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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
  69. •   •   •
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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. •   •   •

Around the divan, to the stair rail again; along the wall, where I clung to the kitchen’s entryway; my breathing was wretched and forced; I fell to my hands and knees, and while I was down there I crawled because there was nothing I could use to pull myself up. I reached the cellar door and I turned the knob, and at that very moment I heard a knocking at the front door.

Such a peculiar pleasantry. Can’t imagine why he bothered. (Why it would’ve cared.)

I pushed the door open and nearly tumbled inward right down the stairs—a faster way down, to be sure, but not my goal. I caught myself, and it wasn’t so bad. I had been sitting on the floor to start with; now I was only sprawled across it, half on the cellar landing and half in the kitchen. I drew myself onward with my hands, to the edge of the landing and to the step beyond it. I turned on my hip and thigh, so that I faced the right direction. Should I fall, I could at least fall productively, and in a somewhat controlled fashion.

I pulled my feet over the edge, and felt for the next step; I grasped the handrail and gave it a tug, knowing it might not hold me. I went sideways, almost, using my bottom to catch myself. One step. Caught with my toes, my knees, my rear end. Another step, navigated painstakingly in the same way. A third. How many? Eleven more to go.

Another knock behind me, more impatient and less precise, less polite.

Let him knock.

I did not stop my downward progression, painful though it might have been. I coughed, and wiped with my arm. I spread more phlegm and gore before me; I dragged it after me, smeared it with my dress and my hands. Everywhere I went, everything I touched . . . I left it looking like the scene of a terrible crime.

When I thought about it that way, it was almost funny—or I almost thought so, in one moment of insane hilarity. I was creating my own murder evidence, wasn’t I? Just as well I make a big mess of it. It might be my last creative act.

•   •   •

In my head, I performed calculations. Seven to twelve seconds per step. Another ten steps. Nine steps. A minute or so left, depending on how my strength held up. Less than that if I slipped and fell, meaning no strength left at the bottom. (I was reasonably certain.) Less time also if I were to tuck my head down, release the handrail above me, and roll forward. Perhaps some strength left at the bottom, perhaps a broken neck.

Was it worth the risk? The thing at the door was knocking again, erratically now, without the rhythm of a visitor.