Marsha > Recent Status Updates

"That is the exact pink I want, okay? In crocodile, of course." That was a given. I knew that she always preferred the crocodile bags. I preferred crocodile, too, since I generally used a percentage markup to calculate my profit. I got a lot more money for my effort if I got a croc bag instead of a leather one.

Prada was a series of good-news/bad-news vignettes. They didn't have a jacket that I liked (bad news). They did have a suit I loved (good news). The jacket fit me perfectly (good news). But the pants were too long (bad news). Looking at myself up and down in the full-length mirror, I decided that I could pin the pants, just for the evening, and get them tailored later.

When I returned home, it was like "The Wizard of Oz" in reverse--my Technicolor trip was replaced by Boston's black-and-white bleakness. One look at the piles of dirty snow beside the airport runway and I was frantically searching my carry-on for ruby-red Spanish slippers.

I'm lying in bed unable to sleep, thinking about Oscar kissing brown-haired Brooke while I karmically fermented in the closet. Thinking about Grandma's and Mom's ghosts uniting against me. Thinking mostly about Noah. What was he doing by Guillermo's studio today? And why did he look so frightened, so worried? Is he keeping something from me?

I breathe in her perfume. She's changed kinds. This one smells like the forest, like wood and earth, with her mixed in. I close my eyes. A sob's rising in me as if it's being pulled up by her hands. I keep it down by saying, "Only six months now until the application's due." She squeezes my shoulders. "So proud of you."

Before he could stop her, she stomped straight up to the dragon and smacked him on the snout. "You spoiled brat! You're no more ADD than I am. What's wrong with you, running around scaring people like this? Dragons are supposed to be noble creatures. You're a disgrace to your kind."

"This afternoon, it looked terrible, like you'd washed it with Elmer's Glue and then hacked at it with a table knife. It was too short in some places and too long in others. Except now it looks pretty good. It's all about the right length, and it's not sticking out in every direction." He ran his hand through it, and sure enough, it felt normal. "Who knows what's going on?" But he had an idea.

"Witch," he growls, and his mouth descends on yours, the kiss both pain and pleasure. You struggle against his hold, but his hands are iron shackles. More insidious, however, are the chains of pleasure snaking through your body, tying you down, quieting your struggles.

4. Thou shalt not be aware of your beauty. Every villain, sleazy uncle, and otherwise able-bodied male who has ever clapped eyes on thee may make sexual overtures on thee, but thou shalt remain in blissful oblivion.

"The western wall," she gasped. "It fell last night. Anise was...emotional." "That's how I snuck in." Nicholas turned a corner. "I suppose such a lavish party was more importat than rebuilding the wall." "It's not as though there is anything to defend against here." "Only princes with questionable sense," he agreed lightly.

She should move. Proper ladies did not stand and stare when naked men walked toward them with eyes like that--full of wonder and amusement and curiosity, as if she were some miraculous thing. She did not move. His hands reached for her face and cupped it. As if searching for something, his thumbs traced her cheeks. The touch of his skin burned; Clara wondered if he would melt, and take here with him.

Mr. Wiley directed her down into the press of people--to shake hands with Commissioner Higgins, whose fat, grinning face shone pink; to place a hand on the shoulder of a stooped old man who scowled up at the shelter. Coffin house, his expressoin seemed to say. He knew--he was not a fool--and yet what was there to do?

Suddenly, she shook her head and laughed at herself. It's the villagers, she realized. Playing a joke on me. Tomorrow they'll ask me if I heard something strange in the night, she thought. Just wait and see. She got back in bed. It was a haunting voice, whomever it belonged to. She listened to the words: where heartache's never been; where you're seen as you want to be seen; where you'll never cry no more.

I can't surrender to Julian. I push against him roughly, and he releases me, making my body go cold and my head fuzzy. The noise comes back, a low level buzzing that gets louder as it swirls around my thoughts, pricking and probing for a way in. "Stay alert!" Julian barks into my face. "Focus your mind on me. You are stronger than them!"

"I just don't understand this whole feud thing everyone keeps talking about." She nodded. I went on. "Everyone acts like it's war but you go outside and it's just like any other small town. If things were really that bad, why would anyone live here?" "It's politics, and it's competition, and a whole lot of other things. But it's not war. At least not anymore." "So things used to be worse?"

It was late afternoon by the time I left the hotel. Out of habit, I hung close to the buildings and the shade they provided. I wasn't really allergic to sunlight, but it was still uncomfortable. The lighter things were, the more my attention was pulled outside the safety zone of my glasses.

