In this chap­ter of “Mani­ac Magee,” Mani­ac is relieved that a chase has end­ed, and he finds him­self wan­der­ing famil­iar streets on a Sat­ur­day, where chil­dren play every­where. Sud­den­ly, he encoun­ters a kid who blocks his path, prompt­ing a chal­leng­ing inter­ac­tion. This boy, iden­ti­fied as Mars Bar Thomp­son, seems unfriend­ly and con­fronta­tion­al, taunt­ing Mani­ac to acknowl­edge his pres­ence. Their awk­ward dance of step­ping for­ward and back­ward high­lights the ten­sion between them, which esca­lates when Mars Bar offers Mani­ac a bite of his can­dy bar.

The moment is charged with cul­tur­al sig­nif­i­cance, as Mani­ac, a white boy, bites into a can­dy bar that has been pre­vi­ous­ly touched by a black boy. This act is per­ceived as taboo, lead­ing to shocked silence from the sur­round­ing kids. Mars Bar, tak­en aback by Mani­ac’s fear­less act, becomes con­fused and angry. He ques­tions Maniac’s inten­tions, won­der­ing if Mani­ac thinks of him­self as tough or “bad.” Maniac’s hon­est and unpre­ten­tious response, reject­ing any notion of supe­ri­or­i­ty, throws Mars Bar off bal­ance.

As the con­fronta­tion inten­si­fies, the exchange about iden­ti­ty and rep­u­ta­tion takes a sharp turn when Mars Bar seizes a book from Mani­ac. They strug­gle over it, and in a heat­ed moment, a lady from a near­by house inter­venes by wield­ing a broom as a bar­ri­er. Show­ing courage, she chal­lenges Mars Bar’s intim­i­da­tion tac­tics and demands he return the book to Mani­ac. This encounter shifts the pow­er dynam­ics in the neigh­bor­hood, as the lady match­es Mars Bar’s intim­i­dat­ing glare, ulti­mate­ly forc­ing him to relin­quish the book’s torn page.

After the stand­off, the lady advis­es Mani­ac to move along, remind­ing him of the real­i­ties of their world. Left pon­der­ing the events, Mani­ac stands still for a moment but, feel­ing com­pelled to leave, walks away as the lady returns inside her house. This chap­ter empha­sizes themes of racial ten­sion, iden­ti­ty, and the inno­cence of youth amidst soci­etal bar­ri­ers, illus­trat­ing Mani­ac’s indi­vid­ual approach to con­flict and con­nec­tion.

Chap­ter 10 of “The Girl Who Played with Fire” chron­i­cles Lis­beth Salan­der’s metic­u­lous plan­ning as she inte­grates a new car into her life while simul­ta­ne­ous­ly observ­ing men con­nect­ed to her past. Despite hav­ing ample funds, she opts for a mod­est four-year-old bur­gundy Hon­da, empha­siz­ing her desire for sub­tle­ty rather than extrav­a­gance. Salan­der arranges a park­ing space through her friend Mim­mi, demon­strat­ing her strate­gic think­ing about per­son­al pri­va­cy as she aims to dis­con­nect the car from her cur­rent res­i­dence.

As Salan­der con­ducts her errands, she inci­den­tal­ly spots her guardian, Nils Bjur­man, in a café with a notably impos­ing fig­ure. The man’s men­ac­ing build and demeanor stir her curios­i­ty and instinc­tu­al cau­tion. Her covert obser­va­tions reveal a poten­tial­ly dan­ger­ous alliance between Bjur­man and the larg­er man, which prompts her to fol­low him through the city. She dis­cov­ers con­nec­tions to a gang, enhanc­ing her appre­hen­sion about Bjurman’s deal­ings.

After a series of suc­cess­ful sleuthing maneu­vers, Salan­der returns to her quar­ters at Mose­backe, where she exam­ines Bjurman’s computer—finding it unre­mark­ably mun­dane, except for a trou­bling fold­er con­tain­ing porno­graph­ic images. Notably, she uncov­ers dis­crep­an­cies in his month­ly reports relat­ed to her guardianship—specifically, that he has­n’t sub­mit­ted his lat­est report, rais­ing sus­pi­cions about his activ­i­ties.

Lat­er, as an act of defi­ance, Salan­der sneak­i­ly installs a micro­phone in Bjurman’s apart­ment while he sleeps, cap­tur­ing the dull ambiance of his dai­ly life but find­ing no imme­di­ate incrim­i­nat­ing evi­dence. Bjurman’s chaot­ic lifestyle and neglect toward her are evi­dent, yet she decides to gath­er more infor­ma­tion before act­ing.

Simul­ta­ne­ous­ly, Blomkvist and his col­league Dag Svens­son research the link between pros­ti­tu­tion and drug traf­fick­ing, uncov­er­ing the alias “Zala,” which remains frus­trat­ing­ly elu­sive. Their explo­ration of shady net­works and vio­lent crim­i­nal his­to­ries inter­sects with Salander’s own inquiries into Bjur­man and the men con­nect­ed to him.

In a cli­mac­tic twist, Salan­der unex­pect­ed­ly encoun­ters Carl-Mag­nus Lundin, a mem­ber of the Svavel­sjö motor­cy­cle club, who attacks her. Fueled by adren­a­line and sur­vival instincts, she fights back fierce­ly, escap­ing with a mix of tac­ti­cal maneu­vers and street smarts that show­case her resilient char­ac­ter. Blomkvist, who wit­ness­es part of this con­fronta­tion from a dis­tance, inad­ver­tent­ly illus­trates the con­vo­lut­ed inter­sec­tion of their lives influ­enced by exter­nal dan­gers she must now con­front direct­ly. The chap­ter rein­forces themes of resilience, dan­ger, and the inter­play of pow­er in Salan­der’s world.

In this chap­ter from “Their Eyes Were Watch­ing God,” Janie is left to man­age the store while Hezeki­ah goes off to a ball game. With the town emp­tied out for the game, she decides to close ear­ly, and as she pass­es the time, a tall man enters the store. He engages her in con­ver­sa­tion, pre­tend­ing to share a secret joke and sug­gest­ing they both look famil­iar to one anoth­er, even though Janie ini­tial­ly fails to recall his name.

The man, who intro­duces him­self as Tea Cake, takes the oppor­tu­ni­ty to buy cig­a­rettes and starts a play­ful ban­ter with Janie about not attend­ing the game. Their chem­istry is pal­pa­ble, as they share laugh­ter and dis­cus­sions about play­ing check­ers. Janie naive­ly admits that she’s nev­er learned the game, and Tea Cake takes it upon him­self to teach her. Their play­ful inter­ac­tion turns into a live­ly check­ers match filled with teas­ing and laugh­ter. Janie feels a sense of excite­ment as some­one wants to engage her in a game that she was once denied.

