Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(93)

On the other hand, he’s almost made it to town—and the worst he can do is kill us all, and then it’d all be over.

I laughed at the thought. Alone in my cluttered, increasingly musty, and foul-smelling parlor, I laughed out loud and then sobered quickly, because laughing aloud, alone, in dirty rooms is what madmen do. I had this much awareness about me, still. I thought of my scissors, and then I wondered where my scissors were located in this jumbled wreck of a house. Couldn’t think of where they might be. At first I was angry with myself, for having allowed my living circumstances to come to this. But then I found this thought reassuring, for if I couldn’t find them, then I couldn’t stab myself in the eyes, now could I?

You see? Madness, creeping in around the edges.

So soft, so subtle, that it goes unnoticed until you try to speak the process aloud. For now, when I hear my own words pronounced in my own voice, I recognize the insanity for what it surely is. For now, I am able to draw myself back from that precipice.

“I was angry because I did not know where I had placed my scissors, because I might need them. I might be required to stab myself in the eyes.”

I suppose the next step will be more difficult. Next, I will need to hear someone else speak aloud before I recognize how strange I have become. I need to spend more time at Maplecroft. I need to visit with the ladies there, for they are the only ones who will know when I go mad—and who will know the difference between confused and afflicted, and gone beyond all hope of retrieval.

Or perhaps I ought to avoid them altogether. At this rate, I do not know how much longer I will be a help to them, and how soon the transition might make me a danger to them.





? ? ?


Ah, you see? I just read that last short paragraph aloud, and it made sense. I am still here. I am still sane. I am still a knight of this place, this town, that house. Not prisoner, but sentry. Though I didn’t do much to preserve or protect Nance.

Since we lost her, and all.





? ? ?


I should’ve skipped the viewing of the soggy and departed Mrs. Easley. I should’ve gone directly to Maplecroft, but I didn’t. After leaving that scene I should’ve proceeded straight to that marvelous mansion wherein I might find kindred spirits, but something had sent me home first, instead—a niggling worry that Wolf might send some kind of word, and then I’d miss it.

He’d sent no word.

And I laughed alone in my parlor, and then headed to Maplecroft. On the way there, I met the Bordens’ neighbor boy. He was out of breath, running full speed, his pockets much enriched by how many messages he’d passed between us over these last few weeks.

He wheezed, “Miss Borden sends for you, sir. A change in your patient, she says.”

I didn’t know if he meant Emma or Nance, but either way, it probably wasn’t good. I hoped it was Nance, and I felt briefly bad for doing so. But I know Emma better, and I find her more useful. Ever since her descent into a fugue state, Nance had become useful only as a specimen, which must sound cold; but the whole world is cold, and how else am I to learn, except to observe?

I hoped that Nance hadn’t experienced some catastrophic change since the afternoon before, when last I’d seen her, but the boy’s frantic presence suggested otherwise. I hoped Lizzie or Emma could provide me with strictly accurate details about any changes I’d missed, assuming still that we were not speaking of Emma.

Lizzie could enlighten me with regard to all I’d missed, or so I comforted myself as I made the dash to her home.

On the way, the sky began to spit intermittent gobs of rain. The air felt like tepid bathwater, and everyone sweated and shined, despite the lack of excessive heat. I hated running in the thick, wet air, but I ran anyway—never pausing to respond to greetings, short queries, or other inane interruptions hurled at me from the sidewalks and doorways.

By the time I arrived, I was soaked.

Lizzie had been watching for me; she flung the door open before I could knock, and she drew me inside with surprising vigor for such a small woman. “In here,” she said breathlessly, pulling me by my arm through the parlor. A loud clap of thunder sounded outside, lending an ominous air to something already so ominous that I shuddered to consider what awaited me . . . but sometimes the weather knows things, and we would all be ill-advised to ignore its warnings.

The house was dark, though it was only late afternoon. Or was it later? It felt later. How long had I stood alone in my house, laughing at myself? At the gods?

The clouds had closed like curtains, and there was no sun at all. But in Maplecroft, the lights were not yet switched on.

“She’s in the basement. Oh God,” she continued.

“I thought you’d barred it.”

“I did.”

I believed her, but the door was open now—kicked inward, or bashed that way. A great dent sank the middle of it, and the hinges were crooked, barely clutching the frame. “Did she do that?” I asked.

“She must have. But I didn’t see. I only heard.”

“Where’s Emma?”

“I don’t know,” she said offhandedly, and that worried me—or it would have, if I had any further room for worry. If Lizzie wasn’t concerned, I couldn’t afford to be concerned, either. “Here, down here, you see?”

And I did see.