more equi­table and just. For now, it was enough to know that we’d avert­ed dis­as­ter. That I could look in the mir­ror each evening and hon­est­ly say I’d done my best. That I was ready for what­ev­er came next.

In Chap­ter 12, our nar­ra­tor is haunt­ed by a vivid night­mare, com­pelling her to wan­der the silent, shad­owed cor­ri­dors of the manor to cre­ate a makeshift map for her­self. Vul­ner­a­ble yet deter­mined, she marks poten­tial hide­aways and exits with crude sketch­es and Xs, a tes­ta­ment to her inabil­i­ty to read or write beyond the sim­plest let­ters. Her night­ly explo­ration is dri­ven by a pri­mal need for secu­ri­ty, a lega­cy of her human instincts in a realm of fae and mag­ic.

The dark­ness of the manor con­ceals its art from her curi­ous eyes, and she longs for a moment when the halls are emp­ty to admire the beau­ty of faerie artistry. As she ven­tures down to the entrance hall, lit only by the moon’s glow, she encoun­ters Tam­lin in his for­mi­da­ble, beast­ly form. His appear­ance is strik­ing, marked by inher­ent pow­er and wild beau­ty, yet he is wound­ed, limp­ing with blood trail­ing behind him. Their exchange is terse; she learns he has defeat­ed the Bogge, and his injuries are evi­dent though not debil­i­tat­ing.

Using a rudi­men­ta­ry map to famil­iar­ize her­self with her sur­round­ings, she inad­ver­tent­ly reveals her illit­er­a­cy to Tam­lin, who seems momen­tar­i­ly to acknowl­edge her adapt­abil­i­ty and resilience. Despite his own pain and the after­math of bat­tle, he observes her efforts to under­stand this strange place.

A vis­it to the infir­mary to attend to Tamlin’s wounds show­cas­es a deep­er, unspo­ken con­nec­tion. Through her care, she glimpses the bur­den of respon­si­bil­i­ties Tam­lin car­ries and the iso­la­tion that marks his exis­tence. Their inter­ac­tions are lay­ered, an intri­cate dance of reveal and con­ceal, each moment unveil­ing deep­er facets of their char­ac­ters and the com­plex­i­ties of their world.

The fol­low­ing day brings an unex­pect­ed inter­ac­tion with Lucien and Tam­lin, hint­ing at polit­i­cal ten­sions, fears of a blight, and lucien’s frus­tra­tion with Tam­lin’s appar­ent inac­tion. Their con­ver­sa­tion is charged, hint­ing at deep, under­ly­ing con­flicts and the crit­i­cal state of their world. Our nar­ra­tor, caught eaves­drop­ping, feigns inno­cence but is forced into a ride with Tam­lin, which turns into a moment for him to express grat­i­tude for her care and to share a glimpse of his own vul­ner­a­bil­i­ties and strengths.

Thus, this chap­ter weaves a dense fab­ric of char­ac­ter devel­op­ment, set­ting explo­ration, and plot advance­ment. It explores themes of sur­vival, duty, and the bur­geon­ing com­plex­i­ties of rela­tion­ships form­ing under the strain of exter­nal threats and inter­nal strug­gles. The inter­ac­tion between the char­ac­ters, espe­cial­ly between the nar­ra­tor and Tam­lin, hints at evolv­ing dynam­ics and the weight of untold sto­ries, per­son­al and col­lec­tive, in this faerie realm.

Chap­ter 12 details the nar­ra­tor’s tran­si­tion from med­ical res­i­den­cy to a more set­tled phase of life in Man­hat­tan, ren­o­vat­ing and mov­ing into an apart­ment and form­ing a steady rela­tion­ship with Celeste. This peri­od of new­found sta­bil­i­ty is inter­rupt­ed when the nar­ra­tor receives a call from Maeve, prompt­ing a meet­ing with Fluffy, a fig­ure from his past, at the Hun­gar­i­an Pas­try Shop. The encounter reveals Fluffy’s deep con­nec­tion to the nar­ra­tor’s fam­i­ly, her com­plex feel­ings about their shared his­to­ry, and her update on wit­ness­ing the nar­ra­tor’s moth­er alive in the Bow­ery, lead­ing to dis­cus­sions that unearth feel­ings of aban­don­ment, loss, and the nature of famil­ial oblig­a­tions.

The nar­ra­tive explores the com­plex­i­ties of mem­o­ry, the weight of past deci­sions on present rela­tion­ships, and the process of rec­on­cil­ing with one’s his­to­ry. The meet­ing with Fluffy serves as a cat­a­lyst for the nar­ra­tor to con­front unre­solved feel­ings about his moth­er’s depar­ture and her life choic­es fol­low­ing that event. The jux­ta­po­si­tion of the narrator’s new life achieve­ments against the back­drop of unre­solved fam­i­ly dynam­ics encap­su­lates the cen­tral theme of the quest for iden­ti­ty amid the echoes of the past. The chap­ter nav­i­gates through themes of for­give­ness, respon­si­bil­i­ty, and the search for redemp­tion, illus­trat­ing how the char­ac­ters’ lives are inter­wo­ven with the deci­sions made by them­selves and oth­ers. Through the con­ver­sa­tion with Fluffy, the nar­ra­tor faces the com­plex­i­ty of famil­ial love and the long shad­ows cast by the actions of fam­i­ly mem­bers, prompt­ing a reeval­u­a­tion of his under­stand­ing of his moth­er, his past, and his own path for­ward.

was, with­out inflec­tion or judg­ment, leav­ing Alice to com­pre­hend the
stom­ach-clench­ing dis­par­i­ty between the world she had grown up in and the
one she found her­self in now. In the weeks she helped Margery with the
Pack­horse Library, as bod­ies stiff­ened with cold trekked through snow or
slid on ice, deliv­er­ing books to hid­den house­holds starved for the com­fort of
fic­tion or the promise of knowl­edge, Alice’s under­stand­ing of her new
land­scape, both phys­i­cal and human, deep­ened.

The com­mu­ni­ty of Bai­leyville, Ken­tucky, revealed an intrin­sic resilience
and an unspo­ken net­work of sup­port among its moun­tains. The dif­fi­cul­ty of
their mis­sion, com­pound­ed by the hos­til­i­ty stirred by Van Cleve’s
cam­paign, did not deter them. If any­thing, it solid­i­fied Alice’s deter­mi­na­tion.
Kath­leen Bligh’s unex­pect­ed sol­i­dar­i­ty, step­ping into Beth’s shoes, not only
under­scored the library’s sig­nif­i­cance but also bridged per­son­al griev­ances
with col­lec­tive goal.

