100 Sleeves Best Quotes — Niche Quotes 💬 (2024)

“

To wear your heart on your sleeve isn't a very good plan; you should wear it inside, where it functions best.

”

”

“

If you are feeling more yourself, there is a problem best addressed immediately," said the queen."In my nightshirt?" The king wriggled, as ever, out of straightforward obedience."Your attendants. I have spoken to them. You will speak to them as well.""Ah. They have seen me in my nightshirt." He looked down at his sleeve, embroidered with white flowers. "Not in your nightshirt, though.

”

”

“

People always want to know what it feels like, so I’ll tell you: there’s a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you’ve done something you shouldn’t have, and yet you’ve gotten away with it. Then you sort of go into a trance, because it’s truly dazzling—that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. And—God—the sweet release, that’s the best way I can describe it, kind of like a balloon that’s tied to a little kid’s hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. You just know that balloon is thinking, Ha, I don’t belong to you after all; and at the same time, Do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here? And then the balloon remembers, after the fact, that it has a wicked fear of heights.When reality kicks in, you grab some toilet paper or a paper towel (better than a washcloth, because the stains don’t ever come out 100 percent) and you press hard against the cut. You can feel your embarrassment; it’s a backbeat underneath your pulse. Whatever relief there was a minute ago congeals, like cold gravy, into a fist in the pit of your stomach. You literally make yourself sick, because you promised yourself last time would be the last time, and once again, you’ve let yourself down. So you hide the evidence of your weakness under layers of clothes long enough to cover the cuts, even if it’s summertime and no one is wearing jeans or long sleeves. You throw the bloody tissues into the toilet and watch the water go pink before you flush them into oblivion, and you wish it were really that easy.

”

”

“

I cling to him, wishing I could ease his pain. I wish I could take his burdens and make them mine."It's weird, isn't it?" he says."What is?""If we were naked right now, I'd be dead.""Shut up," I say, laughing against his chest. We're both wearing long sleeves, long pants. As long as my face and hands don't touch his skin, he's perfectly safe."Well, it's true.""In what alternate universe would I ever be naked with you?""I am just saying," he says. "sh*t happens. You never know.""I think you need a girlfriend.""Nah," he says. "I just need a hug from my friend."I lean back to look at him. Try to read his eyes. "You're my best friend, Kenji. You know that, right?""Yeah, kid." He grins at me. "I do. And I can't believe I got stuck with your skinny ass.

”

”

“

It's my belief that history is a wheel. 'Inconstancy is my very essence,' says the wheel. Rise up on my spokes if you like but don't complain when you're cast back down into the depths. Good time pass away, but then so do the bad. Mutability is our tragedy, but it's also our hope. The worst of time, like the best, are always passing away.

”

”

“

WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day! KING. What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse; We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

”

”

“

The best customers are the ones who just have to buy a record on a Saturday, even if there's nothing they really want; unless they go home clutching a flat, square carrier bag, they feel uncomfortable. You can spot the vinyl addicts because after a while they get fed up with the rack they are flicking through, march over to a completely different section of the shop, pull a sleeve out from the middle somewhere, and come over to the counter; this is because they have been making a list of possible purchases in their head ("If I don't find anything in the next five minutes, that blues compilation I saw half an hour ago will have to do"), and suddenly sicken themselves with the amount of time they have wasted looking for something they don't really want.

”

”

“

To me, the raveled sleeve of care is never more painlessly knitted up than in an evening alone in a chair snug yet copious, with a good light and an easily held little volume sloppily printed and bound in inexpensive paper. I do not ask much of it - which is just as well, for that is all I get. It does not matter if I guess the killer, and if I happen to discover, along around page 208, that I have read the work before, I attribute the fact not to the less than arresting powers of the author, but to my own lazy memory. I like best to have one book in my hand, and a stack of others on the floor beside me, so as to know the supply of poppy and mandragora will not run out before the small hours. In all reverence I say Heaven bless the Whodunit, the soothing balm on the wound, the cooling hand on the brow, the opiate of the people."--Book review Of Ellery Queen: The New York Murders, from Esquire, January 1959

”

”

“

I cling to him, wishing I could ease his pain. I wish I could take his burdens and make them mine. "It's weird, isn't it?" he says. "What is?" "If we were naked right now, I'd be dead." "Shut up," I say, laughing against his chest. We're both wearing long sleeves, long pants. As long as my face and hand don't touch his skin, he's perfectly safe. "Well, it's true." "In what alternate universe would I ever be naked with you?" "I am just

”

”

“

Who told you that?" I say. "Davy Prentiss?"He blinks. "What?""What do you mean what?" My voice is harder now. "Your new best friend. The man who shot me, Todd, and who you ride to work with laughing every morning."He clenches his hands into fists."You've been spying on me?" he says. "Three months I don't see you, three months I don't hear nothing from you and you been spying? Is that what yer doing in your spare time when yer not blowing people up?""Yeah," I yell, my voice getting louder to match his. "Three months of defending you to people who'd only be too happy to call you enemy, Todd. Three months of wondering why the hell you're working so hard for the Mayor and how he knew to go right for the ocean the day after we spoke." He winces, but I keep going, thrusting out my arm and pulling up on the sleeve. "Three months wondering why you put these on women!"His face changes in an instant. He actually calls out as if he felt the pain himself. He puts a hand to his mouth to stifle it but his Noise is suddenly washed with blackness. He moves his fingertips of his other hand within reach of the band, hovering over my skin, over the band that'll never be removed unless I lose my arm. The skin is still red, and band 1391 still trobs, despite the healing of three mistresses."Oh, no," he says. "Oh, no."The side door opens and the man who let me in leans out. "Everything all right out there, Lieutenant?""Lieutenant?" I say."We're fine," Todd chokes a little. "We're fine."The man waits for a second, then goes back inside."Lieutenant?" I say again, lowering my voice.Todd's leant down, his hands on his knees, staring at the floor. "It wasn't me, was it?" he says, his voice quiet, too. "I didn't-" He gestures again at the band without looking up. "I didn't do it without knowing it was you, did I?

”

”

“

Do it" she commands. "I need to know I won't cave, I need to prove to myself that even the torture of tickling won't make me give up the secrets of my best friend." I unbutton my cuffs, and roll up my shirt sleeves to my forearms "Don't go easy on me." she says. "Not in my nature.

”

”

“

And as the music ended, he saw her, like a woman in a romance, pull from her cotton sleeve a note that she pushed into his breast pocket. It would burn there unread for another hour as he danced and talked with in-laws who did not matter to him, who got in the way, whose bloodline connection to him or his wife he could not care less about. Everything that was important to him existed suddenly in the potency of Marie-Neige. He could tell what the shallow freize of the wedding party that surrounded them would continue to be, and yet the one he knew best-he could not conceive how she would behave or respond to him in a week, or even in an hour. She had stepped into more than his arms for a dance, had waited for the precise seconds so it was possible and socially forgivable-the sunlit wedding procession, the eternal meal-and she had passed him a billet-doux as if they were within a Dumas. The note she had written said 'Good-bye.' Then it said 'Hello.' And then it reminded him that 'A message sent by pigeon to The Hague can sometimes change everything.' She had, like one of those partially villainous and always evolving heroines, turned his heart over on the wrong day.

”

”

“

I’m sorry you haven’t a more pristine canvas – she paused signing to indicate her body from head to toe – upon which to depict a princess. Selena stopped Lyra’s hands in midair by dragging velvety-peach sleeves up her arms. “I disagree. The best canvas has flaws and furrows... and tells a story of its own before the paint is even added.

”

”

“

Oh, if there's one thing you learn at cookery school," said Mrs. Beamish, with a shrug, "burned crusts and soggy bases happen to the best of us. Roll up your sleeves and start something else, I say. No point moaning over what you can't fix!

”

”

“

Neil held on as fiercly as he could; so did Riko. Riko pulled Neil close one last time before the crowd ripped them away from one another, long enough for him to say, „You just cost him something he didn’t want to lose.“[…]He fought the crowd as best as he could, trying to break through and get his hands on Riko again.Somehow he made it close enough again to grab Riko’s sleeve. „You even f*cking think about touching him-

”

”

“

Oh, wow. Thank you.” She smiled. “Now I’m actually a bit sorry that I can’t have you on my dissertation committee. Perhaps rumors of your cruelty have been greatly exaggerated.” His mouth twitched. “Maybe you just pull out the best in me?” She grinned. “Then maybe I should stick around. Just, you know, to save the department from your terrible moods?” He glanced at the picture of the failed Western blot in her hand. “Well, it doesn’t look like you’re going to graduate anytime soon.” She half laughed, half gasped. “Oh my God. Did you just—?” “Objectively—” “This is the rudest, meanest thing—” She was laughing. Holding her stomach as she waved her finger at him. “—based on your blotting—” “—that anyone could ever say to a Ph.D. student. Ever.” “I think I can find meaner things. If I really put myself to it.” “We’re done.” She wished she weren’t smiling. Then maybe he’d take her seriously instead of just looking at her with that patient, amused expression. “Seriously. It was nice while it lasted.” She made to stand and leave indignantly, but he grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and gently tugged at it until she was sitting down again, next to him on the narrow couch—maybe even a little closer than before. She continued glaring, but he regarded her blandly, clearly unperturbed. “There’s nothing bad about taking more than five years to graduate,” he offered in a conciliatory tone. Olive huffed. “You just want me to stay around forever. Until you have the biggest, fattest, strongest Title IX case to ever exist.

”

”

“

School went exactly as Violet thought it would: weird. It wasn’t her best, and it wasn’t her worst, day ever. It was just weird.Jay was true to his word, deciding not to hold anything back. And it started the second they got out of the car, when he claimed her hand and refused to let go, even when Violet tugged and pulled to try to get it away from him. He ignored her mute protests and held on tight, smiling more to himself than to her, and paraded her right into the school like that.Not that they’d never held hands before, because they had. But this was entirely different, and Jay was hell-bent on making sure that everyone knew it. And just in case anyone wondered what the hand-holding actually meant, he made sure to clear things up for them by planting a big, albeit very satisfying, kiss on her lips, right in the middle of the hallway. Violet didn’t try to pull away from that; in fact, she was dismayed to find herself leaning into him, craving more, and not caring—at least at that moment—who might see them together.Unfortunately that person turned out to be Chelsea. Chelsea, of all people, along with Claire, who happened to walk up at very inopportune instant.“Well, well, well,” Chelsea said in an oh-so-innocent voice. “Look what we have here, Claire-bear. It’s old Jay and Violet.” The unconcealed smile was embedded deep in her voice. “Only, and correct me if I’m wrong, this looks a little more than friendly, don’t you think?”“I never kiss my friends like that,” Claire replied, blank-faced and serious, oblivious to sarcasm.Jay’s answer was to pull Violet closer, wrapping his arm around her waist. Violet cringed.Chelsea co*cked her head at Claire. “I was just trying to make a point.”Claire looked confused. “What point?”“Seriously, Claire? That Violet and Jay are dating now.” She glanced away from poor confused Claire and flashed a gloating look to the couple in front of her. “It’s about time, by the way. I think everyone will thank you for putting us all out of our misery. I, for one, was completely fed up with watching you two lovesick puppies pining over each other. Seriously, it was disgusting.”She grabbed Claire by the sleeve of her snug, body-hugging hoodie and led her down the hallway, toward their first-period class. Violet watched in stunned silence, processing everything that Chelsea had said to them, as Claire bounded along in Chelsea’s commanding wake.Jay decided that it was his turn to gloat. “You pined for me?” he asked, stupid grin and all.Violet hit him in the arm. “Shut up!” She shook her head. “I’m pretty sure she was talking about you anyway.

”

”

“

You don’t know how much I need such a friend,” she said. “My aunt is full of copy-book axioms, but they were all meant to apply to conduct in the early fifties. I always feel that to live up to them would include wearing book-muslin with gigot sleeves. And the other women—my best friends—well, they use me or abuse me; but they don’t care a straw what happens to me. I’ve been about too long—people are getting tired of me; they are beginning to say I ought to marry.

”

”

“

Eliot, huh?" she says. The thin fabric of her long T-shirt brushes my arm. "Is everyone in your family named for a famous symbolist poet?"No, I'm named for someone who was supposed to be in the Bible but isn't."No? What happened to him?"I glance over at her, the way the corner of her mouth turns up, half-smirk, half-smile. Her hair moves as she walks.He was called to be a disciple, but he had, you know, stuff to do."Stuff, like...polishing his sandals? Making lunch?"We keep walking, over the bridge across the lake, past the swings and the playground equipment, just walking.Exactly. And what about you, Calliope...is everyone in your family named after a...what is it? A keyboard? An organ?"It's a steam-powered piano. It's also the name of the Greek goddess of poetry. You should read stuff other than chemistry; you'd know these things." Her smirky smile again, her sleeve touching my arm.I feel like my skin has been removed, every nerve exposed. I open my mouth, and this comes out: "I think you are more goddess than piano." Stupid, stupid.But she laughs. "You know, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me today."You don't see too many calliopes," I tell her.I'm Cal, actually. I mean, that's what I prefer."I meant the steam pianos...you don't see too many." She stops and looks at me, full-on, and right away I put it on the list of the best moments in my life.Until you said that, Eliot, I wasn't fully aware of the demise of the steam piano, so thank you. Really."I smirk at her and we both fight not to smile. "Okay, smart-ass," I say.

”

”

“

Exactly. And what about you, Calliope...is everyone in your family named after a...what is it? A keyboard? An organ?"It's a steam-powered piano. It's also the name of the Greek goddess of poetry. You should read stuff other than chemistry; you'd know these things." Her smirky smile again, her sleeve touching my arm.I feel like my skin has been removed, every nerve exposed. I open my mouth, and this is what comes out: "I think you are more goddess than piano." Stupid, stupid.But she laughs. "You know, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me today."You don't see too many calliopes," I tell herI'm Cal, actually. I mean, that's what I prefer."I meant the steam pianos...you don't see too many." She stops and looks at me, full-on, and right away I put it on the list of the best moments in my life.Until you said that, Eliot, I wasn't fully aware of the demise of the steam piano, so thank you. Really."I smirk at her and we both fight not to smile. "Okay, smart-ass," I say.Callipe and Eliot-Scrambeled Eggs at Midnight

”

”

“

So what if she wasn’t a pushover? So what if she had some mettle and didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve? She had done everything she had done for the best. For king and country.

”

”

“

Find a man who buys the half-dilapidated fixer-upper and not the guy who buys the brand new model. The guy who can see potential and is willing to roll up his sleeves and get to work and make it the best it can possible be, who will love discovering all the hidden gems hidden inside, all the history, all the layers, that's the kind of man you want to settle down with; not the guy who only sees the pretty, the perfect. Because one day, that pretty and perfect will need work. And he won't want to do that. He will just move on to the newer and prettier.

