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honest about that.”
    I stared down at the swirl of Lucy’s hair, considering thisanswer. “You didn’t say whether or not anyone ever died in the house.”
    Gerard shrugged. “Not that I know of. Uncle Eddie had a massive heart attack at work. I think my grandparents both died in hospitals. I don’t know about anyone before that. Suppose it’s possible since people died at home more often back then, right? But there were never any stories. Like of axe murderers or whatever. If that’s what you’re getting at.”
    â€œAnd no one besides Shirley ever talked about any . . . odd experiences in the house?”
    Gerard watched Lucy for a moment more. I wondered if he might report this conversation back to Patty. And then Patty could get on the phone to DCF to report the crazy mommy on her street.
    â€œJust my sister,” he said slowly. “She said something to me once. But my sister, when she stayed with Eddie and Shirley, she had a lot of problems. She did a lot of drugs. If she saw a ghost, it was probably an acid flashback.”
    â€œDid she say she saw a ghost?”
    â€œNo. She just said that their house creeped her out. Stopped showing up for holidays there and gave that as an excuse. But she has a lot of excuses for things.” Gerard got up. “I probably sound like a real jerk, saying this stuff about my sister. I should shut up now because I’m sure you don’t want to hear it. You want to look at the cookbook or not?”
    I nodded. “Yeah. But can you give me your sister’s number?”
    â€œIf you want. I can’t promise you’ll get her, though. She’s on-again, off-again with her phone plan. She and I don’t talk that much.”
    Gerard went outside and returned with a brown leatherbook with a red and gold binding. It was small—the size of Gerard’s hand—and clearly old—worn down at the bottom of the spine and the hinge of the front cover. Frances Flinch Barnett was indeed written on its marbled front endpaper.
    Gerard let me hold it in my hands and open it up to its first yellowed page. A tidy but exaggeratedly slanting handwriting said in black ink: Mother’s Cider Loaves . A recipe was scrawled beneath it.
    â€œCool,” I whispered, and meant it.
    A few minutes later, as he tucked his thirty dollars into his wallet, Gerard said to me, “You know, I’m glad you got my aunt’s house. You seem like a nice young lady. You deserve it.”

 
    Â 
    Chapter 16
    Northampton Lunatic Hospital
    Northampton, Massachusetts
    December 20, 1885
    I needn’t have worried about Dr. Graham’s opinion of me. I should have known that Matthew was too prideful to share his concerns about me with a local doctor of such esteem. To discuss his wife’s hysterical difficulties, he turned to the services of someone whose practice was some distance away—in Hartford—and who could therefore be trusted not to turn Matthew’s troubles into local gossip.
    This doctor—a Dr. Stayer—had a specific treatment in mind for me. He had observed this treatment at a clinic in Philadelphia—practiced by a renowned neurologist there. I believe Matthew had spoken to Dr. Stayer in secret before the evening of the spider and then discussed this treatment more seriously thereafter. From what I gather, there was some talk of sending me to Philadelphia, but either Matthew didn’t quite have the means, or Dr. Stayer was eager to try his own version of the method.
    I do not know how much Matthew would’ve told you of this “rest cure” before he decided to take Dr. Stayer’s advice and goforward with it. Nothing? Well. You were so caught up in your laboratory studies, after all.
    Approximately a week after Martha’s injury, Matthew presented it to me thusly:
    He was concerned about my health, so he had arranged one month—perhaps more—of restful treatment