Dr. Frankenstein's Daughters Read online

  And what of Riff? Are the sins of bravado, rudeness, and conceit really so dire that he deserved such an end — to be packed in ice and cut apart? When I am done, I will make a grave for him and throw what remains into the ground. I dare not mark it, though. Perhaps it will be safer to simply drop what’s left in the ocean.

  I think of all those cadavers I saw in the medical college. Didn’t the college itself look the other way when it came to the unsavory methods of their procurement? Why must I struggle to do the same?

  August 18

  Giselle is aggravating me so, constantly clucking about this party next week. How can I care about it when I have so much on my mind?!

  Walter’s life hangs in the balance, entirely in my hands. I don’t want to overstrain him, and with each new procedure I must give his body time to heal and recover. But at the same time I can’t take too long. How much longer can Walter survive in this alcohol-induced half sleep?

  The pressure is more than I can bear sometimes. Only sleep can mend my frayed nerves, and many nights sleep won’t come. If only it would get truly dark! This continual daylight could drive anyone insane!

  August 19

  If Giselle doesn’t stop nagging me, I will strangle her! She says my appearance is diminished from studying too much, and I won’t look good when our guests arrive for the party!

  The party!

  Who cares? Who cares! Who cares about a stupid party?!

  If she’s not complaining that I am disinterested in her frivolous gala, then she is annoyed because I am not paying sufficient attention to her or Uncle Ernest — or the world around me, apparently.

  Just minutes ago, she was berating me for this. “You are so involved in your studies that you don’t even realize that there have been two more murders. Investigator Cairo has been coming by to report them to me.”

  “Who has been killed?” This shocking news did grab my attention.

  “One was right here on the island — a worker was killed. And the other was in Stromness, not far from the dressmaker where I got our gowns.” From there, she went on to scold me for not having tried on the gown she’d had made for me.

  There are only two reasons I am eager for this party. Dr. Sarlandière is coming. Jakob Berzelius has also accepted. There are questions I need to ask them before I run electric current throughout Walter’s body. For that reason — and that alone — I am counting the days until our guests arrive. Hopefully Dr. Berzelius will come earlier than the others, as he suggested he might.

  August 19 (continued)

  I have reached a most astonishing point in my father’s riveting narrative. I can hardly pull myself from it. Having animated the man he has created, Victor Frankenstein finds that this man-creation has gone wildly out of his control. He torments my father. He is the nemesis that threatens all who my father loves. What cruel irony! His stalker is the thing he himself created.

  As I continue to read my father’s writings, I think I understand why he felt such revulsion toward the creation that he calls the Monster. It was his own ineptitude that caused the creature’s deformity. Victor Frankenstein, who had figured out how to overcome death itself, could not lay in simple stitches as any beginning physician can. Perhaps it was his youth, or his haste, or his growing madness. If his creature had not been a human wreck of monstrous proportion, all the other misery that came after — which I am now breathlessly reading for the first time — might not have happened.

  This reading of my father’s tragic story fills me with caution. While I want to replace Walter’s stiffening skin, at least on his face, I must not destroy his handsome face with a slip of my own quivering hand. And so, I hesitate. But this procrastination cannot go on indefinitely.

  Tonight I will guard over my Walter, sitting beside his bed as usual, reading. Among the books Anthony lent me is one on the work of Sushruta, India’s great ancient surgeon, who was repairing facial injuries incurred in battles in 600 B.C.

  Before I begin to read, I must mention one last strange occurrence. The head I scooped from the sea and keep in a jar is changing. The skin is tightening and the film is dissolving from the eyes. Some quality in the preserving fluid must be causing this. I will keep a close watch.

  He is stirring. I must attend to him….

  August 20

  I read for hours and hours and hours until sleep overcame me right there in the chair where I sat. What a night of discovery!

  Sushruta was fascinating. He burned mustard seeds to create cleansing fumes to soothe the nerves of the patient he was working on. He used boiled butter to clean wounds. But it was not Sushruta that kept me glued to my chair for hours.

  I’ve learned why my father came here and what he was doing. It was all in the last of the three albums.

  He had come here for the isolation of this barely populated island. His Monster had demanded a mate. In exchange, he would never bother my father again.

  What a revelation! My father estranged himself from Giselle and me to save us from the Monster’s vengeance.

  My father got in touch with Gallagher. This time, the human he made from body parts was a female. And she was beautiful. But without intending to, he fashioned a woman who looked just like our mother.

  In a fit of panic — and maybe of jealousy — he decided not to give the Monster this female who looked just like his dead wife. Instead, he dismembered her, sailed out to the middle of the ocean, and threw the parts overboard.

  But what he didn’t know was that the head would wash ashore, years later.

  I have the head of Frankenstein’s bride in a jar!

  Even now I can see her gazing at me. Did this head really once look like my mother? I’ve seen small paintings of her. This, though, is so real.

  I now know all my father learned in creating this newer, more refined version of the original creature. For one thing, he found a stronger, more delicate stitching thread. He had a supply of it somewhere here in the laboratory. He also learned to freeze the skin before stitching.

