Chapters (206)
- Praise for Maplecroft
- Title page
- Copyright page
- Contents
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- THESE ARE THE THINGS AN EARTHQUAKE BRINGS
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- A DOCTOR, A LAWYER, A MERCHANT, A CHIEF
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- Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- BE SURE YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT
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- I CROSS THE MAGPIE, THE MAGPIE CROSSES ME
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- Nance O’Neil
- THIS KNOT I KNIT, THIS KNOT I TIE
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- AND IF YOU HAVE A HORSE WITH ONE WHITE LEG . . .
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- THE WORST IS TO BE JUDGED WITHOUT HOPE
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- BUT NETTLE SHANT HAVE NOTHING
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- CUT THEM ON FRIDAY, YOU CUT THEM FOR SORROW
- Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
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- HAPPY IS THE CORPSE THAT THE RAIN SHINES ON
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- A DWELLING PLACE OF JACKALS, THE DESOLATION FOREVER
- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Nance O’Neil
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- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- RIGHT CHEEK, LEFT CHEEK—WHY DO YOU BURN?
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- Aaron B. Stewart, Fire Chief, Farthington, Mass.
- Emma L. Borden
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- Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union
- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Physalia, Z. University I Was Not Now
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- DEPART, ALL ANIMALS WITHOUT BONES
- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
- Phillip Zollicoffer. Physalia Zollicoffris.
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- Christoff Dane, M.D., Ph.D., University of Rhode Island, Kingston
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- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Emma L. Borden
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- FAMILY SLAIN IN MAYFIELD
- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Inspector Simon Wolf
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Women. I’ll never understand them. It’s a wonder any of them understand one another.
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But Lizzie and Nance, they certainly had an understanding. No sense in pretending that the arrangement was sisterly or otherwise; I know how the world works. I also know how to politely pretend the contrary, for although I find it troublesome, when all is said and done it’s (as I’ve said here before, and as I continue to try to convince myself) no business of mine—except for how it complicates things at Maplecroft.
And really, I don’t think this would be any less complex if Nance were a sister or beloved friend. Regardless of their relationship, Lizzie feels such guilt for what’s happened. She owns it. She feeds it, and it grows.
(For that is the way of all things richly nourished.)
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Nance remains upstairs, tethered to the bed, her body shifting around—her organs and bones wrestling for some new arrangement within her skin. It’s a fright to behold, but Lizzie insists on beholding it. She spends most of her hours seated at that bedside, reading newspapers or books aloud, holding Nance’s hand when she remains still long enough for that kind of contact. This is Lizzie’s penance. I think she sees it that way. It’s a punishment she deserves, not assistance she provides. Nance will recover with or without her. She’ll die with or without her.
I just wish Lizzie could look away for longer periods of time, for if I could drag her away more frequently from her self-imposed exile on the second floor, she might be more use to me as an assistant.
That might be unfair. She observes the test case of Nance, and that is helpful. She writes everything down, every bead of sweat, every spasm, every murmur. God, if that isn’t self-punishment, I don’t know what is. Maybe she’d call it devotion, or madness.
Whatever it is, it keeps her from the laboratory, and that means I’m largely left alone down here.
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As a precautionary measure (on the off chance there’s any measure that might hold water), we’ve moved every stray scrap of iron on the premises to this place in the basement, and stacked it upon the cupboard beneath the floorboards. It’s not an elegant solution, and it’s created a pile of rusting detritus that I must occasionally navigate around during my activities . . . but I do think it has somewhat muted the call of the weird green stones stashed therein.