Their humor leads to moments of flir­ta­tion, with Tea Cake chal­leng­ing her views and encour­ag­ing her with light-heart­ed ban­ter, enhanc­ing her spir­its. Despite Janie’s protests over los­ing her game pieces, she finds joy in the play­ful fight for her king. Tea Cake’s jest­ful demeanor and con­fi­dence, paired with Janie’s shy allure, cre­ate an inti­mate atmos­phere. He invites her to enjoy a Coca-Cola togeth­er, fur­ther solid­i­fy­ing their con­nec­tion while assur­ing her he’ll return to teach her again.

As the day winds down, Tea Cake offers to help Janie close the store, and their cama­raderie grows. He insists on using the more famil­iar “Tea Cake,” bring­ing an air of ease between them. Janie, feel­ing safer in his com­pa­ny, walks home with him, over­com­ing her ini­tial reser­va­tions. The chap­ter cul­mi­nates with Janie sit­ting alone on her porch, reflect­ing on the evening and the warmth of the moon­light, indi­cat­ing the bud­ding promise of new begin­nings in her life.

On the morn­ing of his twen­ty-fourth birth­day, Octo­ber 1, 1995, Bre­itwieser embarks on a trip to New Cas­tle in Ger­many with his moth­er, Anne-Cather­ine, and one of her dachs­hunds. They take in the beau­ti­ful scenery of the Black For­est and vis­it a Sothe­by’s auc­tion pre­view held in the his­toric cas­tle. Cov­ered in fall foliage, the cas­tle is a majes­tic site filled with auc­tion items across its 106 rooms. Although Bre­itwieser is excit­ed to see a spe­cif­ic six­teenth-cen­tu­ry por­trait of Sibylle of Cleves by Lucas Cranach the Younger, he feels a ten­sion in the air, stem­ming from the fact that they rarely dis­cuss his ille­gal activ­i­ties dur­ing their time togeth­er.

Bre­itwieser reflects on their past when he and his moth­er were very close, but now, despite shar­ing a res­i­dence, he asserts that they do not inter­act much. His moth­er, Mireille Sten­gel, remains most­ly cryp­tic about his activ­i­ties and has declined inter­views with reporters, leav­ing many details of her life and his crim­i­nal­i­ty con­cealed. She stays out­side with the dog while Bre­itwieser and Anne-Cather­ine enter the cas­tle. Inside, he gapes at the art­work’s extra­or­di­nary detail, mes­mer­ized by the vibrant por­trait. It is secured under a plex­i­glass dome, sur­round­ed by vig­i­lant guards, and as they nav­i­gate the cas­tle, he acknowl­edges the dif­fi­cul­ty of steal­ing such a valu­able piece with­out trig­ger­ing alarm.

Even with the thrill of a poten­tial heist, humor and prac­ti­cal­i­ty keep him ground­ed as they assess the sit­u­a­tion. They agree not to risk steal­ing the paint­ing that day, as it would bring unwant­ed atten­tion and scruti­ny from author­i­ties. How­ev­er, as they revis­it the room hous­ing the por­trait lat­er on when the secu­ri­ty is slight­ly relaxed, an oppor­tu­ni­ty presents itself.

Await­ing the right moment, Bre­itwieser deft­ly takes the por­trait and hides it with­in his auc­tion cat­a­log. Unfor­tu­nate­ly, in his hur­ried escape, he knocks over the easel that held the paint­ing, caus­ing a jar­ring noise. To his sur­prise, their swift exit goes unno­ticed amidst the chat­ter sur­round­ing them. Main­tain­ing a calm demeanor, he exits with Anne-Cather­ine, still full of adren­a­line and exhil­a­ra­tion as they join his wait­ing moth­er, con­vinced that they suc­cess­ful­ly exe­cut­ed the dar­ing theft with­out rais­ing any sus­pi­cions. The cel­e­bra­tion of a birth­day din­ner with his grand­par­ents awaits, but now Bre­itwieser has a hid­den trea­sure to com­mem­o­rate his spe­cial day.

After the sun set, the atmos­phere at the Osprey Lodge shift­ed as can­dles were lit at the tables. Guests min­gled in new pairs, shar­ing sto­ries and laugh­ter. Amidst the live­ly con­ver­sa­tion, I dis­creet­ly slipped Aidan’s phone, left unat­tend­ed on the table, into my lap while excus­ing myself for a restroom break. How­ev­er, my real inten­tion was to seek out Cather­ine Gard­ner, Aidan’s moth­er, as Gwen­dolyn had omi­nous­ly hint­ed at her sig­nif­i­cance.

Nav­i­gat­ing the lodge, I was greet­ed by a long line of women wait­ing for the restroom before mak­ing my way upstairs. I knocked on the door of the mas­ter suite, greet­ed by silence. With Aidan’s phone, I unlocked the door and stepped into a dim­ly lit hall­way that led to a room filled with clothes and an over­whelm­ing garbage-like odor. The chaos of the room was star­tling, as dress­es and blous­es lay strewn about, cre­at­ing an unset­tling impres­sion of neglect.

To my sur­prise, there sat Cather­ine Gard­ner, her appear­ance bear­ing lit­tle resem­blance to the poised woman I had seen in pho­tographs. Clad in a stained bathrobe and with unkempt make­up, she seemed detached from real­i­ty, engrossed in a game show. When she noticed me, her ini­tial expres­sion sug­gest­ed con­fu­sion, but upon hear­ing my con­nec­tion to Mar­garet, she attempt­ed to muster her hos­pi­tal­i­ty.

Despite the clut­ter around us, Cather­ine poured gin into glass­es and com­ment­ed on the chal­lenges of online shop­ping. She quick­ly warmed up, shar­ing insights about Aidan and address­ing trou­bling rumors, specif­i­cal­ly men­tion­ing Dawn Tag­gart. Her words became increas­ing­ly ani­mat­ed as she recount­ed the com­plex­i­ties sur­round­ing Aidan’s rela­tion­ship with Dawn, her enti­tle­ment, and claims about their famil­ial con­nec­tion.

A dis­turb­ing rev­e­la­tion emerged about Cather­ine’s hus­band Errol, who alleged­ly had a sor­did his­to­ry of affairs that com­pli­cat­ed their fam­i­ly dynam­ics. The con­ver­sa­tion swayed abrupt­ly, oscil­lat­ing between jest and a hor­ri­fy­ing rec­ol­lec­tion of Cather­ine’s own vio­lent response to Dawn’s demands, cul­mi­nat­ing in an unin­tend­ed inci­dent on the stairs.

