Bride

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  This woman was beautiful in a way that inspired both admiration and envy in me at once. Her long, radiant blonde hair framed her face like an angel. Her skin was fair in a way that mine was not, even before death. As I held her fixed in my gaze, I couldn’t help feeling there was something familiar about her. Had I known her when I was Justine?

  “Is something the matter?” she asked, meeting my gaze with blue eyes that appeared both gentle and thoughtful. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve only just arrived,” I answered quickly, mirroring her smile. Where once the expression would have been genuine, it was now forced, a calculated gesture in a much larger game. I had learned much indeed about mankind, but what had I lost in the process?

  “Splendid,” the woman said, offering a genuine smile. “Please allow me to show you around the city. It’s the least I can do to show my thanks.”

  “I wouldn’t want to put you out,” I said, uncertain of whether or not to accept her offer. The last time I had opened myself up to a friend hadn’t worked out well for any involved. Yet however resistant to companionship I remained, a guide might prove helpful, and there was something about this woman I couldn’t help liking.

  “Nonsense,” she said with a cheerful laugh, slipping her arm into mine before I could pull away. “I won’t hear another word about it. If anything, this will be a welcome reprieve from all the tedious wedding planning.”

  “I noticed the ring,” I answered, walking side by side through the marketplace with my new companion.

  She lifted her hand and stared at it for a moment, shaking her head. “Gaudy, isn’t it? It belonged to my fiancé’s mother. She died some time ago. He loved her dearly—we all did.”

  So, although she was marrying into money, her embarrassment hinted that she came from humbler beginnings herself. I felt a strange kinship with this woman. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, no stranger to suffering myself.

  “It was a long time ago,” she said, lightly touching the ring. “Her death brought us closer. Happiness can come from even the saddest circumstances, I think.”

  I laughed, struck by the sentiment.

  “What?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “You remind me of someone I used to know.” There was a time when I was young and the world seemed similar, until I discovered life’s cruelty. I respected the woman’s optimism, even if I knew it to be an empty comfort against a harsh reality.

  “You haven’t told me what brings you to Geneva,” the woman said curiously.

  “Seeking answers,” I replied. “Though at the moment, I would settle for a place to rest and find lodging.”

  “That should be easy enough to manage.” The woman led me down a sidewalk, where she pointed out various landmarks, stores, and locations of note as we traversed the city. We stopped outside a tall, stone building a short walk from the market. “Here we are. You won’t find better accommodations in the city.”

  The White Mountain Inn, read a sign in front of the door. It bore an image of a snowcapped peak, an obvious reference to Mont Blanc—the highest mountain in the Alps—which was visible from the inn.

  “Thank you,” I said as we stood outside the entrance. “I won’t forget your help.”

  “Nor I yours. I only wish we had met under happier circumstances,” she added, in reference to the event that brought our paths together.

  “It’s surprising the soldier reacted the way he did over a simple apple,” I said, observing her reaction carefully. “I had heard that Geneva was a welcoming and hospitable city.”

  The woman’s face turned somber. “This city was a different place until a few years ago.”

  I followed her gaze as she looked over the bustling city streets. Despite its rustic character, the city’s bustling economy seemed to produce citizenry from all walks of life, including a sizable middle class in addition to both the poorer and more affluent. Although many people appeared bright and friendly, there was an unmistakable tension in the air, tangible and unspoken.

  “What happened?”

  “Two years ago, a child was murdered—strangled to death.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. William.

  She sighed and looked away, pained. “There were others, too, who died under mysterious circumstances. Some claimed to have seen a monstrous figure lurking in the woods. Before that, graves had been looted—corpses gone missing. The city hasn’t been the same since. The villagers are prone to superstitious beliefs. They’ve had enough to handle, given two years of drought and poor harvests. The villagers believe the devil is at work in Geneva. Those in power aren’t much better, stoking fear and division to wield power over the peasantry.”

  “And the authorities never apprehended the culprit?” I waited with bated breath for her to mention Justine’s name, but she did not. Instead, my companion shook her head sadly.

  “They hanged an innocent girl by mistake,” she said, and it was all I could do to contain my surprise. “She was my friend.” A carriage pulled up to a sidewalk across the street before I could reply, and the woman looked over her shoulder. “I’m afraid my fiancé is waiting for me,” she said apologetically. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Will you be in Geneva for long?”

  “I’m not sure,” I answered, at a loss for words. A creeping sense of realization was beginning to dawn on me.

  “If you’re in town for long, I hope we meet again. I think we could be friends.” She held out her bare hand, and I took shook it, my own covered by a glove. The woman stared toward the carriage but stopped suddenly and glanced back at me. “You never told me your name.”

  “Penny,” I answered, meeting her blue eyes, and suddenly I remembered where I had seen her before. She was the woman pictured inside Victor’s pocket watch.

  “My name is Elizabeth,” she replied as I stared after her. “Elizabeth Lavenza.”

  I went out again just before sunset, the sky ablaze with a fiery orange tint. The warmth began to fade with the promise of night. It was quiet outside, the crowd having thinned in the marketplace as buyers and sellers alike returned home to their families. I left the town square behind and made my way to one of the more impoverished neighborhoods in the city, walking alone along the docks. The houses and buildings ahead held little of Geneva’s rustic charm. Many were boarded up or abandoned, much like the district itself.

