Anne Flosnik | Professional Voice Actor for Audiobooks

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It is a truth universally acknowledged that when people have bad news to share, they never look you fully in the eye. Olivia Bennett saw the way Felicia Morfret's eyes lowered, the way her artfully made up face had instantly morphed to sympathy upon Liv's entry to the principal's office, hello Olivia, please take a seat, this won't take long. Her stomach tightened, uh-oh, that didn't bode well. Surely if the ever loquacious principal of Wattlebell Secondary College had good news, this would take more time than won't take long. Liv wailed her face to a look approximating her usual eagerness, even as the desperate flame of hope within wavered. A window revealed the ominous wintry gray of June's last day, as a eucalyptus tree tossed its leaves in Antarctic-laden winds. I'm sorry, Olivia, Liv braced as Felicia sighed. No one ever said, I'm sorry, before giving you good news. No one ever said, I'm sorry, but you've won a new car. Or, I'm sorry, but it's not cancer. No, I'm sorry could only mean one thing. But I'm afraid that we've chosen to go with Belinda instead. Your interview was good, but I'm afraid she hit hers out of the park. She'll move into the permanent history position from next semester. Hope, so long her friend, flittered away in a rush of emotion and words she could never say. Felicia seemed relieved, as if she'd finally found a way to get rid of the odd little duck who'd never quite fit in with the militants who patrolled these classrooms. Teachers whose faces wore stress like a crown, and whose strange features revealed lines etched by battles with high school students over many years. Teachers who had long ago lost the get-up-and-go enthusiasm that had spurred Liv to establish everything from a history club to a student-led Bible study on school campus. During the past six years, she'd worked as a casual teacher at Wattle Vale. Felicia kept on talking, her artificial face. Was Doreen right that Felicia had had work done? Pulling into lines of artificial sympathy that matched her artificial words, as Liv tried to pull batatted shreds of dignity around her crumbling mask. What would she do now? She'd worked so hard, hoping, praying for a miracle to leave the uncertainty of supply teaching and short-term contracts, and finally be assigned to a permanent history teaching post in the school's humanities department. She'd watched person after countless person promoted to such positions around her, all to no avail. When Doreen Hitchcock, the head of humanities, had announced they were recruiting for a permanent role, and invited the current pool of casuals to apply, she'd taken Liv aside and told her the role was as good as hers if she wanted it. A wave of unwelcome emotion threatened her composure. Her students might appreciate her compassion for them. Various parents might have murmured over the years that Liv put the human into the humanities department. But just how good was this waterproof mascara? Olivia, are you okay? Liv hauled up her chin. She would not let this woman see her upset, see her pain. I'm fine, she swallowed, willing her squeaky voice to sound normal. I guess I'm a little surprised. Doreen told me that I was the preferred candidate for the position. She shouldn't have done that, Felicia murmured, glancing at her watch. There was a lot Doreen shouldn't have done. Like assured Olivia the job was hers, like gossiped about their boss, like pretended to be Liv's friend. So what does this mean for my future here? Will you consider me for any upcoming jobs in English? You know I'm qualified in that too. I, of course. That hesitation pushed words into her mouth. Are you sure? That doesn't sound like you will. Of course I will. You should know you have been a well respected member of the staff here for quite some time. Liv swallowed a disbelieving chuckle. Since when had she been respected? So you definitely will? Yes, you'll be the first to know. The doubt must have somehow made it onto her face, for Felicia said impatiently, I said I would. Now please, I have another appointment.

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the spyglass shut and handed it back to Pierre. He'll be wearing a mask, he warned. Véronique turned to walk back to the coach. Don't worry, it won't be a problem. Yet here she sat this evening, reclining on the soft upholstered seat in the overheated coach, smiling at her captured prince with tempting allure, wondering how much time she had. How long would they be alone before the laudanum took effect? Five minutes? An hour? Her desire for him was alarming, and she realized she may not be in full control here. She supposed she had known that before she stepped into the coach, for everything had turned rather warm and hazy in the ballroom when they first met. Something very potent had sparked between them, and now she was caught up in a delicious sexual current which she feared might sweep her off her feet. I didn't expect this tonight, Nicholas said in a low husky voice that heated her blood. It was supposed to be a night of political debates and endless arguments. You've all been arguing for days, Véronique replied, referring of course to the fate of Napoléon, who had been defeated at Waterloo less than a month ago, and had just surrendered to the British. He had boarded the HMS Bellerophon at the port of Rochefort, but no one could agree on what to do with him. Haven't you had enough? Nicholas slid closer, slowly removed his gloves, one finger at a time, then cupped her chin in his hand. Enough talk of politics, yes, but not nearly enough of you. There it was, the famous charm. She would have liked to believe she was immune to it, for she was the seducer in this situation. But when he spoke to her in that velvety voice, and touched her with those strong, gentle hands, she melted like every other woman who found herself blinded by his impossible charisma. Keep your head, Véronique, it won't be long now. Are we going somewhere? He asked while his gaze dipped to her parted lips. Or did you invite me to your coach for some other decadent purpose? She raised an eyebrow. Such as? The corner of his mouth curled up in a devilish grin. I'm not sure, darling, but you seemed rather determined to lure me out of there. Where do you live? Is it far? Or do you have some other plan for me? A hotel, perhaps, or a long, leisurely drive through the city? The coach lurched forward and pulled away from the curb. Prince Nicolas's eyes remained fixed on hers, and he smiled. A drive it is, then. With a simmering look of desire, he kissed the side of her neck, and the moist heat of his lips lifted her into a dreamlike cloud of arousal. Letting her head fall back on the seat cushion, she laid her hands on the gold epaulets on his broad shoulders and closed her eyes. How relaxed she felt in his arms. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She wasn't supposed to let it go this far. Nicolas continued to lay a trail of hot kisses across her collarbone and down to her cleavage. You taste sweet, my darling, he whispered, like honey. Then he lifted his head and gazed intently at her for a heart-wrenching moment. Slowly, he reached up and pulled his own mask away. Tossing it to the floor, he said, I am glad I found you tonight, and that you dragged me out of there. Seeing his whole face for the first time in the golden lamplight caused a shiver in her heart, a sudden twinge of uncertainty, or perhaps a better word was regret, for what she was about to do to him. What was it about this man, she wondered frantically. Was she foolish to think there was something more between them than a devious plot on her part and a casual sexual seduction on his? Perhaps he made all women feel this way when he held them in his arms, as if there was something deep and profound between them. True love at first sight, so to speak. She didn't love him, no, of course she didn't. To her, he was just a means to an end. May I have the pleasure of removing your mask, Véronique, he asked. I would like to see your face.

