Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(26)

And that speaks volumes about his leadership, does it not? What kind of chancellor takes the concerns of his inferiors to heart, or uses them to guide his policy? If his underlings were of his own caliber, they would’ve matched his position by now. Since they are not, they ought to be disregarded until and unless they produce evidence that they are worthy of interest.

Such as myself.

But I gave them the letter, and there was a great chorus of hemming and hawing, and then I received permission that I should’ve never required: the permission to continue investigation and exploration into my own private property, with the blessing of the university, which would seek to profit from my discovery.

Damn the lot of them.





? ? ?


So here I sit, not in my office but in the laboratory where I first uncorked the specimen, the siphonophore, Physalia zollicoffris after all, my pet, my beloved, my savior and specimen. The other labs in this wing have complained about the odor, but I scarcely notice it anymore. If anything, it’s become a welcome scent—a friendly signal that all is right with the world, and that I have come home.

It’s funny, now that I think of it. I’ve scarcely been at my own home these last few days, or this last week—I’m not sure. What is there at home for me? Nothing, save a small gray cat who cares for me approximately as much as anyone else in the neighborhood who occasionally lets it come inside out of the cold. And I haven’t seen even the cat since the specimen appeared.

Now that I think about it.

At home I have food I don’t care to eat, and a bed that is no more comfortable than the cot at my office—where I’ve been more inclined to rest, these recent weeks.

Not that I rest too much, anymore. How can I rest, when greatness awaits? When my darling specimen calls my name, and upon it I shall build a career of wisdom and greatness?

I’m not sure how long it’s been since last I slept. I should take better care, when it comes to these things. As I used to tell my students, when I cared enough to improve them: A rested mind is a productive mind.





? ? ?


I don’t know how long I’ll have the indulgence of these old fools who run the university. I don’t know how long I’ll have access to their equipment, their space, and their patience. I don’t know when they’ll decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth, and evict me with my specimen—turning us both out into the street.

Or sending me back into my house, that small brown hovel I call a home, which . . . now that it occurs to me . . . is on school property. No, they quite literally can turn me out onto the street. I live here at their indulgence, and I will go without a place to live at their whim.

The world is a cruel and unfair place.





? ? ?


I should sleep.

Maybe I’ll drag the cot into the lab. There’s more privacy here, and less interruption. Fewer curious stares, fewer impertinent questions about how long my suspension might last, and whether it might become permanent. Fewer whispers of gossip overheard through the walls, tittering about how the smell travels with me, now, how they can detect the siphonophore on my clothes, and in my skin. Wondering who will have my office when I’m gone.

Is it such a foregone conclusion already?

These flickers of despair will be the death of me. I really do need some rest.





THE WORST IS TO BE JUDGED WITHOUT HOPE



Owen Seabury, M.D.


APRIL 13, 1894

I spoke with Emma Borden, and I can’t quite decide if I’m cheered or frightened by her response. She was eager—very eager—to talk about the death of her parents, to such an extent that I was frankly surprised. I would’ve thought the subject would prove too sensitive, given the circumstances of their demise—regardless of any illness leading up to that event.

Emma thinks I should speak further on the matter with Lizzie, but I’m not sure that I can bring myself to do so. I’ve spent two years convincing myself of her innocence; and if anything, I’ve been her champion in difficult times, albeit at a distance.

I hate confessing things to myself, but here it is: I kept my distance then, in case I was mistaken. And I keep my distance still, because there is a balance here—her freedom, her exoneration . . . weighed against the possibility of her guilt.

I wouldn’t entertain the darker possibility at the time, even when others were all too happy to do so. I’m not sure why. I can’t say why I defended her so; or, if I must choose my reason, then I’d say it was because of Abigail—that awful night before she was killed. Something was wrong. Something was worse than wrong, and at the bottom of my heart I felt that their murder might have been some kind of self-defense, instead.

Over and over, while I was on the stand, I thought of Abigail Borden and her cold, damp hands pounding upon my door. I remembered my terror, and then my revulsion as I recognized her, and saw how terribly she’d changed.

Worse than wrong. Yes. I suppose that’s the crux of it.

I have been afraid all this time that Lizzie performed some act of self-defense that could never be defended in court—an act that I would have pardoned and justified, given how readily I’d wondered where my pistols had gone when I saw that slack, imbecile shape rocking back and forth on my stoop.

But that can’t have been all of it. Andrew was murdered in his sleep. Abigail was taken by surprise, from behind. Can any such attack ever be construed as self-defense?