Page 38 of Her Creation

Noting her restraint, Alphonse seemed to brighten further. “Yes, we should be able to have the brain and heart replaced by the end of the month.” He opened his mouth as if to continue, then snapped it shut and took a careful sip of his tea. After a moment, as though the thought would not release him, he added softly, “You’ve been advancing wonderfully, but I do think you’re paying too much attention to the repair of the cadaver’s skin. What does it matter if the flesh is burned?”

Victoria shifted in her seat. She was paying far too much attention to the man’s skin, muscles, wrinkles, scars, moles, among other things. “Yes, I agree—but it has been invaluable practice. I believe, when life flows through him again, the grafts of skin will heal beautifully.” Her eyes dropped from his, not wanting him to see through her. She knew it was impractical, even indulgent, to spend so much time on the aesthetics of their experiment. Yet in the quiet hours she spent alone with the body, she had come to believe that he deserved to feel whole again. That wholeness, she felt, extended beyond function.

She had continued smoothing the worst of the burns, especially along his face and shoulder. She found herself obsessed with what his face might look like once restored, when it was moving and smiling and laughing. Though the scars could never be fully erased, she could soften them. Not because she thought them ugly, but because if his memories of pain must remain, perhaps his skin need not bear the full weight of them. To the contrary, she found him to be beautiful with the markings. They showed others what he could withstand. She couldn’t imagine how devastating he would look when he was whole again.

“Yes, yes, I suppose that does make sense,” Alphonse conceded with a chuckle. “Though I hardly think you need the practice. Your stitching is nearly as good as mine.” His eyes locked onto hers with the sharp focus of a kestrel. “I must say, I’m quite proud—and shocked—by the work I performed last night. My nerves were so poor I could hardly finish it, yet this morning it appears more perfect than I could have imagined.”

Victoria cleared her throat and lifted her teacup, finishing the last of it in one swift motion. He knows, she thought. She moved to stand in front of the crackling fireplace, hoping to hide her face from his view.

“I gave Greta a letter to take to the seamstress,” she said quickly. “I chose Frida in town. With the new baby, she could use the work.” Rising from the table, she brushed the stray crumbs from her obsidian gown. “I’ve decided to go with a different color of dress. I’ll keep the more worn gowns for the laboratory and sell a few of the others to pay for the new wardrobe.”

Alphonse’s mouth opened in surprise before he could stop it. “Have you really?” He stood with a low grunt, absently massaging the outer side of his thigh. “Oh—my body grows stiff,” he muttered when he caught her eyes lingering where he rubbed.

Victoria felt her brow tighten. She wished she had another swallow of tea to anchor herself. “Yes. I’ve chosen a few gowns.”

“That’s lovely to hear,” he said warmly. “I look forward to seeing what you’ve chosen. I think this experiment is doing you a world of good.” He came to stand near her by the fireplace, the glow of embers flickering against his features.

She smiled—or tried to—but it felt foreign on her face, and she tucked it away again. “I’ve quite enjoyed learning from you,” she said carefully. “And working together with you on this project. I’m eager to hear your thoughts on the heart.”

Something unreadable flickered across Alphonse’s eyes before vanishing. “Yes, well. You flatter me. You’ve already practiced and understand nearly everything there is to know, at least that I know.” He shifted, uncomfortable beneath the praise. “I’m quite proud of you, Victoria.”

Her face heated as she glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. “I must go to Helena’s, or I’ll be late.”

“Yes, yes.” He nodded. “I haven’t heard a carriage arrive yet. Thompson will let you know when it does.”

“I was thinking of taking one of our own,” Victoria said.

Alphonse tipped his head slightly. “You’re welcome to. Would you not be more comfortable with Thompson driving it?”

“I was going to take the small phaeton,” she replied.

“Of course,” her father said, though his brow creased faintly. “Are you quite certain you’ll be comfortable? I can scarcely recall a time I’ve seen you drive yourself.”

“I take it into town,” Victoria replied sharply, a note of indignation flaring despite her composed tone. “I am fully capable of driving myself to Helena’s.”

In truth, her pulse had quickened the moment the words left her mouth. She rarely ventured beyond the town limits alone, and even then, only when necessity demanded it. But uncertainty pressed at her thoughts—she did not know when she might next have the opportunity to speak with Wilhelm, and the notion of privacy, unencumbered by a coachman’s watchful presence, felt suddenly indispensable. If he got into her carriage to speak, she couldn’t risk Thompson, her father’s valet, overhearing.

Her father studied her for a moment longer before sighing. “Why not take the coach?” he urged gently. “I would be terribly uneasy knowing you were managing to drive up there all on your own. The weather is reasonable, but it could worsen, and the horses have been unsettled of late—ever since the wolves began prowling nearer the stables. Their tracks have been multiplying. This has been a hard winter for them, so they look for food.”

Victoria turned her gaze away, her jaw tightening. “You’re right,” she said after a pause. “Then I shall take Mischief alone.”

“Are you certain?” he asked again, though his voice had already softened, some of his tension ebbing.

“Yes,” she replied. “I will be far more comfortable riding at my own pace.”

He nodded slowly. “Helena will not mind,” he said, and he was correct. Helena never minded such irregularities. Though it was unusual—nearly scandalous—for a woman to arrive at a social gathering astride a saddle rather than behind a carriage curtain, nothing Victoria did had ever fit neatly within expectation as it was. Besides, the other guests would scarcely notice her arrival.

And more importantly, it would prevent Wilhelm from any nefarious opportunities within her carriage. Should the need arise, she could escape quickly, urging Mischief into motion without hesitation. Keeping Wilhelm out of her space felt like a better idea.

Her black mare, Mischief, was spirited, clever, and fiercely loyal; she had been her companion since she was sixteen. She bid her father farewell and passed through the great hall toward the outer doors, moving past the towering iron entrance to the laboratory. She paused there, just for a moment. She felt like she was missing something.

The urge struck her sharply and without warning—a desire to go to Innominatus, though she could not name why. She had no need to inspect her work from the previous night. And yet, the sensation lingered, as though a familiar companion waited for her below. If she saw him, even lying motionless without breath, he might give her the courage she needed to speak to Wilhelm. A smile creased the corners of her eyes. Innominatus would be so helpful for this particular task if he were alive now. Soon. Though…what if he didn’t like her when he came to life? The thought knotted in her stomach. What if he hated her? How naive of her to assume he would feel as she did.

“Oh God,” she breathed. What if Innominatus was angry she’d resurrected him? What if he hated the way she’d rebuilt him with others’ limbs, bones, and organs? What if he hated what she’d made of him?

She startled as her father came to an abrupt halt beside her. He must have been heading down to the lab himself.

“I was just going to ask,” she said quickly, guilt flashing across her face as though he might somehow glimpse her unspoken thoughts, “whether Leonard or Thompson were in the stables.”