When we arrived at the small church, Elizabeth said, “You can come inside if you like.”
“I will wait here, I think.”
“You could light a candle for Konrad.”
“You know I don’t believe in such things.”
She nodded and looked at the other parishioners entering the church with their families. For the first time it occurred to me that it must have been lonely for her, attending Mass alone all these years.
“Did Konrad go inside with you?”
“Not at first.”
I helped her down, and watched as she walked into the church. I thought of how she would light a candle and pray—and I envied her.
“What are you doing?” Ernest asked, coming into the library.
It was Monday afternoon, and I’d spent nearly the entire day with books spread all around me, taking notes furiously.
“I’m trying to learn about the human body and its ailments,” I said.
My nine-year-old brother came forward, looking gravely at the book’s illustrations.
“Konrad will get better, won’t he, Victor?” he asked.
To my shame, I realized how little I’d thought of Ernest and how his older brother’s illness might be affecting him. Little William was far too young to understand—and it was a great comfort to me sometimes just to hold his little body and try to lose myself in his warmth and laughter and obvious good cheer—but at nine, Ernest, like all of us, was having to endure the gloomy weather change that had beset our house.
I put down my pen and smiled as Father did when trying to reassure us. “Of course he will get better. I have no doubt whatsoever. He is strong, like all of us Frankensteins!”
He pointed seriously at the book. “Is the cure in there?”
I laughed. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”
He got interested in the diagram of a man’s spleen. “What does that do?”
“They used to think it ruled our temperaments.”
“You’ll find the cure, Victor,” he said. “You’re almost as clever as Konrad.”
“Almost as clever?” I snapped. “And how would you know that, little boy?”
His eyes widened in astonishment and hurt, and I instantly regretted my outburst. How could I fault him, after all, when it was abundantly obvious? Konrad had always been the better student, and my father took no pains to conceal it. Still, Ernest’s words smarted. Even to a nine-year-old boy it was clear that Konrad was the brighter star in our family’s constellation.
Had I been just a year younger than Konrad—or even a non-identical twin—it would have been easier to bear. But he and I were supposed to be the same in every respect. So what excuse had I to be the weaker?
Elizabeth appeared in the doorway. “Ernest, Justine is looking for you in the garden.”
I gave Ernest an apologetic smile and clapped him on the shoulder, but his parting look to me was wary.
“Still here?” Elizabeth said, coming in.
“You have your prayers,” I said. “I cannot pray, but I must do something, or go mad.”
Restlessly I looked back at my book, a huge tome written mostly in Latin. My Latin was poor, and every sentence was a struggle, but I refused to give up. I had been a lackluster student, but I would remedy that with hard work.
Elizabeth gently closed the cover. “You cannot expect to cure him on your own.”
“Why not?” I demanded. “Someone has to.”
My eyes strayed to the bookshelf that concealed the secret passage to the Dark Library.
“You have been here all day,” she said. “You can’t simply abandon Henry.”
I sighed. “I am sorry if Henry feels abandoned, but there are so many books here to understand …”
“Go riding,” she suggested. “You will get gloomy if you spend any more time here. Take Henry up into the meadows for an hour or two.”
I looked forlornly at my desk. “Just a short break,” I said.
So Henry and I changed into our riding gear and took our horses out for several hours. And I did enjoy the sunlight and air on my face, even as I felt guilty leaving Konrad in his sickbed.
As I neared home, I dared to hope.
When I saw Mother and Father, they would be smiling, and saying that Konrad’s fever had broken for good and he was on the mend and all would be well.
But it was not so. He was the same.
The very next day, a second physician accompanied Dr. Lesage to see Konrad. He was a handsome, fashionable-looking gentleman called Dr. Bartonne, who exuded confidence like an overpowering cologne. I disliked him on sight.