Alice’s con­fronta­tion with her own dis­place­ment, her vio­lent expul­sion from
Van Cleve’s domain, and her sub­se­quent har­bor in Margery’s rudi­men­ta­ry but
warm home under­lines a motif of refugee and asy­lum. In the stark, iso­lat­ing
chill of Ken­tuck­y’s win­ter the warmth of com­mu­nal aid and the fiery spir­it of
rebel­lion against unjust dom­i­na­tion shone through. Margery’s cab­in became
a micro­cosm of defi­ance, Ted­dy brave­ly ensconced with­in its icy exte­ri­or,
tes­ti­fy­ing to the poten­cy of resilience, the impor­tance of sov­er­eign­ty over
one’s body and fate, and the com­mu­nal bonds forged in adver­si­ty.

The book dri­ve, though marred by soci­etal skep­ti­cism and out­right
antag­o­nism, revealed under­cur­rents of sol­i­dar­i­ty and an unyield­ing thirst for
knowl­edge or mere escapism among the denizens of Bai­leyville. Despite the
mate­r­i­al hard­ships, the intan­gi­ble rewards of their endeav­or — Kath­leen’s
reawak­en­ing, the silent grat­i­tude of iso­lat­ed read­ers, the per­son­al growth
Alice expe­ri­enced — paint­ed a vivid pic­ture of defi­ance and hope amidst
adver­si­ty.

The cor­ro­sive influ­ence of Van Cleve, rep­re­sent­ing an oppres­sive sta­tus
quo, fur­ther reflect­ed the broad­er strug­gle for auton­o­my and respect faced
by women and the under­priv­i­leged. Alice, in her repu­di­a­tion of Van Cleve’s bribe and her defense of her auton­o­my, sym­bol­ized a broad­er fight against
patri­ar­chal con­trol and social con­ser­vatism. The Pack­horse Library, thus,
became not just a vehi­cle for dis­trib­ut­ing lit­er­a­ture but a ban­ner for the
fight against igno­rance, oppres­sion, and the silenc­ing of dis­sent­ing voic­es.

Jan­u­ary, in its bit­ing, oppres­sive cold, served as a back­drop to a nar­ra­tive
of inter­nal warmth, com­mu­ni­ty sup­port, and the bat­tle for intel­lec­tu­al and
fem­i­nine lib­er­a­tion. The Pack­horse Library, with its rag­tag band of defi­ant
librar­i­ans, stood as a tes­ta­ment to the pow­er of the writ­ten word and the
endur­ing human spir­it in the face of daunt­ing adver­si­ty.

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.

TWELVE
Even though I had resigned myself to mind­ing my own busi­ness about
Nina’s men­tal health his­to­ry, I can’t help but won­der. I work for this
woman. I live with this woman.
And there’s some­thing else strange about Nina. Like this morn­ing as
I’m clean­ing the mas­ter bath­room, I can’t help but think nobody with good
men­tal health could leave the bath­room in this sort of disorder—the tow­els
on the floor, the tooth­paste hug­ging the basin of the sink. I know depres­sion
can some­times make peo­ple unmo­ti­vat­ed to clean up. But Nina moti­vates
her­self enough to get out and about every day, wher­ev­er she goes.
The worst thing was find­ing a used tam­pon on the floor a few days ago.
A used, bloody tam­pon. I want­ed to throw up.
While I’m scrub­bing the tooth­paste and the globs of make­up adhered to
the sink, my eyes stray to the med­i­cine cab­i­net. If Nina’s actu­al­ly “nuts,”
she’s prob­a­bly on med­ica­tion, right? But I can’t look in the med­i­cine
cab­i­net. That would be a mas­sive vio­la­tion of trust.
But then again, it’s not like any­one would know if I took a look. Just a
quick look.
I look out at the bed­room. Nobody is in there. I peek around the cor­ner
just to make absolute­ly sure. I’m alone. I go back into the bath­room and
after a moment of hes­i­ta­tion, I nudge the med­i­cine cab­i­net open.
Wow, there are a lot of med­ica­tions in here.
I pick up one of the orange pill bot­tles. The name on it is Nina
Win­ches­ter. I read off the name of the med­ica­tion: haloperi­dol. What­ev­er
that is.
I start to pick up a sec­ond pill bot­tle when a voice floats down the
hall­way: “Mil­lie? Are you in there?”
Oh no.
I hasti­ly stuff the bot­tle back in the cab­i­net and slam it shut. My heart is
rac­ing, and a cold sweat breaks out on my palms. I plas­ter a smile on my
face just in time for Nina to burst into the bed­room, wear­ing a white
sleeve­less blouse and white jeans. She stops short when she sees me in the
bath­room.
“What are you doing?” she asks me.
“I’m clean­ing the bath­room.” I’m not look­ing at your med­ica­tions,
that’s for sure.
Nina squints at me, and for a moment, I’m cer­tain she’s going to accuse
me of going through the med­i­cine cab­i­net. And I’m a hor­ri­ble liar, so she’ll
almost cer­tain­ly know the truth. But then her eyes fall on the sink.
“How do you clean the sink?” she asks.
“Um.” I lift the spray bot­tle in my hand. “I use this sink clean­er.”
“Is it organ­ic?”
“I…” I look at the bot­tle I picked up at the gro­cery store last week. “No.
It isn’t.”
Nina’s face falls. “I real­ly pre­fer organ­ic clean­ing prod­ucts, Mil­lie. They
don’t have as many chem­i­cals. You know what I mean?”
“Right…” I don’t say what I’m think­ing, which is I can’t believe a
woman who is tak­ing that many med­ica­tions is con­cerned about a few
chem­i­cals in a clean­ing prod­uct. I mean, yes, it’s in her sink, but she’s not
ingest­ing it. It’s not going into her blood­stream.
“I just feel like…” She frowns. “You aren’t doing a good job get­ting the
sink clean. Can I watch how you’re doing it? I’d like to see what you’re
doing wrong.”
She wants to watch me clean her sink? “Okay…”
I spray more of the prod­uct in her sink and scrub at the porce­lain until
the tooth­paste residue van­ish­es. I glance over at Nina, who is nod­ding
thought­ful­ly.
“That’s fine,” she says. “I guess the real ques­tion is how are you
clean­ing the sink when I’m not watch­ing you.”
“Um, the same?”
“Hmm. I high­ly doubt that.” She rolls her eyes. “Any­way, I don’t have
time to super­vise your clean­ing all day. Try to make sure to do a thor­ough