AFTER ANNALIESE: NEXT GENERATION WONDERS--IS POOL HAUNTED? Interviews of students who believe in "the ghost of Annaliese": "I never get the flu, but I felt her watching me--and then I barfed!" "It's so cold in there." "It smells funny sometimes." "I can't explain it but it gives me the creeps." "I tripped for no reason and broke my nose!"

According to King Solomon's announcement over the PA, the no-cut-through-the-gym rule will not apply during the Homecoming dance. In fact, the tunnel is forbidden tomorrow night, for our "own safety," he says. Either he caught wind of Lacy's planned seance or he thinks we'll use it for an orgy den.

We skied on, Liam going so fast that I broke a sweat keeping up with him. The last thing I wanted was to lose sight of him and find myself alone in these woods in the dark. But as the light began to fade from the sky, turning first clear lavender tinged with mauve, I was distracted by how beautiful the woods were at this time of day. The snow, reflecting the fading light, took on an opalescent sheen.

Many homeowners had put up their Christmas decorations. There were the usual plastic reindeer and inflatable Santas, but also a type of decoration I'd never seen before. Among the branches of hte light-trimmed trees hung crystal bells, pinecones, doves, and angels. When I got closer Is aw that they weren't made of crystal; they were molded out of ice.

I spent the rest of the afternoon making an inventory of Dahlia LaMotte's notebooks and letters. The letters I found were all of a business nature, either to her publisher in New York or her lawyer in Boston. No clandestine love affairs or dark family secrets were likely to be lurking there, but the letters to her publisher could establish a timeline of her writing process.

A man of considerable presence was standing in the middle of the chaos. He had a high-domed head, white sideburns and somewhat small eyes that seemed to glisten slighting with inner thoughts of a distracting nature. "Thursday? I have to confess I am not pleased." "Oh?" "Yes. You told me that my assignment with you would be of the utmost secrecy. Look at my study--ransacked!"

I finished the paper and wandered back to the book. I had a brief chat with the series prop master on the way. He was the technician responsible for all the interactive objects in the series--items that could be handled or manipulated in some way. "We've managed to repair your car but go easy on it during the car chase. If you could just pull up sharply rather than slewing sideways, I'd really appreciate it."

"What do I think about what?" "This," he said, waving a hairy hand in the direction of the new BookWorld. "Not enough pianos," I said, "and we could do with some more ducks--and fewer baobabs." "I'd prefer it to be more like the RealWorld," said the red-haired gentleman. "Our existence in here is very much life at second hand. I'd love to know what a mistral felt like."

I opened my eyes. I was lying on the sofa staring up at Whitby. "Are you okay?" I sat up and rubbed my head. "How long was I out?" "Eleven minutes." I looked around. "And the Russians?" "Outside." "There is no outside." "There is now. Come and have a look." I noticed for the first time that my living room seemed that little bit more realistic. The colors were subtler and the walls had an increased level of texture.

I found myself in a long, dark wood-paneled corridor lined with bookshelves that reached from the richly carpeted floor to the vaulted ceiling. The carpet was elegantly patterned and the ceiling was decorated with rich moldings that depicted scenes from the classics, each cornice supporting the marble bust of an author. High above me were finely decorated circular apertures through which light gained entry.

Someone yelled, "Medic!" It was me. I switched to automatic. For the moment the idea that someone had shot my wife was expunged from my mind; I was simply dealing with a casualty--and heaven knows I'd done that often enough. I pulled out my handkerchief and pressed it on the wound. "Thursday, can you hear me?" She didn't answer. Her eyes were unblinking as the rain struck her.

"Yesterday you had me searching the library of a famous Belgian and today the Museum of the American Novel. Shouldn't we be searching more Danish facilities?" I pulled him aside. "That's precisely what they would expect us to do. These Danes are clever people. You wouldn't expect them to hide their books in somewhere as obvious as the Wessex Danish Library, now would you?" "Very astute, Agent Next."

"Hubba hubba," said St. Zvlkx as soon as Emma entered. "Who's the hunny with the scrummy hooters?" "He wishes you...both good morrow," said Joffy, visibly shaken. "St. Zvlkx, this is Lady Hamilton and Hamlet, Prince of Denmark." "If you're giving away one of those puppies," continued St. Zvlkx, staring at Emma's cleavage, "I'll have the one with the brown nose."

The stylists looked at my hair with a sort of shocked numbness until Lady Volescamper, who along with her increasingly eccentric mayoral husband constituted Swindon's most visible aristocracy, suddenly pointed at me and said in a strident tone that could shatter glass: "That's the style I want. Something new. Something retro--something to cause a sensation at the Swindon Mansion House Ball!"