing I can't profess to have the slightest notion about yet is why.\"\n\n\"Well, we know it wasn't robbery.\"\n\n\"That's true. Yet even so, can we be sure there wasn't something in that barn worth stealing? That perhaps all of this is about covering the theft of something from there?\"\n\n\"I hadn't thought of that.\"\n\n\"Doubtful, though.\" He shrugged.\n\n\"Come now, we are only collecting information,\" I teased.\n\n\"Always a quick learner.\"\n\n\"I'd hardly call twelve years quick.\"\n\n\"Well, you're doing better than the inspector and he's been at it the whole of our lifetimes and then some. Did you recognize the man he has posted outside the door?\"\n\n\"Yes, I remember him from the Rathburn case. Seems agreeable enough.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, but he is a Yarder.\"\n\n\"You can't blame them all for the inspector's ineptitude.\"\n\n\"They've accomplished nothing in a fortnight,\" his eyes were alight with fire, \"and I'm already certain that Victor Heffernan is innocent.\"\nCHAPTER 5\n\nVictor's son, Nathaniel, was a lanky, painfully thin boy of twenty-one whose pasty complexion belied the work he did outside. While he shared his father's hawkish nose he did not so much as bear a whisper of the older man's compact frame. His mother had died before Nathaniel learned to walk, the victim of a frail constitution, Lady Arnifour had informed us, right before she instructed us to go easy on the boy, as she termed him delicate in both mind and constitution like his mother.\n\nLady Arnifour had relayed the story of the late Mrs. Heffernan in a voice both wistful and content. It was clear she was moved at the loss suffered by the two Heffernan men, yet losing his wife had left Victor available for the attentions of the Lady herself. I was reminded again about Colin's initial suspicion of the nature of Lady Arnifour's relationship with her groundskeeper and was all but convinced that he was correct. I was beginning to believe that the only person who actually harbored any real emotion for the late Earl was the dour housekeeper, Mrs. O'Keefe. Other than her, I didn't see anyone who was truly lamenting his death.\n\nWe were seated in the kitchen with Nathaniel, Victor having already disappeared out back after making the introductions. Nathaniel was still standing by the back door, all gangly limbs and awkwardness, as he self-consciously dragged the cap from his head.\n\n\"Please . . . ,\" Colin pointed to a chair across from us, \"sit down. Make yourself comfortable. We are not the enemy.\"\n\nNathaniel did not embrace Colin's gesture of camaraderie, as he remained standing a good minute longer before finally making the decision to stay, skulking over to the table, and slipping into one of the chairs without even having to pull it out.\n\n\"I shall only trouble you with a few questions,\" Colin said in a voice I knew he meant to sound placating. \"I'm sure you'll have discussed it all with the Yarders anyway.\"\n\nNathaniel gave a slight nod even as he kept his gaze riveted on the table. I was thinking he looked guilty and would be likely to grunt his answers when he suddenly blurted out, \"I didn't kill that rotten bastard. It wasn't me and it sure as bloody hell wasn't my father. And if you think it was you can go straight ta hell with that old piss pot inspector!\"\n\nColin leaned back in his chair with an easy smile and casually folded his arms across his broad chest. \"Piss pot. I rather like that.\" Nathaniel's eyes raked across Colin's face, searching for some sign of sarcasm, but he found no such thing there. \"We're not so unalike, you and me. At least not where Scotland Yard is concerned.\" The young man blinked repeatedly, his outburst drained with the rapidity of a flash flood. \"Now why don't you tell us what you remember about the night of the Earl's murder.\"\n\nNathaniel snapped his eyes back to the tabletop, but not before I spotted something dark and angry trying to hide there. \"It was after supper . . . ,\" he began with marked reticence. \"The Earl had gone off on his walk and I was watering the garden by the stables when Elsbeth came out and said she wanted ta go riding.\" He shifted in his chair but did not lift his gaze. \"I told her it was too late, but she wouldn't listen. She never listens ta me.\"\n\n\"Was your father in the stable?\" Colin asked.\n\n\"If that's what he said,\" he shot back.\n\n\"Convincing.\"\n\n\"What difference does it make?\" He finally looked up, glaring at Colin again. \"You already think we're guilty. I can see it in yer face.\"\n\n\"The only thing you see on my face is that I'm beginning to find you an ungrateful little tosser. I'd suggest you knock off the ruddy attitude or I'll return Lady Arnifour's money and leave you to hang. What do you prefer?\"\n\nNathaniel sagged and dropped his chin to his sternum so that all I could see was the sharp cut of his nose protruding from beneath his brow. This interview seemed to be yielding about as much information as we'd gotten from Elsbeth.\n\n\"All I'm asking, Nathaniel, is for you to tell us the truth of what you remember that night. And I give you my word that I'll not come to any conclusions until the solution is irrefutable. Are we agreed?\" We watched the boy until he vaguely shrugged his shoulders. It would do. \"Good. So Elsbeth wanted to go for a ride and you were warning her off. . . .\"\n\nNathaniel sighed heavily. \"That's right.\"\n\n\"I presume it was dark and you were worried about her?\"\n\n\"No . . .\"\n\nI figured Nathaniel would explain what he meant, but seconds quickly turned into minutes without so much as a hint of clarification. He sat there, morose and slouching, his gaze tucked in on himself and his arms folded like two crossed swords. He looked like a man with a great deal to hide.\n\n\"Then why, Nathaniel?\" I could hear the strains of impatience seeping into Colin's voice.\n\n\"Because I knew what she was up to.\" He raised his eyes just enough to meet Colin's, and behind his inky black irises I saw a flash of something unsettling I could not place. \"I'm done talking,\" he suddenly announced, pushing himself up from the table and stalking back outside before either Colin or I could say a word.\n\nColin shook his head and stabbed a crown out of his pocket, quickly running it between his fingers. \"Curious.\"\n\n\"Curious?! It's more than curious. It's disturbing. No wonder Varcoe's convinced he's guilty.\"\n\nHe glanced at me. \"Well, that should tell you something, because Varcoe's seldom right. Though I will say that I've never seen so many angry people in one house hiding so very many secrets. This place was like a tinderbox just waiting to be set off. Even Elsbeth seems to have been up to something.\"\n\n\"You think that based on the word of that infuriating boy?\"\n\n\"So quick to judge,\" he clucked. \"I'm sure that's precisely why our uninspired inspector is so eager to throw the blame on the Heffernans. Varcoe must have been ecstatic with such easy targets.\" He tossed me a tight look. \"But I'm not so sure.\"\n\nI nodded, mortified to discover myself aligned with the inspector.\n\n\"A crime like this is seldom so easy. The blows to the Earl's head were delivered with malice and forethought. The same is obviously true for Elsbeth. This was not some spontaneous act of vengeance; it was a purposeful and calculated crime. I will be astonished if this level of cleverness was wielded by that agitated boy.\"\n\n\"But you don't know that. He could be exactly what he seems. Guilt can be an extraordinary burden to carry, especially for a boy like that.\"\n\n\"A boy like that? . . . ,\" Colin echoed, furiously rotating the coin.\n\nBefore I could tell him what I'd seen lurking behind the young man's eyes Victor came scurrying back inside. \"Is everything okay?\" he asked, a note of dread in his voice. \"Nathaniel is a moody lad, but you mustn't hold that against him. It's my fault. I did the best I could to raise him without a mother.\"\n\n\"I know he means well,\" Colin answered as he slid the crown back into his pocket.\n\n\"He does!\"\n\nBut I couldn't help thinking Victor was pushing too hard.\n\n\"Might you be able to answer a few more questions for me?\" Colin said as he rubbed his chin.\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Do you know where Nathaniel was that night while you were tending to the horses?\"\n\nVictor shifted uneasily, wringing his hands without appearing to have any awareness that he was doing so. \"He was working in the garden until Miss Elsbeth asked him to saddle a horse for her, which he did. All very proper,\" he added, and I wondered why he'd said that.\n\n\"And then what did he do?\"\n\n\"What did he do?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHe hesitated and I knew his answer before he gave it. \"I don't know.\"\n\n\"I see. And the first you heard of the smoke at the far end of the property was when Nathaniel ran into the stable to tell you about it, is that right?\" Victor nodded. \"So if I estimate that it took about thirty minutes for Elsbeth to ride down there and the attack to happen, does that sound conceivable to you? Thirty minutes?\"\n\n\"Thirty?\"\n\n\"Yes. You know, the number after twenty-nine.\"\n\nVictor took a step back and shrugged. \"I don't know. I suppose so.\"\n\n\"Right. So after you heard Elsbeth ride off, do you have any idea where Nathaniel was for any part of the next thirty minutes?\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Come now, Victor, these are the easy questions.\"\n\nI suddenly found myself feeling oddly defensive of Victor and could not keep from speaking up. \"We're here because Lady Arnifour believes you and Nathaniel to be innocent,\" I reminded him. \"Just tell us the truth.\"\n\nVictor's body sagged as his chin dipped toward the floor.\n\n\"Sit down, Victor.\" I gestured to the chair his son had vacated. \"You mustn't stand on formality.\"\n\nVictor slumped into it and ran a hand across his brow. His hesitation was palpable. \"I don't know where Nathaniel went after Miss Elsbeth left,\" he muttered. \"He was upset. I thought he would come back to help me in the stable, but he didn't.\"\n\n\"And why was he upset?\" Colin cut in irritably.\n\n\"It's not what you think,\" Victor answered at once. \"It was Miss Elsbeth. He was upset about Miss Elsbeth.\"\n\n\"I'm not thinking anything particular at this moment. So please just tell me what his quarrel with Elsbeth was about?\"\n\n\"No quarrel.\" Again he spoke quickly. \"He wasn't angry, he was upset. You see?\" His eyes sought mine and I gave a confirming nod.\n\n\"Just the same,\" Colin pressed, \"you've made it clear that Nathaniel was in a mood and I should very much like to know what it concerned.\"\n\n\"You have to understand\u2014\"\n\n\"Mr. Heffernan!\" Colin slammed a fist on the table. \"I cannot understand anything unless you start talking to me. I am not your judge. In fact, I am trying to be your ally. But I'll be quite useless if you insist on continuing to hinder me.\" He leaned forward as though doing so might make his point clearer. \"Between your son's contrarian behavior and your dissembling, I'm about ruddy well worn-out. I'm thinking the best thing you and your boy can do is throw yourselves on the mercy of the Yarders.\"\n\n\"Victor,\" I spoke up while Colin plastered a brooding gaze out the window, \"Mr. Pendragon and I understand how determined you are to protect your son. Any parent would be.\" The words caught in my throat a moment as the years I'd spent in the shadow of my mother's illness ridiculed my sentiment. Years in which the voices\u2014the hysteria\u2014so pernicious and invasive, had deftly peeled back the layers of her mind until the perfect family, my family, was forever rendered in the most brutal way. \"But your employer,\" I pressed ahead, determined not to be undone by the coiled remnants of my own memories, \"has been murdered and his niece savagely beaten. We can only pray that she will recover. You and your boy are Scotland Yard's only suspects. You've got to help us, Victor. You must tell us everything you know. Mr. Pendragon will ferret out the truth one way or the other, I promise you that, but what you tell us may lead us to the proper resolution more quickly. And that would allow you and your son to put all of this behind you. You have to trust us, Victor.\"\n\nHe turned a sorrowful gaze on me and I suddenly understood what he'd been afraid to say.\n\n\"Nathaniel cared very much for Miss Elsbeth,\" he muttered under his breath. \"He concerned himself with her when he shouldn't have. It was wrong. I told him so, but a boy's heart . . .\" He let his words drift away.\n\n\"Did Elsbeth know?\" Colin asked.\n\n\"She was a bright girl\u2014is a bright girl,\" he quickly corrected.\n\n\"When Nathaniel told her he didn't want her riding off by herself, what did she say?\"\n\nHe grimaced and folded his hands in his lap. \"She laughed. I couldn't hear much of what they said, but I did hear her tell him that he had no say over her, and she was right. It made him mad. He said foolish things.\"\n\n\"Did he threaten her?\"\n\n\"Absolutely not.\" Victor looked straight at Colin. \"He would never do such a thing. I raised him better than that. And he cared for her. That's what I'm trying to tell you.\"\n\n\"After you heard Elsbeth ride off did you look for Nathaniel?\"\n\nHe shook his head and dropped his gaze again.\n\n\"Didn't you wonder if they'd ridden off together?\"\n\n\"Not after the row they'd had.\"\n\n\"And you didn't see him again until he came rushing in to tell you he could see smoke at the edge of the property.\"\n\nVictor nodded sullenly.\n\n\"So he was missing,\" Colin mused.\n\n\"He would never hurt Miss Elsbeth,\" Victor said again, this time with fierce determination.\n\nColin's face was unreadable as he stood up. I gripped Victor's shoulder and thanked him as I walked past, telling him not to worry though I knew he would. And in truth, I thought he should.\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\"Show them to the parlor when you've finished,\" Lady Arnifour instructed her housekeeper, Mrs. O'Keefe, from the doorway of the late Earl's study, where we'd been ushered. \"I shall wait there.\"\n\n\"Of course, mum,\" came the answer in a tone more perfunctory than dutiful.\n\n\"Mind what they ask,\" Lady Arnifour added as she seized the double doors. \"We've no secrets here.\" And with that she heaved the doors shut, leaving her declaration to hang in the air like soot.\n\nMrs. O'Keefe remained just inside the door where Lady Arnifour had deposited her. Between her gangly frame, all angles and knobs, pursed face, and perpetually pink complexion she looked somehow quite formidable. Even given the exacting proportions of Colin's powerful frame, it still looked like Mrs. O'Keefe could chuck him out the door if she desired. I wondered if therein lay the answer to the fate of Mr. O'Keefe.\n\n\"Please make yourself comfortable,\" Colin said expansively as though it were his home to do so.\n\n\"I'm fine right here.\"\n\n\"As you wish. I'll try not to take up much of your time.\"\n\n\"See that you don't. I've a household to maintain.\"\n\nOne of Colin's eyebrows arched up and I knew that wouldn't portend well for this woman. \"All right then,\" he tossed her a smile that glittered with frost, \"after supper on the night of the Earl's murder, Nathaniel Heffernan was told by Elsbeth to saddle a horse. Did you hear their exchange?\"\n\n\"I've a great many things to do after supper. Listening in on the conversations of others is not one of them.\"\n\n\"So you heard nothing?\"\n\n\"I heard the sound of water in the sink and the rattling of dishes and pans as I cleaned them.\"\n\n\"Do you have help in the kitchen?\"\n\n\"I don't need help.\"\n\n\"Did you look out the window? Did you see Nathaniel and Elsbeth?\"\n\n\"I don't spy on people and I don't listen to their conversations. I'm finding your implications offensive.\"\n\n\"And I'm finding you\u2014\"\n\n\"Not very cooperative.\" I leaned forward and cut him off, certain he was about to say something that would only hurt our cause. \"Come now, Mrs. O'Keefe, I'm sure Lady Arnifour means you to be helpful in our investigation of her husband's murder.\"\n\nShe only glared at me, but I hoped it had given Colin enough time to collect himself again. \"Tell me,\" he started slowly, though his voice was still tight, \"how would you describe your relationship with Nathaniel and his father?\"\n\n\"Professional.\"\n\n\"I'm surprised given how little you're offering in the way of help.\"\n\nShe scowled, pursing her lips into an almost invisible line. \"Is it my help you want? Or the truth?\"\n\n\"Mutually exclusive, are they? Most people make an effort to combine the two.\" He stood up and glowered at her and I knew he was well finished with this woman. \"You seem to display sorrow for the death of your employer and yet remain deceptive, unhelpful, and unaccountably rude. You cannot have it all ways, madam. I would suggest you choose your side with care.\"\n\n\"Choosing sides, is it?!\" She held her ground. \"You come into this house like a rooster and think you can judge the lot of us. Well, you don't know me. I won't stand here and be accused by the likes of you.\" She turned on her heels and made for the doors, but not before Colin managed to sprint past her and plant himself directly in her path.\n\n\"I've accused you of nothing more than an ill temperament,\" he scoffed. \"So if you're blustering about in an effort to cover some guilt, you've nothing but your own conscience to mollify.\" And with a decisive flourish he swung the doors wide and stepped aside.\n\nFor a moment I thought Mrs. O'Keefe might actually step on his shoes, but she kept her deportment impeccable as she swept past him and headed back to the sanctuary of her kitchen.\n\nColin stared after her, his expression moody and dark, and I too felt the better part of our journey had been for naught. All we'd done was alienate the people whose cooperation we most needed. Lady Arnifour was the only person who wanted us here and her motives were questionable at best. She wasn't even bothering to play the grieving widow our sovereign had single-handedly elevated to an art form, which left only Victor Heffernan to be counted as an ally\u2014and I wasn't entirely convinced about him.\n\n\"What an insufferable cow,\" Colin groused as he abruptly dropped to the floor and quickly knocked off twenty push-ups.\n\n\"Well, you didn't exactly win her over with your charm. We might need her help, you know.\"\n\nHe stood up again and cast me a frown. \"She has no intention of providing any help, so I'll not be bothered with the likes of her. Come on, I've had enough of this place. Let's be on our way.\"\n\n\"Ever patient.\" I snickered. \"I'll let Lady Arnifour know.\"\n\n\"Tell her we won't likely be back for several days. I've had quite enough of this brood for right now,\" he grumbled.\n\nI sighed. \"She won't like that\u2014\"\n\nHe scowled as he headed for the door. \"I'll solve this case, but at the moment I don't really give a bloody bollocks what she likes.\"\nCHAPTER 7\n\nTwo days passed without Colin giving the slightest inclination of returning to the Arnifour estate. He had just gone off to seek his solace in a tub of hot water again when a sudden pounding drifted up from the front door. I strained to hear if it was Lady Arnifour come to rail at us for going missing for so long, but quickly caught the rapidly escalating tones of Mrs. Behmoth and either a young woman or boy. Whoever it was, they were fast matching Mrs. Behmoth's shrillness as their exchange rose up between the floorboards beneath my feet. \"Is everything all right?\" I called out.\n\n\"Does it sound like it is?\" Mrs. Behmoth hollered back.\n\n\"I 'ave ta speak ta ya. Ya gotta lemme up.\" It was a boy\u2014an East End boy.\n\n\"You'll be speaking to the back a me ruddy 'and if ya don't get yer blasted arse outta 'ere!\"\n\n\"It's all right, Mrs. Behmoth. Let him up.\"\n\nThe sound of footfalls racing up the stairs told me that the youth wasn't about to wait for a second invitation. He rounded the landing in a flurry of scrawny limbs and as soon as he saw me stopped and snatched the cap from his head, releasing a pile of stringy black hair that fell to his shoulders.\n\n\"Don't send me out 'til I say me piece,\" he pleaded.\n\nI waved him into the room and caught a sour whiff of him as he rushed over to shake my hand. This boy, somewhere between thirteen and fifteen, was at home on the streets, his ready manners notwithstanding. He was under someone's tutelage and I knew I would be wise to keep an eye on his hands while he was here. I signaled him to a settee at the same moment Mrs. Behmoth hollered up the stairs, \"Don't let the little shite sit on any a the furniture!\"\n\n\"If you please, Mrs. Behmoth!\" I growled back at her, offering an apology to the young man as he wandered over to the fireplace, twirling his cap in his hands. \"She means well,\" I bothered to say.\n\nHe shrugged. \"It ain't nothin'.\"\n\nI offered a smile as I gestured toward the settee again, taking my customary seat across from it, but the boy only shook his head. \"The lady's right, me clothes is dirty.\"\n\nI nearly choked on his use of the word \"lady\" to describe Mrs. Behmoth; this lad was well trained indeed. \"Furniture, like people, can be cleaned. Please make yourself comfortable.\"\n\nHe smiled, smudge marks on his cheeks separating like clouds before the sun. He headed for Colin's chair and I flung an arm out and said, \"There,\" like some monosyllabic cretin as I gestured to the settee again. \"If you don't mind,\" I added.\n\nOffering an easy smile, the disheveled youngster happily settled himself onto the couch Lady Arnifour had occupied only a few days prior, making me wonder what she would make of that. \"Me name's Michael,\" he said, jutting his chin out with pride.\n\n\"Michael . . .\"\n\n\"Jest Michael.\"\n\n\"Well, Just Michael, I'm Mr. Pruitt. I'm Mr. Pendragon's partner.\"\n\n\"Is 'e 'ere then?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid he's indisposed. Is there something I can help you with?\"\n\nHis face crinkled with confusion. \" 'E's wot?\"\n\n\"Unavailable. Busy. He won't be able to see you right now.\" The boy had finesse even if he lacked education.\n\n\" 'Oo er you again?\"\n\n\"Ethan Pruitt,\" I shot back. \"I'm Mr. Pendragon's partner. I've been working with him for the better part of a dozen years. Speaking with me is like speaking with him.\"\n\n\" 'Cept you ain't 'im,\" he pointed out.\n\n\"Ah,\" I smiled even though my patience was quickly thinning, \"you are a keen one. So go on, tell me why you've come.\"\n\nHe started twisting his cap again as he looked at me from beneath his lowered brow. \"It's me little sister,\" he said. \"She's gone missin'.\"\n\n\"Missing? For how long?\"\n\n\"Since Sunday.\"\n\n\"Six days?!\" Anything less than three wouldn't have warranted a second thought among those of the East End, but six days meant something, especially for a young girl. \"Did you notify Scotland Yard?\"\n\n\"They don't care nothin' 'bout us that lives in Whitechapel. One less ta trouble themselves with.\"\n\nOf course he was right. \"Has she ever disappeared before?\"\n\nHis eyes flitted about the room and I knew what the answer was. \"A day or two. Nothin' like this.\"\n\nI heaved a sigh, certain that she was either a pickpocket, prostitute, addict, or most likely all three. \"How old is she?\"\n\n\"Twelve.\"\n\nI cringed. \"Do you have a room in a boardinghouse somewhere?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Up near Stepney Green. We got a corner of the basement 'bout the size a yer entry run by an old slag wot thinks it were a palace. She don't treat nobody good 'cept them she calls 'er gentlemen callers. A bunch a drunken sots she gets upstairs and rolls. She's wicked clever though. Keeps a mess of 'em on a string.\"\n\nHow well I understood the woman he was describing, for I had spent years under the thumb of someone like that myself. \"Tell me about your sister.\"\n\n\"Angelyne.\" He smiled. \"Named after the angels.\" He described her as a freckle-faced girl with raven black hair who was not quite five feet tall. He said she was slight and hadn't even begun to reveal the shape of the woman she was on the verge of becoming. I only wished that might make a difference. \"Last Sunday I 'ad ta go out for a while. I 'ad things ta take care of. I told her not ta go anywhere, but when I got back . . .\" He dropped his eyes and rubbed the heels of his hands across them.\n\n\"Does she disobey you often?\"\n\n\"Naw. She's a good girl. Never causes no trouble.\"\n\n\"Did you ask the woman who runs your boardinghouse if she saw or heard anything?\"\n\nHe screwed his face up. \"That one don't 'ear nuthin' but 'erself mewlin' at all the men she drags 'ome.\"\n\n\"Do you remember Angelyne complaining about anyone bothering her lately?\"\n\n\"I'd a killed 'em if she 'ad. You can bet yer arse on that,\" he blasted back, and I didn't doubt him. \"So will you 'elp? You and Mr. Pendragon?\"\n\n\"I'll have to speak with him.\"\n\n\"Ya want I should wait?\"\n\n\"There's no need for that.\" I stood up. \"Just tell me how we can get in contact with you. What's the address of your boardinghouse?\"\n\nMichael got up and stabbed his cap back onto his head. \"It'll be easier if I come by tamorrow evenin'. That okay?\"\n\nI eyed him a moment, wondering whether his reticence was directed toward me or his own bit of subterfuge. \"That'll be fine.\"\n\nI showed him out with a promise to receive him in twenty-four hours' time, all the while thinking how young he was to be dealing with such matters. It was a disgrace that this was the best our city had to offer these children, but then I was reminded that sometimes we create our own worst times.\n\n\"When ya go back up . . . ,\" Mrs. Behmoth poked her head out the kitchen as I relatched the door, \". . . tell 'is Majesty not ta use up all the 'ot water. I wanna take a bath meself tonight.\" She punched her fists onto her hips. \"And 'urry up. 'E's 'ad it runnin' awhile.\"\n\nI tossed her a frown as I padded up the stairs and went to the bathroom. \"It's me,\" I said as I poked my head inside.\n\n\"Don't let the cold air in.\" He was reclining in his liquid cocoon, a dozen candles scattered about, flickering a warm embrace.\n\n\"I've been commanded to tell you not to use all the hot water.\"\n\n\"Ah. Dear Mrs. Behmoth. I would hate to begrudge her the occasional bath.\" He rotated the spigot with his foot. \"I think I'll require your warm body to keep the water heated up then. Climb in and tell me who was just here?\"\n\n\"There's hardly room for two,\" I protested halfheartedly.\n\n\"Don't I always make room?\" He sat up and patted the water as though it were the cushion of a chair. \"Come on.\"\n\nI did as bade, pleased to note the change in his mood and hoping that it might signify progress around the Arnifour case.\n\n\"Much better,\" he said as he rested his chin atop my head with his arms hanging about my shoulders. \"Now tell me who was here and I shall pay close attention.\" But he didn't pay attention, and after a few minutes I stopped trying to tell him anything at all.\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\"Who let you out of your hole, Pendragon? I'd like to know to whom I owe the displeasure of your company.\"\n\n\"Oh, come now, Inspector.\" Colin sidled up to the man's badly beaten desk piled high with its array of papers and binders, and plopped himself into the creaky chair beside it. \"I've just come from a bit of sparring at the gymnasium. Worked my aggressions out. You should try it.\"\n\nHe snorted. \"We'll see if that even lasts the length of this conversation. What are you here for?\" He glowered, his naturally opaque complexion deepening. Given his dazzlingly white hair he looked positively monochromatic except when moved to a mood. Tall and thin, Emmett Varcoe was the complete opposite of Colin in both form and function in spite of their shared passion for detection. \"You'd best make it quick because I haven't time for you,\" he added, rotating his chair so that we were left staring at his profile.\n\n\"Really now . . . ,\" Colin replied with a snarky smile. \"We've only come to share some information.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'll just bet you have.\" He swung around just as I sat down. \"Don't get comfortable, Pruitt. The two of you are not staying.\"\n\n\"Not to worry.\" Colin leaned forward mischievously. \"We're only here to let you know that we've been hired by the bereaved Lady Arnifour to solve the murder of her husband. I thought it only fair to\u2014\"\n\n\"Bloody hell!\" Inspector Varcoe bellowed, slamming a fist onto his desk. \"That case is practically solved. Why is that ridiculous woman wasting her money on you?\"\n\n\"Well, I should hardly consider it wasting\u2014\"\n\n\"Piss off, Pendragon. We're about to make an arrest. Nobody needs you slinking around stirring up a bunch of bollocks.\"\n\n\"About to make an arrest, are you? That's not always worked out so well for you in the past\u2014\"\n\n\"How dare you!\" he blasted, his voice elevating with the color of his face. \"You pompous little twat. What do you know about working a crime? You're just a coddled diplomat's boy who attended independent schools and probably never even let his sacred little feet touch the streets of Bombay. How dare you come in here and look down on me.\"\n\nI could see that Colin's posture had become rigid as he said, \"A bit jumpy about this case, are you?\"\n\nThe inspector turned a steely glare on Colin. \"If you're here to share, then what have you got so far?\"\n\n\"Not that much, really.\" He gave a tight smile. \"Though I did notice a rather pointed lack of emotion regarding the Earl's death on the part of everyone in the household\u2014with the possible exception of the housekeeper, Mrs. O'Keefe.\"\n\n\"That old toad.\"\n\n\"Ah . . . ,\" and now he chuckled, \"I must agree with you there.\"\n\nThe inspector did not share his amusement. \"What else?\" he growled.\n\n\"Well . . .\" I watched Colin pretend to ruminate a moment and fought to keep from rolling my eyes. \"I believe Victor Heffernan is innocent.\"\n\nThe inspector's left eye ticked almost imperceptibly as he managed to maintain his composure with a shrug before allowing, \"Perhaps.\"\n\n\"And I've a suspicion that Lady Arnifour has some notion about who may be involved.\"\n\n\"That's absurd.\" He waved Colin off.\n\nColin shrugged lightly as he dug a crown out of his pocket and effortlessly began rotating it between his fingers. \"I'm betting you're circling Nathaniel Heffernan.\"\n\n\"Damn right,\" the inspector sneered with pride. \"That Heffernan boy did this and his father ruddy well knows it too. That's called collusion.\"\n\n\"But what of his motive?\"\n\n\"Motive?! Bugger off about his motive. I'm not telling you anything, Pendragon. It'll be my pleasure to see you looking the fool on this one. Now piss off.\" And with a flourish of rattling papers Emmett Varcoe let it be known that our time with him was done.\n\n\"Very well.\" Colin palmed the coin as he stood up and gave a nod that Inspector Varcoe took no note of. \"Perhaps you're right.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm right.\" He spun back on us. \"You watch and you'll see him deliver his son right into my hands.\"\n\n\"Victor Heffernan? Deliver Nathaniel to you? Why would he do that?\"\n\n\"Because in a few days when I arrest them both, he'll give the boy up like a rotten apple. That type would eat their young if they thought it would help.\"\n\n\"That type?\" Colin's voice sank precipitously.\n\nVarcoe sneered at us. \"You know exactly what I mean, Pendragon. Street rubbish like Pruitt here. They never lose the stink.\"\n\n\"You know bloody well Ethan was raised in Holland Park!\" Colin snapped back. I reached over and clutched his sleeve, not wanting him to do this, but he only shrugged me off. What nettled me was wondering whether he felt compelled to do it for my benefit or in defense of his own honor. \"His father was the Deputy Minister of Education. Which makes Ethan a damn sight better bred than you, Emmett.\"\n\n\"All the same.\" Varcoe's face lit up with a satisfied smile, clearly well pleased to have riled Colin so. \"My ruddy mum didn't go bleedin' starkers and off everyone. What kind of man lets his wife do that? Is it any wonder your Pruitt ended up a sniveling addict in the East End?\" His grin widened. \"He comes from rubbish all right.\" He burst into harsh laughter as my heart seized and my stomach dropped below my feet. I opened my mouth to say something, to defend myself\u2014my father\u2014when I caught sight of Colin balling his fist out of the corner of my eye, so instead grabbed him and yanked him out of there.\nCHAPTER 9\n\nWithin the hour we were back in our flat, dinner behind us, Colin fussing over tea while Mrs. Behmoth tried to coerce a fire back to life by poking at its cinders and kindling, her annoyance evident in her every muttered curse. Colin handed my tea to me with a sigh. \"You must do me a favor in the future,\" he said as he settled back into his overstuffed chair. \"If I ever tell you I want to visit that old bastard again, please remind me how I despise him.\"\n\n\"That may be so, but you can still be quite charming when you choose.\" I peered at him over the rim of my cup. \"At least until he starts taking out after me. I'm sorry I embarrass you.\"\n\nHe stopped and glared at me a moment before quickly downing his tea as he stood up and snatched at his dumbbells. \"It's not me,\" he mumbled with seeming preoccupation. \"I'm angry for you.\"\n\n\"Then you're wasting your energy. I cannot change the regrettable choices I made as a lad. After what happened I was afraid I might be the same. I was bloody well terrified. You know that. I went and hid in the only place that allowed me to truly dispel my fears: the opium dens.\"\n\n\"Don't say that. It makes you sound weak.\"\n\n\"I was!\" I shook my head, not embarrassed, but ashamed. \"I was not quite ten years old when it happened. My grandparents were thick with guilt and about as afraid of me as I was of myself. I wasn't in their house much more than a year before they couldn't stand having me around anymore.\"\n\n\"That's ridiculous,\" he chided, waving the weights around madly.\n\n\"It isn't. That's why they sent me to Easling and Temple. To get me out of their house.\" I heaved a sigh. \"I'm sure it also helped them assuage some of that guilt by affording me such a fine education, despite my squandering of it. And it did allow me to meet you.\" A small smile easily crossed my lips. \"I thought you so self-assured and handsome.\" I chuckled. \"Of course that only terrified me more. And you didn't even know I existed.\"\n\n\"I knew who you were,\" he protested without conviction before suddenly turning on Mrs. Behmoth, still cursing at the flagging embers. \"Do you need a ruddy hand with that?\" he barked.\n\n\"Don't get cheeky with me!\" she growled back.\n\nI shook my head. \"Well, no matter. Though I do wish it hadn't taken you nine years to rescue me from Maw Heikens.\"\n\nHe screwed up his face, halting the weights in midair. \"That regrettable old harridan,\" he snarled. \"I won't have that name in this flat.\"\n\nThere was no surprise in his reaction. He always hated Maw. I suppose it was easier to blame her for what had happened to me than to blame me. \"What I really want to know,\" I said, content to let that topic be, \"is why we went to see Varcoe in the first place?\"\n\n\"For the information,\" he muttered blithely as he settled back into his chair and began curling the dumbbells behind his head.\n\n\"Information? What information?\"\n\nHe glanced over at me as though I were daft. \"We now know that his suspicions toward Nathaniel are wholly rudimentary, without the slightest whiff of a motive. You saw how he acted when I pressed him. I'll bet his entire case rests on nothing more than his own speculations. Once again he has proven that he owes his endless tenure at the Yard to his inability to intimidate the lesser minds who have risen above him.\"\n\n\"Brutal.\" I chuckled. \"But what do you mean about his suspicions against Nathaniel?\"\n\n\"The boy is gruff, uncommunicative, and so clearly hiding something that he couldn't possibly appear more culpable if he had been found beating the Earl. And then there's that bit about how he fancies Elsbeth. I can't stop wondering about the argument they had that night. Jealousy is a potent motivator for the worst in a man.\"\n\n\"But it doesn't make sense. He works for the Arnifours, for heaven's sake; how could he ever think that he might have a chance with her? It's too preposterous.\"\n\nHe tipped one of his dumbbells toward me. \"Then what do you suppose happened that night?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea, but there's a lot more rotten out there than just that old house.\"\n\n\"Ach,\" Mrs. Behmoth groused. \"It's always that way with them that has too much money.\" She abruptly reached up, seized my Jules Verne novel off the mantel, and flung it into the still-sputtering fire.\n\n\"My book!\" I leapt up, spilling much of my tea onto myself. \"What the hell are you doing?!\"\n\n\"I'm tryin' to get this bloody fire goin'!\" she barked. \"That book's twaddle. It'll do a lot more good in there.\"\n\n\"You'll buy me a new copy,\" I shot back as I tried to blot the stains from my clothes.\n\n\"Like 'ell,\" she answered, pointing to the quickly escalating flames. \"It served a fine purpose. I don't owe no one nuthin'.\" A knock at the door was the only thing that kept me from responding in kind. \"Don't trouble yerselves,\" she said as she headed for the staircase. \"Allow an old lady the pleasure of fetchin' that.\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\" Colin chuckled.\n\nMrs. Behmoth shot him a withering glare, which he took no notice of as he shoved the dumbbells under his chair, and then she disappeared down the steps.\n\n\"Are we expecting anyone?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'd guess it's that scruffy East End lad with the missing sister I was telling you about yesterday. He said he'd come back this evening.\"\n\n\"Oh yes. What are their names?\"\n\n\"Michael and Angelyne.\"\n\n\"That's right. Very Church of England.\"\n\nThe thunderous footfalls of Mrs. Behmoth's ascension brought a halt to our conversation. \"Yer alley cat is back,\" she announced, glaring at me.\n\n\"Well, let him up!\" I snapped, only to be surprised when he suddenly poked his head out from behind her. I was appalled that he'd heard her disparage him.\n\n\"Do come in.\" Colin swept past me and ushered him into our study. \"We've been expecting you.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir,\" he said as he doffed his cap and nodded at me. The smudges on his face had been scrubbed away to reveal a fragile complexion, which also exposed the hollowness in his cheeks. He went back to the settee and balanced himself on the edge of it just as he'd done the evening before. \"Tell me, Michael,\" Colin settled into his chair as Mrs. Behmoth trudged back downstairs, \"when exactly did you last see your sister?\"\n\n\"Ye'll take the case then?\"\n\n\"We are at your behest.\"\n\n\"Wot?\"\n\nI leaned forward. \"He's taking the case.\"\n\n\"Oh, ruddy excellent,\" he said, his face lighting up for just an instant. \"Ya know I ain't gonna be able ta pay ya much.\"\n\n\"You needn't pay us at all. You shall have us for free.\"\n\n\"Ya mean that? I don't gotta pay?\"\n\n\"You can't very well spend what you haven't got.\"\n\n\"I'd get somethin'.\"\n\nColin held up a hand. \"That won't be necessary. On occasion I do a service for someone in need, and today you are that someone. Perhaps you will return the favor one day for someone else.\"\n\n\"I will.\" He smiled broadly. \"You bet I will.\"\n\n\"Now, tell me about your sister,\" Colin said, surreptitiously extracting a crown from his pocket and smoothly flicking it through his fingers.\n\n\"Angelyne. Like the angels. And she is one too. A reg'lar angel. The last time I saw 'er were a week ago. I'd left 'er in our room and told 'er ta stay there, but when I got back she were gone. I ain't seen or heard nothin' from 'er since and that ain't like 'er.\"\n\n\"I see. Did anyone at your boardinghouse hear or see anything?\"\n\n\"No one saw nothin'. Least not wot they tell me.\"\n\n\"What time was it when you left her alone?\"\n\n\"Middle a the afternoon. Round two or three, I suppose.\"\n\n\"And when did you return?\"\n\n\"Suppertime. I brought food with me. I knew she'd be 'ungry.\"\n\n\"So you went up to your room . . . ,\" he prodded, his coin continuing to make its silent rotations.\n\n\". . . And she weren't there. Just like I said. Our room ain't big. I knew right away she were gone. I knew it soon 's I opened the door.\"\n\n\"And what did you do?\"\n\n\"I went to see me landlady.\"\n\n\"And did she know anything?\"\n\n\"Nah.\" He swatted his cap on his knee. \"She's a cur, that one. She don't 'ear nothin' but the sound a men with a pocketful a change.\"\n\n\"I see. And did you talk to anyone else in your building?\"\n\n\"Me and Angelyne keep ta ourselves. I don't know nobody else. I knew she 'adn't gone ta see none a them. She 'ad no business with any of 'em.\"\n\n\"One last question then.\" He held the coin up in front of his face and seemed to be admiring its luster. \"Did she mention anyone bothering her lately? Following her around?\"\n\n\"I'd a killed anyone was messin' with 'er.\"\n\n\"I trust you mean that figuratively.\"\n\n\"Wot?\"\n\n\"We'll need to come over and have a look around. And I'll want to speak with your landlady.\"\n\n\"You kin try speakin' to 'er, but she'll only wanna take ya fer a grinder.\"\n\n\"Then she'll be sorely disappointed.\" He stood up. \"What's her name?\"\n\n\"Rendell.\"\n\n\"Fine. Leave us directions and expect to see us tomorrow. We shan't waste time given how long it's been.\"\n\nMichael stabbed his cap back on as he bounced up and started for the door. \"I've got a bit a business ta run in the mornin', but I'll be round. Specially if I know yer comin'.\"\n\n\"We shall be there.\"\n\n\"Thank ya, sir.\" He bowed regally, his studied polish commendable if suspect.\n\nColin smiled and nodded his head. \"Until tomorrow then.\"\n\nThe lad bounded off down the stairs, a lightness in his step that had not been there before.\n\n\"Is that ragamuffin gone?\" Mrs. Behmoth hollered up as soon as the front door slammed.\n\n\"That's our new client you're disparaging,\" Colin called back.\n\n\"Ya must be starkers,\" came the muffled reply.\n\nHe chuckled as he settled back in his chair and began flipping the crown through his fingers again. \"What do you make of that?\"\n\n\"Are you kidding? I know that boy. I used to be that boy. He's too practiced. Too slick. I'd wager he's up to something.\" While I knew Michael couldn't be driven by the same demons I had been, any boy scraping by on the streets of the East End knew how to get what he needed. You either learned it or became a statistic. I had certainly done it, for a while anyway, and it seemed obvious to me that this lad was very much more savvy than I had ever been.\n\nColin stuffed the coin back into his pocket and rolled the dumbbells out from under his chair again, seizing them and curling them along his sides. \"When you say you know that boy . . .\"\n\n\"Well, I don't mean literally.\"\n\n\"Of course. But don't you think what he said sounds plausible?\"\n\n\"Certainly it sounds plausible. It needs to sound plausible. The question is, how much of what he's saying is true?\"\n\n\"You don't think his sister is missing?\"\n\n\"I don't doubt she's missing, but I'm not so convinced it was on a Sunday afternoon when she was supposed to be waiting at home like a good little waif.\"\n\n\"What difference do the details make?\"\n\n\"Well, it won't be very easy to find her if we don't know the truth of her disappearance. He could've prostituted her to the wrong man, or lost her in an opium club, or had some scam go sour only to see her carted off by an infuriated mark determined to get his revenge. I know that life.\"\n\nThe weights buzzed back and forth as a smile slowly snaked across his face. \"You're making this personal. Just because you were always up to something doesn't mean every urchin is.\"\n\n\"I was never an urchin,\" I sniffed. \"Highborn and -bred, and you know it.\"\n\n\"That's not what I meant,\" he dismissed. \"And anyway, that only makes it worse.\" He stood up and rotated the weights so that they surged against the broadness of his chest. \"But I don't disagree with you. I also suspect that something is missing from the story. A young girl doesn't simply disappear in the middle of the afternoon without somebody seeing or hearing something. Indeed, that viral-sounding landlady would seem a prime suspect for both access and opportunity.\"\n\n\"I think he makes too much of a fuss about her. After all, she lets them live there. If it weren't for her they'd both be in one of those Dickensian orphanages.\"\n\nHe paused and stared at me, the weights held out perpendicular to the floor. \"You're just saying that because of the old slag who took you in. What was her name?\"\n\n\"Maw. Maw Heikens.\"\n\n\"God, I hate that name.\"\n\n\"Will you be wantin' more tea?\" Mrs. Behmoth shouted from the bottom of the stairs, and for once I was glad she did so. Our conversation was headed for an unfortunate place, making her interruption divinely inspired.\n\n\"Please,\" I called back, thankful to hear the jostling of china as she immediately began her ascent. I met her at the top of the stairs and took the tray from her as she followed me back into the room.\n\n\"Must ya get yerself all worked up in 'ere?\" She scowled at Colin. \"Ya sweat all over the carpet and it leaves stains. Yer like a bloody drudge.\"\n\n\"I am a fine specimen of health and vitality,\" he answered, nevertheless setting the dumbbells aside.\n\n\"Ya need more fat on ya. Ya oughta 'ave a bit a roundness by now like any good man.\"\n\nColin screwed up his face as he went back to his chair and grabbed a fresh cup of tea. \"Perish the thought. But what I'd really like to know is why you agreed with my earlier assessment of rotten things at the Arnifours'?\"\n\nShe leaned over and carefully brushed off the settee where Michael had been before she sat down and slid her well-worn slippers from her swollen feet. \"I 'ear things. Everybody says the son's a drunk, the daughter's a harpy, and the ol' lady's been flauntin' about with 'er stable man fer years. She got no use fer that 'usband a 'ers.\" She shook her head. \"But who can blame 'er? I 'eard that Earl was 'avin' it off with some chippy. A woman never cheats first, ya know. It ain't in our nature.\"\n\n\"I'm sure we could disprove that without much effort,\" Colin said. \"The most perfunctory peek into just about any titled family would garner us a host of women every bit as lascivious as their male counterparts.\"\n\nShe waved him off. \"Ya don't know shite about women.\" She stood up and wriggled her toes a moment before stooping to pick up her slippers. \"There's a difference between lyin' and cheatin'. Women are better liars than men\u2014which is why we don't think a cheatin' first. It's nature's way a creatin' balance.\" She padded across the room, her slippers swinging at her side. \"Now I'm gonna go soak me feet. Some of us don't spend 'alf the day on our arses.\" And with that final bit of truth she trundled out the door and down the stairs.\n\n\"Sometimes it's hard for me to believe she raised you from boyhood. What was your father thinking?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I didn't give him much choice. I suppose I was a bit hardheaded back then.\" He laughed.\n\n\"Back then?!\" I laughed.\n\n\"Well, you must admit, given the amount of gossip she picks up we almost could've stayed home the other day and learned as much about the Arnifours as we did going all the way out there. Though I did learn a great deal poking about their barn.\"\n\n\"Did you? And is that what makes you so sure Victor is innocent?\"\n\n\"I think Victor is innocent because he believes his son is guilty. And perhaps he is. I don't know yet. But the only thing Inspector Varcoe is going to succeed in doing is forcing Victor to confess to a crime he didn't commit in some misguided effort to save his boy. Which is precisely why Lady Arnifour hired us. She means for us to keep her dear Victor out of the hangman's noose.\"\n\n\"But if she suspects who did it, why wouldn't she just tell us and be done with it?\"\n\n\"Why indeed?!\" He toasted the air with his teacup, grinning at me from over its rim.\n\n\"So just what did you learn at that barn?\"\n\n\"I gathered a few details of the attack by poking through its remnants. As Victor pointed out and I'm sure your nose assured by virtue of the residue of kerosene, that fire was deliberately set. I should think the only reason someone would purposefully burn down an old, seldom-used barn would be to hide something.\"\n\n\"Or perhaps to throw off the authorities. It could've been set for no other reason than as a diversion.\"\n\n\"That's true.\" He stroked his chin and snatched up his hunting knife and kerchief. \"The only problem with that idea is that someone went to an extreme amount of trouble to make sure the barn burned all the way down to its barest bones. Think of it, our killer follows Elsbeth that night on his own horse. I'm certain of that given the second set of hooves left at the precise locations where both the Earl and Elsbeth were set upon. Which means this second person watched as Elsbeth met up with the Earl somewhere along the way, helped him up onto her horse, despite Lady Arnifour's insistence that he couldn't have done so, and then followed the two of them down to that barn.\"\n\n\"How can you be so sure the Earl was able to get up on her horse?\"\n\n\"The same tracks.\" He stood up and went to the fireplace, his brow furrowed and his hands working madly on the sheen of the knife blade. \"There were only two sets of horse prints evident near the barn. One set deeply imbedded in the earth\u2014a horse bearing the weight of two riders\u2014the other very much lighter. It was the second set, the lighter tracks, that I followed in order to discern the short distance the Earl was able to run before being struck down. The first blow came from atop that second horse. Once he'd fallen, the rider dismounted and delivered the mortal wound.\"\n\nI swallowed hard, chilled in spite of the firelight dancing off the sides of my face. \"And Elsbeth?\"\n\n\"Also struck from above.\" He set the knife onto the mantel and gazed into the fire, his eyes gradually unfocusing as he stared at the gently licking tongues of flame. \"But she'd gotten quite a bit farther by the time the killer turned his attentions on her. She was heading in a forty-five-degree angle away from the barn, back toward the woods. The killer remounted his horse, chased her down, and struck her full in the face.\"\n\n\"Good god . . .\"\n\n\"Indeed. And then . . . ,\" a scowl crossed his face, twisting it with confusion, \". . . after all that, the killer went back to the barn, saturated it with kerosene, and set it ablaze. If he meant only to confuse the boorish inspector and his sycophants he could have tossed in a match and fled. It was old; it would have burned just fine. But that's not what he did. He took the time to deliberately soak that decrepit pile of timbers, so much so that nearly two weeks later it still reeks of kerosene. Why? It has to be more than sleight of hand. There has to be something we aren't supposed to find.\"\n\n\"But what? What if it is just a deception?\"\n\nHe slid his eyes back to me. \"That is the question then, isn't it?\"\nCHAPTER 10\n\nWe disembarked from a cab the next morning earlier than the sun could be expected to properly infiltrate the streets and alleyways edging the tall, grimy brick buildings of Stepney Green. We'd set out from our flat at just after six thirty, which meant it couldn't be more than half past seven by the time we stepped onto the filthy cobbled street.\n\n\"Where do we go from here?\" Colin asked, sidestepping some filth. \"Wouldn't you think they could clean these streets once in a while,\" he added irritably.\n\n\"Spoken like a man who never comes to the East End.\" I chuckled. \"It's over there.\" I pointed toward an alley distinguished by a soot-covered arch. \"But we'll be lucky to find anyone willing to answer the door at this hour.\"\n\n\"The whole point . . . ,\" he explained, delicately picking his way, \". . . is to catch these fine citizens unprepared. Lying is so much more difficult when one is still suffering the scourges of the previous night.\"\n\n\"Certain we'll be confronted by lies then?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\"\n\n\"Then it's good to see you've learned something from my tenure here,\" I chided.\n\n\"Learned something?!\" He scowled at me. \"I saved your ass from this scourge.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said with all seriousness as I pulled up short. \"You did.\" And so he had. At the moment when I was more bone than flesh. When opium's numbing embrace soothed me more utterly than air or water, relentlessly driving every moment of my day and night, he had quite suddenly been there. That fierce, striking boy from the Easling and Temple Senior Academy who I was sure had not known my name had indeed, inexplicably, saved my life.\n\nI gestured to the dingy brick tenement building in front of us enshrouded in soot from its belching chimneys. \"This is it.\" The entrance door was constructed of warped slabs of wood that appeared to have begun cracking long before Victoria took the throne, and was fouled with unimaginable matter. Distorted, yellowed windows dotted the face of the five-story structure, none without a spider's web of cracks.\n\n\"I don't believe for one minute,\" Colin said as we stared at the building, \"that no one in this hovel saw or heard anything. The business of others is the prime entertainment here.\"\n\n\"Only until the sun has ambled off. Shall we?\"\n\n\"After you.\" He waved me on. \"But let us start with the landlady. I'm most eager to disrupt her day.\"\n\n\"You don't think we should see Michael first?\"\n\n\"I'd much prefer to meet the proprietress of this fleapit. Call it a whim . . . call it morbid curiosity . . . but let's call on her first.\"\n\nI pushed through the fouled remnants of the door with the cuff of my sleeve and stepped into a musty hallway that was redolent with the scent of stale opium. It struck me like a blow to the face, beguiling my senses with a promise I had long thought relegated to a distant past. I must have faltered, because I felt Colin's hand grip my arm and heard him whisper, \"You all right?\"\n\n\"I'm fine.\"\n\n\"You don't have to do this,\" he said as I plodded forward. \"I can speak to her myself.\"\n\n\"I'm fine,\" I said with greater determination as much to convince myself as him. I would not let that fiend manipulate me again. It could have no effect. I'd come too far, been through too much, to be lured by that beast anymore. So I turned my attention to the two dimly lit lamps and the threadbare carpet worn through to the under-planking in places as I kept moving forward. I banished the fact that the walls were stained yellow with age and opium smoke from my mind as I stepped to the first door I came to, noticing that it was standing the slightest bit ajar due to the bow along its spine that left it gaping at its outermost corners, and announced, \"This has to be it,\" though, in truth, I was only guessing.\n\n\"Good,\" he said, staring at me a hair's breadth too long before adding, \"Then let's have at it.\" He stepped forward and pounded on the door with a bellowed, \"Hellooooo! . . .\" like some busybody neighbor come to call.\n\nAn instantaneous response blasted back in a shrill tone that sounded like a cat who'd just had its tail crushed under a boot. \" 'Oo in 'ell?! . . . Oo in the bloody 'ell . . . ?!\"\n\nI slid my eyes to Colin and found him wearing a dazzling smile of great joy. This, I realized, was exactly what he'd been hoping for.\n\nThe door jerked open as far as its accompanying chain would allow and a bloodshot eye presented itself in the space. \"Oh! . . . A minute, love. . . .\" The door clicked shut as best it could and the chain was hurriedly released before it was thrown wide to reveal a thin woman of indeterminate age\u2014though I guessed her to be somewhere in her mid-thirties like me. She was tightly wrapped in a thin yellow robe that revealed more of her anatomy than was proper. \"Didn't know I 'ad such a 'andsome gentleman calling.\" She leered, batting her eyes a moment before spotting me. \"This with you?\" she asked halfheartedly.\n\n\"Quite.\"\n\n\"Well, ya can both come in,\" she stepped aside, \"but I ain't one a those that plays it like that. I can take right care a you,\" she winked at Colin as he moved past her, \"but yer friend is gonna 'ave ta go upstairs.\"\n\n\"Particular, are you?\" I snorted as I crossed her threshold, glad to find the air inside her flat freer of the cloying scent of opium. \"You don't see that often around here.\"\n\n\"What would you know about what goes on around 'ere?\" she sneered as she yanked her precarious robe closed. Her pockmarked face spoke of years of disease and poor health, which instantly made me regret that I'd been so cavalier.