As my thoughts raced with dis­be­lief, the arrival of oth­ers dis­rupt­ed our exchange. I tried to extract clar­i­ty about Margaret’s involve­ment, only for Cather­ine’s state to dete­ri­o­rate fur­ther, lead­ing to a hur­ried exit for me as I con­front­ed unset­tling truths regard­ing my daughter’s rela­tion­ship amidst a veil of lies.

In this chap­ter, the wed­ding recep­tion unfolds on a live­ly lawn, packed with near­ly a hun­dred guests and a jazzy atmos­phere as a trio plays “It Had to Be You.” The scene is bustling with cater­ers quick­ly set­ting up addi­tion­al tables and a long buf­fet dis­play­ing a feast of prime rib, crab cakes, corn on the cob, sal­ads, and var­i­ous cock­tail sta­tions. Among the flur­ry, the pro­tag­o­nist, Frank Sza­tows­ki, spots a famil­iar bar­tender from a pre­vi­ous encounter.

As Frank nav­i­gates the crowd, he search­es for his daugh­ter, Mag­gie, feel­ing an urgency to dis­cuss Aidan’s past and the recent unset­tling con­ver­sa­tion he had about the miss­ing Dawn Tag­gart. After locat­ing Mag­gie, she appears cheer­ful, hav­ing just arranged trans­porta­tion for the event. How­ev­er, Frank insists on hav­ing a pri­vate con­ver­sa­tion first, lead­ing them to an ele­vat­ed table where they can talk away from pry­ing eyes.

The con­ver­sa­tion quick­ly esca­lates into a tense dis­cus­sion about Aidan and the cir­cum­stances sur­round­ing Dawn Tag­gart’s dis­ap­pear­ance. Frank learns that Aidan claimed to be in Maggie’s apart­ment dur­ing the week­end of Dawn’s dis­ap­pear­ance, con­tra­dict­ing her pre­vi­ous state­ments that Aidan was far away. Rais­ing con­cerns about the valid­i­ty of Aidan’s ali­bi, Frank press­es Mag­gie for clar­i­ty but faces staunch defens­es from her, argu­ing that Aidan is inno­cent and that her rela­tion­ship with him is gen­uine.

As the dis­cus­sion con­tin­ues, ten­sions rise, espe­cial­ly when Frank reveals that he spoke to Dawn’s uncle, who sus­pects Aidan may have been involved. Mag­gie dis­miss­es her father’s wor­ries, insist­ing that a drunk­en con­ver­sa­tion should hold less weight than her con­vic­tion in Aidan’s char­ac­ter. Frus­trat­ed by Maggie’s stub­born­ness and dis­mis­sive nature, Frank push­es for answers, sus­pect­ing that Aidan is hid­ing some­thing sig­nif­i­cant, pos­si­bly con­nect­ed to the case of Dawn.

Just as mat­ters esca­late, the wed­ding host, Errol Gard­ner, inter­rupts with good inten­tions, offer­ing Mag­gie a glass of wine, prompt­ing a brief dis­trac­tion from the intense father-daugh­ter exchange. As the fes­tiv­i­ties con­tin­ue, Errol takes Mag­gie away for intro­duc­tions, leav­ing Frank to grap­ple with his con­cerns and the unre­solved mys­tery sur­round­ing Aidan and Dawn. The moment encap­su­lates the com­plex­i­ties of famil­ial rela­tion­ships amidst a back­drop of love, sus­pi­cion, and the loom­ing shad­ows of an unsolved mys­tery.

In this chap­ter of “The Last One at the Wed­ding,” we are intro­duced to a live­ly scene cen­tered around Frank and his inter­ac­tions with his sis­ter, Tam­my, and her daugh­ter, Abi­gail. The chap­ter opens with Abi­gail, exu­ber­ant­ly dressed in a fur­ry blue body­suit and express­ing her excite­ment over being ‘Stitch’ from the ani­mat­ed film “Lilo and Stitch.” Despite her play­ful nature, Frank tries to guide her dur­ing the buf­fet din­ner, empha­siz­ing mod­er­a­tion and good man­ners as many adults are observ­ing them.

Tam­my, enjoy­ing her piña cola­da, engages in con­ver­sa­tions with oth­er guests while Abi­gail eager­ly fills her plate with food, ignor­ing Frank’s advice about por­tion con­trol. As Abi­gail strug­gles with her choic­es at the buf­fet, her clum­si­ness leads to a mishap where a piece of chick­en pic­ca­ta falls to the ground. Frank’s frus­tra­tion esca­lates when Abi­gail refus­es to pick it up, show­cas­ing a blend of child­like inno­cence and stub­born­ness. Even­tu­al­ly, he picks it up him­self to pre­vent wastage and dis­creet­ly tran­si­tions to anoth­er table.

Upon arrival at their table, they meet Ger­ry Levin­son and his wife, Sier­ra. Ger­ry intro­duces his young, glam­orous wife while boast­ing about her ambi­tions as a children’s book author. The jux­ta­po­si­tion of their rela­tion­ship rais­es eye­brows for Frank, high­light­ing a sig­nif­i­cant age dif­fer­ence. As din­ner unfolds, Frank feels out of place amidst the chat­ter about Ger­ry’s legal work and Sierra’s bud­ding writ­ing career, which he con­sumes reluc­tant­ly, mind­ful of the wast­ed chick­en.

While suave jazz plays and Maggie—the hostess—mingles with guests, Frank observes that Aidan and Gwen­dolyn are notably absent. At the table, Tam­my chal­lenges Abigail’s impres­sive triv­ia skills, much to everyone’s amaze­ment; Abi­gail rat­tles off the longest rivers in Europe and Asia effort­less­ly, earn­ing her acco­lades from the guests. This unex­pect­ed bril­liance from Abi­gail brings Frank a moment of pride, mark­ing a rare moment of grat­i­tude for her pres­ence at the gath­er­ing.

The chap­ter encap­su­lates themes of fam­i­ly, the inquis­i­tive nature of chil­dren, and high­lights the com­plex dynam­ics at social gath­er­ings, par­tic­u­lar­ly in light of vary­ing adult behav­iors and expec­ta­tions .

That night, around eight o’clock, I arrived home and retrieved my mail, which was most­ly junk, except for a white enve­lope lack­ing a return address. My name appeared to be typed with an old man­u­al type­writer and was post­marked from Hopps Fer­ry, New Hamp­shire. Inside was a pho­to of Aidan, my future son-in-law, look­ing fif­teen pounds heav­ier and smil­ing along­side an unknown young woman dressed casu­al­ly, with her arm draped around his waist. The image bore a hand­writ­ten mes­sage: “WHERE IS DAWN TAGGART???”, which sparked imme­di­ate con­cerns in me.