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
12
Dur­ing that first week back, I wasn’t allowed out of sight of the house.
Some name­less threat had bro­ken onto the lands, and Tam­lin and Lucien
were called away to deal with it. I asked my friend to tell me what it was,
yet … Lucien had that look he always did when he want­ed to, but his
loy­al­ty to Tam­lin got in the way. So I didn’t ask again.
While they were gone, Ianthe returned—to keep me com­pa­ny, pro­tect
me, I don’t know.
She was the only one allowed in. The semi-per­ma­nent gag­gle of Spring
Court lords and ladies at the manor had been dis­missed, along with their
per­son­al ser­vants. I was grate­ful for it, that I no longer would run into them
while walk­ing the halls of the manor, or the gar­dens, and have to dredge up
a mem­o­ry of their names, per­son­al his­to­ries, no longer have to endure them
try­ing not to stare at the tat­too, but … I knew Tam­lin had liked hav­ing them
around. Knew some of them were indeed old friends, knew he liked the
manor being full of sound and laugh­ter and chat­ter. Yet I’d found they all
talked to each oth­er like they were spar­ring part­ners. Pret­ty words mask­ing
sharp-edged insults.
I was glad for the silence—even as it became a weight on me, even as it
filled my head until there was noth­ing inside of it beyond … empti­ness.
Eter­ni­ty. Was this to be my eter­ni­ty?
I was burn­ing through books every day—stories about peo­ple and places
I’d nev­er heard of. They were per­haps the only thing that kept me from
tee­ter­ing into utter despair.
Tam­lin returned eight days lat­er, brush­ing a kiss over my brow and
look­ing me over, and then head­ed into the study. Where Ianthe had news for
him.
That I was also not to hear.
Alone in the hall, watch­ing as the hood­ed priest­ess led him toward the
dou­ble doors at its oth­er end, a glim­mer of red—
My body tensed, instinct roar­ing through me as I whirled—
Not Ama­ran­tha.
Lucien.
The red hair was his, not hers. I was here, not in that dun­geon—
My friend’s eyes—both met­al and flesh—were fixed on my hands.
Where my nails were grow­ing, curv­ing. Not into talons of shad­ow, but
claws that had shred­ded through my under­gar­ments time and again—
Stop stop stop stop stop—
It did.
Like blow­ing out a can­dle, the claws van­ished into a wisp of shad­ow.
Lucien’s gaze slid to Tam­lin and Ianthe, unaware of what had hap­pened,
and then he silent­ly inclined his head, motion­ing for me to fol­low.
We took the sweep­ing stairs to the sec­ond lev­el, the halls desert­ed. I
didn’t look at the paint­ings flank­ing either side. Didn’t look beyond the
tow­er­ing win­dows to the bright gar­dens.
We passed my bed­room door, passed his own—until we entered a small
study on the sec­ond lev­el, most­ly left unused.
He shut the door after I’d entered the room, and leaned against the wood
pan­el.
“How long have the claws been appear­ing?” he said soft­ly.
“That was the first time.” My voice rang hol­low and dull in my ears.
Lucien sur­veyed me—the vibrant fuch­sia gown Ianthe had select­ed that
morn­ing, the face I didn’t both­er to set into a pleas­ant expres­sion …
“There’s only so much I can do,” he said hoarse­ly. “But I’ll ask him
tonight. About the train­ing. The pow­ers will man­i­fest whether we train you
or not, no mat­ter who is around. I’ll ask him tonight,” he repeat­ed.
I already knew what the answer would be, though.
Lucien didn’t stop me as I opened the door he’d been lean­ing against and
left with­out anoth­er word. I slept until din­ner, roused myself enough to eat
—and when I went down­stairs, the raised voic­es of Tam­lin, Lucien, and
Ianthe sent me right back to the steps.
They will hunt her, and kill her, Ianthe had hissed at Lucien.
Lucien had growled back, They’ll do it any­way, so what’s the dif­fer­ence?
The dif­fer­ence, Ianthe had seethed, lies in us hav­ing the advan­tage of this
knowledge—it won’t be Feyre alone who is tar­get­ed for the gifts stolen from
those High Lords. Your chil­dren, she then said to Tam­lin, will also have
such pow­er. Oth­er High Lords will know that. And if they do not kill Feyre
out­right, then they might real­ize what they stand to gain if gift­ed with
off­spring from her, too.
My stom­ach had turned over at the impli­ca­tion. That I might be stolen—
and kept—for … breed­ing. Sure­ly … sure­ly no High Lord would go so far.
If they were to do that, Lucien had coun­tered, none of the oth­er High
Lords would stand with them. They would face the wrath of six courts
bear­ing down on them. No one is that stu­pid.
Rhysand is that stu­pid, Ianthe had spat. And with that pow­er of his, he
could poten­tial­ly with­stand it. Imag­ine, she said, voice soft­en­ing as she had
no doubt turned to Tam­lin, a day might come when he does not return her.
You hear the poi­soned lies he whis­pers in her ear. There are oth­er ways
around it, she had added with such qui­et ven­om. We might not be able to
deal with him, but there are some friends that I made across the sea …
We are not assas­sins, Lucien had cut in. Rhys is what he is, but who
would take his place—
My blood went cold, and I could have sworn ice frost­ed my fin­ger­tips.
Lucien had gone on, his tone plead­ing, Tam­lin. Tam. Just let her train, let
her mas­ter this—if the oth­er High Lords do come for her, let her stand a
chance …
Silence fell as they let Tam­lin con­sid­er.
My feet began mov­ing the moment I heard the first word out of his
mouth, bare­ly more than a growl. No.
With each step up the stairs, I heard the rest.
We give them no rea­son to sus­pect she might have any abil­i­ties, which
train­ing will sure­ly do. Don’t give me that look, Lucien.
Silence again.
Then a vicious snarl, and a shud­der of mag­ic rocked the house.
Tamlin’s voice had been low, dead­ly. Do not push me on this.
I didn’t want to know what was hap­pen­ing in that room, what he’d done
to Lucien, what Lucien had even looked like to cause that pulse of pow­er.
I locked the door to my bed­room and did not both­er to eat din­ner at all.
Tam­lin didn’t seek me out that night. I won­dered if he, Ianthe, and Lucien
were still debat­ing my future and the threats against me.
There were sen­tries out­side of my bed­room the fol­low­ing after­noon—
when I final­ly dragged myself from bed.
Accord­ing to them, Tam­lin and Lucien were already holed up in his
study. With­out Tamlin’s courtiers pok­ing around, the manor was again
silent as I, with­out any­thing else to do, head­ed to walk the gar­den paths I’d
fol­lowed so many times I was sur­prised the pale dirt wasn’t per­ma­nent­ly
etched with my foot­prints.
Only my steps sound­ed in the shin­ing halls as I passed guard after guard,
armed to the teeth and try­ing their best not to gawk at me. Not one spoke to
me. Even the ser­vants had tak­en to keep­ing to their quar­ters unless
absolute­ly nec­es­sary.
Maybe I’d become too sloth­ful; maybe my laz­ing about made me more
prone to these out­bursts. Any­one might have seen me yes­ter­day.
And though we’d nev­er spo­ken of it … Ianthe knew. About the pow­ers.
How long had she been aware? The thought of Tam­lin telling her …
My silk slip­pers scuffed on the mar­ble stairs, the chif­fon trail of my green
gown slith­er­ing behind me.
Such silence. Too much silence.
I need­ed to get out of this house. Need­ed to do some­thing. If the vil­lagers
didn’t want my help, then fine. I could do oth­er things. What­ev­er they were.
I was about to turn down the hall that led to the study, deter­mined to ask
Tam­lin if there was any task that I might per­form, ready to beg him, when
the study doors flung open and Tam­lin and Lucien emerged, both heav­i­ly
armed. No sign of Ianthe.
“You’re going so soon?” I said, wait­ing for them to reach the foy­er.
Tamlin’s face was a grim mask as they approached. “There’s activ­i­ty on
the west­ern sea bor­der. I have to go.” The one clos­est to Hybern.
“Can I come with you?” I’d nev­er asked it out­right, but—
Tam­lin paused. Lucien con­tin­ued past, through the open front doors of