\n\nColin gave her a warm smile, but there was little real mirth behind his eyes. \"What we're really here for . . . ,\" he began, casually perching on the arm of one of the proffered seats as he dug out his usual crown and started rotating it between his fingers, \". . . is some information about two of your tenants: young Michael and his little sister, Angelyne.\"\n\n\" 'Oo?\" Her face curled up as she poured two fingers of whiskey and downed it like a gulp of air.\n\n\"A boy of about fourteen and his sister . . .\" He flicked his eyes to me.\n\n\"Twelve,\" I said.\n\n\"Right. Twelve. They rent a room from you. Live in your basement. . . .\"\n\n\"Oh. Them two,\" she said with about as much enthusiasm as she'd shown me. \"They're always late with me rent.\" She downed another shot and actually looked a little better for it. \"You 'ere ta make good for 'em?\"\n\n\"Well . . . ,\" he tossed me a quick glance, \"we might be able to offer a little help. They owe you, do they?\"\n\n\"Damn right they do. One pound fifty.\"\n\nColin urged me with the look in his eyes and I begrudgingly handed over the money, all but certain that they didn't owe her a thing. She snatched the bills and stuffed them down the front of her robe. \"What do you wanna know about 'em?\" she said as she threw herself onto a well-worn chaise, sending a stream of undergarments and periodicals to the floor. \"That Michael can be a stand-up lad when 'e ain't scammin' the rent.\"\n\n\"And Angelyne?\" Colin pressed.\n\n\" 'Oo?\"\n\n\"His sister . . .\"\n\n\"Oh . . . 'er . . . She's about the size a me arm and as bright as me left tit.\"\n\n\"Is she comely?\" he pressed on.\n\n\"Oh!\" She abruptly pushed herself up, allowing her robe to peek open again. \"You like the young ones then, eh? The little girls?\"\n\nColin froze, the crown stilled on the back of his hand. \"The only thing I would like is to know whether you consider Angelyne pretty.\"\n\n\"Pretty . . . not pretty . . . 'oo can really say?\" She giggled. \"There's somethin' fer everyone in this world. There are men 'oo will shag anythin', breathin' or not.\"\n\n\"Have any of your clients asked about her recently?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" She shrugged. \"I can't 'member everythin' goes on round 'ere.\"\n\n\"But you remember who pays and who doesn't,\" I pointed out.\n\n\" 'Ell yeah.\"\n\n\"And I'll bet you remember when someone asks for something unusual. Something you can't satisfy . . .\"\n\n\"There's a lot a nutters.\" She looked right at me.\n\n\"And is the request for a twelve-year-old not something out of the ordinary?\" Colin pressed.\n\nShe shrugged noncommittally.\n\n\"Miss Rendell\u2014\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle!\" she snapped back. \"It's French.\"\n\n\"My apologies. I didn't realize that Rendell was a French name.\"\n\nShe scowled at him and then abruptly bolted off the chaise and stormed across the room, pushing past me to yank open the door. \"I've 'ad enough a this. I don't get paid fer sittin' round talkin'. Now get yer arses outta 'ere.\"\n\nColin tossed the crown into the air and easily caught it, Mademoiselle Rendell's eyes locked on it the entire time. \"As you wish,\" he said tightly as we made our retreat back to the hallway. He turned at the threshold, eager to have the last word, but he had no such chance, as she immediately slammed the door in our faces. \"What a deplorable woman,\" he muttered to the battered wooden door. \"Though thankfully an atrocious liar.\"\n\n\"That's the truth.\" I nodded. \"It's a wonder she can be convincing with the blokes she entertains.\"\n\n\"Well, they can't be a discerning lot.\" He gave me a lopsided grin as he glanced at the dilapidated stairs that led down and let out a sigh. \"You still okay?\"\n\n\"I'm fine,\" I said for the third time since our arrival even as I was struck anew by that ubiquitous scent. \"Don't ask me again.\" But as I followed him down to the basement, I became increasingly aware of the familiar lure at the back of my brain, whispering . . . beckoning me . . . promising to distill every concern . . . and suddenly I wasn't so certain anymore.\nCHAPTER 11\n\nJust as we were sitting down to a lunch of Mrs. Behmoth's lamb stew there was a knock on our door that proved to be a messenger dispatched by Lady Arnifour, enquiring whether we would be available to meet with her daughter, Kaylin, in an hour's time. The timing was ideal, as we had decided that I would go back to Stepney Green in the late afternoon while Colin participated in his final elimination match of the current wrestling championships\u2014a title he was determined to maintain for the third straight year. It suited me fine since I knew I could move about that area of the city more expeditiously without him in tow and, beyond that, I'm not much of a fan of his brawling, even if he does insist it's all good sport.\n\nWe indulged in our stew and the accompanying biscuits with due haste before setting ourselves to preparations for the arrival of our guest. I tidied up the study, which consisted of straightening up my clutter of writing papers and dispatching the wayward pieces of Colin's pistol and knife collection back to their display cabinet, while Mrs. Behmoth put on a kettle and mixed up a batch of currant scones. For his part, Colin was tasked with stoking the fire back to life, which he dispatched forthwith before seizing his dumbbells and hoisting them about in myriad ways. In no time at all we were awaiting the arrival of Kaylin Arnifour to the rich, buttery smell of Mrs. Behmoth's scones baking beneath our feet.\n\nI found myself brought back to thoughts of Mademoiselle Rendell, who was about as French as blood pudding, and her insistence that she knew nothing about Angelyne's disappearance when it was clear she was far craftier than she was letting on. Which was the very reason I was to return there in a few hours' time. What she would not tell could be discerned in other ways.\n\nMichael had told us nothing new and it had been disturbing to see the way in which he and his sister were forced to live. Their single room was less than half the size of our study and contained neither a fireplace nor radiator with which to heat it in even the most perfunctory way. The plaster on the walls teemed with hairline cracks and great chunks of it were missing altogether. Two pallets lay on the floor for the children to sleep on and there was a single battered chair and equally sorrowful table upon which sat the room's only candle. It made for a depressing tableau in the sunlight and I only hoped it might somehow look better by the flickering glow of that one fatty taper. The sight of it all had left Colin quite maudlin while I had found myself grateful for ever having escaped, though the verity that I had come to be there of my own regrettable volition left me ashamed all over again. I was gratified that Colin had not raised that spectre again on our way home.\n\nA sudden knock at our door shook me from my prickly contemplation.\n\n\"I'll get it!\" Mrs. Behmoth hollered as her slippers slapped against the wood foyer.\n\n\"Outstanding.\" He chuckled as he set the dumbbells aside and pulled his jacket on. \"She does have everything to do with the man I am today, you know.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I do try to forgive her.\"\n\nHe laughed as the sound of her plodding up the stairs brought us to our feet. A moment later she appeared on the landing with a slight young woman at her side. \"Kaylin Arnifour,\" she announced with her usual lack of enthusiasm.\n\n\"Lady Kaylin . . .\" Colin smiled broadly as he moved to the landing and took the young woman's hand, ushering her inside. \"We do so appreciate your thoughtfulness in indulging us this meeting in the midst of such a difficult time. We would certainly not have requested it if we didn't feel it to be of the utmost importance. Please\"\u2014he beckoned her to the settee\u2014\"we were just about to have some tea. I insist you join Mr. Pruitt and me.\"\n\nI stepped forward to greet her and got my first good look at her. She instantly put me in mind of how her mother must have appeared as a young woman. Delicate and trim with a jumble of light brown curls cascading down her back, she was quite striking. She also displayed a hint of color in her crystalline complexion, and given her lithe, muscular arms revealed just below the puffy sleeves of her dress, I determined they spoke of her fondness for riding. They also gave her a more substantive air than her slender build initially suggested. While she and Eldon were clearly crafted from the same physical mold, he had none of his sister's gravitas.\n\nMrs. Behmoth gave a disapproving sniff as she turned to leave the room, though what she was objecting to I had no idea. \"I'll fetch the tea,\" she said as she thundered back down the stairs, giving me momentary pause as to how she managed to maintain her girth given the number of times she assaulted those steps each day.\n\n\"I must apologize for being so difficult to reach,\" Lady Kaylin said, thankfully setting my mind back to the task at hand. She settled onto the settee across from us. \"I really haven't felt much like talking.\"\n\n\"Understandable, and we shall not press you any further than we must.\"\n\n\"You mustn't worry about me,\" she said, folding her hands across her lap as though girding herself.\n\nMrs. Behmoth plodded back up with the tea service in hand but got no farther than the doorway before Colin relieved her of it, sending her on her way. He meticulously served us and did not speak again until we had all settled in. \"I must ask you to tell me what you remember about the night your father and cousin were attacked.\"\n\n\"Of course.\" She delicately placed her cup on its saucer and set them back on the table between us. \"I'm sure you've heard this all before,\" she said, giving a disquieted smile. \"We were having dinner: my parents, Eldon, Elsbeth, and I, and I had to excuse myself partway through the meal as I was not feeling well. I suffer from headaches that can be quite disabling. After a while Elsbeth came up to check on me and see if I might be able to go for a ride while there was still some sun left, but I was no better and could not.\" She fell silent for a moment, staring down at her hands. \"I've wondered every day since if things might have been different if I had been able to go with her.\"\n\n\"You mustn't,\" I said.\n\n\"It is not for us to change what is,\" Colin added.\n\n\"Of course . . . ,\" she muttered, but did not sound the least convinced. \"I fell asleep as soon as she left my room and did not wake again until I heard Eldon hollering about smoke at the edge of the property. It was terrifying. I hurried downstairs and saw him and the Heffernans riding out, and waited with Mother for their return. Victor was the first to come back. He was the one who told us. . . .\" Her voice trailed off.\n\n\"Had there been any visitors to the house that day?\"\n\n\"Father's business partner, Warren Vandemier, had spent part of the afternoon going over books or ledgers or some such thing with him, and a neighbor, Abigail Roynton, had stopped by and had tea with Mother.\"\n\nI could tell at once by the way she said Abigail Roynton's name that there had to be a bit of bad blood there. I was certain Colin caught it as well, but he did not prod her, choosing instead to shift the conversation to the nature of the business her father had with Mr. Vandemier.\n\n\"I'm sorry . . . ,\" she twisted her hands in her lap, \"but I wasn't really privy to my father's business dealings. I'm sure you're acquainted with those who say business matters are best left to men.\"\n\n\"Ahhh . . .\" Colin grinned. \"Are you one of Emmeline Pankhurst's followers?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"Well, I would hardly cuff myself to the gates of Buckingham, but I do think she has some wonderful ideas.\"\n\n\"She has certainly caught people's attention. Does your mother share your views?\"\n\n\"Oh heavens no.\"\n\n\"What about your neighbor, Abigail something, I don't recollect what you said her name was.\"\n\n\"Abigail Roynton,\" she scoffed without apology. \"She's a widow who saw fit to have an affair with my father some time ago, and if my mother had any sense she wouldn't let that wretched woman in her house.\"\n\nColin peered at Kaylin, his expression in check, while I fought to keep the surprise from my face. \"Are you certain your mother knew?\"\n\nKaylin nodded. \"At the very least she suspected. But she would never admit such a thing. It wouldn't be proper. So instead, she and Mrs. Roynton maintain this reprehensible charade.\"\n\n\"Civility,\" Colin tsked. \"If nothing else you have to admire our higher class for their civility. Is there no chance you could be mistaken?\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"I found them in the barn once, the two of them disheveled and full of bluster. It was a disgrace. I knew what they were up to.\"\n\n\"How long ago did that happen?\" Colin forged on.\n\n\"About a year ago, I suppose. I really don't remember. But he ended it after that. He swore to me that he ended it.\"\n\n\"Of course.\" Colin flashed a tight smile.\n\n\"I believed him, Mr. Pendragon. My father was many things, but he was not a liar.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid that by its very definition an adulterer is a liar. You cannot be one and not the other.\"\n\n\"I'm sure your father meant what he told you,\" I interrupted, shooting Colin a look that I hoped would divert him.\n\n\"Yes . . . well . . . I must ask you to indulge me one last question,\" he said as he tossed a scowl back at me.\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Do you agree with your mother's assertion that the Heffernans are innocent?\"\n\nShe paled and gave a small shrug. \"I really don't know.\"\n\n\"Then you believe it is possible that one or both of them could be involved?\"\n\nShe shifted on the settee and brushed a quick hand through the curls on one side of her face. \" 'Possible' is a word without limitation,\" she finally answered.\nCHAPTER 12\n\nThe afternoon was ebbing toward twilight as I tucked myself into an entranceway across the alley from where Michael and Angelyne lived, fixing my gaze on the flat where Mademoiselle Rendell plied her trade. Standing in the waning light with an old, black cloak wrapped around my shoulders, I felt like a fourteen-year-old boy again, once more in the questionable employ of Maw Heikens. This time sent out to lure another clutch of imprudent sots with more cash than cares, or to fetch another batch of opium from the old Chinese man at the wharf from which I always cleaved a nip off the top for myself, or perhaps to troll the local taverns to earn my keep with whatever I could pilfer. The memory of it all made my stomach sour as though I had licked the very cobbles in the street. For it was too easy to blame Maw for the things I had done, what I had become. But the truth was darker than that. She had merely provided what I sought without judgment or question. Colin was wrong about her, not entirely, of course, but wrong. There was much that remained solely on me.\n\nA cold wind teased my face and ruffled my hair as it brushed past me. The wind had picked up slightly and the chill along with it as I began to ask myself how long I was going to stand here like this. I knew Colin would expect me to wait all night if need be, but then he was in a warm gymnasium proving his bravado against any number of comers.\n\nAnother great sigh escaped my lips just as the light from Mademoiselle Rendell's room abruptly snuffed out, ratcheting up my heartbeat in the same instant. Something, at last, was going to happen. I sank back into the alcove as far as I could and waited for the appearance of my quarry. It did not take long. The main door quickly opened, revealing my target in a billowy cream-colored dress that had likely been white the day it came out of the dressmaker's shop, adorned with a ragged strip of gray lace around its bottom. A dark brown shawl covered her mass of dyed-blond hair. She was, I decided from the look of her, attempting to travel incognito. It was a hopeful sign.\n\nThe ersatz mademoiselle glanced in one direction and then the other before venturing down the handful of steps to the cobbled alley. She did not cast an eye in my direction and I knew the moment she made it to the street there would be little chance of her realizing she was being followed. There were too many people, horses, and carts about for her to notice me trundling along behind her, and besides that, I am not without some skill.\n\nThe mass of activity on the street made it easy for me to keep Mademoiselle Rendell in sight as I dallied along behind her. She kept to the center of the roadway, dodging the streams of burbling waste flowing through the gutters with assurance and a fair amount of speed. She held her gaze down as much for defense against the filth as to dissuade anyone she passed from trying to engage her. There was no doubt in my mind now that she was doing her best to get somewhere quickly and without distraction.\n\nShe rounded the corner and snatched a look in my direction, bringing me up short as I pretended to engage a woman who was passing beside me. I let the distance between us widen as I pulled a cap from my pocket and plopped it on my head before turning the collar of my cloak up. If need be, I could turn my cloak inside out to reveal a light gray color as opposed to the black I was now swaddled in, but it was not yet necessary, as she once again hurried down the street. Innumerable blocks slid by before I began to notice how vastly improved the neighborhood was becoming. We'd left behind the effluvium of Stepney Green for a far more gentrified area. Even the throngs of scurrying people had noticeably thinned, with fewer of them walking and more being trundled about in carriages and cabs, notable of gentility.\n\nIt wasn't until I noticed the divergent flags above the porticos of one building after another that I realized we had entered Embassy Row. That explained the lack of foot traffic that had forced me to gradually drop farther back from my prey. This area of the city was well patrolled and offered almost nothing in the way of diversion, neither shops, caf\u00e9s, nor any but the most occasional pub. It meant to be uninviting, this domain of diplomats.\n\nMademoiselle Rendell continued hurrying along the street, paying me little mind as I forced myself to fall back yet again. I couldn't imagine what we were doing here, as it was too early for her evening's work to have begun. I began to fear she was on to me, that she'd spotted me some time ago and was taking me on a circuitous route to nowhere, when she abruptly grabbed an old, unmarked door and ducked inside.\n\nWith trepidation I approached the door I thought she'd used, willing my heart to stay steady. There were no markings to allow me to determine just what sort of establishment it was, which left my options few. Either I had to forge ahead and stumble into this unknown or I could slink back home and admit to Colin that I had failed. Neither option appealed to me, but I certainly wasn't about to let Colin down.\n\nI girded my breath and leaned forward, gently nudging the door a sliver to give me a chance to try peering inside before making the final commitment. It took several moments for my eyes to finally be able to discern that I was staring into one of the more distinctive pubs I'd ever seen. The floor and booths were carved from great planks of dark oak, with the bar itself rent from a slab of honey-colored burl set off by etched-glass cabinets running along the wall behind. It was a small establishment with only a handful of booths and an equal number of freestanding tables, leaving most of the seating to wind around that spectacular bar.\n\nI flipped my cloak inside out and threw it over my arm before stepping inside and coaxing the door closed. The only light emanated from a few gas lamps dangling from the ceiling. A picture of Nicholas Romanov hung over the bar, though he had yet to be coronated, and two small flags with the double-headed eagle hung from the ceiling, making it evident to whom this pub intended to cater.\n\nI spotted Mademoiselle Rendell at once curled up in a booth near the back with a dark, bearded man. She seemed well in the throes of a rampant flirtation and it made me fear that all my efforts had been for naught. The nearer of her hands was already settled on the man's leg and her other was flitting about like a hummingbird in search of nectar.\n\nOnce again I sucked in a quick breath and steeled myself before moving to a barstool just beyond Mademoiselle and her mark. I ordered a stout and laid my cloak across my lap, turning sideways so I could better listen in on the conversation happening between the two of them. What I expected to hear I cannot say, but between the throaty giggles, playful slaps, and whispered innuendos I heard nothing less than the most blatant form of seduction.\n\n\"Yer makin' me 'eart pound like a race 'orse,\" she purred at one point. \"Care ta feel?\"\n\n\"I fear ze cost of such an act,\" her companion snorted, his accent thick and guttural, definitely a Slavic tongue but certainly not Russian, which surprised me given the bar's obvious allegiance.\n\n\"This one's on me,\" she parried back.\n\n\"Ve are done here,\" he answered, obviously not tempted by the course of her prodding. \"I leaf this veekend. You know vhere to find me if you have reason; udderwise I vill consider our vork finished until I return.\"\n\n\"And when will that be?\" she whined, all pretense of seduction dropped with the haste of a flicked ember.\n\n\"Zix months . . . eight months . . . I dun't know.\" I watched him reach out and take her arm, carefully removing her hand from his leg. \"You vill hear from me.\" He pushed himself out of the booth and gave a curt nod.\n\n\"I ain't 'appy 'bout this,\" she called, but it was too late, as the man had already made his way out the door.\n\nFor a minute I considered following her companion rather than staying here to watch what she might do next, but then another man approached her table and quickly slid in beside her. Given that it was she whom I was here to shadow I decided to stay put, though I committed the hairy Slavic man to memory, as I was certain their business dealings were nefarious at best. At least then, if I did return to our flat with little more than tales of her flirtations I would do so having been successful in the intent of my purpose.\n\nI casually nursed my stout and feigned a look of boredom and inapproachability so as not to be sidetracked by someone who might want to spill his every thought onto the first fool who looked like he was alone. My frustration quickly mounted, however, as I could hear little of the conversation with Mademoiselle and her new companion. If I had any hope of learning anything further I was going to have to find a way to twist around to see what the two of them were up to. I only hoped I would not turn to find them glaring at me.\n\nShoving my cloak onto the seat beside me, I slumped against the bar and peered around with what I thought was extraordinary restraint, only to find Mademoiselle Rendell slowly sinking beneath her table. A table that held no cloth atop it. Instantly it became apparent to anyone who cared just exactly what she was up to, so it was hardly surprising when I felt a great rush of air barrel past me as the establishment's owner brusquely moved in to save the reputation of his pub.\n\n\"Get out from under there!\" he growled. \"I'll not have such goings-on in me pub!\"\n\n\"For a quid ya can be part a the goin's-on,\" the unperturbed mademoiselle snorted from below.\n\n\"Piss off!\" her companion snapped. \"You're ruinin' me stiffy.\"\n\n\"I will not have this!\" the man thundered, pounding a meaty fist onto the table's top.\n\n\"Bugger!\" Mademoiselle Rendell bellowed as she came scuttling out. \"Ya 'bout broke me bleedin' eardrums, ya shite.\"\n\n\"Get out!\" he bellowed. And although the proprietor was no taller than the diminutive mademoiselle herself, he shook with such rage that neither she nor her burlier companion seemed willing to press him any further.\n\nThe two of them made their way out, the rest of the patrons holding their collective breath until the door swung shut behind them. Only then did the general murmuring start again, although this time with a renewed sense of vigor. I cursed myself for not having followed the Slavic man out. Surely her business with him had been more apropos than what I'd stayed here to witness. We were making scant headway on either of our cases and each day their trails were becoming fainter.\nCHAPTER 13\n\nMy failure to gain much information about Mademoiselle Rendell was tempered by the fact that Colin had won not only the wrestling tournament for his age group, but also the exhibition round against a man nearly fifteen years his junior. He gave me the glowing details before finally settling in and agreeing that the Slavic man was likely to prove a man of interest. Thereafter he left me on my own for the remainder of the evening while he retreated to the bath.\n\nWe had little interaction the next day as well and I knew he had withdrawn into his thoughts in an effort to ferret out the next best step. I'd suggested that perhaps I should try to find the Slavic man, but he'd dismissed the idea for the moment, and so it was that we were in our study late that afternoon; me reading while Colin paced relentlessly, incessantly disassembling and reassembling his new Nagant revolver, when there came a sudden and frantic pounding at our door. Colin spun away from the fireplace so quickly that the cylinder of the Nagant he'd been fussing over was launched from his hand in great cartwheels before coming to land across the room.\n\n\"Damn . . . ,\" he cursed as he hurried after it. \"If that got bent . . . ,\" he threatened rhetorically. I watched him give it a quick inspection as he went to the window and peered outside. \"It's the Arnifours' buckboard,\" he announced. \"Has to be one of the Heffernans. Nathaniel most likely. Victor would never have the audacity to pound on anyone's door like that.\"\n\n\"I wonder why he's here?\"\n\n\"We shall know soon enough,\" he said as he wrapped the pieces of the revolver into his handkerchief and laid them on the mantel.\n\nThe sound of two sets of shoes mounting the stairs drifted up as Colin took his seat next to me. A moment later he was proven correct when Mrs. Behmoth ushered Nathaniel Heffernan into the room.\n\n\"Nathaniel 'efferead ta see ya.\"\n\n\"Nan . . . ,\" he corrected sourly. \"Heffernan.\"\n\n\"If ya like.\" She shrugged and made her exit.\n\n\"I take it,\" Colin stood up, \"that you bring news?\"\n\n\"I do.\" He stared at Colin blandly and said, \"It's Miss Elsbeth.\" And at once I feared the worst. \"They're saying she's begun ta come round.\" There was little inflection in his voice.\n\n\"Extraordinary!\" Colin popped out of his chair. \"You must be anxious to get back and see how she's doing.\"\n\nNathaniel did not answer at once, and I wondered if he was trying to gauge whether there was any accusation in Colin's words. \"Is there any message ya want me ta take back?\" he finally said.\n\n\"No message . . .\" Colin slid a glance to me and then looked back at Nathaniel. \"What I'd really like you to take back is us.\" He didn't even wait for a response before he bolted down the hallway toward our bedroom.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"We're going with you, boy,\" he called back. \"Make yourself comfortable while we put a few things together, because this time we'll be staying. We shan't be but a minute or two.\"\n\n\"You will excuse me.\" I stood up and gave what I feared was a pained smile, as surprised as our guest by this unexpected turn of events.\n\nI hurried to the bedroom and found Colin rooting through the top drawer of the dresser. \"Prepare to spend a night or two,\" he said as he flung undergarments onto the bed. \"If she's coming around I'll not come back until we've had the chance to speak with her. I don't trust that house of rogues.\"\n\n\"House of rogues?!\" I chuckled as I pulled a valise from under the bed. \"Now you sound like Mrs. Behmoth.\"\n\n\"You're forgetting that someone there would almost certainly prefer to see her dead, and at this point it's rather impossible to tell who might be her friend and who her foe.\" He tossed me an arch look as he withdrew a small double-barreled derringer from the dresser.\n\n\"You're bringing a gun?\"\n\n\"I'd bring three if I could get you to carry one.\"\n\nI screwed up my face, the memory of once having had a derringer prodded against my ribs during a soured opium transaction causing me to shiver. Even that had not led me to forsake the drug, which is why I suppose the memory retains its ability to provoke such a reaction from me. \"Don't you think you're overreacting?\" I tried my best to sound glib. \"It's the estate of nobles. They're not all beyond redemption.\"\n\n\"And are you prepared to decide who is and who is not?\" He eyed me as he stuffed the little gun into his boot. \"Who is it you find trustworthy?\"\n\n\"What about Lady Arnifour? She hired us after all.\"\n\nHe waved a dismissive hand as he went over to the holster hanging from the headboard on his side of the bed. \"I'd bet she hasn't given a whit about her husband since she conceived their daughter, and they were both probably well plied with alcohol at the time. The only person our dear patroness seems to even remotely care about is Victor Heffernan, and even that impression is probably hysterically generous.\"\n\n\"Well, you have to admit that he seems kind and loyal.\"\n\n\"A dog is kind and loyal,\" he grunted. He pulled a Colt revolver from the holster and stuffed it into his waistband, yanking his overcoat closed atop it. \"Of course her husband was clearly a scurrilous man who had more dalliances with other women than his own wife. But then that is what those chaps do.\"\n\n\"Your father didn't.\"\n\nHe leveled a frown on me. \"The Pendragons are a cut above. Besides, my mother died too young. He didn't have the chance. Are you ready?\" He headed for the door.\n\n\"Ready?! I've hardly begun. And all you've done is throw a few things on the bed and litter yourself with guns. I'd say you're not ready, either.\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"I've got what I want. Throw in whatever else you think I might need.\"\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\nI heard him beckon from the front of the flat as I stuffed the last few things into the valise and tucked it under my arm. \"On my way!\"\n\nIt would be nice to come back to this room and have the worst of this case behind us or even solved. My eyes raked over Colin's empty holster and I felt that familiar knot clutch at my stomach. How I hoped we would return with his guns unneeded. I turned down the lamp on the dresser and headed out.\nCHAPTER 14\n\nThe evening was cold enough to make the ride in the open buckboard uncomfortable. Even so, Colin appeared oblivious to the wind's chilling fingers as they sliced across the exposed flesh of his face. The fire in his eyes seemed to be heating the whole of his body so that he wasn't even bothering with the scarf Mrs. Behmoth had pressed on him on our way out. In contrast, I was well wrapped in mine and noticed Nathaniel repeatedly yanking his collar closed. Given the potential turn in this case there was little wonder Colin felt so impervious.\n\nAs we pulled through the gates, catching a glimpse of the house on the ridge ahead, I was struck by how different everything looked under the cloak of night. The trees appeared menacing as they bent overhead like a sepulchral army of skeletal soldiers, their great withered arms only fleetingly allowing a sliver of moon to peek through. Then, quite suddenly, they gave way to a field of tall grass. Yet even that otherwise sanguine field stretched far off into a forbidding, black oblivion on either side of the driveway even as it seemed to threaten to press in on the house at any moment. I forced my attentions to the house and found that even it could not manage to suffuse any aura of warmth or invitation. With its darkened wings like atrophied limbs it looked like life had long ago vacated its vast corridors. Only its center section glowed with any light at all, and that sporadically, leaving the impression that those who remained here were slowly losing their battle against the shadows closing in around them.\n\nNathaniel guided the buckboard to a halt at the center of the crescent drive and Colin immediately leapt out and attacked the stone steps two at a time, seizing the door knocker with his usual relish. He was clearly not suffering any trepidation.\n\n\"Well, bless our unholy rolling empire.\" Eldon Arnifour stood at the threshold with a dopey grin and a tumbler. \"Just look at what the night creatures have heaved onto our doorstep.\"\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon!\" Lady Arnifour's voice cut in from somewhere behind her well-oiled son. \"I've been praying you would come soon. Go on, Eldon, make room for our guests, for pity's sake.\"\n\nEldon stiffened at the sound of her voice, his grin transforming into something closer to a grimace. Nevertheless, he followed his mother's command and stepped aside, bowing and sweeping an arm across his body with all the formality one might use to usher a revered guest into an otherwise humble dwelling.\n\n\"I'm sorry it took us as long as it did,\" Colin said, entering without so much as the flick of an eyebrow toward Eldon. \"It is a miracle indeed that your niece is showing signs of recuperation. We may soon have a quick end to this most horrendous crime.\"\n\n\"I'll drink to that.\" Eldon smirked. \"Care to join me?\"\n\n\"That will be all!\" Lady Arnifour snapped as she descended the stairs in the foyer.\n\nHe tossed her a withering glare. \"Just trying to be charitable.\"\n\n\"You've been charitable enough with yourself all afternoon. I would say you've had enough for one night.\"\n\n\"Is the thought of your cousin awakening driving you to drink?\" Colin asked with a feinted grin.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Pendragon, your inference cuts me to the bone.\"\n\n\"I meant to infer nothing.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid my son needs no particular reason to overindulge.\"\n\n\"Spoken like the driving force she is.\"\n\n\"That's quite enough.\" She turned on her son. \"I would suggest you retire for the night.\"\n\nEldon's face pinched into a contemptuous scowl. \"Fine.\" He turned and headed for the study. \"I'll do that just as soon as I've had a nightcap . . . or two. . . .\" He paused in the doorway and glanced back. \"Assuming such a repast does not make me a suspect for murder.\" And with that he slammed the study's door so fiercely that Lady Arnifour winced as though her body had absorbed the injustice accorded the doorjamb.\n\n\"Some people really shouldn't drink,\" Colin muttered.\n\nI stopped myself from chuckling and, when I noticed Lady Arnifour's shoulders gently rise and fall with a wearied sigh, knew it was time to focus on the business at hand. \"How long ago did you notice Elsbeth beginning to come round?\" I asked her.\n\n\"A couple of hours.\" She turned abruptly and headed back to the marble staircase. \"The man on duty heard groaning and ran to get Mrs. O'Keefe. She was the first one to check on her.\"\n\n\"Has she opened her eyes?\"\n\n\"No.\" She led us up the sweeping stairway. \"The poor dear must be in terrible pain. I sent Mr. Heffernan to notify the doctor and he sent him back with an elixir of Belladonna to ensure she sleeps through the night. He's promised to come first thing in the morning.\"\n\n\"Have you given her any?\" Colin asked.\n\n\"We haven't needed to.\"\n\n\"Good. There's little chance she'll gain consciousness with a bellyful of that in her. I'm anxious to speak with her before your doctor sends her into any sort of medicated slumber.\"\n\n\"But she mustn't be allowed to suffer,\" I reminded.\n\n\"Of course not.\" He shot me a sideways glance that encouraged me to contain myself. \"Her well-being is paramount, which is why we mustn't forget that she alone holds the key to what happened at that barn, so until she's able to speak with us, her life remains in grave danger.\"\n\n\"It's all too horrible.\" Lady Arnifour sagged. \"How someone could want to cause that poor girl harm.\"\n\n\"Not just harm,\" Colin corrected. \"It's about self-preservation now, which can be a most powerful inducement.\"\n\n\"Well, there's no one in this household who would wish such a thing.\"\n\n\"No? . . .\" Colin said that single word in such a pointed way that Lady Arnifour missed the top step and lurched precariously forward before he stabbed an arm out and steadied her. She took a moment to collect herself, but none of us made any further comment.\n\nThe man posted outside Elsbeth's door barely glanced at us from his tipped-back chair, head thrown back, legs akimbo, arms folded neatly across his chest. He wasn't asleep\u2014yet\u2014but it was easy to see it would only be a matter of time. As soon as everyone in the house settled in for the night, he could almost certainly be counted on to join the ranks of the dreaming. Another fine example of Inspector Varcoe's crack staff.\n\nLady Arnifour swept past him as dismissively as he deserved, most likely having arrived at the same conclusion. Yet he could still be counted a deterrent just by virtue of being there, for it was less likely anyone would try to strike against Elsbeth with him planted outside her door, whether fully awake or not.\n\nThe three of us crept into the room as though we might disturb her slumber. Mrs. O'Keefe was seated by the bed crocheting what looked to be a large coverlet. It billowed across her lap and cascaded to the floor in a tumult that surrounded her for three feet around. She looked as if she were on the verge of cocooning herself inside its very profusion and I wondered if that might not be part of what she meant to do.\n\n\"Anything?\" Lady Arnifour whispered as we pressed near the bed.\n\n\"No, ma'am.\" She immediately began gathering the blanket in great folds, tossing it over one arm with the practiced hand of someone who has done it many times before. \"She moans and flinches every now and then, but that's all.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\n\"You needn't thank me, ma'am. You know how I feel about Miss Elsbeth.\" She aimed her sentence at Colin and me, and I thought her sentiment heavy-handed. Just who was she trying to convince? She moved across the room, drawing the train of knitting as she went, and gently pulled the door shut behind her. It was the only delicate thing I would ever see her do.\n\n\"How do you think she looks?\" Lady Arnifour cast an anxious glance at me, remembering, I was sure, Colin's reference about my passing knowledge of medicine. I thought it a good thing she didn't know it was actually nothing more than survival skills garnered while in the East End. Nevertheless, I leaned in close to Elsbeth to get a better look. There seemed little change in the few days since we'd last seen her. The swelling of her face had only marginally receded and the bruises around her eyes and cheeks had deepened to the blue-black of thunderheads from an impending storm. There was some improvement in her breathing, however. It was less labored and no longer contained the rattle that so often signals the last struggles of a soul to tear itself free of its body.\n\n\"I do believe she is a bit better,\" I announced, though I did not dare go further. I reached out and touched her forehead, and was stunned to find her exceedingly hot. I knew it to be the sign of a battle against infection raging within, but before I could reach for the basin of water at her bedside she flinched slightly and muttered something as thin as her breath. It was all Colin needed. He wrenched me aside and bent so far over her that his ear nearly grazed her lips.\n\n\"What . . .\" It was Lady Arnifour's turn to plow through me. \"Can you make out what she's saying?\"\n\nColin's brow furrowed as he patiently hovered a hair's breadth above her, but there was nothing else. I suspected her sudden outburst had been due more to the feeling of my cool hand on her burning face than any desire to reveal information, but decided to keep my peace.\n\n\"No,\" he lamented as he stood up. \"But I can assure you that we shall be spending the night here tonight and the next one after that if need be. We will protect this young woman as if she were our own, and should she truly awaken at any time, you will be the first person we send for.\" His brow furrowed as he turned to look at Lady Arnifour. \"I trust my determination to stay at her bedside will not in any way impugn your finer sensibilities.\"\n\nLady Arnifour's hand fluttered up to her neck. \"Of course not . . . whatever you think best, Mr. Pendragon. The room next door is empty and I shall have Mrs. O'Keefe prepare it at once in case either of you should require some rest. I'm sure you will find it suitable.\"\n\n\"You are most thoughtful.\" He smiled. \"And let us hope we will have the answers we seek by morning.\"\n\n\"For the sake of your niece,\" I hastily added.\n\n\"That would be such a blessing.\" She sighed heavily and I knew she held little hope. \"Very well then,\" she said after a moment. \"I shall leave you be.\"\n\nAs soon as she closed the door again I turned to Colin. \"I really don't think she's going to be waking up and telling us any stories tonight.\"\n\nHe yawned as he pulled Mrs. O'Keefe's chair closer to the bed. \"I'm sure you're right, but I don't mind if the rest of the household thinks it possible.\"\n\n\"One thing we have to do is get her fever down. Dunk your handkerchief in the basin of water and apply it to her forehead. As soon as it becomes warm rinse it out and do it again. That alone should help her to feel better.\"\n\n\"Then perhaps she will be able to surprise us tonight.\"\n\n\"I hope so.\" I stifled a yawn. \"Do you really think Lady Arnifour knows who did this?\"\n\nHe glanced at me. \"She may not have proof,\" he said, his sapphire eyes crackling with the surety of his words, \"but I'm certain she's suspicious of someone. It's the only reason she's hired us with such conviction to prove the innocence of her dear Victor. If she had any doubts, if she wondered at all, we wouldn't be here now.\"\n\n\"It's all very disturbing, made ever more so by the fact that we're here to protect Elsbeth.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"We are here to protect her as we tighten the noose. With a little bit of well-placed pressure we shall see who cracks about the seams first.\"\n\n\"You mean to incite the perpetrator to action again, don't you?\" He patted his waistband where his revolver was hidden. \"I'm prepared for whatever may come.\"\n\n\"I hope so. We both know that desperation can be a tragic motivator.\"\n\n\"That it can,\" he said as he unbuttoned his jacket. \"Now go get some sleep so you can spell me in a few hours.\"\n\nI yawned again and went back to the hallway to find the room we'd been promised, and as I passed Inspector Varcoe's nameless sentry I was incensed to find him with his head lolled fully back, a tiny thread of drool spinning down from one corner of his slackened jaw. He looked as comatose as Elsbeth, so I nicked the side of his chair as I strode past. His head snapped forward and he bolted up with a snort, batting his eyes furiously to chase the tendrils of sleep away. He glanced at me as he dragged a sleeve across his wet chin.\n\n\"Sorry,\" I muttered without a shred of regret.\n\nHe shrugged me off with a scowl, but at least Colin's first line of defense was back in operation.\n\nI headed down the hall and nearly collided with Mrs. O'Keefe as she came barreling out of the next room. She was cradling a wad of linens under one arm and nursing an expression of marked exasperation. \"Oh,\" she grumbled as she pulled up short. \"That room is ready for the two of you.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\nShe stared at me but said nothing more before turning and moving down the hall in the opposite direction.\n\n\"She's a bloody sow, that one,\" a male voice piped up behind me, and for a moment I thought it was the sentry outside Elsbeth's door. As I turned, Eldon stepped out from the shadows, a sneer alight on his face. \"Can I tempt you with a nightcap?\"\n\nMy instincts demanded I give a polite refusal, yet curiosity overruled my brain as I considered that I just might be able to learn something useful. Eldon was the only one in the household whom we hadn't had a chance to speak with alone. I was tempted by the prospect of being able to coax some information from him. I held my tongue and allowed him to lead me back down to the library.\n\n\"What will you have?\" he asked as he circled the wood-paneled bar in the far corner of the room.\n\n\"Whatever you're having,\" I replied flippantly, as I had no intention of drinking anyway. I'd already eyed a plant near my chair to surreptitiously \"water.\"\n\n\"I'm drinking scotch with a whisper of soda.\"\n\n\"That'll be fine, though I will ask you to lean my drink in the opposite direction. A bit of a lightweight, I'm afraid.\" I chuckled.\n\n\"Oh I could give you some lessons.\" He winked at me as he came around the bar and handed me my drink. \"It's really all about tolerance. The more you drink the more you can tolerate.\" He clinked our glasses with a laugh. \"So tell me . . . ,\" he said as he settled into a chair across from me. \"How long have you and the prestigious Mr. Pendragon been saving the world from itself?\"\n\n\"About twelve years.\" I took the thinnest sip of my drink and wondered if the smarmy expression on Eldon's face ever gave way to anything even remotely resembling warmth.\n\n\"Twelve years?!\" He shook his head with that same smirk. \"Then you must know all the secrets.\"\n\n\"Know them, and have written them down.\"\n\n\"Intoxicating . . . ,\" he sneered with a laugh. \"Perhaps we'll all get a read one day. . . .\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" I gave him a coy smile, \"but what about you? What secrets might you be hiding?\"\n\nHe held up his glass. \"I'm afraid my secret is poorly kept.\"\n\n\"Well, I would hardly call a preference for spirits to be the stuff of secrets. Now murder . . .\"\n\n\"Oh!\" He wagged a finger at me as he snickered, \"Aren't you the wily one.\"\n\n\"Has your sister returned yet?\"\n\n\"Kaylin?\"\n\n\"You have others?\"\n\nHe snorted delightedly. \"My darling sister is due home by week's end. Have you met her yet?\"\n\n\"We have.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you found her charming.\" He stood up and meandered back behind the bar. \"But let me assure you that she can be a right tyrannical little bitch when she wants.\"\n\n\"I'll try to remember that.\"\n\n\"I'm sure she was on her best behavior,\" he scoffed, foregoing the subterfuge of soda as he refilled his glass. \"The Arnifour progeny can be such a mixed bag. But I'll bet you've noticed that.\"\n\n\"Is this about secrets again?\"\n\nHe came back around with his glass and pulled his chair so close to mine that our knees were nearly touching when he sat down again. The stale smell of scotch radiated from him like putrefaction from a corpse. \"You're a clever one, aren't you? I will tell you this: You get my sister started on that women's suffrage bollocks and you'll find her every bit the rabid dog the rest of us are. She and that ridiculous pack of man-eaters she insists on idolizing have the temerity to advocate that women are the equal of men. Can you imagine?\" He bellowed a great, sloppy laugh. \"If you ask me, that Pankhurst twat should be hauled home by her disgraceful husband and chained to her washbasin.\"\n\n\"You do know our sovereign is a woman\u2014\"\n\n\"How very puckish, Mr. Pruitt. No wonder your Mr. Pendragon likes having you around.\" He lifted his glass and took a drink, all the while keeping his eyes leveled on me. \"I do find you intriguing,\" he said as he lowered his tumbler. \"Do I intrigue you?\"\n\n\"Everyone in this household fascinates me.\"\n\nHis grin widened. \"Outstanding. I love being a suspect.\"\n\n\"Then why are you always so well oiled when we're around? Seems like you might be finding it all a bit too much.\"\n\n\"Now you're just being boorish.\" He stood up and wandered over to the fireplace with a pout, allowing me to finally tip part of my drink into the nearby plant. \"Do you want to know what I think about my father's murder?\" He turned around and glared at me and I could see that I had finally pressed through his artifice.\n\n\"More than anything else.\" I toasted him with my half-empty glass.\n\n\"And I thought it was my company,\" he sneered before laughing and toasting me back. \"Here's the thing, Mr. Pruitt: My father didn't have any enemies. Underachievers seldom have enemies.\" He tossed back part of his drink. \"Don't misunderstand\u2014my father was a good man in his own way: reliable, knew his place, that sort of rot, but I'm convinced his life goal was no greater than to marry into money. After he did that there really wasn't much else for him to do but sire a few offspring and twaddle about in a bit of business here and there.\"\n\n\"What sorts of businesses?\"\n\n\"He ran a stud farm for a while, but couldn't make a go of it. My mother made him divest it when he hadn't turned a profit in eighteen months.\" He shook his head and chuckled. \"She's a bloody corker, that one. But who can blame her? It was her money. My father would've been better off if he'd just rented out his own services,\" he snorted lecherously. \"That became evident when he put some money into a West End production. Turned out he was giving more to the leading lady and most of the chorus than financial backing. Such prowess is a curse of the Arnifour men.\" He leveled his eyes on me and smirked as he tipped his glass back again. \"You can just imagine my dear mother's dismay . . . or perhaps relief. Needless to say she put an end to that business as well.\"\n\n\"What about your father's last business partner, Warren Vandemier?\"\n\n\"Warren Vandemier?\" He leaned against the fireplace mantel as though giving it some real thought before abruptly snapping his eyes back to mine and growling, \"Warren Vandemier is a weasel!\"\n\n\"A weasel?! And what sort of business were they engaged in?\"\n\n\"Opium.\"\n\n\"Opium . . . ,\" I repeated like a fool, sucking in a quick breath even as my stomach curdled. \"No one's mentioned that before.\"\n\nEldon laughed out loud, too long and too hard. \"My parents spent the greater part of their marriage staying out of one another's way.\" He came back around and stopped right in front of me, staring down at me. \"Tell me the truth, Mr. Pruitt: My mother didn't hire you to find my father's killer, did she? She only hired you to prove that Victor's innocent, isn't that right?\" And to my amazement the look on his face was every bit as lucid as my own.\n\n\"I'm sure I don't remember the exact details of what she said at our first meeting,\" I replied, unwilling to give him that win.\n\n\"A selective memory.\" He snickered. \"I'm sure many of your clients have appreciated that quality.\"\n\n\"I'm sure they have.\" I returned a terse smile. \"But tell me, how did your father get himself caught up in the opium trade?\"\n\n\"Caught up?!\" He laughed. \"You make it sound like my father was an innocent, and I can assure you he was not. My father went through a great deal of my mother's money on countless schemes over the years, which is why this place and its pathetic staff look the way they do. That was my father's contribution. You should've heard the rows my parents had over the years. Is it any wonder my sister and I remain unattached?\"\n\n\"And the opium?\" I pushed again, trying to keep this feckless man in a singular direction even as I grappled with the spectre of my old nemesis.\n\n\"A pretty shrewd opportunity for the old bastard to earn some of the fortune back, I suppose.\" He sauntered back over to the bar. \"It was the money. That's what drove my father. He'd hand over a pile of it if he thought he could get a bigger one in return. Refill?\"\n\n\"No. What about his latest business? Was it widely known?\"\n\n\"He had little to do with the details. It was all very neat, very upper-class. Would you expect anything less of the Arnifours?\"\n\n\"And your mother?\"\n\n\"That old sack of bones knows exactly what she wants to know. Don't let her bluster fool you. She certainly knew about Abigail Roynton.\"\n\n\"You're referring to the rumor of an affair?\"\n\n\"Rumor?! That's priceless.\" He came back over to me and sat down, his voice thick with sarcasm. \"Father was a bore at discretion.\"\n\nTo my surprise Eldon did not seem to see the irony in his statement. \"So what are your thoughts on this case then? You say your father had no enemies and yet he was involved in the opium trade. That is most certainly a dangerous business. In which direction do you think the perpetrator lies?\"\n\nHe stared at his tumbler as though peering into a fortuneteller's ball, his mood darkening as his eyebrows slowly knit together. \"My mother,\" he finally muttered. \"She hired some cretin to bludgeon my father's skull. My cousin . . .\" He gave a dismissive shrug. \". . . An unfortunate casualty, I suppose. The price of war.\" His lips curled down and then he suddenly turned and threw his glass into the fireplace, sending the flames roaring back to life. \"God help that vile bitch.\"\nCHAPTER 15\n\nNight had permeated every living thing by the time I found myself inexplicably standing by the blackened bones of the barn at the far end of the Arnifour estate. I was tired, exhausted really, and couldn't even remember why I'd dragged myself all the way down to this miserable spot at such an hour. The wind had picked up and was whistling around with such force that it stung my face. I tried to recall what lunacy had compelled me down here even as I gradually became aware of the lathered snorting of a horse being ridden hard from somewhere over my left shoulder\u2014from the woods.\n\nI realized at once that Colin must have discovered me missing and sent one of the Heffernans to fetch me back, and yet, as the thundering sound drew ever closer, I began to feel, though I cannot say how, that the unseen presence bearing down upon me was not an ally. I looked around just as the rider cleared the dense underbrush from atop a great midnight stallion, his face hidden within the dark recesses of a hooded cloak that billowed behind him like the snapping tongue of Satan himself.\n\nThe stallion reared up and bolted toward me, its powerful haunches gleaming in the moonlight with the sweat of its effort as it carried its spectral rider relentlessly forward. I turned to run, straining to suck in gulps of air as I tried to reach the relative sanctuary of a nearby stand of bushes. Even so, I could smell the horse's hot grassy breath quickly closing the gap. This is it! my mind screeched.\n\nI opened my mouth to holler into the vast night before I could be struck by the blow I knew was coming even though no one would hear me.\n\nAnd then it came.\n\nNot to my head as I'd been so sure that it would, but to my shoulder. And as I struggled to twist around I jarred myself so abruptly that my eyelids flew open and I lurched up from the bed I'd been lying on to find myself staring into the blas\u00e9 face of the sentry who'd been posted outside Elsbeth's door.\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon sent me ta fetch you,\" the guard mumbled. \"It's past midnight. I think he means ta switch.\"\n\n\"Of course.\" I pushed myself fully up and mopped my brow with my sleeve, grateful to see the man heading out of the room without further comment. It would be good to stay awake for a while.\n\nI went to the basin and splashed water on my face and quickly ran my wet fingers through my hair. As I passed the guard, already well situated in his chair with his legs akimbo and his head threatening to bob back, I grunted a hasty thank-you.\n\n\"The cavalry's here,\" I announced with much false bravado as I let myself into Elsbeth's room to find Colin alert at her bedside, a shiny crown spinning effortlessly between the fingers of his right hand.\n\n\"So it is.\" He stood up and stretched. \"And none too soon. This is dreadfully dull duty.\"\n\n\"Has she stirred at all?\"\n\n\"Not even a whimper since I got her fever down. Did you have a good rest?\" I told him about my conversation with Eldon, how the Earl was invested in the opium trade, and the young man's thoughts about his parents and sister. \"Well done.\" He grinned. \"Though this case grows more complicated by the day. The opium trade . . .\" He let his voice trail off.\n\n\"We've time to talk about that later. Get some rest.\"\n\n\"Yes . . . ,\" he yawned as he shuffled toward the door. \"Be vigilant, my love.\"\n\n\"You needn't worry,\" I said. \"I shall be fine.