𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞: 𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐬
𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘓𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘪𝘦,
𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘔𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴, 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦.
𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦—𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘈𝘯𝘥, 𝘢𝘴 𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘺; 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘹 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘓𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘪𝘦. 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘴, 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘺. 𝘞𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘳𝘶𝘯, 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘰. 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦, 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦.
𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 1) 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴, 2) 𝘬𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 3) 𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦.
𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬—𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴, 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦, 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘦, 𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧—𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨. 𝘚𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘬, 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘓𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘪𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦. 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.
𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘸𝘺𝘦𝘳. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘴𝘰 𝘷𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘴𝘰 . . . 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘓𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘪𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸.
𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘻𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘐 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘰. 𝘐 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺. 𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘸𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵.
𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨; 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘺, 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵-𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳. 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮, 𝘓𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘪𝘦.
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩.
𝘐 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘸𝘰. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐’𝘮 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘺-𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴—𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.
𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘴
𝘗.𝘚. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘐’𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴.
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏: 𝐈𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝
The green was everywhere. The hills, the trees, even the tiny country road appeared to grow grass through the gravel. Ireland seemed intent on washing the black and gray out of her mind and replacing it with green.
There hadn’t been a sign in miles. No way to tell if she was lost or going the right way.
“Damn it!” She slammed her hand against the rental car’s navigation system. It kept losing its GPS signal.
There was a clearing one hundred feet ahead. She pulled to the side of the road and parked. The car purred to a stop as she turned the key in the ignition. Her knuckles turned bone-white as she gripped the wheel.
“Breathe, Beth, just breathe,” she whispered, letting her hands fall from the steering wheel and onto her thighs with a muted thud.
Her head fell backwards against the headrest. Her eyes closed as she focused on the feeling of her chest rising and falling. And the sudden silence.
The light of the day illuminated her closed lids, creating a green screen for the flood of images and memories that crashed into her. Mags lying there looking emaciated, showing every bit of her eighty-nine years. All her vibrancy, her tenacity, her life ending.
And that look she had given Beth—wanting desperately to communicate something vitally important, but no longer having the ability to speak. It was a look of love and hope and something else . . . pity.
The tear trailed slowly down her cheek, electrifying her skin as it went. And then another.
The funeral had been bright with color, almost vulgar. Mags hated black and gray; “Anything but that!” she used to say. “Give me red, green, orange, purple—whatever, just give me something I can work with. Something to delight the senses.” Her friends had remembered.
She was buried on a Saturday.
By Sunday Beth had received the box. It was blue with a red ribbon and held seventeen letters, each in its own bright envelope. No two were alike save for Mags’ ornate writing, which labeled them all. “Start Here Lizzie” identified the first. It had left her breathless and reeling—sucker-punched her with no defendant to hold responsible, no legal recourse to make her whole, no escaping the mirror Mags had held up and forced on her.
No one to hold on to as Mags told her that everything she had come to believe about the parents who abandoned her . . . could be wrong.
She hadn’t realized it until the letter, but she had become a lawyer to feel strong, unlike her mother. She had become a lawyer to stick it to all the bastards like her asshole father. For the last decade, she had inadvertently based her entire life on a series of assumptions about the two people who had created her. Assumptions which, apparently, were total bullshit.
A path subconsciously chosen because of secrets and lies. And she had no idea how far the rabbit hole went.
She wasn’t due back in the office until Wednesday, but she was there on Monday morning resolute in her decision to leave. Bill had tried to convince her to take a couple of weeks. She needed longer.
He had turned almost purple enough to match his silk tie; the firm would sorely miss their lethal shark for however long she would be gone. But what could he do? Nothing. She was the best divorce attorney in San Francisco and she knew it.
The partners at Livingston & Bloom had always had to go along with her decisions. When it came to Beth, they had a proverbial gun to their heads. They were usually happy to oblige since she had made them millions with some of the most difficult and high-profile cases in California.
“How much time do you need?” Bill had prodded, following her into her office.
“I don’t know,” she huffed as she packed up the few personal items she kept in her desk. She stopped and looked out of her corner office, towards the windows that held the perfect view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the bay. “At least a couple of months, maybe more.” She returned to the matter of packing up the box she had brought with her. “I’m taking an extended leave.”
Bill swayed where he stood, thinking about how to approach her. His potbelly protruded over his five-hundred-dollar belt. “Come on, Elizabeth, you’re grieving.” He thought some more. “Just don’t make any life decisions right now.” He held up his hands like he was trying to calm a wild animal. “Take the month. We’ll shuffle the clients around temporarily and then get you up to speed when you come back.”
She finished retrieving her personals. Her office was massive, but it only took her five minutes. Smoothing her black pencil skirt quickly with her hands, she turned her attention to Bill. “No, assign them permanently to Kayla, Mike, and Ben. They’re perfectly capable of handling all of my current cases. It could be an entire year before I’m back.”
He opened his mouth to argue. She narrowed her eyes at him. Her contract was ironclad. She didn’t need his permission. His job was to keep her happy, keep her with the firm. He quickly composed his features; only the bright magenta color of his skin betrayed his true thoughts. He wasn’t happy about losing her for an indefinite period of time, but she had him by the balls.
He relented. “Of course.” She could still see through him. He thought her reaction to her great-aunt’s death was wildly out of proportion. After all, Magdalen had lived a long and happy life.
It was true. More than Bill could know. Mags hadn’t wasted a second. But it wasn’t about Mags, it was about Beth.
She opened her eyes, leaving the blacks and grays of her life behind, and looked out the window to her right. Ireland was greener than green. She restarted the car—the GPS signal was back.
