The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

crockery arranged behind the dirty glass of display cabinets. As unpleasant as my fellow guests seem, I miss the thrum of their conversations. They’re the lifeblood of this place, filling up the spaces where otherwise this grim silence would fall.

Wealth is poisonous to the soul, and my parents have been wealthy a very long time—as have most of the guests who will be at this party. Their manners are a mask; you’d do well to remember that.”

Like a child, I close my eyes in the hope that when I open them again, the natural order will be overturned, the impossible made plausible by desire alone.

the tombs cracked and crumbling, taking the names of the dead with them.

Seeing him brought so low is like seeing the cards spilling out of a magician’s sleeve.

it’s one of those secrets people shout at each other,”

being exposed to every unpleasant side of a person you once considered a friend is surely the cruelest.

Thankfully, the leaves and twigs are so demoralized by the earlier rain they don’t have the heart to cry out beneath my feet.

So many memories and secrets, so many burdens. Every life has such weight. I don’t know how anybody carries even one.