\"\n\nThe door clicked gently as he left, making me suddenly feel very much alone in spite of poor Elsbeth. I settled into the overstuffed chair and reached across to feel her forehead, and was relieved to find it cool to the touch. A sigh escaped my lips as I folded my arms across my chest and leaned my head back, preparing for the hours that lay ahead. My eyes were drawn to the sweep hand of the bedside clock as it bounced off the demarcated hash marks by the light of the flickering oil lamp. In no time at all I could feel my eyelids beginning to droop. Before I could push myself back upright to mount the good fight, I had already lost. The night's seductive caresses crept in upon my mind, releasing my alertness with the vague shadings of mirage, only this time the illusions were even more cunning, for I found myself sitting in Elsbeth's room staring at a shadowy vision. There was a man on the opposite side of the bed leaning far over Elsbeth. All I could tell was that he was tall and slender and had dark hair, which was plainly evident since I was staring at the crown of his head.\n\nI wanted to cry out, to find my voice and startle this apparition, but as so often happens in dreams, try as I might, nothing would come. I seemed destined to sit there in my delusory slumber while this faceless man finished the horrific job he had started. But as I sat there in my panicked catatonia, the most remarkable thing happened; for the first time that I can recall I was able to bear down to the bottom of my being and produce a stifled sort of yelp. It came out rather otherworldly, like the final strangled squeal of some fallen mythical beast. Which led to the second most remarkable thing; the man abruptly jerked his head up and in the wavering light of the single oil lamp I could see the spectral face of Nathaniel Heffernan.\n\nHe looked stricken; clearly as stunned as I was to hear my garbled cry, and quickly rose and rushed for the door. I leapt to my feet before my head could register what was happening and had to seize the back of the chair to keep from toppling over. In that moment I realized that I had not been dreaming. I had seen Nathaniel.\n\nI lunged after him, my mind swimming nonsensically, but was forced to come to a quick halt when I reached the darkened hallway. He was nowhere. Because of my carelessness, he was already gone. I glared at Inspector Varcoe's guard; the man was snoring as peacefully as a contented mutt. Infuriated with him and myself I kicked at the side of his wooden chair and sent him, and it, rattling to the floor.\n\n\"Nathaniel Heffernan was just here!\" I bellowed, ignoring the fact that he might realize I'd also been dozing. \"A ruddy fat lot of good you were.\"\n\n\"I'm . . . I'm sorry. . . .\" He scrambled up and righted his chair, sliding back into it sheepishly. \"Is she all right?\"\n\nShe . . . Elsbeth . . . I hadn't even looked at her.\n\nI flushed with renewed fury as I hurried back to her bedside. I don't know if I noticed the stillness of the covers pulled across her chest first, or the fact that the rhythm of her breathing was no longer evident. Whichever the case, the outcome was the same.\n\n\"Get Colin!\" I howled. \"Get Mr. Pendragon now!\"\nCHAPTER 16\n\nTime, although admittedly rigid, sometimes feels as though it has a multiplicity of variances depending upon a given situation. For instance, when a moment is joyous and filled with laughter it seems to dash by like a dizzying streak of wind. Conversely, when an event is stout with boredom it appears to pass with the lumbering grace of a beached walrus. Worst of all, however, are the occasions of dread when time insists on dragging its unwilling participant irrevocably closer to the consequence against which nothing can be done. This last scenario is precisely where I found myself as I waited in the study for Colin to gather the household. I felt at turns adrift, condemned, and tortured, and always with that same insidious sense of regret and failure.\n\nEldon was pacing in front of the fire he'd prodded to life in a blue-and-white-striped nightshirt, his hair askew, but for once without an attendant drink in his hand. Lady Arnifour was seated across from me, her full-length robe pulled tight at the collar and a mask of white cream glued to her face with a cap yanked fully down over her hair. Mrs. O'Keefe, as always, had come no farther than the door, having taken a seat just inside the room while clutching her old flannel robe tightly about herself. She wore no facial unguent like her mistress, so there was nothing to soften the sour expression that seemed to be her constant companion regardless of the time.\n\nVictor Heffernan was the last to arrive and was slumped on a stool on the far side of the fireplace wearing a look that made me think he suspected that something unique to him was terribly wrong.\n\nColin had banished us all here but had yet to join us himself, although I couldn't figure out why. He'd said little to me after I'd confessed the truth other than to vanquish me to the study to wait for the others. As I glanced around at the others I wondered what they thought of being awakened and pulled from their beds at such an hour. If any of them feared that Elsbeth had awoken to name her attacker, I couldn't see it on their faces.\n\nWhen it began to feel like Colin might never come back, time playing its nasty tricks again, he finally strode into the room with the ease and serenity of a man arriving at a midday luncheon. \"I do apologize for this unfortunate timing,\" he said, \"but I've some bad news and I thought it best for you all to hear it at once.\"\n\n\"Where's Nathaniel?\" Victor bolted up. \"Why isn't he here?\"\n\n\"Nathaniel is missing,\" he answered. \"And I'm afraid Elsbeth has died.\"\n\nLady Arnifour gasped and let out a sob.\n\n\"It wasn't Nathaniel,\" Victor stammered, casting his eyes about the room with desperation. \"You can't tell me you think Nathaniel had anything to do with it.\"\n\n\"Of course he thinks it,\" Eldon sneered. \"Don't be an ass.\"\n\n\"My boy's innocent!\" Victor shouted even as he sagged against the fireplace mantel.\n\n\"I haven't accused your son of anything.\" Colin spoke calmly. \"It's too soon to make any presumptions. We will have to wait until the inspector's man returns with the coroner.\"\n\nI caught a glimpse of Mrs. O'Keefe from the corner of my eye and saw that she'd gone quite ashen, her eyes red with tears.\n\n\"Surely, Mr. Pendragon,\" Eldon forged on, \"a man of your renown can connect two such obvious events in a straight line? I cannot imagine why my mother would be paying you were that not the case.\"\n\n\"Stop it!\" Lady Arnifour howled as she struggled to regain her composure.\n\n\"Come now, Mother.\" Eldon's face flushed red. \"Surely even you can see the correlation. Elsbeth's dead and Nathaniel's gone missing. Now if that pompous ass you hired and his trained monkey aren't willing to venture a presumption of the obvious then I should think they're no better than those ridiculous twits from Scotland Yard.\"\n\n\"Eldon,\" she hissed, this time in a low, flat tone.\n\nBut Eldon was not to be silenced. \"I'm beginning to wonder if we can even accept Mr. Pendragon's word of Elsbeth's demise? Perhaps he's too recklessly\u2014\"\n\n\"Enough!\" she bellowed, bolting to her feet as she snatched up a small marble ashtray and heaved it at her son's head. Time played its trick one last time as the leaden object careened toward Eldon, missing him by a fraction before imploding into the mirror above the mantel. The sound of its strike was deafening, not because of its volume, but because of the ferocity and intent with which it had been hurled. The tinkling of a thousand tiny shards of glass punctuated that fury as they rained down to the floor.\n\nEldon recoiled, as he was surely meant to. And when the last of the fragments settled to the ground I became aware that Mrs. O'Keefe was gone. The door to the kitchen was left swinging to and fro in a silent arc as though marking the retreat of some ghostly aberration that had gone unnoticed by this roomful of hysterics.\n\n\"I am sure, Mr. Pendragon . . . ,\" Lady Arnifour's voice was raw and taut, \". . . that you will be able to see to the authorities without my help.\"\n\n\"Of course.\" He nodded. \"We shall take care of everything. You must try to get some rest.\"\n\nShe did not acknowledge his words but kept her eyes fixed on the doorway as though getting out of the room were the only thing that mattered. I glanced at Victor and thought he looked on the verge of going after her, but before he could seem to make up his mind she had already whisked herself out of the room as suddenly as her housekeeper had. He stared after her a moment, the slump of his shoulders signifying his distress, and then he too made for the door without so much as a word to the rest of us. There was nothing he could say, yet I feared his silence hinted at his own doubts about Nathaniel.\n\n\"She tried to kill me!\" Eldon growled as soon as Victor was gone. \"She bloody well tried to kill me!\"\n\n\"You can be trying . . . ,\" Colin tossed off as he fished a perennial crown out of his pocket and blithely rolled it around his fingers.\n\n\"She's the devil's slag,\" Eldon carried on shrilly. \"All she ever did was piss on Father. You'd have thought she'd earned her inheritance herself the way she carried on.\"\n\n\"Did your parents often argue about money?\"\n\n\"Look around, Mr. Pendragon. She makes us live like we're on our last pound. But don't be deceived. She's got plenty. She simply prefers to dole it out. Gives her control and keeps us under her wretched, hateful thumb.\" He stalked back to the bar.\n\n\"But what about your father's business dealings?\" I spoke up. \"I thought you said your father squandered a great deal of your mother's money?\"\n\n\"A man has to do something,\" he shot back, pouring himself another glass. \"I'm done in. I've nothing more to say. And the only thing I want to hear from you is that you're going to throw that old shrew behind bars. She's the one who's really capable of murder,\" he seethed as he turned and stormed out of the room.\n\nColin heaved a burdened sigh and sat down next to me, the coin still sliding effortlessly betwixt his fingers. Long shadows, too numerous for the oil lamps to allay, were cast against the walls in a flickering tableau. \"What do you make of all of this?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"It's all very sad. There's enough vitriol here to suspect all of them and I don't even think we've heard the worst of it.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I agree.\"\n\nMy voice hitched as I turned to him. \"I'm so sorry I let you down tonight.\"\n\n\"Let me down?\" He stilled the coin as he looked at me. \"You never let me down, my love.\"\n\n\"It's my fault Nathaniel was able to sneak into Elsbeth's room. I fell asleep. I gave him the opportunity to . . .\" I couldn't even finish the thought.\n\n\"To what? Watch her die? Because I'm quite certain that's all he did. Elsbeth died without anyone's assistance tonight. You only had to look at her to see that she was neither smothered nor strangled. You'll see when the coroner arrives.\"\n\n\"But . . .\" And then I realized he was right. I hadn't even looked at her. I hadn't checked for the bluish hue of smothering or the telltale marks of strangulation on her neck. It had never even occurred to me since I'd been so intent on my own culpability. \"Really?!\"\n\nHe squeezed my hand as he offered a sad smile.\n\n\"Then why did Nathaniel run off?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"Why indeed?\"\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\"As you can see, we're in the embassy district,\" I said as though Colin hadn't already figured that out for himself. We were headed down the side street where I'd followed Mademoiselle Rendell days earlier. It was all familiar, if markedly drearier, in the early afternoon sun.\n\n\"To be more precise,\" he pointed out, \"these would be the embassies of the Austro-Hungarian nations. The Austrians, Hungarians, Bulgarians, Romanians, Bohemians, Moravians, Silesians, and Galicians are all here. And if I'm not mistaken\"\u2014and we both knew he wouldn't be\u2014\"the Russians are here as well.\"\n\n\"All right then.\" I yanked open the plain wooden door behind which sprawled the dark, elegant pub I'd followed Mademoiselle Rendell into. \"Let's see which of those countries you see represented here.\"\n\n\"Amazing . . . ,\" he muttered as he took in the lavish interior. We seated ourselves at the long bar and Colin ran an appreciative finger along the magnificent wood. \"I've never seen a singular piece of burl this large before,\" he marveled. \"And given the little flags with the double-headed eagles hanging from the ceiling and the photograph of Nicholas Romanov, I would say the place is Russian, very Russian.\"\n\n\"Very good.\" I grinned. \"Keen eye for the obvious. But you were the only one who realized what happened with Elsbeth last night. Even Victor looked mortified for Nathaniel, but you knew he hadn't done anything.\"\n\n\"Still,\" he shrugged, \"it was nice to have the coroner confirm it.\"\n\nI shook my head. \"You knew.\"\n\nHe shrugged again and ordered us a couple of ales before spinning around on his barstool. \"So which was the booth our mademoiselle set herself to work in?\"\n\n\"To your left. The one near the back.\"\n\n\"Vaguely discreet.\" He snickered. \"Is the barkeep the same?\"\n\nI glanced at the hairy, round-faced man pouring our drinks. \"I don't think so, but he looked like that.\"\n\n\"And the man she met here\u2014the foreign gentleman you insist was not Russian\u2014is he here?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And tell me again why you're so certain he wasn't Russian?\"\n\n\"You know this. . . .\"\n\n\"Remind me.\"\n\n\"Back at Easling and Temple . . . ,\" I prodded, \"I knew a lad who was from St. Petersburg. His father was an advisor to Czar Alexander.\"\n\n\"Ah yes . . . ,\" he said with more enthusiasm than was necessary, and I knew he was ribbing me. \"There were a lot of Russian boys attending the academy back then. What was the boy's name?\"\n\n\"I don't remember,\" I lied, refusing to play along with his game.\n\n\"Wasn't it something like Grigorii Yuspenovich?\"\n\nI scowled at him. \"Lucky guess.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Well, you were only fourteen and hadn't met me yet. You had nothing to compare him to.\"\n\n\"I knew who you were. Everyone at Easling and Temple knew who you were. Ever the golden boy, smart . . . star wrestler . . . aloof . . .\"\n\n\"Please. You'll make me blush.\"\n\n\"As if that were possible.\"\n\nHe chuckled before abruptly turning and calling out to the barkeep, \"Excuse me. . . .\"\n\nAs the burly man sauntered over to us I wondered what Colin was up to. \"It appears my glass has something in it beyond the ale I ordered. While that may be sufficient for your regular clientele, it is most assuredly not sufficient for me. Might I get a glass that's been washed since Her Majesty's coronation?\"\n\nThe man's face curled sourly as he seized the glass, his bushy eyebrows furrowing into one long, seething caterpillar. \"I dun't see anyt'ing!\" he snapped.\n\n\"Then perhaps I might suggest you consider a consultation with one of our fine British ophthalmologists?\"\n\nThe man's eyes narrowed to black beads as he glowered at Colin. \"You t'ink you're funny?\"\n\n\"All I want is a decent ale in a clean glass. You wouldn't serve this to one of your diplomats if you could get one of them in here,\" he scoffed.\n\n\"De ambassador's staff comes here all de time.\" The man leaned into Colin's face. \"And ve serve many staff from France and Austria and Hungary and all over the empire, so . . . ,\" and without another word he picked up Colin's glass and tossed it into the sink behind the bar, \". . . ve don't need you. You may leaf.\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" Colin stood up. \"It would seem that someone is always getting tossed out of this place. Must be ruddy hell on the bottom line.\"\n\n\"Ve have plenty business.\"\n\n\"So you say.\" He stood up. \"What do we owe you? Maybe you can hire someone to wash the dishes with our payment.\"\n\n\"Out!\"\n\nThe door swung shut behind us and Colin snickered as he absently rubbed his chin. \"Extraordinary.\"\n\n\"What's extraordinary is that you just riled that man up for fun,\" I said as I followed him back to the main thoroughfare. \"Was that really necessary?\"\n\n\"It wasn't for fun\u2014I needed some information and figured that was the easiest way to get it from him. Surely you see that.\"\n\n\"What I see is that the only thing we learned is that they serve a lot of diplomats.\"\n\n\"Yes. But at least we have narrowed down our list to the Austro-Hungarian nations. Surely you would've recognized a French accent. . . .\"\n\nI frowned. \"Of course. And I could have picked up an Austrian one as well.\"\n\n\"Well then, perhaps the man you overheard talking to our mademoiselle was Hungarian or Moravian.\" He peered at me. \"Are you familiar with either of those?\"\n\n\"No. And what makes you think the man she met has any correlation to a diplomat anyway?\"\n\n\"Because even though Nicholas married Victoria's granddaughter, you know as well as I do that relations between our countries are acutely strained, and yet, here sits a most opulent czarist pub right in the midst of our city. I guarantee it's subsidized by their government and that it serves much more than just spirits. No doubt Russia's allies partake in those favors, which would include the Austro-Hungarian Empire.\"\n\n\"Maybe so, but you can't be sure any of it's related to the disappearance of Michael's sister.\"\n\n\"Not yet, but we'll know something shortly.\"\n\n\"We will?\"\n\n\"Indeed. We're going to Her Majesty's Foreign Ministry Office.\" He turned and grinned at me, knowing I would abhor the implication.\n\nI screwed up my face. \"Must we?\"\n\n\"It's time we find your Slavic man, and the only way to get information about the embassy staffs is through the Foreign Ministry Office.\"\n\n\"It could take us days to look through all the files for those countries. There'll be thousands of them. We don't have the time.\"\n\nHe looked at me with grim determination. \"Unless you have a better idea . . .\"\n\nBut I didn't, so within the hour I was stepping into the Foreign Ministry Office. It isn't that I have anything against our esteemed Minister Randolph Fitzherbert; he is an elegant, thoughtful, and intelligent man who has served our commonwealth admirably. Rather it is the effusive woman one must endure to procure a visit with Mr. Fitzherbert: one Adelaide Crouch.\n\nColin and I had barely crossed the threshold from the bustling hallway when the young woman leapt to her feet as though her chair had spontaneously combusted. With her hairpin curves and froth of blond hair piled atop her head she looked like a confection better suited to a bakeshop than a government office. She hustled around her desk with her eyes glued solely on Colin, wearing a smile that seemed about to cleave her head at any moment.\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon!\" she squealed. \"What a pleasure to see you.\" As she gripped his hands she slid her eyes to me and halfheartedly allowed, \"Mr. Pruitt.\"\n\n\"Miss Crouch.\" I conjured up a small smile, but she'd already returned her gaze to Colin.\n\n\"Always a pleasure to see you as well, Miss Crouch,\" Colin said, leaning forward and kissing her lightly on each cheek, which sent her into a bray of twitters. He was incorrigible.\n\n\"Please, Mr. Pendragon.\" She batted her eyes at him even as a foolish grin spread across his face. \"I keep telling you to call me Adelaide.\"\n\n\"But of course. Is Randolph in?\"\n\n\"Stuck in Parliament, I'm afraid. I don't expect him in for the rest of the week. You know how those old Whigs can be.\" She chuckled.\n\n\"That I do. I've sat through enough of those sessions listening to my father. Dreadful. But tell me, might we impose upon you to show us a file or two in Randolph's absence? You know I wouldn't ask if it weren't important.\" He flashed his dimples again and I knew we were about to see just how intoxicating she really thought his charms to be.\n\n\"Well, I really shouldn't,\" she said as she smoothed the front of her dress in a nervous gesture that nevertheless managed to amplify her undeniable endowments. \"What sorts of files are you looking for?\"\n\n\"We could start with your personnel file, little one, so that I can write great good things about you.\"\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon . . .\" She laughed and waved him off as I wondered how he came up with such inanities. \"You're just playing with me.\"\n\n\"You must forgive me,\" I interrupted, afraid I would lose my lunch if I did not stop these two, \"but time is of the essence here and we really are in great need to see the Minister's files on the Austro-Hungarian embassy staffs. Most specifically the Romanians, Bohemians, Moravians.\"\n\nShe flicked her gaze to me as her smile dropped. \"Ever about business with you, isn't it, Mr. Pruitt. You really should learn to enjoy yourself like Mr. Pendragon.\" And her eyes once again sought his as another smile eased across her face.\n\n\"I'm afraid he is right.\" Colin sighed as though I had ruptured some delicate mood, and perhaps I had. \"The spectre of reality always seems to rear its inexorable head.\"\n\n\"Well, no harm's been done,\" she said as she continued to stare into his eyes. \"You know I understand. It must be such a burden to have harpies badgering you all the time.\"\n\nHad Colin not been standing between Miss Crouch and me I would have seriously considered reaching out and backhanding her. But Colin did present bodily interference in that moment, and as my better nature kicked in I settled for giving him a sharp poke to the small of his back to signal the end of my tolerance.\n\n\"You give me too much credit.\" He chuckled, and I knew I had played into his ego, which only galled me more. \"But I am in need of a gander through Randolph's embassy files for the Austro-Hungarian Empire. If we could start with the Hungarians? I promise I shan't remove a thing.\"\n\n\"It's going to take days, Mr. Pendragon.\"\n\nI saw a flicker of concern flit across his face before he cracked a tight smile and said, \"All the more time to spend in your company.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Pendragon . . .\" She smiled. \"Well, I suppose it would be all right. I've never known the Minister to refuse you any request and I would never want to be the one to stand in your way.\" Her voice had suddenly developed a huskiness and I began to wonder whether I was missing something. \"We keep the Hungarian and Austrian staffs up here, but the rest are down with the clerk.\" She finally disengaged herself from Colin and headed to the door of an attendant room filled with tall wooden filing cabinets.\n\n\"We won't need to see the Austrian staff, but I'm afraid we likely need to look at the rest,\" he called as she disappeared from sight. \"Are you out of your mind?!\" He rounded on me in a harsh whisper. \"We need her cooperation. Would you please try to control yourself?!\"\n\n\"She called me a harpie,\" I shot back.\n\n\"Then stop acting like one.\"\n\nMy jaw dropped, but I managed to keep from uttering what had streaked across my mind as Miss Crouch returned with a great stack of files cradled in her arms.\n\n\"Here are the dossiers on the Hungarian staff.\" She heaved the pile onto a low table across the room. \"If you'd like to see any complete files just let me know and I'll have Record Keeping pull them. It can take a day or two, but you know I'll do everything I can to get it expedited for you, Mr. Pendragon. I'll have to go and have the rest pulled for you. What order do you want them?\"\n\nColin shrugged uncomfortably. \"Alphabetically? Shall we say the Bohemian staff next? Perhaps we can sort through two countries a day?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"That will take quite some time.\"\n\n\"Yes . . .\" And I noticed he didn't sound nearly as enamored as she did.\n\n\"I'll go and fetch the Bohemian files for you.\"\n\n\"I'll come with you,\" he piped up with renewed vigor. \"You certainly can't be expected to haul those files around by yourself.\"\n\n\"So chivalrous, Mr. Pendragon,\" she said, and I knew I'd been set up. \"And perhaps I could interest you in some tea while we're downstairs? It'll take a few minutes for the clerk to collect the dossiers anyway. . . .\"\n\n\"A brilliant idea.\" He gave her a generous smile as he turned to me. \"You know the man we're looking for. . . .\" He didn't bother to say the rest; he didn't need to; he hadn't seen the man with Mademoiselle Rendell; only I had. No matter, I'd be happy to have the two of them away from me anyway. \"I'll fetch you a cup.\"\n\n\"Oh no, Mr. Pendragon, you mustn't,\" Miss Crouch said with a distinct note of pleasure. \"If anything were to spill on the files it would be the end of me. The Minister would be livid.\"\n\n\"Don't worry about me,\" I chirped a bit too merrily as I took a seat at the table.\n\nI'd hardly gotten the words out before Miss Crouch inserted her arm through Colin's and ushered him toward the hall. \"The caf\u00e9 is right by the clerk's office,\" she purred. \"They have the best nibbles there.\"\n\n\"I'll get you a nibble.\" Colin smirked at me. \"You can eat it after we're done.\"\n\n\"No thank you. I don't need a thing. Please, just go.\" And with that Miss Crouch swept him out the door.\n\nThe vacuum left by their absence was refreshing even as I stared at the daunting task before me. I hoped I would recognize Mademoiselle Rendell's companion if I saw him. A handful of minutes at the back of a poorly lit pub were hardly the best of conditions under which to remember a face. Nevertheless, I flipped open the first folder and set to work.\n\nThe first photo showed a great bulbous-faced man with a dimpled chin and more hair sprouting from his ears than the top of his head. This, the attendant description stated, was the Hungarian ambassador's attach\u00e9, a career politician with more vowels in his name than consonants. It was not the man I'd seen huddled with Mademoiselle Rendell, and while I wasn't surprised by this immediate failure, I wondered why the fruits of a search are never borne out beneath the first leaf overturned.\n\nI threw the file aside and plunged into the next few, saturating myself in a world filled with men named Bela, Adelbert, Fodor, Lasio, and Vilmos. None, however, proved to be my bearded target.\n\nThe work was proving as tedious as I'd feared, made worse by the fact that facial hair was obviously de rigueur for Hungarian men. It seemed the axiom was proving to be true that we all eventually begin to resemble one another based on our overwhelming desire to fit in. My spirits sank with the flip of each new tintype.\n\nI glanced up at the clock and saw that an hour and a quarter had already passed. The Hungarian files before me were barely more than half-exhausted and I began to wonder where Colin and Miss Crouch had gotten to. A cup of tea and few triangles of bread with cucumber or watercress could hardly take more than a half hour or forty-five minutes to consume at the outside. And as for the Bohemian dossiers, Miss Crouch had said they would take a few minutes for the clerk to pull, not better than an hour. I only hoped she and Colin were having fun as I grudgingly flipped open the next file before me.\n\nA sudden burst of high-pitched laughter turned my gaze to the hallway. It seemed the indolent duo was back. I glanced at the photo in front of me and found myself staring at yet another pair of deep-set, black eyes, this time belonging to a man with enough facial hair to resemble a bear. No details could be garnered on either the shape or depth of his face given its almost complete carpeting of fur.\n\n\"We have returned,\" Colin announced with high spirits, his arms cradling another huge load of files.\n\n\"Smashing,\" I groused as I flipped the folder shut.\n\n\"Have you had any luck?\"\n\n\"No!\" I snapped in spite of my efforts not to.\n\n\"Then I have good news for you.\" He beamed, his voice sparkling in defiance of my mood. \"While the clerk was collecting the files from Bohemia, I had the most interesting conversation with him.\"\n\n\"Oh, it wasn't him,\" Miss Crouch fairly gushed. \"You figured it out by yourself.\"\n\nHe gave her a quick smile before turning back to me. \"The man is practically a historian. He looks like he's worked there for longer that I've been alive. He reminded me of the alliance between Russia and Bulgaria seventeen years ago.\"\n\n\"Bulgaria?\"\n\n\"Forged by Czar Alexander the Third. Do you recollect your history lessons?\" he prodded.\n\n\"I think I was otherwise occupied that semester,\" I drolled.\n\n\"He freed the Bulgarians from Turkish rule,\" Miss Crouch said. \"Everybody knows that.\"\n\n\"Well, at least the clerk downstairs does.\" I smiled acerbically.\n\n\"When he said that it suddenly struck me that if we're looking for someone involved in illicit doings being run out of a Russian-backed pub, you can be sure the Russians would want to remain beyond reproach should the activity ever be discovered.\"\n\n\"So what's your point?\"\n\n\"That's why the man you heard wasn't Russian. Deniability.\"\n\n\"Okay. So what does that have to do with the Bulgarians?\"\n\n\"Bulgaria owes the Russians for their release after five hundred years of Turkish oppression. If the Russians are up to something, you can be sure they're funneling it through their most grateful ally. That man you heard wasn't Hungarian or Bohemian or Moravian. . . .\" His grin stretched across his face.\n\n\"He's Bulgarian,\" I answered, finally understanding.\n\n\"We shouldn't have any more files to go through than these.\" He set the pile down in front of me, revealing the Bulgarian insignia on their cover.\n\nWe both began poring through the stack of files, Colin flicking them open and shoving them under my nose while Miss Crouch hummed at his shoulder when not leaning over him in a feigned attempt to be useful. More than twenty minutes elapsed in that way, fraying my nerves to the point of rupture, when I suddenly caught sight of the face we'd been searching for. Heavily bearded, darkly complected, black eyes set within a full, round face, he looked like so many of the men I'd been sifting through, yet there were distinct differences here. His nose was broad and flat and his forehead short, and I knew it was the man I'd seen in the booth with Mademoiselle Rendell.\n\nI hoisted the photo into the air and practically shrieked that we'd found him. \"Outstanding.\" Colin beamed, and for a moment I thought he might be about to hug me.\n\nOnly Miss Crouch looked disappointed.\n\n\"So what do we do now?\" I asked.\n\n\"Let us learn all we can about . . . ,\" he leaned in over the file, \". . . Vitosha Harlacheva. I believe he'll be the person through whom we shall lure Miss Rendell.\"\n\n\"Who?\" Miss Crouch asked with a note of displeasure in her voice.\n\n\"A woman caught in some nasty business,\" he muttered.\n\n\"How terrible,\" she said, but there was no fervor in her words.\n\n\"So you think this man has something to do with Angelyne's disappearance?\"\n\n\"He's the first person she went to see after our visit. Mr. Harlacheva is the key. I'm certain of it. But right now . . . ,\" he looked over at me, \". . . we must pay a visit to the late Earl's partner, Warren Vandemier. If you're up to it.\"\n\n\"Of course I am,\" I answered too quickly.\n\n\"Good,\" he said, but his eyes hesitated a moment too long. \"Because I suspect he has some information that will help. I'm not at all pleased with our progress on that account. Every day that goes by makes the trail colder, and I will not be stymied by that infuriating family.\"\n\n\"Why, Mr. Pendragon,\" Miss Crouch enthused, \"are you investigating the murder of the Earl of Arnifour?\"\n\n\"I'm not investigating it.\" He turned to her. \"I am solving it.\"\nCHAPTER 18\n\nA light rain had begun to fall in direct opposition to my mood, which had begun to rise the moment we'd left the Foreign Ministry Office.\n\nOnce Colin had been able to study Mr. Harlacheva's slim dossier we had made a hasty exit, much to the disappointment of Miss Crouch, who was even further vexed to realize that we would not need to come back over the ensuing days, either.\n\nI tugged the brim of my hat farther down over my forehead to keep the rain off my face while I waited for him to hail a cab. The inclement weather had succeeded in driving nearly everyone into a carriage and I began to wonder if we were going to have to walk. I was just beginning to resign myself to such a fate when Colin suddenly lunged into the street and seized the reins of a passing horse, tugging it to the side of the road.\n\n\" 'Ey!\" the driver bellowed from under his tiny awning. \"Wot in the bloody 'ell do ya think yer doin'?\"\n\n\"Official business!\" Colin bellowed right back. \"You will take us across town and you will do it quickly and safely.\"\n\n\"Like 'ell I will. Piss off. I'm done fer the day.\"\n\n\"You will take us where I say or you'll be done for good,\" Colin said as I grabbed the carriage's door and leapt in before he could get it moving again, and despite the withering look I received as I ducked inside, I was grateful to be out of the rain.\n\n\"It'll cost ya extra!\" the man growled back at us.\n\nColin shoved in next to me and hollered back, \"Move!\"\n\nTwenty-five minutes later we had gone all the way across town and were back in Whitechapel, a distance that should have taken us twice as long. Five minutes after that we were sitting before the well-cluttered desk in the tight, slovenly office of Warren Vandemier.\n\nThe late Earl's associate was a man of middle years, probably not more than a handful ahead of Colin, though harder looking in every way. Heavy lines creased his face into a perpetual frown that confirmed Warren Vandemier had led a difficult life. He was jowly, but not fat, though there was a noticeable bulge about his midsection. His brown hair was short and curly, with a liberal infusion of gray flecks along the crown of his face. To me he looked exceedingly tired, the weight of the existence he'd managed to scratch for himself having taken its toll in his rounded shoulders, hollow eyes, and leaden manner. Yet, when he spoke, he lit up with the passion of a much younger man, winking and gesturing with great animation. He seemed to come alive only when thusly engaged, for as soon as he shut his mouth his demeanor once again collapsed in on itself.\n\nMr. Vandemier's official occupation was property manager, the collector of rents for the noble gentry who did not dare venture down to the flophouses and sweatshops that comprised at least some of their financial holdings. But we were here about his unofficial trade.\n\n\". . . and the Arnifours . . . ,\" he'd been blathering on about inconsequential inanities from the moment we'd sat down, as evidenced by the crown sailing between Colin's fingers for the last several minutes, \". . . also had a fair bit of property at one time in this neighborhood.\" He smiled like an overzealous teacher who has no idea that his class is trading spitballs behind his back. \"That's how the Earl and I became acquainted. I managed a few buildings for him. I'm the best there is, you see.\" He leaned forward and winked for what seemed the hundredth time. \"I have a way with the scrubbier classes. I was born here. Right around the corner, in fact. My success is all my own.\" He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin, though it was a bit hard to decipher given the ruts creasing his face that begged to belie his good fortune.\n\n\"I'm sure your mother is proud,\" Colin muttered.\n\nThe man's brow caved in, an expression that seemed far more customary than his gregariousness, and then he broke out in a laugh that sounded as false as his prior gusto had been. \"Very good, Mr. Pendragon. Perhaps I have pushed the point a bit far.\"\n\n\"Let me be honest, Mr. Vandemier\u2014\"\n\n\"I would expect nothing less.\"\n\nAnd without even realizing it Warren Vandemier had handed Colin the freedom to proceed with the delicacy of a charging rhino.\n\n\"Very well.\" He flashed a tight smile as he quickly tipped his shiny silver crown back into his vest pocket. \"Then we should like to dispense with this twaddle and hear about your opium business.\"\n\n\"Opium?!\" The man's eyes popped so unnaturally wide that it looked as though a charge of lightning had ripped through him. \"Opium?!\" His voice squeaked again. He cleared his throat. \"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about.\"\n\n\"It's a narcotic, Mr. Vandemier. Derived from the poppy.\"\n\n\"I know what it is.\" He frowned, pushing himself to his feet in a great blustering display. \"But I find your inference to be an offense.\"\n\n\"We are not fresh from the womb, Mr. Vandemier. Please do not suppose you can deceive us with your hackneyed indignation.\"\n\n\"You have no reason to accuse me,\" he blustered, but with less vigor.\n\nAnd this time I knew it was my turn to speak up. \"When I was a foolish lad,\" I said in as cavalier a tone as I could muster, \"I lived for a time just around the corner on Limehouse. For room and board I did the bidding of a woman whose opium club was the most prominent in the city. So let me assure you that I can smell its residue in your hair and clothing, and given your heavy-lidded look, I would say that your last use of it was less than two hours ago.\"\n\n\"You worked for Maw Heikens?!\"\n\n\"I did,\" I answered brusquely, aware of Colin's disapproving glare on the side of my face.\n\n\"Then you've got nothin' on me!\" Vandemier snapped. \"Room and board my ass.\"\n\n\"Look,\" Colin interrupted with evident distaste, \"I really don't give a good bloody hell how you earn your living. I just want a few answers to some simple questions.\"\n\n\"Well, just because I run an opium club doesn't make me a murderer,\" he shot back.\n\n\"A murderer?\" Colin glared at him. \"Have I accused you of being a murderer?\"\n\nMr. Vandemier narrowed his eyes as he glared at Colin. \"I know why you're here. I know what you think.\"\n\n\"You know what I think?!\" Colin replied, glancing at me with a smirk. \"I'd bet my life that you don't.\"\n\n\"I had nothing to do with Samuel's death . . . or that whore niece of his, either.\"\n\n\"A man who's not afraid to have an opinion.\" Colin's smile disintegrated. \"May I remind you that I've not accused you of anything. We have only come here in search of some information.\"\n\n\"Well, there's nothing for you here. Samuel and I had our disagreements over the years, but I sure as hell didn't want him dead. Do you know that he owed me money? That old sod was into me for a pretty pound.\"\n\n\"Was he . . . ?\"\n\n\"Damn right he was! Seed money, Mr. Pendragon. We'd just opened the club. The finest supplies, private rooms for the wealthiest patrons, the most beautiful women to tend to a client's every need. Better than anything Maw Heikens ever did.\" He slid his eyes to me. \"But that old witch Samuel was married to kept her devil's eye on him. She refused him so much as a farthing unless she knew exactly what he meant to do with it. Which left me to put the money up myself. All of it. His share and mine. Bastard swore he'd pay me back.\" He hawked into a spittoon sitting on the floor by his desk. \"I was a bleedin' fool. I should've known Samuel would be as worthless as his title.\"\n\n\"Then why did you go into business with him?\" I asked.\n\nHe swung his exasperated expression in my direction, his eyes squinting to near pinpoints. \"I had no idea what a useless turd he was until after I'd fronted him the money. Before that he'd been throwing cash around like he grew it on his estate. It was a sham. All he had was what that shrew wife doled out to him. And all he did with that was chase whores. I don't believe she really gives two shites who murdered him. Good riddance, I say. But I sure as hell didn't do it.\" His narrowed eyes raked our faces several times as if daring us to refute him before he added, \"And you can both bugger off if you think you're gonna pin it on me.\"\n\n\"You must have an extraordinary alibi,\" Colin said.\n\n\"I was at the club same as I am every night. Plenty of people saw me. Plenty.\"\n\n\"Users?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Are you asking me to accept the addled remembrances of addicts? That's your defense? I'm not sure what a magistrate would make of that.\"\n\n\"I've got nothin' to hide.\" He leaned forward eagerly. \"Ask me anything.\"\n\nAnd once again I saw the whisper of a sparkle in Colin's eyes. \"How accommodating.\" He stroked his chin. \"When was the last time you spoke to the Earl?\"\n\n\"About a week before he got himself killed. He was supposed to bring me an overdue payment, but of course he showed up without so much as a blasted shilling. Had some slag in his carriage and a load of piffle about needing more time. I told him he had a fortnight or I'd damn well tell that harpy wife of his everything. Then he got himself killed. Anything ta toss me outta my money.\"\n\n\"Such disdain. Makes it hard to imagine why you persisted in your dealings with him.\"\n\n\"What was I supposed to do? You think a titled man comes along every day looking to get into the opium trade? I thought he'd be able to open doors for us. Get us noticed by a better class of people.\" He turned and assaulted the spittoon with something he'd hacked up. \"Played me for a ruddy fool.\" He glared at us from beneath his furrowed brow. \"I tell you what, I wish I had killed him. God bless the man who did.\"\n\n\"Touching,\" Colin muttered. \"And why should we believe you didn't hire the man upon whom you are so happy to impart the good Lord's blessings?\"\n\n\"He owed me money, Mr. Pendragon. Haven't I made that clear?!\"\n\n\"Ah yes . . . money. So one of the mightiest motives for murder happens to be your saving grace.\"\n\nWarren Vandemier rose to his full height and scowled fiercely down upon Colin's towhead. \"This conversation is over!\" he growled with as much menace as an opium user can muster. \"I have nothing more to say to you.\"\n\n\"That may be,\" Colin stretched his legs out languorously, \"but I am not finished with you, Mr. Vandemier. Now sit down, because you do not want me to stand up.\" He delivered his last sentence in an offhanded, playful sort of way, but I knew he meant it, and so did Mr. Vandemier, who gave a petulant harrumph! as he dropped back into his seat, folding his arms across his chest as if to demonstrate some measure of defiance.\n\n\"I will thank you to conclude this interview quickly!\" he snapped. \"I have work to do.\"\n\n\"Mr. Vandemier . . . ,\" I started to say, hoping to dispel a bit of tension.\n\n\"Sod off!\" he barked at me. \"I'll not be attacked by the likes of you.\"\n\n\"The likes of me?! I walked away from opium years ago. You're still an addict.\"\n\n\"An addict never walks away!\" he growled back, inciting my deepest fear.\n\n\"You'd best watch yourself, Mr. Vandemier,\" Colin cut in, leaning forward and fixing his eyes on him. \"I'll not tolerate you speaking to Mr. Pruitt like that.\"\n\nWarren Vandemier rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and I knew he was in dire need of something to soothe his rattled countenance. Which meant that what was left of his resistance was likely on the verge of collapse. \"May we please finish this?\" he pleaded.\n\n\"If you can contain your theatrics then I'm sure we can be done quickly. I only have a few more questions\u2014for the moment.\"\n\n\"The moment?!\" He looked positively apoplectic as he sagged in his chair. \"Get on with it then. . . .\" He made a rotating gesture with his hand as if that were going to have any impact.\n\nColin drew in a slow, languid breath. \"Who was the woman you mentioned who accompanied the Earl the last night you saw him?\"\n\n\"The woman? I have no idea. She didn't come up. You oughta ask Abigail Roynton. She'd probably know. She's the one he tossed over for the new one.\"\n\n\"Ah . . . ,\" Colin muttered. \"We haven't had the pleasure of meeting the Arnifours' neighbor yet.\"\n\n\"She's somethin' else.\" He let out a low, wolfish laugh. \"And I'm not just referring to Samuel, either.\"\n\n\"You aren't suggesting . . .\"\n\n\"Oh, but I am. . . .\" He leered at us.\n\n\"Eldon?\"\n\n\"The prodigal son himself!\" he sneered with great enthusiasm, seeming well pleased that Colin had followed his accusation. \"The lovely widow is not known for being discerning. She'd probably even give you a go.\"\n\nColin leapt to his feet and seized the man by the lapels and yanked him nearly the full way across his desk. \"You are a reprehensible little turd, Mr. Vandemier,\" he snarled within a hair's breadth of his face.\n\n\"I haven't told a single lie,\" his voice cracked.\n\nColin heaved him away and stepped back, allowing the flustered man to recoil slightly as he fussed with his clothes as though to reengage his dignity.\n\n\"A last question then, and I will caution you to remember your place. Why did you disparage the Earl's niece earlier?\"\n\nMr. Vandemier took several mincing steps back in a clear attempt to avoid any further molestation. \"She came to the club on several occasions, Mr. Pendragon, and not always under the tutelage of her uncle. And in spite of the pride I have for my business, I presume you will agree that it is not a place for a young girl of breeding.\"\n\n\"Elsbeth came to your opium den?!\"\n\n\"More than once.\"\n\n\"And Eldon and Kaylin?\"\n\n\"Eldon and his father rarely spoke. Samuel seemed to have little use for his son. As for Kaylin . . .\" An uncomfortable look crossed his face. \"Have you met her?\"\n\nColin nodded.\n\n\"Then I should hardly think you'd need to ask the question.\"\n\n\"And why would that be?\"\n\n\"Because the only reason Kaylin Arnifour would go to an opium club would be to liberate the whores and burn the place to the ground. Now please, Mr. Pendragon, are we finished here?\"\n\nColin continued to glare into the man's fretful eyes. \"For now, but you can be sure we'll be back to see your club within the week.\"\n\nThe man frowned and shook his head. \"I don't like it.\"\n\n\"I don't care.\"\nCHAPTER 19\n\nWere it not for Colin's pocket watch it would have been impossible to tell the hour by the time we finally took our leave from Warren Vandemier's office. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the temperature had dropped in tandem. With the addition of saturated horse droppings, rotten produce, and assorted other leavings littering the streets it was all I could do not to cringe as I pulled my cloak tighter about myself. Even still, it all smelled better than the residual of opium that had hung about Warren Vandemier.\n\n\"We aren't more than fifteen minutes from Stepney Green . . . ,\" Colin said, flipping his own collar up. \"Fancy a walk?\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose,\" I answered. \"So long as the rain holds out.\"\n\nWe came to a halt in front of Michael and Angelyne's walk-up and all I could think about was going inside to get warm. Even the stale residue of opium that assailed us as we entered did not bother me. \" 'Oo's there?\" the familiar voice of Mademoiselle Rendell barreled out in response to Colin's knock.\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon and Mr. Pruitt.\"\n\nThere was a great sigh as a flurry of locks and bolts were unlatched before she abruptly halted and called out, \"Talkin' don't pay me bills.\"\n\n\"This time it will.\"\n\n\"Two cost extra.\"\n\nColin leaned forward and placed his mouth close to the door. \"Let us in and I shall make it worth your while. Persist in keeping this sorrowful rectangle of rotting wood between us and I'm afraid I shall have to tear it down and we'll converse for free.\"\n\n\"All right . . . all right . . .\" Another dead bolt unseated as Mademoiselle Rendell finally yanked the door open. \"We ain't all born to the colors, ya know.\"\n\n\"Whatever that means, I'm sure it's a good thing,\" he muttered.\n\nI tried to ignore the scowl she leveled on me as I followed him inside. We remained on our feet awaiting an invitation to sit down, if such a space could be found, but none was forthcoming anyway. Instead she moved away from the door and said, \"Wot?\"\n\n\"May I?\" Colin gestured at her well-worn divan still cluttered with all manner of papers and magazines.\n\n\"If ya must.\"\n\n\"Not feeling hospitable this evening?\" He smirked as he shoved the mess to the end of the couch and sat down, motioning for me to do the same, which, grudgingly, I did. \"We haven't come here to set you in a foul state. If you'd rather not be given the opportunity to respond to the statements of your Bulgarian friend . . .\" He shifted a blank gaze to me.\n\n\"Vitosha Harlacheva,\" I filled in, wondering what he was up to.\n\n\"Yes. Mr. Harlacheva. We can just take his word.\"\n\n\" 'Oo?\" Her stance remained unwavering, but her voice betrayed a hint of vacillation.\n\n\"He's one of the couriers for the Bulgarian attach\u00e9. Rather a broad-faced, bearded gentleman whom you met at the pub by the Russian embassy the other night. The one who informed you that your mutual business was finished for the foreseeable future.\"\n\n\"Toshy?\" She blurted the name out as a furrow creased her brow. \"And what did that shite say about me?\"\n\n\"That you're blackmailing him,\" Colin replied.\n\n\"You're lyin'.\" She shook her head and laughed, but her eyes remained wary.\n\n\"Am I? Perhaps you'd like to come with us to the Bulgarian embassy and confront Mr. Harlacheva?\" I admired his bold stroke given that I thought it likely she might choose to, but she did not. She harrumphed and stalked across the room, tossing a pile of garments to the floor as she sank into a chair and wound her arms tightly around herself.\n\n\"Go on,\" she said.\n\n\"Your friend . . . your Toshy . . . ,\" he flashed a smirk, \". . . has been under surveillance by the Yard for some time now.\"\n\n\" 'E ain't no friend a mine,\" she sneered.\n\n\"Nevertheless, it would seem he may be involved in everything from the illegal drug trade . . . ,\" I noticed he had slowed his speech and was keeping a watchful eye on her, \". . . to passing sensitive government information, and quite possibly involvement in a child slavery ring he claims you spearheaded.\"\n\nShe bolted up, her face a cloud of rage. \" 'Ow dare 'e! That weren't my idea, it were 'is.\" She began pacing and cursing under her breath. \"I've a right mind to go down there and kick 'is bloody, lyin' arse.\"\n\n\"Why don't you just help us get Angelyne back? Doing a good turn will get you high praise from me and I'm sure Inspector Varcoe will . . .\" Colin let his voice trail off as Mademoiselle Rendell swung around and glowered at him.\n\n\"I see 'ow it is,\" she sneered. \"I must look like a right dumb slag ta you, but I know what you're up to.\"\n\nHe pursed his lips and leaned back. \"And what would that be?\"\n\nShe wagged a finger at him, shaking her head and chortling with great self-satisfaction. \"Toshy didn't tell you no bollocks 'bout me headin' nothin'. You're just tossin' about for information on that pissant little bitch.\"\n\n\"She's only twelve.\"\n\n\"I 'ad me a list a clients long as me arm by the time I was twelve. So what?!\"\n\n\"And look how well you turned out.\"\n\n\"This is getting us nowhere,\" I jumped in, stopping her before she could say anything further. \"The choices you've made for yourself are your business. You'll hear no judgments from us. But doesn't Angelyne deserve to make her own too?\"\n\n\"I ain't makin' no apologies!\" she snapped.\n\n\"None are warranted,\" Colin said.\n\n\"There's a need fer what I do.\"\n\n\"Of course . . .\" I could hear his patience ebbing.\n\n\"I weren't born no 'ore.\"\n\n\"Education is the backbone of every profession.\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\nHe smirked as he leveled a gaze at her. \"Did you deliver Angelyne to Mr. Harlacheva?\"\n\n\"Don't you look down on me!\" she fired back.\n\n\"My dear . . .\" He turned his head away. \"I shan't even look at you at all.\"\n\nShe glared at him as though trying to gauge whether he was still playing her for the fool and I doubted this ploy would work, either. Nevertheless, he neither moved nor slid his eyes back to her, holding himself with remarkable stillness. I hardly knew where to look myself, so I settled on dropping my gaze to the well-worn floor, heavily stained with the accumulated remnants of too many people. \" 'E pays me real good,\" she finally confessed to my amazement.\n\n\"How many have there been?\"\n\n\"Seven.\"\n\n\"And where does he take them?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I never see 'em again. It ain't me business. I don't ask.\"\n\nHe turned back and looked at her. \"Thank you for telling the truth.\"\n\n\"A girl 'as ta make a livin'.\"\n\n\"As we all must, but at what cost?\"\n\n\"A livin' don't cost nothin'.\"\n\nHe stood up and moved to the door with me close on his heels. \"Yours will cost you your freedom if I ever find you involved in business like this again. If you wish to prostitute yourself that's your right, but you will never make such a decision for another human being again. Especially for a child. Do I make myself clear?\"\n\n\"Are you threatnin' me?\"\n\nHe gave a tight smile. \"Absolutely.\"\nCHAPTER 20\n\nBy the time we got outside again we discovered that the sky had finally begun to let loose its watery burden, which meant that we were well wet by the time we reached the Bulgarian embassy. Though he'd managed to flag a carriage without too much trouble, it turned out to have a tear in its roof the length of my hand, which had allowed the pelting rain access throughout the entire fifteen-minute journey. When we finally reached the embassy and I took proper refuge under the building's huge stone portico, I turned back just in time to see Colin thrust his hand up through the gash in the roof to hand the driver his fare.\n\nWe hurried inside the colonnaded foyer and I was struck at once by its grandeur. Massive inlaid teak panels stretched all the way to the ceiling two floors overhead and wide swaths of jade green marble lay beneath our feet. Freedom from Turkish rule had clearly done the Bulgarians some good.\n\n\"We are here . . . ,\" I heard Colin addressing a dark-eyed beauty behind an ornate counter across from the entrance, \". . . to speak with one of the ambassador's diplomatic couriers. A Mr. Vic\u2014\" His voice abruptly wound down.\n\n\"Vitosha Harlacheva,\" I filled in as I came up behind him.\n\n\"Do you hev an appointment?\"\n\n\"Colin Pendragon and Ethan Pruitt.\"\n\nThe young woman's eyes drifted up and were as black as the waves of hair falling about her shoulders. \"Vot?\"\n\n\"Our names . . . Are we in the appointment book?\"\n\n\"You do nut know yourselves?\"\n\n\"Would we have come all this way on such a dreadful evening without an appointment?\" Colin smiled easily.\n\nThe woman glanced over at one of the two apathetic young guards posted on either corner of her desk, but neither returned her gaze. I wondered if indifference was a Bulgarian trait before realizing that it was likely neither spoke much English.\n\n\"Vot is your nem again?\" Exasperation had crept into her voice.\n\n\"Colin Pendragon. I'm with Her Majesty's Foreign Ministry Office. I investigate accusations of improprieties at the embassies. I'm sure we'll have no such issues here, unless there's some problem with my addressing Mr.\u2014\"\n\n\"Harlacheva,\" I quickly piped in.\n\nThe woman flicked her eyes between Colin and me before finally saying, \"You vill vait here.\"\n\n\"As you wish.\"\n\nShe exited through a door behind her desk, leaving us to slowly accumulate small puddles around our shoes. I tried to figure out where he meant to go with this ruse and then wondered if he even knew himself. I shot a quick glance at the two guards and decided it was safe to press him while we waited. \"What are you going to say to this man if she lets us in?\" I said in a sort of half whisper just to be sure. \"You can't just walk in there and accuse him on the word of Mademoiselle Rendell.\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"Something will come to me. It always does.\" He turned to the guard standing closest to him. \"Might I trouble you for the time?\" The man's eyes slid to Colin's face, but there was no comprehension in them. \"No?\" He glanced at the other man. \"How about a pistol? Am I allowed to bring a pistol in with me?\" Again there was no response, the second guard not even bothering to shift his gaze.\n\n\"They can't be much use if they don't even understand what anyone's saying.\"\n\n\"All they need to understand . . . ,\" Colin smirked, \". . . is that if you make a move to go through that door uninvited, you are to be stopped.\"\n\n\"That's all good and well, but didn't you find Mademoiselle Rendell too eager in confessing her sins?\"\n\nHe looked at me. \"Whatever do you mean?\"\n\n\"She took your word on Mr. Harlacheva without much of a fuss.\"\n\n\"Why would she trust him? It's all a dirty business.\"\n\n\"She earns her keep with her cunning.\"\n\n\"She earns her keep on her back.\"\n\nI shook my head and chuckled. While he had a point, he could be sorely mistaken if he presumed that truth made her imprudent. Maw Heikens was living proof of that. I considered reminding him of that fact even though I knew he would curl up his nose at the mention of her name, but the receptionist suddenly popped her head out from behind the door.