In Chap­ter 49 of “We Solve Mur­ders,” Rosie is dri­ving Amy and Steve to meet Nel­son Nunez, a drug deal­er, at his seclud­ed home in Bluff Point. Despite it being a Sun­day morn­ing, Nel­son has expressed eager­ness to see them, prompt­ing their ear­ly arrival. Rosie’s thoughts high­light the impor­tance of pri­va­cy for indi­vid­u­als like drug deal­ers, who often seek seclu­sion akin to that of celebri­ties.

As they nav­i­gate the rough ter­rain toward the house, the con­ver­sa­tion turns to the reper­cus­sions of a stolen blood sam­ple linked to Amy. Steve express­es con­cern about the poten­tial impli­ca­tions, empha­siz­ing the need for proof to counter the sit­u­a­tion Amy faces. Rosie, observ­ing Steve’s demeanor, is amused by his stress, accen­tu­at­ed by the hasti­ly tak­en turns she makes while dri­ving.

Arriv­ing at a grand entrance, they notice warn­ing signs about guard dogs and trespassing—indicative of Nel­son’s wealth and vig­i­lance. After a brief inter­ac­tion through a secu­ri­ty inter­com, the gates open, reveal­ing a Land Rover with an intim­i­dat­ing machine gun mount­ed in its bed, manned by a young sol­dier. This intro­duc­tion to Nel­son’s world rais­es the stakes, and Steve’s ban­ter reveals his appre­hen­sion regard­ing their recep­tion.

Upon arrival at the house, Amy express­es sur­prise at its mod­est size, giv­en Nel­son’s sta­tus as a drug deal­er. Rosie parks and they are met by Nel­son, who emerges with a tray laden with sus­pi­cious­ly alco­holic drinks. The inter­ac­tion shifts when Nel­son reg­is­ters the pres­ence of all three guests, lead­ing him to declare a prob­lem­at­ic sit­u­a­tion.

As the ten­sion esca­lates, a young man from the Land Rover joins them, prompt­ing Nel­son’s invi­ta­tion to come inside to resolve mat­ters. Rosie per­ceives a sub­tle exchange of sig­nals between Nel­son and the young man, which deep­ens her unease but for­ti­fies her resolve, empha­siz­ing the grav­i­ty of the encounter. Through­out the chap­ter, under­ly­ing ten­sion and the poten­tial for dan­ger loom large as the trio pre­pares to nav­i­gate the com­plex­i­ties of their meet­ing with Nel­son Nunez .

In Chap­ter 49 of “All the Col­ors of the Dark,” a poignant rela­tion­ship between two char­ac­ters unfolds. The female char­ac­ter is nur­tur­ing, bring­ing items like a tooth­brush and nail clip­pers, and shar­ing his­tor­i­cal events that illus­trate both loss and resilience. She recounts the dev­as­tat­ing Galve­ston hur­ri­cane and the Dust Bowl’s harsh impact, vivid­ly describ­ing the strug­gles of those who lived through these eras, includ­ing the weary trav­el­ers of the Great Depres­sion. Her lessons trans­port him, and he even finds him­self draw­ing par­al­lels between their cur­rent cir­cum­stances and his­tor­i­cal hard­ships.

Dur­ing a dis­cus­sion about these nar­ra­tives, she brush­es off his dra­mat­ic ten­den­cies, assert­ing that a life devoid of extremes is unin­spired. She pas­sion­ate­ly teach­es him French, claim­ing her expe­ri­ence with the lan­guage makes it chal­leng­ing but reward­ing. Patch, the male char­ac­ter, is com­fort­ed by her pres­ence and draws strength from her teach­ings, find­ing sur­pris­ing depth in their exchanges.

As she cel­e­brates her birth­day, he is tak­en aback to learn this new detail about her life. She express­es nos­tal­gia about Christ­mas cake and her moth­er, described as “decent” yet “weak,” prompt­ing a deep­er con­ver­sa­tion about strength and val­ues. In a moment of inti­ma­cy, she asks him to find her when they escape, hint­ing at deep­er emo­tion­al bonds and hopes.

The atmos­phere shifts when a key turns in the door, bring­ing with it a pal­pa­ble ten­sion. Although he feels pow­er­less with­out a phys­i­cal gift, Patch instinc­tive­ly knows he can aid her on her spe­cial day. They kneel togeth­er in prayer, and despite the impend­ing dan­ger, he acknowl­edges her strength with a res­olute promise to pro­tect her.

In a chill­ing cli­max, the scene esca­lates into vio­lence when he acts deci­sive­ly against an intrud­er. His fierce blow results in a swift con­clu­sion for the assailant, sym­bol­iz­ing both his des­per­a­tion and deter­mi­na­tion to safe­guard her. The chap­ter ends with a pow­er­ful emo­tion­al weight, as Patch expe­ri­ences a vis­cer­al loss, reflect­ing the bru­tal real­i­ty of their sit­u­a­tion and his evolv­ing char­ac­ter. The chaot­ic and emo­tion­al crescen­do under­scores the com­plex­i­ties of their rela­tion­ship amid exter­nal threats.

Chap­ter Forty-Nine of **[UNNAMED BOOK]** delves into the com­plex and moral­ly ambigu­ous plan of the pro­tag­o­nist, Nina, to extri­cate her­self from a con­trol­ling and, implic­it­ly, abu­sive rela­tion­ship with her hus­band, Andy, by active­ly seek­ing a younger, more appeal­ing “replace­ment”.