the house, bare­ly able to hide his wince. “I’m sor­ry,” Tam­lin said, reach­ing
for me. I stepped out of his grip. “It’s too dan­ger­ous.”
“I know how to remain hid­den. Just—take me with you.”
“I won’t risk our ene­mies get­ting their hands on you.” What ene­mies?
Tell me—tell me some­thing.
I stared over his shoul­der, toward where Lucien lin­gered in the grav­el
beyond the house entrance. No hors­es. I sup­posed they weren’t nec­es­sary
this time, when they were faster with­out them. But maybe I could keep up.
Maybe I’d wait until they left and—
“Don’t even think about it,” Tam­lin warned.
My atten­tion snapped to his face.
He growled, “Don’t even try to come after us.”
“I can fight,” I tried again. A half-truth. A knack for sur­vival wasn’t the
same as trained skill. “Please.”
I’d nev­er hat­ed a word more.
He shook his head, cross­ing the foy­er to the front doors.
I fol­lowed him, blurt­ing, “There will always be some threat. There will
always be some con­flict or ene­my or some­thing that keeps me in here.”
He slowed to a stop just inside the tow­er­ing oak doors, so lov­ing­ly
restored after Amarantha’s cronies had trashed them. “You can bare­ly sleep
through the night,” he said care­ful­ly.
I retort­ed, “Nei­ther can you.”
But he just plowed ahead, “You can bare­ly han­dle being around oth­er
peo­ple—”
“You promised.” My voice cracked. And I didn’t care that I was beg­ging.
“I need to get out of this house.”
“Have Bron take you and Ianthe on a ride—”
“I don’t want to go for a ride!” I splayed my arms. “I don’t want to go for
a ride, or a pic­nic, or pick wild­flow­ers. I want to do some­thing. So take me
with you.”
That girl who had need­ed to be pro­tect­ed, who had craved sta­bil­i­ty and
com­fort … she had died Under the Moun­tain. I had died, and there had
been no one to pro­tect me from those hor­rors before my neck snapped. So I
had done it myself. And I would not, could not, yield that part of me that
had awok­en and trans­formed Under the Moun­tain. Tam­lin had got­ten his
pow­ers back, had become whole again—become that pro­tec­tor and provider
he wished to be.
I was not the human girl who need­ed cod­dling and pam­per­ing, who
want­ed lux­u­ry and eas­i­ness. I didn’t know how to go back to crav­ing those
things. To being docile.
Tamlin’s claws punched out. “Even if I risked it, your untrained abil­i­ties
ren­der your pres­ence more of a lia­bil­i­ty than any­thing.”
It was like being hit with stones—so hard I could feel myself crack­ing.
But I lift­ed my chin and said, “I’m com­ing along whether you want me to
or not.”
“No, you aren’t.” He strode right through the door, his claws slash­ing the
air at his sides, and was halfway down the steps before I reached the
thresh­old.
Where I slammed into an invis­i­ble wall.
I stag­gered back, try­ing to reorder my mind around the impos­si­bil­i­ty of
it. It was iden­ti­cal to the one I’d built that day in the study, and I searched
inside the shards of my soul, my heart, for a teth­er to that shield, won­der­ing
if I’d blocked myself, but—there was no pow­er ema­nat­ing from me.
I reached a hand to the open air of the door­way. And met sol­id resis­tance.
“Tam­lin,” I rasped.
But he was already down the front dri­ve, walk­ing toward the loom­ing
iron gates. Lucien remained at the foot of the stairs, his face so, so pale.
“Tam­lin,” I said again, push­ing against the wall.
He didn’t turn.
I slammed my hand into the invis­i­ble bar­ri­er. No movement—nothing but
hard­ened air. And I had not learned about my own pow­ers enough to try to
push through, to shat­ter it … I had let him con­vince me not to learn those
things for his sake—
“Don’t both­er try­ing,” Lucien said soft­ly, as Tam­lin cleared the gates and
vanished—winnowed. “He shield­ed the entire house around you. Oth­ers
can go in and out, but you can’t. Not until he lifts the shield.”
He’d locked me in here.
I hit the shield again. Again.
Noth­ing.
“Just—be patient, Feyre,” Lucien tried, winc­ing as he fol­lowed after
Tam­lin. “Please. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try again.”
I bare­ly heard him over the roar in my ears. Didn’t wait to see him pass
the gates and win­now, too.
He’d locked me in. He’d sealed me inside this house.
I hur­tled for the near­est win­dow in the foy­er and shoved it open. A cool
spring breeze rushed in—and I shoved my hand through it—only for my
fin­gers to bounce off an invis­i­ble wall. Smooth, hard air pushed against my
skin.
Breath­ing became dif­fi­cult.
I was trapped.
I was trapped inside this house. I might as well have been Under the
Moun­tain; I might as well have been inside that cell again—
I backed away, my steps too light, too fast, and slammed into the oak
table in the cen­ter of the foy­er. None of the near­by sen­tries came to
inves­ti­gate.
He’d trapped me in here; he’d locked me up.
I stopped see­ing the mar­ble floor, or the paint­ings on the walls, or the
sweep­ing stair­case loom­ing behind me. I stopped hear­ing the chirp­ing of
the spring birds, or the sigh­ing of the breeze through the cur­tains.
And then crush­ing black pound­ed down and rose up from beneath,
devour­ing and roar­ing and shred­ding.
It was all I could do to keep from scream­ing, to keep from shat­ter­ing into
ten thou­sand pieces as I sank onto the mar­ble floor, bow­ing over my knees,
and wrapped my arms around myself.
He’d trapped me; he’d trapped me; he’d trapped me—
I had to get out, because I’d bare­ly escaped from anoth­er prison once
before, and this time, this time—
Win­now­ing. I could van­ish into noth­ing but air and appear some­where
else, some­where open and free. I fum­bled for my pow­er, for any­thing,
some­thing that might show me the way to do it, the way out. Noth­ing. There
was noth­ing and I had become noth­ing, and I couldn’t ever get out—
Some­one was shout­ing my name from far away.
Alis—Alis.
But I was ensconced in a cocoon of dark­ness and fire and ice and wind, a
cocoon that melt­ed the ring off my fin­ger until the gold­en ore dripped away
into the void, the emer­ald tum­bling after it. I wrapped that rag­ing force
around myself as if it could keep the walls from crush­ing me entire­ly, and
maybe, maybe buy me the tini­est sip of air—
I couldn’t get out; I couldn’t get out; I couldn’t get out—
Slen­der, strong hands gripped me under the shoul­ders.
I didn’t have the strength to fight them off.
One of those hands moved to my knees, the oth­er to my back, and then I
was being lift­ed, held against what was unmis­tak­ably a female body.
I couldn’t see her, didn’t want to see her.
Ama­ran­tha.
Come to take me away again; come to kill me at last.
There were words being spo­ken around me. Two women.
Nei­ther of them … nei­ther of them was Ama­ran­tha.
“Please—please take care of her.” Alis.
From right by my ear, the oth­er replied, “Con­sid­er your­selves very, very
lucky that your High Lord was not here when we arrived. Your guards will
have one hell of a headache when they wake up, but they’re alive. Be
grate­ful.” Mor.
Mor held me—carried me.
The dark­ness gut­tered long enough that I could draw breath, that I could
see the gar­den door she walked toward. I opened my mouth, but she peered
down at me and said, “Did you think his shield would keep us from you?
Rhys shat­tered it with half a thought.”
But I didn’t spy Rhys anywhere—not as the dark­ness swirled back in. I
clung to her, try­ing to breathe, to think.
“You’re free,” Mor said tight­ly. “You’re free.”
Not safe. Not pro­tect­ed.
Free.
She car­ried me beyond the gar­den, into the fields, up a hill, down it, and
into—into a cave—
I must have start­ed buck­ing and thrash­ing in her arms, because she said,
“You’re out; you’re free,” again and again and again as true dark­ness
swal­lowed us.
Half a heart­beat lat­er, she emerged into sunlight—bright, straw­ber­ry-and-
grass-scent­ed sun­light. I had a thought that this might be Sum­mer, then—
Then a low, vicious growl split the air before us, cleav­ing even my
dark­ness.
“I did every­thing by the book,” Mor said to the own­er of that growl.

