Cadaver & Queen

by Alisa Kwitney

  “Not a distant war of choice in the Republic of South Africa, fought over mineral rights,” said Justine. “Something closer to home.”

  “A war with the kaiser.” The German emperor was as famous for his boasting and his threats as he was for his handlebar mustache and the military uniforms he wore to disguise his withered left arm. His mother was Queen Victoria’s daughter, and her longing for all things English had been twisted in her son into a frustrated sense of inferiority.

  Moulsdale and Grimbald wanted the kind of war that England hadn’t fought in nearly a hundred years. They wanted a war the British people could rally around, with the kaiser cast as another Napoleon. And with a Bio-Mechanical queen under their control, there was no one to stop them.

  Christ! No wonder the other personality, Jack, had taken over. Victor had woken up in the laboratory to his worst nightmare: the body of the dead queen, laid out beside him, reminding him of the secret that had gotten him killed in the first place...and Makepiece, watching him, waiting for him to give himself away.

  In all the chaos of Elizabeth’s injury, he hadn’t thought about it, but now he could think of nothing else. The queen was dead, replaced by a Bio-Mechanical controlled by Ingold’s administration.

  Victor stood up, suddenly light-headed. This was the secret they had killed him to protect. Yet there was still a missing piece...and just like that, the memory came back.

  He had gone to speak with Grimbald and discovered a loose woman in his mentor’s private study, young but clown-like with her rouged cheeks, kohled eyes and scarlet lips. Her hair had been a lovely light brown, falling loose over her dirty velvet dress, but she’d smelled of urine and other bodily fluids, combined with the medicinal odor of cheap gin. “‘Lavender’s blue, dilly, dilly,’” she’d warbled at him, “‘lavender’s green, when I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen.’”

  He’d left her there, singing herself to an inebriated sleep with nursery songs, even though he knew that Grimbald was too fastidious and disciplined to bring that sort of soiled dove to his private rooms for carnal purposes. Still, he hadn’t really understood until Grimbald summoned him to the operating theater in the dead of night. “What we are about to do,” Grimbald had told him, “must remain confined to this room.” Then he had drawn back the sheet and revealed the face of the corpse they were going to turn into a Bio-Mechanical.

  It was the queen. Instead of passing the crown to her son, Prince Edward, the deans of Ingold intended to reanimate the queen’s corpse.

  And then they had brought in a second gurney. “This one is remarkably fresh,” said Grimbald, pulling back the sheet, “so we can expect to have excellent results.”

  It was the poor young prostitute who had sung “Lavender’s Blue” to him just the other night, her mind addled by gin or opium or syphillis—or a combination of all three.

  He had assisted Grimbald in a daze, and then, afterward, he had done the only thing he could think of—he had gone to his oldest friend, Henry. Funny how he had never even imagined for a moment that Henry might betray him. Even now, a year and a lifetime later, that seemed the most unbelievable part of all.

  Mind racing, Victor thought of the fact that the Queen of England and all its colonies was actually a Bio-Mechanical, and under Moulsdale’s control. Then Victor thought of Elizabeth, lying in the next room. They may decide she knows too much, simply because she spent time with me. And then there was Will, his little brother.

  “Miss Makepiece, I beg of you, do not tell your father what we discussed.” He got to his feet, fear chasing away his fatigue. As soon he could rouse Elizabeth, they would make their way to London. He had no idea how they would gain access to the Prince of Wales once they were there, but there would be time to figure that out later.

  “You still don’t understand, do you?” She sounded almost impatient.

  His hand was on the doorknob when comprehension dawned. He turned the knob, just to confirm what he already knew.

  The door was locked.

  He was as much a prisoner as Justine.

  36

  Igor lumbered into the room, laboriously pushing a wheeled cart loaded with metal domed plates. One of the cart’s wheels was turned the wrong way, and squeaked across the floor like a tortured mouse. Aldini pattered along, either lured by the sound or by the aroma of cooked eggs and bacon escaping from the covered plates.