”

”

“

Every few weeks I get a letter from Léopoldville, which holds me on track. My heart races when I see the long blue envelope in a sister's hand, delivered to me under her sleeve as if a man himself were inside. And, oh, he is! Still sweet and bitter and wise and, best of all, still alive. I squeal, I can't help it, and run outside to the courtyard to taste him in private like a cat with a stolen pullet. I lean my face against the cool wall and kiss its old stones in praise of captivity, because it's only my being here and his being in prison that saves us both for another chance at each other.

”

”

“

Maybe the little things that you consider your weaknesses are actually the things that people treasure the most about you. Maybe you hate that you care too much…or that you wear your heart on your sleeve, but some people think that’s the best damn thing about you. We all have different little things that make up who we are; we don’t need to change those things, but we can choose who we share them with.

”

”

“

Even though we get a lot of people into the shop, only a small percentage of them buy anything. The best customers are the ones who just have to buy a record on a Saturday, even if there’s nothing they really want; unless they go home clutching a flat, square carrier bag they feel uncomfortable. You can spot the vinyl addicts because after a while they get fed up with the rack they are flicking through, march over to a completely different section of the shop, pull a sleeve out from the middle somewhere, and come over to the counter; this is because they have been making a list of possible purchases in their head (‘If I don’t find anything in the next five minutes, that blues compilation I saw half an hour ago will have to do’), and suddenly sicken themselves with the amount of time they have wasted looking for something that they don’t really want. I know that feeling well (these are my people, and I understand them better than I understand anybody in the world): it is a prickly, clammy, panicky sensation, and you go out of the shop reeling. You walk much more quickly afterwards, trying to recapture the part of the day that has escaped, and quite often you have the urge to read the international section of a newspaper, or go to see a Peter Greenaway film, to consume something solid and meaty which will lie on top of the candyfloss worthlessness clogging up your head.

”

”

“

The best dresses offer secrets but no surprises,” Aileen said when we were alone. “Little pockets and camouflage for flaws with no hint of what’s hidden beneath the flare of a bell sleeve, the bones of a corset, or the inset of a shorting.

”

”

“

People can only react to things in the best way they know how. Experiences change people; we grow and evolve as we get older and learn how to deal with many of the situations and emotions we encounter in our own way. Remember that not everyone has had the same journey as you and not everyone views life in the same way you do. Some people are extremely self-aware and empathetic, while others lack that entirely. Some people wear their heart on their sleeve and share every thought, and others are a complete mystery and you can never really tell what goes on inside their mind. It can explain why we get so hurt by someone and the other person has no idea, or how sometimes we can say or do things that hurt someone else without knowing.

”

”

“

I have something for you,” she said as she pulled his leather gloves from the sleeve of her prison tunic.He stared at them. “How—”“I got them from the discarded clothes. Before I made the climb.”“Six stories in the dark.”She nodded. She wasn’t going to wait for thanks. Not for the climb, or the gloves, or for anything ever again.He pulled the gloves on slowly, and she watched his pale, vulnerable hands disappear beneath the leather. They were trickster hands—long, graceful fingers made for prying open locks, hiding coins, making things vanish.“When we get back to Ketterdam, I’m taking my share, and I’m leaving the Dregs.”He looked away. “You should. You were always too good for the Barrel.”It was time to go. “Saints’ speed, Kaz.”Kaz snagged her wrist. “Inej.” His gloved thumb moved over her pulse, traced the top of the feather tattoo. “If we don’t make it out, I want you to know…”She waited. She felt hope rustling its wings inside her, ready to take flight at the right words from Kaz. She willed that hope into stillness. Those words would never come. The heart is an arrow.She reached up and touched his cheek. She thought he might flinch again, even knock her hand away. In nearly two years of battling side by side with Kaz, of late-night scheming, impossible heists, clandestine errands, and harried meals of fried potatoes and hutspot gobbled down as they rushed from one place to another, this was the first time she had touched him skin to skin, without the barrier of gloves or coat or shirtsleeve. She let her hand cup his cheek. His skin was cool and damp from the rain. He stayed still, but she saw a tremor pass through him, as if he were waging a war with himself.“If we don’t survive this night, I will die unafraid, Kaz. Can you say the same?”His eyes were nearly black, the pupils dilated. She could see it took every last bit of his terrible will for him to remain still beneath her touch. And yet, he did not pull away. She knew it was the best he could offer. It was not enough.She dropped her hand. He took a deep breath.Kaz had said he didn’t want her prayers and she wouldn’t speak them, but she wished him safe nonetheless. She had her aim now, her heart had direction, and though it hurt to know that path led away from him, she could endure it.

”

”

“

While I am carrying on a conversation with someone, I find that I am drawing with my eyes. I find myself observing how his shirt collar comes around from behind his neck and perhaps casts a slight shadow on one side. I observe how the wrinkles in his sleeve form and how his arm may be resting on the edge of the chair. I observe how the features on his face move back and forth in perspective as he rotates his head. It actually is a form of sketching and I believe that it is the next best thing to drawing itself. I sometimes feel it is obsessive, but at least it accomplishes something for me.

”

”

“

Only slowly could these men be guided back to thecommonplace truth that no one has the right to dowrong, not even if wrong has been done to them. Wehad to strive to lead them back to this truth, or theconsequences would have been much worse than theloss of a few thousand stalks of oats. I can still see theprisoner who rolled up his shirt sleeves, thrust hisright hand under my nose and shouted, "May this handbe cut off if I don't stain it with blood on the day whenI get home!" I want to emphasize that the man whosaid these words was not a bad fellow. He had beenthe best of comrades in camp and afterwards.

”

”

“

Dear New Orleans, What a big, beautiful mess you are. A giant flashing yellow light—proceed with caution, but proceed. Not overly ambitious, you have a strong identity, and don’t look outside yourself for intrigue, evolution, or monikers of progress. Proud of who you are, you know your flavor, it’s your very own, and if people want to come taste it, you welcome them without solicitation. Your hours trickle by, Tuesdays and Saturdays more similar than anywhere else. Your seasons slide into one another. You’re the Big Easy…home of the shortest hangover on the planet, where a libation greets you on a Monday morning with the same smile as it did on Saturday night. Home of the front porch, not the back. This engineering feat provides so much of your sense of community and fellowship as you relax facing the street and your neighbors across it. Rather than retreating into the seclusion of the backyard, you engage with the goings-on of the world around you, on your front porch. Private properties hospitably trespass on each other and lend across borders where a 9:00 A.M. alarm clock is church bells, sirens, and a slow-moving eight-buck-an-hour carpenter nailing a windowpane two doors down. You don’t sweat details or misdemeanors, and since everybody’s getting away with something anyway, the rest just wanna be on the winning side. And if you can swing the swindle, good for you, because you love to gamble and rules are made to be broken, so don’t preach about them, abide. Peddlin worship and litigation, where else do the dead rest eye to eye with the livin? You’re a right-brain city. Don’t show up wearing your morals on your sleeve ’less you wanna get your arm burned. The humidity suppresses most reason so if you’re crossing a one-way street, it’s best to look both ways. Mother Nature rules, the natural law capital “Q” Queen reigns supreme, a science to the animals, an overbearing and inconsiderate bitch to us bipeds. But you forgive her, and quickly, cus you know any disdain with her wrath will reap more: bad luck, voodoo, karma. So you roll with it, meander rather, slowly forward, takin it all in stride, never sweating the details. Your art is in your overgrowth. Mother Nature wears the crown around here, her royalty rules, and unlike in England, she has both influence and power. You don’t use vacuum cleaners, no, you use brooms and rakes to manicure. Where it falls is where it lays, the swerve around the pothole, the duck beneath the branch, the poverty and the murder rate, all of it, just how it is and how it turned out. Like a gumbo, your medley’s in the mix. —June 7, 2013, New Orleans, La.

”

”

“

Darkness seems to have prevailed and has taken the forefront. This country as in the 'cooperation' of The United States of America has never been about the true higher-good of the people. Know and remember this.Cling to your faith.Roll your spiritual sleeves up and get to work. Use your energy wisely. Transmute all anger, panic and fear into light and empowerment.Don't use what fuels them; all lower-energy.Mourn as you need to. Console who you need to—and then go get into the spiritual and energetic arena. There's plenty work for us to do; within and without.Let's each focus on becoming 'The President of Our Own Life.Cultivate your mind. Pursue your purpose. Shine your light. Elevate past—and reject—any culture of low vibrational energy and ratchetness. Don't take fear, defeat or anger—on or in.The system is doing what they've been created to do.Are you? Am I? Are we—collectively?Let's get to work.No more drifting through life without your higher-self in complete control of your mind.Awaken—fully. Activate—now. Put your frustrations or concerns into your work.Don't lose sight. There is still—a higher plan.Let's ride this 4 year energetic-wave like the spiritual gangsters that we are.This will all be the past soon. Let's get to work and stay dedicated, consistent and diligent. Again, this will all be the past soon. We have preparing and work to do.Toxic energy is so not a game.Toxic energy and low vibrations are being collectively acted out on the world stage.Covertly operating through the unconscious weak spots and blind spots in the human psyche; making people oblivious to their own madness, causing and influencing them to act against–their–own–best–interests and higher-good, as if under a spell and unconsciously possessed. This means that they are actually nourishing the lower vibrational energy with their lifestyle, choices, energy and habits, which is unconsciously giving the lower-energy the very power and fuel it needs—for repeating and recreating endless drama, suffering and destruction, in more and more amplified forms on a national and world stage.So what do we do? We take away its autonomy and power over us while at the same time empowering ourselves. By recognizing how this energetic/spiritual virus or parasite of the mind—operates through our unawareness is the beginning of the cure. Knowledge is power. Applied knowledge is—freedom.Our shared future will be decided primarily by the changes that take place in the psyche of humanity, starting with each of us— vibrationally.In closing and most importantly,the greatest protection against becoming affected or possessed by this lower-energy is to be in touch with our higher vibrational-self. We have to call our energy and power back. Being in touch with our higher-self and true nature acts as a sacred amulet, shielding and protecting us from the attempted effects. We defeat evil not by fighting against it (in which case, by playing its game, we’ve already lost) but by getting in touch with the part of us that is invulnerable to its effects— our higher vibrational-self.Will this defeat and destroy us?Or will it awaken us more and more?Everything depends upon our recognizing what is being revealed to us and our stepping out of the unconscious influence of low vibrational/negative/toxic/evil/distraction energy (or whatever name you relate to it as)that is and has been seeking power over each of our lives energetically and/or spiritually, and step into our wholeness, our personal power, our higher self and vibrate higher and higher daily.Stay woke my friends—let's get to work.

”

”

“

Elnora lifted the violin and began to play. She wore a school dress of green gingham, with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. She seemed a part of the setting all around her. Her head shone like a small dark sun, her face never had seemed so rose-flushed and fair. From the instant she drew the bow, her lips parted and her eyes fastened on something far away in the swamp, and never did she give more of that immpression of feeling for her notes and repeating something audible only to her. Ammon was to near to get the best effect. he arose and stepped back several yards, leaning against a large tree, looking and listening with all his soul.As he changed position he saw that Mrs. Comstock had followed them, and was standing on the trail, where she could not have helped hearing everything Elnora had said. So to Ammon before her and the mother watching on the trail, Elnora played the Song of the Limberlost. It seemed as if the swamp hushed all its other voices and spoke only through her dancing bow. The mother out on the trail had heard it all once before from the girl, many times from her father. To the man it was a revelation. He stood so stunned he forgot Mrs. Comstock. He tried to realize what a great city audience would say to that music, from such a player, with a like background, he could not imagine.

”

”

“

They all watched as Genya checked his pulse, his breathing. She shook her head.“Zoya,” said Sturmhond. His voice had the ring of command.Zoya sighed and pushed up her sleeves. “Unbutton his shirt.”“What are you doing?” Kaz asked as Genya undid Kuwei’s remaining buttons. His chest was narrow, his ribs visible, all of it spattered with the pig’s blood they’d encased in the wax bladder.“I’m either going to wake up his heart or cook him from the inside out,” said Zoya. “Stand back.”They did their best to obey in the cramped space. “What exactly does she mean by that?” Kaz asked Nina.“I’m not sure,” Nina admitted. Zoya had her hands out and her eyes closed. The air felt suddenly cool and moist.Inej inhaled deeply. “It smells like a storm.”Zoya opened her eyes and brought her hands together as if in prayer, rubbing her palms against each other briskly.Nina felt the pressure drop, tasted metal on her tongue. “I think… I think she’s summoning lightning.”“Is that safe?” asked Inej.“Not remotely,” said Sturmhond.“Has she at least done it before?” said Kaz.“For this purpose?” asked Sturmhond. “I’ve seen her do it twice. It worked splendidly. Once.” His voice was oddly familiar, and Nina had the sense they’d met before.“Ready?” Zoya asked.Genya shoved a thickly folded piece of fabric between Kuwei’s teeth and stepped back. With a shudder, Nina realized it was to keep him from biting his tongue.“I really hope she gets this right,” murmured Nina.“Not as much as Kuwei does,” said Kaz.“It’s tricky,” said Sturmhond. “Lightning doesn’t like a master. Zoya’s putting her own life at risk too.”“She didn’t strike me as the type,” Kaz said.“You’d be surprised,” Nina and Sturmhond replied in unison. Again, Nina had the eerie sensation that she knew him.She saw that Rotty had squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch. Inej’s lips were moving in what Nina knew must be a prayer.A faint blue glow crackled between Zoya’s palms. She took a deep breath and slapped them down on Kuwei’s chest.

”

”

“

He surveyed what remained of his crew. Rotty still hovered by the wreckage of the longboat. Jesper sat with elbows on knees, head in hands, Wylan beside him wearing the face of a near-stranger; Matthias stood gazing across the water in the direction of Hellgate like a stone sentinel. If Kaz was their leader, then Inej had been their lodestone, pulling them together when they seemed most likely to drift apart.Nina had disguised Kaz’s crow-and-cup tattoo before they’d entered the Ice Court, but he hadn’t let her near the R on his bicep. Now he touched his gloved fingers to where the sleeve of his coat covered that mark. Without meaning to, he’d let Kaz Rietveld return. He didn’t know if it had begun with Inej’s injury or that hideous ride in the prison wagon, but somehow he’d let it happen and it had cost him dearly.That didn’t mean he was going to let himself be bested by some thieving merch.Kaz looked south toward Ketterdam’s harbors. The beginnings of an idea scratched at the back of his skull, an itch, the barest inkling. It wasn’t a plan, but it might be the start of one. He could see the shape it would take—impossible, absurd, and requiring a serious chunk of cash.“Scheming face,” murmured Jesper.“Definitely,” agreed Wylan.Matthias folded his arms. “Digging in your bag of tricks, demjin?”Kaz flexed his fingers in his gloves. How did you survive the Barrel? When they took everything from you, you found a way to make something from nothing.“I’m going to invent a new trick,” Kaz said. “One Van Eck will never forget.” He turned to the others. If he could have gone after Inej alone, he would have, but not even he could pull that off. “I’ll need the right crew.”Wylan got to his feet. “For the Wraith.”Jesper followed, still not meeting Kaz’s eyes. “For Inej,” he said quietly.Matthias gave a single sharp nod.Inej had wanted Kaz to become someone else, a better person, a gentler thief. But that boy had no place here. That boy ended up starving in an alley. He ended up dead. That boy couldn’t get her back.I’m going to get my money, Kaz vowed. And I’m going to get my girl. Inej could never be his, not really, but he would find a way to give her the freedom he’d promised her so long ago.Dirtyhands had come to see the rough work done.

