The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

Without that obligation, the ties binding me to this place have been severed.

There’s a box sitting on my bed, wrapped in a red ribbon that comes loose with a single tug.

This is me. This is me yesterday.

I’m reminded of

Daniel’s pleas yesterday, his delicate way of speaking, as though I might fracture if pressed too hard.

I reach out a hand, trying to speak, beg, but that only seems to infuriate him further.

eiderdown,

Gloved hands rest on a black cane, an inscription inlaid in sparkling silver down the side, though the writing’s much too small to read at this distance.

“You were a doctor,” he says. “Then a butler, today a playboy, tomorrow a banker. None of them is your real face, or your real personality. Those were stripped from you when you entered Blackheath, and they won’t be returned until you leave.”

I suddenly have the sense of taking part in a play in which everybody knows their lines but me.

will not be yanked around like some puppet on a string.

It wasn’t like this with Bell or the butler. I feel myself pressed up against the walls of this body, straining at its seams. I’m clumsy, almost drunk.

Two strikes to light it and I’m bounding back up the stairs and through the front door into the storm.

The lamp claws at the darkness, the rain stinging my eyes.

“Easy as breathing it is,”

The headlamps shine on a dirt track littered with leaves and fallen branches, water cascading across its surface.

Morning arrives in a smudge, a gray half-light that taints rather than illuminates, though it at least brings an end to the rain.

Are we shards of the same soul, responsible for each other’s sins, or entirely different people, pale copies of some long-forgotten original?

You’ll stay here until I decide otherwise.”

Even taking away the bulk of his costume, he’s a large man, more than capable of weathering my assault.

His actions are small and quick, without any wasted effort.

lifting my feet one at a time so I don’t become tangled in them. In a few seconds I’m naked, my companion standing at a respectful distance.

Vainglorious

Perhaps it’s nerves, or the hollow wisdom of foresight, but Blackheath seems fertile ground for tragedy.

foolscap

With any luck, when I awaken, my other selves will have made contact through the encyclopedia and I’ll be among them.

There are rules to all of this. There’s no use trying to abandon your hosts the way you did. You get a full day in each of them, whether you want it or not. That’s from whenever they wake up until midnight. Understand?”

This is not the Daniel of yesterday. There’s something colder, harder in his gaze, something trying to pry me open so it might peer inside.

The notion seems to amuse him, a smile touching his lips

“But every time I’ve tried to change today’s events, I’ve ended up becoming the architect of whatever misery I was trying to prevent.

“There are so many secrets in this house, it can be difficult to pick the right one from the pile.

“Who is he?” I ask, impressed by the strength in my voice.

“But fate found her anyway. You should prepare yourself for that.”

Whatever discomfort they’re hoping to heap upon her, she seems oblivious to it.

Could it be that I’m bending to their will, rather than the other way around?

my only company the rain tapping at the windows, demanding to be let inside.

I begin walking again, those ghostly steps trailing me.

I stop suddenly, and they stop with me, a sinister giggle drifting out of the walls. My

Ten minutes later, the whisper’s long faded, but the terror it provoked echoes still.

Rain’s thumping the windows, the sky bruised black and purple.

“Aiden Bishop,” she says. “Now, I’ve done as you asked, so do as I ask. Stop looking for me.”

There’s a fizz and a satisfying plop, followed by a gulp and a long sigh of pleasure from the old lady.

tell you, Cecil, it was worth coming for the scandal alone.”

a fragment of my true self carried through into each man, unsullied by the personalities of their hosts?

I feel like I’ve been struck, which was no doubt the intention.

Still reeling from this blatant act of contempt, I lose myself in the flames,

“Where the devil have you been?” I snap, my temper slipping away from me completely.

I say, struggling to raise myself from the chair. Gravity, it seems, is opposed to the idea.

I can’t tell whether it’s a matter of good breeding, or there’s some explanation I’ve missed.

I can’t understand from where I’m gathering these impressions.