  I have to stop writing because there is so much to do. I will begin by applying ice to Walter’s face.

  August 20 (continued)

  It’s done, and I’m afraid it has not turned out as cleanly as I had wished. There is swelling I hope will subside with time. The stitches show and both eyes are deeply purple underneath, as is the whole right half of his face.

  It’s monstrous.

  I hate myself right now. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Exactly!

  But bruises heal. Swelling goes down. I mustn’t lose heart.

  Walter stirred and I hurried to his side.

  “My skin isn’t hard,” he slurred. His lip twitched in an attempt to smile, and that was encouraging. I hadn’t killed the nerves in his face. “You did it,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Sleep now,” I told him, bringing the bottle of spirits to his lips. “Rest and heal.” In a second he was sleeping once more.

  I have no patience for this party tomorrow. I haven’t even tried on my dress. I will have to steal away often to check on Walter. His health seems so fragile right now.

  Tomorrow I will speak to the scholars at the party. (Anthony has written to say that his medical studies will keep him in Edinburgh.) If the scholars give me the answers I am hoping for, I will begin slowly introducing electric current section by section into Walter’s body with the hope of reinvigorating the nerves.

  As I write this, the head of Frankenstein’s bride, the replica of my mother, seems to peer at me from the jar on the shelf. Do I see blame in her gaze?

  Am I doing what my father before me did — creating a love for myself? When Victor Frankenstein realized what he had unwittingly done, he destroyed his work. But was that the right thing to do? What harm would there have been if he had let her live, loved her, and then made another mate for the Monster?

  Walter moans in his sleep, and I brush away dark curls from his forehead.

  By the end of this month, my Walter
will be a new man. A man whom I will love always.

  FROM THE DIARY OF

  BARONESS GISELLE FRANKENSTEIN

  August 20, 1815

  Lord Byron was the first to arrive at the castle, and I would wager that he is possibly the most handsome man alive, and utterly charming too. I was happy to have just finished forming my last ringlet as I saw him strolling up the lane. I quickly ran down to greet him.

  He was lavish in his praise of the castle and of me. “I decided to come because I was raised in Scotland and longed to see it once more, but the sight of your beauty is reward enough.”

  “You are too kind,” I said as he kissed the silk of my elbow-high gloves.

  “Your gown is perfection,” he told me. “Paris or Milan?”

  “Istanbul,” I lied, caught up in the glamour of it all and hoping to impress such a worldly man. I immediately regretted it, because I saw skepticism in his appraisal. “The fabric, that is,” I covered. “I had it made especially here in Scotland.”

  He gazed around at the dusky summer dim and smiled. “I would say that you walk in beauty like the night, except I see that there is no night to be found.”

  I would have talked the whole evening with him except that guests were arriving on each ferry, and I had to greet them all. The next to arrive were several of my former classmates from home. I asked my friend Margaret if there had been any news from Johann, and she said no one had heard anything. “His father is sick over this,” she added. “He must have met with foul play. It’s the only thing that would explain it.”

  The little orchestra that I had hired from Kirkwall took its place by the tall fireplace that I’d had lit for the party. They played some local ballads that were slow and melodic. The servants were all dressed formally and began to pass food on silver trays and to serve drinks from the side tables.

  I came upon Percy Bysshe Shelley, whom I recognized from drawings in literary journals, though he seemed younger than I would have thought. He was standing by the musicians, gazing up at the portrait of my father. By his side was a slim, pretty woman who must not have been much older than me. When I introduced myself and welcomed him, he turned to the woman and made her known as “Mary, my wife.”

  “Who is this striking gentleman?” she asked, nodding up at the painting.

  “He is my father, Victor Frankenstein, though he is deceased and this was painted some years ago.”

  “What fire in those eyes!” she remarked. “He fascinates me.”

  “This is a Copley, is it not?” Percy Shelley inquired.

  “It is,” I confirmed.

  “I believe he’s just arrived,” he said, nodding toward the door at a tall, middle-aged man. I sensed Copley was a bit ill at ease, so I asked the Shelleys’ pardon and went to his side. After we’d made introductions, and I’d reunited him with the painting, he told me he had painted my father in return for some medical care before he had achieved fame for his portraits.

  “There is an exquisite quality to the light here on this island,” Copley remarked. “Would it be an imposition if I stayed a day or two to paint?”

  I assured him it would be wonderful: This was just what I wanted, a house alive with the fascinating and successful and interesting from all walks of life! Everything was going perfectly … but where was Ingrid? I had been so aggravated that she had simply disappeared this last week when I could have used her help. If she didn’t show up at all now, I would be beyond furious!

  Just when I was about to become enraged at her, I saw her standing in the center of a circle of scholars, their wives, and their assistants, all engaged in spirited conversation. Ingrid looked wonderful in the sapphire-blue gown, and she’d even put her hair up in coils at the top of her head. She was as avid in conversation as the rest of them, and I guessed they’d started talking on the ferry over and hadn’t stopped.