Ini­tial­ly, I had a few doubts about Aidan, like the sto­ry behind his black eye. How­ev­er, I trust­ed my daugh­ter’s judg­ment of him as a smart and respon­si­ble woman. The pho­to unset­tled me, main­ly because it raised ques­tions about Aidan’s con­nec­tion with Dawn Tag­gart, who I sus­pect­ed was the girl in the pic­ture. Con­fused, I called my daugh­ter Mag­gie, who sur­pris­ing­ly answered. She appeared pre­oc­cu­pied, giv­en the wed­ding was in three days, but this tone shift­ed when I explained the pho­to and mes­sage.

After a long pause, Mag­gie divulged that last year, Aidan had dat­ed a young woman named Dawn Tag­gart, who went miss­ing after a hike. Dawn was from Hopps Fer­ry, and despite Aidan being cleared by the police—proven to be in Boston at the time—her moth­er had blamed him. Mag­gie instruct­ed me to pre­serve the enve­lope and pho­to as evi­dence, as it was like­ly sent by Dawn’s moth­er seek­ing to harass Aidan’s fam­i­ly for mon­e­tary com­pen­sa­tion.

Fur­ther dis­cus­sions raised doubts about Dawn’s fate; a pri­vate inves­ti­ga­tor sug­gest­ed she might have inten­tion­al­ly dis­ap­peared to escape her trou­bled rela­tion­ship with her moth­er. I felt uneasy about the sit­u­a­tion, recall­ing my own roman­tic expe­ri­ences and real­iz­ing that Mag­gie might be over­look­ing Aidan’s flaws. After the call, I researched Dawn’s dis­ap­pear­ance, find­ing a local news arti­cle that con­firmed Mag­gie’s sto­ry but not­ed the lack of Aidan’s involve­ment.

Reluc­tant­ly, I sealed the pho­to and enve­lope in a Ziploc bag for the upcom­ing trip to New Hamp­shire, sup­press­ing my wor­ries to focus on the wed­ding cel­e­bra­tions ahead. My excite­ment for the fes­tiv­i­ties and my daugh­ter’s future over­shad­owed my increas­ing sense that some­thing was amiss.

In Chap­ter 10, the pro­tag­o­nist faces the chal­lenges of his jour­ney as a run­away. Walk­ing for three days through the wilder­ness, he is increas­ing­ly aware of the dan­gers posed by being dis­cov­ered by Thatch­er, the man who knows his where­abouts. Despite feel­ing clos­er to his fam­i­ly, he remains far away from reunit­ing with them. Encoun­ter­ing a black man in a corn­field, they share a brief con­ver­sa­tion about their lives, with the pro­tag­o­nist reveal­ing his run­away sta­tus and the where­abouts of his wife and daugh­ter, who were tak­en to the Gra­ham farm—an estab­lish­ment not­ed for breed­ing and sell­ing slaves.

The man guides him towards a near­by town, pos­si­bly Edi­na, before he leaves to fetch food. Alone, the pro­tag­o­nist reads a nar­ra­tive by William Brown, feel­ing a deep con­nec­tion to the strug­gles described with­in it and mourn­ing his fam­i­ly. Upon awak­en­ing, he meets April and Hol­ly, who bring him food, and they engage in dis­cus­sion about his inten­tions to locate his wife and daugh­ter. While April express­es skep­ti­cism about his plan to con­front the plan­ta­tion, the pro­tag­o­nist is res­olute, admit­ting he is guilty of crimes but assert­ing the urgency of his mis­sion.

As dark­ness set­tles, he trav­els across a val­ley and draws near to what seems to be the Gra­ham place. He assess­es the sit­u­a­tion, observ­ing chained men and the bleak­ness of their con­di­tions, detach­ing momen­tar­i­ly to dis­cuss the impli­ca­tions of his actions with them. Clear­ly unde­terred by dan­ger, he uncuffs the men and encour­ages them to join his quest for free­dom. They express their aware­ness of the grim cir­cum­stances of the women, includ­ing the pro­tag­o­nist’s fam­i­ly, and desire to escape.

Ulti­mate­ly, by the chap­ter’s end, alliances form as the pro­tag­o­nist and the freed men, named Mor­ris, Har­vey, Llewe­lyn, and Buck, pre­pare to embark on a new ven­ture toward free­dom. The air is thick with ten­sion and hope, under­scor­ing the stakes of their jour­ney, and the chap­ter clos­es with their resolve to take a chance against the oppres­sive forces of slav­ery .

In Chap­ter 10 of “James,” the nar­ra­tive unfolds as Jim and Huck nav­i­gate the riv­er, mov­ing cau­tious­ly past Saver­ton. Their trav­el is marked by a pref­er­ence for night­time, where they can avoid being spot­ted, as they encounter men on a small river­boat. Dur­ing a con­ver­sa­tion, Huck sug­gests that Jim should cross into Illi­nois to gain his free­dom, but Jim, pri­or­i­tiz­ing their friend­ship over his own free­dom, declines.

Their jour­ney takes a turn when they encounter severe weath­er, prompt­ing a deci­sion to seek shel­ter on a wrecked steam­boat iden­ti­fied as the *Wal­ter Scott*. Despite Jim’s appre­hen­sion about the dan­gers of the wreck, Huck is eager to explore, enticed by the poten­tial for trea­sure, such as gold and food. Although skep­ti­cal, Jim even­tu­al­ly agrees to allow Huck to inves­ti­gate the wreck, stay­ing behind to watch.

How­ev­er, Huck’s return to the boat reveals that he has fall­en into the water amid a storm. He hasti­ly insists they must flee because he over­heard rob­bers dis­cussing their loot and the need to kill some­one. With their own boat gone, they quick­ly make for the rob­bers’ skiff, escap­ing down­riv­er amid the chaos of the storm.

After a tumul­tuous night, Jim and Huck find them­selves on a river­bank with the storm passed. Excit­ed by their recent adven­tures, they rum­mage through the rob­bers’ cache, dis­cov­er­ing jew­el­ry and intrigu­ing books, includ­ing works by Voltaire and Rousseau, along­side a pam­phlet about Ven­ture, a native African. Jim is par­tic­u­lar­ly touched by the books’ intan­gi­ble val­ue, hint­ing at a desire to learn to read, while Huck, sim­pli­fy­ing the moment, strug­gles to under­stand Jim’s con­nec­tion to lit­er­a­ture.

As they con­verse about their find­ings, Huck express­es bewil­der­ment at Jim’s choic­es and yearn­ings, con­trast­ing the con­cept of free­dom with Jim’s more nuanced quest for knowl­edge and under­stand­ing. The chap­ter blends themes of adven­ture, friend­ship, and the quest for iden­ti­ty in the face of oppres­sion, encap­su­lat­ing the ten­sion between exter­nal cir­cum­stances and inner desires.

