Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)
Cherie Priest
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are always too many people to thank—and I always live in fear of leaving someone out, but books don’t come together without a hell of a team and I’m very lucky to have such wonderful folks on my side. So I will take a crack at it, and hope for the best.
First and foremost, thanks go to my editor, Anne Sowards, and all the fine folks at Ace/Roc, for taking a chance on this peculiar project of mine. I know it’s a little on the weird side, but I’m terribly proud of it—and I’m grateful beyond belief that Anne was willing to take a chance on it, and that all the great people at her office have done such a stellar job with the final product. Likewise (and along that same vein), thanks go to everyone at Donald Maass, particularly and especially my agent, Jennifer Jackson, for closing the deal and generally being a shoulder to cry on, a wall to bounce things off of, and a partner in storytelling crime.
And then, of course, thanks to the usual suspects: my husband, Aric, whose patience with these things knows no bounds; Warren Ellis and everyone in the secret clubhouse that serves the world; GRRM and the Consortium; Greg Wild-Smith for the long-term and long-suffering Web support; Team Capybara and all its affiliate members; the Nashville crew in all its awesomeness (dear Lees, Harveys, et al); the kindly souls at Woodthrush and Robin’s Roost; Bill Schafer, Yanni Kuznia, and the other assorted Michigan Maniacs; Paul Goat Allen at B&N (and everywhere else); Derek Tatum and Carol Malcolm for all the gossip and encouragement; and Maplecroft’s Chief Cheerleader, Christopher Golden. He knows why.
THESE ARE THE THINGS AN EARTHQUAKE BRINGS
Lizzie Andrew Borden
MARCH 17, 1894
No one else is allowed in the cellar.
Emma has a second key, in case I am injured or trapped down there; but Emma also has instructions about how and when to use that key. When she knocks upon the cellar door, I must always reply, “Emma dear, I’m nearly finished.” Even if I’m not working on anything at all. Even if I’m simply down there, writing in my journals. If I say anything else when she knocks, or if I do not respond—my elder sister knows what to do: She must summon Doctor Seabury, and then prevent him from descending into the cellar unarmed.
I wish there were someone closer she could send for, but no one else would come.
The good doctor, though . . . he could be persuaded to attend us, I believe. And he’s a large man, sturdy, and in good health for a fellow of his age. Quite a commanding presence, very much the old soldier, which is no surprise. During the War Between the States, he served as a field surgeon—I know that much. He must’ve been quite young, but the military training has served him well through the years, even in such a provincial setting as Fall River.
Yes, I think all things being equal, he’s the last and best chance either Emma or I would have, were either of us to meet with some accident. And between the two of us, I suppose it must be admitted—to myself, if no one else—that accidents are more likely to befall me than her.
Ah, well. I’d take up safer hobbies if I could.
I locked the cellar door behind myself, and proceeded down the narrow wood-slat stairs into the darkness of that half-finished pit, once intended for vegetables, roots, or wines. I’ve paid a pretty penny to refurbish the place so that the floor is stable and the walls are stacked with stone. During wet weather, those stones weep buckets and the floor creaks something awful, but by and large it’s secure enough.
Secure and quiet. Dreadfully so, as I’ve learned on occasion. I could scream my head off down there and Emma could be reading peacefully by the fireplace. She’d never hear a thing.
Obviously this concerns me, but what can I do? My precautions are for the safety and well-being of us both.
Of us all.
I lit the gas fixtures as I went. All three came on with a turn of their switches, and by the time I reached the final stair I cast a huge, long shadow—as if I were a giant in my own laboratory.
My laboratory. That feels like the wrong word, but what else can I call it? This is the place where I’ve gathered my specimens, collected my tools, recorded my findings, and meticulously documented all experiments and tests. So the word must apply.
I cannot claim to have made any real progress, except I now know a thousand ways in which I have failed to save anyone, anywhere. From anything.
It would be easier, I think, if I knew there was some finite number of possibilities—an absolute threshold of events I could try in order to produce successful, repeatable results. If I knew there were only a million hypothetical trials, I would cheerfully, painstakingly navigate them all from first to last. Such a task might take the rest of my life, but it’d be a comfort to know I was forcing some definite evolution to a crisis.
But I don’t know any such thing. And more likely, the possibilities measure in the billions—or are altogether endless. I shudder to consider it, but I’d be a fool if I didn’t.
So I go on wishing. I wish for the prospect of a definite finale, and I wish I were not alone.
That would make things easier, too—if there were someone else to share the burden, apart from poor Emma. And though she appeared invulnerably strong when I was a child (due in part to the ten-year difference in age between us), in our middling years her health has failed her in a treacherous fashion. Often she’s confined to a bed or a seat, and she coughs with such frequency that I only notice it anymore if she’s stopped. Consumption, everyone supposes. Consumption, and possibly the shock of what befell our father and Mrs. Borden.