  “Good morning, Igor.” Lizzie sat up as best she could. Igor didn’t acknowledge the greeting, but Aldini gave a little mewl and jumped onto her bed.

  Victor, who had been sleeping on the chair beside her bed, sat up, stretching his spine. “What time is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Morning, I think.” It was hard to be sure, in the windowless room. Why didn’t Makepiece keep a clock here? It felt a bit as though time were being made to stand still here, perhaps so the girl in the spirophore wouldn’t be reminded of the passing hours that never brought any change to her restricted existence.

  Until now. My getting shot is probably the high point of her life so far, thought Lizzie. She knew it was unkind, but there was something about that frail flower of a girl she couldn’t like.

  “I must have fallen asleep. I didn’t intend to.” Victor rubbed the shadow of stubble on his chin. The gaslights had been turned low, and now Igor shuffled from fixture to fixture, turning the knobs until the last of the night’s shadows were dispelled and the room was filled with soft golden light.

  “You must have needed the rest.” Down by her ankles, the cat prowled back and forth, looking for a way under the blanket. Victor winced as he got up from the chair; he must have slept in an uncomfortable position. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not too badly, all things considered.” She nodded at the cat, who was kneading the covers with her sharp little claws and purring like a well-primed engine. “Aldini, I adore you, but I think you need to get off.” Already, she could feel the pain returning, like an orchestra warming up. Right now, the throb in her shoulder was just a bow drawn slowly across a violin’s strings and a few high sharp trills of a flute. If the cat kept walking on her, though, the pain would launch into a full blown rendition of Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture.”

  “Come on, girl. Down with you.” Victor reached out for the cat, and Aldini flattened her ears and hissed. “Ah, I forgot, you don’t trust me anymore.” He looked wistfully at the cat, but then, with one of those mercurial feline shifts in mood, the cat batted at the big hand and then threw herself onto her back.

  Lizzie smiled up at Victor. “I think she likes you.”

  An expression of happy surprise crossed his aquiline features, making him look almost boyish, but then Igor clattered a fork and Aldini jumped off the bed to cower under the bed. Victor frowned and glanced at Igor, who was uncovering the food plates, then back at the door.

  “Victor? Where are you going?”

  “Just checking on something.” He turned the doorknob, then looked nonplussed when it swung open, admitting Makepiece.

  “Thank you, my boy. Don’t forget to shut it—it lets in such a draft.”

  Victor looked at the open door, then back at Makepiece. “I thought I might just take Miss Lavenza back up to her room now.”

  “Don’t be absurd. She’s just had surgery! You can’t move her yet.” Makepiece gestured to Igor, who was placing a tray over Lizzie’s lap. “Come, sit and eat. Besides, I suspect you’re feeling a bit under the weather at the moment, no? Fatigued, light-headed, experiencing some aches and pains in your joints?” Opening a medicine cabinet, Makepiece extracted a hypodermic needle and a small glass vial. “What with all the excitement last night, we forgot to give you your infusion of ichor.” He inserted the needle into the vial of luminescent green fluid and slowly raised the plunger.

  Victor stood by the open door for a moment, his eyes never leaving the syringe. Then, very quietly, he closed
the door and walked back to the chair where he had spent the night, as grim as if he had just received a death sentence.

  Lizzie realized that she hadn’t thought about Victor as a Bio-Mechanical in ages. She wondered if Makepiece was using this little demonstration to remind them both that he was reliant on the school for his very existence. He couldn’t just leave Ingold.

  Makepiece primed the syringe, and a drop of green fluid appeared at the tip. “Your sleeve, Victor?”

  Victor rolled up his sleeve. His face was set in hard lines, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

  Once the shot was administered, Makepiece nodded at Igor, who carefully handed Lizzie a tray of food.

  “Thank you, Igor.”

