Dr. Frankenstein's Daughters (3 page)

FROM THE DIARY OF
GISELLE VON DER WIEN

June 7, 1815

Castle Frankenstein has set my imagination ablaze with ideas of both its past and its future. It is broken-down, disheveled, filled with insects and cobwebs; damp, leaky, drafty — and yet when I imagine how I can convert the rooms to my liking it fills me with excitement. The place is a blank slate, a tabula rasa, on which I can imprint my own vision. As we walked through the high-ceilinged open spaces of the castle, Baron Frankenstein bemoaned the decline of its condition, shaking his head woefully and muttering what a shame it was that the place had been allowed to fall into such disrepair.

At one point I stopped to run my fingers along the thick, wavy, and bubbled stained glass of the windows. I was distracted, imagining how I could convert the rooms to my liking, and when I turned to ask Uncle Ernest a question, he and Ingrid were gone.

Searching for them, I came upon Baron Frankenstein standing alone in an empty room that looked out over the ocean. The poor man’s eyes were filled with sadness. “I once sat here with my beloved mother, and she told me and Victor thrilling tales of giants and ogres in this countryside, a legacy from the Vikings who once raided and ruled here,” he said when he saw I was observing him. “Victor loved the stories.”

“Were you and my father close?” I asked politely.

“Victor was a wonderful brother,” Baron Frankenstein stated passionately. “As a boy he was full of imagination, but eventually it overtook him. He imagined too much! He was insatiable for knowledge and it drove him mad. In the end I didn’t know him at all — nor did I wish to know him. When he returned from the university, he wasn’t the brother I knew, but rather an agitated, paranoid lunatic, always looking over his shoulder for an imagined enemy.”

“We know next to nothing about our father, except that we have heard people call him a genius,” I said. “Do you think that his genius drove him out of his mind?”

“Yes. But there was more to it than that. It was as though something had happened to make him shun family and friend alike.”

The man was shaking, and the heartfelt passion of his words was alarming. I stepped back to create some distance from them, for the idea that we had a father who had gone mad was not pleasing to me. Ingrid would remind me that such traits can be handed down from parent to child.

Baron Frankenstein dashed the mist from his eyes and addressed me with more composure. “Will you be so kind as to find your sister and join me here? This seems as good a place as any to conduct the business of your inheritance. I see no reason to delay.”

After nearly ten minutes of searching the vast castle, I came upon Ingrid in a small fifth-floor room where a narrow, glassless window revealed the vivid blue of the sky. She sat on the floor, engrossed in a large, thick, yellowed notebook. Looking up at me, her violet eyes shone with excitement. “These are our father’s writings,” she told me, “and they are amazing.”

Settling on the floor beside her, I gazed down at the crumbling paper and saw the hurried, jagged scrawl indicative of an author in an agitated state. In contrast to the sloppily dashed annotations were biological illustrations rendered with impeccable precision; body parts of every sort were labeled and in some cases crossed out.

“Look at these drawings! Aren’t they remarkable?” Ingrid gushed.

“They are truly impressive,” I said, pulling the drawings closer.

“There are more notebooks,” Ingrid said, pointing to a dusty stack of thick books across the room.

“Are they journals?” I asked.

“Yes, they seem to be both scientific
and
personal,” Ingrid revealed.

With a clap of dust, she flipped to the front of the notebook, which was filled with scientific formulas. “I’m getting to a section where I’m having difficulty following what he’s talking about,” she admitted. “Since this is the first of the notebooks, it starts back in Geneva, before he even gets to university. I can follow some of what he says back then, as a boy of sixteen. He’s very interested in the ancient science of alchemy, and I can comprehend some of what he’s saying since I’ve read up on it a bit myself.”

“Alchemy?” I asked, having never heard the word.

Ingrid sighed and sat back on her heels. “It’s a very ancient science that attempts to transform simple metals into gold and silver.”

“But our father was mad,” I told Ingrid. “Baron Frankenstein told me so.”

I thought this news would disturb Ingrid as it had disturbed me. But instead she asked thoughtfully, “Aren’t all geniuses a bit mad?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “In my opinion, no amount of brilliance is worth it if you’re also deranged. What possible good can come of a madman’s work?”

Ingrid shook her head, and I could see from the fire in her eyes that she was not taking any of this lightly. “He was not mad when he was sixteen and wrote these things,” she insisted, tapping the notebook.

