This Monstrous Thing(48)
“Have you been trying to work that out the whole trip? You should have asked me—I would have told you that a long time ago.”
“Don’t be an ass, you don’t understand.”
“So explain it to me.”
I traced the rim of my mug with my thumb and stared down at the inky surface of the wine. “All I’ve ever wanted my whole life is to study at Ingolstadt with Geisler. And when I brought Oliver back, I had to give that up. But coming here, and what Geisler offered me—I could have it back again. I could have Ingolstadt and Oliver.”
“So you really were going to assume your rightful place as Victor Frankenstein.”
“Never mind.” I shoved my chair back and started to stand, but Clémence caught me around the wrist.
“Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Sit down.” I stood still, face away from her, until she gave another tug and I let her drag me back down. She ducked her head, staring down at the chouquettes, and nodded once. “All right. So you’re not giving Oliver to Geisler. What made up your mind?”
I took a drink so I didn’t have to answer right away. I wasn’t sure how to explain that Oliver had been so good before he died—wild and impulsive and absolutely mental sometimes, but good. The more I’d thought about him since I left Geneva, the more I had remembered that. And if there was a sliver of that left somewhere inside of him, it was worth giving up Ingolstadt and clockwork and studying with Geisler. Because more than any of that, I wanted Oliver back the way he had been—the boy who’d stolen strawberries for my birthday and skated with me and knocked out a man’s teeth when he tried to hurt a clockwork beggar. If there was even a chance he was still there, I couldn’t hand him over for Geisler to take apart in his laboratory
But instead of any of that, I said, “He’s my brother.” Right then, it felt like reason enough.
The clock above the mantelpiece struck two. The common room was nearly empty. Clémence glanced up as a couple down the table from us departed, then back at me. “So you go to Geneva, play along so Geisler thinks you’re still on his side. Then you grab Oliver and run.” That was the extent of my plan, so I nodded. “And what happens to Oliver after that? Have you thought that maybe you should let him go?”
“You mean on his own?” I shook my head. “I can’t do that, he’s . . .” I trailed off, remembering she had gears running inside her, but she finished for me.
“A monster?”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You were going to use a sweeter word, but it still means the same thing.”
“People wouldn’t understand him. He’d never find somewhere safe to live on his own, especially not with Frankenstein out. Can you imagine anyone would want Frankenstein’s monster renting a flat from them or working at their shop?”
“Have you ever thought,” she countered, “that maybe Oliver only acts like a monster because you treat him like one?”
I frowned. “How do you mean that?”
“You keep him locked up, away from everyone. You’ve taught him what he is by that alone. There are places in this world that are safe for clockwork men. I’ve heard that in Russia they’re actually employing mechanics in their hospitals to help put men injured in the war back together. Most places are better than Geneva anyways, so get him out of there. Find somewhere to settle him. It doesn’t have to be far from you, but if he’s on his own, he won’t feel like he’s something that has to be hidden. That alone might change his temperament.”
“What about this?” I pulled Frankenstein out of my coat pocket and set it on the table between us. “Oliver’s not like other clockworks—people will figure out it’s about him wherever he goes.”
“Maybe you need to find the author,” she said. “Talk to him.”
“I’m worried it might be Oliver.”
“I don’t think so. He would have made himself the hero of his story, don’t you think?” She picked up Frankenstein and turned it over like there was some clue hidden in its binding. “The remarkable thing about this book is that everyone’s trying to make it a political statement, but I don’t think the author was. It just feels like a story. If you’re lucky, perhaps most people who read it will assume it’s fiction.”
I thought of the badges issued to clockworks in Geneva. Frankenstein badges. People had already taken it as fact. “It’s too strange to be fiction,” I said. “There’s got to be a reason someone wrote it.”
“And there’s no one else who knows?” she asked. “You’re certain?”
“No one. Just me and Oliver and . . .” I trailed off.
But Clémence heard the trail. “And?”
“And what?”
“You said and. There’s an and. Who’s the and?”
I sighed. “Do you remember the girl I told you about, Mary Godwin? The first girl I kissed.”
A slow smile spread across her face. “Alasdair Finch. Did you go bragging about your clockwork resurrection to impress a pretty girl?”
“No, it wasn’t like that,” I said. “I mean it was, she was pretty, and I . . .” Clémence’s smile was going wider and I stopped before I made a fool of myself. “Oliver and I were friends with her in Geneva. After he died, I didn’t know anyone else I could ask and I couldn’t do it by myself, so she dug up his coffin with me, and went to the clock tower to bring him back. She was there the whole time.”