\n\n\"You vill follow me,\" she said before barking a harsh, guttural command at the two guards. The men stamped their feet in unison, bounced the butts of their rifles off the floor, and stepped back from the desk to allow us to pass.\n\n\"Nicely trained.\" Colin snickered.\n\nWe followed the young woman down several plain corridors, the embassy's budget clearly having been exhausted in the foyer. A series of short, squat guards stood at loose intervals along the hallway, making me suspect that as the budget for the building went, so did the dimensions of its soldiers. We were led through successive halls until I began to fear that we were about to be ushered right out the rear exit, but to my relief, the receptionist made an abrupt right turn and brought us into an empty conference room.\n\n\"You vill vait here,\" she said without further explanation, gesturing us to seats around a table at the room's center. As soon as we settled in, she took a practiced step backwards and pulled the door shut, leaving us on our own.\n\n\"Well . . . ,\" I glanced at him, \"at least we've made it this far.\"\n\n\"We've got quite some way to go yet,\" he answered distractedly. \"Do you have a notebook with you?\"\n\n\"Don't I always?\" I passed him the little leather folio I carry about with its small nib of pencil. \"What are you going to do?\"\n\n\"I have a thought,\" he answered smoothly as he began to scribble something onto several sheets.\n\n\"Is that Latin?\"\n\n\"Very good.\" He smiled cannily just as the door opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing full military regalia. As he strode in I realized he was not Vitosha Harlacheva.\n\n\"Zer is no Pendragoon at ze British Foreign Ministry Office,\" the towering man informed us as he scowled from across the room. \"Who are you and vot do you vant?\"\n\nColin stood up but made no effort to move toward the man, a wise choice since he was easily half a foot shorter than him. \"My apologies to the great and honorable nation of Bulgaria for having used subterfuge to gain entry.\" The man's brow furrowed with noncomprehension. Colin smiled. \"I did indeed fabricate that story, but only because there is a most urgent and personal matter that I must discuss with Mr. Harlacheva.\"\n\n\"All matters vit Mr. Harlacheva must go through me.\" He bit the words harshly.\n\n\"Of course.\" Colin nodded. \"I did mention that it is of a personal nature?\" he said, letting his voice trail off and giving me a sudden inkling as to what he was up to and why he'd written in Latin.\n\nThe giant man flicked his eyes between us, his great bushy brow furrowing deeply. \"You vill see nothing but ze alley unless you discuss your matters vit me.\"\n\n\"Very well . . .\" And now Colin did step closer to the man. \"We're from the London Lock Hospital and Rescue Home on Harrow Road and your Mr. Harlacheva came to our offices the other day. He was complaining of some discomforts. . . .\" He gestured below his waist and then flipped open my little notebook and thrust it under the man's nose. \"You can see from the results of the tests we've run that Mr. Harlacheva is suffering from the French disease. The syphilis. And\u2014\" He got no further before the man stepped back, unconsciously dropping his hands in front of his nether regions.\n\nAnd then he uttered two words I would never have dreamed I'd hear: \"Mademoiselle Rendell,\" he gasped.\n\n\"It's a misnomer, you know,\" Colin barreled on. \"It doesn't just strike the French.\" He glanced at me and chortled in a way that urged me to do the same. \"Be that as it may, we will need to retest Mr. Harlacheva to see if there's been a mistake. That does happen from time to time. And we'll need some information regarding the possible genesis of his condition.\" Colin eyed the man. \"Who was that woman you just mentioned?\"\n\n\"Vait,\" was all the great bear said before disappearing out the door with a dexterity that would have rivaled a prima ballerina.\n\n\"How did you ever come up with that?!\" I shook my head as Colin tossed my notebook back at me.\n\n\"It seemed like a good way to get a man's attention.\" He shrugged.\n\nI started to laugh but quickly turned it into a cough as Vitosha Harlacheva came stomping into the room. It was obvious by the rapidity with which he joined us that he'd been hovering close by. I wondered if he hadn't suspected meeting with us was likely to be unavoidable. It was hard to say, and his heavily bearded face gave little away.\n\nHe had broad shoulders and was of average height, much like Colin, but the similarities ended there. Mr. Harlacheva's eyes were dark and rooted deep within his broad, flat face, and his expression truly was nearly impenetrable, buried as it was within the wiry hair that seemed to spring from his cheekbones to the collar of his shirt. And while Colin's frame is solid, revealing no softness or paunch, Mr. Harlacheva had a layer of fleshy padding that covered the circumference of his frame. While I did recognize him from his t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate with Mademoiselle Rendell, if pressed I would have said he was taller, handsomer, or at the very least more presupposing than this square ape of a man. Nevertheless, he permeated a gravitas that I could not deny.\n\n\"Vat is this about?\" he growled.\n\n\"It's about an abomination.\" Colin remained where he was, his shoulders squared and his chest puffed out in his own rite of domination.\n\n\"You haff no authority here. You are standing in Bulgaria just now.\"\n\n\"That may be. But this Bulgaria is in the heart of Her Majesty's England. And I happen to have a great deal of authority here. I would be happy to demonstrate if you'd like.\" He flashed a humorless smile.\n\n\"I have done nothing.\"\n\n\"Seven young girls have been handed over to you by a woman . . . a whore. She goes by the name of Rendell.\"\n\n\"You haff me confused with someone else. Good day.\"\n\nThe man turned and made to leave before I spoke up. \"I saw you. I followed Mademoiselle Rendell two nights ago to that pub by the Russian embassy. You told her your business with her was over for now. That you were leaving the country for a time.\"\n\nHe stopped but did not turn back. It was as though he was trying to determine how best to react in order to effect the quickest end to the conversation. \"You are a liar,\" he finally said. Which was not the best choice.\n\nWith barely an intake of breath Colin hurled himself down the length of the table and punched Mr. Harlacheva in the kidneys, dropping him in a gasping heap before the man even realized what had happened. \"You will never speak to Mr. Pruitt that way again,\" he seethed through gritted teeth. \"Nor will you waste our time one second more or else I'll tear your ruddy kidneys out with my bare hands.\"\n\n\"Help!\" the man gasped in a pitifully small voice.\n\n\"Allow me.\" Colin stepped over him and yanked a handkerchief from his pocket. He pressed it over his mouth and pulled the door wide to reveal the towering military officer standing just outside, clearly waiting to be summoned if the need should arise. \"This man is contagious!\" Colin shouted into his face. He stood back and gestured with his free hand. \"Quarantine. Kapahtnh! Now!\"\n\nThe security officer nearly tripped on his feet as he stumbled backwards, his eyes as big as a fawn's. He only kept himself upright by virtue of some gravitational anomaly that I would have bet against, spinning on his heels and disappearing down the long hallway with all due haste.\n\n\"Ka-pat-nah?\" I repeated as Colin slammed the door.\n\n\"It's Russian. I don't know any Bulgarian.\" He dropped down beside the panting Mr. Harlacheva and whispered into his ear, \"In about four minutes that officer is going to return with a phalanx of guards whose sole function will be to keep you locked in this room until I can have you properly hauled away. Or maybe they'll just come in here and shoot you and put an end to the whole feral mess. It makes little difference to me. Unless you start talking. Now.\"\n\nTo his credit Mr. Harlacheva squeaked out, \"I spit on you.\"\n\n\"Unless that's a Bulgarian custom meaning you're about to purge your conscience\"\u2014Colin fished a small knife wrapped in a bit of cloth from his breast pocket\u2014\"then we shall have an issue.\" He leaned forward and waved the knife over the man's lap. \"Seven little girls,\" he said.\n\n\"Go to hell,\" came the wheezing reply, a thin film of sweat shining on his forehead like a grease slick.\n\nColin's hand flashed like a striking serpent and for a moment I didn't know what he'd done. Mr. Harlacheva gave a short, high-pitched yelp and my heart rocketed as I tried to see if Colin had actually stuck him.\n\n\"I shall cut your bits off one at a time,\" Colin seethed into the man's closest ear, \"and then fix it so you have to squat to piss. That'll teach you to mess with children.\"\n\nMy eyes shifted south and I finally spotted the knife tucked up between the cowering man's legs, the point obviously being driven home in a most convincing way, since Mr. Harlacheva was not moving a hair. Colin gave another quick jerk and sheared through the crotch of the man's slacks and undergarments, releasing his cowering genitals.\n\n\"You are devil,\" he started to blubber.\n\nColin poked the scalpel up against his tender flesh. \"I won't ask again.\"\n\n\"They are gone. They vent on ship.\"\n\n\"What ship? To where?\"\n\n\"St. Petersburg. Ve make papers for them and they go vork for Russian nobles. Not bad life.\"\n\n\"I'll bet. What's the name of the ship?\"\n\n\"Ilya Petrovina. But is too late.\"\n\n\"It's never too late. I'm bloody British, we don't believe in failure. Nine hundred years of squabbling royals have taught us that much.\" He leaned directly over Mr. Harlacheva and twitched the hand wielding the knife just slightly, but it was enough to make the Bulgarian release a fresh torrent of sweat. \"We shall take our leave now.\" Colin spoke slowly. \"And you will take your leave of this kingdom.\" I saw his hand twist almost imperceptibly and thought for a moment Mr. Harlacheva was going to swoon. \"And should I ever see your face in this city again, I shall make good my threat by whittling pendants of your bits. Do you understand?\"\n\nThe man blinked his eyes and I realized he was too afraid to speak.\n\n\"Excellent.\"\n\nIt took only a second more for Colin to move his hand away and spring to his feet. Vitosha Harlacheva scrambled to cover himself as best he could, the color slowly returning to his face. He looked beaten, desperate, and I should have recognized that fact sooner than I did, but I was unnerved myself and didn't realize what was bound to happen.\n\nColin sneered as he started for the door, but before I could even begin to follow, Vitosha Harlacheva leapt to his feet and threw himself fully at Colin's back, colliding hard and sending the two of them careening into the nearest wall. I threw myself forward to try to pull the burly man off Colin, but he'd already half-twisted around, and then I heard Mr. Harlacheva cry out, and just that fast it was over.\n\nThe bearish man fell to the floor like a gutted fish, his hands covering his exposed crotch as a river of blood flowed through his fingers. It took another moment before I spotted the small dark lump of fuzzy flesh on the floor near Colin's shoe and realized what it was.\n\n\"Come on!\" he barked at me.\n\nI didn't need to be told twice as I hopped over the man and fled out the door, slamming it shut behind me. We were well down the hallway when he suddenly barked at me, \"Put your handkerchief over your mouth!\" doing so himself.\n\nI heard the drumbeat of quickly approaching men as I clutched my kerchief to my mouth and nose just as the security officer came jogging around the far corner with three men on his heels. They looked wary and not at all happy when they spotted us. \"Vat is happening?\" The officer slowed down, staring at our handkerchiefs.\n\n\"It's bad.\" Colin kept up a brisk pace, forcing the man and his troops to fall in behind to hear what he had to say. \"His flesh is dying. Falling away. You mustn't touch him or go near him. Stay away. We're going to get help.\"\n\n\"But ze ambassador . . .\"\n\n\"The ambassador will be fine!\" Colin shouted. \"Just keep everybody away from him until we get back.\"\n\n\"Yes . . . yes, of course.\"\n\nThe officer and his soldiers gradually slowed as we bolted back out to the foyer. The receptionist looked startled as we rushed out, handkerchiefs pressed tight against our faces. \"Too much cologne,\" Colin muttered as he tucked his away. \"Nasty business.\"\n\n\"Nasty,\" I repeated absently, already vexed about how we were ever going to stop the Ilya Petrovina from reaching St. Petersburg.\nCHAPTER 21\n\nThe sky was as dark as pitch, a layer of brooding clouds obscuring all signs of the moon and stars. The storm of the night before, the night spent grilling the vile Vitosha Harlacheva, was returning. It was only a matter of when.\n\nColin and I were sitting deep within the confines of a hansom cab. We had a blanket across our legs and my collar was turned up, but even so, the night's incessant cold was beginning to worm its way through to my flesh. Colin's right hand was bare as he absently spun a crown through his fingers, and I couldn't imagine how the metal wasn't freezing his skin. We'd been sitting like this, well back in the thickets down the road from the Arnifour estate, for over an hour. I couldn't imagine how the driver was tolerating the dense chill from his perch above us. We would need to slip him an extra wage at the end of the evening.\n\n\"How long do we have to sit here?\" I asked, fearing that he meant to spend the whole of the night. \"It's just that I'm worried we might get a return communiqu\u00e9 from the Foreign Ministry Office tonight . . . ,\" I started to say, but I could see by the look he flicked at me that he knew better.\n\n\"Let's give it another ten minutes and then we'll call it a night. Given the storm that's coming on I doubt any reasonable person would be going anywhere, including Victor Heffernan.\"\n\n\"Well, that's a relief,\" I leaned against him, \"because I'm freezing.\"\n\n\"Me too,\" he sighed, finally shoving the coin into his pocket and slipping on his glove. \"Besides, we have a previous engagement.\"\n\n\"A previous engagement?\"\n\n\"Indeed. We're due at the Roynton estate at half past nine this evening. The comely widow is expecting us.\"\n\n\"Abigail Roynton? She invited us to her residence? Whatever for? And who says she's comely?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"I'm guessing she would have to be, given her ability to attract both Arnifour men.\"\n\n\"Any woman with a bit of money and a reserve of spirits could attract the Arnifour men.\"\n\n\"You have a point.\"\n\n\"Why would she contact us?\"\n\n\"Actually, I sent her a message this morning informing her of our investigation. I told her we hoped she might be able to offer some insight. Her answer came as we were leaving tonight\u2014she said she'd be charmed.\"\n\n\"Charmed? Seems an odd word given we're conducting a murder investigation.\"\n\n\"But you forget,\" he arched an eyebrow, \"she is a scorned woman. Remember what Warren Vandemier said about her being recently replaced in the Earl's affections.\"\n\n\"Do you really put much stock in what he says? He hardly seems a reliable source.\"\n\n\"True. But ask yourself: Who among that coterie of character witnesses is any better? Should we really dismiss his word any quicker than that of the Earl's family or staff?\" I had to concede that he had a point. He yanked out his watch and glanced at it. \"I do think that's enough for tonight,\" he said as he rapped his free hand on the metal rib of the cab's top.\n\n\"And what about Victor? Varcoe's got a dragnet across this whole area and I told you there was a photograph of Nathaniel in the Times today. It all but accused him of the killings. If he's spotted he's liable to be lynched without a second thought.\"\n\n\"I've got some lads who'll take over for us. Not to worry. Hello?\" he called out again. \"We'd like to go to the second address, please.\"\n\n\"Aye!\" the man shouted back, snapping his crop at the lone horse and guiding us out of the thicket.\n\n\"We'll let the boys fill in for the rest of the night.\" And sure enough I caught sight of a young man settling in by a hedge, his collar pulled up to cover the better part of his face as though he was hunkering down for a lengthy stay, which undoubtedly he was. I only hoped it wouldn't rain. \"They'll come by in the morning for their stipend,\" Colin added.\n\n\"I'll give them something extra if it rains.\" They would earn their money this night, but at least we were keeping them out of their usual mischief for one evening.\n\n\"Unless Victor makes a move to go to Nathaniel tonight we're going to have to stop by tomorrow and apply more pressure. He's got to do something before that incompetent inspector blunders onto the boy. They're as likely to shoot him as arrest him. They like nothing more than to tidy up a case\u2014damn the details.\"\n\nOur cab passed beneath the imposing gates of the Roynton estate, quite literally the next home over from the Arnifours', if some considerable distance away. Given the increasing moodiness of the night sky with its dense scent of rain, I was grateful we made good time.\n\nThe horse clacked down the cobbled drive through a forest of trees that led along a sharp curve before finally revealing a glimpse of the house. The difference between this home and the Arnifours' was startling. It wasn't simply the architecture, the Roynton estate having been built in the style of a French ch\u00e2teau with four rounded turrets topped by steep pointed roofs of black slate delineating the corners of the palatial structure. No. What immediately struck me was that every one of the scores of windows dotting the massive stone-block fa\u00e7ade was ablaze with light, making it look as though the house must surely be filled with a thousand people. Even the half-moon forecourt hugging the face of the building was lined with gas torchieres that broke the night's austerity with their warm glow. And the building was immaculate, from its cream-colored walls rising four stories without a mar to the cement spiraled colonnades encasing the front doors and large paned windows stretching across the entirety of the ground floor. The Roynton residence was precisely tended and full of life. It was, in effect, the antithesis of the Arnifours'.\n\nThe cab came to a gradual stop in the forecourt.\n\n\"We shouldn't be long,\" Colin said as we climbed out. \"A couple of hours at the most.\"\n\n\"Right then. I'll be waitin' under the portico if it starts ta rain. Just give us a whistle when yer ready.\"\n\n\"Fine.\" The cab clattered off to the side of the building as we climbed the half-dozen steps to the expansive porch. \"It would seem the widow must have something against the dark, as she clearly keeps her staff busy banishing it from her home,\" Colin said as he grabbed one of the knockers, a great brass lion's head with a ring clutched in its teeth, and heaved it. In less time than it had taken us to climb the steps, the doors swung wide to reveal an elegantly dressed white-haired gentleman with the stiff manner and regard of one of the Queen's own staff.\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon.\" He nodded at Colin before throwing me the usual vacant stare. \"And guest,\" he added.\n\n\"Ethan Pruitt,\" Colin corrected with a nod to me, but offering no further explanation.\n\n\"Madame is expecting you,\" he answered blithely before ushering us inside and taking a careful moment to firmly bolt the doors behind us. I couldn't help wondering if that wasn't a habit put in place in light of the recent murders at the Arnifours'. \"If you would follow me, please.\"\n\nThe man's face remained unreadable as he led us through the foyer where a massive double-spiraled staircase wound in and out of itself all the way up the full four stories. Yet, as is so often the case when Colin and I are shown in, we were deposited in a library filled with leather-bound books, overstuffed furniture, and a lifetime of collectibles. In this case the collection consisted of tiny porcelain figurines placed on every conceivable surface, including the mantel top, which encased such a roaring fire that I was sure it was being fed by a steady stream of gas.\n\nWe were offered drinks, which we both declined, and with his duties thusly completed were shut inside the giant, yet somehow claustrophobic, room.\n\n\"He had about as much personality as Mrs. O'Keefe.\" I snickered.\n\n\"If you'd grown up in an atmosphere as stuffy as this one,\" he muttered as he began poking through the books, \"you would find our Mrs. Behmoth a great deal more agreeable than you do.\"\n\n\"I wasn't born on the streets, you know,\" I shot back.\n\n\"I know. . . .\" He waved me off. He knew I'd not been raised an urchin. That had come later. That had been my own doing.\n\n\"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting,\" a smooth, husky voice filled the silence. I turned to find the storied widow, Abigail Roynton. I no longer recollect what I'd been expecting her to be like, but it was definitely not the radiant woman who stood at the door in the reflection of the warm, honeyed glow of the gas lamps. She was tall and slender, and held herself with a bearing that spoke of an upbringing above even that which Colin had known. Her face was round and open and as flawless as fresh-fallen snow, not simply the result of her age, which I knew to be in her middle thirties, but because she had clearly lived a pampered life free of anything more than a passing familiarity with the sun.\n\nHer hair was a lush and curly black, spiraling down the sides of her face even though it was pulled up in back. She wore a dress of deep greens and gold, striking for both its simplicity and the way it accentuated her meticulously trim figure. The smile that parted her lips was warm and genuine, and I was taken aback to think that perhaps this might prove to be the one person of substance among the many schemers in the late Earl's life.\n\n\"You've not kept us waiting at all.\" Colin nodded, a master of diplomacy when it served him.\n\nShe moved into the room as though she were floating above the floor. \"I trust you both were offered a drink?\"\n\n\"We were.\" Colin waited for her to settle herself on a settee near the fireplace before following suit. \"I apologize for having to bother you on such a matter as this. We're grateful you've consented to meet with us and shan't stay a moment longer than is necessary.\"\n\n\"Don't trouble yourself. There is no bother. Your note mentioned the murders of the Earl and his niece, and as you can imagine, I am anxious to help in any way I can. I'm afraid I'm unlikely to be of much use, however, as I haven't seen either of them for some months.\"\n\n\"Ah . . .\" Colin rocked back in his chair. \"Was it months, then?\"\n\nThe door to the library opened delicately and a young woman in a black serving uniform eased into the room causing no more distraction than a slight wisp of air. She carried a silver tray upon which sat a split of champagne in a silver bucket and three crystal flutes. Drinks, it seemed, were destined to be a part of this interview.\n\n\"Perfection!\" The lovely widow beamed as the girl set the tray on a side table beside her before uncorking the bottle and pouring a glass for each of us. The solemnness of our topic was momentarily banished with peculiar ease.\n\nThe drinks were served with Colin and me accepting ours as etiquette dictated. A silent toast was offered by means of thin smiles and bobbed heads as the serving girl retreated from the room, and only after we'd all had a sip did Colin persist in pushing ahead.\n\n\"Do you happen to recall the nature of your last visit with the Earl, Mrs. Roynton?\"\n\n\"Do call me Abigail.\" She flashed an easy smile. \"I simply cannot bear undue ceremony.\"\n\n\"Abigail then.\" He returned his own generous grin. \"Do you recall, Abigail, your last visit with the Earl?\"\n\n\"I most certainly do.\" She smirked at him as she paused long enough to take another languorous sip of champagne. \"Samuel was bringing about an end to our trysts, and quite badly, I might add.\"\n\n\"Trysts?!\" Colin nearly spat the tug of champagne he'd been taking.\n\nShe threw her head back and laughed. \"Come now, don't tell me I've shocked you?\"\n\n\"I would say . . . ,\" I spoke up, fearful that Colin might yet choke on the swallow he was still wrestling to contain, \". . . we're simply not used to such forthrightness.\"\n\nAbigail continued to laugh as she saluted me with her glass. \"Yes, I would suppose not. Most people are too busy trying to bury the truth beneath a veneer of respectability. I can never figure the point in that. No matter what one does, the tongues will wag. It seems to me one should simply claim their reputation.\"\n\n\"Honorable,\" I said, and easy for a person of her means to say, I thought.\n\n\"Not really.\" She winked, setting off her throaty laugh yet again.\n\n\"So the Earl\u2014\" Colin cut in, having finally managed to regain himself.\n\n\"You mean Samuel,\" she corrected. \"He had no claims to that title. One of his forebears did a turn for a balmy king and a hundred years later his progeny gets to wave around the pedigree. It doesn't sit well with me.\"\n\nColin took another nip of champagne. \"Samuel then,\" he said with a bit less grace. \"Samuel was ending your affair?\"\n\n\"Affair?\" She gazed off toward the fireplace for a moment, a distracted look on her face. \"To me the word 'affair' suggests foreign travel and clandestine meetings in romantic places. That's not what Samuel and I had. We had trysts. Right here. No travel, no romance, and only the barest nod to the idea of being clandestine. Really, Colin . . . ,\" her voice dropped lower, hitting a timbre that threatened to raise the hairs on the back of my neck as she turned her considerable focus back on him, \". . . are you truly such a prig?\"\n\nHe held her gaze as he cocked his head to one side. \"Now there's something I've never been accused of.\" He slid his eyes to me and I gave him a look that I hoped would warn him to say no more. I didn't particularly like this woman, her familiarity and unflinching zeal to speak her mind. I couldn't see what made her any better than Mademoiselle Rendell and yet knew she would be aghast at such a suggestion.\n\n\"My apologies.\" Colin tipped his flute in her direction. \"Do tell me then, how long was it that you and Samuel were having it off?\"\n\n\"Two and a half years.\"\n\n\"Indeed?! That's quite the extended tryst. And to what end were the two of you carrying on?\"\n\n\"The usual, I should think.\" She fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly.\n\n\"My point . . . ,\" he pressed on, \". . . is that I'm trying to understand if you and the Earl, your Samuel, had been entertaining any sort of more permanent plans? Marriage perhaps?\"\n\nOnce again she threw her head back and roared with delight, the curls on top of her head shaking appreciably as she rocked back and forth. \"Marriage?!\" she gasped as she took a sip of champagne and tried without success to regain her composure. \"Now why in the Queen's name would I ever want to marry that insolvent, self-absorbed, lecherous old bore? I simply will not believe that you're being serious.\"\n\n\"Am I missing something?\" Colin leaned forward and I could tell from his stiff posture and the slight pursing of his lips that he was finding this a great deal less amusing than she was. \"Would I have found you so disparaging had we met in the midst of your inflagrante delicto?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" She brought a delicate hand up to her mouth. \"Latin. Everything sounds so much better in a dead language.\" She snickered.\n\n\"I'll have your answer, please.\"\n\n\"Will you?\" She kept her eyes on him as she emptied her glass. \"My late husband left me a very wealthy woman. And as I'm cursed with childlessness . . . well, I think you can imagine how tiresome such an existence can become. I abhor gossip, which means that gallivanting about with my peers in their saber-toothed decimation of one another is out of the question. And you simply cannot expect me to take up with the servants, although I hear that's worked for some of the neighbors.\" One side of her mouth curled up as she continued to smirk at him. \"I don't know what more to tell you other than Samuel was available and I was crushingly bored. He was also exactly the man I described to you. Perhaps not at first, but even a chameleon shows its true color eventually. I even let him swindle me out of a bit of money just as he did to everyone else.\" She shrugged. \"Rather like paying him for his services, meager though they were.\"\n\n\"Under what pretext did he take your money?\"\n\n\"He called it an investment. Turned out to be opium. So banal.\"\n\n\"You're talking about his business with Warren Vandemier?\"\n\nShe gave a start. \"Well, you really are as clever as they say.\"\n\n\"You flatter me.\"\n\n\"I doubt it.\"\n\n\"What can you tell me about Mr. Vandemier?\"\n\n\"Mr. Vandemier?\" She curled her lips as she picked up a little bell and rang it delicately. Instantly the young woman who'd brought the champagne came back, moving to refill her mistress's glass. We were also topped off before she neatly plunged the bottle back into its bucket and made a hasty retreat, once again pulling the doors quietly shut.\n\n\"Now let me guess,\" Abigail started again. \"I'd be willing to wager a considerable sum that upon your meeting Warren he told you that Samuel came up with nary a farthing to start their venture, leaving him to front the entire enterprise himself. Am I correct?\" She waited for Colin's nod. \"Tell me you didn't believe the boorish little shit?\"\n\n\"It seemed unlikely.\"\n\nShe grinned. \"Very wise.\"\n\n\"I also wonder if perhaps he didn't decide to end your dalliance rather than pay you back. That would relieve him of a financial obligation you'd have had a sorry time trying to collect anyway. Am I close?\"\n\nAbigail Roynton looked positively buoyed with astonishment at Colin's having reached so obvious a possibility. \"You clearly are a man worthy of his reputation.\" She chuckled, but this time I knew she meant it. \"And do you know why I let Samuel talk me into giving him that money?\"\n\n\"Not for love.\" He smirked.\n\n\"Heavens no. Never for love.\"\n\nHe studied her a moment and I wondered if he was trying to divine an answer or determine whether he should share whatever else he suspected when he suddenly blurted out, \"Because you are a shrewd businesswoman.\"\n\nShe smiled wickedly, leering at him as people will do when they share a devious secret. \"Do go on.\"\n\n\"Opium,\" he said.\n\nShe clapped her hands. \"Yes, yes.\" She shrieked with laughter. \"You've got it!\"\n\nAnd indeed he did. For there is no more loyal customer than that of an opium dealer. Once an addict is hooked, you almost always have them for life\u2014however long that proves to be.\n\nHer amusement soured my mood. I was beginning to find this woman a great deal less principled than Mademoiselle Rendell.\n\n\"Shrewd,\" Colin said dully.\n\nBut she didn't seem to catch his tone. \"I thought so. So when it was over between us it wasn't so much that I'd lost the occasional afternoon's amusement as that I'd gained a share in a burgeoning business. Warren's only trying to peddle his story of self-funding because he thinks he can nip me out of my share of the profits. But he is sorely mistaken. He'll soon learn he can't play me for a fool.\"\n\n\"I'm certain of that,\" Colin said. \"And would you happen to know who took your place in Samuel's bed?\"\n\n\"Bed?!\" She leaned back in her chair and rolled her champagne flute absently across the exposed skin of her plunging neckline. \"Please don't think me so old-fashioned.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless . . .\"\n\n\"Of course I know.\" She raised her glass and sipped from it, glaring at him from over the rim, the gleam in her eyes almost as hot as the embers in the fireplace. \"But you won't believe me if I tell you.\"\nCHAPTER 22\n\nForeign Minister Randolph Fitzherbert sent word the next morning that the men from Her Majesty's cutter the HMS Renard, had succeeded in running down and boarding the Ilya Petrovina, where it was discovered that she not only carried the cargo listed on her manifest\u2014tobacco, spare carriage parts, and an assortment of fine ladies' undergarments\u2014but also sixteen young girls ranging in age from nine to thirteen with nary a traveling document among them. The Ilya Petrovina's captain had immediately accused them of being stowaways, but Her Majesty's naval staff had not been so easily deceived. With the information provided by Colin and transferred through Mr. Fitzherbert's office to the commanding officer of the Renard, the Ilya Petrovina's captain had been placed under arrest and the ship was being escorted back to Dover. The expected arrival date was five days hence. We had no way of being certain that Angelyne was one of the girls, yet the odds were in her favor and at the very least we were still rescuing sixteen innocents.\n\nColin sent word to Michael at once, so there was little surprise when he presented himself at our flat within the hour. He came bounding up our stairs as soon as Mrs. Behmoth opened the door, leaving her to trail along behind him in great huffs of annoyance. \"Ya 'aven't been properly inerduced,\" she snarled as she lunged into the study well behind the young man.\n\n\"Never mind, Mrs. Behmoth.\" Colin gave her a nod as he sent the dumbbells he'd been wielding onto the floor.\n\n\"It ain't right,\" she groused, but nevertheless withdrew.\n\n\"Right . . . wrong . . . ,\" he chuckled as he turned back to Michael, \"who among us is fit to judge what is and what isn't?\"\n\n\"Bugger off!\" she hollered back.\n\nI rolled my eyes, but Michael seemed to take no note as he hurried across the room to pepper Colin for news of his little sister.\n\n\"I can't tell you beyond all doubt that she is on her way back,\" Colin said. \"But I am fairly confident she'll be among those arriving in Dover next week.\"\n\n\"Bless ya, Mr. Pendragon, Mr. Pruitt.\" Michael grinned. \"Ya've been most kind. I'll not trouble ya no more.\"\n\nColin gripped the young man's shoulder a moment. \"We're here anytime should you ever need us again.\"\n\nMichael shuffled his feet exactly as I would have done at his age and demurred quietly. How well I understood this boy, which was why something at the back of my mind kept niggling at me.\n\n\"We shall see you Tuesday then,\" Colin muttered as he turned to his knife play.\n\n\"No, no.\" He stopped on the landing and turned back to us. \"I couldn't ask ya ta do that. Ya've given me too much a yer time already. I'll collect me sister and we'll pop round so's you can see 'er.\"\n\n\"As you wish.\" Colin shrugged, setting the knife back onto the mantel and snatching up his dumbbells again, curling them steadily as he sat back down.\n\n\"Thank you then.\" Michael nodded and tipped his cap before bounding down the stairs.\n\n\"Sounds like a blasted 'erd a wild boars!\" Mrs. Behmoth bellowed as the front door slammed.\n\n\"More like a jackal,\" I muttered.\n\n\"You're seeing too much of your own past in him.\" Colin snickered as he continued to roll the dumbbells back and forth. \"Can't you give the lad a bit of slack?\"\n\n\"Hmmm . . .\" I knit my brow. \"I rather think that's what he's hoping for. That boy is almost certainly a pickpocket, a thief, a pimp, and probably a drug addict. I'll wager you his sister hasn't disappeared, he's probably sold her and has now received a better offer.\"\n\n\"How very cynical.\"\n\nI scowled. \"Tell me I'm not right.\"\n\nHe chuckled as he kept the weights smoothly curling, but didn't say a word.\nCHAPTER 23\n\nBy the time twilight was nestling outside our windows and the sounds of Mrs. Behmoth rattling pans downstairs in preparation of the evening's meal amplified, I could tell Colin's thoughts had moved somewhere far away. He'd long since given off tossing the dumbbells about and had reverted to shining the same knife blade he'd been working on so that its gleam was becoming nearly solar. For myself, I could not leave go of my wariness of Michael's story even though I had nothing more concrete to offer than my own intuition. I was familiar with him, I knew who he was, and I knew he was up to something.\n\n\"You seem preoccupied,\" Colin said after a while.\n\n\"It's that little rogue, Michael . . . ,\" I mumbled.\n\n\"Still doubtful of his motives.\"\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"And what if he is hiding something? Does it really matter? No matter the details, something has happened to his sister and we need to get her back. What happens when we do will be a topic for a later conversation. Assuming she's not come to some harm.\"\n\nI shook my head, remembering how many young girls I'd seen disappear so very long ago, most of whom were never accounted for again. \"Tragic . . . ,\" was all I said.\n\nHe set his knife on the table and sighed. \"Well, we're sure to get your mind off it for the night when I tell you what I've decided.\"\n\n\"And what would that be?\"\n\n\"I think it's time for us to drop in on the dubious business of Warren Vandemier and the Earl. Tonight. With neither invitation nor notice.\"\n\n\"Sounds perfectly underhanded.\" I smiled, aware that his reticence was correlated to the yoke that had once tethered me so many years ago. I wanted to tell him that he needn't worry because I feared enough for the both of us, but instead muttered, \"Mr. Vandemier will be livid if he finds out.\"\n\n\"You know . . . ,\" he looked at me keenly, \"I can go alone. You needn't come.\"\n\n\"Don't start that,\" I said with finality. \"I shall be at your side as always.\"\n\nAnd so it was that we found ourselves standing in a urine-soaked, litter-filled alley in Whitechapel not an hour after eating dinner in the warm solace of our humble Kensington flat. It was a staggering contradiction and one that set an ancient and familiar chill rattling through me in spite of my determination to deny it.\n\n\"Wretched place,\" Colin muttered as he picked his way deeper into the alley toward the single scrubby gaslight hanging above a nondescript red-lacquered door. \"Let's hope this club of Mr. Vandemier's looks less infective inside than it does out.\"\n\n\"Not likely\u2014\" I started to say, before clamping my mouth shut and letting the thought go unheeded.\n\nWe reached the door and Colin took a moment to tug at his coat and tie as though anyone inside would notice or care whether he was suitably attired. He raised his fist to knock on the door but pulled up short, sliding his eyes over to mine as he stood there, arm coiled, and said, \"You really don't have to do this.\"\n\nI reached out and pounded the door myself. \"Don't be ridiculous.\"\n\nHe gave me a crooked smile.\n\nA small rectangular slot rocketed open to reveal a pair of almond-shaped eyes. \"Who sent you?\" a thin, gentle voice demanded.\n\n\"Warren Vandemier,\" Colin answered at once.\n\nThe slot jerked shut and the door instantly swung open to reveal a delicate Oriental woman. She smiled generously, bowing her head as she waved us inside. Behind her stood two glowering, dark-haired Irish blokes who were clearly meant to intimidate, and did. Neither of them spoke or paid us much heed as we were led past by our diminutive hostess. I glanced back just in time to see another young woman slide onto the stool by the door, there to wait for the next guest's arrival. I'd rarely seen the custom before and knew Warren Vandemier was serious about setting his establishment above the rest.\n\nOur exotic guide took us down a short hallway lined with doors on either side that I presumed led to private rooms for the gentry Mr. Vandemier had referenced. Even in a drug-addled state the city's aristocrats would find it anathema to mix with the commoners who frequented these sorts of clubs: sailors, stewards, mountebanks, shop men, beggars, outcasts, and thieves. All of them found a way to afford the pleasures promised by the seductive vapors once they'd woven their spell upon the addicts' receptive minds. Most of them could be counted on to prefer the ragged smoke of opium to food, leaving many of them to look as emaciated and near death as they truly were.\n\nWe rounded a corner at the end of the hallway and entered a large, dimly lit room in which numerous swaths of gauzy fabric hung around tight clusters of cushions and reclining benches. The floor-to-ceiling fabric afforded a semblance of privacy, further raising the standard of the establishment. None of the furnishings were marred or discolored, though unless they were swapped out regularly it was only a matter of time. Yet the draw of these clubs was specific and singular and had little to do with the d\u00e9cor, for it was at the apex of this room that the gentle coaxing of the drug became obvious. Its dry, stinging odor permeated the air like creosote from a poorly venting fireplace. I could feel it squeezing my throat and nudging at my temples, and felt one of my eyelids quiver. Yet I also knew that none of those effects would last long as slowly, stealthily, like a hunter shadowing its prey, the drug would begin to caress the mind, and lure its victim deep within its web. Even as I stood on the threshold of this vast partitioned room, I could feel it tugging at me.\n\n\"You want company tonight?\" the young woman asked.\n\n\"We do.\" Colin gave a roguish smile and for a moment I thought I could see a haziness easing in behind his eyes as well.\n\n\"This way.\"\n\nShe wound us through the middle of the room and down two steps to a sunken area where five men and two women were sitting. At the center of the group stood a large water pipe with a dozen flexible tubes sprouting from its sides. One of the women was stirring a black viscous mixture over a small open flame. After a moment she scraped the sticky, bubbling mess into a small metal bowl perched near the top of the pipe. She lit it for her six cohorts, all of whom were only too eager to drag the swirling vapor from the nearest mouthpiece. As I stood there staring at them, remembering the enfolding embrace that was assuredly fingering its way into their willing minds, I thought I could see them losing fractured bits, not of their consciousness, but of their very beings.\n\n\"Please . . .\" Our escort gestured us to a pile of cushions still available in the midst of this decaying circle of addicts.\n\nWe sat down and Colin reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the wad of cash I'd pressed on him before we'd left our flat. He peeled off some bills with a great, showy flourish and handed them to our hostess. \"I presume this will get us started?\"\n\nShe looked at the notes as though he were offering something untoward and I knew this sort of business preferred payment at the end of the evening when the revelers were well past giving a whit about the expenses they'd incurred. That, of course, assumed they'd not already been picked clean by the hostesses themselves. Either way, it all ended up in the proprietor's pocket by the end of the night. \"If you wish,\" she said, delicately lifting the stack of bills from Colin's hand. I had to admit: Warren Vandemier's club was proving downright genteel.\n\nWe were left with the group of strangers and I felt my heart quicken the moment the man next to me shoved his mouthpiece in my direction. \"Help yerself,\" he said.\n\n\"Not just yet.\" I smiled uneasily, aware that the dense smoke was already wiggling about my brain. \"I'm rather in need of a drink first.\"\n\n\"I recommend the whiskey,\" my neighbor offered with a lopsided grin. \"With a splash of water if you must.\"\n\n\"Save the water for the pipe,\" I shot back to great guffaws, suddenly struck by the feeling that I'd said that somewhere before. I glanced over at Colin, looking for some comfort in his solidity, and was caught by the nearly apoplectic look on his face\u2014the result, I realized, of the proximity of the mouthpiece to my hand. In that moment I realized he'd been right, I shouldn't have come. \"Can I get you something?\" I squeaked as I fought the rising urge to flee.\n\n\"Go,\" he answered quietly. \"Let Mrs. Behmoth draw you a bath. I'll tend to things here and meet you across the pillows later.\"\n\nAs I gazed into the glacial blue of his eyes, seeing the concern nestled within made me determined not to fail here. I could do this. I would do this. \"No. I'm fine,\" I said with a strength that surprised even me. \"You've nothing to worry about.\" I pushed myself up to get us something to drink, convinced that if I could just clear my head a moment I would be able to maintain my sanity.\n\nHe reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me close. \"You've nothing to prove,\" he hissed.\n\n\"I know,\" I said, but knew he was wrong. I had spent nearly the whole of my adolescence and early adulthood hiding in places like this among the alluring opiate fumes and tattered lives of other addicts. Each of us hiding some secret, some compulsion, driving us to alter our consciousness as often as we could while all the while convincing ourselves that we chose to be here and could leave it behind at any time, but we were fools. These places\u2014this habit\u2014wound themselves around our lives so completely that if one was lucky enough to stumble upon redemption it was impossible to accept. I know it was for me. And just like that, even thirteen years later, I couldn't be sure that enough time had passed yet.\n\nI girded myself to the task at hand and before long returned with two glasses filled with overpriced, watered-down tea to simulate the color of whiskey. I passed Colin a glass and almost laughed when I saw the look of relief dart across his face as he tasted it.\n\n\"Spot-on,\" he said with a nod and a grin. \"I have been speaking with these fine people in your absence,\" he continued cheerfully. \"It seems they're all familiar with our Mr. Vandemier.\"\n\n\"E's in 'ere every night,\" one of the men volunteered. \"Smokes up 'alf the profits if ya ask me.\"\n\nEverybody laughed, including the two women, one of whom continued to take it upon herself to keep the pipe filled and circulating. She, I figured, was almost certainly his employee.\n\n\"But the most fascinating thing . . . ,\" Colin leaned forward as though on the verge of sharing some tasty secret with our bleary band of eager fellows, \". . . is that most of them are also familiar with his late partner, the Earl of Arnifour.\"\n\n\"Familiar?!\" The redheaded woman on Colin's far side leered. \"That's one way a puttin' it.\"\n\nOnce again all seven of them howled with laughter. It appeared the Earl's proclivities did not even exclude his clientele. Only the relighting of the pipe quieted them as the seven snake-like mouthpieces were once again put to use. Colin and I subtly demurred the opportunity to imbibe, but it was only a matter of time before we would need to at least appear to join in.\n\nColin shot me a grin. \"Vanessa here was telling me she was quite close to the Earl at one time,\" he said, referring to the redhead.\n\n\"Close?\" She shrugged as she sucked in another hit from the pipe. \"We 'ad it off a time or two if ya call that close. But then I'd shag his ruddy wife if it'd earn me a round in 'ere,\" she cackled merrily. \"I ain't no different than most a the birds in 'ere. I bet we all 'ad 'im sooner or later.\"\n\n\"Until recently?\" Colin prodded.\n\n\"Sure.\" She let go of the mouthpiece and sank back on her cushion, clearly trying to steady herself as the opium seized her mind and seemed to arc it up and out of her body. \"He changed a while ago. Tryin' ta set an example for 'is latest rummy that I was tellin' you about.\"\n\n\"That one was a right chipper.\" The man on my right shook his head and snorted. \"Comin' in 'ere all tarted up like she owned the place.\"\n\n\"And she weren't all that.\" The man across from me spoke as he struggled to hold in a lungful of smoke.\n\n\"She knew 'ow ta fix up what she 'ad.\" My neighbor cut him off. \"She knew what a man likes.\"\n\n\"Every woman knows what a man likes,\" the redhead mumbled toward the ceiling, her head tilted back, eyes staring up as though waiting for something to appear out of the smoky haze. \"No bloody mystery there.\"\n\n\"Who . . . ,\" I whispered to Colin, figuring he'd been able to get from this group what he'd been unable to extract from Abigail Roynton, \". . . are they talking about?\"\n\nColin flicked his eyes toward mine and flashed that roguish grin. \"Why, his late niece, Elsbeth.\"\n\n\"I don't remember being told you two were coming tonight?\" a familiar voice growled from over our shoulders.\n\nWe both turned to find Warren Vandemier standing there. He was as pale as the smoke wafting around his head and almost as ethereal. From our position on the cushions, sunken two steps below the main floor, I was struck by how curiously foreboding he looked, his harsh, angular frame towering above us with a mixture of accusation and fury. The woman who'd seated us hovered just behind him, obviously having been warned to summon him whenever anyone bandied about his name at the door.\n\n\"We didn't want to bother you.\" Colin stood up. \"We just wanted to see if your establishment lives up to its vaunted reputation.\"\n\n\"And? \" There was no suggestion of a smile on his face.\n\n\"It is indeed a step above,\" Colin smiled, \"but then a snake pit is still home to vipers.\"\n\nWarren Vandemier's face showed little reaction. \"I shall thank you to leave,\" he said.\n\n\"In that I am happy to accommodate you.\" He smiled again as we started to move off before he suddenly turned back and added, \"By the way, Abigail Roynton sends her regards, though she does find your accounting methods rather disagreeable.\"\n\n\"She's a lying slag.\"\n\n\"Odd . . . ,\" he locked his eyes on Warren Vandemier, \"she said much the same about you.\"\n\nNothing further was said as we left the premises. I sneaked a peek back and caught Warren Vandemier saying something to the Oriental woman who'd initially welcomed us. I knew there would be no such greeting were we to come back. I hoped Colin had gleaned what he'd come to learn.\n\n\"You all right?\" he asked as soon as we were outside.\n\n\"I am,\" I answered with conviction in spite of the fact that my head was swimming toward a certain migraine. \"And now we know who replaced Abigail Roynton at the Earl's side.\"\n\n\"Ah . . .\" He chuckled. \"We know more than that.\"\n\n\"We do?\"\n\n\"While you were off fetching cold tea in a glass, which, by the way, was inspired, I not only learned of the Earl's trysting with his niece, but also that Elsbeth might not actually be a relation of his at all.\"\n\n\"What? But Lady Arnifour said . . .\" And even as I heard myself say those words, I knew how foolish I sounded.\n\n\"Indeed.\" He chuckled as he stepped into the street to hail a cab.\nCHAPTER 24\n\nThree days passed since our foray to Warren Vandemier's opium club, which left only two more before the Ilya Petrovina was due to return to the docks at Dover. Colin spent most of his time wrestling at the gymnasium or doing calisthenics in our flat, and when he wasn't slaving away at one of those rituals he would sit in front of the fireplace and either sharpen, polish, or gaze blankly at one of the knives in his collection as though whatever answers he sought might possibly be coaxed from out of its cold, hard metal.\n\nEach night we would venture forth to plant ourselves in a cab among the hedgerow down the road from the Arnifour property, waiting to see if this might be the night Victor went to Nathaniel, but he never did. It was our fourth night running, the silence in the cab full between us with only the sound of the horse flicking its tail and shifting its hooves to interrupt the incessant trill of crickets.\n\n\"I wonder . . . ,\" Colin startled me as he flipped open his pocket watch and checked the time, \". . . how Nathaniel felt knowing the woman he pined for was involved, so to speak, with the Earl.\"\n\n\"What makes you think he knew?\"\n\nHe lifted an eyebrow to me as he switched his pocket watch for a crown and began teasing it slowly around his hand. \"I think we'll find that nearly everyone knew who the Earl's momentary favorite was. And if you'll recall, Victor told us that the night of the attack he overheard Nathaniel arguing with Elsbeth. Nathaniel said himself he tried to talk her out of going. He knew what she was up to.\"\n\n\"You can't know that.\"\n\n\"I think I do,\" he said pointedly, palming the crown. \"Remember the afternoon Victor took us to see the remains of that stable?\" I nodded. \"Remember my telling you there were two sets of horse prints?\" I nodded again. \"I told you that one set belonged to the killer because I could see where he'd run the Earl down, and the other set were deep, suggesting a heavy load: Elsbeth and the Earl.\"\n\n\"I remember.\"\n\n\"Nathaniel would have realized by the condition of her horse whenever she went out alone. When she returned, there would have been a marked difference in the beast's level of fatigue between carrying that slight woman as opposed to both her and a man with the girth of the Earl.\"\n\n\"Well, that's true. . . .\"\n\nHe smirked at me as he set the coin in motion again. \"Elsbeth and the Earl met up at some prearranged place, no doubt their habit whenever she got out alone, and rode down to that stable together to avail themselves of its privacy. It explains how a man of the Earl's age and physical condition could have covered such a distance in so short a time. It also explains why he would have done so.\" He stared out into the night. \"Consider that not one person in that household believed the Earl capable of covering such a distance on his nightly jaunts, and yet none of them has offered that explanation as a possibility.\"\n\n\"Which means what?\"\n\n\"They all knew what was going on.\"\n\n\"You can't be serious.\"\n\n\"Deadly serious.\"\n\n\"Then you think Nathaniel followed Elsbeth and attacked her and the Earl in a jealous rage?\"\n\n\"That is the rub.\" He knit his brow as he gazed up at the starry sky. \"I think Nathaniel is innocent.\"\n\n\"Innocent? Then who do you suspect?\"\n\nColin suddenly bolted upright, seizing the crown in midair. \"Victor Heffernan.\"\n\n\"Victor?!\" I was stunned by his accusation, especially given that he'd repeatedly insisted Lady Arnifour would never have hired us if she weren't confident of his innocence. And that's when I heard the frantic clatter of horse hooves bolting along the opposite side of the hedge we were hiding behind. \"Oh,\" I mumbled. \"You meant that was Victor Heffernan.\"\n\nColin gave me a sideways glance before leaning forward and pounding on the cab's roof. \"Here's your chance, man,\" he called out. \"Don't lose him and for heaven's sake, don't let him see that we're following him.\"\n\nThe driver jerked the reins and quickly guided us out onto the cobbled street that led back to the heart of London. Victor had already achieved some distance, making it unlikely that he'd take any notice of us, though I did worry we could lose sight of him once traffic picked up. Our driver proved himself adept, however, guiding the horse with equal parts skill and strength as he maintained an easy pace in Victor's wake. Nevertheless, Colin remained ratcheted forward in his seat, keeping a steely gaze on our quarry's dark, hunched back.\n\nWe were not forced to slow down until we'd reached the narrowed streets of Whitechapel, the very same neighborhood as Warren Vandemier's opium club. It occurred to me that Victor could be headed there, but I rejected the notion as I knew he wasn't a user and couldn't imagine Nathaniel having anything to do with it, either.\n\nOur cab careened around a dimly lit corner at a preposterous speed as I scanned the area ahead while waiting for gravity to grip our wheels again. I was relieved to catch sight of Victor among the throng cluttering the slim thoroughfare, dismounting and tying his horse to a post in front of a sorrowful-looking storefront. Our driver had also spotted him from his vantage point above and was bringing the cab to a smooth stop some distance from where Victor was still fiddling with his horse.\n\n\"Expertly done.\" Colin handed the man the entire fistful of notes I'd given him earlier. \"You needn't wait for us.\"\n\n\"I'd be 'appy to,\" he assured, beaming at his earnings.\n\n\"Another time,\" Colin called back, and headed down the street, his eyes locked on Victor. \"I never forget a helpful face.\"\n\nAs Victor ducked down an adjacent alleyway, Colin took off at a measured pace, forcing me to nearly break into a run to keep up. He slowed as he neared the corner and came to a stop, peering cautiously around the building's edge. He stood that way: morbidly still, his head cocked slightly, and all I could think was how glad I was that we were in this section of the city, as anywhere else his unorthodox stance would have attracted notice.\n\n\"Where's he gone?\" I whispered in spite of the din in the street.\n\n\"Through a metal doorway on the left. Looks like a tenement building. I think we've struck gold.\"\n\n\"Suppose this turns out to be a pied-\u00e0-terre for Victor and Lady Arnifour?\" I blurted out. \"What if we walk in on something unseemly?!