Margaret Atwood Books Novels & Stories

The weeks that followed our victory over the witches were tense. The fragile peace in our household was constantly under threat, and Margaret seemed to be at the center of it. Her presence was a constant reminder of the past and the dangers we still faced. But beneath her cold exterior, she harbored a burning desire—a desire for me that had never faded. One evening, as Abigail and Zion slept soundly, I found myself alone in the study, the weight of recent events heavy on my mind. The door creaked open, and Margaret stepped in, her eyes glinting with a predatory gaze.

I donated a dozen books from the Barlowe house—stories I wanted other young girls to find: Jane Eyre, Little Women, The Secret Life of Bees, Becoming, The House on Mango Street, and more. Books that had whispered to me when the world was too loud. Books that had taught me what a woman could be. Mrs. Bertram smiled as she scanned the titles. “This will change someone’s life,” she said. I nodded. “That’s the goal.” I stopped at the market afterward for fresh apples and ginger chews. A few people I knew offered kind smiles, congratulations, warm nods. The town had softened. The whispers had quieted. And even when they hadn’t… I no longer let them land.

My untouched food grew cold on my plate. Brett said nothing to defend me. As we prepared to leave, Margaret approached me in the ladies' room. I was washing my hands, trying to avoid looking at my reflection in the ornate mirror. "You know this won't last," she said, touching up her red lipstick. "He'll get bored with you soon enough. They always do." I dried my hands slowly, not wanting to turn around. "Who's 'they'?" "Men like Brett." Margaret capped her lipstick and turned to face me, leaning against the marble counter. "You're not the first desperate woman he's rescued. You won't be the last."

Margaret and Rajan and Aleksei and Arthur and the guide and Ruth and Elsa and Priya and Dr Anand and my mother and the valley and the stone in the northeastern corner and everything in between. She listened the way people listened when something was large enough to require complete attention. When I finished the library was very quiet. "A chain," she said. "Yes," I said. "From nineteen eighty three to now," she said. "Yes," I said. "Through how many people," she said. I thought about it. "More than we know," I said. "We keep finding more." She looked at the folder. "Margaret would have been seventy this year," she said. "If she had lived."

* “Thank you. I feel like the whole world is against me. They think I’m jealous of Amanda and Tom. They don’t believe he could still be obsessed with me.” Margret poured tea with graceful movements. “Some people see only what they want to see. Amanda is happy with Tom, so they assume you must be the problem. But I believe you, dear. A woman knows when danger lingers from her past.” She handed Sara the cup, her touch lingering a second too long. “Drink this. It will help after such a horrible night.” But none of them saw the venom beyond Margret's words.. She was determined to strike when the time was right.

She was the only thing in it that wasn’t. “How long have you worked here, Margaret?” “Four years,” Margaret said. “And before this house?” “Another house. A different family.” Margaret set a plate in front of her and poured coffee without asking if she wanted it. “I have been doing this work for twenty years. Each house is different.” “What is different about this one?” Nora asked. Margaret looked at her for a moment — steady, considering. “It is quieter than most,” she said finally. “And Mr. Harlow is more private than most.” She went back to the stove. “Eat before it gets cold.”

She had a bag over one shoulder and her reading glasses in a case in her hand and the specific quality of someone doing something new and ordinary simultaneously, ordinary because going to a class was objectively a normal thing, new because Lillian Whitmore at nineteen had not had many experiences of choosing something for herself and doing it. Margaret appeared in the hallway before she left. She held out a book. A small annotated edition of collected essays, the spine worn with use. “For the English component,” she said. “The annotations are mine. You don’t have to use them.” Lillian took the book and looked at it and then at Margaret. “Thank you,” she said. She went out the door. Margaret

It rang again immediately. Then again. Finally, I answered. “What?” “So it’s true,” Margaret snapped without greeting me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Don’t play games with me.” “I don’t have time for this.” “You spent the night with Adrian’s ex-wife.” I remained silent. She took my silence as confirmation. “Have you completely lost your mind?” “Careful.” “She’ll destroy this family.” “This family destroyed her.” Margaret scoffed. “She was never worthy of becoming a Blackwood.”

Margaret didn’t write careless sentences. *Your husband is not the reason I hid this from you.* That meant she was hiding something from me. Something separate from Adrian entirely. And somehow, that frightened me more than anything he had ever done. ----- I opened my notebook and split the page into three columns. *What I know:* Margaret built Ashwell Logistics. Protected assets. Warehouses, agricultural land, communications infrastructure, transportation networks. She monitored unusual patterns for decades. She kept Adrian away from anything protected. She kept me from the full truth too.

No one has found the bodies yet, though, so theres still a lingering hope out there that they're alive. I sigh as I crawl under the thick quilt, flicking on the lamo beside me as I pull out my latest find at Barnes and Nobels: The Winter Garden by the famous Kristin Hannah. This woman's books are truly amazing. Then, after an hour long reading session, I find my eyes beginning to shut against my will, so I set down the book on the bedside table and shut off the lamp. ~ The next morning...