Page 80 of Adam, Mine

He went through the Our Father as the hair on his neck bristled, then pushed through her gate to knock on the door.

“Goh Away.” A voice shouted in English before he could knock.

Elias paused. “I have a message!” he shouted in German. There was no answer.

Elias wasn’t rude, so he backed away from the house. Maybe she would come out in the morning or the day after and he could yell his warning to her and ride away. He went back to his horse. To burn some time, he curried her and brushed her tail and mane, then braided them.

Elias settled down next to the tree. The grass on this side of the path was tough and bitter, but a few yards down from Brogan’s house it looked softer. Maybe before he slept, he would take her there. Elias opened his jacket and pulled out Agatha’s doll. The hair was starting to get tangled, so he brushed it too until it shined. Then he cleaned some of the travel dust off his shoes and jacket, ate some dried meat, and wiped his teeth clean.

He closed his eyes and looked at the string inside him, vibrating quietly as he always allowed it to these days. It had been ages since he had stilled it completely. He wondered what Victor was thinking on the other end of it. Elias ran his fingers against it and received back only muted impressions.

He was confused for a while, then realized: this is what it must be like when Victor was sleeping. He kept his fingers on the thread, listening to Victor’s hazy dream state. The ebb and flow like a gurgling spring. His heart beat the rhythm of contentment.

It was strangely intimate.

A part of him wanted to jolt over a feeling of panic to wake him. But he didn’t. Elias breathed alongside him until his own eyes began to tire. He curled closer to the tree. At least here it was warm enough that he might not freeze to death.

Suddenly the door to Brogan’s house opened. Elias sat up straight and looked at the door. Brogan’s silhouette filled the frame. She stared back at him from across the road.

Elias took his chance.

“Sorry to bother you, miss. I must tell my message, then I’ll be on my way,” he called.

Brogan didn’t go back inside, but her chin tilted up. Well. That was better than nothing.

Elias took a deep breath. “There is a boy who will come to your door. His hair is yellow and he will be nervous. His name is Victor Frankenstein and he will ask for your help. He is a fugitive from justice, exiled by the magicians of our shared country. He has made me a slave and betrayed the will of God.”

Brogan listened intently. Then when he finished, she turned and went back inside the house. But this time she left the door open.

Elias scrambled to his feet and scampered across the road. The stink of magic was even higher over the threshold. He winced, rubbing his eyes at the sting.

“Who are you?” Brogan asked. She was pointing a pistol at Elias’s chest. Elias startled and put his hands up.

“Elias Hilfiker. I have traveled very far. I can leave if I am not welcome,” he said, backing to the door.

Brogan narrowed her eyes at him. She was very old. She had long face hair, well brushed and oiled until it shined. She had braided it and tucked flowers in to match the braids and flowers of her hair. Elias looked over her shoulder at her home. Everything inside it was as intricate as she was. Patterns painted on her kitchen basin and hearth, carpets intricate with color. Her house was homey and clean, but it was unquestionably a witch’s house.

“There is a . . . force here . . . ,” Elias started cautiously. “It’s hurting my eyes and nose.”

Brogan looked him up and down. “It’s to keep back wicked men. . . . Which more often than not is all of them.”

Elias frowned but didn’t argue. Brogan was old enough to know.

“Sit.” She nodded to the living room.

Elias followed her to a low chair across from a couch. There was a wide space between them, cold and formal. He anxiously settled into the chair and she sat before him, pistol trained on his heart, hand resting on her knee.

“You said you have been made a slave. To who?” Brogan demanded.

Elias placed his palms up on his knees in open surrender before answering.

“A boy called Victor Frankenstein.” Elias confessed. “He . . . stole me from my home.”

“You were taken . . . from your home by a boy? You’re a man full grown and strong.” Brogan scrutinized him suspiciously.

Elias shook his head. “It was not always so.”

Brogan sniffed hard. “You smell of blood and death.”