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Chapters (206)
  1. Praise for Maplecroft
  2. Title page
  3. Copyright page
  4. Contents
  5. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  6. THESE ARE THE THINGS AN EARTHQUAKE BRINGS
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  12. A DOCTOR, A LAWYER, A MERCHANT, A CHIEF
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  20. Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
  21. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  26. BE SURE YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT
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  29. I CROSS THE MAGPIE, THE MAGPIE CROSSES ME
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  31. Nance O’Neil
  32. THIS KNOT I KNIT, THIS KNOT I TIE
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  37. AND IF YOU HAVE A HORSE WITH ONE WHITE LEG . . .
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  43. THE WORST IS TO BE JUDGED WITHOUT HOPE
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  46. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  53. BUT NETTLE SHANT HAVE NOTHING
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  55. CUT THEM ON FRIDAY, YOU CUT THEM FOR SORROW
  56. Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
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  62. HAPPY IS THE CORPSE THAT THE RAIN SHINES ON
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  67. A DWELLING PLACE OF JACKALS, THE DESOLATION FOREVER
  68. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  71. Nance O’Neil
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  84. Emma L. Borden
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  88. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  91. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  93. RIGHT CHEEK, LEFT CHEEK—WHY DO YOU BURN?
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  101. Aaron B. Stewart, Fire Chief, Farthington, Mass.
  102. Emma L. Borden
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  104. Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union
  105. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  107. Physalia, Z. University I Was Not Now
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  109. DEPART, ALL ANIMALS WITHOUT BONES
  110. Emma L. Borden
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  115. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  119. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  130. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  131. Phillip Zollicoffer. Physalia Zollicoffris.
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  137. Christoff Dane, M.D., Ph.D., University of Rhode Island, Kingston
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  139. Emma L. Borden
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  144. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  150. Emma L. Borden
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  153. FAMILY SLAIN IN MAYFIELD
  154. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  165. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  176. Emma L. Borden
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  186. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  197. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  205. Inspector Simon Wolf
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Several more I ought to mention here, and they all feel like a pattern, or part of one. But someone is knocking at the door, and it’s the kind of knock that says to come now.

Lizzie Andrew Borden

APRIL 25, 1894

I should’ve known something untoward was going on when I started sleeping better. Suspiciously better. Ordinarily I snap awake in the morning, shortly after dawn, no matter how late the previous evening has kept me working; but these last few nights, I’d drop to sleep and stay that way until seven or eight, and most recently, all the way to nine o’clock.

It was foolish to pretend that nothing was afoot or amiss, and it was more foolish still of me to pretend that Nance had nothing to do with it. She’s the only new variable in the household.

No, that’s not quite true.

There’s Doctor Seabury. His knowledge of what we do here—even if it was, at first, a rudimentary understanding of what we’re up against—that’s new, and it counts for something. But up until this evening, I could not have asked him to drop everything and come sit beside me, and listen to my tales of woe as if he had nothing better to do.

Now I know.

I’ve been looking at this all wrong.

This is the highest priority, for me, for Emma, and for him—for anyone who has any inkling of what’s going on. I know it is. It must be. But progress on the matter has been so slow, and escalation had appeared to plateau until recently. My God, I’d become almost complacent about it.

About them. The creatures with the shark-white skin and glass-needle teeth.

But there have only been a few, and no new visitations since that one I killed in the middle of March. No new visitations of any kind except . . . well, Nance, and that’s not the same.

Yet it’s not unrelated, either. She came, and she caused this new escalation, but that’s my fault. Mine entirely. I should’ve sent her right back home on the same train she arrived in. I should’ve thrown her luggage out on the lawn and told her to make her way back to the city. I should’ve pushed her away, chased her away, thrown her away if it came to that.

I didn’t. And look what it’s gotten me.

Look where it’s gotten us.

•   •   •

I awoke to Emma’s bell, but I awoke slowly and unhappily. I wasn’t ready. I was dreaming of Nance, and there was silk. Silk dresses? Sheets? Something soft and luxurious, something that flowed and billowed. Something dry and smooth, but soft as mist. I can’t recall, but wherever it was, whatever the dream was about . . . I didn’t want to leave it.