The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein

by Kiersten White

  Hours passed and I found not so much as a footprint. I was about to turn back, when far ahead, on the glacier, I saw a figure moving faster than should have been possible across that deadly terrain. I ducked behind a massive boulder lodged in the ice. My heart raced. I was torn between screaming and laughing. I struggled to contain my delirious emotions.

  It was the monster.

  There was no other explanation. And though my soul curdled at the thought of such a creature existing, it also meant I had not been hallucinating, and that Justine was beyond a doubt innocent. Because there was no question in me that that thing, that unholy creation, was what had killed William.

  I clutched my knife—and then all my exultant triumph at being right crashed around me like ice falling from the eaves of a house. If the monster could move like that here—and was as tall and powerful as I had seen it to be—what did I hope to accomplish with my kitchen knife?

  My zeal to protect Victor had not been accompanied by a similar portion of sense. I should have told his father. Should have raised the alarm in the city, gathered a militia with swords and torches. Even a pitchfork would have been a better weapon than my sad little knife.

  I peered around and watched as the monster drew closer and then stopped. In spite of the speed of its movement, there was something awkward and ungainly about it. Its feet did not bend as they should. It ran on the pads of its feet, like an animal. The knee joints were too high, the femurs too short. The arms, too, did not move naturally with the body, remaining still at its sides as the legs did all the work.

  I shuddered to think what the monster would look like up close in the daylight—what seeing it in full truth would reveal. How could Victor have created such a thing? How deep must he have been in his own tortured mind to ever conceive of it?

  As though summoned by my thoughts of him, Victor approached the monster. It waited in place for him, letting Victor struggle across the ice. I wanted to jump out. To shout for Victor to shoot from that distance. But he was wiser than I. Pistols were good only at short range, accuracy and power traded for convenience and stealth.

  I trembled, waiting for the monster to attack. Wondering how I would help when it did.

  Instead, it remained motionless as Victor walked up to it. Victor shouted, his words muted into unintelligibility by the wind. I could see him screaming, raging at the monster. Why did he not just shoot it?

  But…what good would a bullet do against the sheer bulk of the thing? Even wounded, it would be more than a match for Victor. He was no smarter than I, with my knife. Apparently Victor had reached the same hopeless verdict. His shouting subsided, and he shifted, turning away from the monster. Doubtless he could not bear to look at it.

  After several minutes of this—Victor appeared to twitch occasionally, to nod or shake his head as though they were in conversation—Victor’s shoulders slumped. He rubbed his face, running his hands through his dark curls. Then he pointed away from himself, back up the mountain, and hung his head.

  The monster…left.

  It turned and loped away, straight up the icy plain, covering in mere minutes a distance that would have taken me an hour.

  His shoulders still lowered, Victor began the long, slow walk back toward the house. What had I just witnessed? What had transpired between man and monster?

  Whatever it was, I was certain Victor had not won.

  * * *

  —

  I did not try to beat Victor down the mountain. Trusting that he would not check my room that night, I gave him a large head start and then followed. My entire frame trembled with cold and exhaustion. But my brain burned with questions. In the morning, I would confront Victor.

  I would have the truth.

  All our lives, I had never pushed him to give me a full story. I had let him maintain his dignity, let him dwell in the gift of my grace. But I could not do that this time. Not after what I had seen. In order to protect him, I had to know the truth of all things.

  Whatever power this monster had over him, I would discover it so I could break it and free Victor.

  And then I would kill the creature.

  * * *

  —

  I collapsed into my bed just before dawn, as physically tired as I had ever been in my life. When I awoke that afternoon, I dressed in all white. It was my uniform. My costume, as Victor’s Elizabeth. I wanted to remind him who I was—that I was his, that I had always been his, and that he could trust me with whatever terrible secrets he sought to protect me from.

  When I went down to the dining room, I found only Judge Frankenstein.

  “Where is Victor?” I asked.

  He looked up from his papers. I recognized some of the sheets from Monsieur Clerval. Judge Frankenstein slid them beneath a leather book. “He asked me to give this to you.” He passed me a sealed letter in Victor’s cramped and efficient handwriting.

  I opened the letter and then sat in the chair, wounded and shocked.

  Victor was gone.

  I STEPPED OFF THE boat, the passage along the coast of England up to Scotland as rough and wild as the night around us. The wind tore at my long black veil as though demanding I reveal myself and my intentions.

  I tucked it more firmly in place.

  “Madame? Your trunk is here. Shall I call a carriage?” asked a tiny, stooped porter.

  “Yes, thank you.” I waited, hands clasped primly in front of my black dress. A carriage rumbled close. My trunk was loaded, and I settled into the back.

  “Where to, Madame?” the porter asked as he closed the door.

  “Inverness,” I replied.

  “So far? Would you not rather spend the night and leave in the morning?”

  “I do not like being questioned.” My voice was as cold as the late Scottish spring.

