Page 16 of Her Creation

“I didn’t do all that much,” she whispered, though the faint smile that tugged at her lips betrayed the thrill of mastery she had felt in guiding life back from death.

Outside, the storm subsided, leaving the lab in a tense, reverent silence. Victoria’s gaze lingered on Wilhelm, on her father, on the tools and chemicals that had brought them through the night: ether, opium, linen, scalpels, needles, and dampened rags. Each held a memory, a lesson, a grim victory over fate.

Alphonse offered her a small glass of brandy, and for the first time, Victoria felt truly seen by the father she had longed to assist fully; she had proven herself. “Your days of cleaning the patients are over,” he said softly. “Come, have a drink. You’ve earned it.”

She stepped into the nook behind her father’s desk, feeling the weight of the night settle into her bones. The haunting flash of Wilhelm’s dark eyes watching her before they had fixed the blindfold crept over her excitement, dampening it like rain. What if he remembered?

And so it began…

Chapter 7

Log entry

March 1803

Recounting events 1773–1795 Location: Unknown

The flickering lamps inside the coach rocked and swayed as the carriage rode along the muddy path. The faint smell of ether and spirits clung to Dr. Frankenstein’s gloves—a scent that now seemed to hang between the father and daughter at all times. Victoria perched across from him, straight-backed, reticule clutched in her lap—something inside it gave a faint metallic clink whenever the carriage jolted. Neither was eager for the social event of the evening, though for very different reasons.

“I could hardly sleep last night; every time I tried, my mind wandered to that frog. When Signor Galvani touched its leg with the wire, it leaped as though startled from a nightmare. I know it sounds foolish, but it’s given me a burst of hope for my dreams of resurrection. Do you believe the current truly awakens it?” Her dark eyes lit up, round with excitement. She had spent the better part of the day attaching the cranial machine to the cadaver and the sharp, vibrating zap of the machine alerting to neural activity echoed in her head in the quiet of the carriage. As she had worked to attach it, the cadaver’s brain had set the machine off with such repetition, it sounded like an alarm. After a moment, she realized her bosom was likely setting one of the sensors off, as her chest had shoved against his cold mouth to reach over the table to secure the wires. The alarm’s vibration and the feel of the man’s still lips against her cleavage had felt wildly scandalous…and thrilling. What did it matter? He was dead. No one would ever know. The corner of her mouth lifted in the carriage at the memory.

Alphonse shook his head, though it was hardly discernible from his tremors as he struggled to remain seated, fighting the painful tightening of his leg muscles that begged him to stand.

“Dreams of resurrection,” he mumbled with a roll of his bloodshot eyes. “It awakens nothing. The motion of the frog’s leg is purely mechanical, a trick of the nerves. Life has already departed, and it will not return. You will see as our experiments progress.”

“You said yourself, the muscle obeys the metal. The obedience of it—could it not be the remnant of life’s command? Sit down, Papa. You are going to fall.” She clasped his hand and gently urged him back into his seat with an anxious look. He’d been getting worse…so much worse. She felt her shoulders dip with the weight of her sorrow. It had grown impossible now to pretend that he was fine and without ailments that would one day attempt to take him away from her—attempt and fail if her dreams of resurrection were successful. And then, she would get her mother back as well…

“You mistake response for will. The nerve, even in death, retains what Haller called irritability. The fiber may tremble when stirred, just as a harp string vibrates after the player’s hand has left it.” He sat down and squeezed his hands over his thighs.

“Yet a harp has no warmth, no blood. Suppose one could prolong that stirring and make the string sing again. Wouldn’t that be glorious?” she pressed, feeling a wave of relief when her father looked sharply at her and, for a second, his tremors softened.

He let out a breath of defeat. “We should not attend, not in my state. Everyone will know of my disease. Look at me.” He fidgeted with the buttons of his tailcoat. “They will think me incapable of my duty. We’ll be cast out in no time.” Worry had burrowed into his voice like a carrion beetle.

“You can’t possibly not attend,” she snorted. “You are the guest of honor. Why do you continue to hide your disease? We will find a cure. Besides, they know you to have an apprentice now. Your position is secure.”

The wrinkles on Alphonse’s forehead pressed together as his expression turned troubled. He looked older, despite the new waistcoat and cravat he wore in the younger gentlemen’s style.

“No, absolutely not—and I forbid you from telling a soul. Who would ever trust a surgeon with an unsteady hand? Eventually, they would blame my inability to save a person on my condition instead of it being God’s will, and then it would only be a short time before they cease bringing patients to me and then remove us from the castle—we would have nothing.” He stood with his back bent over in the small carriage.

“Would you be more comfortable in a smaller home?”

Alphonse shot her a harsh look.

“I was simply asking. I suppose I am naive to think it doesn’t sound all that horrid to have nothing, not so long as we have each other and are together. We don’t need much. Perhaps it would be nice.” Victoria’s mahogany eyes grew glossy with emotion.

Alphonse sat down on the bench next to her. “My sweet child, I would love nothing more than to stay a part of your life forever, but unfortunately, this will not be. It is as of now incurable—I know we are still testing”—he waved off the start of her protest—“but as of this moment, I am incurable, and the state of my condition is likely only to worsen. I would not put the burden of my care on anyone whom I loved so much as you. Already I feel my condition is hampering your young life. You ignore social calls and instead study for my benefit.”

“It is not for your benefit; it’s for mine,” she corrected. “And I don’t want or require socializing; I have you and am not a hound. I will happily take care of you forever,” she said with a thin smile. In truth, she didn’t care all that much for surgeries and such, but she knew it was a necessary requirement for resurrection, and it helped her father, the one person in the world she would do anything for. It was a thankless, dangerous position for someone like her.

Alphonse dropped his head for a moment. “My dear, you have no means of income. And the title they have given you socially relates directly to the favors I give the nobles. If I stopped performing medicine, stopped keeping people’s loved ones alive, you would also lose any whisper of social standing. I know you despise the topic, but if you could find a husband, then when I can no longer perform favors for the nobles, I could still be—we could still be taken care of and together if you are not ready to take over for me. I had hoped the world would be more progressive in allowing a woman in the medical field by now, but…”

“I don’t want a husband. We will earn our own things and keep enough tucked away until we can buy a small house and spend the rest of our days together. I will take care of you, and no one will know that you are not still performing your duties. That is what I want. I—I can’t take losing another parent—not because of a disease nor a marriage.” Victoria jutted out her chin stubbornly.

“If only it were as simple as that, my dear.” Alphonse perked up slightly. “It seems though you may already be a point of admiration for someone as it is.”

Victoria clutched her stomach and silently commanded it to calm.

“That note Wilhelm sent is rather opportune, is it not?” he asked. “What is it? Do you have a stomachache? Surely it’s just nerves for the evening. Your dress, of course, is entirely at your discretion, but would not you feel you’d blend in better in something other than black? Your mother would have wanted you to put away your mourning clothes years ago. Tell me, what did the note say again?”