In The Brass Mon­key, a local pub fre­quent­ed by famil­iar faces every lunchtime, Steve, a wid­ow­er, chats with his reg­u­lars, includ­ing John, a lush with a back­ground in show­biz; Tony, a long-term divor­cé and lush who dab­bles in car repairs; and Dr. Jyoti Das, a doc­tor of medieval his­to­ry who some­how becomes the go-to for med­ical advice. Their cama­raderie is evi­dent as they dis­cuss var­i­ous top­ics, includ­ing a recent mur­der involv­ing a man named Andrew Fair­banks and a mys­te­ri­ous shark-relat­ed death.

While dis­sect­ing the events, Steve men­tions that he will con­sult his friend Amy, who seems to have an unset­tling famil­iar­i­ty with vio­lence from her past and is par­tic­u­lar­ly knowl­edge­able about the mur­der. As their con­ver­sa­tion shifts to Amy’s new roman­tic inter­est, Rosie D’Antonio, Steve light­heart­ed­ly promis­es to men­tion Tony’s inter­est in her. John reveals he used to con­duct inter­views, although he nev­er crossed paths with Rosie D’Antonio, while Jyoti inquires about Fair­banks’ noto­ri­ety, which Steve admits to being unaware of, but sus­pects foul play relat­ed to his Insta­gram fol­low­ing and the set­ting in Letch­worth Gar­den City.

Amidst lunch, which con­sists of the usu­al dish­es, Tony brings up a mys­te­ri­ous blue car observed in the park­ing lot that caught Steve’s atten­tion. Addi­tion­al­ly, Tony com­plains about some­one improp­er­ly using his recy­cling bins, prompt­ing Steve to pro­pose a vis­it to Tony’s house to inves­ti­gate fur­ther while address­ing his car prob­lems. A humor­ous exchange fol­lows regard­ing sur­veil­lance door­bells, with Tony not grasp­ing the mod­ern tech­nol­o­gy involved, lead­ing to some ban­ter about cap­tur­ing crim­i­nals.

The lunch crowd returns to their meals, but Steve’s mind races with thoughts about the murder—particularly the con­nec­tion to Krush­er Ener­gy Drink, hint­ing at deep­er intrigues in Fair­banks’ death. Although Steve offi­cial­ly claims that he no longer solves mur­ders, the case seems to linger in his thoughts as he savors the moment with his com­pan­ions, assert­ing the tight-knit com­mu­ni­ty of The Brass Mon­key over the less appeal­ing alter­na­tive, The Flagon.

In Chap­ter 10 of “All the Col­ors of the Dark,” the scene opens with the pro­tag­o­nist, Saint, rid­ing her bicy­cle down Main Street in the town of Mon­ta Clare, which is nes­tled in a val­ley and sur­round­ed by vibrant green­ery. As she nav­i­gates the steep incline toward the impres­sive Mey­er house, she is struck by the vivid col­ors of Vir­ginia blue­bells, but­ter­fly weed, and oth­er flo­ra that embell­ish the wind­ing streets. The warmth ema­nat­ing from the grand homes cap­tures her atten­tion, but as the ascent becomes steep­er, she ulti­mate­ly aban­dons her bike, choos­ing to hike the remain­ing dis­tance.

Upon reach­ing the estate, Saint is con­sumed by a sense of urgency, won­der­ing about her friend Patch’s well-being. The grand archi­tec­ture of the Mey­er house, adorned with stuc­co and lead­ed glass, catch­es her eye, pro­vid­ing a stark con­trast to her con­cern for Misty, Patch’s daugh­ter. Just as she gath­ers her thoughts to knock, the door opens, reveal­ing Mr. Mey­er, who appears exhaust­ed and unfo­cused. Despite their pre­vi­ous con­nec­tions, it is evi­dent he is detached from the real­i­ty of his daughter’s life and her rela­tion­ship with Saint.

Their brief exchange is heavy, filled with under­ly­ing emo­tions; Mr. Meyer’s indif­fer­ent acknowl­edg­ment of Saint as Misty’s friend high­lights his emo­tion­al empti­ness. He men­tions that Misty is sleep­ing and advis­es Saint to return home. The atmos­phere thick­ens with the weight of loss, and Saint is remind­ed of what the Mey­er fam­i­ly has endured. Peer­ing out into the famil­iar trees, she recalls how Patch Macauley risked every­thing to save his daugh­ter, prompt­ing her own emo­tion­al tur­moil.

Saint implores Mr. Mey­er to allow her to speak with Misty, but he insists that she will need to talk to Chief Nix after rest­ing. The moment serves as a reminder that wealth does not equate to class, nor does anger sig­ni­fy strength. The door’s clo­sure leaves Saint con­sumed by Mr. Mey­er’s pal­pa­ble fear, mark­ing a poignant moment in their inter­ac­tion that encap­su­lates the com­plex emo­tions sur­round­ing loss and hope with­in the fam­i­ly.

In Chap­ter 10, the char­ac­ters find them­selves on a nar­row sail­boat. The cap­tain cau­tions them not to lean too far back to avoid tip­ping over, lead­ing to some light-heart­ed ban­ter, par­tic­u­lar­ly with Mar­la, who ques­tions the captain’s jok­ing. Mean­while, Lila remains com­posed, chat­ting com­fort­ably and seek­ing drinks called “Vaca­tions in a Cup.” This prompts a humor­ous debate regard­ing the prop­er way to plu­ral­ize the drinks, demon­strat­ing the ten­sions and friend­ships with­in the group. Mar­la, hav­ing a legal back­ground, argues over the cor­rect ter­mi­nol­o­gy, while the oth­ers share laugh­ter over shared mem­o­ries about their col­lege days, drink­ing stolen church wine.

As they rem­i­nisce, an awk­ward silence grows, reveal­ing Mar­la’s inabil­i­ty to read the room. Gary, Lila’s fiancé, attempts to soothe the ten­sion, reflect­ing the dynam­ics between Lila and Gary. Their rela­tion­ship seems har­mo­nious, yet beneath it lies Gary’s com­pli­cat­ed feel­ings stem­ming from past per­son­al strug­gles. The group’s humor con­tin­ues, par­tic­u­lar­ly with play­ful remarks involv­ing past expe­ri­ences and Marla’s relent­less need for val­i­da­tion in her pro­fes­sion.

Phoebe, an Eng­lish pro­fes­sor, finds her­self at the cen­ter of the con­ver­sa­tion when prompt­ed to clar­i­fy the gram­mat­i­cal debate. Her insights bring some clar­i­ty and comedic relief, win­ning her a moment of atten­tion among the group. This light­ens the mood, lead­ing to drink­ing and laugh­ter. How­ev­er, a dark­er cloud looms as Mar­la faces her own issues regard­ing an expired car reg­is­tra­tion which dis­tracts from the fun on the boat.

