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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
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  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. •   •   •

Oh, she hates to be called that, I know—she’s a proper actress now, with a proper actress name. Why Lizzie indulges her, I have no idea. Or I do. I have several ideas, and none of them are very polite.

Though it might seem nasty of me to suggest it, I daresay the situation is not wholly different from older men who marry down, and younger women who marry up. And there it is. We are spinsters with fat pockets and purses, and we are pariahs so far as the entire county is concerned. Meanwhile, “Nancy” is a pretty, popular girl with a small measure of fame, if no fortune to speak of. (She avoids the subject, but I have gathered that her origins are somewhat dubious.)

Actresses come in two types, as I hear it: fabulously wealthy, and pitifully destitute. The difference between them is alleged to be the quality of their suitors.

All things being equal, I suppose it’s safer than a street corner.

But Lizzie loves her, and I tolerate her. The girl isn’t often untoward, but she’s routinely uncouth and so very, very young. Plenty young enough (and if I am to be fair, beautiful enough as well) to find a rich man to keep her.

So yes, I can make my guesses as to what keeps her coming ’round. They’re better than guesses, and anyone who suggests that ladies don’t do such things doesn’t know much about ladies. Or anyone else, I expect.

Thank the good Lord above for thick walls and large, sturdy houses. Our rooms are adjacent, but without a measure of shouting, no one is likely to hear anyone else.

Under more ordinary circumstances, this slight distance is a source of distress to Lizzie . . . she wants me nearer, closer, more easily guarded and defended even at night. (Especially at night.) I appreciate her protective streak, and indeed, it’s kept me alive this long; but there are times when I find the attention stifling.

My resentment is unfair, in every way. It does not reflect on her in the slightest. It’s only my old longing for the easy independence I took for granted when I was Lizzie’s age. I am jealous, and that’s the extent of it.

I’ll leave it there.

•   •   •

“Under more ordinary circumstances.” That’s what I wrote only a minute ago.

But in a way, these circumstances of ours have come to feel . . . not ordinary, but perhaps consistent in their peculiarity. A woman can get used to anything, I guess. It must be something like the adage about a frog in hot water: Drop him in, and he’ll jump back out. Turn the heat up slowly, and he’ll sit there and cook.

We cook ourselves in fear.