”

”

“

Wait." Walter went to the basket, taking what was a gray sleeve, drawing it out fro the middle of the heap. "Oh," He said. He held the shapeless wool sweater to his chest. Joyce had knit for months the year Daniel died, and here was the result, her handiwork, the garment that would fit a giant. It was nothing more than twelve skeins of yarn and thousands of loops, but it had the power to bring back in a flash the green-tiled walls of the hospital, the sound of an ambulance trying to cut through city traffic in the distance, the breathing of the dying boy, his father staring at the ceiling, the full greasy bucket of fried chicken on he bed table. "I'll take this one," Walter said, balling up the sweater as best he could, stuffing it into a shopping bag that was half full of the books he was taking home, that he was borrowing."Oh, honey," Joyce said. "You don't want that old scrap.""You made it. I remember your making it." Keep it light, he said to himself, that's a boy. "There's a use for it. Don't you think so, Aunt Jeannie? No offense, Mom, but I could invade the Huns with it or strap the sleeves to my car tires in a blizzard, for traction, or protect our nation with it out in space, a shield against nuclear attack."Jeannie tittered in her usual way in spite of herself. "You always did have that sense of humor," she said as she went upstairs. When she was out of range, Joyce went to Walter's bag and retrieved the sweater. She laid it on the card table, the long arms hanging down, and she fingered the stitches. "Will you look at the mass of it," she exclaimed. "I don't even recall making it."""'Memory -- that strange deceiver,'" Walter quoted.

”

”

“

Animals"Have you forgotten what we were like thenwhen we were still first ratewhen the day came fat with an apple in its mouthit's no use worrying about Timebut we did have a few tricks up our sleevesand turned a few sharp cornersthe whole pasture looked like our mealwe didn't need speedometerswe could manage co*cktails out of ice and waterI wouldn't want to be fasteror greener than now if you were with me O youwere the best of my days.

”

”

“

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

”

”

“

Michael Stelzner, founder of Social Media Examiner, says it best: It’s hard work. I’m not going to lie. Anyone who tells you that it’s really easy to build a content business is not telling you the truth. You have to accept the fact that this is going to be grueling, difficult, time consuming, and laborious work. But if you’re willing to roll up your sleeves and get dirty, and are willing to constantly analyze what you’re doing and scrap what doesn’t work and continue what does work, and keep at it, you can be very, very successful.

”

”

“

Grandpa, I miss her dreadfully," I said in the end, starting to cry again.Grandpa looked at me seriously and said that missing people is the best sad feeling there is."You see, Trille lad, if you're sad because you miss someone, then that means you care about that person. And caring about someone is the best thing there is. We carry the people we miss inside us." He put his hand to his chest with a thump."Oh..." I said, pulling my sleeve across my eyes. "But Grandpa, you can't play with people who are in there." I sighed, thumping my hand on my own chest.Grandpa nodded heavily. He understood.

”

”

“

He leaned on the bar. "I'm Tony. And you owe me." Okay, here we go, Liza thought, and leaned on the bar, too, mirroring him. "I owe you?" "Yes." He grinned at her. "Because of chaos theory." Liza shook her head. "Chaos theory." He moved closer to her. "Chaos theory says that complex dynamical systems become unstable because of disturbances in their environments after which a strange attractor draws the trajectory of the stress."Liza looked at him, incredulous. "This is your line?" "I am a complex dynamical system," Tony said. "Not that complex," Liza said. "And I was stable until you caused a disturbance in my environment." "Not that stable," Liza said. Tony grinned. "And since you're the strangest attractor in the room, I followed the trajectory of my stress right to you." "That's not what you followed to me." Liza turned so that her back was against the bar, her shoulder blocking him. "Give me something better than that, or I'll find somebody else to amuse myself with." From the corner of her eye, she saw the other guy, the vacant-looking blond, lean down to Bonnie. "Is she always like this?" he said to Bonnie, and Liza turned to size him up. Big. Husky. Boring. "Well, your friend isn't exactly Prince Charming," Bonnie said, giving him her best fluttery smile. He beamed back down at her. "Neither am I. Is that okay?" Oh, come on, Liza thought, and caught Tony-the-bullethead's eye. "He means it," Tony said. "Roger has no line." "After the chaos theory debacle, that's a plus," Liza said. "Poor baby," Bonnie was saying as she put her hand on Roger's sleeve. "Of course, that's okay. I'm Bonnie." Roger looked down at her with naked adoration. "I'm Roger, and you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life." Bonnie's smile widened, and she moved closer to him. "Which doesn't mean he's bad with women," Tony said, sounding bemused.

”

”

“

The best way to get started on the path to sharing your work is to think about what you want to learn, and make a commitment to learning it in front of others. Find a scenius, pay attention to what others are sharing, and then start taking note of what they’re not sharing. Be on the lookout for voids that you can fill with your own efforts, no matter how bad they are at first. Don’t worry, for now, about how you’ll make money or a career off it. Forget about being an expert or a professional, and wear your amateurism (your heart, your love) on your sleeve. Share what you love, and the people who love the same things will find you.

”

”

“

KA: What is your basic process working with a writer?LB: I read a manuscript very quickly first, then I sit down the second time and start reading very carefully and do the detail work, the minute hammering on every page. At this point, I know where the story goes so I’m looking for holes. I’m looking for anything that doesn’t add up. The best way to edit is to live entirely in the world as much as you can. Before I had a child I would edit ten hours on Friday ten hours on Saturday and ten hours on Sunday (obviously I had no hobbies or any nee to go outdoors). You knew everything about the book. You were in tune with every character. You have the voice in your head. Then the author gets a hugely marked up manuscript with all these little scribbles. I’m asking them every question that occurs to me. I give them as much time as they want to sit and digest it. Again, this is one of the reasons I like working far in advance. I have time with the manuscript and they have time with the manuscript. I’m happy to let them work in peace and quiet.Then we go back and forth as long as is helpful to them. They do the revision and it lands on my desk again. I read it again beginning to end. I assume it doesn’t need a line edit at that point, although I tend to read with a pencil in my hand. There could be one big thing still sticking in your craw that didn’t get fixed, so you just roll up your sleeves…

”

”

“

I know what the problem is.” Curran pulled his shoulders back and flexed, warming up a little. I stole a glance. He had decided to fight in jeans and an old black T-shirt, from which he’d torn the sleeves. Probably his workout shirt.His biceps were carved, the muscle defined and built by countless exertions, neither too bulky nor too lean. Perfect. Kissing him might make me guilty of catastrophically bad judgment, but at least nobody could fault my taste. The trick was not to kiss him again. Once could be an accident; twice was trouble.“You said something?” I arched an eyebrow at him. Nonchalance—best camouflage for drooling. Both the werebison and the swordsman looked ready to charge: the muscles of their legs tense, leaning forward slightly on their toes. They seemed to be terribly sure that we would stay in one place and wait for them.Curran was looking at their legs, too. They must be expecting a distraction from the lamia. She sat cocooned in magic, holding on with both hands as it strained on its leash. “I said, I know why you’re afraid to fight with me.”“And why is that?” If he flexed again, I’d have to implement emergency measures. Maybe I could kick some sand at him or something. Hard to look hot brushing sand out of your eyes.“You want me.”Oh boy.“You can’t resist my subtle charm, so you’re afraid you’re going to make a spectacle out of yourself.”“You know what? Don’t talk to me.

”

”

“

It’s time to take some risks. It’s time to shake off the dull sloth of what this world gives us and dare to master the stuff in our control. If you’re a mother, then be one that breaks the mold. If you’re a teacher, then be one that truly inspires. If you’re a preacher, then be the best damn preacher you can be. And if you fail, who cares? At least you went down swinging. Besides, your salvation does not hang in the balance; your eternity is not fashioned by your hands. Only the blood of the Lamb decided that. You are saved by grace alone: so you are free to work, free to fail, and free to get up again and again. So get out the toolbox, roll up your sleeves, and do the work our Lord has given you to do. Rev. Paul Koch

”

”

“

Adam Parrish.This was how it had begun: Ronan Lynch had been in the passenger seat of Richard Campbell Gansey III's bright orange '73 Camaro, hanging out the window because walls couldn't hold him. Little historic Henrietta, Virginia, curled close, trees and streetlights alike leaning in as if to catch the conversation down below. What a pair the two of them were. Gansey, searching desperately for meaning. Ronan, sure that he wouldn't find any. Voted most and least likely to succeed, respectively, at Aglionby Academy, their shared high school. Those days, Gansey was the hunter and Ronan the hawkish best friend kept hooded and belled to prevent him tearing himself to shreds with his own talons.This was how it had begun: a student walking his bike up the last hill into town, clearly headed the same place they were. He wore the Aglionby uniform, although as they grew closer Ronan saw it was threadbare in a way school uniforms couldnt manage in a single year's use--secondhand. His sleeves were pushed up and his forearms were wiry, the thin muscles picked out in stark relief. Ronan's attention stuck on his hands. Lovely boyish hands with prominent knuckles, gaunt and long like his unfamiliar face."Who's that?" Gansey had asked, and Ronan hadn't answered, just kept hanging out the window. As they passed, Adam's expression was all contradictions: intense and wary, resigned and resilient, defeated and defiant.Ronan hadn't known anything about who Adam was then and, if possible, he'd known even less about who he himself was, but as they drove away from the boy with the bicycle, this was how it had begun: Ronan leaning back against his seat and closing his eyes and sending up a simple, inexplicable, desperate prayer to God: Please.

”

”

“

He was forever wallowing in the mire, dirtying his nose, scrabbling his face, treading down the backs of his shoes, gaping at flies and chasing the butterflies (over whom his father held sway); he would pee in his shoes, sh*t over his shirt-tails, [wipe his nose on his sleeves,] dribble snot into his soup and go galumphing about. [He would drink out of his slippers, regularly scratch his belly on wicker-work baskets, cut his teeth on his clogs, get his broth all over his hands, drag his cup through his hair, hide under a wet sack, drink with his mouth full, eat girdle-cake but not bread, bite for a laugh and laugh while he bit, spew in his bowl, let off fat farts, piddle against the sun, leap into the river to avoid the rain, strike while the iron was cold, dream day-dreams, act the goody-goody, skin the renard, clack his teeth like a monkey saying its prayers, get back to his muttons, turn the sows into the meadow, beat the dog to teach the lion, put the cart before the horse, scratch himself where he ne’er did itch, worm secrets out from under your nose, let things slip, gobble the best bits first, shoe grasshoppers, tickle himself to make himself laugh, be a glutton in the kitchen, offer sheaves of straw to the gods, sing Magnificat at Mattins and think it right, eat cabbage and squitter puree, recognize flies in milk, pluck legs off flies, scrape paper clean but scruff up parchment, take to this heels, swig straight from the leathern bottle, reckon up his bill without Mine Host, beat about the bush but snare no birds, believe clouds to be saucepans and pigs’ bladders lanterns, get two grists from the same sack, act the goat to get fed some mash, mistake his fist for a mallet, catch cranes at the first go, link by link his armour make, always look a gift horse in the mouth, tell co*ck-and-bull stories, store a ripe apple between two green ones, shovel the spoil back into the ditch, save the moon from baying wolves, hope to pick up larks if the heavens fell in, make virtue out of necessity, cut his sops according to his loaf, make no difference twixt shaven and shorn, and skin the renard every day.]

”

”

“

It was a damned near-run thing, I must admit,' said Jack, modestly; then after a pause he laughed and said, 'I remember your using those very words in the old Bellerophon, before we had our battle.''So I did,' cried Dundas. 'So I did. Lord, that was a great while ago.''I still bear the scar,' said Jack. He pushed up his sleeve, and there on his brown forearm was a long white line.'How it comes back,' said Dundas; and between them, drinking port, they retold the tale, with minute details coming fresh to their minds. As youngsters, under the charge of the gunner of the Bellerophon, 74, in the West Indies, they had played the same game. Jack, with his infernal luck, had won on that occasion too: Dundas claimed his revenge, and lost again, again on a throw of double six. Harsh words, such as cheat, liar, sodomite, booby and God-damned lubber flew about; and since fighting over a chest, the usual way of settling such disagreements in many ships, was strictly forbidden in the Bellemphon, it was agreed that as gentlemen could not possibly tolerate such language they should fight a duel. During the afternoon watch the first lieutenant, who dearly loved a white-scoured deck, found that the ship was almost out of the best kind of sand, and he sent Mr Aubrey away in the blue cutter to fetch some from an island at the convergence of two currents where the finest and most even grain was found. Mr Dundas accompanied him, carrying two newly sharpened cutlasses in a sailcloth parcel, and when the hands had been set to work with shovels the two little boys retired behind a dune, unwrapped the parcel, saluted gravely, and set about each other. Half a dozen passes, the blades clashing, and when Jack cried out 'Oh Hen, what have you done?' Dundas gazed for a moment at the spurting blood, burst into tears, whipped off his shirt and bound up the wound as best he could. When they crept aboard a most unfortunately idle, becalmed and staring Bellerophon, their explanations, widely different and in both cases so weak that they could not be attempted to be believed, were brushed aside, and their captain flogged them severely on the bare breech. 'How we howled,' said Dundas. 'You were shriller than I was,' said Jack. 'Very like a hyena.

”

”

“

Behind her, Annabelle heard Daisy say to Lillian accusingly, “I thought you said that no one ever comes to this meadow!” “That’s what I was told,” Lillian replied, her voice muffled as she stepped into the circle of her gown and bent to jerk it upward. The earl, who had been mute until that point, spoke with his gaze trained studiously on the distant scenery. “Your information was correct, Miss Bowman,” he said in a controlled manner. “This field is usually unfrequented.” “Well, then, why are you here?” Lillian demanded accusingly, as if she, and not Westcliff, was the owner of the estate. The question caused the earl’s head to whip around. He gave the American girl an incredulous glance before he dragged his gaze away once more. “Our presence here is purely coincidental,” he said coldly. “I wished to have a look at the northwest section of my estate today.” He gave the word my a subtle but distinct emphasis. “While Mr. Hunt and I were traveling along the lane, we heard your screaming. We thought it best to investigate, and came with the intention of rendering aid, if necessary. Little did I realize that you would be using this field for…for…” “Rounders-in-knickers,” Lillian supplied helpfully, sliding her arms into her sleeves. The earl seemed incapable of repeating the ridiculous phrase. He turned his horse away and spoke curtly over his shoulder. “I plan to develop a case of amnesia within the next five minutes. Before I do so, I would suggest that you refrain from any future activities involving nudity outdoors, as the next passersby who discover you may not prove to be as indifferent as Mr. Hunt and I.” Despite Annabelle’s mortification, she had to repress a skeptical snort at the earl’s claim of indifference on Hunt’s behalf, not to mention his own. Hunt had certainly managed to get quite an eyeful of her. And though Westcliff’s scrutiny had been far more subtle, it had not escaped her that he had stolen a quick but thorough glance at Lillian before he had veered his horse away. However, in light of her current state of undress, it was hardly the time to deflate Westcliff’s holier-than-thou demeanor. “Thank you, my lord,” Annabelle said with a calmness that pleased her immensely. “And now, having dispensed such excellent advice, I would ask that you allow us some privacy to restore ourselves.” “With pleasure,” Westcliff growled.

