With a heavy heart, I gently closed the faded yellow cover of the book. It was hard to breathe, hard to think. I felt sad— no, I felt more than sad, I felt sorrowful as if my heart had turned to stone. Impossible! Unfeeling stone never hurt this much. Yet beneath that dark heaviness struggled the wings of hope. My heart was breaking and exploding at the same time. It was too much. In my head, I could still see Marlowe at the train station frantically waiting for Maria to show, not knowing she was dead.

Insubstantial fingers stroked the length of my cheek. Was I crying? I couldn’t remember the last time I had cried. Nothing in recent memory had wrenched even a drop of moisture from these eyes.

I picked up the black phone and dialed my Minister of Information.

“Hello, Charles.” He said as he picked up.

“Burn it. Burn every copy. Execute anyone who has read it. This kind of emotion is dangerous. It can spark revolutions and topple governments. Oh and order another season of Keeping up with the Kardashians.”