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.

A MAN HITS YOU ONCE and apol­o­gizes, and you think it will nev­er
hap­pen again.
But then you tell him you’re not sure you ever want a fam­i­ly, and he
hits you once more. You tell your­self it’s under­stand­able, what he did.
You were sort of rude, the way you said it. You do want a fam­i­ly
some­day. You tru­ly do. You’re just not sure how you’re going to
man­age it with your movies. But you should have been more clear.
The next morn­ing, he apol­o­gizes and brings you flow­ers. He gets
down on his knees.
The third time, it’s a dis­agree­ment about whether to go out to
Romanoff’s or stay in. Which, you real­ize when he push­es you into the
wall behind you, is actu­al­ly about the image of your mar­riage to the
pub­lic.
The fourth time, it’s after you both lose at the Oscars. You are in a
silk, emer­ald-green, one-shoul­der dress. He’s in a tux with tails. He has
too much to drink at the after-par­ties, try­ing to nurse his wounds.
You’re in the front seat of the car in your dri­ve­way, about to go inside.
He’s upset that he lost.
You tell him it’s OK.
He tells you that you don’t under­stand.
You remind him that you lost, too.
He says, “Yeah, but your par­ents are trash from Long Island. No
one expects any­thing from you.”
You know you shouldn’t, but you say, “I’m from Hell’s Kitchen, you
ass­hole.”
He opens the parked car’s door and push­es you out.
When he comes crawl­ing to you in tears the next morn­ing, you
don’t actu­al­ly believe him any­more. But now this is just what you do.
The same way you fix the hole in your dress with a safe­ty pin or
tape up the crack in a win­dow.
That’s the part I was stuck in, the part where you accept the
apol­o­gy because it’s eas­i­er than address­ing the root of the prob­lem,
when Har­ry Cameron came to my dress­ing room and told me the
good news. Lit­tle Women was get­ting the green light.
“It’s you as Jo, Ruby Reil­ly as Meg, Joy Nathan as Amy, and Celia St.
James is play­ing Beth.”
“Celia St. James? From Olympian Stu­dios?”
Har­ry nod­ded. “What’s with the frown? I thought you’d be thrilled.”
“Oh,” I said, turn­ing fur­ther toward him. “I am. I absolute­ly am.”
“You don’t like Celia St. James?”
I smiled at him. “That teenage bitch is gonna act me under the
table.”
Har­ry threw his head back and laughed.
Celia St. James had made head­lines ear­li­er in the year. At the age of
nine­teen, she played a young wid­owed moth­er in a war-peri­od piece.
Every­one said she was sure to be nom­i­nat­ed next year. Exact­ly the
sort of per­son the stu­dio would want play­ing Beth.
And exact­ly the sort of per­son Ruby and I would hate.
“You’re twen­ty-one years old, you’re mar­ried to the biggest movie
star there is right now, and you were just nom­i­nat­ed for an Acad­e­my
Award, Eve­lyn.”
Har­ry had a point, but so did I. Celia was going to be a prob­lem.
“It’s OK. I’m ready. I’m gonna give the best god­damn per­for­mance
of my life, and when peo­ple watch the movie, they are going to say,
‘Beth who? Oh, the mid­dle sis­ter who dies? What about her?’ ”
“I have absolute­ly no doubt,” Har­ry said, putting his arm around
me. “You’re fab­u­lous, Eve­lyn. The whole world knows it.”
I smiled. “You real­ly think so?”
This is some­thing that every­one should know about stars. We like
to be told we are adored, and we want you to repeat your­self. Lat­er in
my life, peo­ple would always come up to me and say, “I’m sure you
don’t want to hear me blab­ber­ing on about how great you are,” and I
always say, as if I’m jok­ing, “Oh, one more time won’t hurt.” But the
truth is, praise is just like an addic­tion. The more you get it, the more
of it you need just to stay even.
“Yes,” he said. “I real­ly think so.”
I stood up from my chair to give Har­ry a hug, but as I did, the
light­ing high­light­ed my upper cheek­bone, the round­ed spot just below
my eye.
I watched as Harry’s gaze ran across my face.
He could see the light bruise I was hid­ing, could see the pur­ple and
blue under the sur­face of my skin, bleed­ing through the pan­cake
make­up.
“Eve­lyn  .  .  .” he said. He put his thumb up to my face, as if he
need­ed to feel it to know it was real.
“Har­ry, don’t.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“No, you won’t.”
“We’re best friends, Eve­lyn. Me and you.”
“I know,” I said. “I know that.”
“You said best friends tell each oth­er every­thing.”
“And you knew it was bull­shit when I said it.”
I stared at him as he stared at me.
“Let me help,” he said. “What can I do?”
“You can make sure I look bet­ter than Celia, bet­ter than all of ’em,
in the dailies.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“But it’s all you can do.”
“Eve­lyn . . .”
I kept my upper lip stiff. “There’s no move here, Har­ry.”
He under­stood what I meant. I couldn’t leave Don Adler.
“I could talk to Ari.”
“I love him,” I said, turn­ing away and clip­ping my ear­rings on.
It was the truth. Don and I had prob­lems, but so did a lot of peo­ple.
And he was the only man who had ever ignit­ed some­thing in me.
Some­times I hat­ed myself for want­i­ng him, for find­ing myself
bright­en­ing up when his atten­tion was on me, for still need­ing his
approval. But I did. I loved him, and I want­ed him in my bed. And I
want­ed to stay in the spot­light.

