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  “I’ll just rest here for a while,” she whispered. “Gather my strength.” Justine reached for the cross around her neck and cradled it in her hand. “Please, God, let him be all right.”

  She was asleep within seconds.

  When she awoke, the world was engulfed in fire. The evening sun burned like a torch as the last hour of sunlight seeped through the spaces between the wooden planks lining the barn’s walls. Justine sat up suddenly, as if startled by something. She rubbed her eyes and saw that she was covered in hay.

  Something was wrong, but what? She remembered the dog barking, Gerhardt’s proposal, and William’s scream, but there was something else…Her eyes fell on the locket across her lap. Justine picked up the locket and examined it. She frowned, puzzled. Inside was a picture of William’s mother Caroline. The locket belonged to him. She’d know it anywhere. How did it end up in her lap?

  “William?” she called, still half-asleep.

  Someone seemed to heed her cry, for a voice bellowed outside the barn. “There’s someone in here!”

  Several villagers entered the barn at once. Some were dressed like officers of the peace; others were peasants from various walks of life. “Who are you?” the group’s leader demanded, a man in uniform.

  “Justine,” she answered, having always been taught to respect and revere authority. “Justine Moritz.”

  “She serves the Frankenstein family,” one man told the constable.

  “What are you doing here?” the constable demanded.

  One of the others saw the locket. “That belonged to the boy. His brother said we’d find it around his neck.”

  “William?” Justine asked. “Did you find him yet?”

  The group’s leader ignored her question, and more members of the search party spilled into the barn. “There are cuts on her face. It looks like she was hiding in here.”

  “I wasn’t hiding,” Justine protested. “Wait—I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  “We’re arresting you for murder,” the constable said as two villagers shoved Justine to her feet.

  “But I didn’t do anything,” she protested meekly, suddenly afraid. As they led her out of the barn, she saw a small body cradled in one of the villagers’ arms. Justine’s heart split in two at the sight of William’s lifeless eyes, darkened forever. She tore free of the villagers and rushed to his side. “William,” she shouted, hot tears running down her cheeks. “Not you, too. Not you.”

  Her cries softened as they led her away, but they did not abate. It was night when they entered Geneva. Word of William’s death had spread through the village while she was asleep inside the barn. The streets were crowded with people wherever she looked. Even the constable looked surprised at the size of the mob.

  “Murderer!” they called. “Child killer!”

  “I’ve never seen them like this,” the constable said. “There will be blood if they don’t get justice soon.” He walked to a priest who had emerged from the crowd, whispered something in his ear, and the men returned to her together.

  “Woman, you must confess,” the priest said. “There is no other way for this to end.”

  Much of Geneva was Protestant, including the family she served, but Justine was a devout Catholic. “Father, I didn’t kill him,” she said. “I would never hurt William—I couldn’t!” The crowd grew restless and began to chant, and she turned to the constable for support. “Ask Alphonse, William’s father! He’ll tell you.” She peered through the crowd, searching desperately for Gerhardt.

  The priest was insistent. “As the scriptures say, ‘Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.’ If you do not confess, you risk eternal damnation because of your wickedness.”

  “I…” Justine stammered. First her father had passed away. Then her siblings died, too. Her mother deserted her, and Caroline, the woman who raised her, also succumbed to illness and death. Everyone she loved died. What if the priest was right—what if it was her fault?

  “If we hadn’t gone to the forest, William would still be alive,” she said softly, searching for some sympathy in his eyes. She found none.

  “She admits it,” he shouted to the villagers. “It was her fault the boy died.”

  “Justine!” a voice carried through the throng, and for a moment she saw Gerhardt struggling through the crowd to reach her. Then the multitude roared as one, emboldened by the priest’s encouragement, and the mob tore Justine away from the constable’s grip.

