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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
  138. •   •   •
  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
  206. •   •   •

But that was before I moved at night. Before the sun became too much for my eyes, now so sensitive that I can see every line of every blade of grass . . . in the darkest night without a moon. And now I am reminded of the strange, small things that live in caves and go white, for there is no illumination by which they might compare their colors. I recall small crawling things with eyes that look like milk inside a cup, yet still they see—for all they are called blind.

Physalia has left me, even as she has come to me. I knew it when I rose one dusk and dressed myself, counted out the slim contents of my earthly lot, and saw that what remained of her could’ve fit in the palm of my hand. Not dead, not dying. Living stronger than before, and needing less of herself to do so. That which was left, fit easily in my mouth.

And I do not carry her jar anymore.

I buried it beneath the floorboards of a house, one perhaps forty miles from my goal. The house burned behind me, so I do not think it’s likely to be discovered anytime soon. Not unless she decides that it ought to be found.

She might. She is a mystery to me, beloved in all her uncertainty.

I can imagine a day, some months from now when the weather begins to cool, when all the charred beams and all the black cinders and all the white ash that pooled in the corners, dusting the remains like sand dunes or snowdrifts . . . I can see the foundations being cleared. I can see workers prepared to build anew on the old spot, undeterred by anything that happened there.

Brave men. Or ridiculous ones. Doomed ones, I should think, regardless.

But who among us isn’t?

•   •   •

For a while I dithered, considering how I ought to dispose of her carriage, that ridiculous jar with the ghost of an old jam advertisement on the side, and the residual fluids of her body left within. I ought to take it to the ocean, perhaps? I ought to bury it in some holy spot, some aquarium or castle? Some church? Some intersection between two streets where no men ever walk, but the night creatures pass back and forth—knowing one another and saying nothing, exchanging only glances and signs . . . ?

She did not express an opinion.

If I am forced to speculate, I might conclude that she does not care, and it does not matter. Regardless, I cannot shake the feeling that whatever she leaves behind is too holy to discard, and too powerful to remain hidden. I am only an acolyte, but a devout one.