  I pressed forward, and at last I came to a cracked, narrow road where a little boy sat on a fence nearby, watching the gulls circling above. Like the child I encountered in the marketplace earlier, his clothes were dirty and well worn. The boy glanced up and saw me coming. His astonishment was unremarkable, as my fashionable clothes were out of place in that portion of the city.

  “Child,” I said kindly, and he drew back when he met my gaze, perhaps taken aback by my amber-colored eyes. “Does Madame Moritz still live in this place? Can you tell me where I might find her?”

  “You shouldn’t be here, ma’am,” the boy said. “The pox has spread through this neighborhood.”

  I laughed, unconcerned, and the child frowned in response. I had nothing to fear from the pox. Victor had made me immune to death and disease, if not to suffering. I reached into my coat and tossed the boy a small pouch full of silver coins, and his eyes widened in wonder. He had likely never seen so much wealth in his entire life.

  “Take me to her,” I said. “Show me the way.”

  The child nodded and leapt from the fence without another word, motioning me to follow. We continued in silence. We met not a soul along the abandoned road. My thoughts turned again to my chance encounter with Elizabeth. This was the woman Victor had pledged himself to, for whom he had forsaken me. I pictured him with her, against whose beauty even mine paled, and felt a sudden surge of resentment toward her. I was torn between the initial affinity I felt for her and the knowledge that she was my chief rival for Victor’s affections.

  One thing was clear—Elizabeth had not recogniz
ed me. We had both come of age living with the Frankenstein family, but when she saw me now, she no longer knew me. This put me at a distinct advantage over all those who believed Justine Moritz was dead, something I would put to good use in the days to come. Before then, however, there was one little task that remained.

  The boy came to a stop at the end of the road, and I found myself facing a sight ripped straight from my memories. The shack was tattered and in disarray, but the image was unmistakable. This was once my home. It was where I had lived as a child, before my mother cast me out. The boy and I exchanged a long glance and he fled on foot without a sound. I wondered if like the animals, he had also sensed something in me that made him afraid.

  I did not know what waited for me inside the shack—perhaps nothing at all. Despite my efforts to restrain my emotions, the memory of my father’s death came roaring to the surface, and I felt the sting of his loss as if it were yesterday. When I remembered my mother’s cruel words, my fists curled up in tight balls, shaking with rage. I closed my eyes and let the rising anger wash over me, until again I was calm. I had come with one purpose: to discover the truth of what happened to Justine. If anyone had the answers I sought, it was her mother.

  I gathered my courage and knocked on the splintered door. There was no answer, and I stared at the door for a long while, greeted by silence. This was a mistake. I should never have come here.

  “Who is it?” a weak voice called from inside, and my back stiffened in response. “Is someone there?”

  I did not reply. Instead, I eased open the door and peered inside. The shack’s interior was dark, though my eyes pierced the shadows with ease. It was clear that my mother had fallen on hard times. Even the shabby hut Dot and Agnes had shared was a castle compared to the squalor I found inside my former home. Mold and dirt clung to the walls. There were holes in the floorboards.

  I searched for the source of the woman’s voice. A kettle whined over the hearth, unattended. In the corner of the room, tucked under a pile of blankets, lay a frail, elderly woman. I recognized her as my mother at once. The likeness was unmistakable, but she was greatly changed from the woman reflected in Justine’s memories. Her hair was white and brittle, her frame wasted and shrunken. My gaze lingered on her skin, which was covered by a red rash and oozing blisters in varying stages of development.

  “Who’s there?” she asked. Her eyes opened, and I saw they were gray and dulled.

  She’s blind, I realized.

  She began to speak again, but was interrupted by a coughing fit before she could get the next words out.

  I stared down at this woman who had treated Justine with such cruelty, hatred gripping my heart. My hands itched at my sides, as if they longed to choke the life from her, but something about her wretched state aroused an unexpected sense of pity in me.

  “Madame Moritz?” I asked, announcing myself. “My name is Penny—Penny Moritz. I was a relative of your late husband.”

  Her face scrunched up in confusion. “My husband never said much about his family,” she muttered. “Bad blood, you understand. What did you say your name was?” She began coughing again, and when she drew the rag back, it was covered in blood.

  “Penny,” I repeated, and for the first time it occurred to me that perhaps even my voice no longer resembled Justine’s. “Would you like some tea?” I asked before I was aware of it. I frowned, surprised by the sudden impulse. Where did that come from?

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I turned to the teapot and rummaged through her dust-covered cabinets until I found an intact teacup. “I was sorry to learn of your husband’s passing. I wish I could have known him.” I glanced at her over my shoulder. “Where are your children? Have they moved out?” I tried to keep the hope from my voice. I remembered next to nothing of my siblings, but longed for the possibility of rekindling this last link to Justine’s humanity.

  “Dead,” she said, her voice somewhere between a whisper and a wail. “All dead.”

  “How?” I asked, nearly dropping the teacup from my tremulous grip.