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She grinned, leaned in, and kissed him with lips soft as satin, breath fragrant as wine. She pressed her stomach against his groin, as her hands drifted to his cravat, tangling, pulling, tossing the unnecessary cloth to the floor. He'd returned the favor. The buttons of her gown ran down her front. He released her to make short work of them. No, she groaned, surging to close the space he'd put between them. Ah, ah, ah, Sarah mine, patience. But you said fast, and fast has its merits, but perhaps what I meant was right. Now, stay put. Why are there so many damnable buttons on this dress? Sarah wiggled beneath his hands, then looked up at him, determined. Rip them. Henry's hands stilled. What? I said, rip them, the buttons. I need new clothes anyway. Will you have anything to wear tomorrow? She shrugged the worry aside. I'll borrow something from Ada. Her eyes lit with merriment, challenge. Or can you not rip them? I know a scholar's fingers should be strong for more that writing, but otherwise scholars aren't known for their physical strength. She eyed his shoulders from end to end. I had thought she possessed a hardier constitution, but she played at being a minx then. Fine, he could play too. He silenced her with a kiss, then pulled away, searching her face to see if she cared. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him back. Right, she didn't care. His hands crept to her bodice. His fingers toyed with the button at the top. He flicked it open, then the second one, revealing a creamy swell of skin that sent his heart pounding into his ribcage. She growled, that's not ripping. He smiled, astute observation. Now tell me, is this ripping? He pulled with all his might. I'm damned if the thread holding the buttons on her gown didn't give way like the cheapest paper. Sarah shrieked as buttons sprayed in every direction, bouncing off walls, chairs, and Henry's eye. It stung. He rubbed his eye with both hands. Bloody hell. She giggled, covering her mouth when he shot her a one-eyed frown. But her laughs escaped anyway. You're a pirate. She wheezed the words between guffaws. Henry blinked his eye open. The damn guy was leaking. Are you crying? Sarah asked through wheezing laughter. No reason to dignify that with an answer. He blinked several times. The eye appeared to, one, still be there, two, still function properly. Good, but not quite the reaction I expected, Henry grumbled. Sarah straightened, catching her breath. Not what I expected either. You did ask for it. Yes, but who knew the buttons would attack you? Poor buttons, they were shocked to be treated so. She wrapped her arms around his neck and melted into him. Poor Henry's eye. She hid her face in his neck, her body heaving. Are you laughing again?

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But the best bit of all, he laughs, is that the man she was meeting never turns up. He only asked her out for a bet. Watch as Rachel squirms with embarrassment in the stylish bar. See the looks of pity the other women give her. See how the waiter gives her the extortionate bill for a glass of wine. And best of all, see how Rachel discovers she's left her purse at home. Uncontrollable guffaws. The events that led me to being called a drug addict had the same element of celestial farce that the rest of my life had. What happened was, one night I'd sort of overdone it on the enlivening drugs and I couldn't get to sleep. I hadn't meant to overdo it. I had simply underestimated the quality of the cocaine that I had taken. I knew I had to get up for work the following morning, so I took a couple of sleeping pills. After about ten minutes they hadn't worked, so I took a couple more. And still my head was buzzing, so in desperation, thinking of how badly I needed my sleep, thinking of how alert I had to be at work, I took a few more. I eventually got to sleep, a lovely deep sleep, so lovely when the morning came and my alarm clock went off, I neglected to wake up. Bridget, my roommate, knocked on my door, then came into my room and shouted at me, then shook me, then at her wits' end slapped me. I didn't really buy the wits' end bit. She must have known that slapping wouldn't wake me. But no one is in good form on a Monday morning. But then Bridget stumbled across a piece of paper that I'd been attempting to write on just before I fell asleep. It was just the usual maudlin, mawkish, self-indulgent poetry-type stuff I often wrote when I was under the influence, stuff that seemed really profound at the time, where I thought I'd discovered the secret of the universe, but that caused me to blush with shame when I read it in the cold light of day. The parts that I could read, that is. The poem went something like, mumble mumble, life, something indecipherable, bowl of cherries, mumble, all I get is the pits. Then, and I vaguely remembered writing this part, I thought of a really good title for a poem about a shoplifter who had suddenly discovered her conscience. It was called I Can't Take Any More. But Bridget, who'd recently gotten weird and uptight, didn't treat it as the bad drunken poetry it so clearly was. Instead, when she saw the empty jar of sleeping tablets rolling around on my pillow, she decided it was a suicide note. And before I knew it, and it really was before I knew it, because I was still asleep, well asleep or unconscious, depending on whose version of the story you believe, she had called an ambulance and I was in Mount Sinai having my stomach pumped. That was unpleasant enough, but there was worse to come. Bridget had obviously turned into one of those New York abstention fascists. So she rang my parents in Dublin and told them that I had a serious drug problem and that I'd just tried to kill myself. And before I could intervene and explain that it had all been an embarrassing misunderstanding, my parents had called my painfully well-behaved older sister, Margaret, who arrived on the first available flight from Chicago with her equally painful husband, Paul. Margaret was only a year older than me, but it felt more like forty. She was intent on ferrying me to Ireland, to the bosom of my family, where I would stay briefly before being admitted to some Betty Ford-type place to straighten me out, for good and for all, as my father said when he called me. Of course I had no intention of going anywhere, but by then I was really frightened, and not just by the talk of going home to Ireland and into a clinic, but because my father had called me. He had called me. That had never happened in the whole of my twenty-seven years. It was hard enough to get him to say hello whenever I called home, and it was on one of the rare occasions when he answered the phone. The most he ever managed was, Which one of you is it? Oh, Rachel, hold on till I get your mother.