He strode into the room, took one look at my brother, and said he had a disturbance of the blood. Therefore he needed to be bled. The physician placed slimy leeches all over my brother’s pale body and let them suck his blood until Konrad swooned. The fellow was greatly satisfied, and announced that he had purged Konrad of the poisons that had caused the fever, and that when my brother woke in the morning, he would feel weak but improved.
It was true that he was cooler that night—who would not be cooler after having most of his blood sucked away by leeches? Nonetheless we all had great hope that this would speed his recovery.
Come morning, however, the fever returned once more. Dr. Bartonne was summoned yet again. After he left, I went to seek out Mother to ask what he’d said. Walking along the upper hallway, I overheard her talking to Maria in the west sitting room.
I stopped before I reached the doorway, for I could tell from Maria’s hushed tones they were talking about something terribly serious.
“… might be of some help,” Maria was saying, “for many say there is great power in it.”
“You love him, as we all do, Maria,” Mother replied. “But you know that Alphonse cannot bear talk of alchemy. He thinks it primitive nonsense, and I am inclined to agree with him. Please do not speak of this to him.”
“Very well, ma’am,” said Maria.
“I know you mean well, Maria. Do not think me angry.”
“No, ma’am. It’s just, I overheard what the doctor said about … not knowing how to treat him, and how, if he continues to weaken …”
My blood congealed in my veins, and I strained to listen. What had the doctor said? But there were no more words spoken, only sniffing, and little sobs, and I sensed the two of them were embracing and comforting each other. Then came my mother’s voice, a little shaky.
“You are a dear, dear member of our family, Maria,” she said.
“I could not love him more were he my own son.”
“We are doing all we can. Alphonse has heard of another doctor, a Dr. Murnau, who’s a specialist in rare diseases at the university in Ingolstadt. We’ve sent a messenger to make inquiries.”
“I will keep praying, then, ma’am,” said Maria, “if that does not offend you.”
“Of course not, Maria, certainly not. I must confess, I have found myself praying too of late. I doubt anyone hears but myself, though.”
“With respect, ma’am, someone is listening. You mustn’t despair so.”
I turned and silently walked away down the corridor, for I did not want them to know I’d been eavesdropping.
I desperately wished I knew what Maria had said earlier, about alchemy.
Did she know of some treatment that might help Konrad?
That night as I slept, my mind took me to Father’s library, and there I sat, surrounded by medical books, struggling with Latin and Greek, striving to cure Konrad.
I turned a page and there, embedded in the thick paper, was a seed. With great excitement I plucked it out and cradled it in my cupped hands, for I knew I had to plant it immediately or it would perish. But the door to the great hallway was locked, and though I rattled it and shouted, no one came to open it.
My panic grew, for the seed was already starting to decay.
There was a stirring of air, though no windows were open, and I looked up across the library to see the secret door ajar.
I’d promised Father, but what else could I do? The seed had to be planted, and I knew there was a well, and water, and earth down there.
The seed gripped in my hand, I hurried through the door to find no splintered planks but a swirling marble staircase. At the bottom, bathed in impossible sunlight, was the well, surrounded by fragrant and fertile soil.
I dug a small hole with my hands and planted the seed. Almost at once a green tendril shot up, thickening and sending out slender branches—and from the branches dangled little white bones.
I was frightened by this and stepped backward, but I could see that, growing among the bones, there was also fruit—red and luscious. And from the highest branch—for the tree was already taller than me—blossomed a book.
I started to climb up, but the tree kept growing, taking the book higher still.
I climbed faster, and with increasing desperation and rage, knowing that I must have that book.
But I could not reach it.
“We must return to the Dark Library,” I said fiercely.
It was the morning after my dream, and we were hiking in the hills behind Bellerive—Elizabeth, Henry, and me. The day could not have been more beautiful. An unblemished blue sky spanned the white-capped mountain ranges encircling the lake. Everywhere things were growing: Wildflowers sprang from the fields, trees bloomed, new leaves unfolded from branches. Life everywhere—and Konrad trapped at home in his sickbed.