Nina out­lines spe­cif­ic cri­te­ria for her suc­ces­sor: she has to be younger, beau­ti­ful, desirous of chil­dren, and in a vul­ner­a­ble enough posi­tion to not chal­lenge Andy’s control—enter Wil­helmi­na “Mil­lie” Cal­loway. Iden­ti­fied due to her crim­i­nal past and des­per­ate cir­cum­stances, Mil­lie presents as the per­fect can­di­date. Nina, with her friend Enzo’s reluc­tant assis­tance, employs a pri­vate inves­ti­ga­tor to con­firm Mil­lie’s suit­abil­i­ty.

Con­vinc­ing Andy to accept Mil­lie into their home pos­es a chal­lenge, espe­cial­ly when she is des­ig­nat­ed to live in the attic—a strate­gic choice by Nina to cement Mil­lie’s sta­tus as her poten­tial replace­ment. Nina manip­u­lates her envi­ron­ment and inter­ac­tions to exac­er­bate Andy’s dis­sat­is­fac­tion with their cur­rent life, pre­sent­ing Mil­lie as a solu­tion to their domes­tic dis­ar­ray. Once Mil­lie starts work­ing in their home, Nina exac­er­bates the sit­u­a­tion fur­ther by delib­er­ate­ly antag­o­niz­ing her, aim­ing to fos­ter resent­ment and to posi­tion her­self as an obsta­cle to Mil­lie and Andy’s poten­tial hap­pi­ness.

Nina’s strat­e­gy includes sev­er­al key ele­ments to ensure Mil­lie and Andy’s even­tu­al liai­son: engi­neer­ing oppor­tu­ni­ties for their attrac­tion to flour­ish, increas­ing Millie’s ani­mos­i­ty towards her, and facil­i­tat­ing pri­vate moments between Andy and Mil­lie. Addi­tion­al­ly, Nina manip­u­lates med­ical infor­ma­tion to con­vince Andy of her infer­til­i­ty, delib­er­ate­ly wors­en­ing her rela­tion­ship with him to shift his affec­tions towards Mil­lie, who rep­re­sents the pos­si­bil­i­ty of a new fam­i­ly.