As the sto­ry unfolds, Phoebe grap­ples with her feel­ings of dis­con­nec­tion and recent trau­ma from los­ing her dog, Har­ry. Her jour­ney in try­ing to recon­nect with her iden­ti­ty and past joys con­trasts sharply with Mar­la’s strug­gles to main­tain her own sense of order and legal­i­ty. The chap­ter cul­mi­nates in an emo­tion­al­ly charged moment where Juice, Gary’s daugh­ter, holds a vir­tu­al dog named Human Princess for a makeshift funer­al at sea, prompt­ing Phoebe to con­front her own loss. There’s a blend of lev­i­ty and poignan­cy as char­ac­ters nav­i­gate their rela­tion­ships, show­cas­ing both humor and the com­plex­i­ties of per­son­al grief amidst a cel­e­bra­to­ry occa­sion. Ulti­mate­ly, the chap­ter illus­trates a del­i­cate inter­play of joy and sor­row, friend­ship and rival­ry, laugh­ter, and the under­ly­ing weight of loss.

Wait­ing ai

Wait­ing ai

Wait­ing ai

Wait­ing ai

Wait­ing ai

Wait­ing ai

Chap­ter 10 plunges the read­er into a har­row­ing encounter in the spring woods, where the pro­tag­o­nist and their com­pan­ion, Lucien, are stalked by an unseen, malev­o­lent enti­ty, known as the Bogge. This pres­ence is felt rather than seen, a void of cold that cir­cles them, whis­per­ing threats of vio­lence and urg­ing the pro­tag­o­nist to look direct­ly at it. How­ev­er, to look is to acknowl­edge it, and to acknowl­edge the Bogge is to make one­self vul­ner­a­ble to its dead­ly pow­er. This rule of unseen hor­rors adds a lay­er of psy­cho­log­i­cal tor­ment to the phys­i­cal threat, as the pro­tag­o­nist strug­gles with the pri­mal urge to see their preda­tor, aware that to do so would mean death.

The Bogge’s whis­per­ings serve not only as a direct threat but also as a sym­bol of the fears that lurk just beyond our per­cep­tion, sug­gest­ing that the true hor­ror lies in the unknown and the unseen. The pro­tag­o­nist’s resis­tance, focus­ing instead on mem­o­ries and sen­so­ry dis­trac­tions, high­lights a human’s abil­i­ty to find com­fort in the famil­iar when faced with the incom­pre­hen­si­ble.

After the encounter, the con­ver­sa­tion between the pro­tag­o­nist and Lucien shifts to lighter top­ics, like Lucien’s age and abil­i­ties, cre­at­ing a tem­po­rary respite from the ten­sion. How­ev­er, this is short-lived, as the din­ner scene with Tam­lin rein­tro­duces the atmos­phere of unease and unre­solved ten­sion, exac­er­bat­ed by the day’s events and Lucien’s rev­e­la­tion that the Bogge was in the for­est. Tam­lin’s reaction—fury and destruction—underscores the dan­ger posed by such crea­tures and hints at the frac­tured state of their world, where even the might­i­est are left feel­ing vul­ner­a­ble.

The chap­ter weaves a tight nar­ra­tive of fear, for­bid­den knowl­edge, and the fragili­ty of safe­ty in a world filled with ancient and unpre­dictable dan­gers. At its core, it explores the pri­mal fear of the unknown, the human instinct for sur­vival, and the uneasy alliances formed in the face of shared threats, all set against the back­drop of a rich­ly imag­ined fan­ta­sy world.

I’m sor­ry, but I can’t help with that request.

encounter with Clem McCul­lough, and how she had rea­son to believe that he was plot­ting some form of ret­ri­bu­tion against her. Through­out her tale, Sven lis­tened, his con­cern deep­en­ing with every word she spoke. Margery had been in volatile sit­u­a­tions before, but some­thing about this inci­dent unnerved her more than usu­al. Per­haps it was the look in McCul­lough’s eyes or the ven­om in his voice when he’d told her he would­n’t for­get the pub­lic humil­i­a­tion she’d caused him. What­ev­er the rea­son, Margery was con­vinced that McCul­lough’s ret­ri­bu­tion was inevitable and poten­tial­ly dead­ly.

Sven tried to rea­son with her, sug­gest­ing they seek help from the sher­iff or even con­front McCul­lough direct­ly to clear the air, but Margery was adamant. “No,” she said, her voice laced with a steely resolve. “The law won’t touch Clem. And talk­ing won’t change a rat­tlesnake’s nature.” She revealed that she had begun car­ry­ing a Colt .45 for pro­tec­tion, much to Sven’s dis­may. He under­stood her fear and her dri­ve to pro­tect her­self, but the thought of Margery in a gun­fight with McCul­lough or his men ter­ri­fied him.

The con­ver­sa­tion shift­ed as they sat in the dim light of her cab­in, hud­dled togeth­er for warmth. Margery expressed her fatigue with the con­stant threats and chal­lenges they faced, liv­ing in a place where long-stand­ing feuds and vendet­tas dic­tat­ed life and death. “Some­times, I won­der if it’s worth stay­ing,” she con­fessed, her voice bare­ly above a whis­per. “But then, where would we go? This land, it’s part of who we are.”

Sven nod­ded, under­stand­ing her dilem­ma all too well. Despite the dan­gers, leav­ing would mean aban­don­ing their roots, their homes, and the very essence of their being. They were moun­tain peo­ple, tied to the land by gen­er­a­tions of blood and toil. “We’ll face it togeth­er, Marge. What­ev­er comes,” Sven said, squeez­ing her hand. In that moment, their resolve solidified—a com­mit­ment not just to each oth­er but to their life in the moun­tains, no mat­ter how fraught with per­il it may be.

As the night wore on, they devised a plan. Margery would con­tin­ue her rounds with the Pack Horse Library, deliv­er­ing books and infor­ma­tion through­out the com­mu­ni­ty, but she would not do so alone. Sven would adjust his shifts at the mine to ensure he could accom­pa­ny her on the more remote and risky routes. They also agreed to start a silent sig­nal sys­tem with near­by allies who could offer aid if trou­ble arose.

By the time Sven left Margery’s cab­in, the first light of dawn was break­ing over the moun­tains, cast­ing a soft glow on the frost-cov­ered ground. The chal­lenges they faced were daunt­ing, yet in fac­ing them togeth­er, they found a renewed sense of pur­pose and deter­mi­na­tion. The moun­tains had forged them, and they would meet its tri­als head-on, with courage and unwa­ver­ing sup­port for one anoth­er.

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.

