“Father’s science made him into that monster,” I said. “Montgomery and I are going to stop anyone from doing it ever again.”
She let out a frustrated breath. “Don’t you see, Juliet? Your father’s science isn’t the problem. Because of it Edward exists, and he has just as much humanity in him as any of us. You’ve had it all wrong. It’s just like what you said at the flower show: ‘It isn’t about the sharpness of the blade, but the hand that holds it.’ Science doesn’t do good or ill by itself—it’s the intention behind it. And your father’s intention to create Edward was good.” She stood up, brushing a hand over her dripping nose. “Blame your father for failing to rid Edward of his darkness, if you must. But don’t blame him for creating Edward. That wasn’t a mistake.”
I could only stare at her, lost for words.
So much of my life had been about rejecting Father’s work and castigating myself for my curiosity. And yet here was my best friend telling me that Edward’s existence was a gift. Could there be a grain of truth to that? Perhaps not entirely a gift—but not a curse, either?
I went to the window, struggling with my thoughts. I’d never allowed myself to fully think about it that way—science as neither good nor bad, merely a tool. Father had used it in cruel ways, for certain, but had he been wrong to explore its depths?
Or had he been a revolutionary?
“I need to go downstairs,” I said, filled with confusion. “I need to check on Montgomery.”
I stumbled from the room, thoughts churning. My feet caught on the oriental rug and I leaned on the doorframe leading into the dining room, where Balthazar and Elizabeth sat next to each other, heads close, the old musket forgotten as they poured over Father’s journals.
A board creaked under my feet, and Elizabeth looked up.
“Juliet, you must look at this,” she said, voice brimming with excitement. “I think we’ve decoded a section of your father’s journal.”
In my exhaustion, my body mustered one last surge of hope. “Please tell me you’ve found the cure for Edward.”
She shook her head. “For you.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
THIRTY-NINE
PERHAPS I SHOULD HAVE felt a thrill at her words. After all, a cure is what I’d been searching for these past few months. Yet Lucy’s assertion—that Father’s science had been just as good as cruel—had given me so much to think about. Hadn’t Newcastle tried to argue the same thing? It was true that Edward was a phenomenal triumph of scientific achievement. Father had given animals the gift of speech. He’d created Balthazar, such a kind soul. Father’s science had even saved my life as a baby.
Had I misjudged his work this entire time?
What will you be without it? the Beast had asked.
Montgomery hurried in, wiping his hands on a rag. “Did you say a cure?” he asked, hope in his voice. He picked up the loose pages to pore over the decoded text. “Juliet, look at this. Phosphorous salts—we were right there. But we were lacking something to staunch the cellules . . . my god, it’s so simple. We’ve been going about it all wrong.” His face, when he looked up from the page, was more handsome than I’d ever seen. “We can do it,” he said.
I forced a smile, and the motion alone started to give me hope. Yes—this is what I wanted. To be whole, to be pure, not to be plagued by these wracking spasms and hallucinations. I wanted to be just as honest a person as Montgomery, all the darkness caused by my affliction banished.
“What about for Edward?” Lucy asked. I turned to find her standing behind me, eyes still spotted with red, but cheeks dry.
Elizabeth exchanged a doubtful glance with Balthazar. “We haven’t finished decoding the journal entries,” she said. “There might still be something that can help him.”
“Then I’ll help you,” Lucy said, dragging out a chair. “What can I do?”
“Start with these,” Elizabeth said, handing her a stack of torn pages. “Compare the entries on these pages against this list of passages Balthazar is compiling. He can help you find the verse and line they reference.”
While they set to work, Montgomery snatched up the rest of the decoded pages and pulled me into the kitchen. He cleared the leftover dishes and set the crate from my workshop on the table. It still held the sweet-decay smell of the roses in my attic chamber, searing me with memories.
“It should be a relatively simple procedure,” he said. “We just need to include a binding agent to trick your body into thinking the animal organs are your own.”