Page 90 of Her Creation

He stepped forward just enough to place himself between her and the group, the movement subtle but deliberate. It was not a dismissal delivered with cruelty, but with practiced authority, the kind that left no room for protest.

Heat flooded Victoria’s face at the calculated erasure. She had always been expected at these gatherings, a fixture at her father’s side. Now, with whispers of illness and age, she was being quietly sidelined alongside him.

“I am here with Miss Frankenstein,” Inno said smoothly, his voice even and composed, “and if you wish me to remain, I suggest you encourage her presence as well.”

Victoria watched as the sentence landed, measured and precise. The threat beneath it was unmistakable yet so carefully veiled it could not be challenged.

“Yes. Of course,” the baron said at last. “Ladies, we have matters to discuss regarding the region’s medical patronage.” He nodded curtly to the other women and then to Victoria.

They moved away, but Victoria remained rooted in place. When the men’s attention settled on her, she struggled to summon her voice. “If you are discussing anything involving my father, I would rather stay.”

They would not dismantle him in his absence. Even as she recognized the futility of defending a man already gone, outrage stiffened her spine. She could not make herself retreat. She would not fold herself small and pretend that none of it mattered.

“We are discussing the area’s medical requirements and upcoming changes. It does not involve you. Just because you put a patch on my son’s wife does not make you someone of importance or someone in need of hearing my plans, my dear.” The baron gave a small, obnoxious chuckle as he returned his attention to his adviser. “Women,” he laughed again, the word dripping with contempt.

Wilhelm joined in, as did the old adviser, their laughter thin and brittle as bone.

Then the baron turned back to Victoria and placed his empty punch cup in her hand, the glass still warm from his grip. He leaned in close enough that she could smell the wine on his breath and the faint medicinal rot beneath his cologne. “Go get me another cup of punch.”

She felt Innominatus’s restraint coil tight beside her, his presence vibrating like a drawn bowstring. The moment his lips parted to speak, Victoria moved. She closed her fingers around the cup and cut in sharply. “It would be my honor,” she said through clenched teeth.

The baron grinned and held her gaze a second too long, the satisfaction in his eyes unmistakable. Victoria caught Inno’s eyes and gave the smallest warning, knowing his interference would bring consequences far worse than humiliation.

“Inno—Mr. Creatura,” she corrected herself quickly, and saw the effect it had on him. The tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction. “Do you need anything from your bag? I must get something from it.”

He studied her, his eyes moving over her face with unnerving precision, reading the set of her jaw, the tightness around her mouth. “Would you like me to get it for you?”

“No, no,” Victoria said. “I seem to have developed a pain in my neck and remembered I placed something in your bag that may soothe it.”

Understanding flickered across Inno’s face, followed by something warm and dangerous that made her breath catch in her throat despite herself. “Of course,” he said softly. “And I would still like a dance with you, Miss Frankenstein. If I am honest, it was my sole motivation for attending tonight.”

His words vibrated against her skin. She gave a nearly unseen nod to reassure him before turning and leaving the ballroom, immediately fetching the medical bag with the help of a servant. Once she escaped the press of bodies, she found the narrow hallway near the kitchens. The air was thick with sugar and fat and spice. Mountains of food were arranged in obscene abundance across the long table, pastries stacked high, meats glistening under candlelight, fruits lacquered until they shone.

A sharp crack split the air.

Pain bloomed a half second later. A dull, pulsing ache shot through her hand as warmth slid down the inside of her middle finger. The handle of the baron’s tumbler had snapped clean away, the jagged edge biting deep. Blood welled quickly, dark and glossy, slipping over her skin and dripping onto the polished marble below.

Expressionless, Victoria handed the broken glass to a passing servant, ignoring his startled gasp and the way his eyes widened at the blood.

“Let me fetch the doctor’s assistant,” he said, already panicking.

A thin, humorless line pulled at her mouth. “It is quite all right. I have his bag here. I only require a moment of privacy to clean myself.”

He nodded conspiratorially. “Everyone is headed to the ballroom for the duke’s address,” the servant said, bending quickly to wipe the small drops of blood from the floor with shaking hands. “I can keep the hall clear for a moment.”

Victoria watched him retreat. She set the bag onto the table, crushing delicate pastries beneath its weight. Sugar cracked. Cream oozed. Her movements were calm, deliberate, surgical.

She opened the bag and withdrew the glass jar. The soil and rocks had shifted.

Inside, thousands of bodies writhed. Pale, wet maggots knotted together in living masses. Brown, hardened pupae clustered like tumors against the glass. Thick black flies clung sluggishly to the interior, their wings trembling with restrained motion. The faint sound of movement filled the hallway, a damp, obscene whisper.

Victoria stared through the glass. She saw insects, yes—but she also saw her father. The final stage of him. The cycle that had claimed his body without mercy. She did not hate them for it.

Her bloodied fingers twisted the lid. “And now the cycle continues,” she murmured.

The jar opened with a soft, wet sound.

Flies crawled toward the rim, too heavy and slow to escape. The sound of her teeth grinding faded, replaced by the slick, intimate noise of maggots shifting against one another. She tipped the jar and let the contents fall.