“But isn’t believing in alchemy like believing in magic?” I suggested.

“Count Volta doesn’t think so,” Ingrid said. “Although he never said so publicly, one day he told me that his work with metals and electricity made him more convinced than ever that the alchemists were onto something since they were involved in working with metals. He and his mentor, Luigi Galvani, created current by making positive and negative metals. Galvani proved that animal body parts could be brought to life by running current through them.”

“But that’s not making gold,” I pointed out.

“Isn’t that gold of a sort? Or greater, even, than gold?”

“Are you saying that reenergizing body parts is the same as creating gold?” I asked skeptically.

“Isn’t it?” Ingrid answered.

This was too complex for me to consider, and it still struck me as a sort of lunacy, proof that what Baron Frankenstein had said about our father being mad was true.

Standing and extending my hand, I drew Ingrid up to her feet. “Baron Frankenstein has documents for us to sign before he can give us our inheritance, and we’ve kept him waiting too long already.”

Ingrid’s brows knit as she looked down at the notebook, almost as though she hated to leave it behind.

“You can return to it later,” I assured her. I began to pull her along, but I felt a cough rise in me and had to drop her hand. I attempted to cover this action, but she knew me too well. I tried to grab her hand again, but she hesitated, much as she had before entering the castle.

“Giselle,” she said, her voice full of concern, “are you sure we want to stay here? It’s cold and drafty with only the barest of old furniture. I’m afraid your health will suffer. Maybe we should leave while the sea is still crossable. We will have money and can stay at an inn. Afterward, we can buy a more sensible home anywhere we want.”

I walked her to the tall, narrow window and gazed out on the dark, swirling ocean. “It’s incredible here, Ingrid,” I said, thinking again of all the possibilities I could bring to it. “This is a gift that has fallen to us. We have to take it.”

Ingrid nodded, and I could tell she was nearly convinced.

“You’ll promise me that you won’t let your health suffer?” she checked.

“I won’t,” I confirmed. “This fresh air will do me good.”

“All right, then.”

Another cough tickled my throat, but I fought it down because a coughing fit was the last thing I needed at the moment. I forced a smile and beckoned for Ingrid to follow me back down the stairs.

It was time to claim the Frankenstein fortune as our own.

FROM THE JOURNAL OF
INGRID VON DER WIEN

June 7, 1815

Standing on the cliff’s edge, I gazed out over the ocean, thinking about my new life. I could do this. I had to. It was the chance of a lifetime.

Gazing around, I noticed something that I’d missed earlier. There were no trees on the island. There was only ocean, low stone walls, and rolling fields. I had no idea where the hundred inhabitants could be living, since only two buildings were in sight of the castle.

Looking down into the ocean, it was easy to see another small,
rugged island not very far out. There was a tumbled-down stone-and-thatch hut located on it. I couldn’t imagine who might live in such a place and, indeed, it appeared abandoned.

The other visible building was to the right of the castle. It was a white, one-story cottage with a thatched roof. Smoke puffed from its single chimney though the day was warm.

Gazing back at the castle, I saw Giselle approaching. She came to my side and hooked her arm in mine. “We’re rich,” she said quietly.

“We’re rich,” I agreed.

“Now we have nothing to worry about.” She’s always known how and when to soothe me.

“Nothing to worry about,” I echoed, and saying it made me feel it was so.

We returned to the castle to find Uncle Ernest asleep in one of the few chairs, snoring with an impressive resonance. On a nearby table he had thoughtfully laid out some of the cheese and bread I recalled him buying back in Aberdeen that morning. We devoured it, both of us discovering we were famished.

The food made us realize just how fatigued we were from the long, eventful day, but there was no obvious place to settle down. Furthermore, we needed to escape the roar of Uncle Ernest’s snores.

In pursuit of sleep, Giselle and I climbed the stone stairs — perilously steep, winding, and slippery. On the second floor, we spied a room with a dusty purple velvet couch as its only piece of furniture. “You take it,” I offered. With a nod, Giselle stripped down to her muslin chemise, unbuttoned her ankle boots, unpinned her bun so that her hair tumbled to her shoulders, and curled up, drawing her fringed Indian-print shawl over her as a blanket.