”

”

“

Harper walked over to her reception desk. “What’s with the Tyson look-alikes out there? I almost couldn’t get in here.” Pixie frowned. “Better go ask your boy-o. Famous rock star in the house.” Pixie accentuated her comment with the poke of her pen. Jeez, he was huge. And built. And shirtless. Okay, enough staring. Well, maybe just for another second. Trent was leaning over the guy, and she could tell from the wide-reaching spread of purple transfer lines that he was just beginning a sleeve on the other man’s lower arm. The guy in the chair might well be a rock star— although Harper would never admit she had no clue who he was— but he was wincing. Harper could totally feel for him. Trent was in his usual position— hat on backward, gloves on, and perched on a stool. Harper approached them nervously. The big guy’s size and presence were a little intimidating. “I don’t bite.” Oh God. He was talking to her. “Excuse me?” He sucked air in between clenched teeth. “I said I don’t bite. You can come closer.” His blue eyes were sparkling as he studied her closely. Trent looked up. “Hey, darlin’,” he said, putting the tattoo machine down and reaching for her hand. “Dred, this is my girl, Harper. Harper, this is Dred Zander from the band Preload. He’s one of the other judges I told you about.” Wow. Not that she knew much about the kind of music that Trent listened to, but even she had heard of Preload. That certainly explained the security outside. Dred reached out his hand and shook hers. “Nice to meet you, Harper. And a pity. For a minute, I thought you were coming over to see me.” “No,” Harper exclaimed quickly, looking over at Trent, who was grinning at her. “I mean, no, I was just bringing Trent some cookies.” Holy sh*t. Was she really that lame? It was like that moment in Dirty Dancing when Baby told Johnny she carried a watermelon. Dred turned and smiled enigmatically at Trent. “I see what you mean, man.” “Give.” Smiling, Trent held out his hand. Reaching inside her bag, she pulled out the cookies and handed the container to him. “Seriously, dude, she’s the best f*cking cook on the planet.” Trent paused to take a giant bite. “You got to try one,” he mumbled, offering the container over. Harper watched, mortified, as a modern-day rock legend bit into one of her cookies. Dred chewed and groaned. “These are almost as good as sex.” Harper laughed. “Not quite,” Trent responded, giving her a look that made her burn. “You should try her pot roast. Could bring a grown man to his knees.

”

”

“

We’d been together for a year when he lost his job in Chicago and I started noticing a change in him. Gone was his ever present smile when we were together; more often than not he would be withdrawn and seemed as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Then, he got a job offer from his Uncle in Dalton, Ohio. He needed a new mechanic and wanted to help Beau out. Beau begged me to go with him; said he loved me and couldn’t bear to live without me. My parents and my best friend, Kate, were dead against it. They had noticed the change in Beau. They’d never been happy with our relationship, so they weren’t shy at expressing their concerns about moving across a whole other state to live with my “bad boy” boyfriend, and were vehemently against me giving up nursing school to do so. In the end, Beau used the ace up his sleeve, something I didn’t see coming until it was too late. He blackmailed me into moving with him. We were lying in bed one night, having just made love, and I was stuck in the post-coital haze that had my mind thinking of fluffy bunnies and rainbows. He rolled over and brushed the hair out of my face. “I can’t leave you behind, so I’ve decided you’re coming with me, Mac. It’s you and me against the world. I can’t survive without you, baby.” And

”

”

“

I watch Ethan try to connect the dots in his head, And suddenly his face falls into a sad smile."Oh," he says. And that's all.I walk over to him, my bare feet sinking into the sand as I trudge along. He's grinning at me now, but it's not the usual plastered-on smile he usually has. This one is somehow more authentic.When I'm within a few feet of him, he holds his arms out."You're going to be such a good leader," he says. "I'm so proud of you, Five."I embrace Ethan. His arms fold around me as he pats me on the back. He lets out a long, slow sigh and then starts to say something. I cut him off before he can get the words out. I can't stand to hear him say another thing."Ethan, I'm really sorry about this. But it's for the best."I can feel his body clench as the blade slips out of my forearm sheath and into his back. It slides between his ribs-a lucky shot- then retracts back into my hoodie sleeve. It's over in an instant. I step away from him. He stands frozen, probably in shock. There's a deep spot of read blooming across the right side of his chest where the blade must have broken the skin. Blood drops down from the hidden wrist sheath, running over my right hand before falling from my fingertips to the sand."It's over," I murmur, more to myself than to Ethan. He's probably not paying much attention to what I have to say. Tears are welling in his good eye, but I don't know if they're for me or for himself. He blinks once and then falls to the beach with a soft thud.

”

”

“

HlI watch Ethan try to connect the dots in his head, And suddenly his face falls into a sad smile."Oh," he says. And that's all.I walk over to him, my bare feet sinking into the sand as I trudge along. He's grinning at me now, but it's not the usual plastered-on smile he usually has. This one is somehow more authentic.When I'm within a few feet of him, he holds his arms out."You're going to be such a good leader," he says. "I'm so proud of you, Five."I embrace Ethan. His arms fold around me as he pats me on the back. He lets out a long, slow sigh and then starts to say something. I cut him off before he can get the words out. I can't stand to hear him say another thing."Ethan, I'm really sorry about this. But it's for the best."I can feel his body clench as the blade slips out of my forearm sheath and into his back. It slides between his ribs-a lucky shot- then retracts back into my hoodie sleeve. It's over in an instant. I step away from him. He stands frozen, probably in shock. There's a deep spot of read blooming across the right side of his chest where the blade must have broken the skin. Blood drops down from the hidden wrist sheath, running over my right hand before falling from my fingertips to the sand."It's over," I murmur, more to myself than to Ethan. He's probably not paying much attention to what I have to say. Tears are welling in his good eye, but I don't know if they're for me or for himself. He blinks once and then falls to the beach with a soft thud.

”

”

“

Lillian’s lashes lowered as she let him ease her closer, his hand sliding over the length of her spine. Her breasts and waist felt swollen within the insulating grip of her corset, and she suddenly longed to be rid of it. Taking as deep a breath as the stays would allow, she became aware of a sweetly spicy scent in the air. “What is that?” she murmured, drawing in the fragrance. “Cinnamon and wine…” Turning in the circle of his arms, she looked around the spacious bedroom, past the poster bed to the small table that had been set near the window. There was a covered silver dish on the table, from which a few traces of sweet-scented steam were still visible. Perplexed, she twisted back to look at Marcus. “Go and find out,” he said. Curiously Lillian went to investigate. Taking hold of the cover’s handle, which had been wrapped with a linen napkin, she lifted the lid, letting a soft burst of intoxicating fragrance into the air. Momentarily puzzled, Lillian stared at the dish, and then burst out laughing. The white porcelain dish was filled with five perfect pears, all standing on end, their skin gleaming and ruby-red from having been poached in wine. They sat in a pool of clear amber sauce that was redolent of cinnamon and honey. “Since I couldn’t obtain a pear from a bottle for you,” came Marcus’s voice from behind her, “this was the next best alternative.” Lillian picked up a spoon and dug into one of the melting-soft pears, lifting it to her lips with relish. The bite of warm, wine-soaked fruit seemed to dissolve in her mouth, the spiced honey sauce causing a tingle in the back of her throat. “Mmmm…” She closed her eyes in ecstasy. Looking amused, Marcus turned her to face him. His gaze fell to the corner of her lips, where a stray drop of honey sauce glittered. Ducking his head, he kissed and licked away the sticky drop, the caress of his mouth causing a new pleasurable ache deep inside her. “Delicious,” he whispered, his lips settling more firmly, until she felt as if her blood were flowing in streams of white-hot sparks. She dared to share the taste of wine and cinnamon with him, tentatively exploring his mouth with her tongue, and his response was so encouraging that she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself closer. He was delicious, the taste of his mouth clean and sweet, the feel of his lean, solid body immeasurably exciting. Her lungs expanded with shaky-hot breaths, restrained by the clench of her corset stays, and she broke the kiss with a gasp. “I can’t breathe.” Wordlessly Marcus turned her around and unfastened the gown. Reaching her corset, he untied the laces and loosened them with a series of expert tugs, until the stays expanded and Lillian gulped in relief. “Why did you lace so tightly?” she heard him ask. “Because the dress wouldn’t fasten otherwise. And because, according to my mother, Englishmen prefer their women to be narrow-waisted.” Marcus snorted as he eased her back to face him. “Englishmen prefer women to have larger waists in lieu of fainting from lack of oxygen. We’re rather practical that way.” Noticing that the sleeve of her unfastened gown had slipped over her white shoulder, he lowered his mouth to the smooth curve.

”

”

“

Oh, man! man! man!" moaned Dean. "And it's not even the beginning of it-and now here we are at last going east together, we've never gone east together, Sal, think of it, we'll dig Denver together and see what everybody's doing although that matters little to us, the point being that we know what IT is and we know TIME and we know that everything is really FINE."Then he whispered, clutching my sleeve, sweating, "Now you just dig them in front. They have worries, they're counting the miles, they're thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they'll get there-and all the time they'll get there anyway, you see. But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls really won't be at peace unless they can latch on to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that too worries them no end. Listen! Listen! 'Well now,' " he mimicked, " 'I don't know-maybe we shouldn't get gas in that station. I read recently in National Petroffious Petroleum News that this kind of gas has a great deal of O-Octane gook in it and someone once told me it even had semi-official high-frequency co*ck in it, and I don't know, well I just don't feel like it anyway . . .' Man, you dig all this." He was poking me furiously in the ribs to understand. I tried my wildest best. Bing, bang, it was all Yes! Yes! Yes! in the back seat and the people up front were mopping their brows with fright and wishing they'd never picked us up at the travel bureau. It was only the beginning, too.

”

”

“

Lucy grimaces at me. “I ran into Marie and Beth while we were out.”“Oh? And how were they?” Marie and Beth had been Lucy’s best friends for years, though it’s been a few months since I last saw them around. “They were on some kind of outing for Marie’s birthday,” Lucy says, and her eyes glitter. She sniffs. “Apparently they don’t think I’m worth an invitation anymore.”“What?”She hugs her arms around her middle, squeezing her eyes shut. “When I asked why they didn’t invite me, Marie said they figured I would say no, so they didn’t bother. As if I’m choosing to be sick. As if the reason I didn’t go to Beth’s spring tea was because I couldn’t be bothered and not because I was afraid I might vomit on her mother’s sofa.” Her voice breaks. “Oh, Luce.” I wrap my arms around her, and she buries her face against my neck. “Is it so terrible of me to want an invitation, even if I’m unable to go?”I shake my head, combing my fingers through her hair. “Of course not.”“You know what else Beth said? She said, ‘You aren’t as fun anymore, and Marie wanted to have a good time.’” A sob chokes out of her lips, and her shoulders shake. “It’s like they think I’m lazy or something.”An inferno rages in my chest. I squeeze her tighter, blinking away my own tears. “They’re wrong, Lucy. You are the most fun person I know, and you sure as hell aren’t lazy. I’d like to see Marie or Beth work half as hard as you.”“But I don’t want to work hard just to live my life. I want to go to the tea parties and the birthday outings and have fun like them.” She mops her eyes with her sleeve. I press a kiss to her forehead as the blood under my skin boils. The things I wish I could say to those girls. To their mothers. I grit my teeth and tighten my arms around my sister, wishing I could protect her from every hurt, every ache, every unkind word. “I know, Luce.I know.

”

”

“

It takes some getting used to,' Mr. Forkle said. 'But what you're seeing is a visual representation of each other's moods.''So that means if I do this...' Keefe tickled Sophie's neck.'GAH--everything just went supersonic!' Fitz said.Sophie snatched Keefe's wrist as he reached to tickle her again. 'Don't. You. Dare.''Whoa, now everything's red and ripply,' Fitz said. 'Is that because she's angry?''Precisely, Mr. Vacker. Every time her emotions shift, the patterns and colors will change. And with practice, you'll learn to interpret what you see.''Okay, but...can't they just say, "Hey, I'm feeling this?"' Keefe asked. 'People aren't always honest about their feelings--even with themselves,' Mr. Forkle told him. 'Plus, many telepathic missions involve stealth and secrecy. So for this exercise I'm going to need both of you to forget everything around you. Let the world drop away, leaving only you two.'Keefe sighed. 'Just tell them to stare into each other's eyes and they'll be good.''None of that, Mr. Sencen. From this moment on, you have one job and one job only: to judge their translations of the various emotions I'll be triggering.''Triggering how?' Sophie asked.'You'll see soon enough. And you'll go first, Miss Foster. For this to work, Mr. Vacker, it's crucial that you not react externally. No yelling or thrashing or screaming or--''Uhhh, what are you going to do to me?' Fitz asked.'Nothing you won't survive. Consider it an exercise in self-control. And try not to listen to his thoughts, Miss Foster. Study only the changes in his emotional center and make your deduction. We begin now.'Sophie closed her eyes and focus on the colors weaving around Fitz's mind. She was about to ask if she was missing something when the pattern exploded into a swirl of pale blue tendrils. The color felt to bright to be sad, but also too wild to be peaceful.'Tension?' she guessed.'Kinda close,' Keefe told her.The laughter in his voice made her wonder what had happened to poor Fitz. She tried to think of other emotions as his mind turned electric blue.'Shock?' she guessed.'That counts,' Keefe said. 'Though the best answer would've been "surprise."''Is that an emotion?' she asked.'Indeed it is,' Mr. Forkle said. 'One of the most common emotions you'll experience as you navigate someone's mind--hence why I chose it as our starting point.''Can I talk now?' Fitz asked. 'Because that was seriously disgusting!'Sophie opened her eyes and tried not to laugh when she saw red fruit smashed all over Fitz's face. He wiped his cheeks on his sleeves, but that only smeared the pulp.'I think I'm going to like this assignment,' Keefe said. 'What else can we fling at Fitz?''Nothing for the moment,' Mr. Forkle told him. 'It's his turn to interpret. Everyone close your eyes. And remember, no cues of any kind, Miss Foster.'Sophie counted the seconds, bracing for the worst--and when nothing chaned, she opened her eyes and found Mr. Forkle with his finger over his lips in a 'shhh' sign. 'Um...confusion,' Fitz guessed.'That works,' Keefe said. 'It started as anticipation, but then it shifted.''Very good,' Mr. Forkle said. 'And well done, Mr. Sencen. I wasn't sure you'd recognize confusion. It's one of the more challenging emotions for Empaths.''Maybe on other people,' Keefe said. 'But on Foster it's easy. Why are her emotions so much stronger?''Honestly, I'm not sure,' Mr. Forkle admitted. 'I suspect it stems from the combination of her inflicting ability and her human upbringing. But it was one of the surprises of her development. Much like her teleporting. Okay, Miss Foster, it's your turn to guess again.'She closed her eyes and watched as the lines of color in Fitz's mind blossomed to a snowflake of purple.'Pride?' she guessed.Keefe laughed. 'Wow, add more fail points to Sophitz.''Quiet,' Mr. Forkle told him.