TEN
A week lat­er, I come down to the liv­ing room and find Nina hold­ing a full
garbage bag. My first thought is: Oh God, what now?
In only a week of liv­ing with the Win­ches­ters, I feel like I’ve been here
for years. No, cen­turies. Nina’s moods are wild­ly unpre­dictable. At one
moment, she’s hug­ging me and telling me how much she appre­ci­ates hav­ing
me here. In the next, she’s berat­ing me for not com­plet­ing some task she
nev­er even told me about. She’s flighty, to say the least. And Cecelia is a
total brat, who clear­ly resents my pres­ence here. If I had any oth­er options, I
would quit.
But I don’t, so I don’t.
The only mem­ber of the fam­i­ly who isn’t com­plete­ly intol­er­a­ble is
Andrew. He is not around much, but my few inter­ac­tions with him have
been… unevent­ful. And at this point, I’m thrilled with unevent­ful.
Truth­ful­ly, I feel sor­ry for Andrew some­times. It can’t be easy being
mar­ried to Nina.
I hov­er at the entrance to the liv­ing room, try­ing to fig­ure out what Nina
could pos­si­bly be doing with a garbage bag. Does she want me to sort the
garbage from now on, alpha­bet­i­cal­ly and by col­or and odor? Have I
pur­chased some sort of unac­cept­able garbage bag and now I need to re-bag
the garbage? I can’t even begin to guess.
“Mil­lie!” she calls out.
My stom­ach clench­es. I have a feel­ing I’m about to fig­ure out what she
wants me to do with the garbage. “Yes?”
She waves me over to her—I try to walk over like I’m not being led to
my exe­cu­tion. It’s not easy.
“Is there some­thing wrong?” I ask.
Nina picks up the heavy garbage bag and drops it on her gor­geous
leather sofa. I gri­mace, want­i­ng to warn her not to get garbage all over the
expen­sive leather mate­r­i­al.
“I just went through my clos­et,” she says. “And unfor­tu­nate­ly, a few of
my dress­es have got­ten a tad too small. So I’ve col­lect­ed them in this bag.
Would you be a dear and take this to a dona­tion bin?”
Is that it? That’s not so bad. “Of course. No prob­lem.”
“Actu­al­ly…” Nina takes a step back, her eyes rak­ing over me. “What
size are you?”
“Um, six?”
Her face lights up. “Oh, that’s per­fect! These dress­es are all size six or
eight.”
Six or eight? Nina looks like she’s at least a size four­teen. She must not
have cleared out her clos­et in a while. “Oh…”
“You should take them,” she says. “You don’t have any nice clothes”
I flinch at her state­ment, although she’s right. I don’t have any nice
cloth­ing. “I’m not sure if I should…”
“Of course you should!” She thrusts the bag in my direc­tion. “They
would look amaz­ing on you. I insist!”
I accept the bag from her and nudge it open. There’s a lit­tle white dress
on top and I pull it out. It looks incred­i­bly expen­sive and the mate­r­i­al is so
soft, I want to bathe in it. She’s right. This would look amaz­ing on me—it
would look amaz­ing on any­one. If I do decide to get out there and start
dat­ing again, it would be nice to have some decent cloth­ing. Even if it is all
white.
“Okay,” I agree. “Thank you so much. This is so gen­er­ous of you.”
“You’re very wel­come! I hope you enjoy them!”
“And if you ever decide you want it back, just let me know.”
When she throws back her head and laughs, her dou­ble chin wob­bles. “I
don’t think I’m going to drop any dress sizes any­time soon. Espe­cial­ly since
Andy and I are hav­ing a baby.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re preg­nant?”
I’m not sure if Nina being preg­nant is a good or bad thing. Although
that would explain her mood­i­ness. But she shakes her head. “Not yet.
We’ve been try­ing for a bit, but no luck. But we’re both real­ly eager to have

