“You mentioned seeing your stepmother’s body arching backward—there’s a term for that, you see? Opisthotonos. It’s every bit as violent as you reported, and often results in broken bones and muscle tears. The difficulty of controlling one’s body, see, it’s right here in black and white. Tetanus. And in the later stages, sufferers have terrible difficulty breathing, resulting in something like the rasping we heard the other night.”
“You think . . . you think the Bordens had somehow contracted tetanus?” My mind was prepared to reel, but it wasn’t spinning yet. He had drawn some interesting parallels, but it wasn’t enough to make me drop my wariness. It was too ordinary an explanation. It couldn’t be that simple. Not when monsters walked the grounds of Maplecroft.
No. It wasn’t that simple.
“I’m saying that what we’re dealing with, this Problem we have in Fall River . . .” I almost heard the capital letter he used to start the word “Problem.” “It shares some similarity in its presentation. There’s a pattern, Lizbeth. Not a perfect one, but if we stand far enough back . . .”
Yes, imperfect to say the least. “But the eyes, the pallid skin, the bloating . . . and what of the acute and dangerous madness?”
“Well . . . pronounced irritability is a known symptom.”
“That isn’t the same thing, and you know it. You’ve seen it yourself.”
He was losing his steam, and becoming frustrated with me, but he did his best to keep from showing it too harshly. “No, not exactly the same thing. It’s as I said, they share a . . . a general shape, if not a clearly delineated match.”
I granted him that much. “Very well, I see.” It was an overstatement to say even that much, but I didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm altogether. If there was any link between the two, any link at all, it was worth discussing—all my caution and concerns aside. Or at least tempered. “So explain it to me. Tell me everything there is to know about tetanus.”
“How much do you know already?” he asked, scanning the paragraphs from the book, hunting for highlights.
“Tetanus is . . . often fatal. And caused by wounds, isn’t it? Some kind of infection?”
“Yes and no,” he said. “It’s caused by a bacterium, Clostridium tetani—typically found in soil and animal feces, or the one contaminated by the other, as it were.”
And then he said something that sent a spark of recognition crackling between my ears.
“It’s often acquired from dirty wounds, yes, but it may also be carried in rust. At least that’s the going speculation. Injuries caused by old metal seem particularly prone to—”
I cut him off there. “Rust?” I blurted out.
He lifted his eyes from the textbook. “Yes. Rust. Did I say something helpful?”
“Maybe . . . ?” I went around the corner and retrieved my axe. I held it up close, so I could see it in detail—its blocky head and smooth cutting edge, sharp enough to trim paper. I honed it almost daily, but even if it’d seen no use there was always something, always a little grime to be filed away. Always a tiny smattering of rust, there at the corners.
“Lizbeth?”
“Here,” I said, returning with the weapon and placing it upon the table, beside the book. “Rust and iron . . . it’s another piece of your pattern puzzle. The same puzzle, I think—though it might not look that way at a glance. In my own studies, the arcane books and clandestine tomes that I keep downstairs . . . they routinely describe how iron wards against various kinds of evil.”
“And you’ve told me before that your axe is the only thing that truly fells them!” He was getting excited again, and I hated to admit it, but I was, too.
“It works better than anything else, though I’ve only tried shooting them once, to limited effect. We have Father’s old war weapons, but they’re a measure of last resort.”
“Not half so quiet as an axe,” he observed. “A wise course of action, considering.”
“Well, you know . . . we wouldn’t want to wake the neighbors. So if you ever hear gunshots at Maplecroft, you may assume that the end is nigh indeed. I always leave the guns with Emma,” I added, though I wasn’t sure why I was telling him this. It was true, but felt almost too personal to share. I shared it anyway. “That’s what I mean. If there’s shooting, it means they’re finished with me and they’re coming for her.”
This grim note gave us pause, but only for a moment. “Let’s not borrow trouble,” he gently urged. “Instead, let’s consider the possibilities. I say we should absolutely write down the axe and its attendant properties as part of the tetanus pattern, although . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Although?”
“It begs the question of whether the creatures are infected with the bacterium, or simply susceptible it. They do seem to . . . Hm.”
“Please stop doing that. Think aloud, I beg you. I’m a terrible mind reader.”
“My apologies. I was only considering that if the creatures suffer from some form of tetanus already, it seems unlikely that an added blow with a contaminated weapon would make the matter worse. Or perhaps it would.” He sighed, and closed the book. “It’s as I said—the pattern is far from perfect.”
“But it might be worth something, after all.” I pushed, a new idea working its insidious way into my mind. “What sort of treatments might one use to combat tetanus? I’m afraid this isn’t my area of expertise.”
“Ah, well. There are some fascinating studies on the subject overseas, with talks of vaccine prophylactics and antibody treatments.”
“Is there any chance we could . . . I don’t know, create these antibodies ourselves? Or import some from elsewhere? A hospital or . . . or a university, perhaps?”
“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.
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.
Regardless, I did not hear Nance rise.
I do not know how she undid the ties that held her to the bed. I did not see her escape. I did not watch her tiptoe across the floor. I do not know if she saw me, or if she paused to look down upon me, or offer some kiss of affection—but I know how likely that last part is, so I’ll put it from my mind. It only makes me feel worse.
I do not know how I slept through it, and I’m surprised that Emma did.
But Nance arose; I’m not sure when.
She extricated herself; I’m not sure how.