”

”

“

Your only other option is to marry one of us.” He paused. “Me.” Travis suddenly felt the need to clear his throat. “This alternative would repair your reputation, give you a place to live, and provide the protection of four able-bodied men. Unless you have something else to suggest...?” “Actually, there is something else.” Her quiet statement startled him. “There is?” He glanced over at Crockett. His brother shrugged. Meredith slowly lowered herself into the straight-back chair, the fight draining from her. “I could leave Anderson County. I could go farther west to where the railroad is opening new towns, or head to a larger city where no one knows me.” Her chin jutted upward. “I could find work. Make a clean start.” Leave Anderson County? Travis frowned. He hadn’t considered that option. Didn’t really want to, either. It was reckless. Dangerous. And for some odd reason... disappointing. Besides, he’d already settled his mind on this marrying business. No sense muddying the waters. “You’re a good man, Travis. An honorable man.” Meredith plucked at her sleeve. “You drew the short straw, and you’re willing to stand before a preacher because you feel responsible for me. But you’re not. I made the decision to come here, and I’ll deal with the consequences. You deserve to have a wife of your own choosing, not one forced on you through circ*mstances outside your control.” “It’s not like that, Meredith. It’s...” Travis sighed and rubbed his jaw. Why did she say nothing about what she deserved? He didn’t know much about the workings of the female mind, but he knew one thing—she deserved a choice. “I’m not going to force you, Meredith. If you believe leaving is the best option, I’ll not stop you. But if you think you might be able to make a home for yourself here, with a bunch of unrefined men, we’d like you to stay. I’d like you to stay.” Stretching his hand across the space that separated them, he caressed her cheek with his knuckles, then let his arm fall away. “You’re a fine woman, Meredith Hayes. You’re strong and brave and kind. And should you decide to take a chance on me, I’d be honored to make you my bride.

”

”

“

That's all well and good,but my concern is for Willow. I think she's beginning to realize that she both needs and wants the respect and companionship of the women in this town. And frankly, a man with your reputation can only hurt her. Not that I think you'd deliberately cause her harm. I don't. But the girl already has several black marks against her and your attentions could very well add to her problems.Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"Rider plowed his fingers through his jet hair. "Yes, you'd like me to stay clear of her. I understand,but I'm afraid I can't do that. Look, I know it's asking a lot,but you'll have to trust me where Willow Vaughn is concerned. I promise you that she'll come to no harm from me.""Trust,Mr. Sinclair,is something to be earned.""I know,and I hope you'll give me time to earn yours. But if you want me to pack up and find another place to stay, I'll understand."She considered that a moment. "No," she finally answered. "It would serve no purpose. This town has become a haven for every outlaw in the country and if every boarding house and hotel in Tombstone emptied out the disreputables, they'd soon go broke. I doubt I'll be held accountable for housing one more. Besides, at least this way,I can keep an eye on you."Rider smiled and stood, politely helping her to her feet. "Thanks. And by the way, for what it's worth, I'm not an outlaw.""If I truly believed you were, young man, you'd know it.""I'm very sorry for any trouble I might have caused you, Mrs. Brigham. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to change my clothes and saddle the horses."Rider walked to the parlor doors, glancing back over his shoulder as Miriam added, "You've asked me to trust you,Mr. Sinclair. Don't disappoint me or I guarantee you'll be sorry. I may be a woman, and not a young one at that, but I still have a few good tricks up my sleeve. If Willow suffers so much as a broken fingernail on your account, you'll have me to answer to."Rider inclined his head and opened the door to leave. "I'll do my best, ma'am, but much depends on the young lady." Knowing he'd already said more than he should, he turned and left.

”

”

“

So he could talk to Jane and find out what had happened between her and Blakeborough after he left. He could finally get an answer to his marriage proposal.Proposal? Jane would probably call it a marriage command.He groaned. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to talk to her while he waited. He could always pack her off in another hackney before it was time for Meredith to return home. Yes, that would be best.Climbing inside the hackney, he doffed his hat and shrugged out of his box coat. But all of his perfectly logical reasons for being there went right out of his head the moment he saw her looking so luscious and lovely in her sunny gown.Because he desired only one thing. Jane. In his arms. Now.She must have seen the feral need flare in his face, for her eyes went wide. That was the only reaction she had time for, however, before he dragged her into his embrace so he could take her mouth in a hard, urgent kiss.God, he wanted her. He would never stop wanting her. Fisting his hands in her puffy sleeves to hold her still, he plundered her mouth the way he ached to plunder her body.Suddenly she shoved him back. “What are you doing? That’s not why--”He clasped her head in his hands, dislodging her bonnet, which tumbled to the floor. Then he kissed her again, demanding her to kiss him back, to need him back. It took her a moment, but then she moaned low in her throat and melted against him.And he exulted. She was soft, so wonderfully soft, his Jane. So wonderfully giving. Surely she wouldn’t be responding to him this way if she had cemented her engagement to Blakeborough.But then, he’d thought that last night.He jerked back, gratified to see from her flushed cheeks, reddened lips, and bright eyes that she was now as eager and aroused as he. Indeed, she was already looping her arms about his neck to draw him close once more.Stopping just short of her mouth, he rasped, “Are you still engaged to Blakeborough?”Her gorgeous eyes narrowed. “My engagement didn’t stop you last night.”“It would now.”A coy smile broke over her lips, and she tightened her grip on his neck. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I am not.”With a growl of triumph, he kissed her once more. She was here. She was his. Nothing else mattered.

”

”

“

Where the bloody hell is my wife?” Godric yelled into the aether.As if in response, a footman came up the stairs and handed Cedric a slip of paper. Dumbfounded, Cedric opened it and read it aloud. My Dear Gentlemen,We await you in the dining room. Please do not join us until you have decided upon a course of action regarding the threat to Lord Sheridan. We will be more than delighted to offer our opinions on the matter, but in truth, we suspect you do not wish to hear our thoughts. It is a failing of the male species, and we shan’t hold it against you. In the future, however, it would be advisable not to lock us in a room. We simply cannot resist a challenge, something you should have learned by now. Intelligent women are not to be trifled with.Fondest Regards, ~ The Society of Rebellious Ladies ~ “Fondest regards?” Lucien scoffed.A puzzled Jonathan added, “Society of Rebellious Ladies?”“Lord help us!” Ashton groaned as he ran a hand through his hair. “They’ve named themselves.”“I’ll wager a hundred pounds that Emily’s behind this. Having a laugh at our expense,” Charles said in all seriousness.“Let’s go and see how rebellious they are when we’re done with them.” Cedric rolled up the sleeves of his white lawn shirt as he and the others stalked down the stairs to the dining room. They found it empty. The footman reappeared and Cedric wondered if perhaps the man had never left. At the servant’s polite cough he handed Cedric a second note.“Another damn note? What are they playing at?” He practically tore the paper in half while opening it. Again he read it aloud. Did you honestly believe we’d display our cunning in so simple a fashion? Surely you underestimated us. It is quite unfair of you to assume we could not baffle you for at least a few minutes. Perhaps you should look for us in the place where we ought to have been and not the place you put us.Best Wishes, ~ The Society of Rebellious Ladies ~ “I am going to kill her,” Cedric said. It didn’t seem to matter which of the three rebellious ladies he meant.The League of Rogues headed back to the drawing room. Cedric flung the door open. Emily was sitting before the fire, an embroidery frame raised as she pricked the cloth with a fine pointed needle. Audrey was perusing one of her many fashion magazines, eyes fixed on the illustrated plates, oblivious to any disruption.Horatia had positioned herself on the window seat near a candle, so she could read her novel. Even at this distance Lucien could see the title, Lady Eustace and the Merry Marquess, the novel he’d purchased for her last Christmas. For some reason, the idea she would mock him with his own gift was damned funny. He had the sudden urge to laugh, especially when he saw a soft blush work its way up through her. He’d picked that particular book just to shock her, knowing it was quite explicit in parts since he’d read it himself the previous year.“Ahem,” Cedric cleared his throat. Three sets of feminine eyes fixed on him, each reflecting only mild curiosity.Emily smiled. "Oh there you are.

”

”

“

Bram stared into a pair of wide, dark eyes. Eyes that reflected a surprising glimmer of intelligence. This might be the rare female a man could reason with.“Now, then,” he said. “We can do this the easy way, or we can make things difficult.”With a soft snort, she turned her head. It was as if he’d ceased to exist.Bram shifted his weight to his good leg, feeling the stab to his pride. He was a lieutenant colonel in the British army, and at over six feet tall, he was said to cut an imposing figure. Typically, a pointed glance from his quarter would quell the slightest hint of disobedience. He was not accustomed to being ignored.“Listen sharp now.” He gave her ear a rough tweak and sank his voice to a low threat. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do as I say.”Though she spoke not a word, her reply was clear: You can kiss my great woolly arse.Confounded sheep.“Ah, the English countryside. So charming. So…fragrant.” Colin approached, stripped of his London-best topcoat, wading hip-deep through the river of wool. Blotting the sheen of perspiration from his brow with his sleeve, he asked, “I don’t suppose this means we can simply turn back?”Ahead of them, a boy pushing a handcart had overturned his cargo, strewing corn all over the road. It was an open buffet, and every ram and ewe in Sussex appeared to have answered the invitation. A vast throng of sheep bustled and bleated around the unfortunate youth, gorging themselves on the spilled grain-and completely obstructing Bram’s wagons.“Can we walk the teams in reverse?” Colin asked. “Perhaps we can go around, find another road.”Bram gestured at the surrounding landscape. “There is no other road.”They stood in the middle of the rutted dirt lane, which occupied a kind of narrow, winding valley. A steep bank of gorse rose up on one side, and on the other, some dozen yards of heath separated the road from dramatic bluffs. And below those-far below those-lay the sparkling turquoise sea. If the air was seasonably dry and clear, and Bram squinted hard at that thin indigo line of the horizon, he might even glimpse the northern coast of France.So close. He’d get there. Not today, but soon. He had a task to accomplish here, and the sooner he completed it, the sooner he could rejoin his regiment. He wasn’t stopping for anything.Except sheep. Blast it. It would seem they were stopping for sheep.A rough voice said, “I’ll take care of them.”Thorne joined their group. Bram flicked his gaze to the side and spied his hulking mountain of a corporal shouldering a flintlock rifle. “We can’t simply shoot them, Thorne.”Obedient as ever, Thorne lowered his gun. “Then I’ve a cutlass. Just sharpened the blade last night.”“We can’t butcher them, either.”Thorne shrugged. “I’m hungry.”Yes, that was Thorne-straightforward, practical. Ruthless. “We’re all hungry.” Bram’s stomach rumbled in support of the statement. “But clearing the way is our aim at the moment, and a dead sheep’s harder to move than a live one. We’ll just have to nudge them along.”Thorne lowered the hammer of his rifle, disarming it, then flipped the weapon with an agile motion and rammed the butt end against a woolly flank. “Move on, you bleeding beast.

”

”

“

Sophia counted six clangs of the bell before Mr. Grayson jolted fully awake. He looked up at her, startled and flushed. As though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.She smiled. Rubbing his eyes, he rose to his feet. “Will I shock you, Miss Turner, if I remove my coat?”Sophia felt a twinge of disappointment. When would he stop treating her with this forced politesse, maintaining this distance between them? How many tales of passionate encounters must she spin before he finally understood that she was no less wicked than he, only less experienced? Perhaps it was time to take more aggressive measures.“By all means, remove your coat.” She tilted her eyes to cast him a saucy look. “Mr. Grayson, I’m not an innocent schoolgirl. You will have to try harder than that to shock me.”His lips curved in a subtle smile. “I’ll take that under advisem*nt.” She watched as he shook the heavy topcoat from his shoulders and peeled it down his arms. He draped the coat over the back of a chair before sitting back down. The damp lawn of his shirt clung to his shoulders and arms. A pleasant shiver rippled down to Sophia’s toes.“It doesn’t suit you anyway,” she said, loading her brush with paint.He gave her a bemused look as he unknotted his cravat and pulled it loose. She inwardly rejoiced. Now, if only she could convince him to do away with his waistcoat…”“The coat,” she explained, when his eyebrows remained raised. “It doesn’t suit you.”“Why not? Is the color wrong?” The sudden seriousness in his tone surprised her.“No, the color is perfectly fine. It’s the cut that’s unflattering. That style is tailored to gentlemen of leisure, lean and slender. But as you are so fond of telling me, Mr. Grayson, you are no gentleman. Your shoulders are too broad for fashion.”“Is that so?” He chuckled as he undid his cuffs. Sophia stared as he turned up his sleeves, baring one tanned muscled forearm, then the other. “What style of garments would best suit me, then?”“Other than a toga?” He rewarded her jest with an easy smile. Sophia dabbed at her canvas, pleased to be making progress at last. “I think you need something less restrictive. Something like a sailor’s garb. Or perhaps a captain’s.”“Truly?” His gaze became thoughtful, then searching. “And even dressed in plain seaman’s clothes, would you still find me handsome enough? In my own way?”“No.” She allowed his brow to crease a moment before continuing. “I should find you surpassingly handsome. In every way.” She mixed paint slowly on her palette and gave him a coy look. “And what of my attire? If you had your way, how would you dress me?”“If I had my way…I wouldn’t.”A thrill raced through Sophia’s body. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes dropped to her lap. She forced her gave back up to meet his. Now was not the moment to lose courage. Nothing held sway over a man’s intentions like jealousy. “Gervais once kept me naked for an entire day so he could paint me.”He blinked. “He painted a nude study of you?”“No. He painted me. I took off my clothes and stretched out on the bed while he dressed me in pigment. Gervais called me his perfect, blank canvas. He painted lavender orchids here”-she traced a small circle just above her breast-“and little vines twining down…” She slid her hand down and noted with delight how his eyes followed its path. “I feigned the grippe and refused to bathe for a week.”Desire and jealous rage warred in his countenance, yet he remained as immobile as one of Lord Elgin’s marble sculptures. What would it take to spur the man into action?

