Page 35 of Adam, Mine

Elias stopped in the doorway, then looked at Jaan over his shoulder.

“I cannot be sure, but . . . whatever you do, do not let them see your back,” Jaan said.

Elias frowned. His back didn’t feel any more painful than the rest of him. There weren’t stitches there, he knew that for certain. But he nodded curtly and shut the book room behind him.

When he reached the first floor and finally found the entrance, his shoes that he had left outside the window were set directly in front of it. Cleaned of the dust of a full day in the roads, leather buffed to a shine.

Next to them, folded carefully in a soft suede envelope, was more money than Elias had ever seen in his life. More than the tavern made in a year. More than enough to buy a farm and start anew. More than enough to cross land and seas.

A token for his journey, indeed. Elias tucked the envelope in his jacket. Jaan must be a Catholic. They paid their penance in coin.

Elias wanted to say thank you, but the halls were empty, silent. He did not have the power to even shout a goodbye into the darkness.

So he pulled the book out of his coat and tore out the first blank page.

Elias folded it into a Froebel star and left it sitting on the doormat.

France

Dax was a place Victor wouldn’t be returning to, if he could stand it.

The moment he stepped from the train, the air was thick with the reek of fish, and it was more crowded than it had any right to be, considering its size.

After significant haggling in a language too clumsy for his tongue, Victor settled his belongings at an inn and freshened up to go find Alain.

The address given to him required an hour’s ride on horseback to a beautiful country house painted white and covered with blooming flowers, despite the chill.

It gave Victor the queerest feeling as he looked at them. They shouldn’t even be growing at this time of year, much less so vibrantly.

As he got closer, however, he understood. The ground beneath his feet was warm and plush, even on the gravel path to the front door. The heat from the soil rose, bold and steamless, keeping the air around the blooms a balmy seventy degrees.

Victor climbed the steps to the porch, still eyeing the garden suspiciously.

“Most visitors have an invitation.” A voice curled out the window. “But I can’t turn down a fresh face.”

Victor jolted in surprise, whipping around to see a man leaning on the windowsill. The shutters had opened silent as a ghost.

The French alchemist was in his early fifties, blond, and Victor could admit he was very handsome. He had the brown lined face of a man who had spent a great deal of time in the sun and the strong forearms of a man who did hard work.

His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, cornflower-blue shirt opened at the collar. He was rakish, but his disarray couldn’t shake the air that he was high born, a true gentleman. A man at leisure in his home. At once, Victor desired to become like him.

“Hello.” Victor collected himself. “I’m looking for Alain Cloutier? I’m Victor Frankenstein, son of Alphonse Frankenstein. Recently graduated from the University of Ingelstad?”

Alain looked curious for a moment. “Did Mr. Fitz send you my way, ma petite araignée?”* he asked softly.

Victor nodded. “I got your contact from his address book. I was recommended to visit by a Mr. Sauer as well.

Alain raised his eyebrows at that. “The Archivist himself? Well, you must be in trouble.”

He slipped from the window to the door next to it, opening it wide. Alain paused for a minute to look Victor over, like he was committing him to memory, before stepping aside to let him into his home.

The French alchemist lived in a house straight from a fairy story. White kitchen, gleaming wood floors, blue china, and handmade doilies. It looked altogether much like what Victor imagined a house his Elizabeth would make if she were allowed her choice for every element.

It certainly didn’t look like a house for a bachelor—much less a scientist—and yet there were no signs of women around. No photographs or paintings of a dear wife or daughter, no bonnets, and boots by the door. No smell of bread cooking or girls singing as they went about their work. It was uncanny.

Alain pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and bade Victor to sit, pulling out a bottle of uncorked wine to split.

“So?” he said, the way French people did. Polite and impatient, in their own way.