I glanced again at his legs, and thought how I would hate to have that freedom taken from me.
“Thank you,” I said, placing his map carefully inside my pocket.
“It will not be easy,” he said. “Though the lichen needs the moon to live, it can only be seen on the darkest nights.”
I shook my head, not understanding.
“It must be the exact same color as the bark on which it grows,” said Elizabeth, looking at the engraving.
“Exactly so,” said Polidori. “Even in the moon’s full glare you will not be able to discern it. But in the darkness you will see it.”
“How can this be?” Henry asked.
“It exudes a very pale glow,” said Polidori. “But you must make sure there is no moonlight whatsoever. That is how you will find it.”
“How much must we gather?” Elizabeth asked sensibly.
Polidori passed her a glass vial padded in leather. “This should be ample.”
I looked at Elizabeth and Henry in turn. “Well, it seems simple enough,” I said jokingly. “We must navigate the Sturmwald in total darkness, find and climb the tallest tree, and then, at the summit, discover the lichen.”
“Have you seen the trees of the Sturmwald?” Henry said to me. “Many don’t even have branches until they are fifty feet high!”
“You will certainly need rope,” the apothecary said.
“How can one climb a tree in total darkness while holding a lantern?” Henry demanded. “Two free hands are needed!”
“Dr. Polidori has done it, and we can do it too,” said Elizabeth, her eyes flashing angrily at Henry.
“But your friend is right,” said Polidori. “Climbing a tree at night is a tricky business. A torch would set the tree alight, and a lantern is too cumbersome. I have something that may be of even greater use.”
He passed me a thick padded wallet.
“What is this?” I asked.
“The ingredients for a simple compound. I would mix it for you myself, but its potency is brief and the mixture must be used within twelve hours of being prepared. I have written instructions inside. And it will make your nighttime journey much easier.”
I saw Elizabeth and Henry look at me uneasily.
“Does this involve the devil’s works in any way?” Henry asked.
Polidori laughed. “Good sir, neither the devil nor the angels have any part in my work.”
“What exactly does the mixture do?” Elizabeth asked.
“It gives you,” Polidori said, “the vision of the wolf.”
When we returned home from the city, I was passing Dr. Murnau’s rooms and saw the door to his laboratory ajar.
I stuck my head in and could see no sign of the doctor. But on a long trestle table was a great array of apparatus, and among them an open box filled with metal needles, glinting in the light. There was a whole row of them, of varying lengths. As if drawn, I stepped closer. The needles were hollow, their points more wickedly tapered than a serpent’s fang.
My eyes traveled over the table to a long rack that held six slim stoppered vials of ruby red blood. In shallow round glass dishes still more red fluid rested. Konrad’s blood. It was everywhere.
I felt a chill. When I’d said to Elizabeth that the doctor was like a vampire, it had been half in jest, but now I was not so sure. Why would you collect someone’s blood?
“Would you like to look?” a voice said, and I jerked round with a start, to see Dr. Murnau emerging from his bedchamber, dressed for dinner.
“I am sorry for intruding, sir,” I said, but his gaunt face showed no signs of anger.
“You seem a curious lad,” he said. “Come here. Let me show you.”
Near the window was set up a very impressive microscope, the mirror angled to catch the light and illuminate the specimen.
On the tray was a glass slide, with a bright red smear in the center.
“This is Konrad’s blood,” I said.
“Please.” With his bony finger he gestured for me to look through the eyepiece.
I lowered my face and looked—
And was astounded. There was a living world before me. Rounded objects moved and collided. As I watched, some pinched in half and became two. Others clung to one another until one withered and died.
“This is all in his blood?” I said, terrified.
“Your blood wouldn’t look so dissimilar.”
“What are they all doing?”
“Ah.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll share my thoughts with all of you tonight.”
I said nothing, staring into the microscope. We were all hosts, it seemed, to countless millions of organisms, all with their own complicated intelligence.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” he said.
I nodded, still staring. The world was filled with mystery, and I wanted to discover all its secrets.
“Is his blood normal?” I asked.
“No.”
I looked up at him quickly. “Can you make it so?”
“That is a matter of further investigation,” he said. “And a matter for your father and me to discuss.”
“Of course,” I said, standing.
“In future, Victor, I’d rather you didn’t enter my laboratory unless I’m here. My equipment’s delicate. I’ll see you at dinner,” he said, and I realized I had been dismissed.
I returned to my room to dress.
“I believe that your son has a self-generated abnormality of the blood,” said Dr. Murnau.
It was after dinner. William and Ernest had been taken to the nursery by Justine, and the rest of the family had retired to the west sitting room. I glanced over at Elizabeth and Henry, then Mother and Father, and could tell they were all just as eager as I to hear what the strange doctor would say next.
“Blood is an incredible substance,” he explained as he accepted a glass of port from Father. “It’s no simple fluid. Think of it as a liquid metropolis! Thriving with activity!”
“What kind of activity?” Mother asked.
