Page 41 of Her Creation

Johanna needed no further urging. She murmured something unintelligible and hurried from the kitchen.

“Could you fetch me fresh linens,” Victoria asked softly, “and a sewing kit?”

Helena rose at once, her eyes accepting now, and hurried to the maid who had been crouched in a corner, weeping. She returned moments later with an expansive sewing kit clutched in her hands.

“Will this do? It’s all I have. My brother does the sewing,” she said, attempting a weak smile.

Victoria nodded and removed what she needed before lowering herself beside Sophia, whose front dress was soaked nearly black with blood.

“Don’t touch me,” Sophia hissed the moment Victoria came into her view.

“Sophia,” Helena said sharply, “let her help you.”

Victoria reached out to clear the blood from Sophia’s face, but Sophia recoiled, hissing again and jerking away. Lacking control of her balance, she fell backward.

“I said don’t touch me. Of all people, you are not the one to try anything. I don’t care who your father is.”

The words were meant to wound, and yet they brought with them an unexpected, grounding calm. Power, again—quiet and steady.

“Let her help you,” Helena repeated, repositioning herself so Sophia’s head rested against her lap, without much choice of leaving.

Victoria worked quickly now, wiping enough blood away to see the cut clearly. She applied pressure, her fingers precise, practiced. She threaded the needle, her movements careful, economical.

“You must know now,” Victoria said quietly, her voice measured, “the secret your husband has held over me: I repaired his wound months back. My reputation lies in both of your hands.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to Helena, whose expression tightened with pain, confirming Victoria’s suspicion that her friend understood all their talks now.

“We will not tell a soul,” Helena said firmly. “Is that correct, Sophia?” Helena squeezed Sophia’s shoulders, her hands already tacky with drying blood. Sophia said nothing.

“I need you to know,” Victoria continued, her voice softer now, “that every moment was torture and against my will.” She shook her head faintly, as though trying to dislodge the words even as she spoke them. “I hate myself for what I’ve done to you—even unwillingly. I believe with my whole heart that women are stifled and suppressed enough by men without our help. It is our responsibility to lift one another up, even if we cannot rise ourselves.” Self-conscious suddenly, her gaze dropped to the needle poised between her fingers. “Breathe out.”

As Sophia exhaled, Victoria stitched the small, two-inch wound with careful precision. It took only moments, but for the first time, her hands trembled faintly under the weight of unfamiliar eyes. When she finished, she cut the thread and instructed Helena to prop Sophia upright. Color had already returned to her face.

“You are a freak,” Sophia spat. “Everyone should know the extent of your oddness. You are a danger to society, partaking in a field you are not smart enough for.”

Victoria held the breath in her chest. This was nothing new, her patients not appreciating her efforts. She had expected nothing else. Sophia loved Wilhelm, truly, and in her eyes, Victoria would always be the other woman, regardless of compliance or stitches.

“Sophia!” Helena snapped. “You will not tell a soul. If you do, I will ensure you never receive another garment from my brother or any of his colleagues. No one will dress you. I will ruin your reputation myself.”

The threat, strange and niche, caught Sophia’s attention. She opened her mouth, closed it, then fixed Victoria with a sharp, icy glare.

“I will not tell your secret,” she said at last, “so long as you never touch Wilhelm again.”

Victoria eagerly nodded. If she could pour alcohol into her brain and burn away the memories of his touch, she would.

Within the hour, Sophia had largely recovered. Wilhelm, to Victoria’s surprise, was gentle with her—attentive in a way that pierced something raw inside Victoria’s chest. He really did love her. And despite everything, Victoria found herself aching—not for him but for the idea of being loved at all. She knew how unlovable she was, but seeing evidence of it stung.

When the others spilled into the kitchen and asked what had happened, Helena’s voice cut cleanly through the murmurs.

“Victoria was able to fetch her father,” she said smoothly. “You just missed him.”

No one questioned it. The group was eager to move on.

As they prepared to leave, Sophia insisted they hang the seed ornaments outside.

“You can take them home,” Johanna said cheerfully. “Hang them when you feel better.”

“I am perfectly fine to hang something now,” Sophia snapped.