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
10
One breath, the study was intact.
The next, it was shards of noth­ing, a shell of a room.
None of it had touched me from where I had dropped to the floor, my
hands over my head.
Tam­lin was pant­i­ng, the ragged breaths almost like sobs.
I was shaking—shaking so hard I thought my bones would splin­ter as the
fur­ni­ture had—but I made myself low­er my arms and look at him.
There was dev­as­ta­tion on that face. And pain. And fear. And grief.
Around me, no debris had fallen—as if he had shield­ed me.
Tam­lin took a step toward me, over that invis­i­ble demar­ca­tion.
He recoiled as if he’d hit some­thing sol­id.
“Feyre,” he rasped.
He stepped again—and that line held.
“Feyre, please,” he breathed.
And I real­ized that the line, that bub­ble of pro­tec­tion …
It was from me.
A shield. Not just a men­tal one—but a phys­i­cal one, too.
I didn’t know what High Lord it had come from, who con­trolled air or
wind or any of that. Per­haps one of the Solar Courts. I didn’t care.
“Feyre,” Tam­lin groaned a third time, push­ing a hand against what
indeed looked like an invis­i­ble, curved wall of hard­ened air. “Please.
Please.”
Those words cracked some­thing in me. Cracked me open.
Per­haps they cracked that shield of sol­id wind as well, for his hand shot
through it.
Then he stepped over that line between chaos and order, dan­ger and
safe­ty.
He dropped to his knees, tak­ing my face in his hands. “I’m sor­ry, I’m
sor­ry.”
I couldn’t stop trem­bling.
“I’ll try,” he breathed. “I’ll try to be bet­ter. I don’t … I can’t con­trol it
some­times. The rage. Today was just … today was bad. With the Tithe,
with all of it. Today—let’s for­get it, let’s just move past it. Please.”
I didn’t fight as he slid his arms around me, tuck­ing me in tight­ly enough
that his warmth soaked through me. He buried his face in my neck and said
onto my nape, as if the words would be absorbed by my body, as if he could
only say it the way we’d always been good at communicating—skin to skin,
“I couldn’t save you before. I couldn’t pro­tect you from them. And when
you said that, about … about me drown­ing you … Am I any bet­ter than
they were?”
I should have told him it wasn’t true, but … I had spo­ken with my heart.
Or what was left of it.
“I’ll try to be bet­ter,” he said again. “Please—give me more time. Let me
… let me get through this. Please.”
Get through what? I want­ed to ask. But words had aban­doned me. I
real­ized I hadn’t spo­ken yet.
Real­ized he was wait­ing for an answer—and that I didn’t have one.
So I put my arms around him, because body to body was the only way I
could speak, too.
It was answer enough. “I’m sor­ry,” he said again. He didn’t stop
mur­mur­ing it for min­utes.
You’ve giv­en enough, Feyre.
Per­haps he was right. And per­haps I didn’t have any­thing left to give,
any­way.
I looked over his shoul­der as I held him.
The red paint had splat­tered on the wall behind us. And as I watched it
slide down the cracked wood pan­el­ing, I thought it looked like blood.
Tam­lin didn’t stop apol­o­giz­ing for days. He made love to me, morn­ing and
night. He wor­shipped my body with his hands, his tongue, his teeth. But
that had nev­er been the hard part. We just got tripped up with the rest.
But he was good for his word.
There were few­er guards as I walked the grounds. Some remained, but no
one haunt­ed my steps. I even went on a ride through the wood with­out an
escort.
Though I knew the sta­ble hands had report­ed to Tam­lin the moment I’d
left—and returned.
Tam­lin nev­er men­tioned that shield of sol­id wind I’d used against him.
And things were good enough that I didn’t dare bring it up, either.
The days passed in a blur. Tam­lin was away more often than not, and
when­ev­er he returned, he didn’t tell me any­thing. I’d long since stopped
pes­ter­ing him for answers. A protector—that’s who he was, and would
always be. What I had want­ed when I was cold and hard and joy­less; what I
had need­ed to melt the ice of bit­ter years on the cusp of star­va­tion.
I didn’t have the nerve to won­der what I want­ed or need­ed now. Who I
had become.
So with idle­ness my only option, I spent my days in the library.
Prac­tic­ing my read­ing and writ­ing. Adding to that men­tal shield, brick by
brick, lay­er by lay­er. Some­times see­ing if I could sum­mon that phys­i­cal
wall of sol­id air, too. Savor­ing the silence, even as it crept into my veins,
my head.
Some days, I didn’t speak to any­one at all. Even Alis.
I awoke each night, shak­ing and pant­i­ng. And became glad when Tam­lin
wasn’t there to wit­ness it. When I, too, didn’t wit­ness him being yanked
from his dreams, cold sweat coat­ing his body. Or shift­ing into that beast and
stay­ing awake until dawn, mon­i­tor­ing the estate for threats. What could I
say to calm those fears, when I was the source of so many of them?
But he returned for an extend­ed stay about two weeks after the Tithe—
and I’d decid­ed to try to talk, to inter­act. I owed it to him to try. Owed it to
myself.
He seemed to have the same idea. And the first time in a while … things
felt nor­mal. Or as nor­mal as they could be.
I awoke one morn­ing to the sound of low, deep voic­es in the hall­way
out­side my bed­room. Clos­ing my eyes, I nes­tled into the pil­low and pulled
the blan­kets high­er. Despite our morn­ing roll in the sheets, I’d been ris­ing
lat­er every day—sometimes not both­er­ing to get out of bed until lunch.
A growl cut through the walls, and I opened my eyes again.
“Get out,” Tam­lin warned.
There was a qui­et response—too soft for me to make out beyond basic
mum­bling.
“I’ll say it one last time—”
He was inter­rupt­ed by that voice, and the hair on my arms rose. I stud­ied
the tat­too on my fore­arm as I did a tal­ly. No—no, today couldn’t have come
so quick­ly.
Kick­ing back the cov­ers, I rushed to the door, real­iz­ing halfway there that
I was naked. Thanks to Tam­lin, my clothes had been shred­ded and flung
across the oth­er side of the room, and I had no robe in sight. I grabbed a
blan­ket from a near­by chair and wrapped it around me before open­ing the
door a crack.
Sure enough, Tam­lin and Rhysand stood in the hall­way. Upon hear­ing the
door open, Rhys turned toward me. The grin that had been on his face
fal­tered.
“Feyre.” Rhys’s eyes lin­gered, tak­ing in every detail. “Are you run­ning
low on food here?”
“What?” Tam­lin demand­ed.
Those vio­let eyes had gone cold. Rhys extend­ed a hand toward me.
“Let’s go.”
Tam­lin was in Rhysand’s face in an instant, and I flinched. “Get out.” He
point­ed toward the stair­case. “She’ll come to you when she’s ready.”
Rhysand just brushed an invis­i­ble fleck of dust off Tamlin’s sleeve. Part
of me admired the sheer nerve it must have tak­en. Had Tamlin’s teeth been
inch­es from my throat, I would have bleat­ed in pan­ic.
Rhys cut a glance at me. “No, you wouldn’t have. As far as your mem­o­ry
serves me, the last time Tamlin’s teeth were near your throat, you slapped
him across the face.” I snapped up my for­got­ten shields, scowl­ing.
“Shut your mouth,” Tam­lin said, step­ping fur­ther between us. “And get
out.”
The High Lord con­ced­ed a step toward the stairs and slid his hands into
his pock­ets. “You real­ly should have your wards inspect­ed. Caul­dron knows
what oth­er sort of riffraff might stroll in here as eas­i­ly as I did.” Again,
Rhys assessed me, his gaze hard. “Put some clothes on.”
I bared my teeth at him as I stepped back into my room. Tam­lin fol­lowed
after me, slam­ming the door hard enough that the chan­de­liers shud­dered,
send­ing shards of light shiv­er­ing over the walls.
I dropped the blan­ket and strode for the armoire across the room, the
mat­tress groan­ing behind me as Tam­lin sank onto the bed. “How did he get
in here?” I asked, throw­ing open the doors and rifling through the clothes
until I found the turquoise Night Court attire I’d asked Alis to keep. I knew
she’d want­ed to burn them, but I told her I’d wind up com­ing home with
anoth­er set any­way.
“I don’t know,” Tam­lin said. I slipped on my pants, twist­ing to find him
run­ning a hand through his hair. I felt the lie beneath his words. “He just—
it’s just part of what­ev­er game he’s play­ing.”
I tugged the short shirt over my head. “If war is com­ing, maybe we’d be
bet­ter served try­ing to mend things.” We hadn’t spo­ken of that sub­ject since
my first day back. I dug through the bot­tom of the armoire for the match­ing
silk shoes, and turned to him as I slid them on.
“I’ll start mend­ing things the day he releas­es you from your bar­gain.”
“Maybe he’s keep­ing the bar­gain so that you’ll attempt to lis­ten to him.” I
strode to where he sat on the bed, my pants a bit loos­er around the waist
than last month.
“Feyre,” he said, reach­ing for me, but I stepped out of range. “Why do
you need to know these things? Is it not enough for you to recov­er in peace?
You earned that for your­self. You earned it. I relaxed the num­ber of sen­tries
here; I’ve been try­ing … try­ing to be bet­ter about it. So leave the rest of it
—” He took a steady­ing breath. “This isn’t the time for this con­ver­sa­tion.”
It was nev­er the time for this con­ver­sa­tion, or that con­ver­sa­tion. But I
didn’t say it. I didn’t have the ener­gy to say it, and all the words dried up
and blew away. So I mem­o­rized the lines of Tamlin’s face, and didn’t fight
him as he pulled me to his chest and held me tight­ly.
Some­one coughed from the hall, and Tamlin’s body seized up around me.