“The blood’s filled with what I call cells, Madame Frankenstein. Tiny, enclosed compartments—invisible to the naked eye—inside of which all sorts of important work is being done. The cells are like living machines, which go about their work completely without our knowledge or will.”
None of my tutors had ever been this excited about their subject. There was definitely something hypnotic about the way this bizarre, cadaverous doctor spoke—I was hanging on his every word, desperate to understand more about the microscopic world I’d glimpsed earlier in his laboratory.
“There are so many of these cells,” he continued, “that a man could spend a lifetime observing them, and still not understand them all. What I do know is this: Almost all of these cells do some vital work to keep the body healthy. Some carry nutrients. Some fight disease. Some send messages that spur other cells into action.” He paused to push his glasses back up his nose. “Sometimes, though, the body, through some freak of nature, produces cells designed to destroy itself.”
“Destroy itself?” murmured Elizabeth.
It was a frightening idea, to think that our own bodies could turn against us.
“In Konrad’s blood,” Dr. Murnau went on, “I’ve identified many rogue cells making mischief, and I believe these have been the cause of his wasting fever.”
Making mischief. He made it sound no more serious than a children’s game.
“Is there a cure?” Mother asked, her fingers tight around her goblet.
Dr. Murnau cleared his throat. “The disease is rare, but I’ve had some early success developing a treatment.”
I noticed he did not say “cure”—but I remained silent.
“With the samples I’ve taken,” the doctor said, “I’m hoping to produce a compound that will attack these rogue cells.”
“Have you any idea how long this will take?” Father asked.
“I’ll need two or three more days to prepare. As for the treatment itself, it wi
ll take place over a week, as I inject the medicine into his veins.”
“Into his veins?” I said, remembering all those needles with a shudder.
“It’s the most direct route,” said Dr. Murnau.
My parents looked at each other. Father took Mother’s hand and nodded.
“Very well, Doctor,” said Mother. “Please proceed with all possible speed.”
I wondered how great my parents’ confidence was in Murnau. Were they filled with hope? Or did they think his treatment no more reliable than a recipe from an alchemist’s book?
Three days later Konrad’s treatment began.
Beside his bed was a metal stand. Hanging from it, upside down, was a sealed glass flask. It was filled with some manner of clear fluid—the special medicine Dr. Murnau had concocted. From the flask’s rubber stopper snaked a long tube that joined a hollow-tipped needle snugly tied to my brother’s forearm. The serpent’s end of the needle pricked his flesh and entered one of his veins. The liquid, through some ingenious device, dripped slowly, entering his blood gradually, minute by minute, hour by hour.
Dr. Murnau had given my brother a potent sleeping draft.
For two days Konrad lay in bed, still and pale as death.
Tomorrow night, during the new moon, we would make our trip to the Sturmwald.
CHAPTER SIX
STURMWALD
INSIDE THE BOATHOUSE, WHERE THE MIGHTY FOUNDATION of Château Frankenstein rose slick and black from the lake, there was a thick door reinforced with bands of iron. It was always kept locked, though long ago Konrad and Elizabeth and I had found the key, hidden within a chink in the wall.
It was late afternoon when I took the key and opened the door. The dank smell of the dungeons wafted up to me. Hundreds of years before, the captured enemies of the Frankenstein family would have been dragged there, manacled. I stepped inside, lit my lantern, and closed the door behind me.
Ten steep steps brought me down to a narrow corridor, on either side of which were six cells. The doors hung open now. I went from cell to cell, sticking my lantern inside. So near the beauty of the lake, the mountain air—yet you would hardly know it here, with only a small barred window set high into the thick stone. My lantern light picked out some writing on the wall. A name: Guy de Montparnasse. And not far from it, another even fainter name. Casting my light about the cell, I saw five names—all prisoners from different times. I imagined them scratching the stone—with what? A tin spoon? A broken fingernail? A rotted tooth? Leaving some sign of themselves, like a cry to the outside world. A plea for remembrance. For a moment I felt breathless, but I forced myself to the next cell, and the next, until I found the one I sought.
My memory was correct. At the very end of the corridor was a larger cell. Perhaps for the most important prisoners. It had a crude wooden table and several chairs, and some shelves on the walls.
This would do.
On the table I set down my lantern, the wallet Polidori had given me, and a small bundle of measuring apparatus I had smuggled out of the kitchen. I needed a place where I could work in total secrecy, in case there was a spill, or a telltale odor that would alert my parents to my work.
Carefully I took out the vials of ingredients and set them in a row, then the mortar and pestle, and the set of minuscule measuring spoons. As promised, Polidori had written instructions for me.
My laboratory. I felt a curious eagerness and excitement. Never had I excelled at schoolwork. I was impatient, I was sloppy. But I had been charged with creating something and was determined to do it well.
Polidori had not lied. It was a simple concoction, and his instructions were clear. Yet I was extremely nervous. The success of our enterprise might rest on this. I measured everything twice and even thrice before adding it to the flask. And with every completed step, I felt a growing sense of satisfaction, and pride.
