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* * *
—
After three days of doing everything the nurses asked, they unbound me. I was taken into the asylum master’s office. I did not know what country we were in, but the doctor and nurses all spoke German. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the desk and his chair massive and foreboding. A simple stool was placed in front of it. I sat, perched on the edge, with my back straight and my chin held at a demure angle.
They had not let me brush my hair, nor had they given me anything other than the shapeless gray shift I had worn since I had woken up.
“Good afternoon.” I smiled primly. “I am so grateful for a chance to speak to you. We have a terrible misunderstanding to clear up.”
The asylum master did not so much as glance up from where he was writing a letter. He was pale and crinkly, and I suspected if I touched his skin it would hold the indent of my finger. His thin lips were pursed into a single cross line.
“You see,” I continued, “I should not be here.”
“Hmm,” he said. “I have seen your writings and have testimony from your husband otherwise.”
I laughed in embarrassment. “Oh, but he did not let me explain! You see, I was writing him a story.”
“A story?” He finally looked up from his letter.
“Yes! A novel. I wanted to surprise him with it. He has always loved scary stories, so I was writing a story of a monster. I am humiliated that anyone else read it.”
His mouth stretched into a smile. “My dear child. Do you really think claiming that what you were writing came from your imagination does anything to prove your sanity? Indeed, if anything, it further confirms how much you need our help.”
I shook my head, my heart racing. “No, no, I can explain. I—”
“You have suffered tremendous loss. And being a tender young woman, the thought of being a wife was too much. You need quiet. You need a place where you are safe, where your mind is not tormented or challenged. I promise we will give you every opportunity to settle your hysteria.”
I wanted to stand, to shout, but anything I did or said would only be evidence against me. My lips trembled, but I did my best to give him a sad smile. “Am I permitted to write letters? To have visitors? I would like to see—”
Who? My father-in-law? Judge Frankenstein would not care one whit about my placement here, so long as he could still access my inheritance. He only needed me alive for that. Ernest was too young to be of any help. Henry was in England, and if his own father could not track him down, certainly my letters could not reach him.
And the day I saw Victor again would be the day all was lost forever.
I had no one. I had only myself. I let tears brim manipulatively in my eyes and turned the full force of my angelic beauty on him.
He was not even looking at me.
“Take her away,” he said. Two nurses came and hauled me roughly by each arm. I did not resist.
* * *
—
“When can I go outside?” I asked the next morning. I had been confined to my room ever since my meeting with the asylum master to allow time for my “nerves to resettle.”
The nurse setting down my breakfast tray grunted. She was not the same nurse who had promised me bruises. She was younger, but the same brutally uncaring determination was written across the slope of her shoulders. “Being outside is too much stimulation for you. Be good and in a week you can join the other girls for evening meals.”
“But I—”
“Be good,” she grunted. Then she left.
* * *
—
When, after a week, I was allowed out of my tiny, windowless cell, I sat as ladylike as I could manage on the cold benches of the central visiting room. There were no visitors. I was surrounded by women sitting in similar fashion, each of us still moving as though we wore collars up to our chins, long skirts, and corsets, instead of loose gowns made of coarse gray material. We were not allowed hairpins for fear we would injure ourselves, so even my hair was long and undone. I felt unmoored, exposed, with nothing between my body and the air but this singular layer.
They had stripped us of everything we were taught made us women, and then told us we were mad.