  She lifted the cover on her plate and saw rashers of streaky bacon, a small mound of fried kidneys and onions, a pair of fried eggs and buttered toast. She had learned to tolerate kidneys, since anything prepared with liberal lashings of Worcestershire sauce tasted mostly of Worcestershire sauce, but her stomach was still a little uneasy after the morphine, so she nibbled on a slice of dry toast.

  Victor, apparently untroubled by a delicate stomach, tucked into the plate of food Igor gave him as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He ate with perfect manners, she noticed, holding the tines of his fork curved backward in the English fashion.

  “Well,” said Makepiece, checking the teapot. “That seems sufficiently steeped. I trust everyone is feeling a bit better after a night’s rest.” He looked up at Igor. “Go fetch Justine.” The Bio-Mechanical grunted and shuffled into the other room.

  “So,” said Victor, pushing away his plate, “how long are we going to go on with acting as though this were a social occasion?”

  “I see no reason why we can’t approach this as civilized folks. Care for a spot of tea?” Makepiece’s voice was as calm as ever.

  “I care for an explanation,” said Victor, glaring at Makepiece as the scientist handed Lizzie a cup of tea.

  Just then, Igor shambled in, carrying Justine in his wiry arms. The hunchbacked monster and the ethereal girl—they looked like a lurid illustration she’d once seen in her copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

  Igor laid Justine on the chaise longue as though she were made of spun glass, then arranged the blanket over her wasted legs, and she murmured something to him that made the malformed face break into a smile.

  “That’s enough, Igor.” Makepiece waved off his servant. “Take away the dirty dishes.” In a much softer tone, he said to his daughter, “Feeling like a bit of breakfast, my dear?”

  Justine shook her head. “Just some tea, thank you.” She turned to Lizzie for the first time. “How are you today, Miss Lavenza?”

  It was wrong to find that breathless sweetness so irritating. Mustering a smile, Lizzie said, “Much better, thanks. And thank you for the loan of your gown.”

  Makepiece poured cream and sugar into a cup and then handed it to his daughter on a china saucer. He seemed more composed now, or perhaps Lizzie had been imagining his nerves before. “Here is your tea, but you really should try to eat something.”

  Justine smiled at him as though he were the child. “In a little while, perhaps.”

  “How about you, Miss Lavenza?”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t.”

  “Victor? Ah, he seems to have fallen asleep. Well, it was a long night, I daresay.”

  Victor was slumped in the chair, and for a moment, she thought that he had simply succumbed to exhaustion. Then she realized that something was wrong. “Oh, my God,” she said, turning to Makepiece. “The injection—did you drug him? Is he...is he dead?”

  “No, no, merely asleep. A necessary precaution.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Makepiece waved this away as if it were a formality. “All in good time. By the way, you haven’t inquired as to the well-being of your other friend.”

  He doesn’t know about Aggie and Byram, then. “Is Will all right?”

  “The younger Mr. Frankenstein is currently sitting in Professor Moulsdale’s study.” Makepiece pulled out his pocket watch and checked it. “He is being asked to explain what he was doing in a part of the school that is off-limits to students, at any hour past lights out, when students are meant to be in their rooms.”

  Lizzie closed her eyes for a moment, then composed herself. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “In all likelihood, he will be expelled. So long as he keeps his mouth shut.”

  Lizzie let out a long breath. “Thank God.”

  “Indeed. It all could be much worse,” said Makepiece, “and would be, if Moulsdale had you in his hands. You see, I’m afraid my colleagues know about how close you’ve become with Victor, and they will assume you know his secrets. Which is why it is imperative that you remain here with us.”

  “But she can’t remain here indefinitely, Papa.” It was difficult to read Justine’s pale, gaunt little death’s-head of a face, but she seemed wary, as if the worst was yet to come.

  Moulsdale gave his daughter a cryptic smile. “Aye, as Hamlet said, there’s the rub. Miss Lavenza cannot stay here indefinitely, and she cannot leave without risking... Well, let us say that Moulsdale and Grimbald can be quite Machiavellian when it comes to protecting the school’s interests.”