Through this chap­ter, the intri­cate psy­cho­log­i­cal games and cal­cu­lat­ed manip­u­la­tions Nina employs reveal a des­per­ate attempt at lib­er­at­ing her­self from a tox­ic rela­tion­ship, despite the moral impli­ca­tions of involv­ing inno­cent Mil­lie. The nar­ra­tive main­tains a sus­pense­ful and dark­ly strate­gic tone, exam­in­ing themes of con­trol, des­per­a­tion, and the com­plex lengths indi­vid­u­als might go to in search of free­dom from oppres­sive cir­cum­stances.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER
49
I awoke, warm and rest­ed and calm.
Safe.
Sun­light streamed through the filthy win­dow, illu­mi­nat­ing the reds and
golds in the wall of wing before me—where it had been all night, shield­ing
me from the cold.
Rhysand’s arms were band­ed around me, his breath­ing deep and even.
And I knew it was just as rare for him to sleep that sound­ly, peace­ful­ly.
What we’d done last night …
Care­ful­ly, I twist­ed to face him, his arms tight­en­ing slight­ly, as if to keep
me from van­ish­ing with the morn­ing mist.
His eyes were open when I nes­tled my head against his arm. With­in the
shel­ter of his wing, we watched each oth­er.
And I real­ized I might very well be con­tent to do exact­ly that for­ev­er.
I said qui­et­ly, “Why did you make that bar­gain with me? Why demand a
week from me every month?”
His vio­let eyes shut­tered.
And I didn’t dare admit what I expect­ed, but it was not, “Because I
want­ed to make a state­ment to Ama­ran­tha; because I want­ed to piss off
Tam­lin, and I need­ed to keep you alive in a way that wouldn’t be seen as
mer­ci­ful.”
“Oh.”
His mouth tight­ened. “You know—you know there is noth­ing I wouldn’t
do for my peo­ple, for my fam­i­ly.”
And I’d been a pawn in that game.
His wing fold­ed back, and I blinked at the watery light. “Bath or no
bath?” he said.
I cringed at the mem­o­ry of the grimy, reek­ing bathing room a lev­el
below. Using it to see to my needs would be bad enough. “I’d rather bathe
in a stream,” I said, push­ing past the sink­ing in my gut.
Rhys let out a low laugh and rolled out of bed. “Then let’s get out of
here.”
For a heart­beat, I won­dered if I’d dreamed up every­thing that had
hap­pened the night before. From the slight, pleas­ant sore­ness between my
legs, I knew I hadn’t, but …
Maybe it’d be eas­i­er to pre­tend that noth­ing had hap­pened.
The alter­na­tive might be more than I could endure.
We flew for most of the day, far and wide, close to where the forest­ed
steppes rose up to meet the Illyr­i­an Moun­tains. We didn’t speak of the night
before—we bare­ly spoke at all.
Anoth­er clear­ing. Anoth­er day of play­ing with my pow­er. Sum­mon­ing
wings, win­now­ing, fire and ice and water and—now wind. The wind and
breezes that rip­pled across the sweep­ing val­leys and wheat fields of the Day
Court, then whipped up the snow cap­ping their high­est peaks.
I could feel the words ris­ing in him as the hours passed. I’d catch him
watch­ing me when­ev­er I paused for a break—catch him open­ing up his
mouth … and then shut­ting it.
It rained at one point, and then turned cold­er and cold­er with the cloud
cov­er. We had yet to stay in the woods past dark, and I won­dered what sort
of crea­tures might prowl through them.
The sun was indeed sink­ing by the time Rhys gath­ered me in his arms
and took to the skies.
There was only the wind, and his warmth, and the boom of his pow­er­ful
wings.
I ven­tured, “What is it?”
His atten­tion remained on the dark pines sweep­ing past. “There is one
more sto­ry I need to tell you.”
I wait­ed. He didn’t con­tin­ue.
I put my hand against his cheek, the first inti­mate touch we’d had all day.
His skin was chilled, his eyes bleak as they slid to me. “I don’t walk away
—not from you,” I swore qui­et­ly.
His gaze soft­ened. “Feyre—”
Rhys roared in pain, arch­ing against me.
I felt the impact—felt blind­ing pain through the bond that ripped through
my own men­tal shields, felt the shud­der of the dozen places the arrows
struck him as they shot from bows hid­den beneath the for­est canopy.
And then we were falling.
Rhys gripped me, and his mag­ic twist­ed around us in a dark wind,
ready­ing to win­now us out—and failed.
Failed, because those were ash arrows through him. Through his wings.
They’d tracked us—yesterday, the lit­tle mag­ic he’d used with Lucien,
they’d some­how tracked it and found us even so far away—
More arrows—
Rhys flung out his pow­er. Too late.
Arrows shred­ded his wings. Struck his legs.
And I think I was scream­ing. Not for fear as we plum­met­ed, but for him
—for the blood and the green­ish sheen on those arrows. Not just ash, but
poi­son—
A dark wind—his power—slammed into me, and then I was being
thrown far and wide as he sent me tum­bling beyond the arrows’ range,
tum­bling through the air—
Rhys’s roar of wrath shook the for­est, the moun­tains beyond. Birds rose
up in waves, tak­ing to the skies, flee­ing that bel­low.
I slammed into the dense canopy, my body bark­ing in agony as I
shat­tered through wood and pine and leaf. Down and down—
Focus focus focus
I flung out a wave of that hard air that had once shield­ed me from
Tamlin’s tem­per. Threw it out beneath me like a net.
I col­lid­ed with an invis­i­ble wall so sol­id I thought my right arm might
snap.
But—I stopped falling through the branch­es.
Thir­ty feet below, the ground was near­ly impos­si­ble to see in the grow­ing
dark­ness.
I did not trust that shield to hold my weight for long.
I scram­bled across it, try­ing not to look down, and leaped the last few
