Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(80)

“I don’t see why not.”

“Do you think there’s any chance they may have some positive effect on Nance?”

“I have no idea. Speaking of, how is she doing?”

“No better.”

He made encouraging noises that didn’t do anything but annoy me, bless him. “Stick with her, Lizbeth. Keep trying, keep watching. I’ll do my best to procure some of the necessary antibodies, and we’ll try that approach. It can’t hurt, and might help.”

I asked, “Are you sure?”

“Of which point?” he countered. “Nothing’s certain, and I won’t insult you by suggesting otherwise.”

I refused to nurture the hope that threatened to bloom in my breast. I’d come close to solutions before, and watched the mirages turn to sand as I approached. I would not let myself be disappointed so harshly again. I braced myself against further failure by asking the inevitable questions. “But wouldn’t it be too late? Vaccines are preventatives, and whatever’s happened to Nance, we surely have failed to prevent it.”

“Tetanus is treatable,” he insisted. “And not by any means a death sentence. All is not lost, and we have . . . it’s hardly a plan, but it’s a starting point.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. We’ll try something else.”

“What?” I asked, and I hated myself for the note of despair that crept into the word.

“I don’t know, but we’ll think of something. You and I, and Emma. And maybe this Inspector Wolf—you never know. He might turn over some rock and discover another useful path to direct us down. All is not lost,” he said again. Maybe he hadn’t heard himself the first time, or maybe he needed convincing as badly as I did.

I did not reply, because the words were stuck in my throat. But Nance is my all, and if she’s lost, then yes. So’s everything.





? ? ?


Emma wouldn’t like the look of those last lines, but what can I do?

Emma is only dying of normal things, so far as anyone can prove. Emma has all of her faculties, and some autonomy of her own—whether she’d act upon it or not. Some days she maneuvers the stairs just fine, and others she needs waiting upon, hand and foot. I shouldn’t doubt her, but so help me God, on those days I do.

Look at the state we’re in.

Maybe it’s all her fault, anyway. Maybe that stupid, stinking, putrid sample she forced me to box up and mail . . . if that’s where this began . . .

If that’s where it all began, and I lose Nance because of it.

If that’s what it comes to. I don’t know that I will ever be able to forgive her. I am strong, but I am not resilient. When my heart is manhandled it does not bounce; it shatters.





? ? ?


So the doctor left me with much to think about, and two women upstairs who need me all the time. He didn’t look in on either of them. He offered to, but I told him not to bother. Emma was fine, and napping . . . and Nance was not fine, but there was nothing new for him to address.

I didn’t tell him about the breathing trouble. I had planned to, but when he got to the part about how it’s a symptom of the later stages of tetanus poisoning . . . I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud. He could be wrong. We’re all throwing stones in the dark, after all.

Tetanus. So logical. So down-to-earth, quite literally. It cannot be that easy. If it were that easy, science would’ve saved us by now. There is some dark agency at work, and we would pretend otherwise at our peril.





? ? ?


   I couldn’t bear the futility of it all. That’s why I told him that all was as before, and she needed no attention from him.

   In short, I’m a coward who lies to herself.





? ? ?


And now, the rest.

The bit I’ve written around, and struggled to keep from writing.

It happened long after Seabury left. After supper, after bedtime. After Emma had been tucked in and Nance was sleeping, or doing a fair impersonation of sleeping; I don’t know.

As for me, I was sleeping on the chaise in Nance’s room. I wanted to be near her if she needed me. I wanted to know if anything changed, even if it changed for the worse. If anything changed, if anything happened . . . or let me be honest with myself, just this once: If she were to die, at least I would know.

(I grow more fatalistic by the day.)





? ? ?


Somehow, I fell asleep. I say “somehow” because it’s never come easy to me, I don’t think; I’ve always slept lightly, especially since Emma has required a caretaker. It’s as if I stay just barely unconscious, suspended just beneath the surface, so I can listen for any calls, cries, or bells that might summon me; and if I let myself fall too deeply, I might not be able to come when I’m needed.

And the matter of the creatures, of the madness, of the Problem (as Seabury put it) has only made things worse. And so has Nance’s treachery, for it fulfilled the worst of these nightmare fears.

But somehow, I slept.

It was pure exhaustion, I suppose. I could only brace myself against it for so long, and the recent weeks had taken a toll too great for me to withstand. So there, on the chaise, I closed my eyes. At least this time it wasn’t Nance’s treachery, but treachery from my own body that put me under so soundly. Unless there are worse forces at work than Mrs. Winslow and her numbing tinctures.