Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(88)

Though still I assume Emma’s mad at me for sharing her secret. I don’t understand why she was so angry. I only told Wolf about her pen name in order to protect her. To protect everyone here. She knows this. She’s admitted this. So why harbor the grudge?

Women. I’ll never understand them. It’s a wonder any of them understand one another.





? ? ?


But Lizzie and Nance, they certainly had an understanding. No sense in pretending that the arrangement was sisterly or otherwise; I know how the world works. I also know how to politely pretend the contrary, for although I find it troublesome, when all is said and done it’s (as I’ve said here before, and as I continue to try to convince myself) no business of mine—except for how it complicates things at Maplecroft.

And really, I don’t think this would be any less complex if Nance were a sister or beloved friend. Regardless of their relationship, Lizzie feels such guilt for what’s happened. She owns it. She feeds it, and it grows.

(For that is the way of all things richly nourished.)





? ? ?


Nance remains upstairs, tethered to the bed, her body shifting around—her organs and bones wrestling for some new arrangement within her skin. It’s a fright to behold, but Lizzie insists on beholding it. She spends most of her hours seated at that bedside, reading newspapers or books aloud, holding Nance’s hand when she remains still long enough for that kind of contact. This is Lizzie’s penance. I think she sees it that way. It’s a punishment she deserves, not assistance she provides. Nance will recover with or without her. She’ll die with or without her.

I just wish Lizzie could look away for longer periods of time, for if I could drag her away more frequently from her self-imposed exile on the second floor, she might be more use to me as an assistant.

That might be unfair. She observes the test case of Nance, and that is helpful. She writes everything down, every bead of sweat, every spasm, every murmur. God, if that isn’t self-punishment, I don’t know what is. Maybe she’d call it devotion, or madness.

Whatever it is, it keeps her from the laboratory, and that means I’m largely left alone down here.





? ? ?


As a precautionary measure (on the off chance there’s any measure that might hold water), we’ve moved every stray scrap of iron on the premises to this place in the basement, and stacked it upon the cupboard beneath the floorboards. It’s not an elegant solution, and it’s created a pile of rusting detritus that I must occasionally navigate around during my activities . . . but I do think it has somewhat muted the call of the weird green stones stashed therein.

Most of the time, I can work without thinking about them. Most of the time, I am only aware of them as a very dull hum somewhere beneath the pile of buckets, horseshoes, fireplace implements, railroad spikes, part of an old bed frame, several skillets, a pie pan, and whatever else Lizzie was able to scare up. (My only contribution was part of a decorative garden trellis and a shovel head.)

It’s nice to have this laboratory, even if it’s haunted, and even if it isn’t mine. It’s good to have a clean, quiet place to work, and all the necessary components to see a job through.

I gave Nance a dose of the globulin sample the day I received it, and noted no change. I gave her another dose yesterday, and will give her a third today—which will exhaust the supply that Christoff sent. It would’ve lasted longer, had I not already taken the step of inoculating myself, Lizzie, and Emma. I didn’t tell them that this was all we had, because I knew Lizzie would fight to keep every drop for Nance. But I wanted to make sure we all had a chance at protection. Frankly, it’s likely to be more use to us than her.

As for the live bacteria, I’m busy culturing it, trying to bolster the supply. I think we might need more—if my theory holds up, that is. If it doesn’t, we’re all damned regardless.

But if it does, we might stand a chance against the darkness.





? ? ?


Next, I will try the toxoid on Nance.

I have a feeling that if anything is likely to produce a strong response, the dead and treated bacteria will be more likely to prompt it than the serum, which has previously developed antibodies that have reacted to the bacteria. The toxoid should force her to create her own antibodies, or that’s what I’d like to see.

If that makes any sense.

I am throwing darts at a wall, and I’m running out of darts.





? ? ?


I told Lizzie about my plan to give Nance the toxoid, and she balked at the prospect. I’m not sure why; at this point the girl will either live or die, and if we do nothing, the outcome is guaranteed so far as I’m concerned. Why not apply the potential remedies at our disposal, in case we might get lucky?

“But you’ve given her the other doses already, and she hasn’t responded.”

“She’s not responded much,” I admitted. “But some, I think. Her fever is down from yesterday, and her breathing appears more normal to me.”

“Do you think?”

“I do,” I assured her.

“Please, don’t lie to me, Doctor. I don’t want to play games with myself, or fool myself into thinking there’s some improvement if there’s none to observe—and I watch her so closely, I know her body more thoroughly than my own. I’m not arguing with you; it’s just that I prefer no hope at all, if the only other option is false hope.”