Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(14)

“I’ll say no such thing. I have two more articles pending for publication.”

Wearily, I told her, “Well, the secret is yours, Emma dear. Do with it what you wish.”

I helped her dress for bed. I fluffed her pillows and gave her the day’s mail—including two of her favorite periodicals. I kissed her on the forehead and wished her good night. I lit the candles on the bedside table and extinguished the lamps as I left.

In the parlor, my father’s old clock gonged the hour. It was one o’clock, and therefore, morning. I was filthy and my dress was ruined. I traded it for a nightgown with slippers, and resolved to burn it, as I’d burned other dresses before it.

I’d wait for dawn, if I could sleep that long. Or sleep at all.

I remembered that I’d left the axe and my book downstairs. I set out to retrieve them.

Come daylight, yes—I’d destroy the dress, and check to bolt the cellar’s exterior doors, so that no one could come or go without my keys (or perhaps a stick of dynamite). When the sun was up, I’d check the cooker and empty its contents; I’d examine Maplecroft’s exterior, and its lawns, to make sure that no trace of the creature had been left behind.

But first, I staggered up to bed, toting my book and my axe.

I left the axe leaning against my nightstand, a childish gesture which made me feel silly, but more secure than if I’d left it elsewhere. I wanted to keep it within reach.

I lit my candles. I drew up my knees and let the book fall open across them.

The volume was heavy. It left creases on the quilt. Its pages smelled like dust and feathers, leather and wood, mildew and uncertainties.

A People’s History and Guide to the Myths, Lore, and Habits of the Fey, by Alfred Hanstible Valant III. Paris, 1797. (Translation provided by Edmund Lowe, PhD International Metaphysical Studies. MUP—1829.)

It’s a silly title.

And to be clear, these creatures which are infesting Fall River . . . I do not believe they are fairies. They are not ghosts, or elves, or gnomes, or demons. They are not brownies or bogies. But when I read about such mythic monsters, I detect a glimmer of some similar sentiment—an undercurrent of truth, a glimmering seam of gold buried in a worthless boulder. I read about peasants, priests, and alchemists in days of old who had codified their superstitions into wards, hexes, potions, prayers, chants, songs, and systematic protective behaviors in order to keep themselves safe from dastardly influences. They were testing the boundaries of unknown things, attempting by trial and error to manage the stuff which goes “bump” in the night.

They were the scientists of their times, these people. They experimented with dark forces and dark creatures by choice or by desperation, combining and recombining the things they knew with the things they suspected—fishing, always fishing, for a reliable inoculation against evil.

I skimmed a few pages, running my finger down the lines until I found what I’d dimly recalled from earlier readings.

One thing and one thing alone is certain with regards to foul specimens of the dark court fey: They fear and loathe contact with any rusted item, be it tool, or lock, or ornament. They eschew the touch of this substance, recoiling as if burned or otherwise contaminated. In some rural counties, where the friendly assistance of nearby neighbors or peace officers is not readily at hand, nails are left in the rain to rust—then gathered, collected, and pounded into doorways and windowsills as a barrier against entry by any unwanted supernatural creatures. A barrier such as this is considered to be one hundred percent effective, and utterly foolproof.

I found the “foolproof” bit unlikely, but this small, overwrought paragraph gave me much to think about. The author proposed that the critical element is rust. Rust does not occur without the presence of iron. My axe was not at all rusty; I kept its edge ground fine and its surface well cleaned. Yet still, I noticed a reaction. A difference. A significant improvement in efficiency, as compared to other instruments.

“It’s not the rust,” I argued with the book, and its long-dead author—should his disapproving shade be present. “It’s the iron itself.”

I considered the implications, if there were any. My bedside candle flickered and steadied, along with my thoughts. When first I’d read Dr. Valant’s mention of the nails, I’m sure I thought it was frivolous. A fallacy of the poor and uneducated, a superstition without merit.

Now . . . I was not so certain. The two things, iron and rust. One known to be effective, one claimed to be. Did it matter that I did not understand the mechanism by which it worked to prohibit monsters? Not if it worked regardless.

I slapped the book shut and swung my legs out from under the bedspread. When I put my feet on the floor, the cold of the boards shocked some of the sleepiness out of my bones—thank God—because I’d never be able to sleep now, not until I’d tried it.

I did not care what time it was.

I cared only a little that Emma was fast asleep when I reached her room with a hammer in one hand and a box of nails in the other. I turned on the lamp to rouse her, and she blinked, yawning herself awake.

“Lizzie?”

“My apologies, sister dear. I’m afraid this can’t wait.”

“What can’t wait?” she asked, her words clogged and close together. “What time is it?”

“Close to two in the morning, I imagine. But if this should work, and if I fail to do it, I’ll never forgive myself.”