She found her way to the washroom, a large, modern one here on the second floor. It has always been one of my favorite things about this house—with its wide dimensions, elevated iron tub on lion’s feet, and all the lovely pipes feeding back and forth, in and out of the wall. I have always loved that room.
I awoke to the sound of dripping water, so soft but so near, I thought it must’ve begun to rain. And in my half-sleep state, I wondered at the nighttime shower raining down outside, pattering against the windowsills. Rainstorms are such soothing things. So pleasant for sleeping through.
But the drip, drip, drip, was not the last of April’s showers, and something in the back of my mind insisted that I must collect myself and investigate.
I did so unwillingly. I was so tired, and so heavily asleep. Reluctantly, with awful slowness, my mind dragged itself up to alertness, or something like it. The effort to lift my head was herculean, and unkind.
Drip, drip, drip.
Coming from the washroom down the hall. There was no other water source so close by. Had I left a tap loose?
I rubbed my eyes. I forced them to focus.
And on the floor beside the bed, I saw the ties I’d used to keep Nance secure. Tangled but unknotted, lying in a loose heap.
My heart stopped.
It started again, banging like a hammer, and I threw myself from the settee—flying forth from my blanket and discarding it into some corner, somewhere. I ran to the bed, where the imprint of her body remained. There was no sign of how she’d undone the ties, but I did not have time to wonder about it—not when the water was there in the bathroom, drip, drip, dripping, and I knew where she must have gone.
Any minute I expected to hear the clang of Emma’s bell, but I didn’t, and for a tiny, horrible moment I wondered if she was even alive anymore. She might have died in the night, expiring from her persistent illness; or no, I’m lying again—because it crossed my mind that Nance might’ve gone on a spree like the rest of the maddened victims, or like so many of them have.
But surely not. Surely she would’ve started with me. (I deserve that much, don’t I?)
I dashed to the corridor. Washroom to my left. Emma’s room to my right. One ringing with the delicate patter of water on water. One silent as a tomb.
I went to the left.
In the washroom, the light was not on but I could see enough to know what I was up against. The tub was filled to overflowing, and a thin trickle of water spilled slowly, dripping over the lip, splashing down to the white hexagonal tiles, into a puddle that covered half the floor. My feet were soaked before I noticed. The water was spreading, pooling, creeping out into the hallway and the floors might be ruined but I hardly noticed, and did not care.
I stood half paralyzed in the doorway, until I shook myself lucid enough to fumble for the gaslight switch. When the hiss came and the light sparked it was too much—entirely too much—and I winced against the sudden brightness, but I could not look away.
I knew what was in the tub, so full of water, with a placid surface unbroken by anything except the coiling tendrils of Nance’s hair. Moving languidly. Stirred only by the persistent stream that still trickled from the tap.
I wondered what it meant, that the tap was mostly off. Either she’d been there an hour or more to fill it, at that rate, or she’d thought to turn it off when she was finished filling the tub. I told myself that must be it—it must have been a deliberate act, and she was still alive, still herself inside that muttering shell of skin.
Honestly, I had no idea. I still don’t know. Perhaps I never will.
But there she was. Wholly submerged, unmoving.
I moved, but I did it slowly, sluggishly. The whole moment was dreamlike in its stickiness, like I could walk toward the tub forever and ever and never reach it. Except that I did reach it, and I looked down, and I saw her wearing the oversized nightdress of mine that positively swam on me, as my stepmother would have put it—and I hated the phrase, because yes, it swam and billowed, and it was almost translucent. I could see every nook and curve of her skin through the light white cotton, pouring around her body, floating there, suspended just beneath the surface. Eyes wide-open, staring up toward me, but not at me. Mouth slightly parted. Wholly submerged. Unmoving. Ophelia drowned, needing only the flowers in her hair to make it uncanny.
There were no flowers. Only the body, almost as pale as the nightdress, almost as translucent. Serene, I wanted to say.
My throat was full of fear, full of my heart—which had leaped there and stuck like the inconstant bastard it truly was.
I didn’t know what to do.
I should pull her out. That’s what I thought. I should lay her on the floor, roll her over and over, push the water from her lungs, and command her to breathe, breathe, goddammit. I should send immediately for Seabury, and order him to revive her if I could not, because there was no chance she was dead—it simply was not an option, for this motionless, cold, empty thing to be my Nance, who had come to an end in this manner.
I was shaking so hard that I could scarcely control myself, teeth audibly chattering though it was not so very cold. It was only the water that slipped between my toes. It was only the sight of Nance, calm at last, cocooned and finished.
I reached out with one quivering hand and touched the water’s edge, where one long lock of her hair had crept over the side of the tub, drawn there by some unseen, unfelt eddy, dangling damply.
I touched it.
Her eyes jerked toward me, and I screamed.
• • •
I screamed first with shock and then with hope, and the sound of it broke whatever spell I’d wound around myself, around her, the washroom, Maplecroft, Fall River.
I shoved my hands into the water and seized her, tried to haul her out in one fell swoop, but she was too heavy for that—even bone-dry, and even when she didn’t fight me, I didn’t know if I could lift her up over the side, but I tried—I flung my entire being into the effort. Bringing her up into the air, like a baptism.
She wanted the reverse. She fought me.
Her hands moved swift as minnows, shoving me back and shoving herself deeper. The whole tub rocked, heavy as it was. The whole room was soaked, and I was soaked, too. Nance writhed, demanding wordlessly to be left where she was, but I was not leaving her there. She was not drowning right in front of me.
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