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.

12
When I think back on that time, I was tru­ly liv­ing the dream, liv­ing my dream.
My tours took me all over the world. One of my hap­pi­est moments on tour was
play­ing the music fes­ti­val Rock in Rio 3, in Jan­u­ary 2001.
In Brazil, I felt lib­er­at­ed, like a child in some ways—a woman and a child all
in one. I was fear­less at that point, �lled with a rush and a dri­ve.
At night my dancers—there were eight of them, two girls, the rest guys—and
I went skin­ny-dip­ping in the ocean, singing and danc­ing and laugh­ing with each
oth­er. We talked for hours under the moon. It was so beau­ti­ful. Exhaust­ed, we
head­ed into the steam rooms, where we talked some more.
I was able to be a lit­tle bit sin­ful then—skinny-dipping, stay­ing up talk­ing all
night—nothing over the top. It was a taste of rebel­lion, and free­dom, but I was
just hav­ing fun and being a nine­teen-year-old.
The Dream With­in a Dream Tour, right after my album Brit­ney came out in the
fall of 2001, was my fourth tour and one of my favorites. Every night onstage, I
bat­tled a mir­ror ver­sion of myself, which felt like it was prob­a­bly a metaphor for
some­thing. But that mir­ror act was just one song. There was also �ying! And an
Egypt­ian barge! And a jun­gle! Lasers! Snow!
Wade Rob­son direct­ed and chore­o­graphed it, and I give great cred­it to the
peo­ple who put it togeth­er. I thought it was well con­ceived. Wade had this
con­cept of the show as re�ecting a new, more mature phase in my life. The set
and cos­tumes were so clever. When some­one knew just how to style me, I was
always grate­ful.
They were shrewd about how they pre­sent­ed me as a star, and I know that I
owe them. The way they cap­tured me showed they respect­ed me as an artist. The
minds behind that tour were bril­liant. It was by far my best tour.
It was what we all had hoped for. I had worked so hard to get to that point.
I’d done mall tours before Baby was released, then the Baby tour was the �rst
time I got to see a lot of peo­ple out there in the crowd. I remem­ber feel­ing like,
Oh, wow, I’m some­body now. Then Oops! was a lit­tle bit big­ger, so by the time I
did the Dream With­in a Dream Tour, it was all mag­ic.
By the spring of 2002, I had host­ed SNL twice, play­ing a but­ter churn girl at a
colo­nial reen­act­ment muse­um oppo­site Jim­my Fal­lon and Rachel Dratch and
then play­ing Barbie’s lit­tle sis­ter, Skip­per, oppo­site Amy Poehler as Bar­bie. I was
the youngest per­son to host and per­form as the musi­cal guest in the same
episode.
Around that time, I was asked if I’d like to be in a movie musi­cal. I wasn’t
sure I want­ed to act again after Cross­roads, but I was tempt­ed by this one. It was
Chica­go.
Exec­u­tives involved in the pro­duc­tion came to a venue where I was
per­form­ing and asked if I want­ed to do it. I’d turned down three or four movies,
because I was in my moment with the stage show. I didn’t want to be dis­tract­ed
from music. I was hap­py doing what I was doing.
But I look back now and I think, when it came to Chica­go, I should’ve done
it. I had pow­er back then; I wish I’d used it more thought­ful­ly, been more
rebel­lious. Chica­go would have been fun. It’s all dance pieces—my favorite kind:
pris­sy, girly fol­lies, Pussy­cat Doll–like, serve‑o�-your-corset moves. I wish I’d
tak­en that o�er.
I would have got­ten to play a vil­lain who kills a man, and sings and dances
while doing it, too.
I prob­a­bly could have found ways, got­ten train­ing, to keep from becom­ing a
Chica­go char­ac­ter the way I had with Lucy in Cross­roads. I wish I’d tried
some­thing di�erent. If only I’d been brave enough not to stay in my safe zone,
done more things that weren’t just with­in what I knew. But I was com­mit­ted to
not rock­ing the boat, and to not com­plain­ing even when some­thing upset me.
In my per­son­al life, I was so hap­py. Justin and I lived togeth­er in Orlan­do. We
shared a gor­geous, airy two-sto­ry house with a tile roof and a swim­ming pool out
back. Even though we were both work­ing a lot, we’d make time to be home
togeth­er as often as we could. I always came back every few months so Justin and
I could be togeth­er for two weeks, some­times even two months, at a time. That
was our home base.
One week, when Jamie Lynn was young, my fam­i­ly �ew out to see us. We all
went to FAO Schwarz at Pointe Orlan­do. They closed down the whole store for
us. My sis­ter got a minia­ture con­vert­ible car that had actu­al doors that opened. It
was in between a real car and a go-kart. Some­how we got it back to Kent­wood,
and she drove it around the neigh­bor­hood until she out­grew it.
That child in that car was unlike any­thing else—this adorable lit­tle girl,
dri­ving around in a minia­ture red Mer­cedes. It was the cutest thing you could’ve
ever seen in your entire life. I swear to God, the vision was unbe­liev­able.
That’s how we all were with Jamie Lynn: You see it, you like it, you want it,
you got it. As far as I could tell, her world was the Ari­ana Grande song “7 Rings”
come to life. (When I was grow­ing up, we didn’t have any mon­ey. My prized
pos­ses­sions were my Madame Alexan­der dolls. There were dozens to choose
from. Their eye­lids went up and down, and they all had names. Some were
�ction­al char­ac­ters or his­tor­i­cal �gures—like Scar­lett O’Hara or Queen
Eliz­a­beth. I had the girls from Lit­tle Women. When I got my �fteenth doll, you
would’ve thought I’d hit the lot­tery!)
That was a good time in my life. I was so in love with Justin, just smit­ten. I
don’t know if when you’re younger love’s a di�erent thing, but what Justin and
I had was spe­cial. He wouldn’t even have to say any­thing or do any­thing for me
to feel close to him.
In the South, moms love to round up the kids and say, “Lis­ten, we’re going to
go to church today, and we’re all going to col­or-coor­di­nate.” That’s what I did
when Justin and I attend­ed the 2001 Amer­i­can Music Awards, which I cohost­ed
with LL Cool J. I still can’t believe that Justin was going to wear den­im and I
said, “We should match! Let’s do den­im-on-den­im!”
At �rst, hon­est­ly, I thought it was a joke. I didn’t think my styl­ist was actu­al­ly
going to do it, and I nev­er thought Justin was going to do it with me. But they
both went all in.
The styl­ist brought Justin’s all-den­im out�t, includ­ing a den­im hat to match
his den­im jack­et and den­im pants. When he put it on, I thought, Whoa! I guess
we’re real­ly doing this!
Justin and I were always going to events togeth­er. We had so much fun doing
the Teen Choice Awards, and we often col­or-coor­di­nat­ed our out�ts. But with
the match­ing den­im, we blew it up. That night my corset had me sucked in so
tight under my den­im gown, I was about to fall over.
I get that it was tacky, but it was also pret­ty great in its way, and I am always
hap­py to see it par­o­died as a Hal­loween cos­tume. I’ve heard Justin get �ak for
the look. On one pod­cast where they were teas­ing him about it, he said, “You do
a lot of things when you’re young and in love.” And that’s exact­ly right. We were
gid­dy, and those out�ts re�ected that.
There were a cou­ple of times dur­ing our rela­tion­ship when I knew Justin had
cheat­ed on me. Espe­cial­ly because I was so infat­u­at­ed and so in love, I let it go,
even though the tabloids seemed deter­mined to rub my face in it. When
NSYNC went to Lon­don in 2000, pho­tog­ra­phers caught him with one of the
girls from All Saints in a car. But I nev­er said any­thing. At the time we’d only
been togeth­er for a year.
Anoth­er time, we were in Vegas, and one of my dancers who’d been hang­ing
out with him told me he’d ges­tured toward a girl and said, “Yeah, man, I hit that
last night.” I don’t want to say who he was talk­ing about because she’s actu­al­ly
very pop­u­lar and she’s mar­ried with kids now. I don’t want her to feel bad.
My friend was shocked and believed Justin was only say­ing it because he was
high and felt like brag­ging. There were rumors about him with var­i­ous dancers
and groupies. I let it all go, but clear­ly, he’d slept around. It was one of those
things where you know but you just don’t say any­thing.
So I did, too. Not a lot—one time, with Wade Rob­son. We were out one
night and we went to a Span­ish bar. We danced and danced. I made out with
him that night.
I was loy­al to Justin for years, only had eyes for him with that one excep­tion,
which I admit­ted to him. That night was chalked up to some­thing that will
hap­pen when you’re as young as we were, and Justin and I moved past it and
stayed togeth­er. I thought we were going to be togeth­er for­ev­er. I hoped we
would be.
At one point when we were dat­ing, I became preg­nant with Justin’s baby. It
was a sur­prise, but for me it wasn’t a tragedy. I loved Justin so much. I always
expect­ed us to have a fam­i­ly togeth­er one day. This would just be much ear­li­er
than I’d antic­i­pat­ed. Besides, what was done was done.
But Justin de�nitely wasn’t hap­py about the preg­nan­cy. He said we weren’t
ready to have a baby in our lives, that we were way too young.
I could under­stand. I mean, I kind of under­stood. If he didn’t want to
become a father, I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice. I wouldn’t want to
push him into some­thing he didn’t want. Our rela­tion­ship was too impor­tant to
me. And so I’m sure peo­ple will hate me for this, but I agreed not to have the
baby.
Abor­tion was some­thing I nev­er could have imag­ined choos­ing for myself,
but giv­en the cir­cum­stances, that is what we did.
I don’t know if that was the right deci­sion. If it had been left up to me alone,
I nev­er would have done it. And yet Justin was so sure that he didn’t want to be
a father.
We also decid­ed on some­thing that in ret­ro­spect wound up being, in my
view, wrong, and that was that I should not go to a doc­tor or to a hos­pi­tal to
have the abor­tion. It was impor­tant that no one �nd out about the preg­nan­cy or
the abor­tion, which meant doing every­thing at home.
We didn’t even tell my fam­i­ly. The only per­son who knew besides Justin and
me was Feli­cia, who was always on hand to help me. I was told, “It might hurt a
lit­tle bit, but you’ll be �ne.”
On the appoint­ed day, with only Feli­cia and Justin there, I took the lit­tle pills.
Soon I start­ed hav­ing excru­ci­at­ing cramps. I went into the bath­room and stayed