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He was going to die, he had sensed it from the moment that he was taken. Now, he was certain, one question gnawed at his brain, like the rat he had heard scuttling across the cold concrete floor. Why? The longer he tormented himself, the more torturous it became. What little time remained should have been spent remembering everyone who had ever loved him, arriving at a gradual resignation, born of the knowledge that he was loved, had made his mark, and left a legacy. Instead, he was forced to rummage through the murky corners of his mind, to which he'd consigned his dirty little secrets. In this dark, confined space, it was easy to imagine himself behind the grill. A fog of stale tobacco on an unwashed habit, heavy breathing, and the hint of communion wine, seven years old, his first confession, stumbling through the litany. In my thoughts, and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do. And yet, in the grand scheme of things, nothing he had ever done or failed to do had been more than a minor transgression. Not one of them a capital offense, not even close. And so he shifted focus from why he deserved to die, to what it was that he had to lose. A hand grabbed his hair, another the ties that bound his wrists. He was hauled to his feet. He tried to speak, to plead. The gag, dry as leather, scraped against parched lips. The sound he made bore no resemblance to the words that had formed in his brain. He lost his footing and was dragged backwards into the cool night air. His feet, loosely bound, grazed against a hard, slippery surface. He winced in pain as his back rammed into a metal object. His legs were raised, his feet gripped. He was propelled backwards, his head slammed against an immovable object. There was a moment of surreal calm before his senses tuned in. The crown of his head throbbed, a dull ache pulsed across his temples. His wrists burned, the pain in his spine was unendurable. He forced himself to concentrate beyond his body. He could hear the low growl of an engine, and the hum of the road surface. Every pothole, deceleration, and sudden turn, a jolt of electricity. He heard the rear doors open, his legs were grasped in a vice-like grip. His body was pulled forward and then lowered to the floor. The ground was cold against his head. He heard the crunch of feet on leaves as he was dragged, his head bouncing helplessly. His back struck something hard, pain erupted in his spine. They stopped. Now he was suspended in midair as though in a hammock. He was carried forward. Now he was being lowered, lower, and lower, and lower. Finally, he came to rest. His body began to shake uncontrollably. The gag caused his jaw to dislocate. He felt the tarpaulin on which he had lain dragged from beneath him. Something cold and hard hooked beneath his blindfold and ripped it from his eyes. It was dark. Gradually, his eyes began to focus. He could see the black skeletal shape of naked branches against a steel gray curtain of sky. Scudding clouds obscured the stars. Now there was a figure, a sinister shadow, bending over the side of the pit. A hard rain began to fall, splattering his face and body, covering his mouth and eyes, blotting out the sky, erasing his life.

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The Valiant was launched from beyond the aura of the Earth's blue glow seven months ago. It would have been a long time to be awake, twiddling your thumbs. The necessity for extended sleep didn't come from concerns about our boredom, however, but from our potential to go apeshit in a ship that felt, and often smelled, like being inside a sardine can. And outside, nothing but space. Thousands of people, a handful of nations, and several billions of dollars have gone into this mission. It would be a shame for it to fail, because the crew decided to stick sporks in each other's throats just for a change of pace. We know we were individually chosen at least in part for our skill sets, the practical things we can do. Blake is crew leader and pilot, Kang is the engineer, and I'm the medical officer. There's overlap in there, too. I know enough that I could fly the landing pod if I had to, probably. Kang's been taught how to amputate a gangrenous arm or leg, and Blake seems able to do just about anything. Our skills weren't the only reason we were selected, though. There were better, more experienced engineers and pilots and doctors among the thousand candidates that got cut. As a crew, the main test was whether we'd be able to keep the sporks down for the journey and, assuming safe arrival, minimize conflict for the remainder of our lives, a.k.a. the breathing hours we have left, as measured by the available oxygen inside the base's walls. You need to get along. As mission leader put it, her arms stacked like a pair of steel bars over her chest. And we do. We get along, even if that's not exactly the same thing as liking each other. We're going to Mars and never coming back. If all goes according to plan, the three of us, the entirety of Valiant's crew, will be the first humans to live and die on a planet other than Earth. A history-making triumph for some, a bleak honor for others. My own membership being with the latter camp. So why sign up? Why lie about being comfortable in small spaces, make up a story about dreaming of reaching the stars since I was a little girl, put up with the mission leader's physical and psychological abuse throughout the training and crew selection process? I have no idea. I know it doesn't make sense to come this far without a good reason, which is why I haven't shared it with anyone, my crewmates or mission leader, or the battery of psych quiz masters testing our resolve. Sometimes I think I've come all the way out here to find out.

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And this is your room, says Kendra, stepping back as she opens the door, allowing me to enter first. As I turn to thank her, I'm struck again by her resemblance to her grandmother. And for a moment, my mind plays one of its silly tricks, making me think I'm back in the dormitory at school more than seven decades ago. And she is Ella, my best friend. I look around, expecting to see the iron bedsteads pushed against the walls. And Beatrice, the third of our tight-knit band, sitting on one of them, brushing her copper-colored hair. The three musketeers, they used to call us. Ella was the beautiful one, Bea was the artistic one, and I was the brainy one. But this isn't school, and they are both gone now. I'm the last one of us left. I give my head a little shake, trying to clear it, pulling myself back to the here and now. The room is bright with French sunlight, the only bed a double one, covered with a pretty toile de jouy quilt. There's a painted chest of drawers with a jug of wildflowers set on it, and a wooden stand on which hang two neatly folded white towels. It's just as I'd always pictured it from Ella's descriptions, after that first heady summer she spent here so very long ago. The summer we left school, and our lives went in such different directions. I wonder whether Kendra feels Ella's spirit here, just as I do. She well knows how much this house on an island just off the west coast of France meant to her grandmother. I blink, forcing my meandering mind to focus again, as the boy clumps up the stairs carrying my suitcase. He's at that awkward stage in his early teens, all elbows and knees, and he bumps his shoulder against the door frame as he enters, as if his brain hasn't quite caught up with how quickly his body has grown. I wince, thinking he must have hurt himself, but the expression on his face doesn't flicker. He uses both hands to lift the case and swing it onto the bed with a bounce. His straight blonde hair hangs to his shoulders, and the back is matted into a tangle. I suppose trips to the hairdresser must get complicated, if even the thought of being touched sends you into a frenzy of panic and horror. Careful, Finn, says Kendra, don't damage Mrs. Delaney's things. He doesn't reply, but turns to look at me the first time he's done so directly. Those eyes, they are the same color as Ella's were, sea green flecked with gold. But there's a tautness around them, a look of tired anxiety no child should have to carry. Despite the sun and the wind, because surely he must spend some of his time outdoors, or is he one of those youngsters who's glued to a computer screen from dawn to dusk? His face is untanned, there's a pinched, tense look to his features, but otherwise they're expressionless. What happened to your leg, he asks. It's the first thing he's said to me, social niceties clearly being surplus to requirements. I lost it in France a long time ago, I say, tapping my walking stick against my prosthesis. The stump of my knee is swollen from today's flight, and from walking what seemed like miles, firstly at Gatwick, and then when we landed at La Rochelle. The plane had come to rest some distance from the terminal, so I'd had to limp across the expanse of tarmac, and then take my place at the back of a long queue for passport control in the early summer heat. You've come to the right place to look for it then, he says. His face, as pale and waxy as the full moon, holds no hint of a smile. That was a joke, by the way, ha ha. The tone of his voice is flat, even his laugh lacking inflection. Then, the tone of Kendra's voice is sharp, the reprimand makes him wince. I thought we agreed you were going to practice good manners, sorry. I can see the tension draw tight around his eyes as he drops his gaze to the floor, as since he hates being in the wrong, letting his mother down.

