by Kat Dunn
The wrongness of what he and Wickham had done – turning Edward into this – hit James again. They should have let him die with dignity; instead, Wickham had made him into another medical curiosity, like the strange things floating in jars in his study. Wickham had said Edward would have done the same if their positions had been reversed, but James didn’t think that was true any more. Edward was a far better friend than he’d ever been. Now he was running out of time to make things right.
Edward had taken the tray of equipment and was setting up the Leiden jars that stored electricity alongside the table, with their trailing wires and rubber insulation mats. Wickham had disappeared into his study for long enough to make James even more nervous.
‘Why are you doing this, Edward?’ Olympe asked.
‘Don’t talk to me.’
‘No, I think I am going to talk to you. You have decided to hold me against my will, so I would like to know why.’
‘This work is my life. Why wouldn’t I do whatever is needed?’
‘Because I don’t think you’re like him. You feel loyal to him but you are not him. I understand what it is to have little family other than the one you make for yourself,’ she said. ‘Do you not see that Wickham is unhinged? He’s kidnapped people.’
Absentmindedly, Edward touched his fingers to the unpeeling stitches on his forehead.
‘I owe him my life,’ he said. It sounded like something he had learned by rote. And that disturbed James most; all Edward’s curiosity and questioning snuffed out by a debt that could never be repaid.
‘Well, he will have it, because if Wickham carries on like this, he’ll either get you killed again or spending the rest of it locked away. Did you know he threatened to hurt James’s family?’
Edward looked up sharply, pausing from connecting the wires to the jars. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’
James wondered if he should intervene, but he lost his nerve. Everything between him and Edward was tangled, fraught with fractured trust and unspoken history. He would make things worse. Remind Edward of why he was on one side and James on the other. No, better to let Olympe work on him. She was perhaps the only other person in the world who could begin to understand what Edward had gone through; to know what it was to exist because of a twisted science experiment.
‘All we have are our choices, and I don’t think this is the one you truly want to make. It is frightening to be alone, yes, but better than turning yourself into a monster in order to stay in the company of others. Braver.’
James had never seen Edward this unsure. He had always been the first to pick up the dissecting knives in their classes, the pupil with the strongest stomach. Always ready to challenge Wickham, questioning what he didn’t agree with, pressing their tutor when he evaded or bluffed. He had never known Edward to doubt himself.
‘We are not the same,’ said Edward, as though confirming it to himself. ‘I am more human than you will ever be.’
‘Does Wickham agree? We both want someone to be loyal to, a family to tell us we belong. Just because Wickham claims to offer you that does not mean you must accept. His place for you now is at his heels, like a dog.’
Edward hesitated by the leather straps that bound her, warring emotions playing across his face. James held his breath. Willed him to make a choice.
The study door snapped open and Wickham emerged.
‘Edward! Take a note. I have decided on a course of action: we have observed that pain causes the subject to generate an electric charge, so I would test this hypothesis. And if a charge can be generated, then we must test whether it can be stored. We have a range of tools at our disposal,’ he said, running his finger over the tray of surgical knives. ‘Let us begin.’
A sheet of lightning flashed, and an almighty bang echoed around the theatre as a tree branch smashed through a window, throwing a shower of glass across the benches. Wickham startled, and dropped the scalpel with a curse.
‘Oh, for— Edward, clean that up.’
‘Yes, dogsbody,’ said Olympe. ‘Hop to, master’s orders.’
Edward glared, but went to fetch a broom and sweep up the shards. Wickham turned back to his notes, and in the quiet, James heard something at the door. A soft, metallic scratching, like little claws.
Or lock picks.
He kept still – Wickham hadn’t noticed anything yet.
‘Did you ever study the Greek tragedies at school?’ asked James.
‘Keep talking and I’ll have to gag you.’ Wickham replaced the scalpel on the tray and set it aside.
‘Only, I think there are a few concepts you might have found useful to learn about. Hamartia – “to miss the mark” in Ancient Greek. The fatal flaw.’
The scratching at the door grew more insistent. Wickham moved to the shelves of bone saws and mallets.
‘Peripeteia, there’s another one. The reversal of fortunes, the turning point.’
Wickham picked up a mallet, weighed it in his hand, then crossed towards James, who braced himself, teeth clenched for what came next. Whatever it was, he deserved it.
Something clicked in the door, and the scratching sounds stopped.
‘Hubris, though, that seems the most relevant, don’t you think?’ said James. ‘What is it they say – pride comes before a fall?’
Wickham went straight past James to yank the door open, and Camille and Al tumbled into the room. Lying on her back, Camille looked up at him, face pale. ‘Oh. Sh—’
Wickham brought the mallet down.
10
The Catacombs
The lights were dimmed, the brass polished to a shine and each slick organ put lovingly in place.
They were ready to start.
Ada was ready to crank the electrostatic generator. Her experiment had been set up; the plate metal had only taken a little effort to integrate into the workroom. One piece they’d laid on the table, then they had arranged the slabs of muscle in similar positions to before, but this time not connected by individual wires. The curved piece they’d hung overhead from lengths of silk and hooked to the generator so they could pass a current through it. Clémentine had been the one to suggest snuffing out half the lights. In the gloom, the sparks of electricity would shine like blue fire.