the dock for a night­cap, but Carter (eager to check on the kids and their babysit­ter, Mrs. Greene) declined, giv­ing Patri­cia a chance to enjoy the evening’s cool­ness alone. The con­trast from the oppres­sive heat of the day, which had kept every­one hid­den indoors or ven­tur­ing out only in the safe­ty of dusk, was stark and wel­come. Each day had been a bat­tle against the scorch­ing sun, with Patri­cia insist­ing on rig­or­ous rou­tines to avoid the heat, includ­ing keep­ing the house locked up tight despite the bro­ken air con­di­tion­ing.

The arrival of James Har­ris brought an unex­pect­ed respite from the iso­la­tion the heat imposed. His pres­ence became a reg­u­lar com­fort, par­tic­u­lar­ly after the unnerv­ing inci­dent with an intrud­er. Har­ris’ vis­its brought nor­mal­cy and com­pan­ion­ship, con­trast­ing with Patri­ci­a’s hus­band, Carter’s, fre­quent absences. James’ inter­est in dis­cussing his­tor­i­cal top­ics with Patri­ci­a’s son, Blue, notably about Nazis, pro­vid­ed a bridge for com­mu­ni­ca­tion with­in the house­hold, fill­ing a void left by Carter and their daugh­ter, Korey.

Patri­ci­a’s deci­sion to grad­u­al­ly open up the house, leav­ing win­dows and doors unse­cured, under­scored the sense of safe­ty and com­mu­nal warmth James Har­ris had brought them. How­ev­er, this com­fort did not extend to Mrs. Greene, who faced a ter­ror of her own with an infes­ta­tion of aggres­sive rats, a stark reminder of the vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty that comes with open­ing doors.

