It might be the last sane, intelligent thing he ever constructed, because if we are all to be honest with ourselves, and therefore with everyone else: The man is going mad. I don’t know how much more time we’ll have with him, before he is too far gone.

Upstairs, I heard footsteps. One, two, three, four. Pressed heavily into the floorboards, each with a musical creak. Each announcing something much larger than a man, or much heavier than a man ought to be, though I had seen its shape and it did not appear uncannily huge. And between the steps, the slow, inexorable motion of the thing drawing forward through our parlor, I heard the dull punctuation of his cane, tapping alongside his feet.

My brain raced. I would have given anything for more time.

There were so many things I could have done, should have done, if only I’d had the strength and foresight. There might be time yet if I hadn’t been left behind, ignored and abandoned like a baby bird having fallen from the nest, left for the cats.

It paused, and tapped its cane. Thoughtfully? Impatiently? I could not say.

And then it crossed the threshold into the kitchen. The timbre of its footsteps became more muffled when it reached the linoleum.

Had Lizzie taken her axe? She sometimes left it upstairs, and sometimes down here in the laboratory. I didn’t see it. Not that I could’ve necessarily lifted it, but like the gun I did not have, it might’ve made me feel (or at least look) somewhat less defenseless. I’m not sure how long it’d fool anyone, but again, I did not know how much time I had.

My knees were quivering, and I knew they wouldn’t remain locked for long. I grabbed the toxin vials and pocketed them all, a half dozen or more. Into my pockets they went, except for one—which I clutched as, yes, my legs gave way and I folded to the ground.

I withdrew as far as I could, scrambling slowly backward, with great difficulty. My whole body ached, and felt like it was not precisely mine. My bones felt like rubber, or something softer. Darkness scattered across my vision, and I struggled to see through it, to focus on the little vial full of awfulness in my hand—and its careful wax seal around the stopper.

I picked at it with my nails, and I looked up at the landing.

The gaslights were on, but they were not working correctly . . . unless that was some aggravating trick of the blood loss. The laboratory was not alight, but it glowed strangely, partly from the fixtures and partly from something I couldn’t put my finger on. Around me the walls had a greenish tint, or maybe bluish from another angle. It was like being underwater. It was like holding your breath.

I looked up at the landing.