  “If I can’t stay and I can’t leave, what do you suggest I do, Professor?” Lizzie was proud of how matter-of-fact she sounded, asking the question. There had to be a way out of this, and if she kept calm, she would find it.

  “There is a solution. A good one, I believe, though it may sound a bit radical at first.” Makepiece’s smile was so warmly paternal that she felt the knot of tension in her stomach relax. “And the best part is, it will help you as much as it helps my Justine.”

  “Papa, no.” Justine was shaking her head, as if trying to forestall some terrible announcement.

  “What is it?” Lizzie looked to Justine, but the girl just looked back at her, eyes red-rimmed and weepy. “Professor. What do I need to do?”

  “You just need to trust me, my dear girl. Igor and I can handle all the rest.” As if this were the cue, Igor wheeled in a cart carrying a full set of surgical tools, including a bottle of chloroform and a mask.

  The hard thud of her heart was like a fist knocking in her chest, and her vision narrowed until all she could see were the gleaming surgical instruments arranged on the tray. She knew that this was the work of her sympathetic nervous system, but her body was miles ahead of her brain, and she couldn’t fit the pieces together in any way that made sense. She made herself speak. “I don’t understand, Professor. What is the bone saw for?” It was ebony handled, of a size used for major amputations. “My arm is fine. There’s no sign of infection.”

  “You know,” said Makepiece, as if continuing some other, older conversation, “Justine always said she wanted me to perform the Bio-Mechanical process on her, but I refused. For years I insisted that I would perfect the formula that would allow her to regenerate her own limbs. But now my girl is a woman, and her life is passing her by.”

  She heard the shuffle and scrape of Igor’s footsteps.

  “Well done, Igor.” Makepiece took the Galvanic Reanimator’s brass helmet from his assistant’s hands and contemplated it for a moment as if it were a work of art. “All that has changed, however, thanks to you.” Makepiece pulled back his sleeves and began attaching the helmet to the leads of the etheric magnetometer. “Because of you, I know how to preserve her mind during the Bio-Mechanical procedure.”

  There had to be something she could say to pull him back. “I don’t understand. I thought you admired me. I thought... I was your student, you said. How can you just tell me that you’re going to kill me for parts?”

  “No, no, my dear Miss Lavenza...Elizabeth, if I may.” Makepiece appeared genuinely distressed as he took a glass bottle that glowed green with ichor and attached
it to a length of rubber tubing. “You don’t understand. It is because I esteem you so highly that I can do this. Look how Jack lives on in Victor. You will be like two sisters. My Justine always wanted a sister. She will be the dominant personality, of course, because I have been strengthening her mind with your ingenious device.” He indicated the etheric magnetometer, now attached to the brass helmet. “Best to give her one last treatment, I think, before we begin.”

  He’s insane. She had always thought that insane people were violent, raving and irrational, but now she could see that insanity could be a subtle illness. It could touch one part of the mind and leave the rest intact. It could cause a trusted friend to look you calmly in the eye and tell you with perfect courtesy that he was going to murder you.

  “Papa,” said Justine, her voice clogged with tears as Igor began to buckle the helmet’s leather straps around her head. “Please, don’t do this.”

  “Silly goose, this is what you always wanted.” Makepiece approached his daughter with his surgically gloved hands held up in front of him, palms forward.

  “Not like this.” Justine managed to look pretty even while crying. “Not by robbing this girl of her life!”

  “My sweet child, I wouldn’t do this if Miss Lavenza weren’t already doomed. If Moulsdale and Grimbald find her first, they’ll use her to fix the queen. Either way, she’s as good as dead.”

  He nodded at Igor, who moved over to the head of the bed. “Bring her into the laboratory.”

  “What? No!” Lizzie scrambled off the bed, jarring her injured arm and sending a sharp bolt of pain lancing through her whole right side. For a moment she just stood there uncertainly, barefoot and barelegged on the cold wood floor, as Igor shuffled toward her.