feet onto a wide pine bough. Hurtling over the wood, I reached the trunk
and clung to it, pant­i­ng, reorder­ing my mind around the pain, the steadi­ness
of being on ground.
I listened—for Rhys, for his wings, for his next roar. Noth­ing.
No sign of the archers who he’d been falling to meet. Who he’d thrown
me far, far away from.Trembling, I dug my nails into the bark as I lis­tened
for him.
Ash arrows. Poi­soned ash arrows.
The for­est grew ever dark­er, the trees seem­ing to with­er into skele­tal
husks. Even the birds hushed them­selves.
I stared at my palm—at the eye inked there—and sent a blind thought
through it, down that bond. Where are you? Tell me and I’ll come to you.
I’ll find you.
There was no wall of onyx adamant at the end of the bond. Only end­less
shad­ow.
Things—great, enor­mous things—were rustling in the for­est.
Rhysand. No response.
The last of the light slipped away.
Rhysand, please.
No sound. And the bond between us … silent. I’d always felt it
pro­tect­ing me, seduc­ing me, laugh­ing at me on the oth­er side of my shields.
And now … it had van­ished.
A gut­tur­al howl rip­pled from the dis­tance, like rocks scrap­ing against
each oth­er.
Every hair on my body rose. We nev­er stayed out here past sun­set.
I took steady­ing breaths, nock­ing one of my few remain­ing arrows into
my bow.
On the ground, some­thing sleek and dark slith­ered past, the leaves
crunch­ing under what looked to be enor­mous paws tipped in nee­dle-like
claws.
Some­thing began scream­ing. High, pan­icked screech­es. As if it were
being torn apart. Not Rhys—something else.
I began shak­ing again, the tip of my arrow gleam­ing as it shud­dered with
me.
Where are you where are you where are you
Let me find you let me find you let me find you
I unstrung my bow. Any bit of light might give me away.
Dark­ness was my ally; dark­ness might shield me.
It had been anger the first time I’d winnowed—and anger the sec­ond
time I’d done it.
Rhys was hurt. They had hurt him. Tar­get­ed him. And now … Now …
It was not hot anger that poured through me.
But some­thing ancient, and frozen, and so vicious that it honed my focus
into razor-sharp­ness.
And if I want­ed to track him, if I want­ed to get to the spot I’d last seen
him … I’d become a fig­ment of dark­ness, too.
I was run­ning down the branch just as some­thing crashed through the
brush near­by, snarling and hiss­ing. But I fold­ed myself into smoke and
starlight, and win­nowed from the edge of my branch and into the tree across
from me. The crea­ture below loosed a cry, but I paid it no heed.
I was night; I was wind.
Tree to tree, I win­nowed, so fast the beasts roam­ing the for­est floor
bare­ly reg­is­tered my pres­ence. And if I could grow claws and wings … I
could change my eyes, too.
I’d hunt­ed at dusk often enough to see how ani­mal eyes worked, how
they glowed.
Cool com­mand had my own eyes widen­ing, shifting—a tem­po­rary
blind­ness as I win­nowed between trees again, run­ning down a wide branch
and win­now­ing through the air for the next—
I land­ed, and the night for­est became bright. And the things prowl­ing on
the for­est floor below … I didn’t look at them.
No, I kept my atten­tion on win­now­ing through the trees until I was on the
out­skirts of the spot where we’d been attacked, all the while tug­ging on that
bond, search­ing for that famil­iar wall on the oth­er side of it. Then—
An arrow was stuck in the branch­es high above me. I win­nowed onto the
broad bough.
And when I yanked out that length of ash wood, when I felt my immor­tal
body quail in its pres­ence, a low snarl slipped out of me.
I hadn’t been able to count how many arrows Rhys had tak­en. How many
he’d shield­ed me from, using his own body.
I shoved the arrow into my quiver, and con­tin­ued on, cir­cling the area
until I spot­ted another—down by the pine-nee­dle car­pet.
I thought frost might have gleamed in my wake as I win­nowed in the
direc­tion the arrow would have been shot, find­ing anoth­er, and anoth­er. I
kept them all.
Until I dis­cov­ered the place where the pine branch­es were bro­ken and
shat­tered. Final­ly I smelled Rhys, and the trees around me glim­mered with
ice as I spied his blood splat­tered on the branch­es, the ground.
And ash arrows all around the site.
As if an ambush had been wait­ing, and unleashed a hail of hun­dreds, too
fast for him to detect or avoid. Espe­cial­ly if he’d been dis­tract­ed with me.
Dis­tract­ed all day.
I win­nowed in bursts through the site, care­ful not to stay on the ground
too long lest the crea­tures roam­ing near­by scent me.
He’d fall­en hard, the tracks told me. And they’d had to drag him away.
Quick­ly.
They’d tried to hide the blood trail, but even with­out his mind speak­ing
to me, I could find that scent any­where. I would find that scent any­where.
They might have been good at con­ceal­ing their tracks, but I was bet­ter.
I con­tin­ued my hunt, an ash arrow now nocked into my bow as I read the
signs.
Two dozen at least had tak­en him away, though more had been there for
the ini­tial assault. The oth­ers had win­nowed out, leav­ing lim­it­ed num­bers to
haul him toward the mountains—toward who­ev­er might be wait­ing.
They were mov­ing swift­ly. Deep­er and deep­er into the woods, toward the
slum­ber­ing giants of the Illyr­i­an Moun­tains. His blood had flowed all the
way.
Alive, it told me. He was alive—though if the wounds weren’t clot­ting …
The ash arrows were doing their work.
I’d brought down one of Tamlin’s sen­tinels with a sin­gle well-placed ash