The nar­ra­tive jux­ta­pos­es Patri­ci­a’s social rein­te­gra­tion at Grace’s birth­day par­ty, with the gen­teel Old Vil­lage com­mu­ni­ty, against Mrs. Greene’s night­mar­ish strug­gle at home against a horde of rats attack­ing her and Miss Mary. This con­trast high­lights the inter­sect­ing fears of social exclu­sion and phys­i­cal dan­ger, both ema­nat­ing from seem­ing­ly benign deci­sions: Patri­ci­a’s to engage social­ly and to leave win­dows open, invit­ing both human and rodent intrud­ers, cul­mi­nat­ing in a crescen­do of hor­ror that par­al­lels the deep­en­ing night.

Through these events, the chap­ter depicts the frag­ile bal­ance between seek­ing con­nec­tion and the vul­ner­a­bil­i­ties it expos­es, against a back­drop of sti­fling sum­mer heat act­ing as both a lit­er­al and metaphor­i­cal cat­a­lyst for the unfold­ing dra­ma.

On May 12, Jane found her­self immersed in the sur­pris­ing expens­es of neigh­bor­hood improve­ments, hav­ing spent over a thou­sand dol­lars on sophis­ti­cat­ed solar lamps for the Neigh­bor­hood Beau­ti­fi­ca­tion Com­mit­tee at Emi­ly’s behest. Her inte­gra­tion into the afflu­ent lifestyle kept by her part­ner Eddie, sig­nif­i­cant­ly dif­fer­ent from her hum­ble pri­or exis­tence, was marked by this finan­cial out­lay. The com­mit­tee, a casu­al assem­bly with Emi­ly, Camp­bell, Car­o­line, and Anna-Grace, bare­ly focused on actu­al beau­ti­fi­ca­tion plans until the extrav­a­gant pur­chase of light­ing was pro­posed. Jane, some­what naive­ly, agreed to pro­cure these items, not ful­ly grasp­ing the respon­si­bil­i­ty she was tak­ing on, includ­ing the phys­i­cal and finan­cial bur­dens that accom­pa­nied her agree­ment.

The con­trast between Jane’s new life of lux­u­ry and her recent past becomes evi­dent as she nav­i­gates the chores relat­ed to the Beau­ti­fi­ca­tion Com­mit­tee, high­light­ing the vast lifestyle change she has under­gone since mov­ing in with Eddie. Despite the mate­r­i­al com­forts pro­vid­ed by Eddie’s wealth, Jane expe­ri­ences a sense of iso­la­tion and dis­place­ment, exac­er­bat­ed by the house still filled with his late wife Bea’s belong­ings, sug­gest­ing Jane’s strug­gle with belong­ing and iden­ti­ty in her new envi­ron­ment.

Her encounter with John, a fig­ure from her past, while under­tak­ing this mun­dane task throws her into a state of unease, reveal­ing a lay­er of her life she wish­es to keep buried—hinting at a mys­te­ri­ous, per­haps trou­bled past linked to a place and per­son named Helen Burns. John, know­ing­ly or not, intrudes on the frag­ile peace Jane has craft­ed in her new life, stir­ring up fears and mem­o­ries Jane is des­per­ate to escape from. This chance meet­ing under­scores the unre­solved issues chas­ing Jane from her pre­vi­ous life, sug­gest­ing that despite the geo­graph­i­cal and social dis­tance she has put between her for­mer self and her cur­rent exis­tence, her past remains a haunt­ing pres­ence, capa­ble of dis­rupt­ing her at any moment.

Jane’s inter­ac­tion with John at the end reveals a deep-seat­ed anx­i­ety and fear con­nect­ed to her past, specif­i­cal­ly tied to some­one named Helen Burns and an inquiry from Phoenix. This encounter under­scores the pre­car­i­ous nature of Jane’s seem­ing­ly secure new life, hint­ing at secrets and pos­si­bly run­ning from something—or someone—back in Phoenix, evi­denced by her vis­cer­al reac­tion to the men­tion of Helen Burns. Her pan­ic at John’s impli­ca­tions and her inner tur­moil reflect a deep dread and a desire to main­tain her new life untaint­ed by her past.

Chap­ter 12 of “The Beasts of Tarzan” reveals a heart-wrench­ing episode in the life of Jane Clay­ton, who, upon regain­ing con­scious­ness, finds her­self in the care of the Swedish sailor Ander­ssen, mis­tak­en­ly believ­ing a baby he has is hers. The nar­ra­tive unfolds with the real­iza­tion that the child she embraces is not her own, but a vic­tim of cir­cum­stance, aban­doned in the chaot­ic world that the vil­lain­ous Russ­ian, Rokoff, has wrought. Despite this rev­e­la­tion, Jane’s mater­nal instinct pre­vails, and she accepts the child, dri­ven by a mix of hope for her own baby’s sur­vival and com­pas­sion for the inno­cent life before her.

As they ven­ture through the per­ilous jun­gle, seek­ing refuge and evad­ing Rokof­f’s relent­less pur­suit, the bond between Jane and the child strength­ens, offer­ing a glim­mer of solace amidst her tur­moil. The nar­ra­tive delves into the nuances of human emo­tion, explor­ing themes of love, sac­ri­fice, and resilience. Jane’s sto­icism is test­ed as they nar­row­ly dodge their pur­suers, led by the cun­ning yet com­pas­sion­ate Ander­ssen, whose unlike­ly kind­ness proves a bea­con of hope.

Their jour­ney is fraught with dan­gers, not least of which is the baby’s sud­den ill­ness. Des­per­a­tion leads Jane to a native vil­lage, where the com­mu­nal effort to save the child show­cas­es the uni­ver­sal­i­ty of empa­thy and care across cul­tures. How­ev­er, the harsh real­i­ty of their sit­u­a­tion cul­mi­nates in tragedy when Jane dis­cov­ers the baby’s death, a moment that cap­tures the pro­found despair of loss yet under­scores the strength of the human spir­it to endure.

Amid this sor­row, a decep­tive promise of safe­ty offered by the vil­lage chief, M’gan­wazam, hints at fur­ther tri­als to come. His claim that Jane’s hus­band, Tarzan, has been killed is a manip­u­la­tive ploy that reveals the depth of deceit and cru­el­ty she faces. The chap­ter clos­es on a note of pro­found sad­ness and uncer­tain­ty, leav­ing Jane Clay­ton at a cross­roads of grief and sur­vival in the mer­ci­less expanse of the jun­gle.

This chap­ter not only pro­pels the nar­ra­tive for­ward through its com­pelling blend of action and emo­tion but also deep­ens our under­stand­ing of Jane Clay­ton’s char­ac­ter. Her resilience, tem­pered by her capac­i­ty for love and sac­ri­fice, marks her as a fig­ure of trag­ic nobil­i­ty, nav­i­gat­ing the com­plex­i­ties of a world marred by vil­lainy and hard­ship.