”

”

“

Rowan coughed and spluttered on his gulp of beer. “I’ve never played with my puss*,” he said with an amused glint in his eye.” Her cheeks heated at his dirty language, but the tingles running under her skin made her aware of her reaction to being alone in the hotel room with Rowan, sitting on the big bed and playing silly games. “I’ve never touched a woman’s breasts beside my own.” “I’ve never given a blow j*b.” “I’ve never received a blow j*b,” she said, tilting the mini wine bottle to her mouth and realizing it was empty. “I’ve never played I never with a woman I love before,” he said, setting his beer can on the nightstand with a clink. “I’ve never kissed a man in a hotel room before.” She pressed forward onto her hands and knees to reach and kiss him. Their lips lingered for a long moment before she leaned back and waited for his next I never. “I’ve never removed a woman’s shirt in a hotel room.” Now it was his turn to lean forward and tug her sweater up over her head. She thought long and hard about her next words, knowing he would act on whatever she said. “I’ve never ordered a man to take off his shirt in a hotel room,” she said finally and watched happily as he removed his long sleeve navy cotton T–shirt. She’d never tire of seeing his smooth skin over hard pectorals. A narrow line of hair trailed down the center of his belly disappearing into jeans. She’d licked her way along that line yesterday and licked her lips now in anticipation of tasting him again. “I’ve never kissed a woman’s nipples in a hotel room,” he said. In a flash, her bra was flying through the air to land in a pile on the carpet in front of the window, and Rowan’s mouth was on her breasts. Sensation spiraled through her as she shuddered and her arousal built. She’d been on edge since their heated kisses in the car in the parking lot, and it didn’t take much for Rowan’s tongue to turn her into a shuddering, needy wanton. “I think this game has turned from I Never into Truth or Dare,” she said, clasping Rowan’s head to her chest. He pulled away from his decadent kisses to look her in the face. “Let’s do it. Dare me, Jill.” The look in his eye told her she might’ve taken on more than she could handle. Though she’d been an active participant in their lovemaking up to now, Rowan had taken the lead and guided her. She had the power here. The question was what to do with it. “I dare you to”—she licked her lips thoughtfully—“I dare you to get naked and lie on your back. Eyes closed,” she added. When all was as she wanted, she leaned over him and planted a kiss on his lips. Then she kissed her way down his body, stopping at all the best spots. His chin, where his unshaven beard scratched at her skin. His pectorals, one nipple, then another. His belly button. “You’re ticklish,” she observed. “Yeah.” Then she made her way lower to his erection, lying over his belly pointing at the chin. She freaking loved his body and how it reacted to her every touch. Being alone with him in the hotel room was even better. Here there were no echoes of footsteps in the hallway, no clock ticking signaling the end of their hour together, no narrow bed forcing them to get creative in their positions. They had a king–size bed and a whole night to explore. Kneeling at the side, she took him in her mouth, eliciting a moan. His musky taste filled her mouth, and she lovingly used her tongue to drive him wild. His hand found the crease of her jeans between her legs and explored her while she used her mouth on him. She parted her legs, giving him better access, and it was all she could do to concentrate on giving him pleasure when he was making her feel so good. She wanted to straddle him so bad. The temptation to stop the foreplay and ride this thing to completion was great, but she held off. “Are you ready for me?” Rowan asked. “You want my co*ck in you?” His eyes remained closed, and a smile lingered on his face.

”

”

“

My walk to Alex’s study is like the green mile. I wonder what he’s going to say. This isn’t going to be fun.I step inside his study, but no one announces me, and he doesn’t notice. So I just stare.He’s writing something. With a quill and ink. The well is sitting next to his right hand. He’s so intent on whatever he’s writing he keeps at it for thirty seconds before he sees me. Long enough for me to see the way he narrows his eyes when he’s concentrating and the way he purses his lips.Long enough for me to wonder what it would be like to kiss him.Oh God, where did that come from? I hate him. Hate him. There’s no way I could possibly want to kiss him.He looks up at that instant, and I do my best to just smile right at him and not give away my thoughts.“Please sit,” he says, rising. I nod and sit down in the same fancy chair as before. The door stays open. I sit as erect as possible, my hands in my lap, my ankles crossed beneath me. Victoria must be rubbing off on me.Alex comes around to the front of his desk and rests on it, crossing one ankle over the other as he leans back.“What you did was overstepping your bounds.”I clench my teeth, hard, to stop from snapping back. I have to see where he’s going with this before I get angry.“You went behind my back and orchestrated one of the most ill-planned, riskiest schemes I’ve ever seen. I am shocked.”“But--”He puts his hand up to silence me. “I won’t tell you what I had to do to convince her father to consent to the new arrangement. You are lucky Mr. Rallsmouth will have the means necessary to support Miss Emily, as she will not be receiving a thing from her father from here on out.”All I hear is convince her father. So it worked?” A grin spreads across my features and I jump to my feet. “She’s going to marry Mr. Rallsmouth?”Alex pushes off the desk behind him and stands in front of me. “Have you not heard a word I said? You made grievous errors of judgment. You--”“But I was right! And thanks to me, she’s going to marry the love of her life!”He’s standing right in front of me, inches away. “You were not right! You interfered and it was not your place!”I clench my fists as my anger flares to match his. “You think nothing is my place because I’m some lowly, untitled girl! But someone had to do it, and you didn’t care to!”“You should not have gotten involved!” he growls.“You should not have forced me to!” I say, jabbing my finger into his chest. “You should have been there for her when she needed you!”In an instant, he closes the gap between us. His lips hit mine so fast I can’t even close my eyes. His hands find a place on either side of my face and pull me close, and for two-point-five seconds, I’m lost somewhere between closing my eyes and standing there, frozen. Somehow the eyes win out and I shut them, and my knees start to buckle as I press my lips into to his. I stop breathing and grip his sleeves with both hands to keep from falling straight over. His lips are warm and soft and…And then I realize what’s going on. Who I’m kissing.You’re not a lady, he’s said.It stings as much now as it did the moment he said it. He thinks I’m unworthy.What am I doing? I reel back and knock into the wall with a loud crash that makes him jerk his eyes open.“I, uh…” I stutter, then spin around so fast my skirts twist around my legs and I have to wait for them to swing around again before dashing out of the room.

”

”

“

Where is he?” I say.I have been waiting for hours to ask that question. I fell asleep and dreamed that I was chasing Tobias through Dauntless headquarters. No matter how fast I ran he was always just far enough ahead of me that I watched him disappear around corners, catching sight of a sleeve or the heel of a shoe.Jeanine gives me a puzzled look. But she is not puzzled. She is playing with me.“Tobias,” I say anyway. My hands shake, but not from fear this time--from anger. “Where is he? What are you doing to him?”“I see no reason to provide that information,” says Jeanine. “And since you are all out of leverage, I see no way for you to give me a reason, unless you would like to change the terms of our agreement.”I want to scream at her that of course, of course I would rather know about Tobias than about my Divergence, but I don’t. I can’t make hasty decisions. She will do what she intends to do to Tobias whether I know about it or not. It is more important that I fully understand what is happening to me.I breathe in through my nose, and out through my nose. I shake my hands. I sit down in the chair.“Interesting,” she says.“Aren’t you supposed to be running a faction and planning a war?” I say. “What are you doing here, running tests on a sixteen-year-old girl?”“You choose different ways of referring to yourself depending on what is convenient,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Sometimes you insist that you are not a little girl, and sometimes you insist that you are. What I am curious to know is: How do you really view yourself? As one or the other? As both? As neither?”I make my voice flat and factual, like hers. “I see no reason to provide that information.”I hear a faint snort. Peter is covering his mouth. Jeanine glares at him, and his laughter effortlessly transforms into a coughing fit.“Mockery is childish, Beatrice,” she says. “It does not become you.”“Mockery is childish, Beatrice,” I repeat in my best imitation of her voice. “It does not become you.”“The serum,” Jeanine says, eyeing Peter. He steps forward and fumbles with a black box on the desk, taking out a syringe with a needle already attached to it.Peter starts toward me, and I hold out my hand.“Allow me,” I say.He looks at Jeanine for permission, and she says, “All right, then.” He hands me the syringe and I shove the needle into the side of my neck, pressing down on the plunger. Jeanine jabs one of the buttons with her finger, and everything goes dark.

”

”

“

It was just Franz!”“Just Franz?” Franz retorted, catching the last part as the window jerked free of the ice which held it to the window sill. “Since when did I become 'Just Franz'? I'm almost another member of your family!”Japhet leaned on the frame, not caring when cold snow seeped into his sleeves. “That's when you became 'Just Franz',” he said. “Like Ruth is 'Just Ruth'. And you ruined my drawing. I hope you're happy.

”

”

“

I hope you do not think me too forward, but I noticed that you’ve danced with Don Villar twice in a row.” His normally ruddy face turned crimson. “People are already talking…and unless an engagement is to be announced—” “One will be.” She cut off his words and whispered, “Tonight.” She winked. “Please do not spoil the surprise.” His eyes widened and he tripped slightly on the next step. “Brilliant! That gives me great relief for your sake. And, I confess, a measure of dismay on my account.” His smile dimmed as his lips formed a rueful frown. “I had hoped to court you one day. I suppose I waited too long to work up the courage.” “Oh, Patrick.” She placed a hand on his sleeve. “I had no idea…” He shook his head. “Nor did I give you reason to. I have always been a bumbling fool at this sort of thing. Either way, I suppose it is for the best. I will always value our friendship, no matter what. And to the devil with what others say. I believe you would have made a damned fine physician. Mr. Wakley told me that you treated Villar’s arm, and I do not know a sawbones who could have performed such a miracle.” His

”

”

“

Speaking of those children...." He tried to turn his head within the curve of Juliet's arm so that he could look at Charlotte. "It appears that one of them ... is yours." "Yes, my daughter. She's just over six months." "Will you lift her up so I may see her? I adore children." Juliet hesitated, thinking that sleeping babes were best left alone. But it was not in her to deny the wishes of a man who might very well be dying. Carefully, she picked up the infant and held her so that Gareth could see her. Charlotte whimpered and opened her eyes. Immediately, the lines of pain about Gareth's mouth relaxed. Smiling weakly, he reached up and ran his fingers over one of the tiny fists, unaware that he was touching his own niece. A lump rose in Juliet's throat. It was not hard at all to imagine that he was Charles, reaching up to touch his daughter. Not hard at all. "You're just ... as pretty as your mama," he murmured. "A few more years ... and all the young bucks shall be after you ... like hounds to the fox." To Juliet he said, "What is her name?" "Charlotte." The baby was wide awake now and tugging at the lace of his sleeve. "Charlotte. Such a pretty name ... and where is your papa, little Charlie-girl? Should he ... not be here to ... protect you and your mama?" Juliet stiffened. His innocent words had slammed a fresh bolt of pain through her. Tight-lipped, she pried the lace from Charlotte's fist and cradled her close. Deprived of her amusem*nt, the baby screwed up her face and began to wail at the top of her lungs while Juliet stared out the window, her mouth set and her hand clenched in a desperate bid to control her emotions. Gareth managed to make himself heard over Charlotte's angry screams. "I am sorry. I think I have offended you, somehow...." "No." "Then what is it?" "Her papa's dead." "Oh. I, ah ... I see." He looked distressed, and remorse stole the brightness that Charlotte had brought to his eyes. "I am sorry, madam. I am forever saying the wrong thing, I fear." Charlotte was now crying harder, beating her fists and kicking her feet in protest. The blanket fell away. Juliet attempted to put it back. Charlotte screamed louder, her angry squalls filling the coach until Juliet felt like crying herself. She made a noise of helpless despair. "Here ... set her on your lap, beside my head," Lord Gareth said at last. "She can play with my cravat." "No, you're hurt." He smiled. "And your daughter is crying. Oblige me, and she will stop." He stretched a hand toward the baby, offering his fingers, but she batted him away and continued to wail. "I'm told I have a way ... with children." With a sigh, Juliet did as he asked. Immediately, Charlotte quieted and fell to playing with his cravat.

”

”

“

I wasn’t a class clown, because my parents were very strict and because nuns in general have no sense of humor. I mean zero, zip, nada. I wasted some of my best stuff on those old hags! Look at these knuckles - those are ruler marks, and they’re still visible all these years later. But I could usually get out of trouble at home if I could get my mom laughing. That’s a huge ace up your sleeve as a kid.

”

”

“

We always looked prim and proper - dressed to the nines for Church in our Sunday best - but they could always see a bruise peeking out from under a sleeve, or a discolored eye that hadn't quite healed by the time Sunday came along.

”

”

“

Nothing! thou elder brother even to Shade:That hadst a being ere the world was made,And well fixed, art alone of ending not afraid.Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not,When primitive Nothing Something straight begot;Then all proceeded from the great united What.Something, the general attribute of all,Severed from thee, its sole original,Into thy boundless self must undistinguished fall;Yet Something did thy mighty power command,And from fruitful Emptiness’s handSnatched men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land.Matter the wicked’st offspring of thy race,By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace,And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face.With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join;Body, thy foe, with these did leagues combineTo spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line;But turncoat Time assists the foe in vain,And bribed by thee, destroys their short-lived reign,And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again.Though mysteries are barred from laic eyes,And the divine alone with warrant priesInto thy bosom, where truth in private lies,Yet this of thee the wise may truly say,Thou from the virtuous nothing dost delay,And to be part with thee the wicked wisely pray.Great Negative, how vainly would the wiseInquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise,Didst thou not stand to point their blind philosophies!Is, or Is Not, the two great ends of Fate,And True or False, the subject of debate,That perfect or destroy the vast designs of state—When they have racked the politician’s breast,Within thy Bosom most securely rest,And when reduced to thee, are least unsafe and best.But Nothing, why does Something still permitThat sacred monarchs should at council sitWith persons highly thought at best for nothing fit,While weighty Something modestly abstainsFrom princes’ coffers, and from statemen’s brains,And Nothing there like stately Nothing reigns?Nothing! who dwell’st with fools in grave disguiseFor whom they reverend shapes and forms devise,Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like thee look wise:French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy,Hibernian learning, Scotch civility,Spaniards’ dispatch, Danes’ wit are mainly seen in thee.The great man’s gratitude to his best friend,Kings’ promises, whor*s’ vows—towards thee may bend,Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

”

”

“

Murrell’s barn was stuffy hot that night, and the back of my neck stuck to the shirt collar with sweat. I ran a checkered sleeve across my forehead and it came away damp and grimy, though I still felt my best in over two years, since that terrible day at the revival.

