The Monster's Wife(25)

The doctor cleared his throat. “This body you have seen, and the hand you found... They are indeed real things. When I came here, I brought a subject with me, a dead body that came from a morgue in Ireland. Anatomy, dissection - they are medical practices. Not salubrious, perhaps, but not breaking of any laws, either. I did not kill anyone, Oona, and I certainly did not break into your farm.”

Coloured spots whirled before her like motes in sunlight. Pink. Blue. Yellow. She squeezed her stinging eyes shut. What he said had the ring of truth, but she did not know whether to believe him. She forced her head to pivot back on her aching neck, facing him, staring into his eyes. He looked back, his gaze plain, a little bloodshot, but unblinking, like a person with nothing to hide.

“May?” she croaked.

He ran his hand through his hair and grinned his easy grin. “May has departed for the day, but on her way home she will assuredly pass by your grandmother’s cottage and inform her of your whereabouts, so that your family will not be concerned.” He stood and for the first time, she saw how rumpled he looked. His face was grey and lined with worry. “I’m glad you woke. I watched you for a long time.” He bent and for a moment his hand touched hers, before he walked to the door. When he reached it, he turned and looked back. “I’ve given you laudanum to make you relaxed. With any piece of luck you will sleep.”

Laudanum. She remembered when Mrs Yule was prescribed it and how she lay in bed for days, not seeing or hearing. Deep down, Oona felt worry kneading her as a cat kneads a familiar human, milk-greedy, claws half velveted. May had gone. She was here alone with someone who cut up bodies and whether he was or was not a murderer, he had, nonetheless, drugged her.

But her fear soon began to sink under layers of softness deeper and deeper, leaving a sense of profound ease she had not felt since a small child. She drifted softly, a leaf on the burn. Was this how Mrs. Yule felt? Was this what it was to die? If so, it was actually pleasant.

Nothing mattered. She had no desire to do anything but watch the sun as it moved round, spots of coloured light shifting over her hands and arms, over the bare skin at her throat and the freckled tops of her breasts. Somebody had stripped her naked and put her in here. All the time the doctor had sat with her, she had been naked. She wanted to turn over and bury her shamed face deep in the pillows, but she was too weak, too tired, too easy. Her eyes were dry, the lids heavy as stones. She closed them just for a moment.





21


When she awoke, the dying sun rouged the bellies of clouds outside the mullioned windows. The room was dark except for a candle someone had placed on the dresser. Frankenstein must have lit it a while before, because the flame flickered low and the wick spat at its own melted fat. She stretched her arms. Her body ached and her lips burned.

She needed water. Slowly, achingly, she rolled over and inched to the edge of the bed. Propping herself on her elbow, she saw that even the dresser was covered in papers. They spilled from a leather-bound book lying open in front of the ewer. She pushed herself up and grasped the cool edge of the porcelain bowl. When she found it to be full, her head grew light. She dipped her hand down and scooped up a palmful of water, drank, scooped again, drank, tasting her own salt.

A drop of water splashed up and hit a sheet of paper. She grabbed up the sheet and mopped the speck with her dry hand, dabbing and rubbing with her finger until the water had almost blended with the paper. Her eyes darted over its contents, a sketch of a delicate woman, her hair swept up in graceful waves. Beneath the drawing, in the doctor’s curling script were the words Meine sch?ne Elisabeth. German words. Something something and Elizabeth. The eyes were clear and shining with tenderness. She recognised that expression from looking at May’s face sometimes when things were well with Stuart and they were together. Upon seeing it now, a feeling she couldn’t describe flooded her heart.

She put the paper back and collapsed on the bed, exhausted by the small exertion. Something flashed against the window, a pale moon pressed close, a bird banging the glass. She struggled up against the pillows, blood roaring in her ears.

The candle painted a flickering image of the room onto the windows. She saw the bed, the dresser, the door, and herself, a loam-white nude, hair spilling like fresh blood over her shoulders, eyes feverish pits. It was impossible to see anything outside, except for the pinky hue of the sunset and something else, pale and indefinite, near to the glass.

Someone was there.

Breath in-held, she rose to her knees and pinched the wick of the candle. The flame bit her fingers. Hot fat coated her skin. Slowly, she looked up.

There was the figure again.

This time she knew it was no fancy or imagining. There was someone outside the window, a face pressed to the glass, staring.

Their gazes met, just long enough for her to make out the blue of his eyes and the thick scar running over the bridge of his nose.

He vanished. The window showed nothing but the mottled red sky and the glow of the yellow moon.

She stumbled out of bed and banged her hip bone, cursed at the pain. The false ease had fled and her drugged flesh prickled. Her hands groped before her, purblind.

She found the door and ran her hands over its seam until she grasped the handle’s cold metal. She turned it down, up, again and again, wrenched as hard as she could. Her flesh shook and sweat pooled in the small of her back.

It was no good. The door was locked. Before she had foolishly snuffed the candle, she had taken a careful look around the room. There was no way out save the locked door. No place to hide either. She was stranded here, naked and alone, until someone saw fit to let her out.