As I poured in the final ingredient, I started at the sound of footsteps.
“It’s only me,” whispered Elizabeth, and I saw the spill of her lantern light outside in the corridor before she appeared in the doorway.
“Do you remember, when I was ten, you and Konrad dared me to stay here half an hour without light?”
“And you did it,” I said, laughing.
“Of course,” she said, entering the cell and looking at the table. “Is it done?”
“It is,” I said, stoppering the flask and shaking it vigorously.
“You are very clever, Victor,” she said.
“Anyone might have done it,” I said, pleased by her praise.
“What is it, exactly? This vision of the wolf?”
“It is not as devilish as it sounds. Polidori explains it in his note. You remember when Father told us about the workings of the eye?”
“It is like a lens,” said Elizabeth. “When it needs light, the pupil opens wider to admit it.”
“Yes,” I said. “But the human eye isn’t accustomed to working well in the dark, not like many animals’ are. So this compound lets your eyes dilate more than usual to make use of whatever starlight is available.”
“It makes perfect sense,” she said. “Have you tested it?’
I shook my head. “There’s not enough. And we must use it sparingly, and only when necessary, for it lasts only an hour or so. And then we must not use it again for at least a month.”
“Why’s that?”
“Polidori says it can damage the tissues of the eye.”
“It does not sound entirely safe,” she remarked.
“He says it is, as long as we heed his instructions. How are the other preparations?”
“We are ready,” she said, and gave me her report. She and Henry had found a good measure of lightweight rope and had knotted it at regular intervals so we might climb it. They had assembled lanterns and matches, water flasks and cloaks, for it promised to be cold tonight—and had hidden it all at the entrance to the Sturmwald.
“There is one thing you have forgotten,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“If I am to navigate the woods in total darkness and climb a tree, I need proper clothes. Clothes they do not make for women. I will need some trousers.”
“Trousers?” I said, amazed.
“You sound surprised.”
“I just assumed it would be Henry and me climbing the tree.”
“Oh.” She nodded humbly. “Yes, I suppose that makes the most sense. I can just wait at the bottom and do needlepoint by the light of the lantern—”
“Elizabeth—,” I said, hearing the fire kindling in her voice.
“—or just daydream about the latest Paris fashions.”
“Polidori said the tree is extremely high.”
“Rather like the one I rescued you from a few years ago?”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” I lied, fighting hard not to smile.
“Yes, you do! The great elm in the east pasture? I can see by your face you remember!”
I remembered it exactly. Like me, Elizabeth was a keen climber of trees, and we had both gone very high. But when I’d looked down, I’d been paralyzed with fear. Elizabeth had reassured me, and bullied me safely down to the ground.
“Oh, that!” I said with a dismissive shrug. “I was only eleven.”
“So was I. You needed me then, and you need me now. You won’t get Henry up the tree anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Henry? Come, Victor, he’s no adventurer.”
“He’s very practical,” I said.
Elizabeth sniffed. “A pair of your trousers should do nicely. Some breeches and a tunic of some sort.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” I said. “I’ll bring some to your room.”
“Thank you.” She looked about the cell. “I am amazed you could concentrate in this place.”
“I was absorbed in my work.”
“Dr. Murnau seems very learned,” she said. “I wonder sometimes—”
“If we are being f
oolish in our quest?” I said.
She nodded. “His knowledge seems so modern, and ours is ancient and—”
“Do you worry it is sinful?” I asked.
She took a breath. “No,” she said firmly. “God is the creator, and anything on this earth is here by His permission. I cannot think He minds if we use His creations—only how. For good or ill. What we seek is for good, so I will not worry about it.”
I wondered if she believed herself or merely wanted to.
“I felt the power of that book,” I said. “I cannot deny it.”
“Let us leave this place,” she said, “and get a little rest before tonight.”
Fitful starlight was our only guide as we left the château on foot. It was nearly midnight. Clouds streamed across the sky, driven by an icy northerly wind. We skirted the village of Bellerive and climbed up through alpine meadows toward the Sturmwald, a swath of deep blackness against the horizon. Resting for a moment, we looked back and saw the lake and the city glimmering below us. Far away a church bell tolled one in the morning. We hurried, and before long we reached the forest’s edge and found the place where Elizabeth and Henry had hidden our gear.
“There will be a storm,” Henry said with a shiver. Overhead, branches swayed with the wind.
I lit a lantern. It was most strange to see Elizabeth in my clothes. I was used to her in flowing dresses. My breeches, cinched tightly around her waist, made me aware of her hips for the first time. And I was aware too of the tightness of the tunic across her chest. Far from making her seem more boyish, my clothes made her young womanhood all the more obvious. She had knotted her long amber hair into a single braid.
“I do not enjoy the breeches,” she said to me. “They are tight on my thighs. But it is quite wonderful to feel so light, after so many layers.” She giggled as she gave a graceful pirouette. “No wonder you men manage the affairs of the world. It is far less tiring in lighter clothes!” She poked me in the chest. “I know your secret now.”
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