Page 46 of Her Creation

For the experiment to work, the cadaver required blood and a lot of it. Victoria believed from her studies that the blood that filled the body needed to be pure and free from any pollutants, or the resurrection would not work. They could procure organs and other body parts, but finding massive amounts of untainted blood was difficult, so Victoria had taken on the task of collecting her own blood. Bloodletting was quite common in their practice, and her father initially had not protested until it began taking a toll on her state. Today, Innominatus was on the table in front of her. She would lean against his table, clutching his forearm if she thought she might pass out.

She was sure her father thought it odd how she treated the cadaver, but until today, he had thankfully kept his opinions to himself. Victoria knew it was foolish and odd—grotesque even—to feel such a connection to a body, but she could not help it. She had grown more invested each day in the prospect of bringing him back to life. Her father’s words rattled her, though, and a new fear pressed into her thoughts of Innominatus. What if he didn’t wake up to be the man she had formed in her lonely imagination? What if the flames and pulses that went off when she touched him or was near him really were fueled by hate and violence?

The careful hours of attention repairing and replacing parts of the man—making him whole once more—had created a bond the likes of which she’d never felt. A sculptor loved their statue; no one would ever love it more than the one who created it. The difference for Victoria was that, unlike the sculptor, she might have the opportunity to awaken her creation and feel his love in return.

If he didn’t hate her or try to kill her for what she’d done to him, which now she wasn’t so sure wasn’t a possibility.

“It’s beginning to rumble outside; I believe there will be another storm tonight. We should secure the Leyden jars in the apparatus.” Victorian nodded. His words sounded fuzzy in her ears. She focused on the curve of the cadaver’s jaw and the soft shadow underneath it as it flowed onto his neck.

“You are so stubborn,” her father grumbled as he sat on the stool next to the cadaver and continued to clean the area where the kidneys next to him would go.

“Did you get the heart in? That’s all that’s left,” she said as she leaned back and felt the wooden ridge of her seat press sharply into the bones of her back. She shifted, feeling the pain all over her body from the hardness of sitting in the chair, and admired one of the cobwebs in the tall corner of the lab, to the left of where her father worked. She’d been watching this particular web for months, wondering if it might be the home of the spider she had spared that day at the beginning of winter. Sweeping one day, she had come across the web. The broom in her hands had been raised, ready to knock down the web that at that point had only been a few long strings hanging in the corner. It wasn’t hurting anyone, so she left it.

Victoria’s eyes had caught sight of the pebble-sized black spider with a brown star on its back, and her hand stilled, broom frozen inches from the spider as it skittered off the glistening lines of fragile silk and onto the stone wall. Empathy pulled at Victoria’s gut once again, and she found herself resting the straw of the broom back on the floor and walking away from the small arachnid, pondering the morality of killing things that didn’t directly serve humans.

The feeling in her stomach twisted, coiling in on itself like something alive. She had killed hundreds of spiders in the cold, dark depths of the castle without ever sparing them more than a passing thought—hundreds of small lives erased with a shoe, a cloth, a careless swipe of the hand. She had never questioned it. Never paused. Except for that one day, the memory of which now rose in her chest with an unexpected, almost unbearable weight.

Why did human lives surpass everything else in importance? What kind of God-level perspective must one assume to decide that their existence mattered more than another’s, simply because they could contextualize it, narrate it, name it? Just because humans were larger, armed with a greater array of tools, sharper intellects, and language to justify themselves, hardly made them superior. It certainly did not grant them permission to destroy and kill indiscriminately, cloaking violence in the thin excuse of scale. How would they be any better than Innominatus and all his killings, if they killed him? Or was it precautionary? What if it was all true and he killed others? Would the kills be their fault because they brought him back? Victoria’s mind spun. What if the people he killed were bad? Did it excuse it?

Perhaps the only truly godlike thought, Victoria mused, was restraint. Sparing the spider.