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She grinned, leaned in, and kissed him with lips soft as satin, breath fragrant as wine. She pressed her stomach against his groin, as her hands drifted to his cravat, tangling, pulling, tossing the unnecessary cloth to the floor. He'd returned the favor. The buttons of her gown ran down her front. He released her to make short work of them. No, she groaned, surging to close the space he'd put between them. Ah, ah, ah, Sarah mine, patience. But you said fast, and fast has its merits, but perhaps what I meant was right. Now, stay put. Why are there so many damnable buttons on this dress? Sarah wiggled beneath his hands, then looked up at him, determined. Rip them. Henry's hands stilled. What? I said, rip them, the buttons. I need new clothes anyway. Will you have anything to wear tomorrow? She shrugged the worry aside. I'll borrow something from Ada. Her eyes lit with merriment, challenge. Or can you not rip them? I know a scholar's fingers should be strong for more that writing, but otherwise scholars aren't known for their physical strength. She eyed his shoulders from end to end. I had thought she possessed a hardier constitution, but she played at being a minx then. Fine, he could play too. He silenced her with a kiss, then pulled away, searching her face to see if she cared. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him back. Right, she didn't care. His hands crept to her bodice. His fingers toyed with the button at the top. He flicked it open, then the second one, revealing a creamy swell of skin that sent his heart pounding into his ribcage. She growled, that's not ripping. He smiled, astute observation. Now tell me, is this ripping? He pulled with all his might. And damned if the thread holding the buttons on her gown didn't give way like the cheapest paper. Sarah shrieked as buttons sprayed in every direction, bouncing off walls, chairs, and Henry's eye. It stung. He rubbed his eye with both hands. Bloody hell. She giggled, covering her mouth when he shot her a one-eyed frown. But her laughs escaped anyway. You're a pirate. She wheezed the words between guffaws. Henry blinked his eye open. The damn guy was leaking. Are you crying? Sarah asked through wheezing laughter. No reason to dignify that with an answer. He blinked several times. The eye appeared to, one, still be there, two, still function properly. Good, but not quite the reaction I expected, Henry grumbled. Sarah straightened, catching her breath. Not what I expected either. You did ask for it. Yes, but who knew the buttons would attack you? Poor buttons, they were shocked to be treated so. She wrapped her arms around his neck and melted into him. Poor Henry's eye. She hid her face in his neck, her body heaving. Are you laughing again?

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Have you ever stopped to consider what self-love truly means in your life? This question often gets overlooked because of our busy lives and societal pressures. But, pondering this could lead to a transformative journey that can profoundly change your views on happiness, strength and resilience. Self-love isn't just about pampering yourself. It's about grounding your entire being in respect and affection that radiates outward, affecting every aspect of your life. This book is not simply a collection of theories and techniques. It's a testament to a personal journey. A journey that began when I realised my self-love was conditional, tied to achievements and the opinions of others. This revelation shook my world, propelling me toward a more authentic and nurturing relationship with myself. As a life and wellness coach, I've had the privilege of guiding others on this path, helping them find their inner sanctuary of self-respect and care. It is from these interactions and personal revelations that the self-love guide was born. What sets this book apart is its interactive nature. It's not just a theoretical exploration. It's a practical guide that will accompany you step by step on your journey to self-love. Each chapter is crafted to deepen your understanding and practice of self-love, with workbook and journaling prompts that encourage you to reflect and engage with the material. This interactive aspect will genuinely enrich your journey. Engaging with this book will uncover the tools to boost your self-esteem, conquer doubts and embrace your imperfections as hidden strengths. You'll learn how to foster resilience and transform how you face life's challenges. More importantly, you'll discover how to celebrate yourself every single day. As you embark on this journey, remember that you're not alone. You're joining a vibrant community of fellow seekers, all striving to foster a kinder, more loving relationship with themselves. This community is not just a concept. It's a tangible support system. You'll find support and inspiration through online forums and social media, reminding you that you are not alone in this quest. I invite you to approach this book with an open heart and a curious mind. Let it be a safe place to explore, question and grow. As we start, I encourage you to reflect. What does self-love mean to you right now? And what do you hope it will mean by the end of this journey?

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The owl and the pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea green boat. They took some honey and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five pound note. The owl looked up to the stars above and sang to a small guitar. Oh lovely pussy, oh pussy my love, what a beautiful pussy you are, you are, you are. What a beautiful pussy you are. Pussy said to the owl, you elegant fowl, how charmingly sweet you sing. Let us be married, too long we have tarried, but what shall we do for a ring? They sailed away for a year and a day to the land where the bong tree grows. And there in a wood, a piggy wig stood, with a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose, with a ring at the end of his nose. Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring? Said the piggy, I will. So they took it away and were married next day by the turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mints and slices of quince, which they ate with a runcible spoon. And hand in hand on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon. They danced by the light of the moon.

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So, I assume you have a particular reason for visiting me today. Her tone was cold, but her curiosity was obvious. Her bird-like eyes glittered with it. Louisa removed the solicitor's letter from her bag and handed it over without a word. Aunt Millie stared at her for a moment before putting on her glasses and perusing it slowly. Well, well, well, Jack Campbell dead, who would have thought he would do anything worthwhile? Aunt Millie sneered, I thought him gone to his maker long ago. She was shocked by the vehemence of her aunt's reaction. But who was he, she asked, I've never heard of him. Her aunt folded the letter and stared off into the middle distance, a queer smile on her face. I'm not surprised, he was the devil incarnate, that's who he was. She sighed impatiently, but what relation was he to my father? He never spoke of him, is he a cousin? No, not a cousin, Louisa, Jack was his eldest brother. Aunt Millie revealed with all the triumph of someone who loves the power of knowledge and a complete scoundrel with it. He was the reason that father forbade your parents' marriage. Gracious, so he is my uncle? Louisa was very shocked. What did he do that was so terrible? Is that the reason Grandfather Dylan took so strongly against the Campbells? I always believed it was because they lost the estate. Aunt Millie looked uneasy and took a moment before answering. It gives me no great pleasure to tell you this, she began with a look that belied her words. It must be over 20 years ago now, your uncle had to leave Galway rather urgently with various unsavory rumors flying around, she sniffed with distaste. There was talk of gambling and an altercation of some description. He was just like his own father. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and he proved it tenfold. They tried to hush it all up, but loose talk cannot be stemmed. But surely my father did nothing to merit such harsh treatment as well. He did nothing wrong. How can you be so green, Louisa? You know very well it takes very little to ruin the reputation of a family. Your uncle's actions only finished what your grandfather Campbell had already begun. We all warned your mother, but she would not listen to reason, even after father told her she'd be cut off. But Sophia was always a fool.