arrow. I tried not to think about what a bar­rage of them could do. His roar
of pain echoed in my ears.
And through that mer­ci­less, unyield­ing rage, I decid­ed that if Rhys was
not alive, if he was harmed beyond repair … I didn’t care who they were
and why they had done it.
They were all dead.
Tracks veered from the main group—scouts prob­a­bly sent to find a spot
for the night. I slowed my win­now­ing, care­ful­ly trac­ing their steps now.
Two groups had split, as if try­ing to hide where they’d gone. Rhys’s scent
clung to both.
They’d tak­en his clothes, then. Because they’d known I’d track them,
seen me with him. They’d known I’d come for him. A trap—it was like­ly a
trap.
I paused at the top branch­es of a tree over­look­ing where the two groups
had cleaved, scan­ning the ground. One head­ed deep­er into the moun­tains.
One head­ed along them.
Moun­tains were Illyr­i­an territory—mountains would run the risk of being
dis­cov­ered by a patrol. They’d assume that’s where I would doubt they
would be stu­pid enough to go. They’d assume I’d think they’d keep to the
unguard­ed, unpa­trolled for­est.
I weighed my options, smelling the two paths.
They hadn’t count­ed on the small, sec­ond scent that clung there,
entwined with his.
And I didn’t let myself think about it as I win­nowed toward the moun­tain
tracks, out­rac­ing the wind. I didn’t let myself think about the fact that my
scent was on Rhys, cling­ing to him after last night. He’d changed his
clothes that morning—but the smell on his body … With­out tak­ing a bath, I
was all over him.
So I win­nowed toward him, toward me. And when the nar­row cave
appeared at the foot of a moun­tain, the faintest glim­mer of light escap­ing
from its mouth … I halt­ed.
A whip cracked.
And every word, every thought and feel­ing, went out of me. Anoth­er
whip—and anoth­er.
I slung my bow over my shoul­der and pulled out a sec­ond ash arrow. It
was quick work to bind the two arrows togeth­er, so that a tip gleamed on
either end—and to do the same for two more. And when I was done, when I
looked at the twin makeshift dag­gers in either hand, when that whip
sound­ed again … I win­nowed into the cave.
They’d picked one with a nar­row entrance that opened into a wide,
curv­ing tun­nel, set­ting up their lit­tle camp around the bend to avoid
detec­tion.
The scouts at the front—two High Fae males with unmarked armor who I
didn’t recognize—didn’t notice as I went past.
Two oth­er scouts patrolled just inside the cave mouth, watch­ing those at
the front. I was there and van­ished before they could spot me. I round­ed the
cor­ner, time slip­ping and bend­ing, and my night-dark eyes burned at the
light. I changed them, win­now­ing between one blink and the next, past the
oth­er two guards.
And when I beheld the four oth­ers in that cave, beheld the tiny fire they’d
built and what they’d already done to him … I pushed against the bond
between us—almost sob­bing as I felt that adamant wall … But there was
noth­ing behind it. Only silence.
They’d found strange chains of bluish stone to spread his arms,
sus­pend­ing him from either wall of the cave. His body sagged from them,
his back a rav­aged slab of meat. And his wings …
They’d left the ash arrows through his wings. Sev­en of them.
His back to me, only the sight of the blood run­ning down his skin told me
he was alive.
And it was enough—it was enough that I det­o­nat­ed.
I win­nowed to the two guards hold­ing twin whips.
The oth­ers around them shout­ed as I dragged my ash arrows across their
throats, deep and vicious, just like I’d done count­less times while hunt­ing.
One, two—then they were on the ground, whips limp. Before the guards
could attack, I win­nowed again to the ones near­est.
Blood sprayed.
Win­now, strike; win­now, strike.
Those wings—those beau­ti­ful, pow­er­ful wings—
The guards at the mouth of the cave had come rush­ing in.
They were the last to die.
And the blood on my hands felt dif­fer­ent from what it had been like
Under the Moun­tain. This blood … I savored. Blood for blood. Blood for
every drop they’d spilled of his.
Silence fell in the cave as their final shouts fin­ished echo­ing, and I
win­nowed in front of Rhys, shov­ing the bloody ash dag­gers into my belt. I
gripped his face. Pale—too pale.
But his eyes opened to slits and he groaned.
I didn’t say any­thing as I lunged for the chains hold­ing him, try­ing not to
notice the bloody hand­prints I’d left on him. The chains were like ice—
worse than ice. They felt wrong. I pushed past the pain and strange­ness of
them, and the weak­ness that bar­reled down my spine, and unlatched him.
His knees slammed into the rock so hard I winced, but I rushed to the
oth­er arm, still upraised. Blood flowed down his back, his front, pool­ing in
the dips between his mus­cles.
“Rhys,” I breathed. I almost dropped to my own knees as I felt a flick­er
of him behind his men­tal shields, as if the pain and exhaus­tion had reduced
it to win­dow-thin­ness. His wings, pep­pered with those arrows, remained
spread—so painful­ly taut that I winced. “Rhys—we need to win­now
home.”
His eyes opened again, and he gasped, “Can’t.”
What­ev­er poi­son was on those arrows, then his mag­ic, his strength …
But we couldn’t stay here, not when the oth­er group was near­by. So I
said, “Hold on,” and gripped his hand before I threw us into night and
smoke.
Win­now­ing was so heavy, as if all the weight of him, all that pow­er,
dragged me back. It was like wad­ing through mud, but I focused on the