\"\n\n\"Perish the thought.\" He pursed his face. And then he was off again, striding down the center of the alley with his eyes fixed on the doorway he'd seen Victor disappear through.\n\nI followed as quickly and casually as I could, wondering how he intended to determine which of the building's flats was the one Victor had gone into. He entered the scrubby, dimly lit entryway and stopped in front of the bank of mail slots, slowly running a finger across each of the names. He skimmed each of the thin slips of paper until he reached the bottom and then, without the slightest hesitation, stabbed his finger at a name just shy of the midpoint.\n\n\"What?\" I asked, my heart pounding in my ears.\n\n\"Desiree Helgman,\" he answered. \"I think you were right.\"\n\n\"What?\" I stared at him uncomprehendingly. \"Right about what? Who's Desiree Helgman?\"\n\nHe chuckled. \"Doesn't the name Helgman rattle something in your brain?\"\n\n\"Helgman?\" I parroted in an effort to jog my gray matter.\n\nHe grinned. \"It is rather inside out.\" He pointed to the letters in a seemingly haphazard order, one after another: \"L-a-n-g-h-e-m. Langhem. Lady Arnifour's maiden name.\"\n\nMy jaw slackened and I laughed out loud.\n\n\"And Desiree, a derivative of the word 'desire,' is no doubt an unsubtle homage to how this place was used. Rather pedestrian.\"\n\n\"I just hope it's Nathaniel we find.\"\n\n\"Indeed.\"\n\nWe started up the narrow staircase hugging one side of the small foyer. Nothing about the building offered even a hint of gentrification, paling even in comparison to the faded austerity of the Arnifour estate. This was a place of profound desperation, of prostitutes and addicts. It seemed inconceivable that Lady Arnifour would have come here for any purpose, let alone the one so clearly advertised on the mail slot.\n\n\"Do you suppose . . . ,\" I spoke softly as we creaked up the sagging stairway, \". . . that the Earl might have found out about this place and tried to blackmail his wife? That's one way he could've gotten his hands on her money again.\"\n\n\"The inestimable value of one's reputation,\" he muttered. \"You could be right. There's certainly nothing that matters more to the titled set.\" We came to the third-floor landing and he waved me back. \"Stay away from the door.\" He spoke quietly as we approached number 304: Desiree Helgman's flat. \"We'll not be knocking.\" He glared at the door as he pulled a small pistol from the breast pocket of his overcoat.\n\nHe backed up, gripped the doorjamb with one hand, raised a foot, and then stopped, looking at me with his leg dangling in midair. \"If they're having it off,\" he whispered, \"I'll pluck my eyes from my head.\" And then he crashed his boot against the flimsy knob.\n\nGiven the ease with which it sprang open I surmised that either the Earl had never had the occasion to follow his philandering wife or else she simply didn't care. Whichever the case, it gave way like a prostitute at last call, slamming so fiercely against the receiving wall that it left spidery fissures where the knob collided with it.\n\nThe room beyond was not well lit and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust, though I was aware of frantic movements almost at once. Colin didn't hesitate, however, but careened immediately inside. There was a rapid succession of shouting followed by the heart-seizing report of a gun.\n\nAnd then there was silence.\n\nNo motion, no words, not even the life-affirming sound of a breath being drawn, for what felt an eternity until I became aware of someone pounding on the opposite side of a nearby wall and shouting, \"Shut the bloody hell up in there!\"\n\nThat muffled voice finally propelled me inside the tiny one-room flat once I'd done my best to seat the damaged door back into place. I came up behind Colin, standing no more than ten feet from where I'd been rooted, and saw that he had his gun leveled on the room's only window. Nathaniel was slumped on its sill, one leg out but the bulk of him still inside, his father standing beside him. I thought he'd been shot even though I couldn't see any blood before finally realizing that Colin had only fired a warning. He'd wanted to stop Nathaniel from fleeing down the fire escape and been persuasive with that one shot.\n\n\"Swing around, Nathaniel.\" Colin's voice was as calm as if he meant to discuss the night air. \"And have a seat on the bed.\"\n\nThe young man did as he was told, pulling himself out of the window and dropping onto the large bed that dominated the room. As my heart began to settle I noticed that the flat was much more than what the dilapidated building seemed to suggest. While undeniably discreet in size and design, it was freshly painted and immaculately clean, and its sparse furnishings were as comfortable looking as they were new. Even the commode and sink, partially hidden behind a silk flat-panel screen, appeared to be pristine, as though they'd only recently been installed. The place was indeed fit for a lady, a lady and her paramour.\n\n\"You're makin' a dreadful mistake, Mr. Pendragon,\" Victor said in a pitifully beseeching voice. \"Nathaniel didn't do anything. The boy's innocent.\"\n\n\"Of course. Innocent men always run.\"\n\n\"You're wastin' your time!\" Nathaniel snapped. \"Let 'em hang me. I don't care anymore.\"\n\n\"No!\" Victor stepped toward Colin, his eyes blazing. \"I will not let you accuse my son of something he didn't do.\"\n\n\"May I remind you, Victor, that I've yet to accuse your son of anything. And that's despite his proximity to Elsbeth's bedside the night she died.\"\n\n\"I didn't kill her, you tosser,\" Nathaniel spat. \"I loved her. If you were half as smart as they say, you'd already know that.\"\n\n\"Nathaniel . . .\" Victor shrank back.\n\n\"The boy's right.\" Colin shoved the gun back under his vest. \"I suspected it but haven't been able to find any proof, and without proof all that's left is supposition, which is really little more than overinflated rumor. But the one thing that keeps nagging at me is why the son of a groundskeeper would ever fancy himself a suitable match for a potential heiress to the Arnifour estate? How is it you thought the family would ever look kindly upon such a union?\"\n\nI caught Nathaniel stealing a peek at his father, but neither of them answered.\n\nColin rubbed his chin as he began pacing the short distance between the window and the door, being careful to keep himself placed to avoid giving Nathaniel a second opportunity to attempt an escape. After a couple moments of idle wandering with nary a breath from either of the Heffernans, Colin started up again. \"Nothing? Then let's talk about your decision to flee the night Elsbeth died. Running off like a guilty man. Why would you do that if you've nothing to hide?\"\n\n\"The inspector\u2014\"\n\n\"\u2014is an ass who wasn't even there.\" Colin waved him off. \"The coroner confirmed she died of the wounds sustained the night of the attack. She wasn't asphyxiated by you or anyone else. While your guilt in the initial attack may still be a matter of consideration, you have most assuredly been exonerated of any misdeeds the night she died. And you knew that. But you still ran off.\" Colin turned back and settled his gaze on Nathaniel. \"So why is it I think you're still not going to be returning home?\"\n\n\"Home?\" Nathaniel said the word as though it was bitter on his tongue. \"That decaying mausoleum is not my home.\"\n\n\"Nathaniel . . . , \" Victor pleaded. \"You mustn't say that. It isn't true.\"\n\n\"Of course it's true.\" He rubbed his forehead. \"I don't belong there. I never have. You do. Elsbeth did. But I never fit in. I need to make my own way.\"\n\n\"No.\" Victor shook his head but made no move to reach out to his son. \"Your future's there just as it's been for the past three generations of our family.\"\n\n\"Eldon's got no use for me. And Kaylin . . . ,\" he gave a slight shrug, \"I don't think she has much use for any man.\"\n\n\"But Lady Arnifour\u2014\"\n\n\"Won't live forever.\" He stared at his father. \"She only cares about me because of you,\" he added with surprising gentleness.\n\n\"She loves you\u2014\"\n\n\"She loves you.\" He glanced at Colin. \"I'm sure that's no surprise.\"\n\n\"Just a moment,\" he interrupted, his brow deeply furrowed. \"You just said you never fit in the way your father and Elsbeth did. And you've proclaimed that you loved her\u2014loved her. But I've misconstrued your intent all this time, haven't I? You loved her, but not in the way I've presumed.\"\n\nNathaniel looked away as Victor raised his eyes to reveal them rimmed with red. I glanced back at Colin and tried to fathom what I'd missed. \"Tell me . . . ,\" Colin said evenly, \". . . who was Elsbeth to you?\"\n\nNathaniel's shoulders caved as he closed his eyes. \"My half sister.\"\n\nVictor collapsed onto the bed as I suddenly realized with the swiftness of undeniable truth how that could be.\n\n\"Lady Arnifour . . . ,\" Colin was saying, \". . . was Elsbeth's mother.\"\n\nVictor did not speak as he buried his face in his hands, but I couldn't help thinking Nathaniel looked relieved as he shifted closer to his father and draped an arm across his shoulders. I was certain given the depth of Nathaniel's release that he alone had been privy to this information outside of his father and Lady Arnifour.\n\n\"You mustn't be angry with me,\" he said to his father with remarkable tenderness. \"They were gonna find out. It's why I warned you about lettin' her hire them in the first place.\"\n\n\"She was worried about you.\" Victor sounded wounded by his shame.\n\n\"No. She worried about you.\"\n\n\"I've disgraced her,\" Victor choked.\n\n\"You've done no such thing,\" Colin spoke up. \"But I will say\u2014it's a marvel the way you were able to keep such a thing secret.\"\n\n\"But we didn't.\" Victor looked up, pale and drawn. \"The Earl knew right off and he wasn't of a mind to help by claiming any such baby his own. No . . . ,\" he shook his head as he pulled away from Nathaniel, \"he forced her to go away as soon as the morning sickness took hold. Told people she was off helping a sister suffering with child. When she returned she brought our Elsbeth back. Claimed her sister had died in childbirth and the husband couldn't care for the infant alone. It was a good story. No one questioned it.\"\n\n\"How did Lady Arnifour get her husband to agree to raise Elsbeth as their niece?\"\n\n\"Money.\"\n\n\"Of course. . . .\" Colin shook his head. \"And does anyone else in the household know? Mrs. O'Keefe?\"\n\n\"No. No one.\"\n\n\"And how did Nathaniel come to the truth?\"\n\n\"I told him,\" Victor mumbled as he wrapped his arms around himself. \"I'm the only family Nathaniel's ever had. I wanted him to know the truth in case something happened to me. I owed him that.\" His face was etched with regret.\n\n\"Is it possible Elsbeth knew? That she'd figured it out?\"\n\n\"No.\" He sucked in a stilted breath. \"Elsbeth had little interest in me. I couldn't see what good telling her would do. I knew she was happy believing she was one of them. . . .\" He let his voice trail off.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nVictor stared at his hands as though searching for the answer in the calluses and lines therein. Just when I thought he wasn't going to respond, Nathaniel spoke up. \"She had no use for him,\" he stated. \"She treated him like rubbish and acted like she was better than us. Always lookin' down on us. I wish you had told her. It woulda served her right.\"\n\n\"Nothin' good would have come of it,\" Victor muttered.\n\n\"And so Lady Arnifour paid her husband to keep him quiet,\" Colin repeated.\n\n\"She did. He spent the whole of Elsbeth's life forcing money from her. You've seen the estate. It's fallin' apart. And now there's only the few of us left to look after it. It's a disgrace.\" He shook his head again.\n\n\"Then you must be glad he's gone,\" Colin said.\n\n\"No you don't!\" Nathaniel leapt off the bed. \"You aren't gonna scab this on my father. Better you take me. The inspector\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh, to hell with the inspector,\" Colin shut him down. \"Stop bringing that bloody wretch up and stop confessing to a crime you didn't commit. You're growing tiresome.\" He glanced back at Victor. \"I assure you I would never try so obvious a way to entrap you if that were my intention.\"\n\nNathaniel dropped next to his father again.\n\n\"I am glad he's gone,\" Victor finally said. He looked small and inconsequential next to his lanky son, but there was a fire behind his eyes as he spoke. \"He was a vile and hateful man who took some great pleasure in making his wife miserable.\"\n\n\"A man isn't guilty for wishing something to be so!\" Nathaniel growled.\n\n\"Of course.\" Colin slid his gaze to me for an instant. \"Though I suppose that depends on how badly he wants that thing.\" He came over to me. \"In this circumstance I agree with you, Nathaniel. As I have repeatedly told you both, I am not accusing either of you of anything. I am only gathering information.\" He paused, but neither of the Heffernans even glanced at him. \"There is one more thing I should very much like to know, Victor. You claim the Earl extorted money from his wife for years to remain silent about Elsbeth's progeny, yet he seems to have suffered from a reputation for being endlessly short on funds. How do you explain that?\"\n\n\"It was a ruse, Mr. Pendragon.\"\n\n\"A ruse?\"\n\n\"To demonize his wife.\"\n\n\"Ah . . . ,\" Colin said in a tone I recognized to be fraught with skepticism. \"Then that is a thing he must have wanted very much, for it seems to have cost him as well.\"\n\n\"You don't know how much he hated her,\" Victor muttered. \"A man like that cuckolded . . .\"\n\n\"Ours can be such an unforgiving gender.\" Colin smirked as he turned on Nathaniel. \"I think you're right to stay here, Nathaniel. Despite the coroner's findings, I doubt Inspector Varcoe would be of a mind to allow you to return to the Arnifour estate.\"\n\n\"I have no intention of ever going back.\"\n\nVictor glanced at his son but kept quiet. He'd either lost the will to argue or finally come to understand the irrefutable truth of what Nathaniel had been saying.\n\n\"Stay out of sight,\" Colin warned as we headed for the door. \"But I'll expect you to remain available should I wish to speak with you again.\"\n\n\"I'm not going anywhere,\" he muttered tersely. \"Not yet anyway.\"\nCHAPTER 25\n\nThe next morning Colin and I rode out to the Arnifour estate without the courtesy of any advance notice. He was eager to catch the lot of them at home, unsuspecting, to see what we might discover. As we clattered across the forecourt I caught the shadow of a face peering out at us from between the curtains of an upstairs window. The sight reminded me of just how many places this enormous house offered a person to hide. In effect, it made Nathaniel's flight to Whitechapel seem redundant. He would probably have been safer hiding in the moribund wings of the estate.\n\n\"You needn't wait,\" Colin said to the driver. \"We'll make our own way back.\" I was puzzled by his pronouncement and wondered how he meant for us to get home again, but decided not to second-guess him. If this was to be a day of the unexpected, and we were certainly starting it out that way, then I was determined to allow things to unfold as they would.\n\nI climbed the porch steps and pounded on the door as Colin came up beside me, the rhythmic clacking of our cab's wheels receding as we waited for the dour Mrs. O'Keefe to answer my knock. It took several minutes, as it inevitably does when unannounced visits are made, as nothing is at the ready and the staff can seldom be counted on to make haste. And why would they? Certainly no one of consequence would ever arrive without proper notification.\n\n\"I should've guessed,\" Mrs. O'Keefe said when she finally pulled the door open. She stepped back, wearing the disparaging look of a headmistress, her black eyes glittering with disapproval.\n\nI was needled with discomfort as I walked past her, and yet Colin appeared quite oblivious. \"You will announce us to your mistress, please,\" he said, and though he bothered to use the kindness of a pleasantry, it was obvious he did not mean it as a request.\n\n\"Madame has only just risen.\" Her note of scolding was unmistakable.\n\n\"I'm sure,\" he muttered as he moved across the foyer. \"We shall wait in the study as always.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" came her clipped reply. \"Most unorthodox,\" she stated in full voice as she turned on her heels and headed for the foyer staircase.\n\n\"And so it is,\" Colin called after her. \"But we Brits are too conventional anyway. Perhaps more of such behavior would serve us better.\"\n\n\"Must you antagonize?\" I hissed under my breath.\n\n\"Antagonize?\" He looked wholly innocent as we settled before the unlit fireplace in the study and he began rolling his usual crown between his fingers. \"Is that what I did?\"\n\n\"And what would you call it?\"\n\n\"Yes . . . well . . .\" He shrugged. \"She really should learn her place.\"\n\nI started to laugh, the incongruity not lost on me between Mrs. O'Keefe's behavior and that of Mrs. Behmoth, but before I could say anything, Colin shoved the crown into his pocket and jumped up, a warm smile spreading across his face as he said, \"Lady Kaylin . . .\"\n\nI turned to find Kaylin standing in the doorway wearing crop pants, a crisp white blouse and hunter green tailcoat, and high black boots, her delicate features alive with a most welcoming smile of her own.\n\n\"Kaylin,\" she chided. \"What a pleasant surprise.\"\n\n\"The pleasure is ours.\" Colin nodded his head.\n\nShe waved him off with a laugh as she took a seat across from us. \"Such a flatterer. Emmeline says a man who flatters intends only to deceive.\"\n\n\"I assume you're referring to Mrs. Pankhurst?\"\n\n\"I am.\" Her smile grew.\n\n\"I rather think she is correct . . . at least most of the time. Yet she's wrong where I am concerned, for what possible motive could I have for idly filling the head of such a charming woman as yourself?\"\n\n\"Perhaps you interpret her statement in too narrow a context?\"\n\n\"Do you suppose? It would seem to me that Mrs. Pankhurst had only the most literal intent in mind.\"\n\n\"And I believe you underestimate her. She will make a difference one day, Mr. Pendragon. She will be remembered as a pioneer for the rights of all the oppressed.\"\n\n\"You must forgive me,\" he smiled, \"I don't mean to disparage, but I think the only way your Mrs. Pankhurst will be remembered is if she chains herself to the gates of Buckingham.\"\n\nShe scowled. \"And I would have thought you to be a more forward-thinking man.\"\n\n\"One cannot be progressive without first taking into account reality. For instance, I think you will agree that it's impossible for a solitary man to push an ox up a hill. The trick is to convince the ox that the top of the hill is where it wants to be.\"\n\n\"I do hope she's not lecturing you about that wretched sisterhood again. . . .\" I turned around to find Eldon leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest. \"She does go on so.\"\n\nKaylin remained rigidly still for a moment, looking as though she were taking in her brother's disheveled appearance through the back of her head. When she finally deemed to turn to him, however, I could see her face begin to tighten. \"Suffering from those dreary tremors again this morning, Eldon?\" she scoffed.\n\nHe did look very much the worse for wear, having clearly slid on a pair of slacks that appeared to have spent some considerable time in a wad, and a shirt dotted with a m\u00e9lange of stains, its tail fully asunder. I don't think his hair had even had the benefit of a quick run-through by a hand, and yet he was able to rouse his perpetual rogue's grin as he padded barefoot across the study to the small bar. When he swept past his sister I could see how morbidly pale he looked in contrast to her flushed, healthy glow.\n\nHe took a quick shot of something and smirked at her. \"How like Mother you're becoming. It's so unflattering.\" He moved out from behind the bar and glared at me and Colin. \"Tell me, gentlemen, have you managed to hunt down that scoundrel Nathaniel yet?\" I glowered back at him. \"No?\" he continued when neither of us answered him. \"Let me guess. I'll bet you're still concentrating on interviewing everyone this family has ever spoken to. You'll be wanting to dig up my pet rabbit, Cecil, I'm sure. I used to tell him all sorts of horrid little secrets.\"\n\n\"I have no interest in Nathaniel at this point,\" Colin answered.\n\n\"Really?! Do tell.\" Eldon's lack of earnestness was matched by the smirk blemishing his face.\n\n\"You can be such a bore!\" Kaylin snapped.\n\n\"Now, now . . . if you please . . .\" Colin leaned back in his chair and I could almost hear his eyes rolling. \"I presume you're going for a ride?\" he said to Kaylin.\n\n\"I am. The horses don't get enough exercise with Nathaniel gone. I don't think they should suffer for the things we've done.\"\n\n\"Speak for yourself,\" Eldon groused. \"Do you need me, Mr. Pendragon? Because I have an engagement this morning.\"\n\n\"I do have a couple quick questions.\" He stood up and moved over to the fireplace, squaring himself off between the two of them. \"How old were you when Elsbeth was brought here?\"\n\n\"Elsbeth? What difference does that make? You think she killed our father and then beat herself senseless to cover her tracks?\" He snickered, but to her credit, Kaylin kept still.\n\n\"Humor me.\"\n\n\"How the hell am I supposed to remember something like that? She's been here forever. Isn't that enough?\"\n\n\"I was almost three,\" Kaylin spoke up. \"Mother told me I was almost three when she brought Elsbeth home. That would have made you six.\"\n\nHe shrugged with disinterest and slouched back to the bar. \"It amounts to most of our lives. I assume that's what you're getting at. She was like our sister. . . .\" He waved his arms expansively. \"She was like the dear sister I never had.\" He laughed.\n\n\"And what of her parents?\" Colin pressed. \"What happened to your aunt and uncle?\"\n\n\"Dead.\" Eldon came around and flopped into a chair. \"A yachting accident. Or maybe it was boredom?\"\n\nIn an instant Kaylin stormed across the room and slapped her brother across the face with a crack that echoed in the confined space. It was startling, and even more so when the red-hot print began to rise on his cheek. \"Have you no respect for anyone? \" she seethed. \"Has your drinking robbed you of all decency?\"\n\nHe pushed himself to his feet, towering above her, and for a moment I thought he might pummel her back, but he only stepped around her and stalked back to the bar. \"We all have our crutches,\" his voice was low and flat as he refilled his glass, \"whether it be drink, drugs, pleasures of the flesh, or that women's claptrap you subscribe to, so I wouldn't point fingers.\"\n\nShe stared at him with a mixture of fury and revulsion before storming out of the room.\n\n\"Insufferable bitch,\" he said as he downed a shot.\n\n\"What are you talking about?\" I turned at the sound of Lady Arnifour's voice to find her standing in the doorway, a vision of hurried preparations, her thick makeup indelicately applied, her dressing gown clutched tightly in a thin hand, and her dark wig the slightest bit askew. \"What have you been telling them?\"\n\n\"The truth,\" he sneered. \"But I do hope that doesn't cause you to lob another grenade at me.\"\n\nShe didn't flinch. \"You confuse the venom you find at the bottoms of your bottles for truth. Now get upstairs and pull yourself together.\"\n\nHe glared at his mother like he was staring at muck caught between his toes, but she didn't waver the slightest as she scowled back at him, and after a moment he had little recourse but to storm from the room with what dignity he could muster.\n\nLady Arnifour closed the doors behind him with a look I couldn't quite gauge before turning back to us with a forced smile that failed to contain a shred of welcome. \"I'm afraid I must apologize for my son's behavior yet again. It seems he is always displaying the worst of himself when the two of you are here.\"\n\n\"You mustn't,\" Colin replied as he flashed his own hollow grin. \"After all, we did descend upon you without notice.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you have your reasons,\" she said, moving into the room and perching on the edge of a chair like someone who didn't expect to be there long. \"Do you bring news?\"\n\n\"I've not solved the murders if that's what you're asking, but I have come into some information which I simply must discuss with you.\"\n\nLady Arnifour flicked her gaze to me before abruptly springing to her feet and going to the windows. I was certain I'd spotted a look of concern in her eyes so was not surprised when she kept silent for a few minutes. I peered over at Colin and found him focused on her back and knew he meant to wait her out. And so we stayed that way until I heard the sound of a galloping horse draw near and caught sight of Kaylin bolting past. In the brief moment it took her to cross my field of vision I recognized the skill with which she drove her handsome mount. Lady Arnifour also seemed to soften as she watched her daughter thunder by, and although she did not turn back to us, she did finally begin to speak.\n\n\"Poor Kaylin has suffered the sole responsibility of caring for our horses since Nathaniel's disappearance. Victor just doesn't have the heart for it.\"\n\nI took note of her informal, almost intimate use of Victor Heffernan's name and realized, in that one small gesture, that everything had changed.\n\n\"I would appreciate your providing me a closing statement, Mr. Pendragon,\" she continued, \"as I won't be requiring your services any longer.\"\n\n\"A closing statement?\" He lurched out of his chair. \"But I haven't finished my investigation. I haven't solved the ruddy case.\"\n\nShe persisted in staring out the window in spite of the fact that Kaylin had long since passed from her view. \"I understand all of that, Mr. Pendragon, but as I brought you into this sorrowful mess, so I am now removing you from it.\"\n\nHis face soured. \"May I ask\u2014\"\n\n\"You may not,\" she cut him off. \"I don't owe you an explanation, only the remuneration for your services.\"\n\n\"You're making a mistake.\"\n\n\"Perhaps. But it is mine to make.\"\n\n\"I will solve this case.\"\n\n\"Not at my expense.\" And with that she turned from the window and faced us, her expression as tight as granite.\n\n\"I see,\" he said grimly. \"Then am I to understand that you're no longer interested in seeing justice served in the deaths of your husband and daughter?\"\n\nI almost gasped as he flung the question at her and could tell by the mortification on her face that she was equally stunned.\n\n\"How dare you . . . ,\" she blustered, but it was evident that the comment had struck bone.\n\n\"You hired me to discover the truth and that's exactly what I've been doing.\"\n\n\"I hired you to prove the innocence of a man and you have done that. Nathaniel's flight speaks for itself. The inspector has men searching the city for him and in time, perhaps, he will be found and brought to justice. I suggest you accept your success, Mr. Pendragon, and take heed with such wild innuendos.\"\n\n\"You know as well as I do that Nathaniel is innocent.\"\n\n\"Your presumption is offensive.\"\n\n\"My presumption is no more offensive than your willingness to allow that boy to pay for a crime he did not commit,\" he snarled at her.\n\nShe stormed across the room and flung the doors wide. \"We are finished here,\" she seethed. \"I will thank you to leave.\"\n\nHe took his time walking to the door, holding her gaze with his own. \"Very well,\" his voice was measured and flat, \"but know that I'll not allow him to be turned over to the Yarders and I would caution you against doing the same.\"\n\n\"You forget yourself, Mr. Pendragon!\" she snapped.\n\n\"I do no such thing,\" he answered. \"I do no such thing.\"\nCHAPTER 26\n\nI followed Colin without a word before remembering that he had released the cab upon our arrival. I couldn't believe that he meant for us to walk all the way back to town and so hung my hopes on the probability that he'd already formulated a plan. But as we continued to storm down the driveway without the slightest falter, I began to give up hope. And then we crested the driveway's second hill and he abruptly turned right and plunged into the woods without so much as a backwards glance to see if I was following. He knew I would be.\n\nWe continued in silence, crashing through thick brush that clawed at my trousers until we emerged onto a promontory that overlooked a velvety green meadow. Colin stopped and leaned back to draw in a deep expanse of morning air. \"Spectacular,\" he said breezily. \"Why is it the moneyed are the last to appreciate what they have?\"\n\n\"Well . . . ,\" I sucked in my own deep breath, \". . . because it's impossible for a person to value that which they've never had to do without.\"\n\nHe chuckled. \"Profound.\"\n\n\"Tell me . . . ,\" I said as I gazed out to the horizon, \"did you remember you'd let the cab go when you stalked out of the house?\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"Not exactly. But I can't remember everything. You are certainly free to contribute whenever you think it might be valuable.\"\n\n\"I shall remember that the next time you're crossing words with a client who lives out in the country.\"\n\n\"Crossing words?\" His nearest eyebrow shot up. \"Is that what you think happened?\"\n\n\"Didn't it?\" I couldn't help chuckling. \"Wasn't that you who just threatened her about giving Nathaniel to the Yard?\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\" He waved me off and started barreling across the field, leaving a trail of bent grass in his wake, which I followed. \"I'm not really angry with Lady Arnifour,\" he called back, \"because I'll solve this case anyway. I don't need another farthing from her.\"\n\n\"So you don't care about being fired?\"\n\n\"Fired?!\" He curled his mouth with distaste. \"I prefer to call it freed. Can we leave it at that?\"\n\n\"Still . . .\"\n\n\"Let me ask you a question.\" He tossed back a rogue's grin. \"Did you notice at what point in our questioning of Eldon that Lady Arnifour arrived?\"\n\n\"I haven't a clue.\" I laughed.\n\n\"We were talking about his earliest memories of Elsbeth and what had happened to her parents. He was reciting the story he'd been told as a boy. Lady Arnifour knew where I was leading him. It's why she stopped our conversation and sent him slinking upstairs. And I've no doubt she knows exactly where we got that information from.\"\n\n\"Because the Heffernans are the only other ones who know.\"\n\n\"Precisely. And she likely fears that if we can get those delicate details out of them, then there isn't much else we won't be able to extract.\" His pace slowed as he continued to move diagonally across the field toward another stand of trees. \"She knows we've discovered where Nathaniel is hiding.\" He exhaled slowly. \"I suspect we've become something of a threat to Her Ladyship. No doubt we've discovered far more than she ever intended. In fact,\" he nearly growled, \"we have learned everything about this blasted case except who the bloody hell killed her husband and illegitimate daughter, and why?\"\n\nI was startled by the intensity of his frustration as I stared at him. \"How can we be a threat to her? We're trying to solve these murders. I mean, it's one thing that she didn't care about her husband\u2014that marriage had soured years ago\u2014but Elsbeth was her own flesh and blood!\"\n\n\"Yes. And she was born of an illicit union that caused Lady Arnifour a lifetime of grief.\"\n\n\"That's deplorable!\"\n\nI could tell he was struggling not to laugh at my indignation. \"Not everyone harbors the same sense of propriety that you do. And that is exactly what has kept us employed all these years: the rabble who believe they are either above the law or smarter than it.\"\n\n\"But we're talking about love. We're talking about family bonds\u2014\" But even as the words fell from my mouth, I recognized the intricacies of what I was saying. I knew better. My own childhood spoke of something very much different from the whimsy I was trying to float.\n\n\"Where have you gone off to?\" I heard him say, and allowed him to impel me back. \"Work awaits,\" he announced, gesturing toward a rocky outcropping a short distance away. I followed his gaze and spotted Kaylin Arnifour seated on one of the boulders, her horse tied to a willow tree off to one side. She was staring away from us, gazing resolutely at the vast grassy lands stretching beyond her. \"Did you know she'd be here?\" I asked.\n\n\"I hoped she would. I've been following her trail since we left the house. Surely you knew that?\"\n\n\"Trail?\"\n\n\"Bent grass, snapped underbrush, fresh hoofprints. Have you not noticed any of it?\"\n\nI shrugged. I had no better answer to preserve my self-respect.\n\n\"Well, where did you think we were going?\"\n\nI shrugged again.\n\n\"Such devotion.\" He laughed.\n\n\"So what are we doing here?\" I asked, eager to stop feeling the fool.\n\n\"We've come to gain some clarity.\" He started moving toward the promontory Kaylin was perched upon. \"And to get a ride home.\"\n\nIt was my turn to laugh, as I knew that had not been part of his original plan, and that's when Kaylin turned and spotted us. She waved as though pleased to see us, which I doubted given the desolation of her chosen spot.\n\n\"I hope you don't mind the intrusion,\" Colin called as he picked his way across the boulders.\n\n\"Not at all. You're both welcome to my bit of refuge any time you feel the need. You'll find me here often, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"It is a beautiful place,\" Colin said as he achieved the summit.\n\nI pulled myself up behind him and was shocked by what I saw. The lush field was indeed remarkable, dotted with great stands of oaks and willows in a haphazard harmony that only nature can produce. Yet off in the distance to the left, sitting like a smudge on an otherwise flawless panorama, stood the scorched remains of the barn her father and half sister had been murdered beside. It was an unnerving sight that could only be ignored with considerable effort.\n\n\"Is this where you seek your solace then?\" Colin asked as he dropped down next to her.\n\n\"Elsbeth and I used to ride out here all the time. It was our sanctuary. I haven't been up here since . . .\" She pulled her knees in tight and hugged herself. \"It doesn't help to be able to see that.\" She nodded toward the charred remains. \"I've decided to face this direction for the time being,\" she said as she half-turned so she was facing Colin.\n\n\"Once that's torn down and hauled away you'll see the earth heal herself,\" he reassured. \"There'll be no trace. You'll have this to yourself again.\"\n\n\"I know,\" she sighed. \"But at the moment I can't imagine that will ever be true.\"\n\n\"Never discount the resilience of either nature or the human spirit.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid my family's spirits come mostly in a bottle.\"\n\n\"So I've noticed.\"\n\n\"Don't judge us too harshly, Mr. Pendragon.\" She sighed again as though the effort of defending her family were more than she could bear.\n\n\"I don't judge you at all. I must admit to living something of an unconventional life myself,\" he said, flicking a glance at me that was thankfully missed by Kaylin.\n\n\"But you uphold the standard that everyone is expected to live by, Mr. Pendragon. The standard of law.\"\n\n\"I suppose I do.\" He leaned back on his hands. \"But only those laws that make sense to me.\"\n\n\"Are you telling me there are laws even you will break?\" She grinned.\n\n\"There are laws I break every day.\" He smiled back.\n\n\"May I ask you something?\" I interrupted, eager to steer the conversation to safer grounds. \"Are you and your neighbor, Mrs. Roynton, well acquainted?\"\n\n\"Abigail Roynton?\" She looked at me curiously. \"We speak whenever we happen to attend the same engagements, but I would never call her a friend. I find her indiscretions to be the sort of vulgar behavior that sullies the reputation of all women. Never mind that my father fell prey to her. Men can hardly be blamed for what they have no control over. And I mean no offense.\" But I could see she meant exactly what she'd said. \"And why do you ask such a thing?\"\n\n\"Because while I also found Mrs. Roynton unconventional to be sure, I thought there was something rather liberating in her ideals\u2014\"\n\n\"Liberating?!\" She nearly choked as she glared at me. \"If behaving without scruples can be construed as liberation, then I suppose you're right. I find her boorish and nothing less than despicable. It does nothing but impede the good work of the suffragists.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" I demurred, though I was actually wondering whether she thought Abigail Roynton capable of complicity to commit murder.\n\n\"Don't fall out of step with the movement and get left behind,\" she continued to persist. \"We are at the precipice of a new millennium and with it will come a world where men will no longer be allowed to accommodate their every whim at the expense of women. I'm sure I needn't remind you that without women there would be no men.\"\n\n\"Yes. We figured that out some time ago.\" Colin flashed a tight grin. \"But do let me ask you about Eldon. . . .\"\n\nShe grimaced. \"I must apologize. I behaved badly with him and I'm terribly sorry. Eldon's always had a tougher go of things. Our father was forever demonstrating his disapproval and I'm afraid Eldon took the brunt of it.\"\n\n\"And what was it your father was perpetually disapproving of?\"\n\nKaylin stared out across the landscape for a moment before answering. \"I always remember Eldon being an awkward boy, terribly shy, hanging around my mother's skirts, having no interest in his studies or hunting. For the longest time my mother promoted that. She protected him. But she got distracted as we grew older and eventually . . .\" She let her voice drift off.\n\n\"Your brother's travails notwithstanding,\" Colin said with a noticeable lack of empathy, \"there is something weighing on my mind that I hope you might be able to explain.\" He steadied his gaze on the side of her face. \"As I'm sure you are aware, your father had a reputation for being kept on a tight financial rein by your mother. Nevertheless, I've come to believe that he may in fact have had access to considerable funds throughout the years. If that proves correct, what do you think he might have done with any money he was able to amass?\"\n\n\"Considerable funds?! My father?! That's absurd. He had what my mother gave him, and that only begrudgingly.\"\n\n\"I'm not so sure that's true.\"\n\n\"No one would have given him money. I'm sorry, Mr. Pendragon, but that doesn't make sense.\"\n\n\"Even so, for sake of the exercise, I'd like to hear what you imagine he might have done with a ready supply of cash?\"\n\nShe looked at him a minute, and then turned to me as though I might see the folly in what he was suggesting, but I knew he meant to have an answer. \"I can't even fathom such a possibility. My father was horrendous with money. I'm afraid you've struck upon a preposterous notion. Whoever told you such a thing was deceiving you. It isn't true.\"\n\n\"Well then . . .\" He smiled easily and turned his gaze back across the field. \"I'm only trying to ensure I follow every possible supposition.\"\n\n\"A noble goal.\" She stood up and stretched. \"But I'm afraid I must be getting back to the house. I have four more horses to run today.\"\n\n\"Of course, but might we trouble you for one more thing?\"\n\n\"I'll do whatever I can,\" she said as she nimbly picked her way down off the boulders.\n\n\"We find ourselves without a way back to town. Could you possibly?\"\n\nShe glanced up at us, a generous smile parting her lips. \"I'll have to take you one at a time.\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\nShe let out a satisfied laugh. \"I very much like this. For once the damsel gets to come to the rescue.\"\nCHAPTER 27\n\nI admit that I was surprised. After Kaylin dropped me off I had assumed Colin would be no more than an hour behind, so when he arrived three hours later reeking of lavender perfume and champagne I was not particularly pleased. He explained that he had decided to visit the widow Roynton while waiting for Kaylin to come back for him, and that Mrs. Roynton had sent him home in her own carriage. \"She's really just an old flirt.\" He snickered.\n\n\"I should hardly think anyone would refer to her as old,\" I replied with perhaps a touch more sarcasm than I had intended.\n\nIt got another snicker out of him just the same. \"Shouldn't you be asking if I learned anything of value?\"\n\n\"I was getting to that,\" I said. \"It's just hard talking to you when you smell like a wine-soaked floral shop.\"\n\nHe sniffed at his coat as he pulled it off. \"Hmm. I suppose you have a point.\"\n\nI could only shake my head. \"She helpful then?\"\n\n\"Helpful?!\" he repeated as he dropped to the floor and began a quick succession of push-ups. \"I'm happy to report that the lovely widow admitted several things to me,\" he said without missing a beat. \"Not the least of which is that she can absolutely believe our noble Earl had access to money he didn't let on about. She insists there was no limit to his levels of deceit. Yet she professes no idea as to what he might have done with any such sizeable fortune. Nevertheless . . . ,\" he jumped up and rotated his arms with a satisfied sigh, \"she suggested someone who she believes shares the late Earl's lack of conscience and just might have an idea.\"\n\n\"And who would that be?\"\n\nHe grinned as he snatched up one of his dumbbells and began curling it effortlessly while pacing. \"Poor, carping Warren Vandemier. She thinks the Earl's partner has far more up his sleeve than he is letting on.\"\n\n\"But all he did was prattle on about how the Earl cheated him.\"\n\n\"Precisely. He put up such protestations that it reminded me of that Shakespeare quote.\"\n\n\"What Shakespeare quote?\"\n\nHe cocked an eyebrow and glanced at me. \"You know the one: Methinks he doth protest too much?\"\n\n\"The lady.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"The lady doth protest too much. Hamlet's mother says it.\"\n\nHe shrugged, switching the dumbbell to his other hand. \"Details.\"\n\n\"So now you're tying your deductions to the intrigues of literary characters?\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"Good literature, by its very definition, casts an unwavering eye on the truth of humanity. That's what gives it its profundity.\"\n\n\"This from a man who never reads.\"\n\n\" 'Ay?\" Mrs. Behmoth hollered. \"Ya got comp'ny comin'. Stop yer cluckin'.\"\n\n\"Ever so gracious,\" I muttered.\n\n\"I 'eard that. . . .\"\n\nColin hurried to the window and gazed down onto the street. \"Well now, here's an unexpected turn. Eldon Arnifour has come to pay a visit.\"\n\n\"Lock the liquor cabinet.\"\n\n\"Perish the thought,\" he said as he rolled the dumbbell under the settee and took a seat. \"It's important that he have plenty to drink lest he harbor any hesitancy about saying whatever he's come to say.\"\n\n\"Lord Eldon Arnifour comin' up!\" Mrs. Behmoth yelled from the bottom of the stairs.\n\n\"I hate when she does that,\" I grumbled.\n\n\"I should think you'd long be used to it by now.\"\n\nNot a moment later Eldon appeared on the landing in his typical disheveled fashion, sporting a crooked grin that undoubtedly spoke more to the amount of drink he'd consumed than any sense of good mood. \"Have a seat,\" Colin said magnanimously. \"Make yourself at home.\"\n\n\"I don't think you really mean to say such a thing to me.\" He chuckled as he dropped onto the same settee his mother had collapsed upon the day she hired us. \"I'm afraid home has no particular fondness for me. But could I trouble you for a drink?\"\n\n\"I assume you're not referring to tea?\"\n\n\"Not unless there's a fair amount of scotch in it.\"\n\n\"We could do that if you'd like or we could just forego the tea completely,\" Colin said, producing our bottle of scotch from its eternal resting place in the cupboard.\n\n\"Now there's the best idea yet. No wonder your services are so well respected, Mr. Pendragon. And anyway, I'd hate to force that delightful woman downstairs to tote a tray of tea all the way up here.\"\n\n\"And for that I know she would thank you.\" Colin poured three small glasses, giving Eldon the most, and handed them out. If Eldon noticed that his glass was fuller than ours he certainly didn't seem to care. \"So tell me . . . ,\" Colin sat down and casually placed his untouched drink on the table between us, \"to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?\"\n\n\"I'm tired of being censored by my mother every time we try to have a conversation. The old harridan thinks she controls everyone, but she doesn't toe the line on me. Oh no. I've come to say some things I'll wager you've not heard before,\" he said with great bluster before he drained his glass. \"Is there a limit?\" He glanced at Colin.\n\n\"Only by virtue of what's in the cupboard. Help yourself.\"\n\nEldon popped up, not warranting a second invitation, and refilled his glass. \"Did you know, gentlemen, that my esteemed father once had quite the dalliance with that charming bulldog Mrs. O'Keefe?\" He laughed coarsely. \"Just imagine that, if you will.\"\n\nColin slid his gaze to me, but I couldn't tell if it was doubt or disbelief in his eyes. \"And why would that bear any interest? It seems to me your father rutted just about anyone who would let him.\"\n\nEldon wandered back over to us, the whiskey bottle clutched firmly in one hand. \"Ah yes, it is a curse of the male Arnifour progeny. It is a need, not a desire, that we elevate to an art. Surely you must be able to understand that, Mr. Pendragon. You're something of a strapping man yourself. I'm sure you've turned the ladies' heads many a time.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I haven't noticed,\" he drolled. \"But you were talking about Mrs. O'Keefe. While I'm certain she must be a delightful housekeeper, I'm finding it something of a struggle to fathom why your father would be interested in shagging her.\"\n\nEldon chuckled as he shrugged lazily. \"Availability, I suppose. My mother was indisposed carrying Kaylin and where else could the poor man turn? We didn't have any other female help at the time and she's always made such a fuss over him. Anyone can see it. I wasn't quite five at the time and I knew she was keen on him.\" He winked and tipped his glass at Colin as he took another sip.\n\n\"Well, this is all very fascinating . . . ,\" Colin said as he got up, \"but I fail to see\u2014\"\n\n\"Then stop interrupting,\" Eldon sniped as he stabbed his glass onto the table in front of him. \"You are missing the point, Mr. Pendragon, because you have not let me finish.\"\n\nColin snatched up the hunting knife he had left on the mantel and began buffing its blade with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. \"Forgive me,\" he said with more sincerity than I could have achieved at that moment. \"By all means . . .\"\n\nNow that Eldon knew he'd earned our fullest attention, or at least the closest we were ever likely to accord him, he made a great show of pouring another two fingers into his glass and settling back before continuing. There was also a rakish grin teasing the corners of his mouth. \"My mother was quite ill when she carried Kaylin. She kept to her room nearly the entire time, which left my father to chase Mrs. O'Keefe about like a middle school boy. This is quite some time ago.\" He chuckled and allowed himself another sip of his drink.\n\n\"While I was certainly very young, I was not blind to the incongruity of my father and Mrs. O'Keefe sneaking about, especially with her giggling like a coquette whenever my father was nearby. It was all very appalling, which is precisely why I remember it. Why is it that such things stick in our brains while that which is most cherished is as fleeting as a cut rose?\"\n\n\"Are you asking me?\" Colin asked as he continued to buff the knife blade. \"Or am I still just listening?\"\n\nEldon's brow furrowed. \"Really, Mr. Pendragon, you're being most uncivil when I've only just come to tell what I know.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" he muttered. \"Very obtuse of me.\"\n\nEldon seemed to ignore Colin as he held his glass up right in front of his eyes with a look of great enticement. \"I should think you would find it interesting to hear that our dear Mrs. O'Keefe began putting on weight while my own poor mother was lying about upstairs trying to ensure the safe arrival of our Kaylin. I remember it because I said something to my nanny about the suddenly expanding Mrs. O'Keefe and was quite soundly thumped for my cheek. It was only some years later that I realized what had likely transpired.\" He leered.\n\nI clamped my mouth shut to keep my jaw from unhinging, certain I must be misinterpreting his meaning. Even Colin kept still for a protracted period of time before finally screwing up his face and asking, \"Are you suggesting that Mrs. O'Keefe was with child at the same time as your mother?\"\n\n\"Ah . . .\" Eldon grinned roguishly as he tipped his glass. \"There's the sleuth the papers adore.\"\n\n\"And you're saying your father was responsible?\"\n\n\"Come now.\" Eldon took another sip as he stretched out on the settee. \"Is that really so hard to believe? We've already established his propensity for a tryst, and you cannot deny that he was fully capable.\" He swept a hand across his body with a flourish, clearly meaning to present himself as the truth of that statement.\n\n\"How old were you at the time?\"\n\nEldon heaved a sigh as though bothered by such a banal thought. \"I was just about six and very precocious, and would've remained so if I hadn't been driven to spirits by the time puberty seized me.\" He scowled. \"Mrs. O'Keefe got fleshy,\" he continued after a moment, \"and then she was gone.\"\n\n\"Gone?\"\n\nHe looked up at us and in that instant his usual derision had returned. \"Packed off like the embarrassment she had become,\" he said gleefully. \"She was gone for about four months. Who the hell can remember. But it was a bloody long time, that's for sure. Certainly long enough\u2014\" He let the sentence hang in the air.\n\n\"Where were you told she'd gone off to?\"\n\nHe seemed to consider the question a moment as he cast his gaze about and pursed his lips. \"I don't really remember anymore. Sisters? Aunties? Dog pound? Hard to say.\"\n\n\"I see . . . ,\" Colin muttered, and I could practically hear his brain whirring. \"Suppose she had gone off to have a baby . . . what of it?\"\n\n\"Well, there's the thing.\" Eldon nearly crowed his enthusiasm. It was evident he was taking great merriment in our skepticism, which I could not help but find unsettling. \"Not long after Mrs. O'Keefe went missing\u2014it couldn't have been six or eight weeks later\u2014I awoke sometime in the night to a great deal of commotion. Dear Mother was not well, you see. There were all manner of people bustling about, and my cursed nanny kept trying to shoo me back to bed. But I wasn't having any of it. I hid in the shadows of the hallway until I saw them carry my mother past on a stretcher. There was a great crowd of people around her, so I couldn't see her face, but I could hear her crying. I remember being quite terrified.\" He let out a caustic laugh. \"Can you imagine?\n\n\"My father finally noticed me lurking about and yanked me back to my bedroom with his usual brute affection,\" he chuckled again, \"but not before I caught sight of the blood. There was a towel heaped on the floor of my mother's room that was saturated and a puddle of it near her bed. A young boy remembers a thing like that.\" He lifted his glass slightly and twirled its contents around a moment before deciding to continue. I couldn't tell whether he was drawn to the memory or repelled by it. \"And do you know what my father told that snot-nosed, weepy-faced boy after pulling him back to his bedroom? He said: Buck up, you little turd\u2014your mother might not make it and we can't have you sniveling about.\"\n\nI don't think I had really expected to hear anything much different, yet it remained striking just the same.\n\n\"I suppose your father was practical if nothing else,\" Colin said as he set the knife he'd been buffing back onto the mantel and stooped to poke at the fire. \"But your mother did return and she brought Kaylin with her.\" Colin stood up and turned to Eldon. \"She did bring Kaylin with her?\"\n\nA sly grin slowly grew on Eldon's face. \"So clever, Mr. Pendragon. Kaylin came. Eventually. About a fortnight after Mother had returned from the hospital and just days before Mrs. O'Keefe made her own discreet homecoming. They told me dear sister had been sick and almost died, but as I got older and remembered all that blood, I began to wonder who was fooling whom.\"\n\nColin moved around and dropped back into his chair. \"If what you're insinuating is true, why would your mother agree to such a ruse?\"\n\n\"And that's the thing.\" Eldon finished off his scotch and pounded the glass onto the table with finality. \"I believe this was perpetrated on my mother without her ever having the slightest notion. She wasn't around to see Mrs. O'Keefe's gradually burgeoning shape. And once my mother was in the hospital it would have been easy for my father to control what information she received. How he must have loved having her raise his daughter as though she were her own.\"\n\n\"Why would any doctor agree to such a sham?\"\n\nEldon laughed. \"Oh, come now, Mr. Pendragon, don't you know they're the worst type of addicts? They've got access to every sort of drug. And doesn't it take one addict to recognize another? That fact would never have been lost on my father.\" There was an odd note of pride in his voice.\n\nColin fished a coin out of his pocket and quietly began flipping it between his fingers. \"Of course,\" he said after a moment, \"this is all strictly conjecture on your part. Long-ago memories of a very little boy.\"\n\n\"Guilty.\" Eldon winked. \"But surely a man of your prowess has noticed how Mrs. O'Keefe dotes on little sister. And even now she remains the only one of us who gives a whit that Father's dead. Wouldn't she just be forever grateful that she had been able to tend to her own daughter all these years, even if the poor, stupid girl didn't know the truth.\"\n\n\"So why are you telling us this now?\"\n\n\"Suppose my mother recently found out the truth? Suppose she discovered the fraud he'd been perpetrating on her all these years. How enraged do you suppose she would be?\" He beamed with mischievous delight.\n\n\"So you are suggesting she may have had something to do with your father's murder then?\" Colin's tone remained smooth and steady even though the very idea that Eldon had come to dangle such an accusation was entirely repellent.\n\n\"Oh,\" his smile dropped, \"I'm more than suggesting it. My parents were a venal pair. If it wasn't for my inheritance I would have left that horrid place years ago.\"\n\n\"And how have you fared with your inheritance?\"\n\nEldon shoved himself off the settee and stretched. \"Everything my father owned has reverted to me.\"\n\n\"And Kaylin?\"\n\nHe waved Colin off. \"She inherits in name only.\"\n\n\"What specifically?\"\n\n\"Everything.\"\n\n\"Your sister is a part owner of an opium den?\" I blurted out, unable to contain myself.\n\n\"In name only, I said!\" Eldon barked. \"She has some ridiculous notion about liberating the women who work there. I told her to stick to her bloody horses and leave the rest to me. In fact, I think I may just go to the club tonight to claim what's rightfully mine from that maggot my father was in business with.\"\n\n\"Indeed.\" Colin's face turned grim. \"Then perhaps we should come to your club tonight as well.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he flushed, \"you really must. Warren Vandemier had best beware, for tonight he will be made to pay. . . .\"\n\nI detested the idea of watching a surly and intoxicated Eldon Arnifour harangue against an equally addled Warren Vandemier. Even more so now that Eldon had so joyfully come to implicate his own mother. But most of all, I dreaded the thought of being inside an opium club again.\nCHAPTER 28\n\nWe arrived just after eleven that evening, both dressed plainly in an effort to be inconspicuous, although we'd had to use Eldon's name to get in. Colin had managed to refrain from asking if I was certain about accompanying him here again, but I could tell by his surreptitious glances that the question did not hover far from his lips. Everything looked familiar: the dense and seductive haze that wound through the scattered groups of people sharing pipes and the occasional loners randomly huddled about. Most of the doors to the private rooms lining the entrance hallway were closed, with the sheer drapery hanging around the main space affording what little privacy the rest of the clientele was accorded.\n\n\"You like company tonight?\" asked the lovely Oriental hostess who ushered us inside.