“For what purpose, Victor?” Elizabeth asked.
“So we can heal Konrad,” I said simply.
“Isn’t that best left to the doctors?” said Henry.
“Damn the doctors!” I said. “They’re little more than barbers with pills. I wouldn’t trust them to groom my dog! Konrad’s getting weaker by the day. We must take action.”
“Action?” said Henry. “What manner of action?”
“For someone whose imagination is so ripe, you can be a bit dim sometimes, Henry,” I said. “We must seek our own cure.”
Elizabeth looked genuinely shocked. “Victor, we made your father a promise—,” began Elizabeth.
“That he would never find us in the library again. Yes. Those were his exact words. I don’t intend to break that promise. He will not find us in it.”
“That is not what he meant, and you know it!”
I waved my hand impatiently. “There is learning in there that has not been tried.”
Henry nervously rubbed at his blond hair. “Your father said it was all rubbish.”
I snorted. “Think, you two. Those books were kept hidden because they scared people. Why? There must be something to them, some kind of power. Silly, harmless things do not scare people.”
“But what if they are harmful?” Elizabeth asked.
“What options do we have left to us?” I demanded. “Shall we watch Dr. Bartonne apply leeches once more? Or dead doves? Or perhaps we can ask dear Dr. Lesage to scratch at his wig and mix the dust with another vial of Frau Eisner’s invigorating tinctures.”
“Your father—,” Elizabeth began, but I cut her off.
“My father is a brilliant man, but he cannot know everything. You yourself said he can be wrong.”
I felt as though a door had been cut into the air before me, and I had passed through it, never to turn back. All my life I had assumed that Father knew everything. I had wanted him to know everything. It had made me feel safe. But he’d been confident the doctors would heal Konrad—and they had not.
“We must try other means,” I said. “Extreme times call for extreme measures. We must be willing to take risks if we want to save Konrad’s life.”
“You truly think it a matter of life and death?” said Elizabeth, and I felt a stab of guilt, for I could see that she had not thought of it in such terms before—or she’d avoided doing so by sheer will. She looked scared.
“All I know is that the doctors are baffled. They are worried.”
Henry looked away uneasily toward the Jura Mountains, but Elizabeth met my gaze with grave determination.
“The Church condemned those books,” she said.
“The Church condemned Galileo for saying the sun did not revolve around the Earth. They can be wrong too.”
“The place frightens me,” she said.
Henry swallowed and looked uneasily from Elizabeth to me. “Are you so sure these forbidden books hold an answer?”
“All I know is this: If I don’t at least try, I will go mad. I can’t bear it a day longer. And I need the both of you,” I said. “Your knowledge of Latin and Greek is better than mine.”
I could see Elizabeth hesitate, and then something changed in her eyes.
“When?” she said.
“Tonight.”
“Good,” she said. “Let us meet at an hour past midnight.”
Not long after the church bells of Bellerive had tolled the hour of one, the three of us met in the hallway and made our way toward the library. Henry kept glancing about with nervous, birdlike movements, peering beyond the flickering light of our candles as though expecting something to swoop down on him. Whenever he stayed at the château, he complained of strange rustlings at night. And despite our constant assurances, he still believed the place to be haunted.
“I sense something,” he whispered. “I’m telling you, there’s some presence up there, I think.”
“We should tell him the truth,” Elizabeth said to me with a sidelong, mischievous wink.
“Truth about what?” squeaked Henry.
I sighed. “Cousin Theodore.”
Henry’s eyes snapped to me. “You never told me about Cousin Theodore.”
I shrugged. “He died young, and this was his favorite place to play.”
“So you’ve seen him?” demanded Henry.
“Well, part of him,” I replied. “He was, well …”
“It was a dreadful accident,” said Elizabeth solemnly, and then giggled.
“You scoundrels,” said Henry, narrowing his eyes. “You know my imagination’s excitable, but go ahead, torment me.”