Life, by human standards, made no sense at all. One was praised for killing a spider or a fly, applauded for swift cruelty, yet shamed for harming a ladybug or a butterfly. Beauty dictated mercy. Fragility determined worth. That, Victoria knew, was why girls like her were belittled. Humans cherished beautiful, pretty, harmless women—ornamental creatures meant to be admired and preserved. Women with teeth, women who refused softness and compliance, were tolerated only because killing another human was illegal and barbaric. No, they were not to be killed outright. They were to be worn down instead. Tortured quietly. Their bruises kept internal, their wounds hidden safely inside the mind, where they would not disrupt or offend those refined enough to inflict them.

“What?” Victoria asked suddenly, realizing she had missed half of what her father had said.

Alphonse’s chest rose several inches before he released a long, measured breath, the sound of it heavy with restraint. “I’m worried about you,” he said at last.

She moved to the cold metal table across from him, bracing herself against it, careful not to touch Innominatus until she pulled on her gloves despite longing to cross that boundary. She had grown so accustomed to the thin fabric covering her fingers that the thought of touching him bare-handed felt almost intimate—too intimate. It was a fantasy that had been built in the lonely hours she spent in her mind. They were the only barrier she had against herself. Victoria turned to the tray beside him and gathered several tools, the cool metal steadying her. When her arm brushed lightly against the upper sternum of the cadaver, a strange, fleeting comfort settled in her chest.

She met her father’s gaze. “Papa, I’m fine. I promise. I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately—with the experiment. With Innominatus. We are getting close and—and it’s important to me that it works.”

A genuine smile flickered across her face at her father’s eye roll when she spoke the cadaver’s name.

They switched places, and Alphonse began instructing her on how to correctly attach the two kidneys. “That’s it,” he said. “Hold the renal artery with a bit of firmness. There you go.” He pulled his familiar chair closer, settling into it as he always did. “I so badly wish I could have seen it.”

Victoria’s eyes flicked briefly to him before returning to the exposed organs before her. “Seen what?”

“The crow you resurrected. You should be so proud of yourself. I detest that I didn’t witness it.” A rough sound caught in his throat. “I don’t tell you often enough how unbelievably proud I am of you.”

Candlelight glittered against the metal tray as Victoria blinked, her eyes stinging.

“I can only imagine how much it frustrates you not to share your medical accomplishments with the world,” Alphonse continued. “Though I can empathize slightly—it has taken everything within me not to tell Dr. Paranthal and every surgeon I know how naturally talented you are. And I imagine that feeling must be amplified a thousandfold for you, knowing you cannot revel in the glory you have earned.”

Victoria shook her head and shrugged awkwardly—so much so that it nearly caused her to slice into something she very much was not meant to.

“The Gundstern brothers are coming tomorrow, so make certain that all the notes and everything is locked away—especially old Inno here. They are nosy. Make certain the door is locked,” he said with a chuckle.

The cold of the laboratory bit sharply at Victoria’s teeth as she smiled, breath misting faintly in the air. “Inno. I like that. Inno,” she repeated, testing the nickname as though it were something newly forged. She thought she saw the flame of the apparatus brighten but felt her father’s eyes harden on her, so she didn’t dare look directly at the machine. She wondered if he liked the nickname. It sounded strange and intimate coming from her father’s mouth. “Why are they coming tomorrow?”

“They’re installing the chain for our friend.” He tipped his head toward the body.

“A chain?” Victoria scowled, pausing her work as she lifted her wet, gloved hands, viscera glistening under the candlelight. “For what?”

“Because he is a monster, not a man now. Have you not been listening to me at all? Despite his brain and heart being replaced with the purest possible, they are still encased in the body of a lethal and skilled monster.” His voice hardened. “Before the resurrection on Saturday, his ankles and hands are to be chained to the wall of the castle. With no exception. The chains will be long enough that he can still be stretched out on the table as it’s tilted up.”

Victoria gave a small nod and returned to her work, fingers steady despite the weight pressing against her chest. She had to choose her battles carefully, and she was about to pick the biggest one yet. “I don’t think we should kill him,” she said, already knowing how the words would land. Despite herself, she loved her creation and wouldn’t let him die again if she were able to bring him back. She knew he was a good person and had simply been misunderstood, she could feel it. The man she built was no longer a feral killer but a kind and good man.

“Vic—” he warned.