\n\n\"We would.\" Colin tossed her a dazzling smile. \"Might you be available?\"\n\nShe giggled behind a hand as she threw a glance toward the overbuilt man seated behind the door. \"You funny,\" she giggled again, \"but I only let customer in tonight. I find someone special for you.\" She looked at me. \"You want two?\"\n\n\"One,\" Colin answered. \"We needn't be greedy.\"\n\nShe giggled yet again as she led us to a small area at one side of the room where several unoccupied lounges were arranged. We made ourselves comfortable, an easy task in such a setting, while she struck off to arrange a companion for us.\n\n\"The trick . . . ,\" Colin leaned in close to me, \". . . will be to get our new friend to partake without actually doing so ourselves. Tell me you're okay.\"\n\n\"Now don't start that,\" I warned.\n\nHe offered a wry smile. \"All right then. Then I shall concentrate on worrying about myself.\"\n\n\"No worries!\" A beautiful Oriental woman with the slightest figure I'd ever seen sidled up to us. She had delicate features and straight black hair that fell below her waist. \"You relax,\" she said as she settled onto the lounge across from us, setting the water pipe she was carrying next to the candles on the table. \"I take care everything.\"\n\nColin passed her a few pounds as she pulled a small pouch from the bodice of her dress. The pouch was little more than a tiny piece of fabric tied together at one end to form a teardrop shape. I knew she would be carrying more than a handful of these. Business, and her pay, depended on it.\n\nShe carefully set the little package on the table between us and tugged at the string binding it, revealing an oily black goop at its center. I was mesmerized as I watched her scrape the gummy substance into the thimble-sized metal holder also strung around her neck. With a practiced hand she slowly waved it over the open flame of a candle.\n\nAfter no more than a minute she pulled a hairpin from behind her ear and gently coaxed the mixture into a thick, honeylike paste. As the pungent aroma gradually rose and drifted between us, swirling about and deftly stealing into our minds, she tipped the contents into the pipe's bowl and smiled at us.\n\n\"Who first?\" She turned the pipe toward Colin.\n\n\"The honor is yours.\" He smiled back at her. \"I must insist.\"\n\n\"No, no, no . . .\" She shook her head and thrust the pipe out again. \"Not right. Honor belong to customer.\"\n\n\"I insist.\" He snatched one of the candles and tilted it toward the bowl. \"Now don't make us wait. . . .\"\n\nThe young lady flicked her eyes left and right, clearly checking to see if anyone might catch her breaking what was certainly a house rule. Evidently satisfied, she quickly leaned forward and took a tug off the pipe without so much as touching it. She collapsed back onto her chaise and held the smoke deep in her lungs, her head lolling back as she stared up at the ceiling. After a few moments a gentle burst of smoke shot straight up from her mouth, mixing with the already murky air. \"Wunnerful,\" she sighed. \"Now you.\"\n\nColin snatched the pipe from her and made a great show of lighting it himself, bugging his eyes and alternating a sort of sucking and blowing combination that seemed to succeed in releasing a great deal of smoke without his apparently inhaling much. Still, it was more than I thought I could bear given the already toxic atmosphere swirling about my brain. So I was greatly relieved as I watched Colin push the pipe back toward our flushed attendant.\n\n\"No, no . . .\" She giggled. \"Not my turn. Is turn for friend.\" And as if to illustrate her point, she picked up the candle and waved it toward me. \"You next. You have fun too.\"\n\n\"My friend started earlier this evening,\" Colin smoothly informed her as he lifted the candle from her hand and turned it, and the pipe, back in her direction. \"Your turn. We have to catch up.\" He winked at her, sending her into a second round of soft-pitched giggles. This time, when he leaned the candle toward the bowl our companion didn't even bother to demur, but quickly swooped in and took a great, long pull.\n\n\"You very kind,\" she said, smoke leaking from the sides of her mouth. \"I do you service in return.\" She smiled boldly, glancing from Colin to me. \"I get us room. Show you trick with smoke.\"\n\nDespite my foggy head, I managed to keep from laughing as Colin leaned forward and patted her knee. \"No services. We've got that covered. What we'd really like is a little information. Could you help us with that?\"\n\nShe looked deflated, since that was money that would have gone directly to her. \"But I best in club. I please everyone.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you do. But what would be most pleasing is if you would tell us a little about the club's owner.\"\n\nThe woman scowled and shook her head. \"I not like that. I work in club. Make people happy.\" She pushed the pipe toward me and gestured determinedly with the candle. \"Your turn. No say no. Trust me. No talk about owner. Tonight, you owner.\"\n\n\"You misunderstand.\" Colin lifted the pipe from her hand and put it up to his own mouth, leaning forward and giving his elaborate show of smoking. \"I'm a friend of Mr. Vandemier's. I just want to make sure he's treating you well.\" He sent a great discharge of smoke into her face, which she instinctively inhaled.\n\n\"Oh.\" She smiled. \"No worry. Sometimes people say bad things, but I have no bad things to say.\" She took the pipe from Colin and pressed it into my hands. \"You have some. Way past time for you.\"\n\n\"Way past time . . . ,\" I repeated numbly, lifting the pipe to my lips as I leaned in toward the nearest candle. I clenched the metal nipple between my teeth and tipped the candle forward, and instantly a rush of familiarity overwhelmed me in a sickening yet somehow welcoming way. With the sound of my heartbeat rocketing in my ears, I sucked on the pipe until I felt the first smooth tendrils of smoke curl into my mouth. It tasted soft and soothing, like a dear friend who'd been gone too long. My lungs struggled to reach up and draw it in: one inhalation . . . one weedy taste . . . just one . . . but before I could be thusly seduced Colin yanked the pipe from my hands and ground his heel into my foot. I yelped, expelling the smoke in a single coughing burst.\n\n\"There, there,\" he muttered with mock concern, slapping my back a bit too heartily. \"Let's not be greedy.\"\n\n\"No,\" I stammered, my eyes watering as I looked up and spotted the concern behind his eyes. \"No,\" I repeated, more for myself.\n\n\"Would you say Mr. Vandemier is a good man?\" Colin turned his attentions and the pipe back to our young attendant. \"Is he fair? Kind?\"\n\n\"He not owner. He only manage. You say he friend . . .\" She slid the pipe out of Colin's hand and began to refill it. \"How come you not know that?\"\n\n\"He told me the club was his.\" Colin hiked an eyebrow as he watched her. \"Has he been feeding me a line of trifle?\"\n\nThe young woman giggled. \"He no own. Owner dead.\"\n\nEven with the miasma fingering about my mind I understood the profundity of her words. If she was right, if she was telling the truth, then Warren Vandemier had far overstated his value in the enterprise. There would be a great deal more for him to explain.\n\n\"Are you certain?\" Colin pressed as he snatched up the candle and lit the refreshed bowl for her.\n\n\"Oh yes. Everybody know he dead. Somebody kill him.\"\n\n\"I meant Warren Vandemier. Are you certain he's not the owner?\"\n\nShe shrugged as she took another tug on the pipe. \"He always getting yelled at. Make him mad. He take it out on us. With owner gone now he happy. Say he own place, but he still only manage.\"\n\n\"Then who's the owner?\"\n\n\"Owner dead.\"\n\nColin smiled and leaned forward, tipping the candle to relight the pipe for her. \"But if the owner's dead . . . ,\" he said with remarkable patience, \". . . then who's the owner now?\"\n\n\"Why don't you ask someone who knows?\" came the tight, grating voice of Warren Vandemier.\n\nI turned to face him and caught a glimpse of the hostess who'd seated us the first time lurking in the shadows. She had done us in\u2014again. I wondered whether she'd recognized us or if perhaps she'd caught us ministering to our young companion's obvious habit.\n\n\"I thought I'd put an end to the two of you skulking about!\" Mr. Vandemier growled.\n\n\"Skulking?!\" Colin stood up and smiled. \"And since when is availing ourselves of a public establishment considered skulking? I thought you'd be glad for the business.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you'd prefer to cease this charade and speak to me. It seems such a waste of your time otherwise.\"\n\n\"Not a waste at all,\" Colin answered. \"You'd be amazed at the things one hears in a place like this.\"\n\nWarren Vandemier scowled irritably. \"Let me be clear, Mr. Pendragon, I neither need nor care about indulging your business. So unless you'd like to be escorted from the premises . . . again . . . ,\" he nodded toward the entrance hall, \". . . then I would suggest you come with me. We can attend to whatever questions you have and then I shall ask you to leave for the last time. You . . . ,\" his brow furrowed deeper as he threw a sideways glance at me, \". . . and Mr. Pruitt are not welcome here.\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" Colin smiled, \"I'm almost hurt. Come then, it would seem there's to be no leisure for us.\"\n\nI stood up and had to take a moment to steady myself before I could follow Colin and Mr. Vandemier to a side door that led to a plain wooden staircase that was clearly not for regular customers. \"Go on. Go on up,\" Mr. Vandemier said with a thick amount of impatience. \"I'll be there in a minute.\" We'd gotten no more than halfway up when he bellowed out, \"And I'll thank you not to go mucking about my things!\"\n\n\"As though I would do such a thing,\" Colin called back with a chuckle. \"I explore . . . ,\" he muttered under his breath. \"I do not muck about.\"\n\nThe door below slammed shut, offering its own stinging retort.\n\n\"I don't trust that man,\" I said as we reached the cramped office at the top. \"And I doubt he's ever said a word of truth to us.\"\n\n\"I'm sure there's truth to be found around the edges,\" he answered, and started right in poking about the enormous desktop.\n\nI sat down and attempted to get comfortable in one of the straight-backed chairs clearly not crafted for comfort. \"He is working every side against the other, which makes me suspicious.\"\n\n\"I would hope so.\" He glanced at me with a smile as he pawed through a mountain of papers on one corner of the desk. \"But there's nothing of interest here.\"\n\nHe abandoned his rummaging and set to peeking behind the small, smoke-stained paintings of scantily clad women that hung on the walls. There was a lone filing cabinet shoved in one corner and I reached out and found that the drawers willingly sprang open. As I began to paw through them, it quickly became evident that there was no need to lock what no one else could decipher. Cryptic notes on files containing no other discernment than a single letter were not going to reveal a thing.\n\n\"Anything?\" he asked as he settled down beside me.\n\n\"I'm afraid he's too clever for that.\"\n\nThe sound of the door below was followed by the plodding of footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later Warren Vandemier stomped in. \"I hope you're happy,\" he snarled as he sat behind his desk. \"You've cost that girl her job.\"\n\n\"That seems a bit harsh\u2014\" Colin started to say.\n\n\"Not in the least.\" He leaned forward and locked eyes with Colin. \"I don't hire addicts.\"\n\n\"Come now. . . .\" He smirked. \"Even you must realize you've got nothing but addicts working here.\"\n\nWarren Vandemier stiffened. \"Why are you here?\"\n\n\"We've been hearing stories about money, Mr. Vandemier. The Earl's money to be precise. And more than a few rumors about your partnership. And most astonishingly, these stories bear little resemblance to what you told us a few days ago. I'm left quite disconcerted. I've decided I owe you an opportunity to reconsider some of the bollocks you've been trying to sell us.\"\n\nTo my amazement Mr. Vandemier broke into an easy smile, looking at us with considerable disinterest and an obvious lack of concern. Something was most assuredly amiss. \"Such a generous gesture on your part, Mr. Pendragon, especially given that your services for Lady Arnifour have been dismissed.\" And there it was then. That news had traveled fast. \"Under the circumstances . . . ,\" he stared at us with beaming self-satisfaction, \". . . I hardly think I owe you an explanation about anything.\"\n\n\"Though I am no longer being compensated,\" Colin glared back at him, \"you can be sure I will still solve this case. Do not underestimate my determination, Mr. Vandemier.\"\n\n\"Perish the thought.\" He chuckled. \"I'm sure I wish you all the best, but you'll get nothing more from me.\" He flashed his crooked yellow teeth at us. \"I've nothing more to say to you. Ever.\"\n\n\"And that is curious. Because I can't understand why an innocent man would be unwilling to answer a few questions?\"\n\n\"A few questions?! Is that what you have? Then tell me, why would you be twiddling about downstairs, doping that stupid girl, if all you wanted was to ask me a few questions? Now really, Mr. Pendragon.\"\n\n\"I had no idea you'd be so magnanimous with your time,\" Colin answered smoothly. \"So let me ask you, if the Earl was as flush with cash as I now believe him to have been, why are you insisting he never paid his share in this establishment?\"\n\nMr. Vandemier pursed his lips and snatched up a half-smoked cigar from an ashtray filled with them. Only after the stink of it had been suitably sucked into his lungs did he finally deem to answer the question. \"I had to protect myself,\" he said.\n\n\"Whatever from?\"\n\n\"This may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Pendragon, but not all of the late Earl's family is particularly fond of me.\"\n\n\"Pray tell. . . .\"\n\n\"His son's a turd and that nettlesome daughter of his\u2014\"\n\n\"Lady Kaylin?\"\n\n\"I believe he only had the one.\" His sarcasm was wholly evident on his face. \"She would sooner slit my throat than look at me when it was her father who bankrolled this. I wanted the lot of them to think I fronted the old stiff the money so they'd piss off and leave me alone. I knew none of them would make good on any debt they thought he owed me.\" He snickered. \"Now that you're no longer taking his old widow's wages\u2014\" But that was as far as he got before the door below abruptly slammed open and was followed by the panicked footfalls of someone rapidly assaulting the steps.\n\n\"MR. VANDEMIER!\" A terrified pasty-faced young man rose into view. \"It's Li Shen. She's gone daft. She's set the club on fire.\"\n\n\"What?!\" He bolted to his feet and rushed around the desk, catching himself sharply at the hip. \"Dammit to bloody hell!\" he bellowed as the first wafts of acrid smoke began to overpower the opiate scent clinging in the air. \"Those blasted idiots were supposed to get her out of here.\"\n\n\"She was acting crazy.\" The young man kept flicking his eyes nervously about the room. \". . . Clawing . . . scratching . . . screaming. And then she set one of the curtains on fire, and then another, and then another\u2014\"\n\n\"I get it!\" He nearly punched the man as he shoved past him. \"If this club suffers any damage you and the rest of those idiots will pay every farthing to repair it!\" he hollered as he flung himself down the stairs.\n\nThe young man stared at us slack-jawed a moment, looking like a terrified alley cat, before he suddenly gathered himself and went bolting back down the stairs. I'd done no more than turn my gaze back to Colin when Warren Vandemier and his young liege came thundering back up. Mr. Vandemier now looked a great deal more distressed than angry, and I knew it was bad.\n\n\"The whole place is ablaze,\" he blurted out.\n\n\"The door?\" Colin said as we scrambled to our feet.\n\nHe shook his head. I looked back and noticed the first black wisps of smoke beginning to waft up the stairwell. My eyes began to sting and I felt my heartbeat surge as I realized time was quickly running out.\n\nColin pushed past Mr. Vandemier and the young man, seizing the chair he'd been sitting on and heaving it out the room's only window. \"I would suggest . . . ,\" he said with steely calm, \". . . that we find some way to climb down while we've still got the chance.\" He shoved me toward the window. \"You first.\"\n\nI didn't need to be coaxed, though I am not especially enamored of heights. I crawled out onto the window's thin ledge and tried to keep myself focused to allay my fears. All I knew was that I would be leaping down onto unforgiving cobblestones and a steadily increasing band of sooty, gagging people who even now were stumbling from the club's door. There had to be some way I could lower myself at least partially, and that's when I spotted the shutters hanging just below me.\n\nI shifted my weight and jockeyed around so I was facing the inside of the building and then with both hands clutching the windowsill I slowly lowered myself, flailing my legs until I felt the top of the shutters just below. Colin scrambled out the window as soon as I'd cleared the ledge and quickly worked himself around as I had. He started to lower himself and I was able to reach his feet to help him gain purchase. He let go of the ledge just as Warren Vandemier scuttled onto it, and then we both knelt down and gripped the top of the shutters.\n\n\"Drop!\" I yelled. And without another thought I did just that, careening down onto the cobbled street and landing heavily on my backside. It was not as far a drop as I'd thought, but it was enough to flush the stale air from my lungs.\n\n\"You all right?\" Colin dropped close to me and squeezed my arm.\n\n\"I'm fine,\" I stammered, pushing myself up. \"You?\"\n\n\"Perfect.\"\n\nWarren Vandemier slammed down on my other side with a cry and a crack that I knew meant he'd broken something. I stretched, grateful that everything felt fine, then looked back up to see if I was in the way of the young man who'd been with us . . . but he wasn't there. All I could see was the lapping of flames against the windowsill that only a minute before had been my perch.\n\n\"Colin . . .\" I stared around at the throng of stilted, somnambulistic people stumbling around the alleyway.\n\n\"I know . . . ,\" he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me away. \"We have to go. There's nothing we can do.\"\n\nThe distant sound of clanging bells and windup horns that reached my ears mixed eerily with the groans and sobs of the disoriented crowd, and I knew he was right. And that boy . . . that thin, sallow boy . . . never came out.\nCHAPTER 29\n\nWe stumbled two or three blocks before it became apparent that we were being followed. The horse-drawn fire coaches had already careened past, clanging and screeching their warnings, and in the vacuum they left behind it was clear that ours were not the only set of footfalls on the cobbles. Yet each time one of us would glance back, the advancing footsteps halted in tandem, revealing no one behind us. I was finding it increasingly unnerving, though Colin didn't seem the least concerned. I knew pickpockets didn't work uncrowded alleyways and thugs never worked alone, but someone was still matching us step for step and that was rarely a good thing.\n\nWe continued our measured pace for a while longer before Colin asked, \"What was the name of the woman who sat with us at the club tonight? The one who started the fires?\"\n\n\"Li Shen.\"\n\n\"Well then, I believe Li Shen is following us,\" he announced with certainty. \"And rather badly at that.\"\n\n\"Li Shen? You think it's her?\" I started to turn to see if I might yet catch a glimpse, but Colin seized my arm and kept me from doing so.\n\n\"Don't look. Just keep moving. We'll get her to come to us.\"\n\nI knew what he was up to, so as soon as we turned the corner I ducked in the notched alcove of a darkened storefront and yanked him in after me. \"Don't make a sound,\" I cautioned him with a chuckle as he maneuvered around in the tight space.\n\nAlmost at once someone came scurrying out of the alleyway and a second later the silhouette of Li Shen came into view as she paused, no more than a few feet away, and scanned the street.\n\n\"Lose someone?\" Colin cooed as he stepped out. She released a stifled scream and looked as if she was about to run when she abruptly collapsed against Colin's chest and began wailing like a child. \"There, there . . . ,\" he said stiffly, his eyes finding mine to reveal his discomfort.\n\nI patted Li Shen's back and allowed him to pass her to me. She sobbed until I thought she must surely need to stop for air. I knew it to be an effect of the drug and as I held her I was suddenly overcome by the realization that at least one person had lost his life tonight as a result of her drug-addled rampage. It seemed unconscionable to offer her succor when she'd shown so little care herself just a short time ago. And yet she had not been in her right mind then, and that was because of us.\n\n\"We mustn't tarry,\" Colin warned. \"Mr. Vandemier will be crying for his pound of flesh as will the authorities once they find out what happened.\"\n\nShe pulled away from me and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. \"I no trouble you,\" she said in a thin voice. \"I fine. You go.\"\n\n\"We'll not leave you here. You'll come with us,\" he said.\n\nShe shook her head. \"I no have business with you. You go. Leave Li Shen.\"\n\n\"No.\" He took her arm and began to get us all moving. \"You will come with us if I have to carry you all the way to\n\nKensington, which I am not in the mood to do. I'll not hear another word on it.\" He slid his gaze to me.\n\n\"Absolutely.\" I pasted on what I hoped was a welcoming smile even though I did not relish having her in our flat. \"Not another word.\"\n\n\"Bless you.\" She bowed repeatedly. \"You most kind. A thousand blessings on you both.\"\n\n\"Fine. Lovely. But we really must get moving . . . ,\" Colin prodded again as he tried to get her to pick up the pace. \"It won't do us much good if we're found wandering about the area by the authorities.\"\n\nI held Li Shen's arm, who only now seemed to be comprehending what she had done. Her frail body was shaking as though she were walking barefoot across a patch of ice and I knew it was only a matter of time before the drug fully receded to leave her alone with the consequences. When we reached Fleet Street Colin gestured for us to stay out of sight while he hailed a cab, and only after he'd done so did the two of us dart from the shadows and leap inside.\n\nNone of us spoke the entire way back, and I could smell the burnt sulphur and thick pungent musk of opium on all of us. We would need to bathe with herbs and oils to remove these residues from our skin and hair, and I could only imagine what Mrs. Behmoth was going to say.\n\n\" 'Ere now . . . ,\" she did not disappoint, \"ya couldn't give me some notice that you were bringin' someone 'ome?\" Her hair was in rollers under her knit cap and she was wearing a long flannel robe and well-worn slippers that had long ago molded themselves to her feet. \"Come on then. . . .\" She held the door open and watched curiously as Li Shen drifted across the threshold. As she passed by Mrs. Behmoth her nose curled up and I could tell she knew where we'd been. \"You better not smell like 'er.\" She pinched my arm as I tried to brush past her.\n\n\"It's all right,\" Colin exhaled wearily. \"I chaperoned. We haven't done anything we need regret.\"\n\nLi Shen started and turned to Colin, and immediately dissolved into tears again. She sagged back into me and I held her a moment before hastening her upstairs and away from Mrs. Behmoth's questioning glare.\n\n\"I'd say ya'd best speak fer yerself,\" I heard her mutter to Colin as he started up after us.\n\nI settled Li Shen onto the settee and poked the fire back to life while Colin pressed a brandy on her. She sipped at the drink and eventually exchanged her sobbing for a series of protracted sighs and an occasional hiccup. It was easy to see by the heaviness of her eyelids that the opium was loosening its grip on her, and I knew that before much longer the truth of what had happened\u2014of what she had done\u2014would finally poke into her conscience and demand its due.\n\n\"You must get some rest,\" I said to her.\n\n\"Yes.\" Colin seated himself across from her, his own face drawn. \"We'll talk tomorrow. We'll decide what needs to be done then.\"\n\n\"No rest for Li Shen,\" she whispered. \"No rest.\"\n\n\"Leave it be,\" I tried to soothe her. \"There will be time enough to think on it all tomorrow.\"\n\n\"But I start fire. I want fire. I try to destroy man who want to destroy me, like owner's woman. She come to club and want to destroy everything too. Wave lamp around. But she not really do it, only Li Shen did it.\"\n\n\"What woman?\" Colin's brow knit.\n\nShe shook her head and took another sip of brandy, staring at the amber liquid as though hoping to find some solace within its honeyed glow.\n\n\"How long ago was this?\" he persisted.\n\nShe gave a slight shrug.\n\n\"Two weeks? Six weeks? Six months? Surely you can remember something?\"\n\nMrs. Behmoth shuffled into the room startling all three of us. \"I made up the guest room for the young lady. I 'ope you won't be keepin' her up 'alf the night. She looks as if she's 'ad enough. It ain't right ta keep at 'er\u2014\"\n\n\"Thank you!\" he snapped, sending a frosty glare in her direction. \"We appreciate your thoughtfulness. Please don't trouble yourself any further. We'll see that our guest gets down to her room.\"\n\nMrs. Behmoth folded her arms across her chest and stared right back at him. \"Yer a pip,\" she said flatly. \"Ya jest see that she does.\" And with that she turned and lumbered back down the stairs.\n\n\"Forgive the intrusion.\" He flicked his eyes back to Li Shen. \"How many times did you see the woman at the club?\"\n\n\"That woman?\" Li Shen pointed to our empty doorway.\n\n\"No, no. The owner's woman. The one who was threatening to burn the club down.\"\n\n\"Couple time. She very mad. Shouting . . . scaring client. Say she burn everything down. Bad for business.\"\n\n\"What did she look like?\"\n\n\"Young. Small like Li Shen.\"\n\nColin glanced at me. \"That rules out Lady Arnifour and Abigail Roynton, which leaves us with Elsbeth. But why would she threaten to burn down the club?\" He looked back at Li Shen. \"Was the Earl there when it happened?\"\n\n\"Earl who?\"\n\n\"The owner. The Earl of Arnifour. The one who was killed.\"\n\n\"He there. He have bad night. Have fight with man and then girl come in. He try to calm girl down. Want to take her upstairs. She not happy, screaming and yelling. She crazy. Everyone say so.\"\n\n\"Man? What man?\"\n\n\"Owner son. He say bad things. Then he leave and girl come in and\u2014\"\n\n\"I know. . . .\" Colin waved her off. \"You've been quite clear about the girl. But what about the son? What kind of things did he say?\"\n\nLi Shen shrugged tiredly. \"He hate man.\"\n\n\"Which man? What man?\"\n\n\"Father. Owner. Say he teach him lesson. Why he want to teach lesson to father he hate?\"\n\nColin shook his head with a noticeable lack of interest and sighed. \"And what was Mr. Vandemier doing during all this?\"\n\n\"He not there. Too early for him. Not climb out of pig pit yet.\"\n\n\"And how long ago did this happen?\" he repeated, his own exhaustion catching up to him.\n\n\"Sometime . . .\" She didn't even bother to finish her sentence. She wouldn't be able to. Opium steals time. The months she'd spent in that club would forever be one continuous span. She yawned and set her brandy down. \"Li Shen tired. No feel good.\"\n\n\"Of course.\" Colin rose and I did the same.\n\n\"If you'll come with me,\" I said, grasping her arm and leading her down to the room beside Mrs. Behmoth's own. Everything had been arranged so that this seldom-used space looked inviting. She had turned down the bed and pulled open the armoire to reveal extra covers and some nondescript nightclothes. She'd even managed to scrounge up a small vase of pale pink roses that she'd placed on the bedside table. I bid our guest good night and hoped she could get some rest before the morning and its realizations came roaring in.\n\nI found Colin reclining in the bath upstairs attempting to soak off the vagaries of the night. I lowered myself to the floor and leaned against the wall, a heavy weariness sweeping over me in direct contrast to the gentle dancing of the candles he'd set about the tiny room. It would be so easy to fall asleep but unacceptable to awaken on the floor of the bathroom.\n\n\"Is she settled in?\" he mumbled in a voice as tired as I felt.\n\n\"As much as she can be,\" I said as I allowed my eyes to close.\n\n\"We'll have to decide what to do with her tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Someone died tonight because of her, maybe more. . . .\"\n\n\"I know,\" he sighed. \"But something isn't right. . . .\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\"\n\n\"I can't get a clear picture of Elsbeth. By all accounts she was willing to have an affair with a man she believed to be her uncle, relishing the extravagant lifestyle it afforded and allowing herself to be spotted in public with him under less than appropriate circumstances. Yet now we learn that in a fit of pique she went down to his club and shouted slanders and threats? It doesn't make sense.\"\n\n\"No . . .\" I had to agree. But in spite of my determination to hold up my end of the conversation I knew I was fighting a battle against sleep I was unlikely to win.\n\n\"And why would Eldon have been there that night? What could have compelled him to confront his father like that?\"\n\n\"Li Shen could be wrong,\" I said, biting into the side of my cheek to keep from yawning. \"She is a drug addict.\"\n\n\"She is . . . but we have to be careful not to be too dismissive. There's undoubtedly some truth in what she's saying. And yet I can't help feeling that we're still missing something. The trigger. What drove Eldon to make such a public spectacle of himself when anyone can see he fears his own shadow? And why would Elsbeth threaten to burn that damnable place down?!\"\n\n\"Eldon's a drunk. There's no explaining a man like that. Coming to our flat this afternoon to tell us that story just so he can implicate his mother. It's a disgrace.\"\n\n\"It could be true,\" Colin sighed. \"Though it's hard to take the recollections of a five-year-old with anything but caution. What may have seemed like quite a lot of blood to him then could prove quite inconsequential to an adult. Still, it is a sordid tale.\"\n\n\"And even if it is true, it might not change a thing. Maybe Elsbeth was on the verge of being replaced as the Earl's favorite and that's what set her off,\" I blathered in near incoherence.\n\nColin bolted up so quickly that water splashed out of the tub and onto the floor. \"Of course! How foolish I've been.\"\n\n\"What?\" I blinked vacantly as I struggled to focus. \"Foolish about what?\"\n\n\"What's the one thing that would have set them both off?\" He stared at me, but I had nothing. If there was an answer to see I wouldn't have spotted it scrawled on the wall in front of me. \"The Earl had someone else. Someone who was a threat to Eldon's inheritance. All this time . . . ,\" he chuckled as he climbed out of the tub, \". . . there's been someone missing from this game. Someone who set everything else in motion.\"\nCHAPTER 30\n\nMorning roared in with great anticipation, as did Colin. By the time I managed to coax my eyes open he was already up and dressing at a furious pace.\n\n\"Are you planning on sleeping all day?\" he teased. \"There's much to be done. The Ilya Petrovina is due in shortly and we've got to get down to the docks to see if your suspicions about Michael have any basis. And I should also like to announce that by the end of this day we will have named the perpetrator in the Arnifour murders. However, first we must question our houseguest. I'm going to have Mrs. Behmoth awaken her. I simply cannot wait another minute.\"\n\nI roused myself as quickly as I could, loath to miss anything, all the while considering Colin's declaration that he was on the verge of solving the Arnifour murders. I hadn't the slightest notion how he intended to do so given the possibility of yet a more recent mistress in the picture. I couldn't even imagine how he meant to find her. If Li Shen didn't know who she was, and that seemed most likely, then we would be beholden to Warren Vandemier, and I didn't expect we'd get much help from him anymore.\n\nI tidied up and dressed swiftly, and was about to go downstairs when I heard the distinctive thudding of Colin trudging back up. I suspected Mrs. Behmoth had routed him for disturbing our guest at so early an hour and had sent him back up to wait a little longer.\n\nI made my way to the study and found him stirring a fire to life. He was well pulled together and as I settled into my armchair, anxious to ward off the remnants of sleep, I was grateful to have a few minutes to collect myself before having to confront Li Shen again.\n\n\"She isn't here,\" he muttered as soon as I'd gotten settled.\n\n\"What?!\"\n\n\"Li Shen is gone. Mrs. Behmoth found her bed empty.\" He tossed the poker onto the hearth with a clatter and stalked to the stairway. \"Can we please get some tea up here!\" he bellowed.\n\n\"Don't you 'oller at me!\" she hollered back. \"It ain't me fault she's gone.\"\n\nColin threw himself onto the sofa, a stern gaze clamped on the fireplace until Mrs. Behmoth finally made her appearance, the silver tray of tea and scones clamped in her hands.\n\n\"I spent 'alf the bleedin' night with 'er, ya know,\" she groused as she banged the tray onto the table. \"She was sick the 'ole time. Chuckin' and moanin' 'til the sunrise began pokin' in through the windas. I was fagged out. It ain't no wonder I never 'eard 'er stir.\"\n\n\"I am not blaming you\u2014\"\n\n\"Like 'ell yer not.\"\n\n\"All I want to know is if she said anything? Did she give any indication where she might have gone?\"\n\n\"Wot? In between hackin' 'er guts out?\" Mrs. Behmoth screwed her face up and spoke in a high-pitched voice, \"Pardon, mum, but as soon as I'm done 'ollowin' 'ere, I'll be 'eadin' off for a pint at the local pub.\"\n\n\"Fine!\" he snapped. \"I get the point.\"\n\n\"Poor little thing was sick as a cur.\"\n\n\"Yes . . . I've got it.\"\n\nA loud rapping at the door was all that kept Mrs. Behmoth from responding, which, given the sourness of the expression on her face, I was grateful for. She disappeared back downstairs muttering under her breath, and I hoped it might be Li Shen, though I knew how unlikely that was.\n\nMoments later Inspector Varcoe and one of his lackeys were standing on the landing outside our study. As I stared at the inspector's self-righteous gloat I couldn't help but wonder how a day so filled with promise just a few short minutes ago could have so swiftly turned bad, the evidence of it standing before us now.\n\nInexplicably Colin did not appear perturbed in the least. I supposed he'd been expecting this visit; it was bound to come, though it was unforgivably early.\n\n\"Aren't we just the picture of domestic ease this morning,\" Inspector Varcoe sneered as he strolled in. \"I would've brought your paper up but didn't want to rob you of the only legal recreation you're likely to have today.\"\n\n\"I do wish we had a dog to fetch it. I'd love one of those bull terriers,\" Colin said as he sat down in his usual chair and casually flipped out a crown, starting its inevitable route between his fingers.\n\n\"Well, you'd certainly have the time to train it.\" The inspector snickered. \"I hear you've been fired by Lady Arnifour.\"\n\n\"Not fired,\" I shot back. \"We have been paid in full for services rendered.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see.\" He chuckled again. \"But I'm not here to gloat, though it is a distinct pleasure; I'm here on official business. I need to know where the two of you were last night.\"\n\n\"I'm quite sure you know exactly where we were.\" Colin shifted his gaze to the uneasy-looking bobby still hovering in the doorway. \"Would you care to sit down, young man? You needn't stand on formality here.\"\n\n\"Stay where you are, Lachlan!\" Varcoe snapped. \"Why did you leave the scene of a crime, Pendragon?\"\n\n\"Crime?\" Colin tossed the coin onto the mantel as he reached over and picked up one of the dumbbells next to his chair and began methodically curling it with his left hand. \"Are you implying that the fire in that club last night was deliberately set?\"\n\n\"Piss off.\"\n\n\"You might remember that you're in our home now,\" I pointed out. \"If anyone is going to piss off\u2014\"\n\n\"Now, now.\" Colin smiled easily as he continued to pump the weight. \"Perhaps if you outline your suspicions we can see if we know anything further.\"\n\n\"I want some ruddy answers!\" he roared, his face morphing into the burgundy of a plum. \"What were you doing there last night after Lady Arnifour fired you from the case?\"\n\n\"It's an opium club,\" I said without a hint of patience. \"I'm sure you can extrapolate.\"\n\n\"Bollocks! Don't lie to me.\"\n\n\"He's telling the truth,\" the young bobby spoke up. \"It is an opium club.\"\n\n\"I know what the bloody hell it is, you twit!\" he howled, forcing the young man to take an unconscious step backwards. \"And I know that's not why you were there. You two may be a lot of things,\" he leered, \"but you're not blasted addicts. So what the hell were you doing there?\"\n\n\"Idle curiosity?\" Colin shrugged, switching the weight to his other hand.\n\n\"Bullshit! Warren Vandemier says you went there to harass his clientele and cause him physical and monetary harm.\"\n\n\"Now, Inspector, Warren Vandemier is an addict. I'm sure you've figured that out by now\u2014\"\n\n\"That's enough, Pendragon. I will drag your ass down to the Yard if I have to, but you will answer my questions!\"\n\n\"If you will just settle yourself a moment I think you'll find that I've answered every one of your questions thus far.\"\n\n\"You've been dismissed from the Arnifour case, Pendragon, so I expect you to stand down from this business and let the real authorities settle things,\" Varcoe snarled before he turned and stalked from the room.\n\nWhen I heard the door slam a second time in as many minutes, it was a monumental relief. \"What in the bloody hell was that about?\" I asked as I leaned forward and poured us some tea. \"Why did he come here?\"\n\nColin turned back to the fireplace, but I could see that his eyes were unfocused. \"I would venture we're getting nearer to the truth and someone with attachments to the authorities has sent our impressionable inspector to rile us. Someone cunning enough to use him without his being aware of it.\" He rubbed his chin absently. \"Actually, whoever it is wouldn't need to be that cunning.\"\n\nI laughed. \"So who do you think sent him?\"\n\nHis sapphire eyes drifted back to me as I handed him his tea. \"There can only be three possibilities: Lady Arnifour, Warren Vandemier, or Abigail Roynton.\"\nCHAPTER 31\n\nOur first stop was to visit Warren Vandemier in the hospital. We discovered that he'd broken his right femur, so if nothing else, he would prove to be a rapt audience. We found him in bed with a cast that went from his hip to the ankle of his right foot, the whole thing dangling from a sling bolted to the ceiling. Even so, he did not hesitate to make his repugnance clear the moment we strode onto the ward. \"As if I'm not knackered enough already,\" he groused.\n\nColin perched on the end of his bed next to Mr. Vandemier's plastered leg. \"That's the thanks we get for saving your life?\" he sighed.\n\nThere was much grumbling. \"I see the two of you managed to escape without so much as a ruddy damn scratch.\"\n\n\"We did.\" Colin shrugged. \"Survival of the fittest and all that, I suppose. But we're not here to compare wounds\u2014only to ask a couple of questions.\"\n\n\"I've had it with your bloody questions. I told you that last night.\"\n\nColin appeared to ponder that before shaking his head. \"No, I don't think you did. Perhaps you've suffered some head trauma as well\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh, just get on with it,\" he seethed.\n\n\"I'd like to know something about the Earl's niece, Elsbeth. Did she ever threaten your club?\"\n\n\"Elsbeth?!\" He looked surprised. \"Now why would she do that? She partook on more than one occasion. Had a row with Samuel over it too.\"\n\n\"She tried opium?\"\n\n\"Bloody well right, she did. But Samuel was a hypocrite. Perfectly happy to make a regular of anyone who walked in the door so long as they weren't related to him.\"\n\n\"Were you aware of anyone threatening your business? Threatening to burn it down?\"\n\n\"Just that stupid slag last night. Are you trying to blame the fire on somebody other than Li Shen? It's your fault, you know! You plied that dragon whore with opium. You're as guilty as she is.\"\n\n\"Settle down or I'll see that you get a matching plaster on your other leg.\"\n\n\"Are you threatening me?!\"\n\n\"Not very well if you have to ask. Now I'm not talking about last night\u2014\"\n\n\"Well, you sure as hell should be!\" he snapped. \"Because my life was as good as destroyed last night.\"\n\n\"This isn't about you.\"\n\n\"The hell it isn't!\"\n\nColin smiled thinly as he leaned toward Mr. Vandemier. \"I'm only going to ask this one more time\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't give a crap. Shove whatever twaddle you've got on your mind straight up your ass.\"\n\nColin leaned back slowly, his eyes piercing Warren Vandemier's face. He eased himself off the bed, one side of his mouth rising lazily, before reaching out and yanking the sling cradling Mr. Vandemier's leg several feet. It took less than an instant before he let out a soulful scream, his eyes rolling up into his head.\n\n\"Now don't be crude.\" Colin spoke softly. \"Rudeness is redundant in a man like you.\" He released the sling and let Mr. Vandemier's leg drop back to its original position with a jolt. A second screech followed as we left the ward, a trio of nurses making a dash toward the noise.\n\n\"That was a touch brutal,\" I said once I'd caught up to Colin.\n\n\"He's just lucky those damn nurses heard him scream.\"\n\n\"Well, did you at least learn something?\"\n\n\"Not what I wanted to hear,\" he muttered, heading off down the street.\n\n\"So where does that leave us?\"\n\n\"In the middle of London,\" he answered with great exasperation as he stepped into the street to flag a passing cab.\n\nI bit my lip as I climbed aboard and Colin instructed the man to take us to the docks. It was time to see how the reunion of Michael and Angelyne would play out. I hoped it would be heartwarming, but couldn't shake the feeling that something was asunder.\n\nColin climbed in next to me, turning and staring out the window as we got under way. It was clear there was much on his mind, so I determined the best thing I could do was leave him in peace and set my gaze on the passing scenery as well.\n\nUpon arriving, I glanced around the small crowd milling about the wharf to see if I could spot Michael before he could catch sight of us. Even though the Ilya Petrovina was making an unannounced call, there were dozens of people to greet her, not the least of whom were the policemen and Yardies who'd been sent by the Foreign Ministry Office to inquire about the alleged stowaways. I started to move off, keeping well away from the crowd, certain that Michael would also want to keep his distance from the authorities lest they decide to stop his sister from returning to his care. \"Now don't get ahead of me,\" Colin warned as I crossed perpendicularly from where the people were milling.\n\n\"I'm looking for Michael . . . ,\" I answered vaguely.\n\n\"I know what you're doing,\" he said. \"We'll scout the scene before we make our presence known, but not every East End boy is as deceitful as you obviously were,\" he teased.\n\n\"I was not deceitful,\" I protested as we moved off in the opposite direction from where the Ilya Petrovina was set to berth. \"I was clever.\"\n\n\"You were a drug-addled hellion.\"\n\nI considered taking offense, but as I followed him behind a maze of crates and boxes littering the docks I decided now wasn't the time for it. Besides, I'd been called worse things.\n\nAs the great, hulking steamship was carefully maneuvered by a pair of rusting tugs, we took an opposing, perpendicular track until we'd reached some distance from where the front of the ship would eventually lie, well concealed among a throng of languishing cargo. \"Feeling shy, are we?\"\n\n\"We're going to sit here and see if your suspicions have any merit. It's my show of faith in you.\"\n\n\"I'm touched.\"\n\nHe chuckled as he settled in on a pile of boxes, peeking through a slot between a row of crates down to where the ship was docking. I turned my attention to her as she was tied up at her berth and a couple of men muscled her gangplank into position. A handful of sailors were the first to disembark, followed by a short, round, bearded man wearing a disheveled-looking Russian uniform. He went directly to the bobbies clustered at one side of the gangway.\n\n\"Must be the captain.\"\n\n\"He doesn't look much like a captain,\" I said.\n\n\"It's a cargo vessel, not a passenger ship. That chap has little need for epaulets, uniform whites, or reflective shoes. He'd have a hell of a time trying to convince any seasoned crew to follow him with that kind of artifice. His crew is far more akin to pirates than our naval lads. Need I remind you why we're here?\"\n\nI gave him a pointed look before answering, \"He looks exactly like the kind of scoundrel who'd kidnap girls for sale.\"\n\n\"I have to agree. I'd say they were put aboard his vessel with both his knowledge and a sizeable payment, probably half at embarkation and half upon delivery. He won't be happy about missing that second bit. And his cargo delivery is going to be woefully late as well.\" He grinned. \"This episode will end up costing him quite a sum.\"\n\n\"You think they'll arrest him?\"\n\nHe shook his head and sighed. \"For what? For being a selfless humanitarian who, at great personal expense, turned his ship around the moment he discovered those deceitful young girls stowed away?\"\n\n\"You cannot be serious. . . .\"\n\n\"Proof can be a pitiful burden,\" he muttered, and I noticed his brow suddenly furrow. \"And look at this. Here comes our young charge now.\"\n\nI turned and caught a glimpse of Michael heading around behind the small crowd gathered at the gangplank. He was moving slowly, not with the kind of enthusiasm that would be expected, seeming almost reticent, and it made me wonder if there'd been bad blood between him and his sister.\n\nMy curiosity was further piqued when he continued to saunter past the waiting queue of people, moving resolutely toward the front of the ship, not far from where we were concealed. Yet, given the number of police milling about, I determined that his hesitation in standing among them made sense, since there was a better than average chance that at least one of the bobbies had run into him at some point in his doggedness to provide for him and his sister by whatever means necessary. I began to feel foolish for not having had some modicum of faith in the boy, but felt better when Colin said, \"I'd say the men in blue are keeping our boy from emptying any pockets.\"\n\nI started to chuckle when a sudden commotion at the gangplank seized my attention. A tall, clearly overwrought woman in a massive sun hat was howling at the police even as the group of stowaway girls\u2014the scrawniest, scruffiest-looking assemblage I had ever seen\u2014made their first appearance at its top.\n\n\"What do you suppose she's going on about?\" I asked as the woman flailed her arms wildly.\n\n\"One of those girls is probably her ill-used niece or ward and she's causing a great fuss in order to deflect the mountain of questions that are bound to come the moment she moves in to claim her. A show of outrage is much more likely to get her what she wants than not.\"\n\n\"So cynical.\"\n\nHe shrugged, his brow stitching itself again as I glanced over and saw Michael. He had managed to skirt the agitated knot of people congregated at the gangway, but was now standing almost directly across from us at the ship's bow. I watched as he slunk around the ship's moorings as though he knew something no one else did, and after a couple of minutes discovered that, in fact, he did.\n\nThe movement on the ship was minuscule, hardly noticeable until the first frail leg, smudged with dirt and filth, popped out and took hold of the forward anchor rope. The second leg quickly followed, allowing me to make out the figure of a young girl as she began to slither down the tether with unmistakable expertise. She was no more than a waif really, much less significant than a girl of almost thirteen should be. Her body was rail thin and she had limp, stringy hair dangling about her shoulders. I knew it was Angelyne, because even as she lowered herself to the dock, Michael never took his eyes from her.\n\n\"So you were right,\" Colin muttered.\n\n\"Well, I didn't think she was going to shimmy down the rope like vermin, but it would seem given her proficiency that she might have done this before.\"\n\n\"To be sure. She handles that rope like a gymnast. No wonder he told us not to come. It's a scam. Only this time something obviously went wrong. And will you look at this. . . .\" He gestured to Angelyne as she jumped free only to be swiftly seized by her brother. \"Their happy reunion would seem to be little more than rebuke for having fouled things up. That little shit dragged us into this to make sure he'd get her back, always feeding us just enough information.\" He abruptly turned and glared at me. \"You should've been more insistent.\"\n\n\"What?!\" I nearly laughed in his face, but he grabbed me and propelled me farther back into the maze of cartons.\n\n\"The little tykes seem to be coming our way,\" he groused.\n\nI peeked around the crates and saw that the two of them were indeed heading to almost the exact spot we'd been hiding, moving with great purpose. Michael had a firm grip on Angelyne's skinny arm, and though I could not hear them yet, it was clear they were in the midst of a row.\n\n\"Not a word,\" Colin warned needlessly. \"Let us allow them to spill their conniving hearts.\"\n\nAs soon as they'd reached the relative safety of the first row of crates, Michael wheeled around on his sister with unbridled ferocity. \". . . Bleedin' idiot . . . what in 'ell were ya thinkin'?!\"\n\n\"Piss off,\" came the reply.\n\n\"Piss off? Piss off, eh?! Is that what ya woulda told them bloody Cossack bastards when they was tryin' to bugger ya?\"\n\n\"I ain't without means.\"\n\nMichael slapped her hard in an attack that would have sent her to the ground had he not still been holding her arm. \"Yer jest a stupid pup. You ain't gonna be worth nothin' soon anyway. But if ya ever pull a ruddy stunt like that again\u2014\"\n\n\"Where are ya, ya blasted, sawed-off, half-breed little shite,\" a familiar female voice abruptly cut through Michael's diatribe, causing him and Angelyne to jerk around. \"Yer damn lucky yer brother and I didn't leave ya on that blasted ship!\" Mademoiselle Rendell continued to bellow as she stepped across my eye-line clutching an oversized sun hat.\n\n\"I thought that was her.\" Colin gave a crooked grin.\n\n\"You knew that was Mademoiselle Rendell causing that fuss?\"\n\n\"I suspected she was involved. She was too willing to give up her Bulgarian attach\u00e9 to make sure we got the information we needed to get that ship turned around. But I didn't realize about the little one.\"\n\n\"The little one?\" I flicked my eyes back to the three of them. \"Angelyne? What about her?\"\n\nHe smirked, one eyebrow arching high. \"Haven't you figured it out?\" I looked from the scrawny girl to Colin and back again, without a single thought entering my vacant brain. \"Angelyne is a boy,\" he finally said. \"See the budding Adam's apple? It's a shell game. They sell him as a prepubescent girl with the intention that he'll sneak off the ship just as it's on the verge of leaving\u2014before their deception is discovered. That's how it's supposed to work. They knew where he was the whole time. They just needed us to figure it out so we could get that ship to come back. They'd lost their golden goose. And they almost got away with it had you not been so suspicious.\" He grinned as he squeezed my arm and coaxed me forward. \"But now it's time we put an end to this.\"\n\nMademoiselle Rendell had her back to us as we stepped out, but Michael and the other boy spotted us at once. \"Oh shite,\" Michael said.\n\nMademoiselle Rendell spun around, and as her eyes landed on us she sagged as though suddenly void of air. \"Dammit to 'ell,\" she lamented. \"I knew gettin' this pair were a mistake.\"\n\n\"A mistake?!\" Colin said with mock offense. \"I've been called many things in my life, but never a mistake.\"\n\n\"I'd be 'appy ta call ya worse.\"\n\n\"I'd rather hear from the little one.\" He turned his attentions to the long-haired boy cowering at Michael's side. \"And what do they call you when you're not in a dress?\"\n\n\"Drew, sir,\" he answered.\n\n\"Drew.\" Colin gave a tight smile. \"I think it's time you let him go, Michael, or I'll separate your arm from your shoulder.\" Wisely, the older boy did so at once. \"Come over here, Drew.\"\n\n\"I ought not, sir.\"\n\n\"It's all right. Your brother and . . .\" He paused.\n\n\". . . Me mum, sir,\" the boy piped up, causing my heart to sink.\n\n\"Yes.\" Colin spoke slowly, his own distaste evident. \"Your mum. They'll not harm you. You've nothing to fear from them anymore. This game has come to an end.\"\n\n\"It weren't so bad. . . .\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps you'd prefer to be a boy. Go to school. Learn your disciplines.\"\n\nDrew glanced from Michael to Mademoiselle Rendell before turning back to us. He nodded, but said nothing.\n\n\"Then you shall have that.\"\n\nDrew winced as he stepped away from his brother, clearly expecting a blow that would not come. His scrawny limbs were streaked with the same filth caked on his bare feet, as black as the sludge between the cobbles in the street. I doubted he'd ever had a haircut since that was a part of his ruse, and could tell by the knots and tangles peppered throughout that some time had passed since a brush had been worked through it. The timid voice and abject politeness was a glaring dichotomy to what stood before us, yet to be saleable, he had to be controlled. This pair had done their job appallingly well.\n\nColin put his hands on the boy's shoulders and turned him back around to face his mother and brother. \"You've done your damage to this child for the last time, as you'll find it impossible to do so from prison. By the time they let you out . . . ,\" he flicked his eyes to Mademoiselle Rendell, \". . . the only thing anyone will pay you for is to bugger off. And as for you . . .\" He glared at Michael. \"You'll likely end up rather like your little brother here, except that the blokes you'll be spending your time with won't pay you for your favors.\"\n\n\"Ya can't threaten us,\" Mademoiselle Rendell spat back, pulling herself to her full height.\n\n\"It is not a threat,\" Colin answered. \"I give you my word.\"\n\n\"Yer word. What da you know? Livin' in yer fancy flat with yer lady waitin' on ya and ridin' round in carriages passin' judgment. You ain't got no idea. No idea at all.\"\n\n\"You don't own hard luck or bad choices,\" I sallied back at her. \"But your failure to rise above them belongs to you.\"\n\n\"Ah . . . piss off,\" she spat, and before I knew it she launched herself at me, gripping me by the hair. I stumbled backwards with the sudden force of her weight and landed on my backside, her coiled fists flailing at my head with such determination that all I could do was try to ward off her blows until, just as quickly as it had begun, her siege ended.\n\nShe let out a pitiful shriek as she was unceremoniously wrenched off me, seeming to levitate into the air by her armpits, her legs and arms batting uselessly as they failed to make contact with anything. I peered up and saw Colin behind her, solid, impermeable, and formidable. He heaved her to the side like a sack of grain into a crumpled heap with nary a grunt, turning to face her with his hands stabbed against his hips. \"Next time,\" he growled, \"I will remove you by the throat!\"\n\n\"You mustn't, sir,\" Drew spoke up. \"She's just me mum.\"\n\n\"And I could scarcely be sorrier for that,\" he answered. \"You tried to play us for fools,\" he turned on Michael with a sneer, \"acting the part of the loving brother when all along you were nothing more than the snake Mr. Pruitt kept insisting you were. Fifteen years old and without a shred of decency. How proud you must be.\"\n\nThe young man scowled with the ferocity of the feral thing he was. \"You got nothin' ta say ta me!