  The porter nodded, chastised, and passed along my instructions. I was on my way. And it had all been so much easier than I thought.

  My Dearest Elizabeth,

  I am sorry to leave you so soon after being reunited. I would not do it under any other circumstance, but there is a complication from my past that compels me to resolve it.

  I go to England, where I will work. I also hope to find Henry. As Henry is still retrievable, I shall do all in my power to retrieve him for you. I hate him; I always shall. But perhaps I was wrong to banish him from our lives.

  When my business is finally resolved, I will return to you, I hope triumphant in all things. And then our life together can truly begin as it was always meant to.

  With all the affection of my soul,

  Victor Frankenstein

  “Foolish boy,” I muttered, resting my head against the hard wooden back of the carriage. I took out my notebook and replaced his letter. Next to it, I had the rest of the letters that had arrived before I left. And I had made notes of all I knew and suspected.

  Victor had, in some combination of genius and madness, created a monster from body parts of dead things.

  That monster had followed me to our home for revenge.

  It killed William.

  It implicated Justine.

  It somehow threatened Victor such that he immediately fled.

  I could only assume that I had been the subject of the threat. The monster had had ample opportunity to kill me or to create mischief that would lead to my destruction. And yet, though I had even come face to face with it in the forest, it had never touched me. This meant it was capable of higher levels of thought. Of planning. Of subtle machinations for revenge.

  And it clearly still wanted something from Victor. What better way to convince Victor to do its bidding than to demonstrate its ability to destroy anyone at any time, and then threaten to do it to me should Victor not answer its horrible demands?

  Noble Victor!

  Stupid Victor.

 
Running here to lead the monster away from me. Where he would once again be alone and un–looked after, subject not only to the monsters in his mind but also to the monster hunting him! He thought he was protecting me, but he was the one in need of protection.

  The carriage passed the grimy buildings clinging to life at the docks. People moved through the dark. Some furtively, advertising their fear. Some aggressively, stalking the night as predators. And some aimlessly, anonymous and vulnerable in the dark. A monster could walk among them and they would never know. Just as I could button myself into the clothes of a widow and suddenly be free to move invisibly through society.

  It took more than that, of course. I had sold every gift the Frankensteins had ever given me, and several things that probably were not mine to sell, as well. By the time Judge Frankenstein realized I was planning something, I was already gone.

  What wrath I would return to, I knew not, nor did I care. He was not my concern. Victor was the only person left whom I loved. I would not let the monster take him.

  In my trunk I had my funds, my own set of pistols, and my widow’s clothing. I knew the monster feared fire—it had fled the burning building. I would find Victor, and then we would devise a trap to burn the hellish thing from this earth.

  I reread the next letter, though I knew them all by heart now.

  My Dearest Elizabeth,

  London is a dreary town, and I loathe its smoke-choked buildings and refuse-choked streets. Henry was here but has since moved north to Glasgow. Probably to wander the highlands, spouting poetry and crying. I would express how pointless I think it all, but doubtless you, knowing my heart, can anticipate and imitate what I would write. I will save the ink.

  My own business still weighs heavily on me. I find London too crowded, too teeming with wretched life to focus. I will follow Henry to Scotland and there, I hope, discharge both my responsibilities to myself and to him to satisfactory conclusions.

  With all the affection of my soul,

  Victor Frankenstein

  We stopped only to refresh the horses. My surly driver—in English I could barely understand despite my extensive study of the language—insisted he did not usually conduct women places in the middle of the night. I promised him more than generous compensation, which notably improved his mood.

  We made good time. The countryside here, lit by the light of the moon, was all gentle hills. I missed the security of mountains, the solid and jagged definition of the horizon. Here, the hills rolled on until darkness- or distance-obscured. I felt exposed and unprotected. Perhaps that explained the military aggression of this tiny island country: they could never feel the edges of their land, so they pushed forever outward.

  I had lost so much time preparing to chase Victor. The bulk of my journey here—down rivers and across the continent until I found a boat to take me up the coast to Scotland—had taken a fortnight. A fortnight agonizing and waiting, poring over my journal entries, reviewing what I knew and what I suspected. Never writing what I feared most, lest committing it to paper would make it come true.

  The final letter I had received—and I prayed none had come since I left—guided my course.

  My Dearest Elizabeth,

  I write with bad news. I have found Henry in Inverness. I scarcely recognized him.

  We will not be reconciled in this life. I have turned my back on him forever. I am sorry. I could have, perhaps, made more of an effort for your sake. I have taken a cottage nearby so that I can finish my own work.

  It is cold and dark, the wind eternal and wretched, but for you, I would endure anything. I feel as if you are with me, by my side. My time here is agony. I am haunted by past failures. They whisper to me at night and plague my dreams. I will not fail again. I will protect you always.

