Page 43 of Her Creation

The explosive weight of that responsibility tore through Victoria’s skull.

“The Leyden jars,” she blurted, her voice ripped away by the wind whipping across her face as Mischief climbed the hill toward the castle in front of her.

Excitement ignited inside her, sharp and electric.

As she reached the last stretch of the hill, the buzzing in her veins became unbearable until she felt mad with passion. This was how she would make it right. She would test the resurrection for the first time.

She handed Mischief off to Thompson without explanation, gathered her skirts, and ran, the crow still cradled in her arms. At the front door, she hesitated, knowing she could not enter carrying a dead bird without Greta and Rosamond losing their minds.

She spun on her heel and sprinted for the side entrance, pounding on the door with frantic urgency. When her father didn’t answer, she tried the handle. Her father’s absentmindedness had saved her. The door was unlocked.

She shoved it open with her shoulder, muttering a curse for not trying it sooner, and darted inside. The laboratory was empty. Disappointed, she shouted for her father once, then again, before returning to the crow she had laid gently on the main table.

She had to work quickly. The resurrection had to be performed while the blood was still warm, still full within its veins, unless she planned on giving it more.

Her hands shook as she laid out the jars and apparatus. She strapped the bird down with leather restraints, uncertain of what state it might wake in—if it woke.

When it woke. When it woke, she corrected.

She ran up the stairs again, calling for her father once more. No response.

But she could not wait.

She returned and spread the crow’s wings wide, attaching the necessary wires and smurfithen tubes. Also being certain to add proteins and anticoagulants. Her fingers moved from memory, following the notes she and her father had labored over for years. After some time, she pulled the lever.

Lightning surged from the Leyden jars, racing along the wires and into the crow’s body. Victoria adjusted everything carefully, watching, calculating. She performed the pressure movements and injected the chemicals, doing her best to scale the dosage down for such a small creature, praying she had not overwhelmed its heart. She realized with a start that she hadn’t actually checked for a pulse… There was a small chance it could be unconscious and not dead.

She swore loudly, angry at herself for not checking so that she had a definitive answer. It was dead. She was sure of it.

The metallic stench of burnt chemicals and earth flooded the room.

Nothing happened.

The bird remained still.

She detached the apparatus and checked the body, dread blooming in her chest. “Nothing happened,” she whispered. “Why didn’t it work?”

Nothing.

Nothing happened.

How could nothing happen?

No. She was so close to figuring it all out. She had to be. If she couldn’t bring back this bird, then how could she ever bring back the cadaver? Her pacing grew erratic; her fingers tangled in her hair. Years of work—perfecting the formula, galvanizing body parts, salamanders, everything—had failed. She had nothing left. No ideas.

She spun like a trapped animal, grief and panic colliding in a dangerous storm, thinking of the ominous silence of the chamber—and of her mother. Just like her mother, the crow would never be given another chance.

Her nails dug into her cheeks. What if the crows that followed and called for it outside were its children? she realized with a pained thought.

Then—

A sound.

A single, unmistakable caw.

Victoria froze.

Every nerve in her body locked as her eyes widened. Slowly, she turned.