\" he growled back. \"All full a yerself when you thought you was helpin' out the little urchin boy. I think you're just pissed 'cause I almost got one over on ya.\" He snickered. \"If that's your decency then you can shove it up your arse.\"\n\nI sucked in an infuriated breath to blast the pompous smirk off his face when I felt Colin's hand grip my arm and heard him say, \"Don't. Just go fetch us a couple of bobbies.\" I did as he suggested, knowing he was right; there was nothing I could say that was going to make a whit of difference to Michael and my protestations were only likely to confirm his point.\n\nIn the blink of an eye I returned with a cluster of policemen. We gave a hasty report, based more on Colin's name than any real substance, but promised a trip to the Yard for a more formal debriefing later. Colin was adamant that we couldn't go with them just then as he was about to solve the Arnifour murders. The bobbies stared at him with a mixture of skepticism and alarm, but not one of them called him on it.\n\nAs we made our way off the pier I felt relieved to be getting away from there. It was a pitiful case, but even so, I could not bring myself to turn back for one last look as the officers led Mademoiselle Rendell, Michael, and little Drew away.\nCHAPTER 32\n\nJust over an hour later we were climbing down from a hansom cab onto the cobbled driveway at the Arnifour estate.\n\nAs with every visit before, Mrs. O'Keefe only grudgingly allowed us entry, making no effort to hide her disdain at our continual insistence on showing up with neither an appointment nor an invitation nor, as was now the case, even a reason for being there. I glanced at her more closely than I'd meant to as I slid past her, wondering if Kaylin might truly be her daughter and what it would be like to keep such a secret the whole of one's life. My thoughts earned me nothing more than a ferocious glower from her. Nevertheless, her rabid anger suddenly made some sense and I couldn't help the trifling pity that gnawed at me as she took us to the same study as always before curtly announcing that we'd be joined by Lady Arnifour at her leisure. It left me wondering if that meant within the hour, the day, or the week.\n\nWe settled in to wait the indeterminate time and just as Mrs. O'Keefe was about to take her leave Colin asked whether Victor might be available to join us for a few minutes. She appeared to ruminate on the idea quite thoroughly before finally consenting to let him know we were there. Even so, she slammed the doors with a great deal more bravado than necessary as she left us on our own.\n\nI turned back to Colin to seek his thoughts on Mrs. O'Keefe and what Eldon had told us only to find a deep furrow creasing his brow. \"Are you all right?\" I asked quietly. \"You're going to need to be on your best behavior if we're to have any success here. After all, we're not working for them any longer. . . .\"\n\nInexplicably, the furrow in his brow deepened. \"I know that,\" he said. \"You needn't worry. I'll behave.\"\n\nI pretended to chuckle but still feared that his impatience would get the best of him and bring our impromptu visit to a frustrating and permanent conclusion. I was on the verge of pressing the point against my better judgment when Victor Heffernan suddenly presented himself, barreling into the room with his usual good cheer. \"It's good ta see ya both,\" he said with genuine appreciation.\n\n\"And you as well.\" Colin smiled and shook his hand. \"It's kind of you to meet with us despite our appalling lack of notice.\"\n\n\"I think ya know I'm not one ta stand on ceremony.\" He sat down by the fireplace looking more fragile than ever. \"I'm hopin' you've come to straighten things out for Nathaniel. He keeps threatenin' to stow away to America. I don't know what I'd do without him. That boy's been the best part of my whole life.\" He pinned his gaze on the dancing flames in the fireplace and yet I could see his eyes were glassy. It looked like he hadn't slept in days and I suspected that was more than likely true.\n\n\"I have every intention of proving your son's innocence,\" Colin said, sitting down opposite Victor, \"even though he hasn't made that easy. His unwillingness to trust me has hampered my investigation considerably.\"\n\n\"I know. He's as stubborn as his mother was\u2014\"\n\nColin held a hand up, giving Victor a sly smile. \"Nathaniel may have slowed me, but he will not stop me. Justice is a belle I like to court. And as I've said repeatedly, I believe Nathaniel is innocent. I'll stake my reputation on it.\"\n\n\"Then do share.\" Lady Arnifour stood just inside the doorway, her face rigid with displeasure. \"Just who is it you've come to wield your peerless reputation against?\"\n\n\"Who indeed?\" He smiled easily as he stood up. \"Would you think any less of me if I demurred my answer for a moment?\"\n\n\"Don't be tiresome, Mr. Pendragon. I believe your business with us was concluded on your last visit.\"\n\n\"And so it was.\" He held his smile. \"But this visit is solely on me. Please . . . ,\" he gestured to a chair, \". . . indulge me.\"\n\nI thought her on the verge of expelling us, but after she threw a quick glance at Victor's glum face she heaved a heavy sigh and perched herself on the edge of the proffered seat. \"I must insist you keep this exercise brief.\"\n\n\"Exercise?\" His smile wavered as he cast a quick glance at me. \"What an unorthodox way to describe the solving of two murders.\"\n\n\"Do get on with it,\" she sniffed.\n\n\"As you wish . . .\" He slowly ambled around behind Lady Arnifour's chair. \"So what I'd like to know is if you ever told Elsbeth about Desiree Helgman?\"\n\nLady Arnifour turned her head so quickly that it sent her great stout wig in a slightly discordant direction. \"I have no idea what you're talking about!\" She bolted up, affecting a look of deep offense even as she sent Victor a withering sideways glance.\n\n\"Come now. . . .\" Colin moved behind her again, forcing her to twist around. \"There's no need to be coy any longer,\" he whispered before abruptly heading to the fireplace. \"Very few secrets are able to be kept forever.\"\n\nLady Arnifour held herself steady, glaring at Colin without the slightest feint, and for a moment I thought she might storm from the room, but after a minute more she slumped back into her chair and heaved a grave sigh. Her fingers shot up to her temples and rubbed at them as though a searing pain had suddenly settled there, and I imagined it had. As I continued to watch her, I realized that she had become just as frail as Victor, that their mutual unraveling was as preordained as their lives together had been. \"I have known a lifetime of betrayal, Mr. Pendragon.\" She spoke in a voice that quivered with brittleness. \"I am sure you are aware of that.\"\n\n\"I meant no offense,\" he answered. \"I am only seeking the truth, even if it is a truth you are eager to conceal.\"\n\nShe did not look up, but remained as she was: hunched over, her fingertips pressing at her temples. \"The marriage I endured with my husband . . . ,\" she said in a voice that was both flat and void of inflection, \". . . was happy for the span of about two years. Of course that was so long ago I may yet be remembering it with more charity than it deserves. The period after Eldon was born was . . . wonderful. A pristine, young family. And yet I'm sure my husband's wandering eye had already gotten the best of him. I really don't recall. Not until Kaylin. Samuel gave up all attempts at discretion while I was burdened with our second child. I never imagined such a complete and utter end to his interest in me, but that is exactly where I found myself, Mr. Pendragon: with two small children and a husband who came around only when he needed money.\"\n\n\"You mustn't go on.\" Victor leaned forward and touched her elbow tenderly.\n\n\"It doesn't matter.\" She offered him a game smile, but otherwise made no move to shy away from his intimacy. \"You've been my salvation,\" she said. \"You are a man of inestimable kindness. You see, Mr. Pendragon, Victor only responded to the plaintive tears of a young wife and mother all those years ago. He saved me, not once, but twice.\"\n\n\"No, no, it was you who saved me,\" he rushed to correct.\n\n\"Hush now,\" she scolded with affection. \"I'm telling the story.\" She looked at us for the first time since withering in her seat and I recognized a liberation in her gaze I had never seen before. \"Victor listened to me. He cared for me. And some time thereafter, when I realized I'd fallen in love with him, not only did he accept it, but he returned that gift a thousandfold. And I was certain we would be fine. I thought we would be permitted our indiscretion given the depth of my husband's forays, but I was again deceiving myself. Little more than a year and a half after Kaylin was born I discovered I was once more with child. I knew the baby didn't belong to my husband and, of course, so did he. My husband was many things, but he was not a fool.\n\n\"We agreed I had to go away, so I created a story about a sister who'd been in a terrible carriage accident while with child, and then left my own small children. I moved into a flat in the city under that name: Desiree Helgman. It was a freeing time though it was also unbearably hard. I couldn't see my children until after Elsbeth was born, not once. I had to placate myself by sending them letters regularly, making up stories of what I was doing and telling them how much I missed them, knowing their nanny would read the letters aloud. . . .\" The thinnest smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. \"But there was also joy in those months. Victor came to see me often and brought me food, and took care of me, and made me feel like a new wife on the brink of a new family all over again. That was wonderful. Me and Victor in that tiny apartment waiting for that child conceived in love to make her presence known . . . ,\" she caught her breath, \". . . it was\u2014\" But her voice cracked and she dropped her eyes to her hands, which were fidgeting with the twinned ends of her tasseled belt, back and forth, as though they were attempting to weave something.\n\n\"But I undid myself when she was born because I could not bear to let the midwife hasten that tiny baby away without taking one peek at her. I'd girded myself to give her up, but I still wanted to see her, to hold her, just once.\" She took a deep breath and then pushed on. \"I cradled her in my arms and smelled her sweet, soft skin, and stroked the fuzz dusting the top of her head.\" She chuckled. \"Her perfect, little fingers curled around my own . . .\" Her smile dropped and her eyes clouded. \". . . I couldn't let her go. That baby, that child, that perfect little girl . . .\" She sagged back into her chair and closed her eyes. Her face was still, but it held a calmness that looked too long removed.\n\n\"Shall I finish?\" Victor asked softly.\n\n\"No.\" She gave him a gentle smile. \"You've covered for me for long enough.\"\n\nShe looked back at Colin and me. \"I bundled that baby up and brought her home with me to this house, my house, the ancestral home of four generations of Langhems, and told everyone my sister had died during the birth. I said there'd been no husband, so I'd done the only charitable thing I knew; I'd brought her home to raise as my own.\n\n\"Samuel was outraged.\" She glanced at her hands again and I finally understood where her story would inevitably end. \"My husband told me that I would either pay him a handsome monthly stipend or he would ruin me. Simple. And that was when my antipathy for him became hatred. What was worst of all was that I had handed him the tool of my destruction myself. That baby . . . that innocent who had made me fall in love with her . . .\" She shook her head. \"Samuel knew just how to strike at me, how to make my life even more miserable than it had already become. And to tell you the truth, Mr. Pendragon . . . ,\" she lifted her eyes and glared at him, \". . . if there was ever a time I wished my husband dead, it was then.\"\n\n\"Don't . . . ,\" Victor hushed her.\n\n\"Why not? It's the truth.\"\n\n\"Mother?\" Kaylin was standing in the door. \"Are you all right?\"\n\n\"Don't come in.\" Lady Arnifour buried her head in her hands. \"These are such tawdry proceedings.\"\n\n\"Then by all means . . .\" Eldon shoved past his sister. \"If the Arnifours are to be flung into the mire I think we should all wallow together. And tell me, Mr. Pendragon, is it true that you've seen my father's club burned to the ground and Mr. Vandemier laid up in the hospital?\" He moved to the bar and poured himself a drink. \"Can't say I give a bloody piss about the latter, but the former has me sick. You know what that'll cost me? Do you have any idea what that little parcel was worth?\"\n\n\"How dare you. People lost their lives!\" Lady Arnifour snapped.\n\n\"One of them could have been me,\" he sneered. \"I'd every intention of going there last night to have a word with that tosspot Vandemier\u2014\"\n\n\"No doubt you were unconscious long before you could make good on that threat,\" she shot back.\n\n\"And there you have it.\" He set his glass down. \"A mother's love.\"\n\n\"And you have become a despicable man.\"\n\n\"I am what you made me,\" he said before turning back to Colin. \"And there you have it, Mr. Pendragon, proof that rats aren't the only mammals who devour their young.\"\n\n\"That's enough, Eldon,\" Kaylin spoke up. \"Purge your demons somewhere else.\"\n\nHe scowled at her but kept quiet as she went and sat next to her mother. \"They aren't blaming you for this, are they?\"\n\n\"I deserve a little more credit than that,\" Colin said, still hovering in front of the fireplace. \"I'm not so incompetent as to believe a woman of a certain age could have the stamina to ride out into the evening, strike two people down from the back of a horse, set a barn ablaze, and ride back without arousing suspicion.\"\n\n\"That is a relief.\" Kaylin gave a tight smile as she pulled a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and began tugging it between her fingers. \"Everyone here, including that inspector from Scotland Yard, believes that Nathaniel Heffernan is\u2014\"\n\n\"Please don't,\" Lady Arnifour said. \"You mustn't speak of what you know nothing about.\"\n\n\"Do my ears deceive me?\" Eldon moved across the room, his voice tight and accusing. \"Is that some sort of veiled confession?\"\n\n\"And I was wondering . . . ,\" she sallied right back, \". . . if it isn't you who might have something to confess.\"\n\nHis face went rigid. \"So that's it, then? My own mother accuses me of murder?\"\n\n\"Excuse me . . . ,\" Colin said, flicking his eyes around the room until he had everyone's attention. \"While I am sure this is serving some purpose, it is not serving mine, and I do have a few things I should like to have clarified so that we can put an end to all of this for good.\"\n\n\"Well, I've had enough.\" Victor pushed himself to his feet. \"I'm tired of hearing my boy's name tossed up. You've already said he's innocent, Mr. Pendragon, so I'll have no more part in this.\"\n\n\"It's too late for that.\" Lady Arnifour gave him a pained smile. \"You inhabit every part of this.\"\n\n\"Yes . . . ,\" Colin started to slowly circle the room, ending up by the doors, which he quietly pulled shut, \"I'm afraid that you do, Victor.\"\n\n\"Then it's settled.\" Kaylin made to rise from her seat. \"I'll have Mrs. O'Keefe send for the inspector and we'll finish with this horrible business.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid it won't be quite so easily done.\" Colin remained at the doors. \"And we'd best all be of the same mind before our dubious inspector is summoned.\"\n\nI glanced at the faces around me: Lady Arnifour, veiled and grim; Kaylin, flushed with emotion; Eldon, locked behind his bottomless tumbler; and Victor, who looked worn to the bottom of his very soul. While they each harbored their own set of resentments, I couldn't tell who was capable of so heinous a crime: a crime against two of their own.\n\n\"First, let me state for the last time that Nathaniel Heffernan is innocent of these murders,\" Colin said. \"Nathaniel probably cared more for Elsbeth than anyone else in this room. He alone understood the binds of family. Certainly more than you, Victor. Your determination to keep the truth from ever being borne out prevented you from showing so much as a hint of affection to her, a profoundly regrettable decision on your part. Or you, Lady Arnifour, as you unwittingly found yourself encumbered by a child who came to represent the worst mistake of your life. You would have done yourself and the child far better to have followed your first instinct and given her away.\"\n\n\"What are you talking about?\" Eldon asked, looking around at the assembled faces for an answer that would not be forthcoming.\n\n\"Hush!\" Lady Arnifour finally snapped. \"That you insist on sitting here is reprehensible enough, but I do not owe you any explanations.\"\n\n\"Which does bring us to you, Eldon,\" Colin quickly spoke up. \"You have clearly chosen to climb into the bottom of a cask rather than face the ambivalence of your parents, wearing the wounds of your childhood like a badge of honor. Very different from your sister, Kaylin. My dear, you've allowed your mother to shroud you in a veil of fragility even as you extol the increasing howl of suffrage\u2014\"\n\n\"Really, Mr. Pendragon,\" she interrupted. \"What horrible things you're saying.\" She twisted around to get a clear view of her mother. \"And whatever does he mean about a child you should have given away?\"\n\nLady Arnifour stared across the room at Victor, her pallor ghostly white. \"I'm afraid I've made some terrible mistakes, little one. I can only hope you will forgive me. . . .\" Her eyes held Kaylin's even as her face remained inscrutable. \"Elsbeth was not your cousin. She was born to me. She was your half sister.\"\n\n\"What?!\" Kaylin pulled back from her mother. \"That can't be\u2014\"\n\n\"It's true.\"\n\nShe looked about to swoon as she glanced from her mother to Victor, who had dropped his eyes and sagged forward in his chair. Nothing more needed to be said. The truth had been there all along.\n\nLady Arnifour slowly began to speak again, telling the same story to her children that she'd already confessed to us. And once again there seemed to be something freeing in her words, and I understood that to be true. But while Lady Arnifour seemed to gain strength from the imparting of her story, neither of her children looked to be likewise affected. Eldon's expression grew increasingly aghast while Kaylin started to cry softly into her handkerchief.\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon is right,\" Lady Arnifour finished with the assurance of hindsight. \"I should have set her free from the start.\"\n\nSeveral seconds crept past before Eldon turned and stumbled back to the bar. \"Is there any bloody wonder I drink so much?\" he mumbled to no one.\n\n\"Why didn't you tell us?\" Kaylin said in a pitifully small voice. \"How could you have let us think . . .\"\n\n\"I know.... I was wrong.... I should have . . . I just . . .\" Her words trailed off in the absence of any reasonable explanation.\n\n\"Did Elsbeth know?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.... She never spoke to me about it.\" She glanced over at Victor, but he kept his head down. \"I suppose I can't be certain. I have no way of knowing what your father may have told her.\"\n\n\"No wonder Father hated you,\" Eldon said as he took a deep drink.\n\n\"Eldon! . . .\" Kaylin howled.\n\n\"Let him say what he wants,\" Lady Arnifour said. \"What does he understand of love? The only thing he's ever loved is a bottle.\"\n\n\"Whiskey is that only thing that makes living with you tolerable. It should have been you in that field that night\u2014\"\n\n\"How dare you!\" Victor leapt to his feet.\n\n\"Enough!\" Colin moved to the center of the room and for once I was glad to see him chastising this herd of cats. \"Since I am no longer working for a fee I don't feel the least obliged to subject myself to a moment more of this twaddle. I shall ask the questions and each of you will answer, and only after I've finished and left this house behind may you choose to continue this discourse. Failure to follow this directive will bring a rash of blue-suited bobbies and Yarders down upon your heads so quickly that you'll each be explaining yourselves from now until the turn of the century. Are we clear?\"\n\nNo one answered.\n\n\"Very good. Then I should like to know about the relationship between the Earl and Elsbeth; does anyone deny that they were having an affair?\"\n\nThe stoic faces that countered his question confirmed what we already knew.\n\n\"Fine.\" He allowed a tight smile. \"I also know one of you had a row with Elsbeth about that affair the night she and the Earl were attacked. Would anyone like to confess? . . . Or shall I do it for you?\"\n\n\"There's no need,\" Victor spoke up. \"We both know it's me you're talkin' about. But I've got nothin' to hide. And you're right, Mr. Pendragon, I was no kind of father to Elsbeth and will have the rest a my life to think on it. But at least I tried to help her that one time. I knew she was goin' out to that barn to meet the Earl. I also knew he was usin' her 'cause he knew how much it was hurtin' his wife. It was unforgivable\u2014\"\n\n\"And this from the man who cuckolded him,\" Eldon sneered.\n\n\"Not another bloody word!\" Colin snapped. \"Go on, Victor.\"\n\n\"I confronted her that night after her argument with Nathaniel. Told her she was bein' played a fool.\" He shook his head. \"She didn't care what I had to say. Even denied it right to my face, but after a few minutes I could see she was takin' some joy in it. I think she was proud of herself. Thought she had it all figured out.\" He rubbed his forehead. \"Then she just started hollering that I had no right to say anything to her. And she was right. I was just the help to her. I never earned the right to say anything.\" He slumped back in his chair and looked drained. \"I was no one to her.\"\n\n\"Victor . . . ,\" Lady Arnifour muttered.\n\n\"And what about you, Eldon?\" Colin said as he turned to the young man. \"Did you ever argue with your father over his affair with Elsbeth?\"\n\n\"Me?! Now why the hell would I give a ruddy toss about what he was doing?\"\n\n\"Because he was ruining the estate,\" Colin answered. \"Your inheritance. But then he was holding you off with a threat of a different sort, wasn't he? While you worried that someday you'd be left with nothing more than a mountain of debt and a house crumbling about your feet, your father was keeping you at bay by refusing to share in the profits from his lucrative clubs unless you did his bidding.\"\n\n\"Clubs?!\" Lady Arnifour stammered.\n\n\"Yes, I'm afraid Warren Vandemier's been holding out on you.\" A tight smile teased Colin's lips. \"But you know that already, don't you, Eldon?\"\n\nI was mystified as I turned to look at Colin, wondering if he was inventing things just to elicit a reaction from Eldon, until I saw Eldon flush in the span of an instant.\n\n\"I assume Abby Roynton let that slip . . . ?\" Eldon said as he struggled to regain his composure.\n\nColin's eyes flashed as a corner of his mouth curled up, making it clear that he had indeed garnered much more information from the seductive widow than he'd admitted to me.\n\n\"That woman . . . ,\" Lady Arnifour hissed.\n\n\"What I want to know, Eldon . . . ,\" Colin spoke over her, \". . . is what the argument was about between you and your father the night before the attack? At the Whitechapel club. The one a lovely young woman who worked there was only too eager to report to me.\"\n\n\"You would take the word of an addict?\" Lady Arnifour reproached.\n\n\"An addict can be far more honest than someone with something to hide. Am I wrong, Eldon?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said with defiance. \"She wasn't lying. I was there that night. And we had a hell of a go of it. I'm just glad I got a chance to tell him what I thought before someone made the laudable choice to snuff him.\"\n\n\"Eldon!\"\n\n\"Then tell me . . . ,\" Colin continued over Lady Arnifour's outburst. \". . . Tell us all what you said.\"\n\nHis face clouded. \"My father was vile and loathsome, and he cheated or used everyone in his life to get whatever he wanted. And I include in his notable list of dupes Abigail Roynton, as remarkable and vivacious a woman as there's ever been.\" He smirked at his mother. \"So it was my pleasure to carry on my father's questionable carnal finesse when it became clear that he'd tired of the extraordinary widow. I will admit, at first I only seduced her to raise the old sod's ire, but I quickly realized that she was a font of information about him, and a willing one at that. I knew I'd be able to use what she confided in me if only to protect my own best interests. And I was right.\n\n\"Abby told me he'd not only founded half a dozen clubs in town, but that he'd also invested in that many more in China. Most of his employees were smuggled in on cargo ships from Shanghai. They'd arrive as indentured slaves and my dear father would seal their fates by making them addicts.\" He finished another shot of whiskey and took the time to pour a refill before continuing. \"The only thing I couldn't figure out, the only thing even Abby didn't know, was where the hell he'd gotten the capital. I knew it had to be coming from somewhere unsavory, but I never dreamed he was bilking it from his own wife.\" He shook his head. \"And to think it was over her bastard child. How repulsive we've all become\u2014\"\n\n\"You have no right!\" Kaylin howled.\n\n\"Please!\" Colin bellowed. \"Will you go on. . . .\"\n\nEldon tilted back another quick sip. \"I decided to have it out with the old swindler. I told him he could either cut me in on his other businesses or I would confess to my mother everything I'd found out.\" His eyes seethed with anger. \"You can just imagine my astonishment when he only laughed at me. Now I know why. How pathetic I must have looked, threatening to turn him over to the very person who was bankrolling him. Consistent right up to the end, aren't I!\" he growled.\n\n\"And what about you, Kaylin?\" Colin turned to her, looking smaller than ever from her perch on the couch next to her mother. \"What did you make of your father's character and livelihood?\"\n\n\"There have already been too many ugly revelations here, Mr. Pendragon,\" she said quietly. \"I haven't the heart for any more.\"\n\n\"Ah, but you mustn't refuse. We are finally getting somewhere.\"\n\n\"You will mind yourself, Mr. Pendragon,\" Lady Arnifour warned. \"I've had about enough of this.\"\n\n\"Of course you have. We can summon Scotland Yard if you'd prefer. I'd be perfectly content to continue with the inspector and a stream of bobbies in attendance. But let me assure you, this will be done. You were saying, Kaylin?\"\n\n\"What is it you want from me, Mr. Pendragon?\"\n\n\"The truth. Were you aware of your father's dealings?\"\n\n\"Absolutely not.\" She glanced over at her mother with what looked to be both pity and regret. \"He left me alone. I have nothing to say against him.\"\n\n\"Did you ever visit him at his club in Whitechapel?\"\n\n\"And why would I do that? Those places represent everything I despise.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"They prey on weak-minded people, Mr. Pendragon, and foster addiction in the name of business.\" Her voice was tight. \"Women are treated like baubles, dangled in front of eager clients with no greater expectation than to entice them to ruin their lives. And haven't you been listening to my brother? Those same women are enslaved, their loyalty assured by virtue of the dependence on opium they're forced to cultivate. Isn't that reason enough?\"\n\n\"My apologies.\" He nodded his head slightly.\n\nShe nodded back, but her glare was wintry cold.\n\n\"I can see you've given this a great deal of thought. It's commendable that you're able to be as compassionate of your father's memory as you are. I assume you've made your peace with him.\"\n\n\"I have.\"\n\n\"And Elsbeth?\"\n\n\"Elsbeth?\" She shook her head and dropped her gaze. \"I had no quarrel with her,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh?\" Colin furrowed his brow as he continued to scrutinize her. \"Then I am confused. Elsbeth was a woman you thought to be your cousin and yet you've already admitted by your silence that she was also someone you understood to be having an affair with your father. I also recall you being most disparaging when discussing your father's trysts with Mrs. Roynton. So while you demurred to name Elsbeth as the new object of your father's affection, you made it clear that you neither condoned nor excused him or his mistress. All of which makes me believe that your coyness is decidedly unconvincing.\"\n\n\"And yet we are the ones being disparaged, Mr. Pendragon, as you persist in spinning a flimsy web of hunches around us. Surely my mother's payments to you have earned us more than that?\"\n\nColin smiled, his dimples framing the edges of his mouth with significant pleasure. \"Well spoken. And you are absolutely right. So now it is time for me to admit that I myself am guilty of a bit of coyness. I will ask you to indulge me by returning to the night before the attack. The night Eldon admits to finally purging his soul. What you have not admitted is that you followed Eldon there that night, didn't you?\"\n\n\"That's enough.\" Lady Arnifour bolted to her feet. \"I'll not have you accusing my daughter of dishonesty. You will remove yourself from this house at once or the inspector will most certainly be sent for.\"\n\nColin stood firm a moment before nodding as though in agreement. \"Mrs. O'Keefe!\" He pulled open the door and hollered out into the foyer, \"Mrs. O'Keefe! Would you please be so kind as to fetch the inspector and a contingent of bobbies.\" He slammed the doors shut and turned back to us. \"While we wait the hour it will take that rabble to make their way here, I shall finish my postulation.\"\n\n\"This is appalling,\" Lady Arnifour stammered, shifting her weight as though getting ready to leave the room, and yet she still did not. Perhaps she understood as I did that Colin would not let her. And in the space of that moment, Mrs. O'Keefe quietly slid the door open in response to having been summoned and hovered just inside.\n\n\"Appalling?\" Colin rolled right along, having adopted an air of faux indignation. \"I would say appalling was your decision to remove your daughter from the house in the aftermath of the murders for fear she might be found out. Appalling is your willingness to allow the son of a man you supposedly love to take the fall for a crime you know he did not commit. Appalling is trading one life for another because you've decided one is more valuable. Appalling is bearing a child whom you turn away from because she reminds you of your most profound mistake. . . .\"\n\nLady Arnifour clutched at her chest and sank back onto the sofa, her face as ashen as spent cinders. Her eyes had lost their focus and she appeared to no longer be aware of anything around her.\n\n\"For the longest time,\" Colin spoke again, choosing his words deliberately as he too stared at Lady Arnifour, \"I've been unable to figure out who you've been trying to protect. Have you been covering your own complicity? Or were you doing so for someone else? I see now that it was a bit of both.\"\n\nNo one spoke.\n\n\"Let me tell you what I know to be true, and then let me tell you what I believe to be true,\" he said after a moment. \"Because of the affair Elsbeth and the Earl were having, she came to understand the truth of her parentage. Nathaniel made me realize that. I'd made the blunder of misconstruing his devotion toward Elsbeth as romantic passion, but I was wrong. It wasn't a lovers' quarrel overheard between the two of them the night of the attack, but rather a disapproving argument between siblings. Nathaniel was insisting she end the affair even as she warned him to stay out of her business.\n\n\"And do any of you comprehend what that conversation tells us about Nathaniel and Elsbeth?\" He glanced at their faces but did not wait for a response. \"It tells us how close they were. Which makes perfect sense when you remember that neither Elsbeth nor Nathaniel was an Arnifour. The two of them lived on the periphery of this willful and self-possessed family. Fortunate for them, I suppose, until Elsbeth learned the truth. Only then could she finally rid herself of her feelings of dissociation, for through her biological mother, she now belonged.\n\n\"It was their shared secret which allowed them to have the sort of confrontation they had on the night she was attacked. But Elsbeth was not to be so easily dissuaded from her perch at the Earl's side. For in spite of Nathaniel's words, she rode out to meet the Earl just as she'd been doing for months\u2014whenever Kaylin wasn't along. And while all of you established that a walk was a customary part of the Earl's evening, only one of you knew that Elsbeth and the Earl went many nights to that barn. The two of them headed out in separate directions at differing times, but Elsbeth would double back and pick him up, riding down with him for their indiscretions.\n\n\"Only Kaylin had spied them from her promontory on the boulders across the field on nights she would go there on her own. She would watch the two of them ride up like young lovers, her father and her cousin, disappearing into that barn. . . .\" Colin let his voice trail off as he held his gaze on Kaylin, finally perching on the ottoman by her feet. \"Am I correct?\" he asked. \"Did they tarnish your perfect view?\"\n\nShe exhaled deeply as her eyes flicked about. \"I loved that place. It was so peaceful.\" She shook her head. \"Then they started showing up.\"\n\n\"Did it make you angry? The scandal that was sure to denigrate your family's name if they were found out?\"\n\n\"The Arnifour name has withstood graver injustices over the centuries than my father's infidelities against my mother,\" she said flatly. Lady Arnifour leaned over and seized her daughter's hand, squeezing it firmly.\n\nColin flashed a quick smile before standing and turning his gaze back to Eldon. \"And what do you say? Do you agree with your sister?\"\n\nEldon stared at her, his expression confounded. \"I don't know,\" he mumbled.\n\n\"Are you quite finished, Mr. Pendragon?\" Lady Arnifour turned on him, sounding for a moment like her normal self.\n\n\"You told your sister about your father's multiple business dealings after Mrs. Roynton divulged them to you, didn't you, Eldon?\"\n\n\"She had a right to know,\" he answered with a bit of a stammer. \"He was cheating us.\"\n\n\"And you suspected your sister would do something about it\u2014\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"How dare you!\" Lady Arnifour pushed herself to her feet.\n\n\"Sit down!\" Colin barked. \"We will finish this now.\" He wheeled on Eldon. \"You set your sister up. You told her everything you knew and then led her down to the club the night before your father was killed. The only thing you earned for your efforts was your father's scorn, but your sister caused quite a stir.\" He turned back to Kaylin. \"You made a veritable spectacle of yourself, swinging an oil lamp around and threatening to burn the club to the ground until your father and his security blokes finally managed to hustle you out. You were memorable, Kaylin. In spite of their altered states, you left everyone shaken, which is exactly what Eldon had intended.\n\n\"About the only one you failed to ruffle was your father. He had no idea how much you already knew, or the ways in which your brother was manipulating you: telling you stories of the family's impending doom, the squandering of your mother's fortune, the repugnant trade he was in.\n\n\"Which brings us to the night of the attack. I'll bet tensions at the dinner table were exceedingly high that night, Eldon and Kaylin infuriated by what they viewed as their father's treachery, and Elsbeth feeling mistakenly emboldened by her secret knowledge. And then there was the Earl. He would have still been convinced that only he had all the pieces in this game. But that's where he was wrong.\n\n\"Kaylin excused herself from the table partway through the meal with complaints of a headache. Everyone else finished and went their usual disparate ways, the Earl setting off on his nightly jaunt, Elsbeth to the stable to get her horse for her rendezvous, Nathaniel to finish up in the stable, Victor to his garden, Mrs. O'Keefe to clean up her kitchen, and Eldon to the nearest bottle.\n\n\"Unfortunately for Nathaniel, this was the night he decided to confront his beloved half sister about what she was doing. He wanted better for her. But Elsbeth disagreed. They argued intensely, unwittingly providing a motive for the imminent attack. A happenstance all of you, with the sole exception of Victor, have been too happy to hide behind.\n\n\"The Earl and Elsbeth met at their usual spot,\" he moved to the fireplace, \"a well-trampled patch of grass not more than a third of the way to the barn, and rode the rest of the way together as was their custom. I suppose they thought they were being clever, though they were hardly discreet, yet neither of them knew that someone had already arrived there ahead of them. Someone who had taken a horse while Elsbeth and Nathaniel were fighting and was now waiting just inside the edge of the trees by that barn.\n\n\"When they arrived that night there would have been no sign that this evening was any different from any other. I suspect they were probably so caught up with their passions that they didn't realize something was amiss until the barn was set ablaze. And from there, everything unfolded with lightning speed.\n\n\"They would've fled outside where they were immediately set upon, their hunter waiting for them. The Earl was run down first. He received several blows to the back of his head from a large knot of wood the killer had found among the trees. Once the Earl had been felled, the killer turned back to go after Elsbeth. She had not gotten very far, mistakenly choosing to turn and hold her ground, thinking, perhaps, that she might be able to convince her attacker not to hurt her. But she was wrong. This attack was as much about her as it was the Earl. Though the blows she suffered lacked the ferocity of those that had been wielded against the Earl, it was only because the killer was already fatigued. Isn't that right, Kaylin?\" He turned to her. \"So tell me, what did Elsbeth say when she came to your room that night to, as you said, check on you? It certainly wasn't to ask you to go riding, was it?\"\n\nNo one spoke for a moment as everyone turned to Kaylin.\n\n\"Don't say a word,\" Lady Arnifour suddenly blurted in a voice that sounded as detached as it was hollow. \"He's got nothing but a cluster of speculation.\"\n\n\"That's all you've got to say?!\" Eldon sputtered.\n\n\"Not one more word from you. You don't know a thing.\"\n\n\"At least I'm not being accused of murdering anyone\u2014\"\n\n\"Stop!\" Kaylin bellowed, stabbing at her temples. \"Isn't it enough already? Isn't it?!\" She turned on her brother. \"You did this. You took me to the club that night after telling me how Father owned a dozen of them, addicting patrons and enslaving women. You let me go in there and threaten him, threaten the whole bloody place, and when we went home that night you told me it was the last vestiges of our inheritance. All we would be left with were those vile clubs and this crumbling house\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't\u2014,\" Lady Arnifour pleaded.\n\n\"It's too late!\" Kaylin snapped, casting her gaze to Colin. \"It was an outrage, Mr. Pendragon, the mockery my father made of all of us. I wasn't about to become a spinster with an ownership in opium clubs! Oh . . . I despised him for what he was doing to me, but unlike my pathetic brother, I decided I would do something about it.\"\n\n\"You mustn't. . . .\" Lady Arnifour started to sob as she seized her daughter's arm, but Kaylin only shook her off and stood up.\n\n\"I decided I would go out that night when he went for his walk and have it out with him, one way or another. I wasn't going to sit idly by and watch him annihilate everything around us.\" She shook her head and moved over by the windows, wrapping her arms around herself as though she were suddenly cold. \"You were right; dinner was awful that night. The room was intolerable and when I couldn't take it anymore, I complained of a migraine and left.\n\n\"I went upstairs and changed into my riding things and that's when Elsbeth came up to see me.\" Her face clouded and her lips pursed. \"She came up to ridicule me. My father had told her that Eldon and I had come to the club the night before, and she laughed at me for thinking I could have any effect on what he was doing. It made me mad . . . it made me outraged . . . to think she presumed that whoring around with my father gave her the right to say such things to me! I hated her. . . .\"\n\n\"Oh, Kaylin.\" Lady Arnifour shrank back on the couch, weeping piteously.\n\n\"I knew they would meet up that night. The two of them so proud of themselves. So while Elsbeth was arguing with Nathaniel, I took one of the horses without a saddle or bridle or reins and rode down to the barn and waited for them. And I didn't have to wait long. They came trotting across the field on one of the bays, one of my favorites, and they'd barely dismounted before he was pawing all over her, her laughing and letting him do whatever he pleased. It was sickening. And never once did they bother to look around and see if anyone might be there, might catch them, never in all the times I'd seen them. They didn't care. The two of them, they were deplorable.\n\n\"So as soon as they disappeared into the barn I crept forward and set it ablaze. Let them have their fire with their passion. . . .\" She gave a hollow chuckle that died in her throat. \"My father came out first; he spotted me and started hollering at me, said I was bloody starkers. Can you imagine? I rode him down, Mr. Pendragon, just as you said, and I struck him with a knot of burl I'd found in the woods. It felt good; watching him blubber like the pathetic creature he was, it only made me angrier. And she . . . she was no better than him. I should've known she was born of my flesh. We are a contemptible lot, but at least I kept them from destroying everything. . . .\" Her voice trailed off and I wondered if she yet had any real understanding of what she had done.\n\n\"I'll need you to come with us,\" Colin said softly.\n\n\"I'll not fight you,\" she answered. She went over to him as I got up, planting herself before him with defiance as Eldon sagged against the bar and Lady Arnifour's wrenching sobs filled the silence. I glanced over toward the door and noticed that Mrs. O'Keefe was gone, though she had left it ajar in her evident haste to leave. And it made me wonder if perhaps Lady Arnifour was grieving for a daughter who was not her own after all.\nCHAPTER 33\n\nThe deepest part of the night is the time I find myself most able to collect my thoughts. It's also one of the few times I can watch Colin without self-consciousness lest the eyes of anyone else should take disapproving note. Some nights I will reach for him; other nights I am content to leave him be and simply marvel at the wonder of it all.\n\nThis night found me quite lost to my thoughts. In the space of a single day we had rent two very disparate families, although it could be said that they had severed themselves long before we had been called upon. It made me wonder, this business of family. The stricture of its definition seems careless and arbitrary given the aberrations that can be found within its framework. How well I know that. Twenty-six years after the tragedy that took my life without ending it I still choose to believe that my mother did the best that she could given the phantoms blighting her mind. I will never know for sure. In truth, I hardly even remember her. She has morphed into a cautionary figure of what to be vigilant against. What makes it worse is that I remember even less of my father. So it is my life with Colin that represents the pinnacle of the promise of that word: \"family.\" And, of course, Mrs. Behmoth, though I'm not as certain how I feel about that.\n\nColin reached out with a yawn, peering at me through heavily lidded eyes. \"Can't sleep?\"\n\n\"I guess not.\"\n\nHe curled up next to me, his arm stretching across my belly. \"What's keeping you awake?\"\n\n\"I was thinking about Kaylin. What's going to happen to her?\"\n\n\"That's easy.\" He exhaled deeply. \"Her mother will purchase the best defense and she will be sentenced to a spell in a sanitarium somewhere out in the country. They'll ascribe her behavior to female hysterics and it will likely run until she's long into her middle years.\"\n\n\"When you say 'her mother,' do you mean Lady Arnifour or Mrs. O'Keefe?\"\n\n\"In this instance I am referring to Lady Arnifour, but it really doesn't matter who gave birth to her. I suppose they both loved her in their own way, and it didn't seem to make the slightest bit of difference to her life. It's just a travesty that nature doesn't see fit to make some people barren.\"\n\n\"What a thing to say,\" I muttered halfheartedly, knowing that I would never have been born had such a natural selection been in place.\n\n\"Come now, you know I'm right. And I mean to include Mademoiselle Rendell in that too. None of them was fit to procreate.\"\n\n\"At least now Drew will have a chance in a decent home,\" I said with genuine cheer, determined to relegate my maudlin thoughts back to where they belong: where I can abide them. \"Do you think your father will get him placed quickly?\"\n\n\"That boy will be living like royalty within the month. And in India he'll be safe from both his mother and brother.\"\n\n\"Which is good, since Michael's not likely to remain in the workhouse for more than a couple of years.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you're right. And then he'll be back on the streets: ill equipped, angry, and even more conniving than ever. At least their mother will be spending the better part of the next decade paying for her complicity. Nevertheless, it does seem rather a small price to pay given the destruction she's wrought on those boys.\"\n\n\"She has to live with that for the rest of her life.\"\n\n\"Not everyone has a conscience, you know.\"\n\n\"They do. Some just learn how to ignore it . . . or anesthetize it.\"\n\nHe yawned again. \"That is the unfortunate truth. But let me ask you a question: Where do you suppose Li Shen disappeared off to?\"\n\n\"She'll go to another club somewhere else in the city where they don't know who she is. It's what she knows and she is an addict.\"\n\n\"It's a shame.\"\n\n\"It is.\" And for a moment a chill tore up my spine as I recognized that could have been me. \"Do you think there's any chance Inspector Varcoe will stop by tomorrow to thank you for keeping him from arresting the wrong person?\" I chuckled.\n\nHe snickered. \"Only if Mrs. Behmoth discovers she's the long-lost sister of our Victoria.\"\n\n\"Unlikely then, I suppose,\" I drolled, but I could tell by the way his breath was already beginning to even out that he was succumbing to sleep. Lost to my own thoughts once again, I didn't sleep much more that night, but it was gratitude, not fear, that held my mind enthralled.\nCHAPTER 34\n\n\"It seems ta me ya oughta be celebratin',\" Mrs. Behmoth said as she set the tray of tea and scones by the fireplace. \"I didn't like a single one a them uppity Arnifours and I'm glad ya found 'em all guilty.\"\n\nI rolled my eyes.\n\n\"I didn't find them all guilty . . . ,\" Colin started to say.\n\n\"Ach.\" She waved a hand at him. \"They were all guilty a somethin'.\"\n\n\"I suppose.\" He shrugged, one eyebrow arching up as he fussed over our tea. \"But it's hard to feel satisfaction given the cost to their family.\"\n\n\"Family . . .\" Mrs. Behmoth snorted. \"They were a regular rogues' gallery. Ya best appreciate what ya got,\" she scoffed.\n\nA sudden and savage pounding on our door brought her to her feet. \"We expectin' someone?\" she asked as she ambled for the stairs.\n\n\"Not that I'm aware of,\" Colin said as he poured a touch of milk into his tea.\n\nAnother harsh pounding reverberated from downstairs as Mrs. Behmoth hollered, \"Ya better 'ave a good reason for makin' such a racket!\"\n\nColin laughed as he passed me my tea and then snatched up his own. \"I heard a carriage clattering up and was rather hoping it might be coming here.\"\n\nI couldn't help smiling. \"I'm sure you were.\"\n\nThe sound of a slight scuffle came from downstairs, followed by the hurried pounding of feet barreling up. It was clearly not Mrs. Behmoth, and the trailing fury of her voice only confirmed it. \"Ya got no ruddy manners. I don't care if ya are wearin' the old bird's crest.\"\n\nBefore I could guess who Mrs. Behmoth was referring to, a sour-faced young man, somewhere shy of the quarter-century mark, appeared on our landing. He was dressed in the scarlet tunic and black-panted uniform of Her Majesty's Guard. He held a steel helmet in the crux of one arm atop of which sprayed a white plume like the tail of a prideful show horse. \"I apologize for the intrusion . . . ,\" he said in a tone that did not support his contention, \". . . but I've been sent on the most urgent and sensitive business.\"\n\n\"So I would presume.\" Colin smiled thinly as he stood up. \"And by whose command do you come in such a manner?\"\n\nThe young man sent a sideways glance in my direction as he let his pause lengthen.\n\n\"You will speak to both of us or neither of us,\" Colin said. \"I really don't care which.\"\n\nTo his credit, the guard appeared to carefully consider his options before turning back to Colin with a bit more acid. \"All right then.\"\n\nNo one said anything for a moment as Colin slid out a crown and quietly began weaving it through his fingers. It took another full minute before Colin finally spoke up, keeping his eyes fixed on the young officer as he said, \"I'm waiting, Sergeant.\"\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\n\"I asked who sent you here.\"\n\nHe reddened and pulled himself straighter. \"Isn't that obvious, sir?\" he said with noticeable disdain.\n\nColin strode over to the windows, the coin continuing to slide smoothly between his fingers as he glanced outside. \"The only obvious thing, Sergeant, is that you wish me to believe you are on Her Majesty's business. Arriving thunderously in one of her lesser carriages and parading about in the garments of one of her Life Guards. Yet we all know our matriarch has a multitude of both coaches and staff, and were you actually to be on her business, I would expect a far less ostentatious entrance. What's your name?\"\n\n\"My name?\"\n\n\"Come now.\" Colin turned from the window and stared at the young man. \"I haven't stumped you already, have I?\"\n\nThe sergeant scowled and I struggled to suppress a smile. \"Sergeant Dwight McReedy,\" he finally answered.\n\n\"Well done. And so, Sergeant McReedy, now that we know our Victoria has not sent you, can you tell us who has?\"\n\nThe sergeant held his own, staring back at Colin with thinly veiled dislike. \"While I may not be here at the personal request of Her Majesty, I have come at the behest of a senior member of her staff.\"\n\n\"A senior member of her staff?\" Colin smirked. \"Why, that could be anyone from a personal maid to my father. Has my father sent you?\"\n\nThe man's face went taut. \"Sir?\"\n\nColin shook his head and returned to his seat. \"I'll not ask my question a fourth time, Sergeant. You may take your leave. Good day.\"\n\nThe sergeant glanced at me in disbelief. Whereas before he'd considered me an intruder, I could now see he was hoping I might intercede on his behalf. I gave him a shrug.\n\n\"Sir . . . ,\" he began again with some measure of grit in his voice, \"I've been ordered to escort you back to Buckingham Palace.\"\n\n\"And suppose we're not in the mood to go until sometime next week? Would you be obliged to spend the next days counting cobbles and praying against rain?\"\n\nThe young man managed to hold himself steady. He was clearly a quick study. \"You mustn't dismiss me, sir. I've been ordered by Major Dashell Hampstead of Her Majesty's Life Guard. It is on a matter of the utmost delicacy and urgency.\"\n\nColin looked up at him. \"So it's the Guard itself who requires my assistance?\"\n\nSergeant McReedy blinked. \"I'm sure I don't know,\" he answered. \"Collecting you was the extent of my orders.\"\n\n\"Well now, that makes me feel like an old alley cat.\"\n\n\"You must come with me, sir. I must insist on it.\"\n\n\"Insist?\" Colin finally stopped flipping the coin as he looked over at the young man.\n\nThe sergeant cleared his throat and lowered his voice. \"It's a most foul business. Major Hampstead would not trouble you otherwise.\"\n\n\"How foul?\"\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\nColin waved for him to get on with it.\n\n\"It's murder, sir,\" came the reluctant reply. \"The most brutal sort.\"\n\nColin scowled as he stood up again. \"Return to your carriage,\" he said.\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\n\"We will be down shortly. Go on now. I don't need you watching us get ready.\"\n\nThe young man nodded curtly and took his leave, bolting back down the stairs with as much tumult as his arrival.\n\n\"Was it really necessary to set him through such paces?\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Colin shrugged as he pulled his vest on. \"That lot can be so full of themselves. And him just a young toady.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless, it's not every week we're summoned by Her Majesty's Guard.\"\n\n\"Thankfully.\"\n\n\"It sounds like a nasty bit of business.\"\n\n\"Murder usually is.\"\n\nI could not help the sigh that escaped my lips. \"We've only just completed two cases. Shattered two families. I'd rather hoped we might have a spot of time off.\"\n\n\"Those families imploded long before we were sent for.\" He stopped and looked at me. \"Makes me appreciate what we have all over again. You and me. That's all I need.\" And I could see by the warmth in his eyes that he meant it.\n\n\"And Mrs. Behmoth?\" I teased.\n\n\"But of course.\" He laughed. \"Where would we be without our dear Mrs. Behmoth?\" And I knew he meant that too.\nACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nWhile writing is a solitary sport, a published book is the culmination of hard work by many people. In my case, Diane Salzberg, Karen Clemens, and Melissa Gelineau read innumerable drafts and offered insightful notes with nary a rolled eye or shrug of \"this again?!\". John Paine gave me an early vote of confidence and helped focus the story into something I could show around. I would be nowhere if Kathy Green and her son hadn't read the book. Especially since her son convinced her to take me on! The folks at Kensington have been amazing, keeping me honest and making me wonder how I ever passed an English class. Particular kudos to John Scognamiglio for his support, direction, and friendship. Special thanks to my parents and sisters for their love and support through all and everything. And there has been a lot! The very same to Tresa Hoffman. Lastly, a second bow to Lovey, without whom I would never have made it this far. A heartfelt cheers! to all of you.\nPlease turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Gregory Harris's next Colin Pendragon Mystery\n\nTHE BELLINGHAM BLOODBATH\n\ncoming in September 2014!\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\nOne of Her Majesty's coaches was waiting to whisk us off to Buckingham Palace. We had only just been told about the killing of a captain in Her Majesty's Life Guard and his wife, and were being summoned, presumably, to solve their murders. The sergeant sent for us had made it sound like an ugly business indeed.\n\nI stared across the room with a mixture of dread and morbid curiosity as I watched Colin continue to fiddle with one of his derringers. Surely he meant for us to leave . . . yet there he sat, painstakingly wiping every centimeter of the little gun until I could finally stand it no longer: \"What the bloody hell are you doing?\"\n\nHe looked up at me with an inconceivably guileless expression. \"What?\"\n\n\"Buckingham?!\" I blurted as though speaking to someone quite undone. \"The sergeant who came to fetch us is waiting outside. . . .\"\n\n\"I know,\" he answered simply.\n\n\"Well, are we going?\"\n\n\"The sergeant's a pompous little twit. He can wait.\"\n\n\"He's an officer of Her Majesty's Life Guard\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't care if he's having it off with the old girl herself; let him wait. Be good to teach him some manners.\"\n\n\"So we're back in school then?\" I parried just as a loud and insistent pounding burst up from the door downstairs.\n\n\"See what I mean,\" Colin grumbled.\n\n\"I'm sure he's only trying to follow orders. He wasn't sent here to polish the cobbles pacing.\"\n\nA second pounding, even more determined, brought Colin to his feet. \"If he does that again I shall go down there and shove my boot up his orders.