Page 63 of Her Creation

“The loss of me?” he muttered softly.

Victoria stood abruptly. “You must listen to me. You are to stay here, in the laboratory. Always. Do you understand?” She had begun to pace across the space in front of the table.

“Will you be with me? I need to be with you.”

Victoria paused briefly as she felt the knife twist in her heart. “Yes, sometimes.”

“Then I will obey your every command,” he said fervently. “Every day I will worship you as my creator.”

“What?” Victoria shook her head and held up her arms. It was all too much. “If you are to live, no one can ever know what you are, what I have done. We would both be killed for it.”

In a second, he was standing. “No one will ever harm you, Victoria. What I failed to do in my first life, I will not in the second. No harm will ever come to you, of that I promise you,” he said as he lowered his head in a bow.

Chapter 17

Log entry March, 1803

Recounting events 1773–1795 Location: Unknown

The next day, Victoria was no closer to understanding what she should do with her future. As soon as it was found out that her father was dead, she would have nowhere to live. Helena may take her in, but her and her father’s things? Her creation? No. There was no future for all of that. When the bell for the front gate rang, though, she was not surprised. It seemed inevitable that something else would happen quickly to confuse the situation.

When she opened the door, it was also no surprise that the two people she dreaded seeing the most were there: the baron and Wilhelm.

“Miss Frankenstein, how are you?” Baron von Lichtenmarstein asked smoothly, lifting a hand to smooth one side of his mustache.

“Good evening,” Victoria replied, her voice barely steady.

“We’ve missed you at our gatherings,” Wilhelm said, stepping closer, invading the threshold Victoria stood rigid in, doing her best to block their entrance. “Helena and Sophia have been beside themselves wondering after you.”

“How is your wife?” Victoria asked, forcing the words out.

“She is well. It was…admirable of you to repair her so expertly,” Wilhelm replied, his tone smooth and deliberate. His gaze sharpened as it settled on Victoria, as though he had slipped a blade between her ribs and was pausing only to watch how deeply it would sink.

The vise around Victoria’s chest tightened, biting into her breath until it hurt to draw air at all. Panic pressed in, dense and suffocating. “It was nothing,” she said quickly, waving her hand as though she could scatter the true meaning of his words into harmless dust. “Minor things. The sort of knowledge every housewife possesses.”

“From what I hear,” the baron interjected, his voice low and weighty, “you were required to give her several stitches.” His eyes roamed over Victoria with invasive precision, prying, searching, as though he might peel the truth directly from her skin.

Victoria shifted her weight, her pulse hammering. This—she realized with sickening clarity—was Wilhelm’s last, petty cruelty after she had ended the affair and severed the strings he once pulled so easily. “It was simple stitching,” she insisted, though she could hear the thin tremor beneath her words. “Tapestry work, really. Any woman could do it.”

“Yes, well,” the baron huffed, folding his hands together, “you are aware that it is illegal for women to practice medicine in any form. I’m sure you understand.” His mouth curled faintly. “The work is far too complex, too intricate for a woman’s mind. That is precisely why women are barred from medical education.”

“Yes. Of course. I understand,” Victoria said, her voice catching despite her efforts. “I only—only recalled what to do from observing my father over the years.”

The baron’s eyes narrowed. “Speaking of which—where is your father? I would like to speak with him.”

“He’s in bed,” Victoria answered quickly. “Ill.”

“Ill?” Wilhelm echoed softly, his eyes glittering.

“Yes. He’s been unwell for days. Quite…contagious,” she added hastily.

The two men exchanged a glance.

“I came to thank him for saving my son,” the baron said slowly, each word measured. “Last night.”

Cold terror slid down Victoria’s spine.

“Sick in bed for days?” Wilhelm murmured, almost cheerfully. “Then who, I wonder, worked on little Franz?”