Page 20 of Her Creation

“Ooh, was it a good one?” he asked.

It was easy to force her thoughts elsewhere when she was alone, but she was incapable of not feeling the care and love that her father covered her with. She hoped he was looking away as she stiffly shook her head. “It was a horror. I believe she died in the end.”

Alphonse mentioned something about asking the baron to borrow the book and after repeating an offer to get a carriage and leave with her that very instant if she wished, he darted off to join the group of men, squeezing Victoria’s shoulders and telling her to think on the wedding and if she were interested in Wilhelm.

Somehow, she found herself in the ballroom. Opulent to the point of intimidation, elaborate gold leaf filigree and gilding covered the molding and cornices. The vaulted ceiling medallions holding crystal-cut chandeliers bore the same filigree design that glittered above their heads and painted allegories looked down on the guests of the ballroom. The detailed dresses of the crowd stuck out against the cream walls, with complicated gold acanthus leaves framing a giant mirror on the back wall of the ballroom.

A melancholy tune drifted from a pianist in the corner. Victoria wasn’t sure how she’d ended up in the room. She didn’t remember walking into it. The sad song from the piano played in sync with her soul, and for a moment she wondered if she was the only one who could hear it. She’d heard it before, but never quite felt it the way she did now. Adagio in B minor, K.540. Each tap of ivory pulsed over her sensitive skin. She pulled herself out of the numbness briefly enough to realize people were casting glances and whispering at her. Was it possible the shame that pulsed and ached over her sore body was visible to them? If she looked even half as broken as she felt, she knew they could see it. More elaborately dressed people entered the room, all wearing carefully placed artificial smiles. Victoria felt every eye touch her raw, cinnamon-burnt skin, judging her. Knowing.

One woman with a floppy red feather in her hair that fluttered about made eye contact with Victoria as she whispered to another woman. The women moved toward Victoria, to the group that had gathered to watch the pianist play. She had seen the woman before but had never spoken to her. She was easily the best-dressed person at any ball or gathering.

Alphonse’s laugh bubbled up and into the room from the hallway, a glaringly beautiful symbol of his ignorance of what had just happened.

Everything is fine, she told herself.

She’d been through worse. She felt incomparable pain every day, missing her mother, wishing she could call out to her and tell her something. Wilhelm had been gentle—a minor consolation for the situation. With his talk of their relationship and the baron’s words to her father, he apparently planned to marry her. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Women in her station were rarely afforded the ability to marry for love anyway. Why would she be different?

It meant that her and her father’s secrets were safe and that they would be secure financially and together.

Everything was fine.

She would force herself to be optimistic; she could see the good in this. Wilhelm would never dare tell a soul his wife was performing medical tests and procedures—she could still help her father, still continue their work with reanimation and resurrection. She would make sure the man she built never acted as these men did—somehow. They would have enough money that her father could quit when the time came, and his care would be easily afforded. A weighty exhale poured from Victoria’s mouth so full she felt a small click of bone where the pressure had released from her sternum.

She shifted out of her numb daze and glanced about. Her trembling fingers touched her head and smoothed her hair back into place, her legs growing sturdier by the minute.

She heard Wilhelm’s distant laugh over the crowd. Suddenly the scent of cloves from the spiced wine her father had given her or perhaps the remnants of what had spilled on her dress amplified, and her stomach seized. Her front teeth stabbed into flesh as she bit her lip hard and quickly found a servant with an empty tray and set her glass down before she retched.

Discreetly, she attempted to bury her nostrils in the warm, still slightly ethanol-laced fabric scent of her gloves when Wilhelm entered the room and locked eyes with Victoria. Her skin prickled with a cold, clammy sweat, but she forced herself to look at him as he walked directly toward her.

Her father would be taken care of. Wilhelm was not attractive to her, especially now, but he could have been worse looking, could have been more cruel. He was wealthy and would secure their social standing. And moreover, he had the attention span of a hummingbird. After they wed, he would turn his attention to other women, and she would be released from further putrid physical duties to him.

What if she were required to bear children? Of course she would be. He would need an heir.

This was her punishment. This was God punishing her for her interest in resurrection and her wanting to go against His natural law. She swayed slightly, woozy at the thought.

“She makes you feel the music in your body, doesn’t she? Wonderful.” The dark-complexioned woman with the red feather had appeared at Victoria’s side. “Sophia Morning.” She nodded to the young blond playing the piano. “She’s Sophia. I am Helena von Schiller; my husband is Karl von Schiller,” the woman said with a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this, I’m afraid. Though in my defense, you are an intimidating specimen.”

Surprised by the relaxed nature of such a seemingly important and fashionable woman, Victoria responded, “I’m Victoria Frankenstein.” It was not the first time someone had mentioned her being intimidating; black gowns seemed to lend that impression, even to the meekest creatures. After all, black ants could frighten off an entire picnic despite their size.

Wilhelm continued his slow pace across the room, stopping briefly to speak with clusters of people here and there, but even in conversation, his eye remained on his new prey.

“Yes, of course! Your father is a legend across the Holy Roman Empire. What an absolute honor it is to meet you both tonight.” Helena adjusted the feather on top of her obsidian hair with such awkward grace that Victoria found herself incapable of looking elsewhere. “This is Rosemary Weber and Johanna Baur, oh, and Ida Wolfe is in the pale blue dress.” She smiled brightly as she introduced her friends.

Rosemary was tall and slender, with an air of superiority, copper hair, and eyes that matched her beautiful blue gown. Next to her, Johanna stood in contrast, looking shy with a sage-green dress and small, nervous blue eyes that sat under a curtain of curly, barely tamed dark blond hair. Ida, standing next to her, stood tall and confident in a beautiful ivory gown that made her dark eyes and warm skin glow as she analyzed Victoria.

The women exchanged well-rehearsed pleasantries before all the others except for Helena moved to get a closer station to Sophia, their other companion, on the pianoforte.

Helena caught Victoria staring at the red feather on her head with softly pinched brows. “Are you all right?”

Victoria forced her scowl to relax, surprised that Helena had remained with her and not left with her friends. Until now, she had never been friends with anyone other than the bodies in the laboratory. The living were so much harder to please than the dead. “Forgive me, I was admiring your feather.”

The woman’s face lit up, her round green eyes bright with the compliment. “Thank you. Sophia thought I looked like a bloodied peacock.” Her glow dulled for a moment but returned quickly. “Passing Winds by Otto Heinrich inspired me.” She waved her hand in the air and shifted her eyes from Victoria back to the beautiful blond pianist as if she regretted mentioning any of it. “My husband says I indulge too much in whimsy. He is at our home in France and could not join me this autumn. I brought a couple of novels with me. Sophia and Johanna insist I have already given myself wrinkles.”

Victoria’s mouth fell open as she thought about the woman’s words. “Passing Winds by Otto Heinrich? Where he left the red feather in the snow after his wife passed?”

“You’ve read it!” Helena let out a laugh. “I knew I was drawn to you. I saw your beautifully dramatic gown and told Johanna that you and I would no doubt be fast friends.”

A smile lifted the edges of Victoria’s mouth. The knowledge brought an entirely different sort of artistic grace to Helena. “I have the second book of his, if you care to read it?” She almost didn’t recognize her own voice. Of all the social gatherings she had ever attended, such a genuinely pleasant exchange had never taken place before. Especially not over books.