Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(67)

I also told him, in a moment of weakness or brandy, about my masculine persona.

Maybe it was silly, but the moment felt right and I made my confession. I told him I was a man, or that I had a man’s brain—if that thought suited him better. I had another life, one on paper and sometimes in print across the globe, in places where I would never likely travel.

I tried to slow myself down, to keep some of it to myself, and maybe if Lizzie hadn’t been downstairs with a mop and some hydrochloric acid, she would’ve stopped me. It might have been a favor, or then again, I might have hated her for it.

It felt so good, that’s all—to let someone else hear it. And, after a moment of astonishment, even believe it. I credit him that much, and credit him richly: He did not argue with me, or scoff and declare that I must surely be mistaken. He only asked after the subject matter I pursued, and I told him all about how I’d gone about creating this second person, through which I lived a whole different life. In my imagination, if nowhere else.

He gently told me that he put more stock in imagination than many medicinal men, as he’d seen firm (if irrational) hope change the course of disease in patients, at times. I almost laughed, but it came out in a choked little sound instead. He asked me what was wrong.

“Sir, I do not argue with regard to the healing powers of optimism, but if they could change every patient’s world, then my own would be much greater in scope these days.”

“But I did not mean—,” he said hurriedly.

I did not let him finish. “No, I understand what you meant. I suppose I am only sad, because I do believe you’re right—but you are not right about everyone, and sadly, I fall into the group for whom no amount of imagination will restore my health.”

“You shouldn’t assume it. Science moves onward, upward, and in a thousand directions at once. Every year we see greater progress in every field. One day, you will find yourself restored.”

“Don’t make promises, Doctor. I hate promises. I am all too aware how imprecise science can be. As imprecise as faith, at least.”

“Well, then, everything is imprecise,” he said almost crossly, or I might’ve read too much into it. “But if we believe in nothing for a starting point, from what can we move forward? Even an educated guess is a starting point.”

“Even a superstition,” I said, hearing Lizzie rattling around down in that damnable laboratory.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My sister. Her brand of science looks like mythology, but you’re right—without some place to stand and place a lever, there’s nowhere from which to move the world.” Then, before he could ask for more, I waved my hand and said, “It’s all she has, all that makes sense to her. There is lore, you see. And no science to speak of, save what she’s managed to conjure.”

“Lore? Fairy tales, and the like?”

“Just so.”

He considered this, nodded slowly, and said, “When confronted with a problem that appears so . . . so vastly outside the reach of science, it’s not an unreasonable way to proceed. The tales of old wives have much value hidden in them, even if doctors cannot explain it.”

“I’m a bit surprised at that response,” I told him. “I expected you to be more firmly on the side of reason.”

“I do my best to remain on the side of reason, as you put it, yes. Absolutely. But the things I’ve noted as of late . . . the things I’ve seen, and heard, and recorded in my own notes, for my own reference—or as comparison with your experiences, and your sister’s . . . they are not reasonable. And I must admit that and accept it, if I wish to find answers.”

“You make it sound as if we struggle blindly, in the dark.”

“We all struggle blindly, in the dark. I did so just now, behind your house. It ended well for your sister and me,” he said, rubbing at a spot on his upper arm. “This time. Next time, we might not be so lucky. And then what should we do, when our luck runs out?”

He cleared his throat, and leaned back in the chair, casting one nervous eye at Nance, whose chest rose and fell with a mechanical jerk, and hitch, and settling, that looked like nothing so much as the mindless thrashing of a machine.

Floundering for some uplifting sentiment, I tried, “Then we find some light, and use it to guide ourselves out. Many monsters lose their power to frighten, when they’re dragged out into the morning.”

“But some don’t,” he said, too quickly in my opinion. “Some only reveal in full the awfulness of their true nature, and assure us that there is no hope.”

“Doctor!”

His eyes went far away, and then went hard before they returned to me. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, though not fast enough. “But if you’d seen a battlefield first thing, in the light of dawn . . . then you might not wish so wildly for illumination. However”—he adjusted the timbre of his voice, and his position on the seat—“we are not cannon fodder tonight, and thus far, the daytime hours have been kind to us. Our advantages are few. Let’s appreciate the ones we can count.”





Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union


APRIL 28, 1894

TELEGRAM AND ACCOMPANYING NOTE TO SHERIFF DANIEL HARDING, JETTING, MASS.

Dead found in hotel basement identified as family of five named frenchly stop cut open in awful ways stop signs of water damage everywhere stop bones picked clean with the meat left behind stacked like steaks stop manning has sent for boston inspector stop details in post should arrive by friday if not send word stop