Henry had asked if I was happy.
I was safe, and that was better than happy.
* * *
—
“So, what is your relation to our Victor?” Mary asked Justine. I chafed at her use of the possessive.
Justine startled, drawn out of the silence into which she had retreated. I walked as close to her as I could, but I still felt a distance between us I would need to work to heal.
She smiled reflexively. “I am employed by the Frankensteins. I started just before Victor left, so I do not know him well. But I take care of his brothers. Ernest, the elder, is eleven. He is such a good boy! So clever, and though he could do without a governess now, he still minds me. He is thinking of entering the military. It makes me scared just thinking of it, but he will be a fine and steadfast soldier someday. William, the baby, is such a dear! He has dimples sweeter than candy, and the softest curls. I worry about how he is sleeping without me. I sing him to sleep every night.”
“William is hardly a baby,” I said. “He is nearly five. You spoil him.”
“It is not possible to spoil a child so wonderful!” Justine gave me the harshest look her gentle countenance was capable of. “And you will appreciate my generosity of love when you have your own babies for me to be nursemaid and governess to.”
Her declaration startled me so much I laughed out loud, a welcome relief to the pressure that was beginning to build unbearably inside my chest. “If I ever have babies, you will already be a mother, and we will raise them as beloved cousins.”
Justine made a funny noise in the back of her throat. I thought, with a pang of guilt, about Henry’s absence and what that might mean for Justine’s private hopes. I had been selfish. I would make it up to her. I linked my arm through hers and drew her closer. “Justine is the best governess in the entire world, and the young Frankenstein boys worship her. The nicest thing I ever did for them was find her.”
Justine blushed, ducking her head. “It is I who have benefited most.”
“Nonsense. Any life is instantly improved by the addition of you.”
Mary laughed. “I concur! You have already rescued me from a dusty, lonely afternoon. And brought me to such an excitingly aromatic destination…”
She pointed to a cluster of brick buildings skulking along the riverbanks. We could already smell them as we turned off the bridge, the scents exacerbated by the moisture. There was a tannery somewhere in the distance, shit and piss competing to be the most overwhelming assault to the senses. We hurried along the row. The tannery stench faded but was replaced by the sharp metallic reek of old blood. Perhaps a butchery.
“All the things a city needs to survive but would rather not look at—or smell,” Mary said, stepping gingerly around a mysteriously discolored puddle. Outside one of the buildings on the corner were a couple of viciously hungry-looking men. Between them stood a middle-aged woman wearing a suggestively low-cut blouse. She was less alluring than depressing, but the purpose of the establishment was immediately clear.
“Why would Victor live out here?” asked Justine, sounding afraid as she drew closer to my side. In spite of the dreadful circumstance, relief buoyed me. We would be fine. Justine had probably already forgiven me.
Mary stepped around the prone body of a man who was almost definitely sleeping off too much drink and probably not dead, though none of us moved to check. “People come out here for any number of reasons. The city is cramped, and you can find much larger spaces here. The rent is cheaper because of the smells and the distance to the city center and university.” She shrugged. “They also come out here if they want to avoid being noticed or found.”
“Victor is not hiding from us,” I snapped. “He is a genius, and with that comes a level of carelessness about the regular maintenance of life and relationships that most people do not understand.”
“He is fortunate to have you, then. Since you understand.”
“I do.” My raised eyebrow was met with an infuriating smile.
“You might like Henry,” Justine said thoughtfully. “He is nothing like Victor. He loves stories and languages and poetry.”
I squeezed Justine’s arm. “I am certain Mary would like Henry, as everyone likes Henry.” As everyone liked Henry. With his last letter, I was certain Victor no longer did. And I did not, either. He had failed us all.
“Here we are.” Mary stopped, and Justine and I turned to look.
The building, sitting on the edge of the river, was so ugly and misshapen I could not believe Victor had agreed to live here. The mere existence of such a thing—more like a brick-and-stone growth than an actual architectural piece—would upset him. There were no windows on the ground floor, or even on the second floor, that I could see. A narrow line of them marched drunkenly parallel to the roof. On the roof itself, I thought I could see a window that had been cranked open like shutters to the sky. Which was a bad decision, as it was raining. There was also an odd sort of chute from the roof to just past the riverbank.
“Should we knock?” Justine asked dubiously.
“Shouldn’ go ’n there.” We all three jumped, shocked, at the slurred and sloppy voice behind us. The man from the gutter—definitely not dead, then, though he smelled as if he had spent many long hours dancing with death—was leaning precariously behind us. I had not known the human body could be at that angle unsupported and remain upright.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Bad place.”
I did not have the patience for a drunkard. Not when Victor was quite possibly beyond a single door. “As far as I can tell, this whole quarter is a bad place. I do not see why this building should be any different.”
“Tell you a secret.” The man shuffled closer. His breath was as putrid as an unwashed chamber pot. I could not back away, boxed in by Justine on one side and the door on the other. I stepped closer to the man, shielding Justine with my body. He beckoned me even closer.