\"\n\n\"No doubt Mrs. Behmoth will beat you to it,\" I said as the sound of her lumbering from the kitchen to the front door drifted up among her curses. I was certain she would roundly upbraid the young sergeant the moment she got the door open, but no such diatribe ensued. Instead I heard the voice of our elderly neighbor curl up the stairs. \"It's Mrs. Menlo,\" I said with little enthusiasm.\n\n\"And what is she complaining about now?\" He shook his head as he set his derringer onto the mantel. \"Is the soldier out front giving her vapors?\"\n\n\"I should think she's trying to wheedle information out of Mrs. Behmoth. You know how she despises not knowing our business.\"\n\n\"Yes. . . .\" He snatched up his dumbbells and began curling them over his head. \"Though I'm sure we could cause her a good deal of apoplexy with some of the things we get up to.\" He snickered. \"For the moment, however, I believe it's time we learned something about this poor captain and his wife. We mustn't show up at the major's office completely unawares.\"\n\nI stared at the stack of unread newspapers beside the hearth as he continued to train the already taut muscles of his arms. \"Fine,\" I exhaled. \"Let me see what I can find of it.\"\n\n\"Excellent,\" he muttered, dropping to the floor and busting out a set of push-ups on his dumbbells.\n\nTurning my attentions back to the pile of papers, I was relieved when my search proved brief. Stretched across the morning edition of yesterday's paper was a banner that cried: QUEEN'S CAPTAIN AND WIFE BUTCHERED IN BLOODBATH. I read the article aloud while Colin continued his fevered push-ups, and it was only after I finished that he finally sat up, ran a sleeve across his sweating forehead, and asked me to read it again. This time he listened:\n\n\"Sometime during the night of Sunday last, Captain Trevor Bellingham, 32, of the Queen's Life Guard, and his wife, Gwendolyn, 29, were brutally murdered in the Finchley Road flat they shared with their young son. Miraculously, the young boy, just past his fifth birthday, was found unharmed in his bedroom. Police had to break the boy's door down as it had been wedged tight, almost certainly by the murderer, though one source close to the investigation suggested that one of the parents may have secured the door in order to save their son.\n\n\"Mrs. Bellingham was reported to have been shot and killed in her bedroom, but Scotland Yard has yet to release the cause of death for Captain Bellingham, stating that the matter was still under investigation.\" I glanced over to where Colin remained sitting on the floor. \"I wonder why the secrecy?\"\n\n\"We shall have to find out.\"\n\n\"Police did state that there did not appear to be any signs of forced entry, pointing to the possibility that the killer may have been known to Captain and Mrs. Bellingham. Scotland Yard's Inspector Emmett Varcoe . . . ,\" I read his name, enunciating it with mock esteem, \". . . assures that everything possible is being done to solve this terrible crime against one of the Queen's own men and his young wife. However, the Times would like to remind its readership that Inspector Varcoe is the same investigator who remains befuddled by the identity of the vicious killer known only as Jack the Ripper.\"\n\n\"It all sounds rather odd,\" Colin muttered as he stood up and hurried off toward our bedroom, \"though a spot-on summation of Varcoe. He should have retired a decade ago.\"\n\n\"That he should . . . ,\" I agreed as Colin returned with his straw-colored hair slicked back and our coats over his arms.\n\n\"Shall we?\"\n\nTwenty minutes later the hansom cab he had flagged down swung us around the drive of Buckingham Palace, and once again I was struck by how austere and remote it looks. Partially colonnaded in the Federalist style, it appears like neither a true palace nor a home. Sprawling behind its massive bronze and iron fencing with a contingency of guards precisely stationed across its front, it seems very much to be holding itself with the same reserve as our Queen.\n\nI took note of the lone Union Jack on the roof and knew Victoria was not in residence. Her colors would be flying atop Sandringham this time of year, though even if she had been here I knew it would have made little difference. One does not happen upon Her Majesty in the hallways. Nevertheless, it would have been the closest I had ever come to royalty.\n\nThe coachman brought us alongside the gates and slowed almost to a stop as they began to swing inward at the behest of our escort, Sergeant McReedy. We were ushered through and driven across the parade grounds to the far side of the building under the watchful eyes of a throng of spectators.\n\n\"They must think we're special.\" I chuckled.\n\n\"We are,\" he murmured as he surreptitiously squeezed my hand.\n\n\"Perhaps so, but they'll still be disappointed when we climb out.\"\n\nHe laughed as I turned to watch the stiff-postured guards we were clattering past with their blazing red jackets and high bearskin hats. They ignored us as we went by, none so much as moving his eyes to follow our progress. \"You can always count on this lot to put us in our place,\" Colin said.\n\nBefore I could answer we came to an abrupt stop and both doors were immediately swept open. Sergeant McReedy dismounted and led us through a side portico and down a hallway of unremarkable design that I decided no royal had ever passed along. Tiny offices lined both sides, providing the only contrast in the otherwise stark space. It was hardly what I had expected until I reminded myself that these were the niches of those who kept the palace functioning; what use did they have for moldings, ormolu, filigree, or even art?\n\nThe sergeant stopped at an office near the end of the corridor and barked out, \"Colin Pendragon and Ethan Pruitt!\"\n\nAn alabaster-skinned young man who looked too young to be in the service sat behind a small desk in the anteroom to a much larger office. \"Oh . . . ,\" he said with notable surprise as Colin and I walked in. \"Oh . . . ,\" he repeated as his eyes fell on me before quickly shifting back to Colin. \"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pendragon,\" he said, holding out his hand. \"I'm Major Hampstead's attach\u00e9, Corporal Bramwood.\" His gaze drifted in my direction again and I knew what was coming. \"I am terribly sorry . . . ,\" he said coolly, \". . . but there seems to have been a misunderstanding.\" He looked back at Colin. \"The summons from Major Hampstead was meant for you, Mr. Pendragon, and you alone.\"\n\n\"Ah . . . then there has indeed been a misunderstanding.\" Colin offered a smile. \"I'm afraid I don't work alone, Corporal. You and your major will take us together or you will settle for my regrets.\"\n\nCorporal Bramwood opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. I saw him glance behind me to where Sergeant McReedy remained in the doorway and then heard the sound of the sergeant moving off. This young man was apparently on his own.\n\n\"Have a seat . . . have a seat . . . ,\" he mumbled quickly. \"I shall let Major Hampstead know you are both here.\" He gave an awkward nod before disappearing through the door behind his desk, making sure it latched firmly behind him.\n\n\"This lot seems to think they're all ordained by God,\" Colin muttered as he sat down.\n\nI snickered. \"I don't think that young corporal is used to having his major's orders countermanded.\"\n\n\"I was civil about it,\" he blithely protested.\n\nBefore I could say anything more the inner door burst open and Corporal Bramwood hurried out with an older man at his heels. \"Mr. Pendragon . . . Mr. Pruitt . . . ,\" he sputtered. \"This is Major Hampstead.\"\n\nThe major stepped forward, a tall man somewhere in his late fifties with a generous middle. He wore a thick, white mustache and sported huge sideburns that fanned out several inches along his jawline. His deportment suggested he had been a leader most of his life: ramrod straight with a swagger of marked self-assurance. \"It is an honor to meet you, gentlemen,\" he said, and I knew he was also a diplomat.\n\n\"It's always a pleasure to meet one of Her Majesty's lifers.\" Colin smiled.\n\nMajor Hampstead snorted a laugh. \"I should doubt the son of Her Majesty's emissary to India is so easily impressed. I would say your father has given nearly the whole of his life in service to her.\"\n\n\"He has.\" Colin flashed a tight grin. \"But the life of a diplomat hardly compares to the work of a regimental guard. You mustn't give my father too much credit.\"\n\n\"I doubt that I am,\" he chortled. \"Please come in, gentlemen. Tea, Corporal,\" he ordered before retreating back to his office and seating himself behind his massive desk.\n\nCorporal Bramwood brought in a tray of tea and biscuits with a speed that conveyed just how much time he spent in that endeavor. The straining seams along the sides of the major's red tunic also attested to that fact. \"I appreciate your willingness to come here without the slightest notice,\" the major said. \"I'm afraid I have a very difficult matter to discuss. One that requires the utmost discretion.\"\n\n\"You are referring to the murder of that captain and his wife?\"\n\nThe major winced. \"I am. It's an awful business that has been made even more unseemly by the newspapers heralding it the way they've done.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid our countrymen are always keen for a scandal.\"\n\n\"Which is precisely my point.\" I could see him relax a bit at Colin's pronouncement. \"The Queen's Guard simply cannot be party to any such scandal. It is inappropriate and unacceptable.\"\n\n\"That may be, but it would appear it is already done.\"\n\nThe major knit his brow. \"I would venture otherwise, Mr. Pendragon. I have asked you here because I believe you can do a great deal to help us staunch this damage. You can impact the public record to not only cease the gossip concerning this very private, very regrettable event, but to allow us to deal with it ourselves, outside of the public's lecherous purview.\"\n\n\"Us?\"\n\n\"The Guard, of course.\"\n\n\"I see,\" Colin said even as his own brow creased a notch. \"You have summoned us here to divert the newsmen while you and your regiment, untrained in such things, attempt to solve these murders?\"\n\n\"It is the Guard's business and should be handled as such.\"\n\n\"It is the murder of two British subjects, Major Hampstead, one of whom was in service to the Queen. I'm quite certain the public will remain very concerned about it until it is resolved. The inference being, of course, that the very men proscribed with protecting Her Majesty cannot even protect themselves. Trying to steal this behind the public's eye will be quite impossible, Major. Unless, of course, you are trying to hide something?\"\n\n\"Hide something?!\" His face creased into a scowl. \"I trust you are being facetious, Mr. Pendragon.\"\n\n\"I've been accused of worse,\" he muttered.\n\n\"Let me assure you that my request comes only out of concern for Her Majesty's Guard,\" the major said in a tone as filled with condescension as assurance. \"The first lesson a man learns when he enlists is that it is not about the individual, but the regiment. Every man who serves under Victoria's banner understands that.\"\n\n\"While I'm sure that's true,\" Colin allowed with a tightening smile as he fished a crown out of his pocket and began effortlessly weaving it between the fingers of his right hand, \"I don't see how it is relevant.\"\n\n\"Then you are missing my point,\" the major sniped. \"The Queen's regiment has a prestige to uphold and cannot afford to be mired down in such things. This Bellingham situation is anathema to everything the Guard represents.\"\n\nColin instantly palmed the crown. \"Do I understand you correctly, Major? Do you presume to speak for the Queen with such rhetoric?\"\n\n\"Now Mr. Pendragon,\" he exhaled deeply before popping a biscuit into his mouth, \"you misunderstand me. Captain Bellingham was one of my most trusted leaders and a man I considered a personal friend. No one in this company is more determined to bring the perpetrator of his murder to justice than me. And I had the utmost respect and adoration for his lovely wife. A kind and wonderful woman whose senseless killing demands all the resources at the Guard's disposal. Yet even so, decorum dictates that it must be done with discretion. You said yourself that the public will have no faith in our Guard if they perceive that we cannot even fend for ourselves. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that Her Majesty's Life Guard represents the finest of our country's protectorate and as such cannot bear so much as a whiff of scandal. This matter will be solved by this regiment, but we shall do it outside of the gaze of the common masses.\"\n\n\"The common masses?\" One of Colin's eyebrows arched up. \"Does Victoria encourage her Guard to look down on the very people God has granted her the authority to rule?\"\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon . . . ,\" he started to say, only to fall silent. The ticking of the small clock on the major's credenza was the only sound to be heard for several seconds until Colin began to coax the coin between his fingers again. I started to wonder if we weren't about to be dismissed, but I had miscalculated the major. Quite suddenly, without the slightest hint that it was coming, he abruptly let out a bellowing laugh. \"You are toying with me, Mr. Pendragon. You mean to prod me into a rise and you almost succeeded. But I shall not be so easily dissuaded.\" He leaned forward. \"I'd bet you would like to see the Bellingham flat for yourself. There is much the newspapers have not reported. Much they do not know.\"\n\nA cool smirk overtook Colin's face. \"And now you are toying with me.\"\n\n\"So I am.\" He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile. \"You must understand my position, Mr. Pendragon. Anything concerning the Queen's Guard inevitably implicates our sovereign as well. And I'm sure I needn't remind you that Her Majesty is seventy-seven and in failing health.\"\n\n\"That woman is as delicate as a plow horse,\" he shot back. \"And I find it hard to believe she has any but the most passing familiarity concerning the murder of one of her guardsmen with whom she probably never once spoke. I believe you are trying to hide behind her skirts, Major.\"\n\n\"Do you presume to be privy to what goes on in Her Majesty's household?\"\n\n\"My father transferred John Brown from Victoria's stable to her personal duty after Albert's death, so I would say I know a bit more about Her Majesty's household than you think. What I don't understand is why you want to bring me here to feed nonsense to the press? I don't control those men.\"\n\n\"You underestimate yourself, Mr. Pendragon. They hang on your words like they are spun from gold.\" A cloying smile clung to his lips. \"If you were to release a statement that you had conducted an investigation and determined the case to be closed, say a burglary gone bad, or a case of mistaken identity, why, they would be only too happy to embrace your conclusion and return their attentions to the horses at Ascot and which lady is wearing what. Everyone would be satisfied, which would allow me and my men to handle this case with the delicacy Captain Bellingham and his wife deserve.\"\n\n\"And the perpetrator?\"\n\n\"I will personally see to it that their murderer receives the full wrath of the law.\"\n\nColin sat up and neatly tipped the crown back into his vest pocket. \"And what makes you think these murders will be so easily dispatched? Murder is a complex business in the simplest of cases. . . .\"\n\n\"I said I will take care of it,\" the major restated with noticeably greater force. \"And I could use your help with Scotland Yard. I've got them circling like schoolyard boys, on top of which the Times is calling the Guard's reputation into question, and the public is terrified for their safety. Until we can release a conclusive statement, Mr. Pendragon, this discord will be relentless.\"\n\nColin stood up. \"I'm sorry, Major. You seem to have gotten the notion that my integrity can be bargained for. If I have earned the respect of the press it is because I do not spin fables and, in spite of your desire for discretion, cannot see why I should start now. If you would like to hire me to solve this case I will gladly do so, but until you come to your senses I will bid you good day.\" He turned for the door.\n\n\"Mr. Pendragon!\" The major sounded perplexed as I got up to follow. \"Mr. Pendragon!\" he howled as we reached the door. \"With all due respect to your esteemed integrity, the public wants immediate answers to their fears. They want the world to return to the status quo. They will not tolerate remaining under a veil of anxiety. You can blame the unsolved Ripper murders for that. And that's why there are men like you and me. To ensure that our republic gets what it needs. Now I am beseeching you, Mr. Pendragon, to offer the public a reasoned solution to a horrible crime so that they can get on with the mundanity of their lives. Where is the harm in that?\"\n\n\"If that's what you're after, Major, then I would suggest you get the Yard to be your mouthpiece. Inspector Varcoe is always good for hot air.\"\n\n\"Nobody wants to hear from that blasted lout. You will do this for me, Mr. Pendragon. You are the only man with the reputation for it and I will insist.\"\n\n\"Insist?\" Colin chuckled. \"Are you proposing sticking a hand up my bum to move my lips?\"\n\n\"You will be handsomely compensated. Now how can I convince you to perform this service for the Crown?\"\n\nColin pursed his lips and I could tell he had already thought of something. \"There is one way I can conceive . . . ,\" he said casually, \". . . and it is the only way I would consider it. . . .\" He let a moment pass to emphasize his determination. \"You must announce to the press that you have retained my services to solve the murders of the captain and his wife. . . .\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"And then give me the next three days to do so. During those three days you must ensure I have the full cooperation of this regiment as well as access to whomever I want.\"\n\n\"Not Her Majesty or her family.\"\n\n\"I should hardly think that will be necessary.\"\n\n\"And at the end of the three days?\"\n\n\"I will deliver the truth of the case to you.\"\n\n\"And if you cannot?\"\n\n\"I will.\" He smiled harshly, even as my stomach clutched at the very idea. I couldn't fathom how he had come up with the notion of three days.\n\nMajor Hampstead frowned. \"Absolute proof, Mr. Pendragon. You must bring me absolute proof of whatever supposition you're championing or I shall have your word that you will face that mob of newsmen and sell them whatever I deem appropriate.\"\n\nHe gave no more than an ambivalent nod.\n\n\"Three days then.\" The major glanced back at his clock. \"That would be twelve o'clock on Friday.\" He turned back to us. \"I shall give you until seventeen hundred. Plenty of time for the newsmen to make their Saturday morning edition.\"\n\n\"Most generous,\" Colin muttered.\n\n\"Corporal Bramwood!\"\n\n\"Sir?\" The young man opened the door so quickly I knew he had to have been hovering nearby.\n\n\"Alert the newspapermen that Her Majesty's Life Guard has retained the services of Colin Pendragon to bring a swift and just conclusion to the tragic murders of Captain and Mrs. Bellingham. And let them know that Mr. Pendragon will have an announcement to make at seventeen hundred hours this very Friday.\"\n\n\"This Friday, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes, Corporal. This Friday.\"\n\nAnd with that the young man was gone, though I did notice he left the door ajar.\n\n\"I will solve this crime, Major Hampstead,\" Colin said with the simplicity of one discussing the weather. \"I shall bring you the resolution Friday and we will see what gets delivered to the press.\"\n\n\"I admire a man of confidence,\" the major replied with a tense grin. \"But listen very carefully, Mr. Pendragon, because if, at the end of your three days, you should find yourself stymied by this case, then I alone will decide what is told to those newsmen. You will say what I decide and you will walk away. Are we clear?\"\n\nColin flashed an equally rigid smile. \"You have been most clear, Major. And now I should indeed like an escort to the Bellingham flat so I may get started. Someone from Captain Bellingham's regiment would be my preference.\"\n\n\"Sergeant McReedy will take you. He reported to the captain.\" Major Hampstead's smile relaxed and I couldn't help but feel it was with the arrogance that comes when one perceives imminent success.\nKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by\n\nKensington Publishing Corp.   \n119 West 40th Street   \nNew York, NY 10018\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2014 Gregory Harris\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.\n\nKensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.\n\nISBN: 978-0-7582-9267-4\n\neISBN-13: 978-0-7582-9268-1   \neISBN-10: 0-7582-9268-6   \nFirst Kensington Electronic Edition: February 2014\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\nEmily Blades' parents' main interests were arts, crafts and literature, and like many creative people, they educated their daughter at home. Art galleries, Craft Council exhibitions and the freedom to pursue whatever interested her at the time allowed Emily to develop her own creative side. She has taught gymnastics to the under-5s, worked as a nanny, enjoys drawing, reading, walking, visiting galleries and museums and, of course, knitting!\n\nFirst published in Great Britain 2010\n\nSearch Press Limited  \nWellwood, North Farm Road,  \nTunbridge Wells, Kent TN2 3DR\n\nText copyright \u00a9 Emily Blades 2010\n\nPhotographs by Debbie Patterson at Search Press studios\n\nPhotographs and design copyright \u00a9 Search Press Ltd 2010\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book, text, photographs or illustrations may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means by print, photoprint, microfilm, microfiche, photocopier, internet or in any way known or as yet unknown, or stored in a retrieval system, without written permission obtained beforehand from Search Press.\n\nPrint ISBN: 978-1-84448-486-7\n\nEPUB ISBN: 978-1-78126-019-7\n\nKindle ISBN: 978-1-78126-074-6\n\nPDF ISBN: 978-1-78126-128-6\n\nThe Publishers and author can accept no responsibility for any consequences arising from the information, advice or instructions given in this publication.\n\nReaders are permitted to reproduce any of the items in this book for their personal use, or for the purposes of selling for charity, free of charge and without the prior permission of the Publishers. Any use of the items for commercial purposes is not permitted without the prior permission of the Publishers.\n\nSuppliers\n\nIf you have difficulty in obtaining any of the materials and equipment mentioned in this book, then please visit the Search Press website for details of suppliers:   \nwww.searchpress.com\n\nDedication\n\nFor my parents who taught me so well, my husband who supports me in all I do, my darling twins for putting up with my obsession with knitting. And last but not least Gerard Allt for enabling me to believe in myself.\n\n---\n\nAbbreviations\n\nbeg: beginning\n\ndec: decrease (by working two stitches together)\n\ng st: garter stitch (knit every row)\n\ninc: increase (by working into the front and back of the stitch)\n\nk: knit\n\nk2tog: knit two stitches together\n\np: purl\n\np2tog: purl two stitches together\n\nrib: ribbing (one stitch knit, one stitch purl)\n\nst(s): stitch(es)\n\nst st: stocking stitch (one row knit, one row purl)\n\n*-**: Repeat from the point marked * to the point marked **\n\n---\n\n Contents\n\nIntroduction\n\nMobile Phone Sock\n\nPurse\n\nBelt\n\nBead Earrings\n\nDrink Mats\n\nHair Bands with Bobbles\n\nTravel Card Wallet\n\nHeart Necklace\n\nDisc Earrings\n\nVase\n\nMP3 Player Sleeve\n\nBrooch\n\nDesk Tidy\n\nWaste Paper Basket\n\nBuilding Blocks\n\nBottle Holder\n\nHair Clip\n\nHandbag\n\nBangle\n\nLiquorice Jewellery\n\n Introduction\n\nI am very excited to bring you the first ever book on knitting and recycling, a craft that came about quite by chance for me. After reading about knitting with strips of plastic cut from shopping bags, I was inspired to create unique and desirable objects that are pleasing to look at, useful and also help the environment by cutting down on waste plastic.\n\nThroughout this book I refer to the plastic as 'plarn' \u2013 a combination of the words plastic and yarn. It is very satisfying to end up with balls of colourful plarn instead of a dustbin full of disused bags!\n\nThe projects in this book range from beginner to advanced, so whatever your knitting ability you will be sure to find something to make. All the items would make excellent gifts with the smaller ones easily done for those last-minute occasions. I hope you have as much fun knitting them as I have had designing them all!\n\nPreparing Plarn\n\nTake a plastic carrier bag and make sure it is clean and dry.\n\nLay the bag out flat and cut off the sealed bottom and handles, leaving you with a cylinder shape. With the openings at the sides, roll and fold the bag up to 3cm (1\u00bcin) from the top. Use scissors to cut the folded part (and only the folded part) into strips approximately 2cm (1in) wide. This will then knit up to an approximate double knit tension.\n\nThe thinnest, flimsiest bags should be cut into wider strips of 4cm (1\u00bdin), and the heaviest, most glossy bags should be trimmed into narrower 1cm (\u00bein) strips for the same tension.\n\nThe thinner bags are easier to work with, so I recommend that you use them when you start out.\n\nUnfold the bag and you will have a number of single strips hanging from the uncut part of the bag. Open the bag out and cut diagonally from the outside edge of the bag to the first inside cut. Continue cutting diagonally until all the strips are separated.\n\nYou should now have one long continuous strip of plastic. Roll this up into a ball. You now have a ball of plarn that is ready to be knitted up.\n\nPlastic bags of one colour will let you make items with solid colour, but you can make variegated plarn from striped or patterned bags.\n\n---\nMobile Phone Sock\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in variegated blue and white \u2013 five very thin carrier bags\n\nLarge darning needle\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 4mm (UK 8; US 6) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 40st and knit in k1, p1 rib for 8 rows. Continue in stocking stitch until the work measures 12cm (4\u00bein). Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nSew in any unwanted ends then fold the work in half, with the wrong side on the outside. Thread some spare plarn on to your darning needle and stitch together the sides and bottom of the sock (see detail above).\n\nTurn the piece the right way out and your mobile sock is ready to use.\n\nTweed Look\n\nThose flimsy, striped bags from the corner shop are ideal for this project.\nPurse\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in purple, pink and black \u2013 approximately one carrier bag of each colour\n\nLarge darning needle\n\nSewing needle and thread\n\nA 10cm (4in) zip\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 3.75mm (UK 9; US 5) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nWork in stocking stitch throughout.\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 25st. Starting with a knit row, work 2 rows in purple. * Work 1 row pink, 2 rows black, 1 row pink, 5 rows purple, 1 row black, 2 rows pink, 1 row black, 5 rows purple **. Repeat from * to ** until work measures 23cm (9in). Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nFold the work in two and sew the cast-on edge to the cast-off edge. Turn the work sideways and stitch up the bottom of the work (this is actually the side of the knitting). This ensures that your stripes are running vertically rather than horizontally.\n\nOversew these seams with plarn on the right side out. Insert the zip into the opening at the top and discreetly stitch in place with sewing thread. For the zip pull (see detail above), thread two strips of plarn through the hole in the zip pull, making sure the plarn is of even lengths. Plait and knot it in place.\n\nGreen Lines\n\nTry using natural colours for a more mature look.\nBelt\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in silver \u2013 two foil bread bags; and black \u2013 two or three black bin liners\n\nDarning and sewing needles and thread\n\nOne buckle\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 3.75mm (UK 9; US 5) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 10st with black plarn. Rows 1-5 stocking stitch. Row 6 garter (this forms the edge of turn over). Rows 7\u201314 work in moss stitch (also known as seed stitch). Row 15 * k1, p1, k1, join in silver k4, join in black p1, k1, p1. Row 16, with the black, p1, k1, p1, with the silver k4, then k1, p1, k1 in black. Repeat the last 2 rows 3 times. With black k1, p1, k5, p1, k1, p1. Carry on in moss stitch for 9 more rows **. Repeat from * to ** until the belt is the desired length, ending on a right side row. K1 row in garter stitch; this forms an edge for stitching over the buckle bar. Work 10 rows in stocking stitch starting with a knit row. Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nSew in any unwanted plarn. Fold over the cast-on edge at the garter row and stitch in place with sewing thread. At the cast-off end, thread the work over the bar of the buckle and fold at the point of the garter row (see detail above). Sew in place with thread.\n\nThe finished piece\n\nThis glitzy belt would make the perfect accessory to brighten any outfit.\nBead Earrings\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in cool pink, lilac and hot pink \u2013 small amounts\n\n6 small beads\n\nSewing needle and thread\n\nJewellery findings: Pair of earring hooks\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 3.75mm (UK 9; US 5) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 6 st in plarn of your colour choice. Work in stocking stitch for 8 rows. Cast off. Repeat five times.\n\nMaking up\n\nRun a gathering stitch along all four sides of work and gather together, tucking in unused ends as you go. This creates the knitted bead. Secure the end discreetly.\n\nAlternate 3 knitted beads with 3 small hard beads and string together with thread, sewing firmly in place.\n\nStitch this to the earring attachment (see detail above). Now they are ready to wear. If you make them in colours to match your outfit, you will have a very special and unique accessory.\n\nAutumn Golds\n\nThese warm gold and ochre beads are very flattering to all skin tones.\nDrink Mats\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in blue and pink \u2013 approximately one carrier bag of each colour\n\nDarning needle\n\nAn iron and ironing board\n\nBaking parchment or greaseproof paper\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 3.75mm (UK 9; US 5) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nThis project is simple enough for a child to do, but it needs adult supervision as part of the process involves a hot iron.\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 25 st. Work in garter stitch throughout. Work 2 rows in blue plarn. Next knit 5st in blue, then join in pink plarn and knit 15st. Knit last 5st in blue. Repeat this row 28 times. Now using blue plarn only, work 2 rows. Cast off. You can adjust the number of rows you do to alter the size of the finished piece.\n\nMaking up\n\nSew in any unwanted ends. Heat an iron to the hottest setting. Make sure an adult helps with this part. Place the knitting between two pieces of baking parchment. (This is vital unless you want a sticky mess on your iron!) Press and hold the iron firmly on to the paper and knitting for approximately twenty seconds. This melts the plastic enough to fuse it together and yet does not obliterate the pattern (see detail above).\n\nTurn the work and paper over and repeat the heating process on the other side. Do not touch it until it has cooled down. When completely cold, it will be rigid and ready to use.\n\nPlanets and Stripes\n\nOnce your mats have cooled, they can be cut into circles with scissors.\nHair Bands with Bobbles\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in red, white and blue \u2013 small amounts\n\nPlain undecorated elastic hair band\n\nDarning and sewing needles and thread\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 3.75mm (UK 9; US 5) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 6 st. Work 8 rows in garter stitch. Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nRun a gathering stitch with plarn along all four sides and gather together, tucking in any plarn ends as you go, thus moulding and forming a bobble. Secure the plarn firmly in place.\n\nArrange the bobbles to look pleasing, then sew them on to the hair band with a fine needle and sewing thread (see detail).\n\nBobbles with Bling\n\nYou can change the look easily by knitting in one colour or in stripes. For a more glamorous evening look, stitch on seed beads.\nTravel Card Wallet\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in pink, black, lime, and orange \u2013 approximately one carrier bag\n\nDarning and sewing needles and thread\n\nTwo pins\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 3.75mm (UK 9; US 5) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nWork in stocking stitch throughout. It is a good idea to carry the colours up the side of the work as you go to save sewing in lots of ends afterwards.\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 15 st. Knit 122 rows: colours as follows. 2 rows black, 4 rows pink, 2 rows black, 6 rows lime, 4 rows pink, 4 rows orange, 2 rows pink, 2 rows lime, 6 rows black, 4 rows orange, 6 rows pink, 6 rows black, 2 rows lime, 4 rows black, 6 rows orange, 2 rows lime, 4 rows orange, 2 rows pink, 2 rows lime, 6 rows black, 4 rows lime, 4 rows black, 4 rows lime, 4 rows pink, 2 rows black, 2 rows pink, 2 rows black, 4 rows pink, 4 rows orange, 2 rows pink, 2 rows lime, 6 rows black, 6 rows orange. Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nSew in any unwanted ends of plarn. Fold work in half and mark the middle with the pins. Open the work flat and fold the cast-on and cast-off ends towards the pins. Leave approx 1cm (\u00bdin)between the two ends: i.e. 5mm (\u00bcin) either side of the pins. This leaves a little gap and extra space for when the cards are inserted and the holder is folded in half (see detail above).\n\nWith the work inside-out, sew the side seams with the sewing thread, then turn work right way out. With plarn in a contrasting colour, use a whipping stitch to decorate the sides. This is solely cosmetic, and hides any cotton thread showing, producing a more finished look.\n\nNow you are ready to insert cards, fold the wallet closed and use it! Finished size is approximately 10 x 7cm (4 x 2\u00bein).\n\nThe finished piece\n\nTry combining blues and purples for a more masculine look.\nHeart Necklace\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in red \u2013 one thick carrier bag; and silver \u2013 one foil bread bag\n\nPaper tissue\n\nDarning needle, sewing needle and thread\n\nSmall glass beads\n\nNylon thread\n\nJewellery findings: Necklace fastening\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 4mm (UK 8; US 6) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nBeads\n\nKnitting and making up\n\nMake 18 beads in silver plarn, following the instructions as for the Bead Earrings.\n\nRed heart\n\nKnitting\n\nThis is made in reversed stocking stitch. Cast on 2 st. Row 1 knit. Row 2 purl. Row 3 knit, increasing 1 stitch at each end of the row. Row 4 purl. Row 5 knit, increasing 1 stitch at each end of the row. Row 6 purl.\n\nContinue increasing on every knit row until you have 10 stitches in all. Work 3 rows without any shaping. Next row decrease 1 stitch each end of the row. Purl next row. Knit and decrease as before on this row and every knit row until 2 stitches remain. Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nFold the work in half, making a triangle with the smooth side on the inside, tucking any unwanted ends in. Stuff with paper tissue and sew up the sides using plarn.\n\nDiscreetly secure a strip of plarn at the point of the heart, and from the inside, catch the top centre of the triangle and pull downwards, towards the point, securing in place. This gives the triangle a heart shape (see detail above).\n\nThread the glass beads and knitted beads alternately on to the nylon thread with the heart at the centre. Knot the necklace fastenings to the ends. Now your necklace is ready to wear.\n\nBlack and White Elegance\n\nNo-one can have too much jewellery! Have fun making more necklaces in a variety of colours.\nDisc Earrings\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in purple and green \u2013 small amounts\n\nSewing needle and thread\n\n10 small hard beads\n\nJewellery findings: Pair of earring hooks\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 4mm (UK 8; US 6) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 20 st in green plarn and knit in stocking stitch for 3 rows. Change plarn colour to purple and continue in stocking stitch for another 4 rows. Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nWith the work inside out, sew together the 2 ends of row edges. Run a gathering stitch along the cast-on edge of the work and pull it tight, securing it in place. Turn the work the right way out and run another gathering stitch along the cast-off row edge, pulling it in tight to secure.\n\nStitch the two middles together, thus making a small disc, green one side and purple the other. Place 2 beads either side of the disc in the middle and stitch in place (see detail above). Fasten thread at the top edge of the rim, and thread on 3 beads and an earring attachment. Make sure you run the thread back through the beads to secure them firmly.\n\nRaspberry Ripple\n\nThese earrings can easily be knitted in an hour, so they would make an ideal last-minute gift or stocking filler.\nVase\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in pink, lilac, brown and white \u2013 approximately eight carrier bags\n\nEmpty and clean plastic drink bottle\n\nDarning needle\n\nPair of scissors\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 5mm (UK 6; US 8) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 46 stitches with pink plarn or colour of your choice. Row 1 k2, p2 along the whole row. Row 2 p2, k2 along the whole row. Repeat rows 1 and 2. Continue the rest of the work in stocking stitch, starting with a knit row, patterning as follows: 4 rows in lilac plarn, 2 rows in brown, 4 rows in pink, 8 rows in white, 2 rows in pink, 6 rows in lilac, 2 rows pink, 4 rows brown, 14 rows white, 4 rows lilac. Cast off. (Some of the bags I used had some writing on them, thus creating the flecks of colour.)\n\nMaking up\n\nSew in any unwanted ends on the knitting. Join the side seams with plarn, inside out (see detail above). Then turn the correct side out.\n\nUse the scissors to cut the top off the plastic bottle. Now slip the knitted sleeve over the top of the bottle and smooth it into place. It should be tight enough to stay in place but can easily be removed when the bottle requires cleaning.\n\nThe finished piece\n\nThis project can be done in any colours that complement the d\u00e9cor of the room (or garden!) in which it will be used.\nMP3 Player Sleeve\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in variegated white and green \u2013 approximately one carrier bag\n\nDarning needle\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 3.75mm (UK 9; US 5) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 15 st. Work 4 rows in k1, p1, rib. Change to stocking stitch and continue until work measures 18cm (7in). Work 4 more rows in k1, p1, rib and cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nFold work together so that the two ribbings are at the top (see detail above) and oversew the side seams in plarn.\n\nFunky Stripes\n\nThese are very easy to knit, so would be perfect for children to make. Let them choose and collect their own plastic bags in order to make their finished piece personal and unique.\nBrooch\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in yellow, green and orange \u2013 small amounts of each\n\nDarning and sewing needles and thread\n\nJewellery findings: Brooch pin\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 2.75mm (UK 12; US 2) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nFor the flower\n\nWith yellow plarn cast on 33 st. Knit 1 row. Purl 1 row. Next row knit 5 st, turn, * p5 turn, k5 turn, p5 turn, decrease 1 st at each end of next row and turn, p3 turn, decrease 1 st at beginning of the row, knit the remaining stitch, turn, p2 turn, k2tog and fasten off. The first petal is complete.\n\nRejoin plarn to main work and cast off next 2 st then k4, thus having 5 st on your right-hand needle **. Follow instructions from * to ** until all 33 stitches have been worked. Sew in any loose ends. Pick up and knit 18 st along the 33 st cast-on edge. Next row purl. Next row k1, slip1, k1, pass the slip stitch over, repeat this to the end. Starting with a purl row, work 8 rows in stocking stitch. Cast off.\n\nFor the first leaf\n\nWith green plarn, cast on 3 st. Work in stocking stitch until work measures 8cm (3\u00bcin) ending on a knit row. Cast off 1 st at the beginning of the next row. Work 6 more rows in st st. Cast off.\n\nFor the second leaf\n\nWith green plarn cast on 3 st. Work in stocking stitch for 4cm (1\u00bdin) ending on a purl row. Cast off 1 st at the beginning of the next row. Work 6 more rows. Cast off.\n\nFor the stalk\n\nWith orange plarn cast on 5 st and work 8 rows in stocking stitch. Change to green plarn and continue in stocking stitch until work measures 11cm (4\u00bcin). Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nJoin the side seam of the flower's trumpet. Join the side seam of the stalk. Insert the orange tip of the stalk into the back of the trumpet and stitch in place. Position the leaves on the stalk and stitch them in place using plarn of matching colour. With sewing thread and a fine needle, stitch or fasten the brooch pin to the back of the flower (see detail above).\n\nThe finished piece\n\nThis delightful daffodil will be adored by all who see it. Why not give one to the gardener in your life?\nDesk Tidy\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in light purple, dark purple, pink and dark blue \u2013 approximately one carrier bag of each colour; and light blue \u2013 approximately two carrier bags\n\nClean and empty 1 litre yogurt pot\n\nDarning needle\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 5mm (UK 6; US 8) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 70 st. Knit in garter stitch for 5 rows. Then change to stocking stitch working straight until work measures 14cm (5\u00bdin). Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nOversew the side seam the right way out using plarn. Slip over the pot and thread a running stitch along the cast-on edge. Gently pull tight, allowing the edge to cover the lip of the pot (see detail above). Secure and oversew the rim edge.\n\nThe finished piece\n\nThe different shades of plarn even within one colour make each piece individual and unique. Have fun experimenting!\nWaste Paper Basket\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in red, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet \u2013 approximately eighteen carrier bags altogether\n\nDarning needle\n\nBaking parchment or greaseproof paper\n\nAn iron\n\nA metal bin, wicker basket or toughened plastic container over which you can mould the knitted bin\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 5mm (UK 6; US 8) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nThis project is simple enough for a child to do, but it requires adult supervision as part of the process involves using an iron.\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 90 st. Work in garter stitch until work measures 35cm (13\u00bein) or desired height. Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nSew in unwanted ends and join the side seam using matching plarn. Thread a running stitch along the cast-off edge and pull tight, securing firmly. You may find it easier to use a little nylon thread for this. Place the knitted bin over your 'mould'. Place baking parchment between the mould and your knitting as well as between the knitting and the iron! (This is essential if you want to avoid getting a plastic mess all over your iron.)\n\nHeat the iron to the hottest setting and hold for a few seconds against the gathered up base until it is flattened and fused together (see detail above). Then slowly iron all around the outside of the bin. While the knitting is warm it will appear soft and floppy but once it has cooled it will be firm enough to keep its shape and stand up. You have now recycled your rubbish to hold more litter.\n\nThe finished piece\n\nThis waste paper basket is a favourite of mine. Every room can benefit from one and I use colours to match the decor.\nBuilding Blocks\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in orange, yellow and cream \u2013 approximately three standard-sized carrier bags of each colour\n\nDarning needle\n\nSoft toy filler or spare plastic bags\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 4mm (UK 8; US 6) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 15 st. Work in garter stitch throughout. Work 23 rows or as many as it takes to produce a square. Cast off. Make 6 of these squares in all.\n\nMaking up\n\nOversew the squares together to form a block. Leave one side open to fill with stuffing, and then sew the last square in place. Make sure all seams are secure so that the filling cannot be pulled out by little hands or paws!\n\nToys\n\nIt is not only children who enjoy playing with these soft blocks. Pets also love chasing after them and knocking them down!\nBottle Holder\n\nMaterials:\n\nVariegated plarn in green and black \u2013 approximately two very large plastic bags\n\nDarning needle\n\nBaking parchment or greaseproof paper\n\nA clean and empty food tin\n\nAn iron\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 5.5mm (UK 5; US 9) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nThis project is simple enough for a child to do, but it needs adult supervision as part of the process involves using an iron.\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 70 st. Knit in garter stitch for 5 rows. Then change to stocking stitch, working straight until work measures 14cm (5\u00bdin). Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nOversew side seam the right way out. Slip over the tin then thread a running stitch along the cast-on edge and gently pull tight, allowing the edge to cover the lip of the tin. Secure and oversew the rim edge.\n\nStrap\/Handle\n\nCast on 8 st. Work in moss stitch (also known as seed stitch) until the work measures 87cm (34\u00bcin) or desired length. Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nWith the main piece of work, sew up the side seams using plarn. Run a gathering stitch along the cast-on edge, drawing it up tight and securing firmly. Turn the top edge down so that the reversed stocking stitch forms a little rim (see detail) and stitch in place. Position the strap 3cm (1\u00bcin) down inside the holder. Stitch firmly into place. Now attach the other end of the strap in the same way, opposite the end you have just attached. Insert an empty food tin into the holder and push it right down to the bottom. Then hold a hot iron against the base until the plastic has fused, making sure you have the baking parchment between the work and the iron all the time! When the plastic has cooled, you can remove the tin can. The base will then be hard so that the bottle holder will stand up unsupported.\n\nThe finished piece\n\nThe plastic bags I used for this piece were black on the inside and green on the outside. When knitted up, they give the piece a lovely textured look.\nHair Clip\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in red and green \u2013 small amounts\n\nSewing needle and thread\n\nThree small beads\n\nJewellery findings: Hair clip attachment\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 2.75mm (UK 12; US 2) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nFor the leaves\n\nCast on 5 st. Work 4 rows in stocking stitch ending on a purl row. Increase 1 stitch each end of the next row. Purl 1 row. Repeat the last 2 rows once more. Continue in stocking stitch straight for 10 rows, ending on a purl row. Decrease 1 stitch each end of the next row. Purl 1 row. Repeat the last 2 rows twice more (3 st remain). Stocking stitch 4 more rows. Cast off. Make two of these.\n\nFor the roses\n\nCast on 4 st in red plarn. Work in stocking stitch until work measures 9cm (3\u00bdin) ending on a purl row. Next row decrease 1 stitch at the beginning then knit to end (2st remain).Continue in st st for another 3cm (1\u00bcin). Cast off. Make three of these.\n\nMake up\n\nStitch the 2 leaves together along their cast-on edges. Sew in any unwanted ends of plarn. Now take the red knitting and, starting at the narrowest point, roll the work up, stitching it in place as you go to form a rose. When you have completed sewing all three roses, position and stitch them in place along the leaves. Sew the small beads into the centres of the roses with a fine sewing needle and thread (see detail above). Now you are ready to place the knitted flowers and leaves along the top of the hair clip attachment and stitch them securely in place.\n\nThe finished piece\n\nI chose red roses for a romantic look, but pale colours have a nice summery feel.\nHandbag\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in purple, pink and lilac \u2013 approximately twenty standard-sized plastic bags\n\nDarning needle\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 3.75mm (UK 9; US 5) knitting needles\n\n1 pair 2.75mm (UK 12; US 2) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nThe handbag is made in one piece as follows. Cast on 60 st. Work 6 rows in moss stitch (also known as seed stitch). Still in moss stitch knit 20 st, cast off 20 st, knit last 20 st. Next row moss stitch 20 st, cast on 20 st, knit the last 20 st. With these 60 st, work 15 rows in moss stitch. Next row work 20 st, cast off 20 st, and work last 20 st. Next row work 20 st, cast on 20 st, work last 20 st, resulting in 60 st again. Work 10 more rows in moss stitch.* Change to garter stitch and work 6 rows. Then 8 rows in stocking stitch.**\n\nRepeat from * to ** until the work measures 22cm (8\u00bdin) from the start of the garter stitch. Work 10 rows in moss stitch; this forms the base of the bag. Return to knitting 6 rows of garter and 8 rows of stocking stitch until the work measures 22cm (8\u00bdin) from the moss stitch base. (There should be an equal number of rib and smooth stripes as knitted at the beginning.)\n\nWork 10 rows of moss stitch. Next row work 20 st, cast off 20 st, work last 20 st. Next row work 20 st, cast on 20 st, work last 20 st. Work 15 rows in moss stitch. Next row work 20 st, cast off 20 st, work last 20 st. Next row work 20 st, cast on 20 st, work last 20 st. Work another 6 rows in moss stitch. Cast off.\n\nFor the roses\n\nMake as roses for the Hair Clip but leaving off the hard bead in the centre. Make five of these.\n\nMaking up\n\nSew in any unwanted ends of plarn. Fold the handles over so that the holes line up and they are double thickness. Oversew around the hand-hole, the sides and the inside edge. Do this also to the other end of the work. Now fold the bag in half so that the moss stitch strip is at the base and the handles join at the top. Oversew the sides of the bag together up to where the moss stitch handles start. This will leave a little vent for easier access. Position the roses along the first stocking stitch stripe of the bag and sew securely in place.\n\nThe finished piece\n\nI have made a few handbags for special friends and they tell me they are regularly stopped and complimented on their gorgeous bags. They then tell the passer-by that the bag is made from recycled carrier bags and wait for the look of amazment!\nBangle\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in ochre, cream and gold \u2013 approximately one carrier bag in each colour\n\nLarge plastic bangle\n\nDarning needle\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 2.75mm (UK 12; US 2) knitting needles\n\nInstructions:\n\nKnitting:\n\nCast on 15 st. Work in stocking stitch throughout. Work stripes as follows * 6 rows ochre, 2 rows cream, 4 rows gold, 2 rows ochre, 2 rows gold, 8 rows cream **. Repeat from * to ** until the work is long enough to cover the complete circumference of the bangle. Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nStitch the two ends together to form a ring. Slip this over the bangle. Pull the sides of the knitting into the middle of the inside edge and stitch together, encasing the bangle in a knitted sleeve.\n\nFunky Bangle\n\nYou can use your own imagination to make unique and personal pieces of jewellery. These are a favourite with my teenage children. Have fun!\nLiquorice Jewellery\n\nMaterials:\n\nPlarn in white, black, pink, orange, yellow and blue \u2013 small amounts\n\nJewellery findings: one necklace clasp and two earring hooks\n\nSeed beads in pale blue and pink\n\nApproximately forty-two large black beads for separating the sweets\n\nDarning and sewing needles and nylon thread\n\nSewing thread\n\nNeedles:\n\n1 pair 4mm (UK 8; US 6) knitting needles\n\nNecklace instructions:\n\nWork all sweets in stocking stitch throughout.\n\nThree-layered sweets\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 5 st in white plarn and work 8 rows. Change to black plarn and work 9 more rows. Now join in the colour of your choice (pink, orange or yellow). Starting with a knit row on the wrong side of the work, work 8 rows. Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nSew in any unwanted ends then fold the white and black parts together with the right side of the stocking stitch on the outside.\n\nNext, fold back the coloured part, again with the right side of the work visible. Stitch the piece together using matching coloured plarn. Make three of these.\n\nBlack and white five-layered sweets\n\nKnitting\n\nFollow the instructions for the three-layered sweets, using only black and white plarn. Instead of casting off, work 9 rows in black, starting with a purl row. Change to white plarn for the last layer and work 8 rows. Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nFold together as for the three-layered sweets, plus the extra layers. Make two of these.\n\nSmall pink and blue beaded sweets\n\nKnitting\n\nUsing either pink or blue plarn, cast on 3 st and work in stocking stitch for 10cm (4in). Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nThis time with the back of work on show, roll the work up to form a small circular sweet. Stitch securely in place.\n\nUsing a sewing needle and thread, cover the whole sweet in seed beads that match in colour. Make two sweets in blue and one in pink.\n\nCircular sweets with black centres\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 3 st in black plarn and work 8 rows. Change to coloured plarn (pink, orange or yellow) and continue until the work measures 25cm (9\u00bein) or until the coloured part is long enough to wrap around the black centre 3 times when rolled up. Cast off.\n\nMaking up\n\nSew in any unwanted ends. Roll the work up starting with the black part, thus making a wheel shape. Stitch together to hold in place. Make three of these.\n\nBlack and white cylinder-shaped sweets\n\nKnitting\n\nCast on 5 st in white plarn and work 10 rows. Change to black plarn and work 14 rows, or just enough to cover the white centre once rolled up. Cast off. Make two of these.\n\nMaking up\n\nSew in any unwanted ends. Starting at the white end of the work, roll up until the white centre is completely wrapped in the black work and stitch in place.\n\nMaking up the necklace\n\nThread the sweets on to a nylon wire alternating each with a large black bead.\n\nUse as many large beads as you need for the desired length at either end of the nylon thread. Knot the necklace clasp on either end firmly.\n\nEarring instructions:\n\nKnitting\n\nMake two small beaded sweets and two circular sweets with black centres, as for the necklace.\n\nMaking up\n\nThread two sweets on to nylon thread, alternating with black beads as shown to the left.\n\nMake sure the sweets and beads are secure then thread and stitch them on to the earring attachment. Repeat for the second earring.\n\nPublishers' Note\n\nIf you would like more information on knitting techniques, try the Beginner's Guide to Knitting by Alison Dupernex, Search Press, 2004.\n\nClick to go to our online catalogue\n\n|  |   \n---|---|---\n\n    |     |     |     |\n\n    |     |     |     |\n\n    |     |     |     |\n\n    |     |     |     |\n\n---|---|---|---|---\n\n    |     |     |     |\n\n    |     |     |     |\n\n    |     |     |     |\n\n---|---|---|---|---\n\n    |     |     |     |\n\n    |     |     |     |\n\n    |     |\n\n|  | \n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}