  “Gerhardt!” she shouted, her voice drowned out by taunting and jeers, but he was lost to her, swallowed by the crowd. Someone ripped the cross from her neck, and the beads spilled to the ground one by one. A brick sailed from the crowd, hitting her in the face, and suddenly she found herself unable to see from one eye. Blood dripped down her face.

  Sheer terror seized her heart. Justine felt the breeze against her skin as they pushed her toward the city square, and smelled smoke in the air as they led her to the gallows. When she stumbled up the first step, she saw William’s oldest brother watching from the crowd, a look of anguish on his face. Elizabeth was beside him, weeping.

  Justine met his eyes, and for a moment, time seemed to slow. The crowd melted away, and it was just the two of them.

  Then the mob shoved a rope around her neck, and she felt the ground open up beneath her.

  That was the story of how Justine Moritz died.

  I don’t know how long she hung there, twisting in the wind—but I know she did not stay there.

  Part One

  Raised to Walk in Newness of Life

  “Our mothers tell us that there are no monsters under our beds, or hidden inside our closets, but they don’t warn us that sometimes monsters come dressed as people that claim to love you more than the sun loves the moon.”

  —Nikita Gill,

  The Real Monsters

  Chapter One

  The Orkney Islands, Scotland

  1795

  I was born of a storm, among the dead.

  The hour was late. Darkness embraced me as I stirred, like a lover unwilling to relinquish its grasp. I do not remember the moment when I first awoke, or how long those first clumsy, fleeting movements took. There is no recollection of being strapped to the table, of freeing myself of my restraints, or learning to stand for myself.

  A thousand new sensations flooded through me at once. At first, there was only sound—the howling of the wind outside and the symphonic dissonance of machines that remained invisible to me. Bright sparks burst to life behind me, traveling along the wires that ran the length of the table before dying away just as quickly, and I saw light, which then took on lines to become shapes. In my surprise, I bumped into a table, knocking over flasks and test tubes. The glass shattered as it hit the floor.

  Somehow I wandered to the center of the chamber, soaking wet. Rain poured into the room through an open set of trapdoors that let in the storm and sky. Thunder crackled overhead, and I looked up just in time to catch a flash of lightning as it washed the room in gray light, revealing peculiar machines and scientific equipment scattered about the laboratory.

  The light quickly faded, and again I was thrust into the world of night. A chill hung about the attic. The floor was cold against my bare feet. Little by little, I became aware of myself. When the lightning flashed again, I noticed one of my hands, and held it as if it was foreign to me, astonished as each finger wriggled in response to my will.

  None of this had any meaning to me at the time of my birth. I was like an infant, with no real thoughts of any kind, only emotion. I felt adrift—utterly alone in the world. Just as I tasted fear for the first time, I saw him.

  At first there was only a faint glow some distance away. Unlike the lightning, it was small but bright. I wandered across the vast darkness, drawn by the source of the illumination. My steps were short and awkward, the fleeting remnants of rigor mortis. I reached fo
r the light like a child stretching out her hand to catch a firefly, my muscles twitching, my movements tremulous. In my haste, I stumbled and fell, landing on my knees in a puddle.

  Out of the darkness came a voice. “You’re alive.”

  There, above me, was a man holding a torch. My attention was torn away from him to the flame he carried, and I recoiled, frightened by the fire. I shrank away but remained fixed in place, my gaze set on the first new occupant encountered in this strange new world. He must have seen that I was afraid, because he set the torch aside, though it remained close enough to illuminate his face.

  “It’s all right,” he said calmly, his eyes burning in the firelight. “You’ve nothing to fear from me.” The man’s voice was soothing, inviting. Emotion was layered across his face. There was pain and regret, but also kindness and understanding. He appeared on the verge of tears.

  No longer preoccupied with the fire, I found myself wholly consumed by the other presence in the room. He took a step forward and reached toward my face, and I pulled back out of a basic, primal instinct.

