Chapters (206)
- Praise for Maplecroft
- Title page
- Copyright page
- Contents
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- THESE ARE THE THINGS AN EARTHQUAKE BRINGS
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- A DOCTOR, A LAWYER, A MERCHANT, A CHIEF
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- Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- BE SURE YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT
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- I CROSS THE MAGPIE, THE MAGPIE CROSSES ME
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- Nance O’Neil
- THIS KNOT I KNIT, THIS KNOT I TIE
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- AND IF YOU HAVE A HORSE WITH ONE WHITE LEG . . .
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- THE WORST IS TO BE JUDGED WITHOUT HOPE
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- BUT NETTLE SHANT HAVE NOTHING
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- CUT THEM ON FRIDAY, YOU CUT THEM FOR SORROW
- Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
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- HAPPY IS THE CORPSE THAT THE RAIN SHINES ON
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- A DWELLING PLACE OF JACKALS, THE DESOLATION FOREVER
- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Nance O’Neil
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- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- RIGHT CHEEK, LEFT CHEEK—WHY DO YOU BURN?
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- Aaron B. Stewart, Fire Chief, Farthington, Mass.
- Emma L. Borden
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- Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union
- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Physalia, Z. University I Was Not Now
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- DEPART, ALL ANIMALS WITHOUT BONES
- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
- Phillip Zollicoffer. Physalia Zollicoffris.
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- Christoff Dane, M.D., Ph.D., University of Rhode Island, Kingston
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- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Emma L. Borden
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- FAMILY SLAIN IN MAYFIELD
- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Inspector Simon Wolf
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Emma I could live without, but I won’t, because Lizbeth loves her. You have to love your sisters, and if that’s not some kind of real law, it’s one of those moral laws that my father went on and on about for years. I don’t know if Lizbeth would choose to love Emma otherwise. I wouldn’t, but that’s just me.
She’s a cold thing, that Emma. Strange, really. Her sister is so warm.
But warm or otherwise, my beloved is up to something. Strange matters are afoot here at Maplecroft, and I get the distinct impression that the sisters are hiding something from me, if not lying to me outright. I’m not an idiot; I can see that things have been rearranged, and there are nails all over the floor in the doorways, and plants growing in odd pots, in odder places. For some reason, some doors are locked which otherwise used to be open. In corners there linger strange charms, snow-white grains of salt, and the faint odor of burned sage.
I asked Lizbeth about the locked doors, since that seemed like the easiest place to begin an investigation. She laughed, and it was worse acting than I’ve ever seen, which is saying something; but then she compounded the lie by telling me, “The cellar door’s always been locked. It scarcely opens, and so we leave it shut. Anyway, it keeps the damp downstairs, where it belongs.”
“I wasn’t talking about the cellar, though I know you have wine and a laboratory down there—which you steadfastly refuse to show me. But what about that room at the end of the hall? Isn’t it a library, or an office of some sort?”
“Storage, is all. My father’s old things. I keep meaning to go through it, sort out the whole mess, and donate his papers or belongings where appropriate . . . but I’ve been quite tired, and I didn’t care to look at it any longer.”
“So you’re entombing his memories, locking him away in the afterlife. Like . . . like some hapless victim in a Poe story.”
“My father is dead,” she said flatly, no hint of the very false laugh left in her cheeks. “And some days, I can scarcely manage my own affairs—much less tend to the ones he left behind. The bills are paid, at least, and nothing else is pressing. It can stay where it is, for now. Let it gather dust and let the papers molder away. It’ll save me the trouble of sorting them later, if I can just sweep them into the bin.”
But I pushed onward. “What about the other door, on the first floor? The sunroom, wasn’t it? Or something like that?”