”

”

“

You don’t want to be an absentee manager any more than you want to be a micromanager. Instead, you want to be a partner—that is, you must take the time to help the people doing the best work overcome obstacles and make their good work even better. This is time-consuming because it requires that you know enough about the details of the person’s work to understand the nuances. It often requires you to help do the work, rather than just advising. It requires that you ask a lot of questions and challenge people—that you roll up your own sleeves.

”

”

“

I reflect on Bicycle Bob Silverman, who prodded and pushed Montreal into being one of the best biking cities in the world. I think about Dan Buettner and the Blue Zones gang, who’ve shown entire cities of people how to live healthier and longer lives. I think about Bea Johnson, who through her passion and pint jar of trash has changed the way thousands of us view our garbage. I think about Dr. June McCarroll in California and Dadarao Bilhore in India – on their hands and knees – painting center lines and filling potholes, one by one, to make our roads safe. These are people so passionate about changing some sliver of the world that they just rolled up their sleeves and dug in. They forged ahead without job title, majority vote, business card, salary, office, or political affiliation. Writer Thomas Friedman refers to these people as “leaders without authority.” Where do we find more? Well, we can start by taking a selfie. And listening to a pair of voices from the past. Alexis de Tocqueville – a man absolutely smitten by democracy in America – reminds us that one of the beauties of living in a democracy is that policies aren’t decreed from on high by “church and state” but from the bottom up, by “village and congregation.” And anthropologist Margaret Mead expounds, “never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.

”

”

“

Well, why doesn’t Thomas play the part?” Nigel said, eyeing the strapping young man. “He’s certainly imposing enough for it.” “That’s entirely the problem,” Lucy said. “He’s too big. When he tried on the robe, it started to rip across the shoulders.” “Surely there’s someone else…” Nigel trailed off at the look on Lucy’s face. “Good Gad, no,” he exclaimed. “You cannot begin to think—” “Of course!” Amelia’s face lit up as she grabbed his arm. With the small portion of his mind not taken up with the horror of Lucy’s plan to make a complete fool out of him, he noted that Amelia did seem to be touching him rather a lot this evening. Now she was also bouncing up and down in her pretty white and gold spangled shoes. “You’d make a splendid Father Christmas, Mr. Dash, because you have such an easy way with children. I’m sure the robe will fit, and we can adjust the wreath in an instant.” “The wreath?” Nigel repeated in a hollow voice. He fastened his appalled gaze on Philbert, who nodded in masculine sympathy “Well, Father Christmas must wear his crown of mistletoe, Nigel,” Lucy said in coaxing voice. “He wouldn’t look authentic without it.” “Surely, there must be someone else,” Nigel said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “One of the other servants, perhaps.” Lucy shook her head. “The footmen are too big and the scullery boy is too small.” When the corner of her mouth quirked up, Nigel had the sneaking suspicion she was beginning to enjoy the absurdity of the situation. Lucy knew he disdained costume balls and masquerades as undignified romps and refused to step foot in them. “I know it’s a lot to ask, Nigel, my dear, but you are certainly the best candidate to replace Philbert.” Amelia was still clutching his sleeve, but now she brought her pleading gaze to bear on him as well. “Please, Mr. Dash, it would mean so much to the children. I would be enormously grateful if you would be so kind as to play the part of Father Christmas.” Her beautiful brown eyes, full of concern for her younger siblings, pleaded with him. Blast it, the young ones had probably been looking forward to the treat for days, and would be sorely disappointed if it failed to materialize. And he had a feeling Amelia had been looking forward to it too, if for no other reason than to see the excitement on the children’s faces. With a mental sigh, Nigel consigned his dashing new persona to the dust heap. Life, it would seem, had consigned him to play only one role—that of dependable old Nigel Dash, always ready to take on whatever necessary task fate and the ladies of the beau monde decreed for him. “Of course, Miss Easton,” he said. “I am only too happy to help.

”

”

“

Can we pause the bickering for more important matters, please? Look. There’s a time-out on the court.” Which meant more Coach Romano camera time. The three women focused on the TV. “OMG,” Sarah said, the slang usage obviously for Nic’s benefit. On the screen, the man in question had slipped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and he was holding a basketball in a one-handed grip. “Look at the size of those hands.” Sage fanned her face. “Think of what he could do with them.” “At the risk of sounding crude, this is the first time in my life my boobs ever wished they were a basketball,” Nic observed. Out in the hallway, something heavy thumped to the floor. Nic recognized the voice that muttered the epithet that immediately followed. Gabe Callahan. She glanced in the wall mirror and smoothed her flyaway hair, catching Sarah’s knowing smirk as she did so. She stuck out her tongue at her best friend and sent up a little prayer that his hearing wasn’t all that sharp. “Gabe?” Sarah called out. “Everything all right?” Footsteps approached and he came into sight, pausing in the doorway. He wore a blue-and-gray plaid flannel shirt tucked into a snug pair of faded Levi’s. He had a stained and scruffy pair of lined leather work gloves tucked into a back pocket of his jeans, and his steel-toed boots showed plenty of wear. He might be stopping for dinner at the Bristlecone most nights these days, but he still hadn’t managed to find his way to the barbershop. His hair brushed his shoulders now, curling slightly on the ends. And dang it, her fingers itched to play with those thick silken strands. Until he turned a wickedly amused gaze her way and dashed her hopes about his hearing. “Sorry about the noise. That piece of lumber slipped right out of my hands. You know…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to tell you that, while men are often accused of thinking with body parts other than their brains, this is the first time I’ve ever heard women admit they have parts that think for themselves, too.” He heard, all right. Nic closed her eyes and flushed with embarrassment. They not only think for themselves, they blush. Sage saved her by laughing. “You like basketball, Gabe?” “Not the same way you ladies do, apparently.

”

”

“

What’s this?” he asks, sitting forward. I remove the top off the box and take out a pile of pictures. I hand him one. “This is Jacob,” I say. My eyes fill with tears, and I don’t even try to blink them back. I let them fall over my lashes and onto my cheeks. Paul brushes them away, but I really don’t want him to. I want to feel all of this because I have forced myself not to feel it for so very long. “This is when he was born.” I point to the squirmy little ball of red skin and dark hair. Paul looks from me to it. “He looks like you,” he says. I shake my head. “He looks more like his dad, I think.” These f*cking tears keep falling. I’m not crying. It’s like someone opened an emotional dam in me and I can’t get it to close. I don’t want it to. “What happened to his dad?” Paul asks. “He died,” I say. I have to stop and clear my throat. “Drug overdose a few years after Jacob was born. I read about it in the paper.” “I’m so sorry.” I sniff. “I am, too.” I feel like I need to explain, and for the first time ever, I want to. “We were young, and we played around with marijuana and stuff. But I cut it all out when I found out I was pregnant with Jacob. He didn’t. He wasn’t able. It was really sad when I couldn’t be with him anymore. I didn’t have anyone else. But I didn’t really have him, either. The drugs had him, you know?” He nods. I hand him more pictures, and he flips through them. I have looked at them so much that they’re dog-eared in places. He holds one up from when Jacob was about three. “You can’t tell me he doesn’t look like you. Look at those eyes! He’s so handsome.” My eyes fill with tears again, but I smile through them. He is perfect. And I should be able to hear someone say so. “Look at that smirk!” Paul cries when he sees the most recent one. “That is so you!” I grin. I guess he’s right. “Where is your family, Friday?” he asks. “I don’t know,” I tell him. I lay my head on his shoulder and watch as he takes in the photos over and over, poring through the stack so he can point out ways that Jacob looks like me. “They kicked me out when I got pregnant. Terminated their rights.” Paul presses his lips to my forehead and doesn’t say anything. “I thought I knew everything back then.” I laugh and wipe my eyes with the hem of my dress. “Turns out I didn’t know sh*t.” “Do you ever think about looking for them?” I shake my head. “No. Never.” I point to special pictures of my son. “His mom—her name is Jill—she sometimes sends me special milestone pictures. This is his first tooth he got and the first tooth he lost. And this one is from his first step. That wasn’t even part of the agreement. She just does it because she wants me to know how he’s doing.” I try to grin through the tears. “He’s doing so great. He’s smart. And they can send him to college and to special schools. He takes piano, and he plays sports. And Jill says he likes to paint.” My voice cracks, and I don’t hate that it does. I just let it. “Of course, he does. You’re his mother.” “I just wanted to do what was best for him, you know?” This time, I use Paul’s sleeve to wipe my eyes. I blink hard trying to clear my vision. “That’s what parents do. We do what’s in the best interest of our children.” He kisses me softly. “Thank you for showing me these.

”

”

“

We go outside.We rake the leaves.We pile them way up high.We jump on top.We toss them up and watch the colors fly.What can we do with all these leaves?I know. I have a plan.We run inside and find old clothes.We'll make a pumpkin man.We button all the buttons. We tie up legs and sleeves.We fill and stuff the body with lots of crunchy leaves.We give him gloves.We give him boots.We're having so much fun.It's time to pick a pumpkin head.We'll find the nicest one. Some are short and some are tall.Some are bumpy.Some are small.We look around the pumpkin patch.We find the best of all!We cut the top to get inside.We scoop out all the seeds.We draw a face and cut it out.A light is all it needs.We go outside at sunset, put the pumpkin head in place.Our pumpkin man smiles back at us with a happy, glowing face.

”

”

“

Neil’s feet were still numb from the frostbite. Long exposure up high, sat waiting in the snow for all those hours at the Balcony, had taken their toll. At base camp, we bandaged them up, kept them warm, and purposefully didn’t discuss the very real prospect of him losing his toes.He didn’t need to be told that he was unlikely ever to feel them again properly.Either way, we realized that the best option for them was to get him proper medical attention and soon.There was no way he was going to be walking anywhere with his feet bandaged up like two white balloons. We needed an air-evacuation. Not the easiest of things in the thin air of Everest’s base camp.The insurance company said that at dawn the next day they would attempt to get him out of there. Weather permitting. But at 17,450 feet we really were on the outer limits of where helicopters could fly.True to their word, at dawn we heard the distant rotors of a helicopter, far beneath us in the valley. A tiny speck against the vast rock walls on either side.In a matter of sixty short minutes, that thing could whisk Neil away to civilization, I thought. Hmm.My goodness, that was a beautiful prospect.Somehow I had to get on that chopper with him.I packed in thirty seconds flat, everything from the past three months. I taped a white cross onto my sleeve, and raced out to where Neil was sat waiting.One chance.What the heck.Neil shook his head at me, smiling.“God, you push it, Bear, don’t you?” he shouted over the noise of the rotors.“You’re going to need a decent medic on the flight,” I replied, with a smile. “And I’m your man.” (There was at least some element of truth in this: I was a medic and I was his buddy--and yes, he did need help. But essentially I was trying to pull a bit of a fast one.)The pilot shouted that two people would be too heavy. “I have to accompany him at all times,” I shouted back over the engine noise. “His feet might fall off at any moment,” I added quietly.The pilot looked back at me, then at the white cross on my sleeve.He agreed to drop Neil somewhere down at a lower altitude, and then come back for me.“Perfect. Go. I’ll be here.” I shook his hand firmly.Let’s just get this done before anyone thinks too much about it, I mumbled to myself.

”

”

“

The Trade Scatto Short Sleeve Jersey is the perfect blend of aerodynamic and technical fabrics. This jersey takes advantage of the fabrics and features from our FR-C collection combined with the fit of our Silver Line Jersey. The materials utilized are ideal for the sublimation process, providing Giordana's Designers and design partners with a high tech canvas on which they can create a wide range of graphics with impeccable detailing. This is what makes The Trade Category of Garments so much fun. Unique sublimated graphics help you stand out from your local group ride, crit, or gran fondo while enjoying the comfort and performance you'd expect from a Giordana GarmentTech Specs:•Gi27: front and side panels•Asteria 2.0: sleeves and shoulders•Doubled Asteria 2.0 arm cuffs•Host Carbon: back panel to support the pockets and prevent sagging•Two reflective strips along the centre jersey pocket•Gripper elastic at waist•CamLock Zipper•Fourth zippered pocket

”

”

“

Once you have an image of what the inside of your drawers will look like, you can begin folding. The goal is to fold each piece of clothing into a simple, smooth rectangle. First, fold each lengthwise side of the garment toward the center (such as the left-hand, then right-hand, sides of a shirt) and tuck the sleeves in to make a long rectangular shape. It doesn’t matter how you fold the sleeves. Next, pick up one short end of the rectangle and fold it toward the other short end. Then fold again, in the same manner, in halves or in thirds. The number of folds should be adjusted so that the folded clothing when standing on edge fits the height of the drawer. This is the basic principle that will ultimately allow your clothes to be stacked on edge, side by side, so that when you pull open your drawer you can see the edge of every item inside. If you find that the end result is the right shape but too loose and floppy to stand up, it’s a sign that your way of folding doesn’t match the type of clothing. Every piece of clothing has its own “sweet spot” where it feels just right—a folded state that best suits that item. This will differ depending on the type of material and size of the clothing, and therefore you will need to adjust your method until you find what works. This isn’t difficult. By adjusting the height when folded so that it stands properly, you’ll reach the sweet spot surprisingly easily.

”

”

“

BETWEEN SEASONS Today I bring you cold chrysanthemums, white as absence, long-stemmed as my grief. I stand before your grave, a few unfallen leaves overhead, the sucking mud beneath. What survives best are chrysanthemums in a month which arrives austere as grief. The hearty blossoms persevere, unfallen. Suffering even snow, they flourish beneath. You walked in mornings among chrysanthemums, and bowed to them as if to hear their grief. Your sleeves grew damp from brushing unfallen dew. A drop lay by your eye, and one beneath. Truest to your nature were chrysanthemums, brilliant while first snows descended like grief. You watched them from your bed, your heart unfallen, steadfast through winter, and then you slipped beneath. What is it they told you, once, the chrysanthemums? It made you sigh, Ah, Grief! Who savors you more than us, the unfallen, long after we’ve forgotten the fallen beneath?

”

”

“

With that, I follow my little chem partner out of the room and down the hall.“Stop following me,” she snaps, looking over her shoulder to check how many people are watching us walk down the hall together.As if I’m el diablo himself.“Wear long sleeves on Saturday night,” I tell her, knowing full well she’s reaching the end of her sanity rope. I usually don’t try to get under the skin of white chicks, but this one is fun to rattle. This one, the most popular and coveted one of all, actually cares. “It gets pretty cold on the back of my motorcycle.”“Listen, Alex,” she says, whipping herself around and tossing that sun-kissed hair over her shoulder. She faces me with clear eyes made of ice. “I don’t date guys in gangs, and I don’t use drugs.”“I don’t date guys in gangs, either,” I say, stepping closer to her. “And I’m no user.”“Yeah, right. I’m surprised you’re not in rehab or juvie boot camp.”“You think you know me?”“I know enough.” She folds her arms across her chest, but then looks down as if she realizes her stance makes her chichis stand out, and drops her hands to her sides.I’m doing my best not to focus on those chichis as I take a step forward. “Did you report me to Aguirre?”She takes a step back. “What if I did?”“Mujer, you’re afraid of me.” It’s not a question. I just want to hear from her own lips what her reason is.“Most people at this school are scared that if they look at you wrong, you’ll gun them down.”“Then my gun should be smokin’ by now, shouldn’t it? Why aren’t you runnin’ away from the badass Mexicano, huh?”“Give me half a chance, I will.”I’ve had enough of dancing around this little bitch. It’s time to fluff up those feathers to make sure I end up with the upper hand. I close the distance between us and whisper in her ear, “Face the facts. Your life is too perfect. You probably lie awake at night, fantasizing about spicin’ up all that lily whiteness you live in.” But damn it, I get a whiff of vanilla from her perfume or lotion. It reminds me of cookies. I love cookies, so this is not good at all. “Gettin’ near the fire, chica, doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get burned.