  With all the affection of my soul,

  Victor Frankenstein

  * * *

  —

  I arrived in Inverness sometime before dawn, too early to venture out. A cozy private room was secured by waking an angry innkeeper, and I sat by the fire, relieved to be behind stone walls but still feeling the motion of carriages and boats.

  The flames illuminated Victor’s words as I again studied the three letters that had found me before I left. I had already delayed so long! I prayed I was in the right place. And I prayed my courage would not falter. I would find Victor the next day, and feared and hoped—in equal measure—that doing so meant I would find the monster, as well.

  I BRIEFLY CONSIDERED LOOKING for Henry, too, but he was under no threat from the monster. That was one benefit to his estrangement from us: the monster had no reason to find him, no purpose in targeting him. I hoped dearly that someday Henry would reconcile with us. But for now he was safe, and that was enough for me. And he was also blissfully unaware of Justine’s death. I envied him that.

  Did I, though? Would I prefer to know she was gone from the earth, or to go on under the false belief that she was well?

  I thought I would rather believe her well than know the truth. But I had no such luxury.

  Thus it was that my first stop was the local post office. It was a charming stone building in the shadows of Inverness Castle. If I had been on holiday, I would have been delighted by my surroundings and taken the morning to stroll and discover. The buildings here were nearly all dark stone and thatched roof. In place of Geneva’s carefully cultivated gardens, their yards were wild and creeping riots of plants.

  But I was not on holiday and did not so much as let my eyes linger on the castle. The postmaster was already awake and sorting through his parcels when I walked in.

  “Can I help you—” He paused, peering to try to pierce my veil to ascertain my age. Unable to do so, he added, “Madame?”

  “I have had a letter from my cousin, Victor Frankenstein, that gives Inverness as his most recent address. I am afraid I have terrible news, the type which is best delivered in person. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

  He scratched his head beneath his cap. “Well, that is a funny thing. I was just now gathering all Mr. Frankenstein’s letters to have them sent along.”

  My heart and spirits leapt. He was here, then!

  “Give me the address, and I will deliver them myself,” I said, trying to sound both friendly and forceful at once. I even held out my hand in expectation.

  “That will be a bit of a challenge.” He gave me a gap-toothed grin. “Mr. Frankenstein has moved along to the Orkney Islands, which are a day away by horse—if you have a good horse—and almost as long by boat.”

  I swayed, my travel-weariness crashing back down after the cruel and taunting surge of hope.

  The kind postmaster must have sensed my upset. “But as I was saying, I was about to send them along. By boat. My brother has business near the Orkneys and was going to deliver them in the course of his day. I am certain he could be persuaded to take a passenger along with the parcels.”

  “Oh, thank you!” I clasped my hands in front of me and bowed my head. “I have come so far with such terrible weight, and I fret with every minute lost.”

  He patted my shoulder with what I assumed was paternal kindness. I had never received such a thing, and it filled me with the oddest sense of sadness over what I had missed. “There, there. We will get you to your cousin before nightfall. I can ask George to travel straight there and drop the rest of the parcels off on the way back instead.”

  Full of emotions that defied categorization, I threw my arms around his neck. “Thank you, sir. You may have saved a life.”

  I released him to find him blushing as he fixed his cap. “Well. I will go get George and send you off.”

  * * *

  —

  I packed a light bag, leaving the rest of my things at the inn in Inverness with a fee to ensure they were stored safely. George, a wiry man whose face was lined wi
th decades of sun and kindness, was silently companionable, leaving me with my thoughts. They were mournful, anxious, distracting company, but the gentle motion of the boat as he guided it along the line of the shore, the cool wind, and the occasional salt spray of the ocean did much to soothe me.

  The Orkneys, he told me, were a lonely group of islands jutting off the northeastern coast of Scotland. Victor’s new dwelling was on the barest of them all, with only two or three cottages there.

  “Orkneys are for folks who do not fancy seeing anyone,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, “Or being seen themselves.”

  I eyed Victor’s letters hungrily. Who else was writing to him? Had his father written to warn him of my approach? I had not told Judge Frankenstein where I was going, but surely he could guess.

  George caught me gazing at the bundle of letters as we shared a simple lunch of cheese and bread. He turned to the prow. “I will be looking this way for quite a while, Madame. I would have no idea if you were to, say, open your cousin’s letters to search for news of home. My brother would not approve, so I cannot say I do, either. But I also cannot say anything about what I do not notice.”

  “Thank you,” I said, tears in my eyes from the sun and the wind and the kindness found in such unexpected places.

  There were several letters. Two of which, I was surprised to see, were from Henry Clerval’s father.

  Victor,

  You have not answered my letters. I blame my son’s abandonment of his family and his duties on you. Your father tells me you have gone on to England to convince Henry to return. As it is your fault he was driven away from his responsibilities, the burden of restoring him to us is yours. Do not think any past friendship will compel me to discharge the debts of your father. I will wring blood from the stone of Frankenstein Manor if I must.

  Find Henry and send him home, and perhaps I will find some forgiveness.