Her Dark Curiosity

“Where did you get those clothes?” I asked. “They aren’t cheap, and neither is that gold pocket watch.”

 

 

He came to the cabinet, where the lantern tossed pools of light over his face. “The Beast keeps a room at a brothel in Soho—I wake there sometimes. He steals clothes and things from the wealthy patrons, always finds men close to my size . . . very thoughtful of the Beast.” The hints of a smile played on his mouth.

 

“This isn’t a joking matter.”

 

He swallowed. “I’m sorry—I don’t mean to make light of it. I’ve been staying in the Beast’s room and selling the stolen goods. I know it’s hardly proper, but a brothel’s good cover—I don’t know where else to go. People tend to overlook the screaming when I transform. . . .”

 

I shuddered at the thought. “You can’t go back there,” I said. “Sooner or later one of the patrons will report the theft, and if Scotland Yard comes to investigate and catches you, it’ll be all over the newspapers, and not long before Father’s mystery colleague gets his hands on you.” I nodded toward the bed, looking away before my cheeks warmed. “You can stay here.”

 

He nodded, and silence fell around us. He took out his pocket watch, toying with it just to fill the quiet. He wandered to the worktable, where I’d left the laboratory equipment in perfect order, the boiler and beakers and glass vials arranged in descending order of height. It wasn’t a vial he reached for, though, but one of the grafted rosebushes. I’d bound a single white rose to a bush of red, and he touched it as gently as a caress.

 

“You made these?”

 

I didn’t answer, afraid he’d point out how similar it was to father’s work, and how the placement of my laboratory equipment mirrored Father’s exactly.

 

“Yes,” I said at last.

 

“They’re beautiful.”

 

A surge of pride swelled in my heart. The kettle started whistling, and I nearly tripped over the dog to fetch it, along with my single mug. I poured him a cup and handed it to him, trying not to think about his compliment. “I’m not used to guests here. I’ve only the one cup.”

 

“Much obliged,” he said, taking the tea, and only then acknowledged the equipment. “And all of this?”

 

“I have to have it,” I said quickly. “The serum I take is failing. Father designed it for me as a baby, and as I get older, it’s less effective. I’m trying to cure myself, just like you are.” I let my hand fall over a crystal beaker. “That’s why I offered to help you.”

 

“Have you had any success?”

 

“Not yet,” I said, though my voice caught as my eyes fell on the cupboard shelf. A book glowed there in the faint lantern light. It was one of many books I kept on anatomy, and botany, and philosophy, but this one was special. It stood out like a temptation, or maybe an accusation.

 

It was my father’s journal.

 

I’d found it the day after Montgomery set me adrift from the island. He must have stowed it there along with the water and food and other supplies. For a while, I had resisted opening it. And yet once I discovered that his serum was failing me, the temptation to look had been too strong. I had opened that leather cover and read his notes—some scrawled, most in his painstakingly precise handwriting. I’d flipped through the pages, desperate for some clues about how to cure myself. And yet the journal hadn’t proven anything, half of it little more than lines of nonsense words and numbers strung together.

 

I touched Father’s journal delicately, but didn’t dare pull it out. “Father made most of his notations in here, before he transferred everything to the files he kept in his laboratory. There’s a formula for my serum, and the one he used on the islanders, and I’ve been trying to adapt it to my current situation.” I let my hand fall away from the book. “No luck so far. Much of what he says in there is nonsense, anyway. He must have used a personal shorthand when he was writing in a hurry, and I haven’t been able to make sense of it.”

 

Edward’s eyes didn’t leave the journal. When he spoke, his voice held a quiet sort of hope. “Does it say anything about me? He used cellular traits from human blood to make me. I never found out whose blood it was.”

 

His fingers were flipping the pocket watch over nervously, and I understood. To Edward it wasn’t just blood in a test tube. That human blood was his only tie to another person—to a family, in a sense.

 

I shook my head. “It doesn’t say. I’m sorry.”

 

He turned to the chemistry set, looking through my beakers and vials of supplies. Science, math, literature—these were the things Edward was comfortable with, things easily learned from a book. He made a good show at social interaction, using lines and scenes from obscure plays no one knew, but I didn’t think it ever came naturally to him.