Page 70 of Her Creation

“Oh, do not be upset by my request, my darling friend. I will see him at the ball.”

Victoria’s eyes widened and had there been another teacup in her hand, there would’ve been a second casualty rolling across the floor.

“I’m not going to the ball,” she answered more sternly than she meant.

“Oh, but you must! The baron is thrilled about Mr. Creatura. But if I’m being honest, my interest in seeing him is purely from the way Wilhelm spoke of him, not the baron. He seemed absolutely irked with jealousy, which can only mean he’s shockingly masculine and handsome.” Helena raised an eyebrow at Victoria.

“I have missed you, my friend,” Victoria said with a smile. “But let us not ruin the evening with talk of men. Shall we go to the library and talk of things that matter?”

Chapter 19

March, 1803 Log entry

Recounting events 1773–1795 Location: Unknown

The steps seemed to fall away beneath her like she was descending into hell, their depth seemingly endless as Victoria stood frozen at the threshold. She clutched the iron handle of the door, the cold bite of the metal anchoring her—maybe saving her—from whatever damnation waited below.

She had been standing there for what felt like an eternity, unable to command her legs to move. It was not the stairs themselves that held her captive, but the task that awaited her—it pressed against her ribs until it became difficult to breathe.

Her father had been in the cold chamber far too long now—untouched by vinegar or preservative solutions, left to the slow, inevitable work of decay. When she finally forced herself through the murky water of memory and descended the steps, she paused at the bottom. The musty, sour stench of rot struck her immediately, sharp and unmistakable, curling into her stomach until it cramped painfully and threatened to empty. She knew then, without question, that she had waited too long. Guilt settled onto her shoulders, heavy and unmoving.

Her gaze drifted across the room and landed on Innominatus, seated at her father’s desk exactly as he had been when she left the night before. The precision of it made her nerves skitter along her spine. He was positioned so perfectly, so deliberately, that it was as though time itself had not moved. For a terrible moment, she wondered if he had moved at all since she’d gone.

Their eyes met.

The intensity of his unwavering attention made her knees tremble. She broke the contact quickly, her gaze dropping to the clean, empty plate resting on the corner of the desk. She had forgotten to retrieve it the night before—forgotten to bring him breakfast or water today. The realization weighed down her heart like it was made of iron. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to feel the effects of her struggle. A fissure of need pressed out from her heavy iron heart, crying to fold herself into his arms and ignore everything else but the two of them for a moment, to lean into his love and wrap herself in his comfort. Her eyes prickled and watered with the threat of tears.

He rose immediately when she shifted away from him, as though her presence alone commanded him.

She gave a small nod, more reflex than intention. “I need to prepare my father’s body,” she stated, struggling to maintain an air of indifference.

Every time Innominatus looked at her with that devotion, with that terrible, consuming worship, she was reminded of her dead father lying just beyond the wall, and how she had chosen her love for Innominatus over him. How many more would die if she chose him again?

Victoria lifted her hand the instant Innominatus moved toward her. “Please. I do not need your help.” If he came another inch closer, she would crumble and lose all control.

His feet halted at once. He straightened, spine snapping rigid. The obedience was immediate—and somehow that made her chest ache even more.

There was something deeply private, almost humiliating, about what she had allowed to happen to her father’s body. Something that made shame slither beneath her skin. She did not want anyone to see it. Not even him—especially not him. This was not how you treated people you loved. She couldn’t handle him seeing her neglect, though she knew he was feeling it himself.

“Stay out of the cold chamber,” she commanded quietly, knowing he would obey. She needed to remove all emotions and feeling, or she would not be able to do this.

Her hand hovered over the door to the chamber. She had been around decaying body parts more than the average person. This should not have been different. And yet it was. This was not a specimen. Not a patient. Not an experiment. She closed her eyes and drew in a slow, deliberate breath and let the lies come. This is not my father. She repeated it over and over until the words felt true.

She opened the chamber.

The stench slammed into her. She held her breath and moved quickly, pulling the body free with mechanical precision. Most of the patient’s clothes had already been stripped away—she noted it distantly, even as waves of emotion battered the back of her skull like a mallet. Still, she remained numb as she stared down at the body.

White maggots writhed through the collapsed flesh of his face, the damage too extensive for stitching. Minutes passed. She did not move as she watched them squirm. She could not bring herself to kill them—not while knowing they carried minuscule pieces of him inside their soft, wriggling bodies.

At last, she moved away, retrieving a small terrarium jar from the shelves beside her desk. Lifting the lid, she inhaled the scent of loam and moss, the earthy dampness offering a brief reprieve from the spiced rot clinging to the air.

She placed it at the edge of the table and for the next three and a half hours, she worked in silence, carefully removing every single maggot from her father’s body and placing them in the terrarium. She pulled the remaining ones from the tear duct of his only remaining eye and sealed them inside the glass container before returning it to her desk.

Only when she was finished did she glance behind her.

Innominatus had not moved in hours. His eyes were still on her with an expression of sympathy.

It was a curse. “You don’t have to wait like that,” she said quietly, exhaustion dragging the words from her.