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Deya glared at him and opened her mouth to retort, but that's when she heard it. The gentle thunk, thunk, thunk coming down the stone hallway. Like a flame from a fire wielder's palm, Deya's anxiety shot up, her heart rate quickening. Strutting, as she often did in her velvet flats with the block heel, the high mother Clarita sauntered into the room with a sweep of shimmering gray fabric. Deya's breathing turned shallow. Hello, Clarita crowed. That sickly sweet pallid smile was plastered across her face as always. Good afternoon, Mother Clarita, she chirped. Luke also beamed at the mother, but it was not forced like Deya's. Hello, Mother. So this is what those pitiful vermin in the dungeon wrought on our kingdom, the mother sniffed. It was a bloody battle, Mother, Deya supplied, attempting to steady her own thumping heart. I paid a small visit to the traitors, Mother Clarita continued. And some of them bore traces of healing magic, as if someone were trying to. Her eyes flitted to Deya, and the glint of malice that flashed in her irises made Deya hold her breath. Help them, she finished, her voice venomous and sweet. There must be a healer amongst the traitors, Mother. Luke cut in before Deya could even think. Maybe it was one of them. I see, the mother breathed. Deya shivered at the poisonous lilt of her voice, a snake flicking its tongue against her skin. Are you and the others ready for the feast? Clarita asked. The castle cook has agreed to arrange a special treat for us. They began heading out of the infirmary, Clarita's gossamer robe shimmering in the weak morning light. Deya was left alone with a room full of dying soldiers, but not even a thank you from Clarita. Not like she expected it anyway, Clarita's praise was saved for her most loyal dogs, and Deya had never been that.

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Stop fighting, a voice that sounded like my own seemed to whisper in the dark. My body would not perish, thanks to its elven gift of healing. But my mind was dying, my soul was breaking. I no longer had the energy to cry for what I was losing, to grieve for what I had already lost. I don't want to be here anymore. With every new day spent in darkness, I lost some of my light, and I wasn't sure when I would run out, I just knew it would be soon. Eliana, a low whisper flowed across my mind like the brush of gentle fingers. I know that voice, I had hallucinated it so many times while in this unending darkness, but at first I didn't believe it was real. But the rumbling and terrible roar somewhere deep in the heart of the castle woke me fully from my restless slumber, and real hope flickered in my heart. There was a final shout as a body crashed into the door, and then silence. Eliana, the same low voice whispered again, no, pleaded. Blinding light burst into the room from the doorway, where the door had been kicked off its hinges. No, the voice broke on the word, open your eyes, princess. Princess, I shook my head, eyes squeezing tighter, not trusting the heartbreakingly tender but broken voice that I was hearing. It isn't real, you're slipping away. He was the last ghost to visit me before I left this plane, and a welcome one. Open your eyes, now. It was a command, not a request, and the authority in his voice sent a jolt through me, my eyes hungered for him, the black shirt tight across his muscled chest, his bare feet filthy, covered in mud, and what I assumed was blood. He must have dressed quickly after transforming. What have they done? He whispered more to himself, as if something greater than his worst nightmare had torn at his heart, leaving him damaged. I didn't answer, because he had come, he was here to save me. You came, I thought you would have realized by now. You can banish me from your side, hate me, strike me as much as you want. His eyes flashed in the low light, but there is nothing I wouldn't do, and no one in this world that would keep me from you. Mia Estra.

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We are all old friends here, the Queen answered after a heartbeat, and need not stand on ceremony. Magnitude, she said warmly, perhaps you could have refreshment sent for? Certainly, my Queen. The older lady in waiting hurried away, leaving the three of them listening to her hasty footsteps fading into the corridor outside. Tell me, have you heard the misfortune that has befallen the Cecil family? The Queen asked without more ado, answering truthfully, was spared Jane the necessity of hearing me tell the dismal tale, I have, Alessandra admitted lightly. The Queen gave a hollow laugh, of course you have, she muttered, Jane, you will do me the courtesy of rising now from your heap. If you ask my opinion, he drooled, there is no need for all these theatrics. He turned to the Queen, you must simply find a husband who will not keep her from court. The Queen uttered a short laugh, does such a husband exist? But in my experience, she added bitterly, is it such an impossible task? He allowed a note of faint incredulity to enter his voice. You know nothing of such matters, my dear Budolph, only consider, I scarce to see my dearest Eden nowadays, the King's champion, that boorish Sir Holland keeps her buried in darkest Vaudreyshire, producing his heirs. No one would ever claim the Vaudreys made reasonable husbands, he pointed out, given a choice I would not have picked one for her, Armand admitted discontentedly, the matter was taken entirely out of my hands. That is too bad, but Lady Jane has not committed herself so rashly, she will put herself wholly in your hands, I am sure, Armand shrugged pettishly, I suggest you choose for her more wisely than your previous favourite deed for herself.

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What's happening, Aria rasped, reaching a trembling hand for the wall behind her, displaying fear, mark. His Majesty claims my son's death was an unfortunate necessity. I wonder how he reached that conclusion so easily. It was not easy for me. What's happening now is also an unfortunate necessity. 100 days, Highness. Over the next 100 days, His Majesty's line will die, beginning with you. We talked peace. You signed. There can be no peace between tyrant and oppressed. I did not begin this war. It began three centuries ago with a brand. As you seared your contempt into us, we at last sear our response into you. No more. Aria's trembling stilled. The water mirror rippled at the edges, droplets bursting free to splatter stone. You claim to prefer honesty, Aria said. Then be honest. This can't be about the brand, since our peace agreement would have removed it. The widow ignored her. You have always demeaned magic, and those of us possessing it have kept our heads down out of a desire to live peaceably. Now King Peregrine has removed the option for peaceable living. This is about your son. You bear a personal grudge, but you are dragging an entire kingdom into it with you. Lifting her chin, the widow stared Aria down from within the rippling dark. You are a naive child, displayed in the very way you speak to me. If you comprehended the smallest droplet of my power, you would flee. Power to make iced tea, you mean? Loss of temper, mark, Aria flinched at her own words. This was the woman she'd meant to make peace with. Instead, she was provoking her further. Widow Morton smirked, tell me, Highness, what is tea? When Aria didn't respond, she went on, fluid caster, I have been called. A frivolous title, as if I perform party tricks, turning wine to water for the enjoyment of others. But I'll invite you to listen to your heart. Listen as it pumps, as it picks up speed within your chest, as the thundering truth rushes through your mind. What is it pumping? What sustains your life, Highness? Aria followed the widow's gaze down to her bandaged finger. In the chaos of other events, she'd forgotten about the broken teacup, about her injury. At the reminder, she heard the rush of blood in her ears, just as the widow predicted. Blood is only fluid, Widow Morton said, and a princess is only blood. When Aria looked up, she saw that the woman held a small white towel, stained red down the center. One of her servants must have delivered it to her after tending Aria's injury. Too late, the princess realized her mistake, the worst she'd ever made. Her father had been right. This woman had never been interested in compromise or reconciliation. She had called for blood, and Aria had delivered it right to her door. In the morning, Widow Morton said, the castle will wake as usual. But each night, they will slumber and you will not. As the king is determined to see us divided between casters and non-casters, so shall you, Highness, be divided as well. By day, you will feel your exhaustion, an impulse as natural as magic. But if you succumb, you will be punished. By night, you will have your strength, but no one to share it with. You will be left to wander alone, isolated. Perhaps you might use the time to ponder the isolation of magic users, alone in a world but ought to be home. Perhaps you might use the time to finally accomplish something good. Regardless, as the curse draws strength from you, it will grow and spread to your sister, Eliza. When this is finished, I will see His Majesty's family destroyed as mine has been. The widow's smile was cold, 100 days, Highness, start counting.