  “I won’t hurt you.” He lowered himself to his knees, opposite me, and reached out again. This time, I did not withdraw. The man framed my face with his hands so gently it was as if he thought I might break. “Nothing will ever hurt you again.” He stroked my damp hair and held me in the rain, his face inches away from my own. As the wind and the rain and the thunder raged above, he told me his name. “I am Victor,” he said above the storm. “Victor Frankenstein.”

  It would be weeks before I would speak again, but in that moment, I managed to echo one word.

  “Vic-tor,” I said in two distinct syllables.

  Victor wiped his eyes, and then he said something I would not understand until much later. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  He pulled me to him in a tight embrace as the rain danced around us, and there we stayed, long after the fire burnt away.

  Morning crept upon us. Pale light cascaded down through cracks in the ceiling, casting the attic in a whole new dimension. The storm had lessened overnight, but had not entirely abated. Rainfall continued to pelt the roof above. Though the trapdoors had been shut, no longer allowing the rains inside, there were still puddles scattered over the floor.

  The experiment had exacted its toll on Victor’s laboratory. Much of the equipment lay in ruins. The machines that once hummed so lively with electricity had fallen silent. Shattered glassware and their various contents remained on rows of shelves, or else scattered at the base of open cupboards. Papers swept about by the wind were now spread across the room.

  Victor lay sleeping on a makeshift cot beside his desk, where he had collapsed not long after our embrace. I remained kneeling on the hard surface where he left me the night before, watching him as he slept. Even unconscious, he looked tired. His face was lean—almost gaunt. His raven black hair was disheveled and unruly, prematurely peppered with gray on the sides.

  I peered closer, overcome with curiosity. Victor’s skin was pale, as if it had been starved of sunlight, and yet, warmth seemed to radiate from his body. I put my hand to his heart and felt its rhythmic beat, but when I held my hand against my own, there was only stillness. Victor woke in response to my touch and saw me watching him. He straightened at once and sat up in bed, studying me in the morning light with a clinical gaze. There were many sides to Victor, I was to learn. His tendency to slip into the façade of detached scientist was chief among them.

  I cocked my head to one side, like an insect regarding him observing me, and his expression softened, as if he was seeing me with new eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to sleep so long,” he said softly. “I haven’t rested in days, preparing for…” he paused for a brief interval, and his brow furrowed. “Do you know what I’m saying?”

  I didn’t react, and only continued to meet his thoughtful dark eyes with a blank expression.

  He nodded, probably more for his own benefit than mine. “You will, in time. I’m sure of it.” Victor yawned, and I echoed the motion with my mouth like a mirror. “Very well, let’s get started. Let me take a look at you.” He ran a hand through my wild hair, which had dried overnight. “The locks of gray and white are new,” he said appraisingly, brushing a few strands out of my eyes. “The reanimation process has turned the hair an ash brown color overall.”

  He slid out of bed, still wearing the same wrinkled clothes he had on the night before. They looked as if they had once been fashionable, but had been well worn, now almost threadbare. Standing, he offered me his hand, which I regarded with mixed curiosity until he took my hand in his and raised me from the ground. Then he released me. It was only my second time on my feet, and my legs felt weak and wobbly. It was a struggle to remain standing without his hand to steady me.

  Victor took a few steps away. The further the intimate proximity between us lessened, the more panic seized my heart. The memory of the void from my birth returned. What if he went away and left me alone again? I took a shaky step toward him, then another, and wordlessly reached toward him. I overextended myself in the process, losing my balance. He caught me before I could fall, and we were once again entwined. Victor was taller than me, but only by a little. Something about his scent was vaguely familiar, like a reminder of a dream I’d once had, despite having never dreamed at all.

  Slowly, he lowered me into a chair at the table beside his desk. “Movement is grossly intact,” he mused, inspecting me further. “Fine motor skills will likely need more time to develop, as with any newborn.” His index finger moved from left to right, and I followed along with my gaze. “There are some horizontal saccades, but the new eyes appear to be working properly.” He tapped on my elbows, and then my knees and ankles. “Reflexes are intact bilaterally, if hyperactive.” His hands swept over my dress for the briefest of intervals. “The scars are healing nicely.”

