Page 37 of Her Creation

“I could’ve killed him,” she whispered. “I wonder how many men you’ve killed. I don’t think I’d have liked it. I think if I have to, I’d rather bring things to life…keep them alive and not alone.”

She sagged, daring to rest her heavy head on his firm, muscular chest and saturating herself with the feeling of safety it gave her. “Death has surrounded me for as long as I can remember.” She broke then—sobbing uncontrollably, gripping the cadaver as grief finally spilled free. Despite his inability to respond to her, Victoria could feel the comfort pressing out from his skin as she held on to him and cried. Something dangerous began to take form in her chest.

“You are the only one I have to talk to. The only one who knows all my secrets.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Tomorrow I must attend Helena’s gathering. I will have to see him again—and his wife—and pray he does not wish to torture me.”

She cried for her mother. For her father. For herself. It was as if she’d never had anyone to lean on until that very moment. Her soul cracked open and bled in front of the cadaver that night. No shields or walls came up, only long-barricaded emotions and the desperate need for someone to listen.

When the tears finally ceased, she changed the sheet she had made damp with her weeping. “Thank you,” she whispered as she squeezed his cold forearm and placed Innominatus back in the cold chamber, and—for the first time in a very long time—felt something like peace. She cleaned out the glass and relit the flame of the apparatus, pleased when it swayed as if in response. What if somehow…someway…

No. It was only a coincidence that the flame moved and pulsed when it did. Or was it?

With that strange calm, Victoria gathered her wet cloak and boots and made her way upstairs to bed.

Chapter 12

March 1803 Log entry

Recounting events 1773–1795 Location: Unknown

Victoria found she had slept in, lying in bed well past nine in the morning—a rarity for her. She stared at the ceiling after throwing the covers off her body yet lacked the strength to rise and face another day. Everything felt different this morning. Perhaps this new connection and venting for hours to Innominatus had been somewhat therapeutic; she hadn’t slept this late in years. Truth be told, she barely slept at all anymore, struggling to gather a sparse few hours scattered across the night. She would toss and turn, ears perked for her father’s footsteps. When they came—which had been often, especially before the tinctures of laudanum—she could not return to slumber. Instead, she waited anxiously for the next sound to echo across the old castle, waiting for whatever nightmare might unfold next.

Reluctantly, she sat on the edge of her bed, tucking her knobby legs beneath the warmth of her nightgown. She rubbed her eyes, pressing into the ache in the middle of her head. Looking about the room, she felt a flicker of eagerness to continue her work on Innominatus. He had come to mean something to her. Accidentally, he had become a friend that held her secrets, comforted her, and never judged her. A fact that both invigorated and embarrassed her.

Her father had just acquired new lungs, and that was their next project. But today was Helena’s gathering. Victoria pressed her palm to her face. She missed Helena, yet the gatherings never entirely suited her. Perhaps they would if she had someone like the cadaver to go with her. If he could have been alive to take her, Wilhelm wouldn’t even look in her direction.

At the thought of Wilhelm, a fresh prickle of thorny anger stirred in her gut. She knew she could no longer continue this arrangement—for her own sake, for the sake of the selfishness she could not bear to inflict upon another.

Victoria frowned at the thought that she would not don her surgical frock this morning, but one of her nicer dresses. It all felt farcical. Even wearing black now felt wrong. She wondered what other colors she might wear if not black. White and cream felt equally false, their innocence mocking her shame.

She lifted her surgical frock, examining it for washing or spot-cleaning along with her other garments. Even such simple acts felt like impositions. In the bright morning light streaking through her window, she saw the stains in full: splotches of blood staining the fabric. She turned the skirt, noting more—one shaped like a smashed, flourishing rose, reminding her of when Joyce, the Schusters’ stable master, had suffered an accident. Two weeks after Victoria healed his injured shoulder, he denied her a horse to ride home from the Schusters’ party. She wondered, if he’d known it was her hand that had stitched him, if he’d have been as cruel.