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The rain dripped miserably as Hislop sprang up the front steps and rang the bell. After a minute the door opened and the housekeeper, a thin elderly woman dressed entirely in black, confronted him. Her hair was tightly drawn, her purse unsportless, and in her bleak face was stamped authority mingled with a certain grudging humanity. For a few seconds she inspected Hislop, his bag, his hat, even his boots. Then, with a slight elevation of her brows, his luxurious background of horse and cab. Eva Cab, she observed severely, as though he had arrived in the state coach drawn by four cream horses. Well, I suppose you'd better come in, she declared frigidly. The doctor's out, she said. He's far enough his legs, poor man, since the last assistant left. Ah, he was no good, that one, no good at all. Hislop grinned and looked round the big comfortable room. That's right, said Cameron, without a handshake or a word of preamble. Warm your back at the fire, while I work myself to death outside. Damn it to hell, I thought Stirik said you would be here this morning. Janet, Janet, for God's sake, bring in our tea. Obtaining a good three quarters of the fire, he inspected Hislop sideways and asked abruptly, are you strong, strong in wind and limb? I hope so, married? No, thank God, can you play the fiddle? No, neither can I, but I can make them bonnie. Do you smoke a pipe? I do. Oomph, do you drink whiskey? Hislop's dander had been rising under this interrogation. I don't like you, he thought, as he looked at the odd unprofessional figure beside him. I drink what I like and when I like. The spark of a smile gleamed in Cameron's sardonic eye. It might be worse, he said, and then sit in and have your tea. Janet came in with more hot water, only then did she say impassively, there's a man been waiting this half hour, young Lachlan Mackenzie, him that has the farmstead up Markinchwy, his burns badly, he says.

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and accepted Penny's banknote. How's he now? How many times is that this month? I'm not sure. Two or three, I think. I'd have to check the attendance records. Well, we'd better find out what's going on with him and see if we can offer any support. And if you had plans for this evening and want to get away, just say the word and I'll take over. No, it's all right, Martin. I'm here now, and I can use the extra hours. The woman handed Penny her change. I could take over here for a few minutes to give you a chance to collect the glasses and wipe down tables if you like. I noticed on my way through that the tables are all full and the glasses are starting to pile up. I know perfectly well how to run a bar service, thank you very much, snapped the woman. I'm managing just fine, and I'll sort out the glasses the minute I get a chance. The man seemed about to say something else, but then thought better of it. Well, if you're sure you don't need my help, I'll leave you to it then. Holding her glass of wine in her left hand, Penny shifted along the bar in the direction of the man in the plaid shirt and fishing vest. A couple stepped back just as she reached him, so she was able to squeeze past a woman who had been monopolizing him for several minutes and extend her hand. He set his drink on the bar, grasped Penny's hand, and held it in a beefy grip. When he released it, she withdrew her fingers and placed her hand behind her back. A trim attractive woman in her early 50s, Penny introduced herself and explained, My friend and I are here from Llanellan for your painting weekend. We're delighted to be joining you and looking forward to learning lots. Bill Ward glanced with bleary brown eyes at the name badge pinned to Penny's jacket. Sallow skin hung in loose folds around his neck, underscoring a broad jowly face. Glad you could make it, Penny, he said in a surprisingly warm baritone. Some of your fellow painters are scattered about the room, so be sure to introduce yourself to other members of the group. There are about a dozen of you all together, so hopefully we'll have lots of lively discussion and we can all learn from one another. It's so crowded in here. I thought surely all these people can't be part of our painting group, said Penny. Nah, the rest are just ordinary tourists booked into the hotel. The town's always busy like this during the high season. There's a lot to see and do. Besides an abundance of antique shops, boutiques, and bustling pubs and cafes, the seaside town of Beaumaris on the Isle of Anglesea off the north coast of Wales is home to a medieval castle built in 1295 by King Edward I. There was a massive queue for the castle when we arrived this afternoon, and the promenade along the seafront was positively heaving, said Penny. But really it's like that all over North Wales every summer now, and getting worse. In Llanellan, where I live, she broke off as his gaze drifted over her shoulder, and his wide-set eyes narrowed slightly. Sensing that her time with him was up, she finished. Well, I've taken up enough of your time, just wanted to say hello and let you know we're here. I'm glad you did. Enjoy your painting, and I'll see you tomorrow afternoon at the critique session, if not before. As Ward turned his attention to a woman standing just behind Penny, she took a step back. Whoa, exclaimed a man's voice behind her. He raised his beer glass above his head, and stepped nimbly to one side just in time to prevent her bumping into him. Oh, I'm so sorry, Penny said as she turned to face him. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, and then flickered away. It's so crowded in here. I hope I didn't cause you to spill your drink. If I did, please let me get you another. No harm done. His sandy-colored hair was lightly flecked with gray, and his blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at her. He gestured with his almost empty glass at the crowded bar. I was going for a refill, but maybe I'll give it a few minutes. It's pretty crowded. Probably best if we step away from the bar then, said Penny. By unspoken agreement, they moved toward the opposite end of the room, and when three women seated near the doorway that led to the hotel lobby stood up to leave, they seized the opportunity and grabbed the table. While Penny pondered what to do about the three used wine glasses left behind by the previous occupants, the man pushed them to one side of the table, making room for their glasses. When they were seated, he peered at her name tag, as Ward had done a few minutes earlier. Branigan. That's an Irish name. But your accent isn't Irish. It's Canadian, right? Yes, it is. Well, hello, Penny. Oh, sorry. I should-