  None of his words held any great fascination for me. I understood none of them, not even a single syllable, but his movements captivated me. His gestures, gaze, and body language were like a song, each seeming more significant than the last. I continued my attempts to mimic him, although my own movements were erratic and coarse at best.

  Victor withdrew a leather-bound journal from his pocket and flipped through the pages, which were filled with scientific notes and various sketches of human anatomy. He dipped a quill from his desk in ink and began to scribble furiously, occasionally glancing up to examine me.

  “Neural function is currently indeterminate. Even with the effort to preserve tissue post-mortem, the brain will have sustained significant injury from starvation. Her mind will have to construct new pathways and form new memories in the days ahead. Nothing of the person she was will have been left behind. She is a blank slate.”

  My stomach churned, audible over the rainfall, and Victor stopped and shut his journal. “You must be hungry.” He tucked the journal back inside his pocket and walked across the room. I clumsily pushed myself out of the chair, but before I could stumble after him, he returned with a bowl of soup and a spoon. “Sit,” he said, gesturing down with an outstretched palm. He repeated the word, slowly, and again helped me into the chair.

  I peered over the bowl of watery broth, the steam warm against my face. I began to reach toward the soup, but Victor shook his head and placed a spoon in my hand. My shaking hand refused to grasp the spoon, and it clattered against the floor.

  Victor returned the spoon to my hand and closed my fist around it. “You hold it,” he said, his hand over mine, “like this.” I turned the spoon over in my fist, transfixed by this novel-looking tool. “Here, let me show you.”

  He knelt at my side and guided me, managing to gather a spoonful of hot soup despite my tremulous grasp. Victor patted his stomach. “Eat,” he said, lifting the spoon to my lips. Warm liquid rushed into my mouth.

  In my short existence, I had never experienced anything quite like the moment I first tasted food. Flavors sprang to life across my tongue as the soup spil
led down my throat, a balm for my hunger. Victor filled another spoonful for me and motioned for me to try. I thrust the spoon against my mouth, spilling most of it in the process. Victor’s clinical stare vanished, and for a brief second all the weariness drained from his face. The sound of his laughter filled the attic.

  Previously unused muscles in my cheeks stirred in response to his look of happiness. With a twitch they slowly drew my lips into my first smile. I peered into Victor’s eyes, presumably wearing a childlike expression, and he relinquished his grip on my hand at once. He took a few steps back and collapsed into the chair on the other side of the table.

  “What have I done?” He buried his face in his hands. “Is there no way out of this nightmare?” When he faced me again, his eyes were red. “Looking at you is like staring at a ghost. Every breath you take is a reminder of my failures. I did this to you. I birthed this evil into the world, and now you’re paying for my sins.” Slowly he shook his head, as if reminding himself of something, and his expression hardened. “This was the only way to save them. There was no other choice. No one else will suffer for my mistakes.”

  I watched him, perplexed. I had no understanding of the emotions he was experiencing, only that he was unhappy. My spoon fell to the floor again, forgotten. An incoherent garble sprang from my lips, perhaps an attempt to comfort him, and he again took note of me.

  “You and I are going to accomplish a great deal together. I don’t know how much time we have together, but I promise you I will do my best to make those days happy. I owe you that much—and more, more than I can ever repay. Whatever may come, our fates are forever bound.”

  With that he rose, crossed the table, picked up the spoon, and resumed feeding me.

  The storm continued for the first three days after my birth, a mainstay of the coastal Scottish countryside. The sound of rainfall was a nearly constant presence over that time, occasionally accompanied by stirrings of thunder. Candles and oil lamps kept the shadows at bay, but only until the artificial light faded and the bleak ambience crept back inside. The same preternatural chill hung over the cottage, as if it housed the dead. In a way, it did.