Tracing the worn fabric, she found a small oval with two speckles of scarlet—Frida McAllister’s, from complications in labor. They had saved little Rolphe. Victoria’s jaw stiffened, recalling a recent town visit when she had gleefully asked to hold Rolphe. Frida declined, eyes nervously darting about. Her teeth vibrated in their sockets. No matter the good she performed for the town, she remained an outcast.

Her father inspired fear but also esteem through his capabilities. Victoria had never needed recognition, yet now it pained her to be seen as odd while she stitched their injuries and treated infections. All she wished for was a modicum of kindness because of it. She glanced out the window to the stream, the rocks still blanketed in melting, glittering snow.

She dreaded today’s gathering and resolved to explain to Helena that it would be her last. She could not tell her friend that the company of the living no longer suited her or that her closest companion was a lifeless cadaver. But Victoria would no longer parade through town under the pretense of friendliness, sweetness, and oddity. She could remain friendly, sweet, and odd within her own home, free of judgment and the harshness that left her feeling wounded and drained.

The desire surged within, an angry, senseless monster telling her to storm the town and proclaim she was the one who saved their children, who stitched their wounds, who tended their infections. But it would not matter; she was a woman. Had she been a man, her deeds would have sparked celebration. Instead, discovery of her surgical depths would bring her death.

She let out a low growl, about to toss the bloodstained frock into the corner when her eyes snagged on a patch of fresh blood at the edge of her sleeve near the wrist. It was the man’s—the cadaver’s—from before they had cleaned him more thoroughly.

He wouldn’t deny her recognition of what she’d done for him. He would be pleased and proud of her. She just knew it. Like she knew the sky was blue and the dirt was brown.

She pulled the small circle of dried blood taught, admiring its beauty. The black dye of her sleeve had faded, allowing her to see the deep red, almost brown color. It was the color of his life. Something about holding such a lively, vital piece of him filled her with comfort.

She grabbed a small pair of embroidery scissors off her desk and carefully cut out the small, oblong circle of bloodied fabric before tossing the dress in the corner and clutching the scrap of fabric to her chest.

Moving to her writing desk, she calmly prepared parchment and ink. She penned a note to the dressmaker, added the scrap of bloodied fabric, folded it, and set it at the corner for Greta to dispatch with other parcels. Her father would not mind the new gowns; he constantly urged her to wear something beyond black, though she doubted he would approve of her new choices. The color of the cadaver’s beautiful blood. That would be her new color of dress. It would bring her formidable comfort when she needed it. A wrapping of his life force when it couldn’t be his arms wrapping around her. A reminder that she wasn’t really all that alone. It was the color of hope. A constant reminder that soon she wouldn’t be alone. She would have Innominatus at her side. When she cried to him, he would hold her. When she squeezed his hand, he would squeeze back.

Her father was in a particularly pleasant mood that morning at the breakfast table, joining her for coffee in a manner that felt almost ceremonial in its rarity. Alphonse laughed openly at something Rosamond said as he accepted the silver tray from the maid with an easy smile, then crossed the dining room to sit at the far end of the long mahogany table opposite Victoria. The light from the tall windows caught in his thinning hair and made his expression seem almost boyish, a version of him she rarely saw anymore.

“You seem to be in a lovely mood this morning,” Victoria observed gently. “Have you been up long? Were you able to get any sleep last night?” She watched him as he attempted to pour tea into the saucer he held, the porcelain clinking together in an uneven rhythm as his hands trembled. After a moment’s consideration, he set the teacup down and grasped the pot with both hands, steadying himself before finishing the task. When he looked up at her, his grin was wide and genuine.

“I—we had a lightning storm last night,” he said brightly, clearly pleased. “The Leyden jars are primed and ready. I replaced them with new ones this morning.” He rose from his chair and drifted toward her side of the table with a restless energy, buzzing around her like a bumblebee eager for another flower. “I reviewed our work on the cadaver,” Alphonse continued as he ambled back to his seat. “We are making significant progress. I must admit, I’m rather excited for when we get the chance to test our initial theories. I have some other items of requirement arriving next week.”

His gaze drifted about the room, deliberately avoiding hers. Victoria knew exactly what he meant—the additional organs for Innominatus.

“I see,” she said quietly.