Margaret Atwood Novel Novels & Stories

She would never steal. Margaret switched off the lights in the living room. Before she went upstairs, she grabbed a plate of washed strawberries. Those that she took for herself to eat were slightly rotten. She had already fetched those good ones to Madelyn's room. She thought, 'That poor kid is suffering. She's all alone in such a big house. This must feel so lifeless for her. Yes, this house is comfortable for her, but it doesn't feel like a home.

Alive. Selene’s POV Margaret’s notebook lies open before me, its pages worn with age and ink. I flip through them rapidly, my fingers shaking with urgency. My breakfast sits beside me, untouched. The food grows cold, forgotten. I cannot tear my eyes away from the text. Margaret was a genius. Her work with aromatic cures—Potions that healed both curses and natural diseases—is nothing short of revolutionary. She was ahead of her time. A pioneer. And yet, none of it helps.

Her voice trailed off, but the implication hung heavy in the air. Margaret’s gaze sharpened as she took the book. She ran her fingers over the cover, her lips pressing into a thin line. “This is no ordinary book,” she said quietly, her words laced with certainty. --- Explaining the Truth “What do you mean, not ordinary?” Ryan’s father, Michael, asked, his skepticism evident. Margaret looked up, her gaze piercing. “This book is a gateway, a connection to another realm—a spiritual realm. It doesn’t just tell a story; it pulls you into it. Your children aren’t just unconscious; their souls are trapped, fighting in a place between life and death.”

If you found yourself holding your breath through his chapters the way I did writing them, I hope his ending gave you the same relief it gave me. Margaret was a character I didn't fully understand until I was well into writing her. What started as a small, frightened woman on the sidelines of her son's cruelty became, by the end, one of the most quietly courageous people in this entire story. Her wrist, her hand, the single code she built out of almost nothing — that thread stayed with me long after I finished writing it, and I suspect it might stay with some of you too.

A floorboard creaked near the doorway. They broke apart just as Margaret’s shadow fell across the threshold. Eli turned toward the shelves with deliberate calm, pretending to scan the upper rows. Nora snatched a random cassette from the table and stared at it as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Her mouth still tingled. Her heart was slamming so hard she was certain Margaret could hear it. Margaret’s eyes moved from one of them to the other. A long, knowing silence stretched. “I’ll be at the front,” she said finally. “Try not to break anything.”

"What else are you going to do? Kill me too? Right here, in an abandoned warehouse, the same way you killed her?" "That," Margaret said quietly, "is precisely the plan, yes." The words landed like ice water down Jennifer's spine. One of the men lunged forward, grabbing her wrist in a bruising grip. Jennifer fought back on instinct, twisting hard, driving her elbow backward into his ribs with enough force to make him grunt in pain, but the second man caught her other arm almost immediately, pinning her firmly between them. "Let go of me!" "Struggling only makes this worse for you," Margaret said, watching with cool, detached interest, like she was observing an experiment rather than ordering

Margaret’s office was twelve minutes away. We made it in nine. Julian drove, and I sat with the hard drive in my hand and Anna’s journal on my lap and thought about one thirty and Edmund and two o’clock and the specific mathematics of ending something that had been running for forty years in the space of a single Saturday afternoon. Margaret was waiting outside her building when we pulled up. She didn’t waste time on greetings. She looked at the drive and the journal and said, “Come upstairs,” and we went.

I leaned forward and my voice was hard. "You started the fire," I said. "You manipulated Clara and you destroyed everyone's lives. You are the one who caused all of this." Margaret smiled and it was a cold smile. "Yes," she said. "I did." "Why?" I asked. Margaret looked at me and her eyes were empty. "Because I could," she said. "Because no one ever noticed me. Because I was always the forgotten one. And I wanted everyone to suffer the way I suffered." I stared at her and felt nothing.