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Dad shows Vanessa what to do. He crouches down to her height. Lift the barrel of the gun onto the wall like this. Steady yourself, legs apart. Hold your chin away from the butt. Squeeze the trigger. Count one zambizi, two zambizi. Release. I hold my hands over my ears and shut my eyes. The sound of the gun cracks the air and hits me above the belly. That's where the gun sounds go, thumping the air out of you with their shout. Dad hands Vanessa the gun. The kick will knock your teeth out if you're not careful, he says. Use the wall to hold the gun, all right? Don't worry about hitting the target. Just try not to put a hole in the swimming pool wall. We laugh. I say, yeah, Van, don't shoot a scorp, hey? Ha! Or a frog, Dad says. That's right. Let's just see if you can fire off a round without falling backwards. She shoots at the target again. She has shot the running baboon terrorist once clean through the nose and once clean through the heart. She hands the gun back to Dad. Good shot, Van, we're all shouting at the same time. Where did you learn to do that, says Dad.

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NANCY. 1911. Not long ago my daughter-in-law Mary asked what life had been like for me growing up. We'd had a warm day, and were out in the whole field in search of a cooling breeze, with the infants, Matter and Annie, crawling in the grass, and because she'd been casual in her asking, I kept my response equally low. What the truth is, but I couldn't answer, not in any proper way. The scale of the question overwhelmed me, and in the down moments of all the days and nights since, I've thought of little else, hoping to make sense of it. My life feels like a trail of footprints in a snow-covered field, with a lot of detail obscured. Only the best and worst moments have survived, those that impact it most heavily. During the living of it, there was neither time nor room for contemplation, simply surviving took everything I had, and then keeping my little ones alive, safe and fed. If I'd known at the low points along the way how much worse my situation could still get, I do wonder if I might have simply given up the way plenty did. Folks I grew up around, or heard about, who, deciding they could take no more, hung themselves with a piece of rigging-rope from a roof-beam, or dug open the wrists of both hands, and fell down in the corner of some field to bleed themselves dry, or who stripped down to their skins on one of Clear Island's beautiful sandy beaches, and waded out into the sea until the waves submerged them. Because, as terrible as any of those choices would have been, as sinful to a soul, according to the priests, they'd have been easier than what followed for me. And who's to say that when all is said and done, easier isn't better? From inside the living moments, though, grief-stricken as they were, and so full of hunger, and as shameful as they'd become once my destitution took full hold, such escapes were beyond consideration. All that mattered was getting by, at any cost. Our island, ten miles or so west of the mainland, did suffer badly when the hunger hit, or when storms rolled in. But if heaven does exist, and has a landscape half as breathtaking as Clear's, especially of a summer's day, when the sea is calm and brightly lit, and there's not a murmur of wind to freshen the heavy air, then nobody will be disappointed. Patchworked in rough gorse, loose rock walls and winding by-roads, Clear is cruel in its beauty, especially along the wild western fringes. A nightmare for boats to navigate, even when the weather is at ease, and a place that speaks in ancient ways. Pirates passed winters here, tucked into safe harbour, knowing they were out of reach of the chasing law. And the Spanish, having tamed and terrorised half the world, but driven close to our shore by sweeping gales, wreck the best of their armada on the treacherous hidden reefs. Sometimes the fog gathers over the land and nearer reaches of sea with such density, a kind of fairy cloak, but anyone standing beyond an arm's reach becomes an island in and of themselves, and if you don't know the ground beneath your feet, it's easy to simply step out into nothingness and be for ever lost. There's magic on Clear, of a kind that is just as often wicked as it is good. I haven't much of a head for dates, but I do know that a few days ahead of my birth, in April of fifty-two, my Aunt Hannah died, the last of my mother's people to go. Hannah left behind a husband, John Joe, and I heard often from my mother that for days and nights after her death he'd wept like Noah's rain. By that time other families had begun burning their bodies rather than burying them, partly due to a shortage of priests in the area, and partly because the will for dealing in more correct fashion with the dead had long since been crushed. But John Joe insisted on Hannah going into the ground so that she might rest in soil that knew her. Weak as he was from starvation, he spent hours opening the grave of our people, and though there was little my mother could do to help, given her heavily pregnant condition, she remained at the graveside the whole day long and watched him work, and in this way neither of them had to feel alone. Through the entire dig John Joe didn't utter a word, and he hardly stopped except once to roll up his sleeves, and then again an hour or so later to peel off his shirt. In the first unsettled dusk, bare-chested and emaciated, he looked like something that had risen up from the earth. For more UN videos visit www.un.org Thanks for watching!

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Insanity, over and over, the word catapulted to Ella Pemberton's mind, as loud and jolting as the hard seated stagecoach. This is insanity, more than that, it was a mistake. She ought to know, after all, hadn't she told her father countless times, there was no purpose, but he was only torturing a soul already battered, that they needed him home more than anything else in the world. But he'd never listened, he'd gone to Northstone again and again and again, until they'd stopped expecting him to stay with them. The truth, he'd say. He'd stumble back to the doors of Abingston Hall, their manor house in Gloucestershire, with his eyes demented and empty. In the name of everything holy, Ella, I must find the truth. Mayhap if he had uncovered the answers he sought in Northstone, the pain would have been less. When he had died on his bed three days past, perhaps it would have made a difference, but he never found the truth. That strange, crazed look was never eased from his eyes. And heaven have mercy, but he died without vengeance on his eldest daughter's murderer. The coach door swung open. Where do you want to be going, miss? A calloused hand reached out. Watch your step, then. It be a mite slippery with this stashed weather and all. Clutching her reticule, Ella accepted the driver's help and emerged from the coach. Her back ached, but the greater agony flooded in her stomach. Pray, this is Northstone. The cobbled stone streets were clean, glistening with rain. On each side of the road, neatly trimmed bushes grew in front of wooden fences or stone walls. The buildings were timber framed, many with thatched roofs and brick chimneys. Small townhouses, a millinery shop, a bakery, and a bookstore crowded the left side of the street, while a large bell tower church stood on the other. Quaint, it seemed, pretty almost. Didn't look at all like so many of her nightmares. Beaten your eyes on it, miss. The driver unloaded her valise and trunk, then wiped his brow. Where shall I take these for you, miss? Ella fished a coin from her reticule and handed it over. I am looking for Miss Fitzherbert, a resident of Northstone for longer than five years, I am certain. Tis a mite far to walk. I'll send a boy to be taking ye in a pony cart. Ella thanked him and waited beneath a wild cherry tree, whose sheltering boughs kept away the slight drizzle. She tucked a damp curl back beneath her bonnet. What a sight she must be. But then again, it had not been easy to persuade her mother and sister she was heading for London. Even harder to pay off a young lady's maid and send the Abigail away with references to another parish entirely. Mother would never find out that Ella had done the unthinkable. In the end, this would all be worth it. She would not fail as her father had done. She would search every crevice, and badge every person, and unbury every forgotten trace. And she would destroy the man who had killed her sister. There was no leaving until she did. Henry Sedgwick crested the ridge with speed, then drew the leather reins to his chest. The mare slowed, swung her head, and let out a defiant snort. Just a moment, Miss Stavely. He rubbed the horse's neck. We cannot very well return home without first enjoying the view, now can we? The bay horse poured the ground. The dark stone structure of Wickhorn Manor stood tall along the edges of a rocky cliffside, overlooking a gray blue sea 60 feet below. The waves glimmered and shone in the afternoon sunlight, as dazzling as diamonds against an ivory neck. How little the place had changed in the weeks he had been absent. Indeed, it was much the same as the day he had left. The manor casting long, disorienting shadows. The bushes sparse and without bloom. The windows shuttered and lifeless. All but one. A small hand waved at him from behind the glass, and the figure disappeared. No doubt the child was running downstairs to meet him upon entrance. Henry's chest swelled with anticipation. If only his happiness were not mingled with dread.

