Chapter 12 #3
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.
Johanna greeted her warmly, as did Ida, while Wilhelm’s two friends argued animatedly on the sofa at the back of the room.
“They’re discussing Napoleon,” Helena muttered. “Best avoided.”
The evening unfolded much like the others.
Helena flitted about, a tireless hostess, ensuring everyone was comfortable and occupied.
Wilhelm returned eventually—and, unusually, remained close to Sophia, attentive, almost gentle.
He did not pit them against each other as he so often did.
The distance sparked a fragile flicker of confidence in Victoria’s chest. Perhaps this would end more easily than she feared.
Foolish hope, she reminded herself. She had learned better than to indulge in it.
Instead, she whispered a silent prayer to be free of him by night’s end.
About an hour later, as the group finished pressing birdseed into cakes and pine cones, a violent crash erupted from the kitchen, followed by a scream that froze the room.
Wilhelm burst back in, face flushed and wild.
“A bowl fell from one of the upper shelves and shattered on Sophia’s face!” he shouted.
Helena rushed forward, the others close behind. In the kitchen, one of the glossy wooden shelves along the dark green wall had collapsed, stoneware shattered across the floor. Sophia was hunched over the counter, blood streaming down her face in alarming quantity.
Panic erupted. Someone shouted for a doctor, several screamed as they ran frantically about. Johanna pressed a damp cloth to Sophia’s face, visibly shaken, while blood continued to pour through her fingers.
In the chaos, Victoria stood perfectly still.
It struck her then—how truly different her world was from theirs. How accustomed she was to blood, to injury, to bodies broken open and at her mercy. She was the one in complete control of the horror, never at its chaotic mercy.
“Victoria!” Helena called. Sophia had been eased to the floor, pale and shaking, clearly close to losing consciousness.
Victoria’s fingers flexed. Her feet felt rooted, heavy as ancient trees. The wound was severe. The blood was not clotting.
“Go get your father!” Helena cried.
Victoria hesitated—until Sophia lifted her gaze, miserable and frightened, and met Victoria’s eyes.
She knew then what she had to do.
Victoria and Wilhelm stared at one another for a long, suspended moment, the space between them taut as a wire.
They both knew that Victoria was capable of helping Sophia.
The truth of it lay between them like a blade.
Yet if she did so, everyone in the room would know.
But she would be free of Wilhelm’s unwanted touch.
Her dark eyes flickered toward the door as the murmur of the two men beyond it rose and fell, their voices low, uncertain.
Some of the guests had not entered the kitchen yet.
If she were to do anything, they needed to remain outside it.
Then her gaze returned to Wilhelm. He watched her closely before giving a small, almost imperceptible nod.
“We are through,” Victoria said, her voice frighteningly low, stripped of tremor or plea. “You will never touch me again.”
Wilhelm stiffened. His body shifted, turning once toward his wife and then back to Victoria, as though weighing the cost of refusal. His jaw tightened.
“She has a severe head injury,” Victoria continued before he could speak, forcing herself to sound certain. “She likely struck her superficial temporal artery. It looks worse than it is. She will live.”
At her words, Wilhelm turned fully toward where Sophia sat slumped on the kitchen floor, Helena and Johanna bracing her on either side.
Blood streaked her face in dark rivulets, pooling at her collarbone and soaking into the bodice of her pale pink gown.
Ida had already fled the room, unable to stomach the sight.