One of his eyes was filmy white. His beard was patched and unkempt, the skin beneath splotched red and purple. He ran his tongue along his few remaining teeth, eyes darting back and forth as though he was fearful of being overheard.
“Well?” I said.
He moved even closer. “Monsters!”
I jumped in alarm and shock, and he cackled with laughter at his trick. He took a step back, and I saw immediately what would happen—a raised pile of discarded bricks was behind him, and then a steep drop into the river.
I did not warn him.
He stumbled into the bricks and lost his balance, his arms spinning like a windmill. The splash with which he entered the river was deeply satisfying.
“How awful!” Justine covered her mouth in horror. “What if he cannot swim?”
“He fell quite close to the side.” I turned my back on his desperate splashing. “I am certain there will be something to grab on to. Besides, listen to his cursing. That is far too energetic for a man struggling for air. He is fine. And a good soak might improve his smell.”
Angry, exhausted, and ready to be finished, I reached for the iron doorknob. I withdrew my hand with a cry of pain and surprise. A shock had stung my fingers through the holes in my lace glove. Shaking my hand to dislodge the lingering pins and needles, I stepped aside and let Mary try her luck with her far more practical leather gloves.
The doorknob turned.
The door opened.
“Oh, no,” I whispered.
I THREW MY ARM out, blocking Justine and Mary from entering Victor’s building. “It could be dangerous. Stay here.”
The scent of old blood was strong here, too. There was something else, though. Something rotten. I gagged, putting my hand over my nose and mouth.
The entry—if it could be called such—was filled with scattered and torn pages of books. Mary’s eyes lingered there. Mine were fixed on the door
ahead of us. A ladder traversed the wall to a trapdoor that led to the upper story. A door to our side listed open to reveal a dirty washroom. The only illumination was the rain-dampened daylight lingering at the door with us, as unwilling to enter as we were.
“If it might be dangerous, we should stick together.” Mary leaned down to look at the pages on the floor.
I crouched low and picked up the exterior of the book that had been so violently destroyed. I knew this book. It was the alchemical philosophy Victor had lost himself in during our holiday at the baths. And I knew Victor. I was not worried for Mary and Justine’s safety.
I was worried for his.
“What is that?” I pointed outside. “Has the man climbed out of the river already? He needs help!” Justine and Mary rushed out the door.
I slammed and locked it.
* * *
—
“Stay here,” I told Henry. He was not suited to whatever would need to be done. Because I knew that scream—it had been little Ernest. Whom we had left downstairs alone with Victor while the nursemaid was asleep and the adults traveled to town. We were trapped by rain and boredom in this holiday cottage. I had gone upstairs with Henry out of perverse curiosity. Out of a desire for something exciting to happen.
Selfish, stupid.
Henry’s hands tightened in their embrace. “But—”
I shoved Henry away, ran out the door, and locked it from the outside. I practically threw myself down the stairs, burst into the sitting room, and took in the scene in one wide-eyed glance.
Ernest, howling in animal shock, holding his arm. It had been cut almost to the bone and was dripping blood onto the floor. A puddle had already formed.
Victor, sitting on his chair, staring white-faced and wide-eyed at his brother.
The knife, on the floor between them.
Victor looked up at me, his jaw clenched and his fists trembling.
I knew only two things for certain:
One, I had to help Ernest so he did not bleed to death.
And two, I had to find some way that this would not be blamed on Victor.
Because if it was blamed on Victor, maybe he would be sent away. Certainly I would be. What use would the Frankensteins have for me if I could not control Victor?
I would protect all three of us.
I grabbed my shawl and wrapped it around Ernest’s arm as tightly as I could. The knife was a problem. I picked it up and forced the nearest window open, pushing the knife out into the rain and mud, where all traces of its crime would be quickly erased.
I needed a culprit. No one would believe Victor was innocent no matter what he said. They were all prejudiced against him. If only I had been down here, where I should have been! I could have been a witness. Henry, too.
Ernest had stopped howling, but his breath was quick and fast like an injured animal’s. His nursemaid had not even woken from her laudanum-aided sleep.
His nursemaid.
I darted from the study and into the back of the house, behind the kitchen, where her quarters were. The room was dim and too warm, and she snored lightly from her bed.
I picked up her bag of sewing supplies and retreated.
Back in the study, neither of the Frankenstein boys had moved. I pulled out the nursemaid’s sharp scissors. I dipped the blades into the pool of blood on the floor, then dropped them nearby. Victor watched in silence.
My shawl was growing heavy and dark with blood around Ernest’s arm. “The wound needs to be closed,” Victor said, finally breaking out of his stupor.
“Cleaned first. Get the kettle.” I reached into the nursemaid’s sewing bag and found a tiny needle and the thinnest thread I could.
Ernest looked up at me. I was so angry with him for being stupid enough to threaten everything. “I will fix this,” I said, pushing his hair back from his sweat-soaked forehead. “No more crying.”
He nodded, silent.
“You should not have cut yourself.” I stroked his cheek and pulled him close. “That was naughty to play with the scissors and cut yourself.”