  For hours I greeted guests continuously, making sure no one ever lacked for a beverage or food. I was having a wonderful time, but it was exhausting and I wished Ingrid would be equally social to guests other than scholars. As the time passed, this resentment grew until I approached the cluster of scholars determined to draw Ingrid away for some assistance — only to discover that she was not there.

  “Your sister is the most brilliant person, man or woman, that I have ever met,” said a man in his late twenties who introduced himself as Dr. Jean-Baptiste Sarlandière. “We have learned so much from each other just now.”

  “Do you know where she went?” I asked.

  He pointed toward the front door. “We were discussing the fine points of electrotherapy when she suddenly remembered something urgent she had to do and dashed off. I do hope she will return to resume our discussion.”

  “She went out the door, you say?” I was incensed! How dare she abandon me in the middle of the most important event of my life!

  I hurried outside, where guests were spread out on the lawn, all chatting amiably. Had she gone off to find Walter or to get back to her studies? Either way, I would drag her back no matter what it took.

  Hurrying out to the cliff, I saw it was just as I had suspected: She was in the rowboat crossing over to Sweyn Holm. She was rowing in her gown!

  And now she had the boat so I couldn’t even cross over and find her to demand that she return. I was furious!

  I could always get there through the tunnel … if only I had the nerve. I would get lamps. I’d get others to come with me, so there would be no danger.

  Ingrid had abandoned me all these weeks and I would put up with it no more!

  As I headed back into the house, I literally ran into Investigator Cairo.

  “Fräulein Frankenstein,” he said, “please forgive me for coming. I did not know you were having an event.”

  “Not at all, Investigator. Please eat and drink. Enjoy yourself. If you’ll excuse me, I have urgent business.”

  I was not going to be deterred by anyone or anything.

  Ingrid was going to come back to the party.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF

  INGRID VDW FRANKENSTEIN

  August 20, 1815

  “If one could run current over a body within twenty-four hours of the last transplant, I believe that the creation would be strong and disease-free,” Dr. Sarlandière told me. “I am sure of it.” We had been discussing curing sickness with electricity. He seemed so brilliant that I couldn’t doubt anything he said.

  “It’s highly experimental, but I believe you are correct,” agreed the portly Dr. Berzelius, speaking in heavily accented English.

  That was when I fled from the party. If he was right, I had two hours to work with Walter. If I got it right, he would be healthy and strong forever.

  Climbing down the ladder was not easy in the long gown. The minute I reached the bottom, I pulled the dress off, tossing it away, and put a white apron on over my chemise. I hurried to Walter’s side, throwing aside his blanket.

  He did not stir as he usually did.

  Frightened, I grabbed his wrist and did not feel a pulse. I laid my head on his heart but heard no beat. There was no breath on my hand. He was very cold.

  “Walter!” I shouted. “Walter!” My frenzied voice climbed to a shriek. “Walter!”

  I paced in circles. I’d killed Walter. I’d killed him. Reckless. Murderous. Arrogant. Mad. I’d killed Walter. My love! My love! My love!

  I started moving very fast, although everything seemed dreamlike. I covered him in wires and receptors. I activated my two battery drums. The current moved back and forth slowly at first.

  “I need more,” I mumbled, frustrated. The frequency increased somewhat. “More!” I screamed at it. “More!” As if it had heard me, there was a further increase. The battery crackled with energy.

  Walter wasn’t moving, though. Nothing was happening.

  “Walter, don’t die! Wake up!”

  It was no use. He didn’t stir. I let the current run until I smelled burning flesh and hair. Char marks began to form across
his forehead.

  “Ingrid, what is all this?” I whirled toward Giselle’s voice. She stood only yards away with an oil lantern in her hand. Behind her were Lord Byron, Percy Shelley, and Mary Shelley, all with lanterns.

  “Our father’s laboratory. I would have told you but I wanted —”

  I was cut short by a sharp gasp from Mary Shelley. Her eyes were wide and she was pointing a trembling hand at something behind me. Turning, I clapped my hand over my mouth in shock.

  Walter was sitting up.

  His face was swollen and his eyes blackened. His jaw jutted at an odd angle and the char marks streaked his forehead. His black curls were frayed and burned. He was speechless, dazed.

  Giselle coughed and started shifting from foot to foot. Her eyes were wild with fear. Then she strode up to Walter and was suddenly wielding a scalpel she’d snapped up from my instrument table.

  “You won’t get me this time, fiend!” she screamed, plunging the scalpel into his stomach. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you first!”

  Lord Byron and Percy Shelley quickly grabbed Giselle while I stuffed gauze into Walter’s wound. Mary Shelley raced back into the tunnel to the castle.

  I had no idea what she would do. Would she tell the others? Reveal what she had seen to our guests? I was kept busy staunching the blood gushing from Walter’s wound. He writhed in pain that was awful to see. But amid this torture a movement of his caught my attention. He was clenching and unclenching his hand — his right hand!