Continuing upward on my own, I found no other furnished room and so returned to the place where I’d discovered my father’s books. The room was still awash with soft light, and I guessed it was around seven or so in the evening. It might have been later. I can already tell that the strange brightness of the overly long days here makes it difficult to gauge time exactly. Hopefully with practice I will get better at it.

Sitting with my back to the wall, I opened my father’s notebook to the place where I had left off reading. By this point in his journal, Victor Frankenstein was a new student at the University of Ingolstadt and wrote of his first days there. He attended lectures where the subject was how lifeless flesh could be animated. Some said it was sacrilege to even think of this, as only God could bring life. Other scholars argued that if God had not meant for mankind to uncover this secret, it would be unknowable.

I am fascinated.

Here is the kind of high-level intellectual, scientific endeavor that is closed to me due to my gender. Yet I am living it through my father’s words.

I will continue to read on, though I am getting very tired.

June 8

Several hours ago I was awakened, still lying on the floor with my father’s notebook open on my lap. Darkness had finally filled the room, brightened only by a line of crystal moonlight shining through the narrow window.

I felt disoriented, unsure of where I was. My eyes flitted across the room, searching for signs of my old bedroom in Ingolstadt. And then I remembered.

I heard footsteps and the sound of a female voice murmuring. It came from out in the hallway and was getting nearer. Immediately I thought of what the Orkneyans had said about the castle — that someone was living in it, that they saw lights on at night.

Gooseflesh spread across my body as I slowly rose to standing. With trembling hands, I reached down to unbuckle my boot and slipped one foot out, and then took off the other as well. The low, chunky heel of the boot was the only weapon at my disposal.

The shuffling steps grew closer. I considered calling out for help but doubted my sleeping sister or uncle would hear me. I was two floors above them.

I could hear the approaching voice more clearly now. Its tone was snarling and fitful.

Lifting my boot high over my head, I braced, preparing to strike with the heel.

Suddenly a moon-rimmed figure appeared in the doorway.

“Giselle!” I cried.

Heart pounding, I slumped with relief and lowered my arm.

Giselle stood there dressed in her chemise, her shawl wrapped around her. Her lovely hair fell around her shoulders, glistening in the moonlight.

“You scared me,” I scolded mildly, covering my pounding heart with my hand.

Giselle did not answer me. Nor did she move.

“I said you scared me,” I repeated.

“Get away from me,” Giselle muttered in a dark, threatening tone. It was her own voice, but the menacing quality was one I had never heard from her. “I’m warning you,” she snarled.

Not only was her manner of speech unfamiliar to me, but so was her posture. She hunched like a cornered animal, undecided whether to flee or attack.

“It’s me, Ingrid,” I said, stepping forward and reaching toward
her. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I must have fallen asleep while reading the —”

“I TOLD YOU TO GET BACK!”

Giselle had never shouted with such ferocity in all our lives. I leapt away from her, frightened that she might strike me.

In the next moment, Giselle crumbled onto her knees. She began to make choking sounds and to gasp as though she couldn’t get enough air. Deep, wailing sobs engulfed her and shook her delicate frame. It was heartbreaking in its awfulness.

Kneeling beside her, I attempted to console her by placing a tender hand on her back. She shook me off with a violent shudder.

I turned to see Uncle Ernest shuffling down the hall toward us, a flickering lantern in his hand.

Giselle’s head jerked up as the light hit her. Her face was awash in terror. “No!” she screamed, jumping to her feet. She shielded her face from the light and turned away as though its low heat were scorching her. “No!”

“She’s asleep,” I told Uncle Ernest.

Putting down his lantern, he did what I’ve been told never to do: He grabbed hold of Giselle and shook her. Giselle’s eyes widened with fear as though the very gates of Hell had opened in front of her and she was viewing its most inner spaces.

Giselle shuddered from head to foot before she fell into a dead faint. Uncle Ernest scooped her up and turned to carry her down
the hall, her nightgown trailing to the stone floor. “Bring the lantern,” he instructed, speaking to me from over his shoulder.

Uncle Ernest returned Giselle to the bedroom where she had settled down for the night. After I was satisfied that her breathing was steady and untroubled, I covered her once more with her coat and shawl. Then I joined Uncle Ernest out in the hall.

“Come downstairs with me for a while,” Uncle Ernest requested. “There are things I must tell you about Castle Frankenstein.”