“I’m sorry, Henry,” said Elizabeth, squeezing his arm affectionately.
We all fell silent as we neared and passed Konrad’s room, for we did not want to disturb him, or wake Mother, who we knew was sleeping at his bedside tonight. There was scarcely a moment of the day when my brother’s illness did not inhabit my thoughts. Passing his bedroom, I imagined him sleeping in his bed, his body fighting and fighting. A great sorrow welled up in me. I was glad of the shadows, for my eyes were moist.
We were all of us in our nightclothes, swathed in robes, for nights on the lake were sometimes cold when a northern wind brought with it a glacial chill.
“Have you ever realized,” said Henry nervously to me, gazing at the flickering portraits in the grand hallway, “what a grim bunch your ancestors were? Look at that fellow there! Have you ever seen such a grimace?”
“That’s the Frankenstein smile,” whispered Elizabeth.
“And who’s this fellow here?” Henry asked, pointing.
Looking up at the oldest of all the portraits, I felt a sudden chill. “That,” I said, “is Wilhelm Frankenstein.”
“The alchemist?” Henry whispered.
I nodded, studying the oil painting. Strange that you could pass a certain thing every day of your life and never once look properly at it. In the candlelight the portrait glowed warmly. Wilhelm still looked like a young man, and he stared just past us with a small, slightly disdainful smile on his lips. He had a secret and would not share it. He wore a black doublet with a white ruffled collar, and a black cap in the Spanish style. He stood, one slim hand upon his hip, the other holding a book upon a table, one finger keeping his place within the pages… .
“We should go,” Elizabeth said, tugging at my arm.
“Yes,” I murmured, pulling my eyes away.
As we entered the moonlit library, my heart gave a terrified lurch. Father sat in a leather armchair by the window, glaring at
us. But no—I exhaled. It was only shadows, shaped no doubt by my guilt, for I knew I was defying him.
Elizabeth found the shelf and once more triggered the secret latch. There was a dull thunk—louder than I remembered—and the bookcase swung inward.
“Remarkable,” breathed Henry.
“Just wait,” I told him as we all slipped inside. His reaction was satisfying indeed.
“Good Lord,” he said. “You didn’t mention the steps were quite so flimsy.”
“They’re perfectly safe,” I assured him, leading the way.
At the door, as I prepared to put my hand through the hole, I felt some of my confidence abandon me.
“Do you want me to do it this time?” Elizabeth asked.
That spurred me on. “No, no,” I said, and thrust in my arm. At once the eerie hand seized me. I battled against instinctive revulsion and this time did not fight but merely pumped the hand up and down.
Our greeting done, the door opened itself.
“And in we go,” I said with a smile.
Truly the Dark Library was well named, for it seemed to suck at our candle flames, making them pucker and smoke. I felt something new, something I had not noticed during our first visit in the middle of the day. Mingled with the mildew and mustiness, there was fear, excitement—and an unshakable sense of hungry expectation.
“Let’s get to work,” I said, bringing my light to the shelves of cracked leather tomes. “We are looking for anything on the subject of healing.”
“What a place,” Henry murmured.
We cleared space on one of the dusty tables. After gathering books, we perched on stools, spreading books all around us and passing them to and fro if we needed help translating or reading a script so spidery that it was all but invisible in the half-light of our candles.
“Here is something,” said Henry, and I eagerly looked up. “It is in Occulta Philosophia.”
“That’s the book I pulled out on our first visit!” I said to Elizabeth. “The one by Cornelius Agrippa.”
“What have you found?” she asked Henry.
His eyes skimmed over the page, and he began to read, slowly translating from the Latin. “‘From the grand scholarship of ages past, and my own modern learning, I have created a formulation … that has great power to remedy all human suffering. And not only to remedy, but to prolong life … so that he who imbibes it will avoid all deaths but those of a violent nature, and will enjoy a multitude of years such as Methuselah.’”
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