Page 39 of Her Creation

Her father’s eyes searched her features. He knew her well enough to recognize that nervous flicker, to sense the truth she had not voiced. After a moment, he released a slow breath and smiled.

“Yes—Thompson is in the stables. He’ll have Mischief ready shortly. Do not worry.” He hesitated, scanning her face again before continuing. “We will work on…” He paused deliberately. “Your creation together when you return tonight. The baron has sent word that he requires my attention. I expect him to arrive any moment.”

Victoria’s stomach dropped at the mention of Wilhelm’s father. The baron had too much power over her father, and she hated it, though she was glad to see her father leaving the castle for a time while the weather was travelable.

“Oh—oh no,” she said, reaching for her cloak. “Is it something serious?”

“Hardly,” he replied with a snort of laughter. “I believe it’s an ingrown toenail.”

Relief washed over her, though unease still prickled beneath it. “Oh, good,” she said quickly. “I’m glad it’s nothing serious.” Especially because that would mean Wilhelm would take over as baron. A sharp chill rattled her spine.

Her eyes darted around the room, avoiding his gaze, afraid that if she lingered too long, he might begin to sense invisible clues on her face—connecting the baron, Wilhelm, and the illicit activities she had so carefully hidden. A flush crept up her cheeks at the thought alone. The deep gorge of bleak loneliness drowned the hurricane of vacillating emotions. No single version of her was whole. Wilhelm would call upon her and demand use of her body. The sounds of an approaching carriage constantly disturbed her, causing her to bolt to the window, already filled with a thick cloak of shame, only to find most nights, it was only her imagination. Once back under the covers of her bed, her wandering mind would tiptoe back to the cadaver from Russia, though at night, the cadaver in her mind was resurrected, and he would vow to take care of Victoria and Alphonse with love and care forever. He was her knight.

Her time with Wilhelm was the most difficult. The more she pushed back, the more he demanded from her. She found it increasingly difficult to escape from her moments with him and go to her notes and theories. Her fear of exposure and his unwanted touch caused flashes of rage that she had to suppress. She loathed herself more with every meeting, every touch, disgusted with herself for not stopping him. Shame constantly cloaked her. With Wilhelm, she felt powerless, a rabbit trapped in the snare with no way to escape, but when she was in the lab, slicing into a patient’s flesh with her scalpel at her father’s instruction and then stitching it closed while they lay still beneath her, she felt competent. The worst was that the men and women who required her steady surgical hand never knew it was she who had saved them. They saw her later at the shops in town and would make unintelligent remarks as they looked down on her for being odd and simple, never knowing that the breath they used to remark on her shortcomings had been saved by her hand. A quiet, simmering rage slowly began to corrode the inside of Victoria’s mind.

“Yes, you know how the baron is. Best to remain on his good side,” her father said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Still, I won’t complain. It keeps food on our table—and quite an impressive roof over our heads.”

“Forgive me,” Victoria said hurriedly. “I must go.”

She left before the conversation could stretch any further, finding unexpected solace in the ride to Helena’s. Mischief moved beneath her with a familiar confidence, and it struck her how long it had been since she had taken the mare out alone. Once, riding together had been a frequent pleasure—her father on his gelding, the two of them exploring forest paths and open countryside, occasionally passing through town side by side.

She could not remember the last time he had ridden at all. In fact, she could not recall the last time her father had left the castle.

As Victoria rode up to the entrance of Helena’s magnificent house, a genuine smile curved her lips despite the weight she carried with her. How long she had waited to have a true friend. And though there were vast swaths of her life she could never share, it was special, nonetheless. Rare. Precious. Helena represented something dangerously close to normalcy. It was enough that she could pretend that everything was fine for a few short hours.

She had already decided that no matter what, tonight she would tell Wilhelm that his threats were empty. No one in their right mind would ever believe that Victoria Frankenstein was saving townspeople’s lives. As much as it frustrated and enraged her, she had decided to lean into that perception. Let them underestimate her. Wilhelm was not a man who accepted ultimatums well, but judging by his last interaction with her—leaving her alone in the snow, to the mercy of wolves and winter alike—she suspected he would discard her just as easily as he had used her. Hunters, after all, sometimes lost interest once the prey was already wounded. She could only hope it would be the same for her.

At the front steps, the valet greeted her with a broad, delighted smile. John was an older gentleman, lively and warm, and Victoria had more than once idly wondered whether his attentiveness to Helena was purely professional.

“Miss Frankenstein!” he exclaimed. “We’ve missed you. You look like a shadow of night,” he added cheerfully, “all in black astride that midnight-colored mare.”

Victoria laughed despite herself, the sound surprising even her. “Yes, I’m a regular reaper. Is your mistress well? I’ve quite missed her.”

“She’s as wonderful as ever,” John replied, helping her dismount from Mischief, “and very eager to see you.”

Victoria dipped into a low curtsey, which John waved away immediately.

Inside, she had barely drawn a full breath of the warm, savory air, thick with spices and roasting meats, before Helena herself appeared, her bright green-and-brown-speckled eyes lighting up the room.

“There you are! I won’t hug you,” Helena announced quickly, grinning until her cheeks dimpled, “because I know you can’t stand physical affection—but know that if I weren’t such an empathetic friend, I’d be crushing you right now.”

Victoria smiled, small but sincere. She hadn’t realized it was so obvious, but it was true. The thought of anyone touching her made her body tense and coil. Well, not everyone…but the only one whose touch she wanted was dead, so Innominatus didn’t count.

Her cheeks heated at the thought of her creation touching her in such an intimate way as Wilhelm had. Dear God, what was wrong with her? Surely her cheeks were hot from how disgusting the thought of Innominatus, a dead man, touching her was…

Victoria swallowed, feeling like shards of glass were in her throat at the very telling way that thought did not turn her stomach, and thoughts of Wilhelm did.

“You’re the last one here,” Helena continued, looping her arm through Victoria’s and steering her down the corridor, “and the first one I wanted to see.”

“What is that smell?” Victoria asked softly, her stomach tightening painfully as hunger made itself known. She realized she had eaten almost nothing for days beyond that morning’s toast and coffee.

“That’s Sara’s cooking,” Helena said. “She’s made sauerbraten. I’m surprised you noticed—you eat like a bird. I always assumed you had no interest in the pleasures of food.”

Victoria flinched before she could stop herself, then forced a light expression. She had hoped no one noticed how anxiety had been eroding her appetite.

“Everyone’s in the parlor,” Helena went on. “Wilhelm and Sophia just stepped out. Johanna wanted to make seed ornaments for the trees, so they volunteered to gather pine cones.”

Helena’s gaze lingered on Victoria a fraction too long at the mention of Wilhelm, silently inviting confession. Victoria gave none.