Chapter 11 #5
She would do anything to protect her father. But how many other people would she have to wound in the process?
She needed a way to avoid Wilhelm, to force him to lose interest. She did not trust him to keep her secret. What sort of man enjoyed an unwilling participant? But she knew the answer.
Wilhelm liked weak, helpless creatures—ones that made him feel powerful. Had she killed him in the carriage, she never would have escaped it. The coachman would have known. The baron would have destroyed her and her father, their reputation crushed entirely.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for them to leave.
Her father was slipping fast. This week alone, there were days he could hardly stand.
Two nights ago, he struggled to use a fork, food slipping uselessly from the tines as his tremors worsened.
As frustration and anger overtook him—as they so often did now—Victoria had only felt grief.
A heavy weight pressed against her sternum as she watched him fail at something that had once been effortless.
He was harder and harder to recognize as the version of her father she had always known.
Their protective roles had reversed and she was failing him.
At the back gate, she paused, scanning the dark yard and the forest beyond. Nothing stirred. No one searched for her. No one missed her. Relief and sadness twisted together in her chest.
She schooled her expression before pushing open the laboratory door.
She thought it locked, but one heavy shove with her shoulder opened it.
Warmth rushed over her face, the familiar scent of chemicals and electricity instantly calming her nerves.
A frown pulled at her mouth when she looked to the flame next to Innominatus and saw only soot-covered black glass.
It looked as if the flame had flared and burned out, charring the inside with thick chalky black.
She hurried for the stairs, glancing once and relaxing at the sight of the uncovered cadaver before removing her cloak and dropping it to the floor. She took the steps two at a time and nearly collided with Greta, who emerged in her nightgown on the main floor.
Victoria forced calm into her voice. “Is everything all right? Is my father well?”
Greta scowled. “I thought you’d gone to bed hours ago. I was fetching streusel from the kitchen. Your father is fine—sleeping soundly. Why are you down in that godforsaken laboratory? Does he know?”
“Yes,” Victoria replied tightly. “I’m helping him organize his books.” She closed the door before the woman could scold her further.
After redescending the laboratory stairs, Victoria sat heavily and tugged at her boots.
She returned to the cadaver, tucking the sheet around him as if he were a child.
She didn’t realize she was still crying until her tears splattered against his shoulder.
Embarrassment flickered—as though he might reprimand her.
His strong face bore scars and stitches. “You probably wouldn’t even care,” she murmured. He looked made of iron—too tall, too solid for anyone to cry against.
She wiped her tears from his skin, but the more she touched him, the faster they fell, as if he were truly there comforting her.
“I could’ve killed him,” she whispered. “I wonder how many men you’ve killed. I don’t think I’d have liked it. I think if I have to, I’d rather bring things to life…keep them alive and not alone.”
She sagged, daring to rest her heavy head on his firm, muscular chest and saturating herself with the feeling of safety it gave her.
“Death has surrounded me for as long as I can remember.” She broke then—sobbing uncontrollably, gripping the cadaver as grief finally spilled free.
Despite his inability to respond to her, Victoria could feel the comfort pressing out from his skin as she held on to him and cried.
Something dangerous began to take form in her chest.
“You are the only one I have to talk to. The only one who knows all my secrets.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Tomorrow I must attend Helena’s gathering. I will have to see him again—and his wife—and pray he does not wish to torture me.”
She cried for her mother. For her father. For herself. It was as if she’d never had anyone to lean on until that very moment. Her soul cracked open and bled in front of the cadaver that night. No shields or walls came up, only long-barricaded emotions and the desperate need for someone to listen.
When the tears finally ceased, she changed the sheet she had made damp with her weeping.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she squeezed his cold forearm and placed Innominatus back in the cold chamber, and—for the first time in a very long time—felt something like peace.
She cleaned out the glass and relit the flame of the apparatus, pleased when it swayed as if in response. What if somehow…someway…
No. It was only a coincidence that the flame moved and pulsed when it did. Or was it?
With that strange calm, Victoria gathered her wet cloak and boots and made her way upstairs to bed.