for­est, on a moss-shroud­ed cave I’d seen ear­li­er that day while slak­ing my
thirst, tucked into the side of the river­bank. I’d peeked into it, and noth­ing
but leaves had been with­in. At least it was safe, if not a bit damp. Bet­ter
than being in the open—and it was our only option.
Every mile was an effort. But I kept my grip on his hand, ter­ri­fied that if I
let go, I’d leave him some­where I might nev­er be able to find, and—
And then we were there, in that cave, and he grunt­ed in agony as we
slammed into the wet, cold stone floor.
“Rhys,” I plead­ed, stum­bling in the dark—such impen­e­tra­ble dark, and
with those crea­tures around us, I didn’t risk a fire—
But he was so cold, and still bleed­ing.
I willed my eyes to shift again, and my throat tight­ened at the dam­age.
The lash­ings across his back kept drib­bling blood, but the wings … “I have
to get these arrows out.”
He grunt­ed again, hands braced on the floor. And the sight of him like
that, unable to even make a sly com­ment or half smile …
I went up to his wing. “This is going to hurt.” I clenched my jaw as I
stud­ied the way they’d pierced the beau­ti­ful mem­brane. I’d have to snap the
arrows in two and slide each end out.
No—not snap­ping. I’d have to cut it—slowly, care­ful­ly, smooth­ly, to
keep any shards and rough bits from caus­ing fur­ther dam­age. Who knew
what an ash splin­ter might do if it got stuck in there?
“Do it,” he pant­ed, his voice hoarse.
There were sev­en arrows in total: three in this wing, four in the oth­er.
They’d removed the ones from his legs, for what­ev­er reason—the wounds
already half-clot­ted.
Blood dripped on the floor.
I took the knife from where it was strapped to my thigh, stud­ied the entry
wound, and gen­tly gripped the shaft. He hissed. I paused.
“Do it,” Rhys repeat­ed, his knuck­les white as he fist­ed his hands on the
ground.
I set the small bit of ser­rat­ed edge against the arrow and began saw­ing as
gen­tly as I could. The blood-soaked mus­cles of his back shift­ed and tensed,
and his breath­ing turned sharp, uneven. Too slow—I was going too slow­ly.
But any faster and it might hurt him more, might dam­age the sen­si­tive
wing.
“Did you know,” I said over the sound of my saw­ing, “that one sum­mer,
when I was sev­en­teen, Elain bought me some paint? We’d had just enough
to spend on extra things, and she bought me and Nes­ta presents. She didn’t
have enough for a full set, but bought me red and blue and yel­low. I used
them to the last drop, stretch­ing them as much as I could, and paint­ed lit­tle
dec­o­ra­tions in our cot­tage.”
His breath heaved out of him, and I final­ly sawed through the shaft. I
didn’t let him know what I was doing before I yanked out the arrow­head in
a smooth pull.
He swore, body lock­ing up, and blood gushed out—then stopped.
I almost loosed a sigh of relief. I set to work on the next arrow.
“I paint­ed the table, the cab­i­nets, the door­way … And we had this old,
black dress­er in our room—one draw­er for each of us. We didn’t have much
cloth­ing to put in there, any­way.” I got through the sec­ond arrow faster, and
he braced him­self as I tugged it out. Blood flowed, then clot­ted. I start­ed on
the third. “I paint­ed flow­ers for Elain on her draw­er,” I said, saw­ing and
saw­ing. “Lit­tle ros­es and bego­nias and iris­es. And for Nes­ta … ” The arrow
clat­tered to the ground and I ripped out the oth­er end.
I watched the blood flow and stop—watched him slow­ly low­er the wing
to the ground, his body trem­bling.
“Nes­ta,” I said, start­ing on the oth­er wing, “I paint­ed flames for her. She
was always angry, always burn­ing. I think she and Amren would be fast
friends. I think she would like Velaris, despite her­self. And I think Elain—
Elain would like it, too. Though she’d prob­a­bly cling to Azriel, just to have
some peace and qui­et.”
I smiled at the thought—at how hand­some they would be togeth­er. If the
war­rior ever stopped qui­et­ly lov­ing Mor. I doubt­ed it. Azriel would like­ly
love Mor until he was a whis­per of dark­ness between the stars.
I fin­ished the fourth arrow and start­ed on the fifth.
Rhys’s voice was raw as he said to the floor, “What did you paint for
your­self?”
I drew out the fifth, mov­ing to the sixth before say­ing, “I paint­ed the
night sky.”
He stilled. I went on, “I paint­ed stars and the moon and clouds and just
end­less, dark sky.” I fin­ished the sixth, and was well on my way saw­ing
through the sev­enth before I said, “I nev­er knew why. I rarely went out­side
at night—usually, I was so tired from hunt­ing that I just want­ed to sleep.
But I won­der … ” I pulled out the sev­enth and final arrow. “I won­der if
some part of me knew what was wait­ing for me. That I would nev­er be a
gen­tle grow­er of things, or some­one who burned like fire—but that I would
be qui­et and endur­ing and as faceted as the night. That I would have beau­ty,
for those who knew where to look, and if peo­ple didn’t both­er to look, but
to only fear it … Then I didn’t par­tic­u­lar­ly care for them, any­way. I won­der
if, even in my despair and hope­less­ness, I was nev­er tru­ly alone. I won­der if
I was look­ing for this place—looking for you all.”
The blood stopped flow­ing, and his oth­er wing low­ered to the ground.
Slow­ly, the lash­es on his back began to clot. I walked around to where he
was bowed over the floor, hands braced on the rock, and knelt.
His head lift­ed. Pain-filled eyes, blood­less lips. “You saved me,” he
rasped.
“You can explain who they were lat­er.”

