“He’s sleepwalking. Is this common for him? Does he talk in his sleep?”
Angelika gave her brother a withering look. “I haven’t had the good fortune to find out. Does Lizzie?”
Victor rolled his shoulders in a stretch. “Lizzie is rendered utterly speechless for the rest of her life. Look, he’s really turning the room upside down.”
“I’ll get him—” Angelika started over, but her brother blocked her.
“If you stop him, you won’t find out what he’s doing. Use your head, Jelly. This is his subconscious mind at work. His true self.”
Angelika leaned on the doorframe. “Mary has complained about messes in various rooms, but I thought she was exaggerating.”
“Then an apology is owed.” Victor’s tone was dry. “Will asked me the other day when she will finish working for us. I honestly never thought about it. She is well beyond working age.”
Angelika winced. “We are lucky to never consider how we will live, or survive, or afford anything. We will never have to work until we are Mary’s age.”
Victor was open-mouthed. “I have never heard you speak like that. Usually, you are just at me for more, with your hand outstretched.”
“It’s Will. He’s opening my eyes, and he makes me want to be . . . better. I want him to be proud of me. And I want to be able to wake in the middle of the night and know I am as good as I can be.” She tensed, expecting teasing.
Victor just nodded.
“I am the same with Lizzie. And when I find my own creation, and bring him safely home, I think I will have a chance at being my best self. I care less about Schneider now. That poor wretch, lost out there.” He paused, wincing, trying to choose his words. “I am very proud of you, for starting to think this way, and I shall do the same. I think we lost our parents before we could learn the importance of economy.”
“And charity. And community. Will’s always thinking about others. What is he looking for in here now, I wonder? He knows I’ll give him anything he wants.”
Victor lifted the candelabra higher. “We cannot wake him suddenly. The shock could be too much for him.” They watched Will pawing in a pile of papers.
Angelika said, “I have heard of a technique called mesmerism, in which we could attempt to speak to his sleeping mind. I would want his consent first, and it requires further research before we attempt it.”
Victor did not have his sister’s ethics. “Let us see if we can gain a clue. Will. I say, Will.” There was no reply. “It is not his true name, so he does not reply. I say, my friend, what are you searching for in there?”
The siblings winced as Will roughly pulled out drawers from their father’s desk. It took a lot of effort not to intervene.
“Do you need money?” Victor asked him.
“No,” Will replied in a lifeless tone. Angelika let out a squeak and hid behind her brother. He looked as though he had risen from the morgue on his own accord.
Victor began guessing. “A map. Parchment to write on. A keepsake from your past. A musical instrument. A favorite book.” Will looked up. Victor seized on his last suggestion. “You want a book. Tell me the author. We will have it, or I can get it.”
Will turned to the bookshelf, then began touching the spines of books in almost total darkness. They tried for several more minutes to engage with him. Every question that Victor asked was met with an irritated headshake, indifference, or that same flat no. They could not ascertain his name, his age, his place of birth, or his favorite fruit.
“Maybe he is searching for his estate’s ledger,” Angelika suggested. “Or a certificate of ownership.”
The candle was burning lower, and Victor hissed when the wax began dripping on his hand. Enough was enough.
“You can’t find what you’re looking for because it’s too dark,” Angelika told Will as she stepped into the room. This got his head turning back toward them, his search forgotten. Her insides thrilled at how he responded to her presence, drawn closer like a moth to a flame, his dark eyes on her.
Softly she asked, “My love, are you quite all right?”
Will replied, “I’m all right.”
Victor nudged her. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to hear his secret thoughts about you. I’ll ask him. Do you know my sister, Angelika?”
“I know her,” Will replied.
“We’ve found his favorite topic,” Victor said, and continued: “And what do you make of her? Do you think she is beautiful?”
Will nodded, a serious crease on his brow.
“Is she smart, and funny, and talented?”
“She is all of those things,” Will said.
(Angelika huffed modestly, and also hoped this line of questioning would never end.)
Victor grinned wickedly at his sister. “And would you like to make her your wife?”
“I cannot,” Will said.
“Why not?” Angelika asked, hurt. The certainty of her feelings could no longer be sidestepped, and she could confess it safely, knowing he might not remember in the morning. “I love you, Will. I’d marry you if you asked me.” When he said nothing, she pressed: “Do you already have a wife?”
Will replied, “I cannot, and will not, ever marry you.”
“I understand,” Angelika said. It was all laid bare tonight; she was a vapid, wastrel heiress, inured to her own privilege, up to her ankles in rotting apples while the village starved. She was not good enough. Tears welled in her eyes.
He saw them and moved closer, perhaps seeking to apologize or comfort, but fell over the debris on the floor. When he got onto his hands and knees, they could see he was now awake and completely disoriented. “Where—where am I?”
“Calm yourself. You were sleepwalking,” Victor told him. “And we are going to use this development to find out who you are. Here, take my hand, I’ll help you up. Wait, Jelly, where are you going?”
Angelika managed to hold back her tears until she was upstairs. Below, she could hear a bewildered Will asking, “What did I do to her?” She couldn’t bear the look on his face if she explained, so she ignored Will’s knocking on her bedroom door until he gave up.
Angelika thought that perhaps she should give up, too.
Chapter Eleven
Clara Hoggett, the widow of the deceased military officer, was crippled by grief. She had been shocked to find Angelika and Commander Keatings on her doorstep, then burst into tears. Twice she had gone to fill a teakettle, and both times left it abandoned.
Commander Keatings—Christopher, as he insisted on being called—took one look at the fireplace and went outside to cut some wood.
In her cramped sitting room, Clara moved from each pile of clutter, apologizing profusely. “I received the commander’s calling card, of course, but I cannot remember the days anymore.” She bundled some children’s clothing into her arms but could not figure out where to place them. “I do not know if it is day or night.”
Angelika was alarmed at the woman’s increasingly frantic motions. “Please, rest yourself. You do not have to tidy up. I don’t care if your home is pristine.” She retrieved the armful of laundry from the woman.
Angelika was grateful to have left Blackthorne Manor. The sleepwalking incident had driven a splinter into her heart, and it pricked every time Will looked at her.
What did I say to you last night?
You said enough.
Christopher reappeared, interrupting the bad memory, with cut logs stacked on his forearms. Once the fire was crackling bright, Angelika could not see a single crease on his coat. He understood her perusal and grinned. His nature was thankfully not starchy. He’d be unbearable otherwise.
Together, they coaxed Clara to sit in the chair by the fire and made tea for her.
“You’re the first visitors in . . . well . . .” Clara didn’t need to finish her sentence. It was very obvious she was without any support. “I’m just glad my boy is sleeping. Thank you so much,” she repeated again as she leaned down to creak open the lid of the wicker basket they had earlier presented her with. “I have not had meat in an age.” Judging by the kitchen larder, she had not had much of anything.
“Our hogs are kept in our apple orchard, and they eat the fallen apples. It gives the meat a marvelous flavor, and they live so happily.” Angelika sat down onto a low stool. She began attempting to fold the laundry, something she did not have much experience with. These were such small, oddly shaped clothes. Christopher would be better suited to this task. She held up a tunic. “How old is your baby?”
“He is just turned one. Do you have children, Miss Frankenstein? Oh, goodness.” Clara went red. It was the first color they’d seen in her face. “Of course you do not, an unmarried lady. I apologize. I’m so muddled.”
Angelika grinned. “It’s quite all right. I’m overdue for one, I do admit.”
“You must get organized on that front. If I can assist in any way, do let me know,” Christopher urged her with an easy smile. The mood of the room depended on how Angelika would respond.