Page 36 of Her Creation

The weight on her shoulders crashed down all at once. Why could no one simply leave her alone? And yet—was that truly what she wanted? The question hollowed her chest, loneliness spreading through her like a void. With each step, sadness swelled until it burned behind her eyes. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. She was tired of crying. Tired of feeling helpless.

She passed through the church gates and moved among the moss-covered stones and the dead trees that still stood watch over the old graves. When she reached her mother’s marker, she stopped.

Part of her burned with shame—standing before her mother’s grave after she’d been cast out and left to die with the wolves. Another part burned with anger that her mother had not been there to protect her. To tell her what to do. To show her how to be free of this mess.

Mary Frankenstein’s marker was smaller than others, moss pressing only around the edges where the damp had crept. To the right, a massive oak stood, as old as the cemetery itself, its broad trunk cracked and furrowed, bark veined with lichen. Its sturdy branches stretched like skeletal arms, bare of leaves. When Victoria was a child, she had believed the tree reached over her mother’s grave to protect it. She had lost count of the nights she had fallen asleep against its trunk, weeping to her mother about her struggles.

Now, she returned, settling back against the oak. She drew her knees up against her chest and adjusted her skirts. Today, she came with anger.

Tears forced their way out, pooling along her dark lashes, mixing with the saliva clinging to her teeth as she struggled to speak clearly. “I cannot take this anymore. I—” Her chest heaved. She teetered on the edge of hyperventilation. “I shall never see you again, and father will not let me keep him from leaving. I don’t want to be alone any longer. I cannot take it. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Great gulps of air followed as tears streamed down her sleeves onto her cold hands. She pressed her palms into the soft layer of snow and crawled forward until she sat beside her mother’s headstone. Tears poured freely, and she pressed her forehead against the rough lime of the stone. She had perfected her method. They had tested galvanization on body parts, and she had fine-tuned it with precision. A special apparatus had been built to hold Leyden jars scattered across the castle roof, collecting and storing the electrical energy of lightning. Each jar connected to the perfected rod; when charged, they glowed and vibrated.

It was the final piece of the puzzle. The castle roof had become a storm-lit orchard of sparking glass during lightning storms. Everything was in place—everything, that was, except the body. He still needed a little work.

“I have perfected it—closer than ever—to having Papa remain on this earth with me, and once again I am stopped from having any good in this life.” Her body sagged back against the headstone. “I am destined to be nothing more than a vessel filled with loneliness and grief.

“I’m glad you left so you did not have to see what a monster I have become. I thought of taking someone’s life today—I wanted to. And the feeling did not shock me.” Her voice trembled. “God took you from me so you would not be forced to see what I would become. Father grows worse faster than ever. Sometimes I don’t recognize him. I have grown to care for the subject of my experiment of all things. Another irony of what I have been dealt.” The thick trees of the dark forest swayed and creaked with the wind.

Her breath hitched. “I cannot take this responsibility. It is obvious there is nothing saintly in me—nothing that wishes to repair or assist the people who have wronged us. I have no care for them. In my heart, I do not care whether they are saved because those I wish to save are already lost to me.”

It was well past midnight. No one knew she was out here—no one but Wilhelm. Scraping herself up from the ground to continue home, fire burned through her veins, warming her from the inside. She had never disguised what Wilhelm did to her as anything other than coercion and blackmail, yet even so she could hardly believe he had dumped her from the carriage and left her to walk home alone in the dead of winter. She had never been foolish enough to think he cared, yet—simply to survive—she had convinced herself she meant more to him than this.

He did not care whether she lived or died. Why should she grant him even the smallest tenderness in return?

Her pace quickened, tears once again blurring the path ahead. She should have killed him. She should have taken the thin metal rod and driven it into his neck. Then he would never hurt her or Sophia with his digressions again.

Had Sophia married him by choice, or did the baron hold something over her as well? Surely she could not love that man. Yet from their interactions at gatherings, Victoria had sensed something disturbingly real—Sophia seemed to care for Wilhelm.

Victoria let out a sharp, furious cry, slamming her fists into her thighs. Pain shot through her legs as several creatures skittered away in fright. The streak of a rabbit flashed as it darted across the path ahead.

There were few things Victoria cared about anymore besides herself, her father, the cadaver waiting for her, and Helena, but one of them was how women were treated—held back from what they were clearly capable of, simply because the world believed a man could do it better. And yet here she was, tearing down another woman. Even if it went against her will, she was still complicit. Fear of Wilhelm ruining her and her father had made her so—but at what point did survival become selfishness?

She would do anything to protect her father. But how many other people would she have to wound in the process?

She needed a way to avoid Wilhelm, to force him to lose interest. She did not trust him to keep her secret. What sort of man enjoyed an unwilling participant? But she knew the answer.

Wilhelm liked weak, helpless creatures—ones that made him feel powerful. Had she killed him in the carriage, she never would have escaped it. The coachman would have known. The baron would have destroyed her and her father, their reputation crushed entirely.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for them to leave. Her father was slipping fast. This week alone, there were days he could hardly stand. Two nights ago, he struggled to use a fork, food slipping uselessly from the tines as his tremors worsened. As frustration and anger overtook him—as they so often did now—Victoria had only felt grief. A heavy weight pressed against her sternum as she watched him fail at something that had once been effortless. He was harder and harder to recognize as the version of her father she had always known. Their protective roles had reversed and she was failing him.

At the back gate, she paused, scanning the dark yard and the forest beyond. Nothing stirred. No one searched for her. No one missed her. Relief and sadness twisted together in her chest.

She schooled her expression before pushing open the laboratory door. She thought it locked, but one heavy shove with her shoulder opened it. Warmth rushed over her face, the familiar scent of chemicals and electricity instantly calming her nerves. A frown pulled at her mouth when she looked to the flame next to Innominatus and saw only soot-covered black glass. It looked as if the flame had flared and burned out, charring the inside with thick chalky black.

She hurried for the stairs, glancing once and relaxing at the sight of the uncovered cadaver before removing her cloak and dropping it to the floor. She took the steps two at a time and nearly collided with Greta, who emerged in her nightgown on the main floor.

Victoria forced calm into her voice. “Is everything all right? Is my father well?”

Greta scowled. “I thought you’d gone to bed hours ago. I was fetching streusel from the kitchen. Your father is fine—sleeping soundly. Why are you down in that godforsaken laboratory? Does he know?”

“Yes,” Victoria replied tightly. “I’m helping him organize his books.” She closed the door before the woman could scold her further.

After redescending the laboratory stairs, Victoria sat heavily and tugged at her boots. She returned to the cadaver, tucking the sheet around him as if he were a child. She didn’t realize she was still crying until her tears splattered against his shoulder. Embarrassment flickered—as though he might reprimand her.

His strong face bore scars and stitches. “You probably wouldn’t even care,” she murmured. He looked made of iron—too tall, too solid for anyone to cry against.

She wiped her tears from his skin, but the more she touched him, the faster they fell, as if he were truly there comforting her.