But the usual books on our shelves upstairs are joined by tomes more directly alarming; and we’ve made changes to the house which cannot altogether be written off to winter modifications.

In the kitchen hang racks of drying herbs that cannot be used for cooking. Around the yard, small stakes and barriers have been installed, to say nothing of the alarms and traps at the outer reaches of the property. And then there’s Liz’s recent fascination with the nails. Scores of them, pounded unevenly into the doorways, along windowsills, and across every threshold.

I made her take some of them out, because some of the doors refused to open or close properly, courtesy of her inexpert attempts to wield a hammer. Of course, the moment my back was turned, she went and reapplied them all. More tidily, I’ll grant you. But still.

It was almost a real embarrassment, for when Doctor Seabury came to call yesterday afternoon, I found myself at a loss as to explain the exposed nailheads, after he tripped over one, and therefore noticed them all. I made some excuse about the house’s foundation shifting and settling during the last hard freeze, and he nodded politely.

I doubt he believed me.

The doctor had come on my behalf, as he’s made a habit of visiting once per month or so, depending. Sometimes we see him more, sometimes less. It all depends on my health.

Really, I find his appointments to be quite pleasant. We see so few other people, except in passing; and though his visits are not social in nature, they are nonetheless appreciated. He is patient and kind. He is a thoughtful, clever man.

When Lizzie was on trial, he defended her. He told the jury again and again that the stains on her dress were consistent with her story, that she had only found our father and his wife, and fretted over them. He vowed on the Bible and on his life that she could have never killed them, and certainly the murders were the work of a stranger.

He lied, and lied, and lied. I know he did.

But whatever he believed then, or believes now, he’s never treated us with disdain or suspicion. It speaks well of him, though I think his amiability comes partly because he is lonely, and that’s why he indulges us. His wife passed a year ago. No? Eighteen months, at least. It was after the trial, but not long after it.

Obviously I have noticed that he is still a strong, handsome fellow. And he might be old enough to be Liz’s father, but probably not mine.

Now I’m only being silly, and girlish. I’m only tired and alone, except for my sister.