He whimpered, nuzzling his head against my shoulder.
Victor returned with the kettle. I held out Ernest’s arm, careful not to pour the water where it would wash the scissors clean. He cried out again, but he was exhausted from fear and shock and quickly quieted. The only sound was Henry’s pounding on the locked door above us.
“Hold the skin together.” I frowned in concentration, mirroring Victor’s standard expression. It was just sewing, after all, and I had done plenty of that at Madame Frankenstein’s side. Victor aided, watching closely. I sewed the wound shut as neatly as I could manage. My work was as good as any surgeon’s. I never had much artistic flair for needlework, but apparently I was good with skin.
Closed, the cut only seeped blood, making me hope that Ernest would suffer no long-term ill effects. I rushed back upstairs to the hall linen closet, ignoring Henry’s shouts, and pulled out a clean towel. I ripped it into strips—wishing I could use those stupid scissors—brought them downstairs, and bound Ernest’s arm tightly.
Then I curled up in the armchair with him snuggled into my lap.
Victor stood in the center of the room, watching us. “I should learn to sew,” he said. “When we get home, you can teach me.”
“Get Henry out of his room and tell him that Ernest got into the nursemaid’s sewing bag and cut himself. Tell him I was so busy helping that I forgot to let him out.”
“Why did you lock him in, in the first place?” Victor asked, puzzled.
“Because I did not know what was happening.” I gave him a look heavy with meaning. “And I needed to protect you.”
Victor looked impassively at the floor, where the blood was congealing around the scissors. “I can tell you what happened. I—”
“We know what happened. It was the nursemaid’s fault for leaving out her sewing supplies. She is stupid and lazy and still sleeping. She will be punished and relieved of her duties. Ernest will be fine.” I paused to be sure Victor understood that this was our story, no matter what. “And we are fortunate that she is stupid and lazy and convenient, and nothing like this will happen again. Will it?”
Victor looked more thoughtful than sheepish. He nodded curtly, then turned to go get Henry. By the time the Frankensteins and Henry’s parents returned, Ernest was sleeping warm and silent in my arms. Victor was reading the same volume that had obsessed him the entire trip, and Henry was fretting and pacing.
“Little Ernest got into the nursemaid’s sewing supplies and cut his arm horribly!” Henry was filled with melodrama as he threw himself at his mother for a comforting embrace. “Elizabeth and Victor stopped the bleeding by sewing his wound shut!”
Madame Frankenstein rushed into the room, ripping the boy from my arms and waking him. He immediately began crying and fussing again—she was always disturbing him like that, with no sense of how to handle him—and she called for the coachman to take them to a doctor.
Judge Frankenstein quietly surveyed the room: The blackened puddle of blood. The scissors so artfully placed. The nursemaid still absent. And Victor reading.
There was a narrowing of the eyes, a cloud of suspicion in his terrible judge’s face. I kept my head lifted, my face clear of any guilt. But he did not look at me. He looked only at Victor. “Is this true?”
Victor did not glance up from his book. “Elizabeth did a marvelous job with the stitches. If she were not a girl, she would have a bright future as a surgeon, I think.”
His father ripped the book out of Victor’s hands with an explosively violent gesture. “This is garbage,” he said, sneering at the book and tossing it on the floor. “Surely you can do better things with your mind. And surely you can afford to give this current crisis more of your attention.”
Victor looked up at his
father looming over him, something going vacant behind his eyes. I rushed to his side. “Come, Victor,” I said. “I have blood on my hands. Help me wash them while your father sorts out the situation with the nursemaid.”
“Thank you for your quick thinking and action,” Judge Frankenstein said. “You saved my son.”
I could not tell which son he spoke of, and I suspected I was not intended to. Victor stood, picking his book up off the floor, and followed me upstairs. I made him read aloud to me to calm himself as I washed the afternoon from my skin.
That night, when I snuck into his room, unable to sleep, I found him still reading. “I like this book very much,” he said. “The ideas are fascinating. Did you know you can turn lead into gold? And that there are elixirs that can extend and even restore life?”
I hmmed as I crawled into bed next to him.
“Elizabeth,” he said. “You never asked me what actually happened this afternoon.”
“It is fixed now. It does not matter and I do not care. Read me some more of your book,” I said, closing my eyes and falling asleep.
* * *
—
Justine and Mary pounded on the door just as Henry had those years ago on holiday.
I would demand that Victor take me on holiday after this.
Bracing myself, I shuffled through the dark entry of Victor’s residence and pushed the inner door open. The smell here was not so bad. Stale and sour, but not noxious. Windows along the back of the building were filmed over so that I could barely see. Above me, water dripped incessantly against the ceiling—probably on the upper-story floor from the two windows on the roof left open.
Once my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I made out a long room. A table with two chairs was pushed against a wall, stacked with papers and dirty dishes. A sink had been artlessly installed; a bucket beneath caught excess water. There was a stove next to me, but it was unlit, the room frigid with undertones of creeping river-damp.
In the opposite corner, a cot was piled high with a jumble of blankets, and—
The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein Page 7