Page 77 of Her Creation

Innominatus stepped closer, reaching for the woman. Victoria watched as the man’s fingers tightened instinctively around her, knuckles whitening. “I—uh—”

“Forgive me,” Innominatus said, his voice friendly and careful. “I am Dr. Frankenstein’s assistant.” He hesitated, then glanced briefly at Victoria. “Innominatus Creatura.” He gently scooped the woman from the man’s arms, but paused, hovering for a moment as if gauging their fear. “I can promise you,” he continued, his tone unexpectedly sincere, almost reverent, “that the doctor will do everything within their capable hands to help your wife.”

A shiver traced its way between Victoria’s shoulder blades at the sound of his voice—so measured, so steady, so comforting it nearly hurt to hear. She looked to the girls, expecting fear.

Instead, they were watching Innominatus with fragile hope, their eyes fixed on him as if he were an answer rather than a terror.

Everyone seemed unaware that the monster she had created was in their presence—that he could snap and turn on them all in the blink of an eye; she knew he was capable. Victoria would not have blamed him if he did. In fact, few would empathize with him more than her.

“How far have you traveled from?” Innominatus asked the man as he readjusted the woman in his arms, holding her with care.

“Just the other side of Grundvich,” the man answered, brushing the hair back from his unconscious wife’s face.

“Grundvich. How far is that from town? From here?” Innominatus pressed carefully.

Victoria shivered. “Their location is not important.” She knew exactly what he was doing. Mapping distance, calculating proximity, silently planning.

He turned from the man to face Victoria. Instead of the irritated scowl she expected, a faintly amused spark danced in his golden eyes. In the light of day, she could see how plainly he was not of this world, though no one else seemed to notice. His scars, his mismatched skin, the subtle imperfections of her creation—they went unseen or unremarked upon. The family, instead of recoiling, relaxed in his presence, contrary to all she would have assumed.

The father looked away from Victoria, returning his worried expression to Innominatus. “Grundvich is about an hour that way,” he said, pointing past the dark, forest-covered path they had ridden in on. “An hour on horseback, more by carriage.”

Innominatus nodded, already finished with the information.

“We need—he really needs to get her inside to my father. There is a barn farther along the path; please, stay warm there, and we—he will do what he can,” Victoria said sternly, attempting to guide Innominatus back to the laboratory. She placed her palm flat on his back.

The instant her palm touched him, he turned to look at her. Thick brows creased in a troubled, almost pained expression.

When they were far enough from the family, Victoria leaned close. She needed to know if he had injured himself, or if something else was wrong. “Have you hurt your back? You look like you were just in pain when I touched you.”

In the daylight, there was no disguising the way his gaze traveled over her mouth and back up to her eyes, as if it could not decide where to rest. “No. I’m not in pain. Not physically anyway,” he said, eclipsing her as he entered the first door.

Victoria reluctantly removed her hand from Innominatus and ran to open the laboratory door, only to fall behind him as he tilted the woman effortlessly and grabbed the handle, moving inside with her in his arms as he held the door open for Victoria. In all the times she and her father had carried patients, it had never been as smooth, as seamless. A splinter of irritation jabbed into her at the realization.

She watched in awe as he set the robust woman on the table without so much as a grunt of discomfort. He immediately grabbed the apron Victoria had adopted to keep her dresses cleaner, holding it at the perfect height. She stepped forward to examine the patient, and the apron was tied at her back before she even realized it.

“Thank you,” she muttered. Her eyes drifted toward the chilled closet, and she wondered if she could have been more helpful to her father as an assistant while he was still alive.

Victoria bristled at Innominatus’s closeness, feeling the tension curl beneath her skin as it always did with his nearness, but reminded herself he would move to his usual spot across the room to watch during procedures. She pushed thoughts from her mind and focused on the woman lying before her. The patient’s face had paled, lips tinged bluish. Most cart accidents were fatal, and this one did not appear to be an exception. The only reason Victoria had agreed to examine her was for the sake of the daughters. No child should endure the death of their mother.

Victoria leaned close to assess the woman.

No frothy blood at the mouth, no air bubbling from the wounds. She leaned back, stretching her neck until it cracked. The lungs were compressed or bruised but not punctured. No sucking chest wound. No pneumothorax. If the lungs were punctured, the struggle for air would increase, and the blue tint of her lips would grow more prominent, not less. Already, the muted rosiness indicated the cold, not oxygen deprivation.

Victoria pulled up her sleeve to examine the chest wall, but Innominatus—moving beside her silently—unbuttoned and rolled her sleeves faster than she could react. She peeled her surprised eyes off his face and gave a residual nod of thanks.

She pressed gently along the woman’s ribs, eyes fixed on a distant gray spot on the floor as her fingers felt for the grinding of broken bone…and found it.

“Possible cracked ribs without inward displacement,” she said aloud, catching herself in habit despite her father’s absence. Her shoulders tightened with grief.

“Crepitus—the grinding of broken bones,” Innominatus said softly, nodding in approval.

Victoria froze for a moment, struggling again to pull her focus off Inno and what he was doing for her. She realized suddenly how odd his words were as she observed the asymmetry in the chest rise. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve had nothing to read but medical texts,” he answered, “and I’ve had a lot of time to read.”

She smiled, oddly grateful to have someone to verbalize her diagnosis with. It was how she processed best. “There is blunt force trauma, but no flail chest, and thankfully no rib fragments piercing lung tissue.”

“What else?” he asked, handing her a soaked linen from across the table.