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

S OMETIME AROUND ONE IN THE morn­ing, after Har­ry had already
gone back to the hotel to check on Con­nor, Max and I were out­side in
the court­yard of a man­sion owned by the head of Para­mount. There
was a cir­cu­lar foun­tain, spray­ing water into the night sky. Max and I
sat, mar­veling at what we had accom­plished togeth­er. His limo pulled
up.
“Can I give you a ride back to your hotel?” he asked.
“Where’s your date?”
Max shrugged. “I fear she was only inter­est­ed in the tick­et to the
show.”
I laughed. “Poor Max.”
“Not poor Max,” he said, shak­ing his head. “I spent my evening
with the most beau­ti­ful woman in the world.”
I shook my head. “You are too much.”
“You look hun­gry. Come get in the car. We will get ham­burg­ers.”
“Ham­burg­ers?”
“I’m sure even Eve­lyn Hugo eats a ham­burg­er from time to time.”
Max opened the limo door and wait­ed for me to get in. “Your
char­i­ot,” he said.
I want­ed to go home and see Con­nor. I want­ed to watch the way her
mouth hung open as she slept. But the idea of get­ting a ham­burg­er
with Max Girard actu­al­ly didn’t sound so bad.
Min­utes lat­er, the limo dri­ver was try­ing to nav­i­gate the dri­ve-
through of a Jack in the Box, and Max and I decid­ed it was eas­i­er to
get out of the car and go in.
The two of us stood in line, me in my navy-blue silk gown, him in
his tux, behind two teenage boys order­ing french fries. And then,
when we got to the front of the line, the cashier screamed as if she’d
seen a mouse.
“Oh, my God!” she said. “You’re Eve­lyn Hugo.”
I laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talk­ing about,” I said. After
twen­ty-five years, that line still worked every time.
“You’re her. Eve­lyn Hugo.”
“Non­sense.”
“This is the great­est day of my life,” she said, and then she called to
the back. “Norm, you have to come see this. Eve­lyn Hugo is here. In a
gown.”
Max laughed as more and more peo­ple start­ed to stare. I was
begin­ning to feel like a caged ani­mal. It’s not some­thing you real­ly
ever get used to, being stared at in small spaces. A few of the peo­ple in
the kitchen came for­ward to look at me.
“Any chance we could get two burg­ers?” Max said. “Extra cheese
on mine, please.”
Every­one ignored him.
“Can I have your auto­graph?” the woman behind the counter asked.
“Sure,” I said kind­ly.
I was hop­ing it would be over soon, that we could get the food and
go. I start­ed sign­ing paper menus and paper hats. I signed a cou­ple of
receipts.
“We real­ly should be going,” I said. “It’s late.” But no one stopped.
They all just kept push­ing things at me.
“You won an Oscar,” an old­er woman said. “Just a few hours ago. I
saw it. I saw it myself.”
“I did, yes,” I said. I point­ed at Max with the pen in my hand. “So did
he.”
Max waved.
I signed a few more things, shook a few more hands. “OK, I real­ly
must be going,” I said.
But the mob of peo­ple crowd­ed me more.
“OK,” Max said. “Let the lady breathe.” I looked in the direc­tion of
his voice and saw him com­ing toward me, break­ing up the crowd. He
hand­ed me the burg­ers, picked me up, threw me over his shoul­der,
and walked us right out of the restau­rant and into the limo.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

49
I’ve start­ed to expe­ri­ence the rich­es of being an adult woman for the �rst time in
many years. I feel like I’ve been under­wa­ter for so long, only rarely swim­ming up
to the sur­face to gasp for air and a lit­tle food. When I regained my free­dom, that
was my cue to step out onto dry land—and, any time I want, to take vaca­tions,
sip a cock­tail, dri­ve my car, go to a resort, or stare out at the ocean.
I’ve been tak­ing it a day at a time and try­ing to be thank­ful for the lit­tle
things. I’m thank­ful that my father is not in my life. I don’t have to be scared of
him any­more. If I gain weight, it’s a relief to know that no one is going to be
there shout­ing at me, “You need to pick it up!” I get to eat choco­late again.
As soon as my father was no longer around, mak­ing me eat what he want­ed
me to eat, my body became strong and my �re came back. I had con�dence, and
I start­ed to like how I looked again. I love play­ing dress-up on Insta­gram.
I know that a lot of peo­ple don’t under­stand why I love tak­ing pic­tures of
myself naked or in new dress­es. But I think if they’d been pho­tographed by oth­er
peo­ple thou­sands of times, prod­ded and posed for oth­er people’s approval,
they’d under­stand that I get a lot of joy from pos­ing the way I feel sexy and
tak­ing my own pic­ture, doing what­ev­er I want with it. I was born into this world
naked, and I hon­est­ly feel like the weight of the world has been on my shoul­ders.
I want­ed to see myself lighter and freer. As a baby, I had my whole life in front of
me, and that’s how I feel now, like a blank slate.
I real­ly do feel reborn. Singing as I walk around at home just like I did as a
lit­tle girl, I enjoy that feel­ing of the sound leav­ing my body and bounc­ing back at
me. I’m �nding the joy again of why I want­ed to sing to begin with. That feel­ing
is sacred for me. I do it for me and for nobody else.
I keep get­ting asked when I’m going to put on shows again. I con­fess that I’m
strug­gling with that ques­tion. I’m enjoy­ing danc­ing and singing the way I used
to when I was younger and not try­ing to do it for my family’s bene�t, not try­ing
to get some­thing, but doing it for me and for my gen­uine love of it.
Only now do I feel like I’m get­ting back my trust in oth­er peo­ple and my faith in
God. I know what makes me hap­py and brings me joy. I try to med­i­tate on those
places and thoughts that enable me to expe­ri­ence it. I love beau­ti­ful places, my
sons, my hus­band, my friends, my pets. I love my fans.
When it comes to fans, peo­ple some­times ask me about my spe­cial
rela­tion­ship with the gay com­mu­ni­ty.
For me, it’s all about love—unconditional love. My gay friends were always
pro­tec­tive of me, maybe because they knew that I was kind of inno­cent. Not
dumb, but way too kind. And I think a lot of the gay guys around me took on a
sup­port­ive role. I could even feel it onstage when they were beside me. If I
thought I didn’t do my best per­for­mance, I could count on my friends to real­ize
I didn’t feel great about it and still say, “You did so good!” That kind of love
means every­thing to me.
Some of my favorite nights were when I would go out with my dancers. One
time in Europe we went to a gay club where I felt like every­one around me on
the dance �oor was so tall. The club played great elec­tro dance music and I loved
it. I danced until six o’clock in the morn­ing and felt like it went by in two
sec­onds. My heart was so alive. It was like the mys­ti­cal time in Arizona—it was a
spir­i­tu­al expe­ri­ence to be with peo­ple who I could feel loved me uncon­di­tion­al­ly.
With friends like that, it doesn’t mat­ter what you do or say or who you know.
That’s true love.
I remem­ber one time in Italy, too, I went to a show­case where some drag
artists were doing my songs. It was so amaz­ing. The artists were beau­ti­ful. They
were liv­ing in the moment and I could tell they loved to per­form. They had such
heart and dri­ve, and I respect that a lot.
Once I was freed from the con­ser­va­tor­ship, I got to go to the two vaca­tion places
that I’d missed, Maui and Can­cún. I swam in the ocean; sat out in the sun;
played with my new pup­py, Sawyer; and took boat rides with Hesam. I read a lot
and I wrote this book. While I was trav­el­ing, I found out that I was preg­nant. I’d
want­ed anoth­er baby for so many years. For a long time, Hesam and I had been
eager to start our own fam­i­ly. I have an appre­ci­a­tion for how sta­ble he is. I love
that he doesn’t even drink. He’s a gift from God. And to �nd out that he and I
were about to have a child togeth­er made me feel gid­dy.
I was also scared. When I was preg­nant with Sean Pre­ston and Jay­den, I
su�ered from depres­sion. Preg­nan­cy this time felt the same in a lot of ways—I
felt a lit­tle sick and loved food and sex—and so I won­dered if the depres­sion
would return, too. I did feel a lit­tle bit slow­er. I like to be up and with it. But my
life was so much bet­ter and I had so much sup­port that I felt con�dent I could
make it through.
Before the end of my �rst trimester, I mis­car­ried. I’d been so thrilled to be
preg­nant that I’d told the whole world, which meant I had to un-tell them. We
post­ed on Insta­gram: “It is with our deep­est sad­ness we have to announce that
we have lost our mir­a­cle baby ear­ly in the preg­nan­cy. This is a dev­as­tat­ing time
for any par­ent. Per­haps we should have wait­ed to announce until we were
fur­ther along. How­ev­er, we were over­ly excit­ed to share the good news. Our love
for each oth­er is our strength. We will con­tin­ue try­ing to expand our beau­ti­ful
fam­i­ly. We are grate­ful for all of your sup­port. We kind­ly ask for pri­va­cy dur­ing
this di�cult moment.”
I was dev­as­tat­ed to have lost the baby. Once again, though, I used music to
help me gain insight and per­spec­tive. Every song I sing or dance to lets me tell a
di�erent sto­ry and gives me a new way to escape. Lis­ten­ing to music on my
phone helps me cope with the anger and sad­ness I face as an adult.
I try not to think too much about my fam­i­ly these days, but I do won­der what
they will think of this book. Because I was silenced for thir­teen years, I won­der
if, when they see me speak­ing out, they’ve had the occa­sion­al thought, Maybe

