Fall
I made the books in blue, though Victor hadn’t asked for it.
Jaan Sauer, who I was alarmed to learn was very real and very much still living, was also easy to find. When asked, he provided us with a cut from the cover so I could match it, saying:
“It’s mostly destroyed anyhow; what is one more thing?”
Victor paid by transfer and didn’t closely oversee the labor and production.
He didn’t care about the font or the kerning, didn’t have harsh opinions about the type of vellum or its color.
Sent extra funds when something needed was more difficult to acquire.
A model client if I’ve ever had one. Easier to work with for his absence.
He requested seven copies but his gold stretched to nine.
Seven for seven men, one for him, and one for me.
When the weather got cold and dry, he came for them. Smelling of travel and mildly of sheep, deep eyes like wounds, hair long and braided, he leaned against the door of my office and looked at the pile on my desk.
“Does it read well?” he asked.
I had forgotten the softness of his sound.
“I did my best.”
Victor picked them up and slid them unceremoniously into his bag, a large weather-beaten thing of tanned leather. He didn’t inspect the books or thumb through the pages. Not like anyone who reads at all.
“Thank you.”
His hand touched the door before I could bear it. “Wait, I must ask—”
Victor looked startled.
“What happened next?”
His hand fell to his side and he shuffled the bag on his shoulder. He looked back at me for a long time, then his eyes grinned.
“Willem has two more sheep and horses now,” he said, gentle. “This does not have to be the end. If you ask it, I’ll come when you call.”
“Why?” I shouldn’t want him to. I shouldn’t want.
Victor Frankenstein smiled with his mouth this time, a small thing, toothless and sweet.
“It is in my nature. The alchemist of waves.”
He tapped the doorframe with a clatter of his rings and left.