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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
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“You’ve mentioned him. You think he might come here? Seeking you?” I moved on from her hair to her dress, which I unfastened one rounded glass button at a time, feeding them through the tiny loops that ran from the top of her neck to the small of her back.

“There’s always the chance. I rather like him, and I suspect we’d enjoy one another’s company. Maybe he feels the same way.”

Only a few more buttons to go. I fumbled with one of them, released it, and moved on to the next. I did not ask her anything. I only said, “If he comes, we’ll deal with it then. We can always claim that the good doctor died since last you wrote.”

“I’ll say no such thing. I have two more articles pending for publication.”

Wearily, I told her, “Well, the secret is yours, Emma dear. Do with it what you wish.”

I helped her dress for bed. I fluffed her pillows and gave her the day’s mail—including two of her favorite periodicals. I kissed her on the forehead and wished her good night. I lit the candles on the bedside table and extinguished the lamps as I left.

In the parlor, my father’s old clock gonged the hour. It was one o’clock, and therefore, morning. I was filthy and my dress was ruined. I traded it for a nightgown with slippers, and resolved to burn it, as I’d burned other dresses before it.

I’d wait for dawn, if I could sleep that long. Or sleep at all.

I remembered that I’d left the axe and my book downstairs. I set out to retrieve them.

Come daylight, yes—I’d destroy the dress, and check to bolt the cellar’s exterior doors, so that no one could come or go without my keys (or perhaps a stick of dynamite). When the sun was up, I’d check the cooker and empty its contents; I’d examine Maplecroft’s exterior, and its lawns, to make sure that no trace of the creature had been left behind.

But first, I staggered up to bed, toting my book and my axe.

I left the axe leaning against my nightstand, a childish gesture which made me feel silly, but more secure than if I’d left it elsewhere. I wanted to keep it within reach.

I lit my candles. I drew up my knees and let the book fall open across them.

The volume was heavy. It left creases on the quilt. Its pages smelled like dust and feathers, leather and wood, mildew and uncertainties.

A People’s History and Guide to the Myths, Lore, and Habits of the Fey, by Alfred Hanstible Valant III. Paris, 1797. (Translation provided by Edmund Lowe, PhD International Metaphysical Studies. MUP—1829.)

It’s a silly title.