At the other end of the work bench, the duc surveyed the scene, hunger plain in his eyes. ‘Ready the charge.’
‘Readying,’ she echoed and began to crank the handle.
She couldn’t deny she felt that hunger too. The ache of curiosity. The irresistible urge to step into the unknown.
The glass cylinders in the generator spun faster and faster. Hairs rose along the back of her neck, haloing around her face.
‘More!’
She cranked harder, shoulder aching, but she couldn’t stop now. The anticipation was too great. The knot she’d been struggling to untangle was about to come loose.
Tension mounted in the lab, the light seeming to draw in on the bench. Even Clémentine leaned forward, notepad and quill forgotten.
For a sickening second, Ada thought it wasn’t going to work. That her idea was nothing but a fancy.
And then at once, like a crack of shattering glass, electric currents arced from the curved plate above to the pieces of flesh below. Blue light, a loud pop, and the smell of burning meat. It was over. Ada let go of the crank and the generator wound down. Her heart was pounding, limbs light like feathers.
She realised she was grinning.
‘Magnificent. Magnificent.’ The duc hunched over, examining the charred muscle. ‘How extraordinary. How – how—’
‘Violent,’ finished Clémentine. A frown had appeared between her eyebrows.
The duc ignored her. ‘The theory is sound. We must now test its limits.’
‘I agree,’ said Ada. ‘We should try and measure the—’
‘Later,’ the duc interrupted. ‘Right now, I have something prepared I’ve been waiting for this moment to try. Clear the space.’
He went into the t
unnels and Ada got to the grisly work of prying the fried flesh off the brass plate. It wasn’t just cooked, it was burned, little hunks of crispy meat glued down. It smelled like dinner.
Ada’s stomach turned. Clémentine passed her a bucket just in time and she retched into it.
‘I won’t tell him, don’t worry,’ said Clémentine, with a tight smile.
Ada was swilling her mouth with water when the duc returned. He was carrying something large and square covered in a cloth. Distressed squeaking noises came from inside. The sheet came off, and a cage of rats was revealed. Five in total, clambering over each other inside the small space.
Ada recoiled. ‘What do you intend to do with those?’
‘Why, test the limits of our theory, of course.’
He opened the cage lid and tipped the rats onto the brass plate where specks of flesh still smoked.
Ada felt faint. The rats snuffled and scrabbled over the metal, all pale pink paws and worm-like tails. ‘Are you sure this is … wasn’t that enough?’
Clémentine stood up abruptly. ‘I can’t watch.’ She marched out of the room, yanking the curtain back into place.
The duc and Ada were alone. Suddenly the dim lighting was sinister, and she felt too, too aware of the weight of rock pressing down from above, the labyrinth of tunnels that stretched around them, filled with the bones of the dead.
‘Are you up to the task, Ada?’ asked the duc. ‘Or will you give in at the final fence?’
The choice was there. She could walk away. The experiment would still happen. And then everything she’d done so far would be for what? The memory of the disaster at the Théâtre Patriotique came fresh to mind. That vision of countless people crushed, turning blue and swollen, and the awful, awful silence. Just because the battalion tried to do good didn’t mean they hadn’t been the cause of some awful things, whether accident or collateral damage. They already had a body count. She would be a hypocrite to draw the line here. Or were those people worth less than a cage of rats?
She swallowed, balling her hands in her dress. ‘I – I can do this.’
‘Excellent.’ With brusque movements, the duc swapped their places and Ada flushed with relief and shame. ‘Here, you keep the rats from jumping off. I will operate the generator this time.’
Slowly, he began to turn the crank. ‘Do you know of the rat king?’
‘No,’ said Ada. Her eyes were trained on the writhing mass of pink and grey bodies on the brass. Like a serving tray of strange sweetmeats.
The duc continued, turning faster as the hum of electricity grew. ‘In Germany, a phenomenon was often observed, where a nest of rats became hopelessly tangled together by their tails, forming a ring of bodies around a single fleshy knot. It is considered a bad omen, a harbinger of dark things to come. The secretions from their own skin would stick their tails together as they slept, bundled close together in the coldest of winters. When it woke and found its predicament, the rat king would struggle, drawing the knot ever tighter. Until it was so immobilised that the only kind thing to do’ – the glass cylinders spun impossibly fast, an acrid smell filled the air – ‘was to kill it.’
With a crack, blue sparks split the air. Bolts of lightning burst from the brass breastplate and in an instant all five rats were rooted to the spot, the current pulsing through them as their insides boiled and their hair burned away. An awful, high-pitched screaming filled the room. Ada clapped her hands over her ears and turned away. Everything smelled like smoke and death.
‘It’s over.’ The duc’s voice was shaky.
Ada turned back, filled with a cold, sickening wash of guilt.
The rats were dead. They had died painfully, if not at her hand then by her invention.
