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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
  7. •   •   •
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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
  57. •   •   •
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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
  69. •   •   •
  70. •   •   •
  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
  103. •   •   •
  104. Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union
  105. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  106. •   •   •
  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
  206. •   •   •

Emma already thinks I’m jealous and angry. I won’t give her the satisfaction of being right.

Besides, a suitor wouldn’t fit all the puzzle pieces I’ve found lying about this stately home. I extended my foot and ran the toe of my shoe across the doorway that led onto the back porch. A dozen nails were pounded right into the wood, with such fervent enthusiasm that it’s a wonder the door would open or close at all. Maybe that was the idea. Maybe they’re trying to keep someone out. Better locks would seem like a stronger approach.

Though this does raise an interesting question. If not a suitor . . . perhaps it’s someone more menacing. Is someone causing her grief, here in town or somewhere at large? Not everyone thought she should’ve been exonerated, but that’s because not everyone knows her as I do. If someone has been harassing her, I won’t stand for that nonsense. Not for a second. Didn’t she have a wayward brother or some such? I’d swear she mentioned him once, and without a drop of fondness.

The kettle hadn’t popped, so I let myself seethe and let my mind wander.

She could be receiving threats in letters, in telegrams. Or they might arrive in person, but wouldn’t even a harasser have better manners than that? Most men are cowards, and they’re happiest to do their badgering through some other medium. Otherwise, they wait until they can get you alone, and I guess that’s one good thing about having Emma around. Lizbeth is never alone.

The theater has taught me so much. Not all of it about acting.

I took another look around the place—just the kitchen, and the corridor beyond it—and I saw yet more nails driven into the floor here and there, which didn’t make a great deal of sense, but the smell of sage, and the little bundles tied up over the doorways . . . they reminded me of something: a brief run off- Broadway (very off-Broadway) in New Orleans. That city is a superstitious place like none other, and all the actresses were in love with it. We’re a superstitious lot ourselves, worse than anybody, I should think—so it’s not as if I’m casting stones.

Speaking of stones, there was a small dish on the windowsill over the sink, and in it were three very shiny brown stones with clear marbling. Quartz, polished into gems, I think.

Yes, in New Orleans. I’d seen such things there.

My eyes rose to the entryway that separated the kitchen from the corridor leading to the house’s interior. Another nail, this one above the frame, overhead—and hanging from that nail, I spotted a small bag made of what looked like red felt, no bigger than my thumb.