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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
  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
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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
  206. •   •   •

But in fact, I was a coward.

That night, I dreamed of the drying table, and the tubes, and the probes. But beneath the sheet lay Abigail and Andrew Borden, bloated and swollen. Waterlogged and yet living, their eyes watching me as I walked horrified around them, unable to leave the room. Unable to understand. Unable to look away.

Emma Borden was right. I needed a word with her sister.

A DWELLING PLACE OF JACKALS, THE DESOLATION FOREVER

Emma L. Borden

APRIL 18, 1894

The Hamiltons have been murdered. Two of them, at least—the wife and son. Nephew? Godson? I can’t recall the particulars, but I believe he wasn’t theirs by birth. Regardless, he’s dead now: shot by his father, or whatever the man of the house was, in relation to him.

Ebenezer Hamilton has been taken into custody, and Fall River whispers so loudly that even such shut-ins as my sister and I have heard a number of details. The newspaper told us little that the gardener or the milkman hadn’t; we gleaned only one new tidbit from the official report, which was very brief, likely due to the suddenness of it all.

Apparently the boy had been ill for some weeks. He’d been kept indoors before the tragedy, out of fear that he might be a danger to himself or others. There are rumors that he’d been physically restrained, tied to a bed.

None of these precautions were excessive, as it turns out. They were not even sufficient.

When young Tim Haines came to collect our newspaper fee, he added the salacious detail that Matthew (that’s the boy’s name—I’d forgotten it until just now) had drowned Mrs. Hamilton in a washtub, and Ebenezer tried to save her. That’s where the gun came into it.

I have a terrible suspicion about this, and I know that Lizzie does as well. I know this, because she can hardly be persuaded to speak of it. She’s hidden the papers from Nance, lest she be called upon to gossip about the situation, and it’s entirely too near to the heart.

What an awful little place this town has come to be. Full of awful little people, and awful little creatures who make everything worse, exponentially. Daily.

And Nance hardly improves matters.

I honestly believe that Lizzie would throw that tall, noisy strumpet back onto the first train north for her own good, if she could—and it might yet come to that. I keep hoping there may be some catastrophic fight, instigated by my sister with the specific intent of sparing her beloved, even at the expense of the love itself.

If she were braver, that’s what she’d do. Or if she were less lonely, I should say.