Chap­ter 49 of “The Ten­ant of Wild­fell Hall” by Anne Bron­të deals with the final days of Arthur Hunt­ing­don’s life, as nar­rat­ed by his wife, Helen, through let­ters to her broth­er, Mr. Lawrence. Although Helen and Mr. Lawrence scarce­ly con­verse about Mrs. Hunt­ing­don direct­ly, their shared con­cern for her well-being under­pins their inter­ac­tions. Helen’s let­ters reveal Arthur’s dete­ri­o­rat­ing con­di­tion, exac­er­bat­ed by his refusal to aban­don his self-destruc­tive habits. Despite Helen’s ded­i­cat­ed care and her attempts to dilute his alco­hol, Arthur’s health suf­fers a seri­ous set­back due to his insis­tence on indulging his addic­tion.

Helen’s cor­re­spon­dence details her tire­less efforts to com­fort Arthur amidst his phys­i­cal and psy­cho­log­i­cal tor­ment, her moral and spir­i­tu­al guid­ance in the face of his despair, and her reflec­tions on death and the here­after. Arthur, trapped by the con­se­quences of his actions, oscil­lates between denial of his mor­tal­i­ty and ter­ror at the prospect of death’s final­i­ty. His pleas for Helen’s con­tin­u­ous pres­ence — a tes­ta­ment to their com­plex emo­tion­al bond — high­light his depen­den­cy on her for solace and redemp­tion. Amidst his suf­fer­ing, Arthur’s moments of clar­i­ty and remorse under­score the trag­ic waste of his life and poten­tial.

The nar­ra­tive cul­mi­nates in Arthur’s deathbed scene, where he final­ly seeks spir­i­tu­al solace, ask­ing Helen to pray for him. This request marks a poignant acknowl­edg­ment of his need for sal­va­tion, albeit in his final moments. Helen, who has remained stead­fast in her care and moral con­vic­tion through­out Arthur’s ill­ness, is depict­ed as a fig­ure of unwa­ver­ing strength and com­pas­sion, embody­ing the nov­el­’s themes of duty, for­give­ness, and the search for redemp­tion.

Through­out this chap­ter, Bron­të explores the deep psy­cho­log­i­cal tur­moil of her char­ac­ters against the stark real­i­ty of death, offer­ing a pro­found com­men­tary on moral­i­ty, the con­se­quences of one’s choic­es, and the pos­si­bil­i­ties of for­give­ness and spir­i­tu­al peace.