”

”

“

If you love her, you tell her.Not with a text, or a phone call.You tell her only when you get to see the dimples on her face and the blue in her eyes.You tell her only when you can feel the sweat on your brow and the jitters in your palms.You tell her when you can hear your heart beating louder than the sound of your own voice.When there's no turning back to just being friends.Because you know, deep down, you could never just be friends with her.She's too incredible for that.You tell her when you've decided that she's the one you're after, and you don't ever plan on settling for second best.You've put all your chips on the table, ready to risk it all on the next hand. Deciding to wear your heart on your sleeve should come with a warning label:'proceed with caution. Heart is fragile and is prone to being hurt.'To be vulnerable, and real, and honest is a rarity. You tell her.Even if it hurts you.Because the words she utters next could change everything....[I love you too.]

”

”

“

Against Whatever It Is That's Encroaching"Best of all is to be idle,And especially on a Thursday,And to sip wine while studying the light:The way it ages, yellows, turns ashenAnd then hesitates foreverOn the threshold of the nightThat could be bringing the first frost.It's good to have a woman around just then,And two is even better.Let them whisper to each otherAnd eye you with a smirk.Let them roll up their sleeves and unbutton their shirts a bit.As this fine old twilight deserves,And the small schoolboyWho has come home to a room almost darkAnd now watches wide-eyedThe grownups raise their glasses to him,The giddy-headed, red-haired womanWith eyes tightly shut,As if she were about to cry or sing.

”

”

“

Doll PajamaMatching cotton pajama sets for girls and dolls by Leveret, Inc Buy Leveret Matching Doll & Girl 2 Piece Pajama Set Top & Pants 100% Cotton (2 Toddler-10 Years) and other Pajama Sets at leveret. Matching Pajama Set for Girls and Dolls. Doll pajamas are designed to match your little girl's pajamas. Fits 18" Doll. Your little girl and her favorite doll can have fabulous slumber parties with this cute pajama set. Your girl will enjoy the shared fashion between herself and her best friend. Make every bedtime a special time with a Matching Girl and Doll Pajama Set. She'll love getting ready for bed and dressing her doll to match. Her PJs consist of a cap-sleeve top and full-length pants with an elastic waistband. Her doll gets a nightshirt with the same design as her top.

”

”

“

Like most witches Lady Kore was left-handed, and her white sacrificial gown buttoned tightly from wrist to elbow with carved child-bone studs. Loose sleeves led to horrible mistakes.

”

”

“

Chuck E.'s In Love"How come he don't come and P.L.P. with meDown at the meter no more?And how come he turn off the TVAnd hang that sign on the door?Well, we call, and we call"How come?", we sayHey, what could make a boy behave this way, yeah?Well, he learned all of the lines nowAnd every timeHe don't, uh, stutter when he talksAnd it's true, it's trueHe sure has acquiredThis kind of cool and inspired sort of jazz when he walksWhere's his jacket and his old blue jeans?If, if this ain't healthy, it is some kinda cleanBut that means that Chuck E.'s in love, my, myChuck E.'s in love, love, love, loveChuck E.'s in love, uh-huhChuck E.'s inI don't believe what you're saying to meThis is something that I've got to seeIs he here?I look in the pool hallBut is he here?I look in the drugstoreBut is he here?No, he don't come here no moreWell, I tell you whatI saw himHe was sittin' behind usDown at the PantagesAnd whatever it isThat he's got up his sleeveWell, I hope it isn't contagiousWhat's her name?Is that her there?Oh, Christ, I think he's even combed his hairAnd is that her?Well, then, what's her name?Oh, it's never gonna be the sameThat's not herI know what's wrong'Cause Chuck E.'s in love with the little girl singing this songAnd don't you knowChuck E.'s in love, yeah, yeahChuck E.'s in love, love, love, loveChuck E.'s in love, my, myChuck E.'s inChuck E.'s in loveChuck E.'s in loveHe's in love, love, love with me Ricki Lee Jones, Ricki Lee Jones (1979)

”

”

“

I believe in the One who is there with each of us in every storm we go through, who loves us unconditionally and unwaveringly. He walks with us through the dark times and dances with us to celebrate the best moments. He is what every father is meant to be, the very model of fatherhood: tender, gracious, compassionate, slow to anger, abounding in love. Whenever He needs to be a little tough on us, it is always for our best. He is not just our heavenly Father--He is Abba, our Daddy.When circ*mstances are at their worst, He does not leave us to face them alone. He rolls up His sleeves and, without hesitation, dives into the middle of every mess in which we find ourselves. He is there with us in the middle of every one of our storms. He is the Eye of the Storm.

”

”

“

intelligence for the sector. “They say they’re uncle and nephew, and they’re clean: no tattoos. That third one, though—he’s a keeper.” The third man had given his name as José Hernández, which was the equivalent of a Caucasian claiming to be called John Smith. He had not been picked up in the sweep of the yard, but a couple of hours later, supposedly as he waited for a bus to Tucson, although it was more likely he was waiting for a ride back to Mexico, since the next bus for Tucson wasn’t scheduled to leave until the following morning. He was smaller and leaner than the others, and had so far done his best not to make eye contact with any of his interrogators. He was also the only one who had been wearing a long-sleeved shirt, fully buttoned, when detained. “What did Lagnier have to say about him?” Ross asked. “Beyond the fact that Hernández had been working for him on and off for about five days,” said Zaleski, “Mr. Lagnier had nothing to say about him at all, and that’s ‘nothing’ with a heavy emphasis.” “Meaning?” “Meaning Lagnier knew better than to ask about José’s background. It’s probably not the first time Lagnier’s done a solid for some friends from across the border: a place for cousins to sleep, a little work to replenish funds before they head farther north. But sometimes…” Zaleski let it hang. Parker figured everyone in the room now knew that Lagnier had an arrangement with the ATF, and if they didn’t, they had no business being there. “Sometimes it’s a more substantial favor,” finished Newton, one of the Maricopa detectives. “One he doesn’t share with his handlers.” “Not unless Lagnier wants to try holding his silverware without thumbs,” said Zaleski. “This whole territory belongs to the Sinaloa cartel, and nothing moves in or out without their knowledge. Young José in there has himself a collection of tattoos under that shirt. He didn’t much approve of us having a look-see, but he knew better than to kick up a fuss.” Zaleski took out her phone and displayed a series of photographs of Hernández’s adornments.

”

”

“

Traditionally, understanding the deep nature of the world was the task of metaphysics, but in modern times that understanding relies critically on our best physics theories—yet those theories do not wear their meaning on their sleeve. In this sense, philosophy of physics provides a bridge between the metaphysician and the physicist—or, put another way, philosophy of physics tells us how to do a metaphysics that is scientifically informed.

”

”

“

Try your best to be right, but don't worry when you're wrong. Repeatedly. If you feel uncomfortable, or like an impostor, good. You're pushing yourself. Don't assume you know everything, but try your best anyway, and let the internet correct you when you are inevitably wrong. Wear your noobyness on your sleeve.

”

”

“

To Meatball From your best friend, Ivan."And in the time it took me to read the metal plate about four times, Ivan had already tied my bracelet to his own wrist.But it didn't fit under his sleeve.And when he smiled at me, I knew he didn't even care.

”

”

“

Father,” he said finally, “I don’t understand why the Council had to question Padan Fain.” With an effort he took his eyes off the woods and looked across Bella at Tam. “It seems to me, the decision you reached could have been made right on the spot. The Mayor frightened everybody half out of their wits, talking about Aes Sedai and the false Dragon here in the Two Rivers.”“People are funny, Rand. The best of them are. Take Haral Luhhan. Master Luhhan is a strong man, and a brave one, but he can’t bear to see butchering done. Turns pale as a sheet.”“What does that have to do with anything? Everybody knows Master Luhhan can’t stand the sight of blood, and nobody but the Coplins and the Congars thinks anything of it.”“Just this, lad. People don’t always think or behave the way you might believe they would. Those folk back there…let the hail beat their crops into the mud, and the wind take off every roof in the district, and the wolves kill half their livestock, and they’ll roll up their sleeves and start from scratch. They’ll grumble, but they won’t waste any time with it. But you give them just the thought of Aes Sedai and a false Dragon in Ghealdan, and soon enough they’ll start thinking that Ghealdan is not that far the other side of the Forest of Shadows, and a straight line from Tar Valon to Ghealdan wouldn’t pass that much to the east of us. As if the Aes Sedai wouldn’t take the road through Caemlyn and Lugard instead of traveling cross-country! By tomorrow morning half the village would have been sure the entire war was about to descend on us. It would take weeks to undo. A fine Bel Tine that would make. So Bran gave them the idea before they could get it themselves. They’ve seen the Council take the problem under construction, and by now they’ll be hearing what we decided. They chose us for the Village Council because they trust we can reason things out in the best way for everybody. They trust our opinions. Even Cenn’s, which doesn’t say much for the rest of us, I suppose. At any rate, they will hear there isn’t anything to worry about, and they’ll believe it. It is not that they couldn’t reach the same conclusion, or would not, eventually, but this way we won’t have Festival ruined, and nobody has to spend weeks worrying about something that isn’t likely to happen. If it does against all odds…well, the patrols will give us enough warning to do what we can.

”

”

“

She's receiving Dr. Sheldon Lord in audience just at the moment," Marshall said. "I don't see why you shouldn't go on to the Throne Room, though. He's giving her some psychological tests, but they ought to be finished in a minute or two." "Fine," Malone said. "How about court dress? Got anything here that might fit me?" Marshall nodded. "We've got a pretty complete line of court costume now," he said. "I should say it was the most complete in existence--except possibly for the TV historical companies. Down the hall, three doors farther on, you'll find the dressing room." * * * * * Malone thanked Dr. Marshall and went out slowly. He didn't really mind the court dress or the Elizabethan etiquette Her Majesty liked to preserve; as a matter of fact, he was rather fond of it. There had been some complaints about expense when the Throne Room and the costume arrangement were first set up, but the FBI and the Government had finally decided that it was better and easier to humor Her Majesty. Malone spent ten minutes dressing himself magnificently in hose and doublet, slash-sleeved, ermine-trimmed coat, lace collar, and plumed hat. By the time he presented himself at the door to the Throne Room he felt almost cheerful. It had been a long time since he had entered the world of Elizabethan knighthood over which Her Majesty held sway, and it always made him feel taller and more sure of himself. He bowed to a chunkily-built man of medium height in a stiffly brocaded jacket, carrying a small leather briefcase. The man had a whaler's beard of blond-red hair that looked slightly out of period, but the costume managed to overpower it. "Dr. Lord?" Malone said. The bearded man peered at him. "Ah, Sir Kenneth," he said. "Yes, yes. Just been giving Her Majesty a few tests. Normal weekly check, you know." "I know," Malone said. "Any change?" "Change?" Lord said. "In Her Majesty? Sir Kenneth, you might as well expect the very rocks to change. Her Majesty remains Her Majesty--and will, in all probability, throughout the foreseeable future." "The same as ever?" Malone asked hopefully. "Exactly," Lord said. "But--if you do want background on the case--I'm flying back to New York tonight. Look me up there, if you have a chance. I'm afraid there's little information I can give you, but it's always a pleasure to talk with you." "Thanks," Malone said dully. "Barrow Street," Lord said with a cheery wave of the briefcase. "Number 69.

”

”

“

Best

”

”

“

So, my program develops the entire spectrum of physical skills: Muscular Strength, Muscular Endurance, Cardiovascular Endurance, Power, Speed, Coordination, Balance, and Flexibility. The degree to which you possess these eight physical qualities defines your level of fitness. It is only by focusing on these seven skills, rather than appearance, that you will make your best gains, in ability, well-being, and in appearance. The washboard stomachs, big chests, round shoulders, and shirt-sleeve-stretching biceps of my men are testament to that, as are the toned legs, tight triceps and abs of the women I’ve trained.

”

”

“

English and half Nigerian, Stacey had never set foot outside the United Kingdom. Her tight black hair was cut short and close to her head following the removal of her last weave. The smooth caramel skin suited the haircut well. Stacey’s work area was organised and clear. Anything not in the labelled trays was stacked in meticulous piles along the top edge of her desk. Not far behind was Detective Sergeant Bryant who mumbled a ‘Morning, Guv,’ as he glanced into The Bowl. His six foot frame looked immaculate, as though he had been dressed for Sunday school by his mother. Immediately the suit jacket landed on the back of his chair. By the end of the day his tie would have dropped a couple of floors, the top button of his shirt would be open and his shirt sleeves would be rolled up just below his elbows. She saw him glance at her desk, seeking evidence of a coffee mug. When he saw that she already had coffee he filled the mug labelled ‘World’s Best Taxi Driver’, a present from his nineteen-year-old daughter. His filing was not a system that anyone else understood but Kim had yet to request any piece of paper that was not in her hands within a few seconds. At the top of his desk was a framed picture of himself and his wife taken at their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. A picture of his daughter snuggled in his wallet. DS Kevin Dawson, the third member of her team, didn’t keep a photo of anyone special on his desk. Had he wanted to display a picture of the person for whom he felt most affection he would have been greeted by his own likeness throughout his working day. ‘Sorry I’m late, Guv,’ Dawson called as he slid into his seat opposite Wood and completed her team. He wasn’t officially late. The shift didn’t start until eight a.m. but she liked them all in early for a briefing, especially at the beginning of a new case. Kim didn’t like to stick to a roster and people who did lasted a very short time on her team. ‘Hey, Stacey, you gonna get me a coffee or what?’ Dawson asked, checking his mobile phone. ‘Of course, Kev, how’d yer like it: milk, two sugars and in yer lap?’ she asked sweetly, in her strong Black Country accent.

”

”

“

can’t tell if you’re swearing at me or speaking Ukrainian.” “Hungarian,” I replied, wiping my forehead with my sleeve. I measured exercise not on calories burned or time spent in the gym but on the amount I sweated. Someone needed to develop a machine to measure perspiration—I’d pay good money for it. As far as I was concerned it was effort that always earned the best results. “He developed the bullsh*t theory. I looked it up on Wikipedia.

”

”