Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(29)
They’d put me away.
? ? ?
But Doctor Seabury has surely seen the bodies. Some of them, anyway—a pair of sailors were shipped back to their homes up north before he might’ve gotten a look at them, but yes, come to think of it . . . he would’ve certainly seen some of the victims.
I could ask him about them. What they looked like, what carnage had actually occurred.
Not yet, of course. Not yet.
But it feels like . . . it might be worth the risk to court his friendship and confidence. Gently. Slowly. Cautiously. If I approach it carefully, he could become our greatest ally.
Our only one, if I’m to be honest.
? ? ?
Another note, recorded here so I do not forget. (And I’ll transfer these to my lab books downstairs later, when I’ve had time to think on them more thoroughly.)
Is it possible that the creatures are spreading the sickness? Could it be some strange ichor they leave in their wake, or share with their oozing skin? Is this how these creatures reproduce, by sickening a host until the host evolves into that final, disgusting state?
Maybe, but if so, you’d think that Emma or I would be well contaminated by now, unless my improvised defenses have worked better than I’ve known. All along I’ve wondered if I wasn’t wasting my energy with the folklore, the charms, the nails, the lines and symbols . . . but so far, nothing insidious has found its way inside the house; and so far, neither Emma nor myself is any sicker than we ever were, back at the Borden homestead.
Then again, that might not be fully true of Emma. But I have no way of knowing if her state is the result of the creatures and their poison, or some unfortunate, unrelated ailment. Either way, our proximity to the first bad outbreak can’t have helped her condition.
I wonder if she knows how closely I watch her, every day. Every time I brush her hair, every time I bathe her . . . I check her skin inch by inch, and I watch her weight, her shape, her eyes, for some incremental change brought about by whatever foul agent has settled into our lives.
Thus far, I’ve seen nothing but an ordinary woman, sick in an ordinary way. Daily I pray it remains so.
? ? ?
I made some offhanded comment to her about this; I told her that of course, yes, absolutely, I pray for her condition to hold steady at worst, and improve at best. I am a loving sister, after all, and what else would I pray for?
She shook her head. “Who are you praying to?”
I was taken aback. “The Lord in Heaven, same as any other God-fearing Christian.”
Wryly, she told me, “This isn’t what our library would suggest.”
“So I read about the faiths of others. Their beliefs pose no threat to my own.”
“You’re looking for magic, Lizzie. God doesn’t give us magic, only science.”
“Last century’s magic is this year’s science,” I argued.
“Point taken, but by now I am forced to wonder who you think is listening, when you offer up these petitions. The Lord? Some papist saint? Some old goddess, left over from darker times, in darker corners of the earth?”
“I’m praying to anyone who listens,” I told her. “The Divine has many names. I doubt He cares which one I call. Or She, for all we know. Doesn’t the Bible say we were created in God’s image, male and female?”
“You’re treading on dangerous ground.”
“We’re living on dangerous ground. And we can’t seem to leave it, so I’ll work on making it less dangerous—which, yes, is a dangerous effort in itself.” Exasperated with both her and myself, I threw up my hands. “I’m not sure what you want from me, Emma. I am doing my best, and that’s all that can be asked of me.”
“No one is asking more. But I fear for you, out there, downstairs, fighting monsters. You touch these things, and they touch you back.”
BUT NETTLE SHANT HAVE NOTHING
Nance O’Neil
APRIL 16, 1894
I arrived in Fall River around noon, having caught a ride from the train station with a nice young man who’d seen me in Hamlet last year. I could hardly believe he remembered me, much less recognized me now, but such is the power of theater, I suppose. There may not be any money in it, but there’s a certain kind of renown for the right kind of girl. And once in a while, that renown translates to a free ride into town, and to a loved one’s house.
The young man in question . . . oh, I’ve already forgotten his name. Francis? Frederick? Something like that. You’d think that someone who earns a living memorizing pages upon pages of other people’s words would have an easier time remembering other people’s names, but you’d be mistaken on that point. I’ve always been terrible about it. Likely, I always will be.
But this young man, “F,” was so wide-eyed and scandalized when I told him where I was going. I couldn’t decide whether to be offended or amused, so I settled on amused. Lizbeth is the kindest, wisest, most caring soul in the world, and I’ve never before cared about what the papers have to say. Why start now?
(Knowing what the papers say and caring about it . . . those are two different things.)
Emma I could live without, but I won’t, because Lizbeth loves her. You have to love your sisters, and if that’s not some kind of real law, it’s one of those moral laws that my father went on and on about for years. I don’t know if Lizbeth would choose to love Emma otherwise. I wouldn’t, but that’s just me.