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Into the barn, Katie yelled at the slaves, and without hesitation she ran at the horseman, screeching, get on, you dirty devils. Shots rang out and both Katie and Fergus fell. Hail, you shot a white woman, one of the men swore. It was the last thing he said. Other guns blazed in the moonlight, and all three men fell, their horses jumping away, only to stop and mill in confusion not far away. Make sure they are all dead. Alex did not recognize her own voice, but she had no reason to give the order in any case. Porrick had his own vengeance in mind. As he came up to the men, one of them moved, and Porrick shot him point blank. Then he knelt beside Katie and touched her face as the last of life seeped from her body and from their unborn child in a bloody river that was black in the ghost light of the moon, Sweet Jesus, it was Samson's voice in a long whisper of pain. And then the two slave women were weeping, but Porrick made no sound. Alex knew before she touched her that Katie was dead, and she wanted to crawl into a hole and grieve without ceasing. But the habit of protecting Wild Swan and everyone on it was too deeply ingrained. The slave catchers are to blame, Alex said flatly. We will get you away as soon as we can. In the meantime, you are safe here, I promise it. The older woman spoke softly, her dark face weeping without tears. Never did I expect no white woman be done for my family. I praise to the Lord for her for all the rest of my days.

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In the summer of 1914, two eleven-year-old boys, Eric and Cyril, friends at boarding school, became obsessed by a story they were both reading. It was called The Country of the Blind. The book belonged to Cyril, but Eric kept borrowing it and having to return it. One night, Eric was so desperate to go on reading that he kept himself awake until four in the morning. It was mid-summer and the sun was already up, and he crept along the corridor to Cyril's dormitory, pinched it from beside his bed, took it back to his own bed, and read on. The story was by H. G. Wells, who was currently their favourite writer. What Eric liked about Wells was that he interested himself in science, in mysteries and prophecies, the planets and the bottom of the sea, flying and aerial warfare, space travel, Martians, mermaids, angels, creatures on the moon, distant islands where animals were turned into monstrous men. All these fascinating subjects were quite outside the interests of Eric's middle-class family or the subjects his teachers were grinding into him and Cyril, Greek and Latin and whatever was needed to get him into a public school, preferably Eton. Both their backgrounds were conventional in every way. Wells was not conventional or even respectable. Whether or not Eric and Cyril knew that he was a Republican, an Atheist and a Socialist, they were enthralled by his stories, his thrillingly convincing accounts of what he imagined and his forecasting of the future, technological, social and political. Both Eric and Cyril won scholarships to Eton and both became distinguished writers, Cyril Connolly as an editor and essayist, Eric under the name he chose for himself, George Orwell. During the Second World War, Orwell wrote and Connolly published in Horizon, the highly regarded magazine he edited, an article about Wells's effect on him. Thinking people who were born about the beginning of this century are in some sense Wells's own creation. I doubt whether anyone who was writing books between 1900 and 1920, at any rate in the English language, influenced the young so much. The minds of all of us, and therefore the physical world, would be perceptibly different if Wells had never existed. Back in the 1900s, it was a wonderful experience for a boy to discover H.G. Wells. There you were, in a world of pedants, clergymen and golfers, with your future employers exhorting you to get on or get out, your parents systematically warping your sexual life and your dull-witted schoolmasters sniggering over their Latin tags, and here with the wonderful man who could tell you about the inhabitants of the planets and the bottom of the sea, and who knew that the future was not going to be what respectable people imagined. Up to 1914, Wells was in the main a true prophet. Yet already in that essay, Orwell went on to say that the singleness of mind that made Wells seem an inspired prophet to the Edwardian age made him a shallow, inadequate thinker in that sense.

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The sun rose on a calm and golden October day. The young larch in her amber dress felt that every tree in the forest must be admiring her. But there she was wrong. On the other side of the old pine was a very ancient birch, all wrinkled and gnarled and twisted and knotted. Hideous toadstools were growing up her trunk, and her once lovely tresses were now matted and faded. Who on earth is that hideous old birch? the young larch asked. Good gracious, it's my great-great-grandmother, cried the young birch. I thought she was dead years ago. The old birch glared at the slim and beautiful young trees. A green flush of jealousy spread over her wrinkled trunk. You conceited young hussy, she hissed at the larch. I'd been hearing about you for several years from that old pine who died, but I never got a peep at you before. Well, I'm tired of living any longer, and it will amuse me to spoil your fine shape. With this the horrible old birch plunged forward with a crack, and seizing the young larch with her twisted twiggy fingers, she pushed her over halfway to the ground. Great-great-grandmama, cried the young birch. Please, please let go of my friend. But the old birch was as dead as the pine, and she did not move. Never mind, dear, said the young birch to her friend. The woodmen will soon be along this way, and they will pull her off you. But the woodmen did not come that way for a year, and when at last they removed the old birch, the young larch was crippled for life. She is still alive, and might have been as tall a tree as her mother was before her, but instead of looking over the top of the other trees and being given the first kiss of spring, she is almost bent double. A lonely old cripple she is, for the very birds are afraid to nest in a tree up whose trunk boys and girls can climb quite easily. And all the larches in the forest with young larches of their own point her out as an example of the pride which comes before a fall.