  “Three died years ago of the pox,” she said sadly, and I realized that loss and pain had broken her long before the disease left its mark.

  “Here you are,” I said, helping her sit up in bed. I handed her the cup and guided it to her lips.

  “You’re very kind,” she said gratefully, but all I could think about was how easy it would be to break her neck. Even as I sat beside her, the memories of her mistreatment of Justine came pouring out, as easily as the tea flowed from the cup. I remembered being forced to scrub the floors long after the others had gone to sleep, reciting scripture as she struck me with her paddle for perceived disobedience, how she had blamed me for my father’s death, and all the other tortures and indignities she had inflicted upon me over the years. Worse still, she had robbed me of any chance I had of knowing my true family.

  “And the fourth?” I asked. “How did she die?”

  “Justine,” she whispered, and I laid my hand on her shoulder, inches from her neck. “My Justine.” I started to tighten my grip, but she lowered her head, and in the darkness, I saw her tears. “It’s not true what they say about her. Justine would never have harmed that boy—she couldn’t have.”

  “Tell me what happened,” I said coldly, aware that I would never have died if she hadn’t first forever altered my destiny by discarding her little girl.

  She sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to drain all the air from the room. “I’ve heard the story so many times now, but I think I’ve managed to put together the truth of it. Justine was a servant of the Frankenstein family, the nanny of their youngest boy, William. One day, William went missing while they were in the woods.”

  “He died,” I said, remembering the image of his corpse, of those little hands and feet, forever stilled.

  “Horrible too, it was. Strangled to death—that’s what they said. The search party found Justine asleep in a barn, where she had been looking for him. The boy’s locket was in the folds of her dress.” She sniffled, dabbing her tears with the bloody rag. “They marched her to the town square and hanged her without a trial. It wasn’t right.”

  “I want you to think very carefully,” I said. “Who was responsible for her death?”

  “The priest told the crowd she confessed,” my mother said. “He forced her, more likely. Justine was a good Catholic, you see, and most of the peasants are Protestants. It would have been easy to make them hate her.”

  “The priest,” I muttered. “Anyone else?”

  “The constable should have stopped them, but he let the mob have her. He’s always hated the Frankenstein family.”

  “And what of the Frankenstein family?” I asked. “Did they believe her innocence?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. They keep to themselves mostly, tucked away in their castle.” My mother grabbed my arm suddenly, as if to reinforce the seriousness of her point. “Justine was innocent—truly innocent. She never hurt anyone in her life, no matter how harsh they were to her.” She paused, as if admitting something to herself. “I would give anything to have her back.”

  I was so stunned by this sudden admission that I had to stumble for words. “You miss her?”

  My mother nodded. “Justine was a gift from God. I just couldn’t see it. My husband loved her the most, and I was always jealous of her. I took her kindness for granted. This is my punishment for my sins.” I turned away, and she followed my gaze to the door. “Wait,” she asked, and I stiffened. “Who are you?”

  “A ghost,” I answered.

  Another coughing spell seized her so violently the bed shook, and she lay flat on the cot, exhausted, the bloodstained rag at her side. I looked down as her chest rose and fell, each breath shallow and ragged. It might have been kinder to kill her now and put an end to her suffering. I left her instead to die alone, unsure if it was an act of mercy or vengeance.

  Chapter Twelve

  The light was dying ou
tside as I emerged from the place that was once my home. The shack was now little more than a hollow shell, like the husk of a once-towering tree that had withered and died in the cold. I did not look back.

  I told myself that I felt nothing, that I was no longer human. Only one was true. My body shuddered involuntarily at how close I had come to releasing my pent-up anger on my mother. Had some remnant of Justine’s kindness stayed my hand, or was it something else? My eyes burned, but I would not permit myself to shed any more tears for what had been. I had come too far to show weakness now.

  Be strong, I told myself, fighting down my emotions. Ahead, the harbor loomed across the lake, where the last light of the sun lingered on the still waters. The ships rocked peacefully where they were docked under the towering mountains. I stopped and lingered there for a moment, watching the scene until a calm settled over me.

  I was just about to start on the road that would take me back to the tavern when I saw him.

  Victor.

  My eyes would have known the form of my creator anywhere, even over the considerable distance. Victor wore a waistcoat and cravat, along with a pair of dark trousers. His black hair, once wild and unruly, had been cropped short, concealing much of the gray at the sides.

  A lump formed in my throat. How I once longed for this moment, and yet, confronted at last by the prospect of our reunion, I remained where I stood, watching. So many times I had wondered where he was, if he had been arrested for Henry’s death, or if he had simply abandoned me. Now here he was in one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods as if nothing had ever happened. Had he even attempted to search for me?

  Victor was in the midst of a modest number of peasants afflicted with the pox. It was impossible to hear what was said, though it was clear they were suffering. As I looked on, Victor went to each of them in turn, injecting something into their arms through a syringe. Some of the villagers took note from afar but did not approach, regarding him with suspicion, while others still thanked him for his help. When he had gone to each of the villagers, Victor made a few scribbles in a journal before returning the syringe and the vials he had used to his satchel. He departed as night set in around us, and I followed him in the dusk, unnoticed.