The duc was surveying the destruction with avid curiosity. ‘A roaring success! You should be proud of yourself; this is a milestone discovery. Electricity can end life, as decisively as it can give it. And look how efficiently.’ He swept a hand over the scene of destruction. ‘We thought the guillotine was the greatest advance in ending life – but we have gone one step further.’
‘Thank you.’ She heard herself say the words but she couldn’t remember speaking.
He began to dictate notes, and stiffly she took up the quill and paper Clémentine had discarded and started writing. She could cope with this, if only she didn’t think. If only she filled her mind with something other than the screams of death.
She’d thought there could be nothing worse than the silence of the Théâtre Patriotique. She’d been wrong. That had been an accident. This, she had done on purpose.
The duc declared it time for refreshments and they packed up. Ada collected the rats in a sack. It was so heavy in her hand she wanted to cry. She followed the duc, winding up out of the catacombs, carrying death into the land of the living.
In the yard they waited while the footmen dug a hole. The bag fitted perfectly into it, like a perverse present, neatly wrapped.
As dirt was shovelled over the five bodies, a servant came running out of the back door, looking flustered. She pushed a letter into the duc’s hand.
‘They’ve done it, Monsieur. They took him to the guillotine this afternoon – Robespierre is dead.’
A smirk crept across the duc’s face.
Ada shivered.
‘And like that,’ he said, ‘the rat king has been exterminated.’
11
The Operating Theatre
Camille woke with a crick in her neck and a pain in her skull that felt as if she’d been cracked over the head with a mallet.
Which she had.
She was tied to a chair, arms behind her back, in a line with James and Al on the operating stage. Olympe lay before her, held down on the slab with leather straps. The side of Camille’s face felt tight where a splatter of blood had dried and her fever was back, everything dizzy and light.
‘Good evening,’ said Wickham, from where he leaned against the foot-end of the operating table. ‘I wanted to thank you for making this so terribly easy for me.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ replied Camille, through gritted teeth.
‘I might have worried that our little traitor James still had allies out there working against me, but no. Only children playing games they don’t understand.’
Camille glanced over the set-up. The space was as bleak and open as the surgical theatre they’d visited in Leicester Square, with as few places to hide. Wickham and Edward stood top and tail by Olympe. She was unnervingly calm, the usual scudding clouds of her complexion entirely still; her head was tilted sideways, and those large, black eyes watched her blankly. Camille caught her attention, then winked.
‘Edward, check the Leiden jars,’ instructed Wickham. ‘Attach one. Make a note of it. And be quick.’
Edward followed the instructions. Camille thought he did it with unnecessary slowness – though that could have been down to stiffness in his limbs. Like a badly operated marionette, he jerked and fumbled with the tools. She cocked her head and watched with curiosity. He had declined from only the day before.
‘Now, hand me the scalpel.’
‘Are you sure you need to—’
Wickham cut Edward off. ‘You think you know better than me?’
‘No, but do we really need to hurt her? Why don’t you just ask her to create a current?’
‘Don’t turn weak on me,’ sneered Wickham. ‘Science doesn’t care about your feelings. It is about facts, discovery, progress. Leave emotions to the women.’
Silently, Edward handed him the scalpel. His expression was unreadable. Wickham turned his back to his audience and considered his incision.
That was his first mistake. Quietly, Camille began to work the small blade she had stashed up her sleeve into her hand. She had seen the operating theatre in Leicester Square and known there was no way they could sneak in – so instead she’d had Wickham usher them in with open arms.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Al doing the same, slipping th
e sliver of razor into his hands and working it against the ropes. Getting their feet free unnoticed would be the hard part – the only blessing was that Wickham seemed to be running low on rope between the three of them, and there wasn’t so much to cut through.
Wickham raised the scalpel, but before he could lay a hand on Olympe, her finger twitched, slipping through the open seam in the glove and brushing against the bottom of his waistcoat to trail a line of sparks. In a flash, the fabric smoked, and a flame caught. He yelled, leaped back and smacked out the fire, while Olympe cackled.
‘Subdue her!’ he snapped to Edward.
‘What do you want me to—’
‘Hit her – whatever you think will teach her to take this seriously! My god, use your brain.’
Edward hesitated.
Olympe looked up at him, her face a challenge. ‘You’re not his monster.’
‘Do as I say or get out of my surgery.’ Wickham’s voice was icy cold.
Edward closed his eyes for a moment as if gathering himself, then opened them and gave Olympe a sharp, open-handed smack across her cheek that made her gasp. The sound was obscenely loud in the silent room.
He turned away, busying himself with the Leiden jars, checking wires that had already been checked five times before.
Camille wanted to carve the self-satisfied smile from Wickham’s face.
The blade was slippery between her sweaty fingers but finally it cut through the last thread and her bindings fell away. The operating theatre was ringed at the back by racks displaying anatomical specimens in jars of ethanol, resin lumps of flesh full of turpentine and oil. Wickham was busy rescuing his singed waistcoat, and with his back turned, Camille slipped a free hand into her pocket to retrieve one of the firecrackers she and Al had portioned up between them, and lobbed it directly into the middle of the display.