The Madman’s Daughter (2 page)

Lucy’s only acknowledgment was an approving tip of the rum bottle in my direction.

“I’ll take that wager,” Adam interrupted, leveling his handsome green eyes at me.

Lucy jumped up and wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “Oh, good! And what’s the wager, then? I’ll not have Juliet risk her reputation for less than a kiss.”

I immediately turned red, but Adam only grinned. “My prize, if I am right, shall be a kiss. And if I am wrong—”

“If you are wrong”—I interjected, feeling reckless; I grabbed the rum from Lucy and tipped the bottle back, letting the liquid warmth chase away my insecurity—“you must call on me wearing a lady’s bonnet.”

He walked around the sofa and took the bottle. The confidence in his step told me he didn’t intend to lose. He
set the bottle on the side table and skimmed his forefinger tantalizingly along the delicate bones in the back of my hand. I parted my lips, curling my toes to keep from jerking my hand away. This wasn’t Dr. Hastings, I told myself. Adam was hardly shoving his hand down my neckline. It was just an innocent touch.

“Twenty-four,” he said.

I felt a triumphant swell. “Wrong. Twenty-seven.” Lucy gave my leg a pinch and I remembered to smile. This was supposed to be flirtatious. Fun.

Adam’s eyes danced devilishly. “And how would a girl know such things?”

I straightened. “Whether I’m right or wrong has nothing to do with gender.” I paused. “Also, I’m right.”

Adam smirked. “Girls don’t study science.”

My confidence faltered. I knew how many bones there were in the human hand because I was my father’s daughter. When I was a child, Father would give physiology lessons to our servant boy, Montgomery, to spite those who claimed the lower classes were incapable of learning. He considered women naturally deficient, however, so I would hide in the laboratory closet during lessons, and Montgomery would slip me books to study. But I could hardly tell these young men that. Every medical student knew the name Moreau. They would remember the scandal.

Lucy jumped to my defense. “Juliet knows more than the lot of you. She works in the medical building. She’s probably spent more time around cadavers than you lily spirits.”

I gritted my teeth, wishing she hadn’t told them. It was one thing to be a maid, another to clean the laboratory after their botched surgeries. But Adam arched an eyebrow, interested.

“Is that so? Well then, I have a different wager for you, miss.” His eyes danced with something more dangerous than a kiss. “I have a key to the college, and you must know your way around. Let’s find one of your skeletons and count for ourselves.”

Glances darted among the other boys like sparks in a fire. They prodded one another, goading each other on in anticipation of the idea of a clandestine trip into the bowels of the medical building.

Lucy gave me an impish shrug. “Why not?”

I hesitated. I’d spent enough time in those dank halls. There was a darkness there that had worked its way into the hollow spaces between my bones. A darkness that clung to the hallways like my father’s shadow, smelling of formaldehyde and his favorite apricot preserves. Tonight was supposed to be about escaping the darkness—if not in the arms of a future husband, at least in a few lighthearted moments.

I shook my head.

But the boys had made up their minds, and there was no convincing them otherwise. “Are you trying to get out of a kiss?” Adam teased.

I didn’t respond. My desire for flirtation had evaporated at the mention of the university basements. But if Lucy didn’t balk at the idea of seeing a skeleton, surely I
shouldn’t. I cleaned the cobwebs from their creaky bones every night. So what was holding me back?

Lucy leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Adam wants to impress you with how brave he is, you idiot. Swoon when you see the skeleton and fall into his arms. Men love that sort of thing.”

My stomach tightened. God, was this what normal girls did? Feign weakness? I could never imagine Mother, with all her strict morals, doing something so scandalous as slipping into forbidden hallways on a dare. But Father—he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have been the one egging them on.

Dash it
. I snatched the rum and poured the last few swallows down my throat. The boys cheered. I ignored the queasy feeling in my stomach—not from the rum, but from the thought of those dark hallways we were soon to enter.

W
E BUNDLED INTO OUR
coats and slipped into the cold night, crossing the Strand toward the university’s brick archway. This late only a few lanterns shone in the upper windows. The boys passed a bottle around with hushed laughter at being on school grounds after hours. I wrapped my arm around Lucy’s and tried to join the mirth, but the warmth didn’t spread below my smile. For the boys, this taste of mild scandal was titillating. They’d never known real scandal or how it could tear a person apart.

Adam led us to the side of the building, through a row of hedges to a small black door I’d used only once or twice. He unlocked it and held it open. Hesitation rooted my feet to the ground, but a gentle tug from Lucy led me inside. The door closed, plunging us into darkness broken only by the moonlight from one high window.

The hallway filled with the eerie silence of unused rooms. My hands itched for a rag and brush as a legitimate reason to be here. Coming on a lark to settle a silly wager,
risking my job—it didn’t feel right.

Lucy squinted into the darkness, but I kept my eyes on the tile floor. I already knew what lay at the end of the hall.

“Well?” Adam asked. “Which way to the skeletons, Mademoiselle Guillotine?”

I started to head for the small door to the storage chambers, but a light at the opposite end of the corridor caught my eye. The operating theater. Odd; no one should have been there this late. Something about that light chilled my blood—it could only mean trouble.

“We’re not alone,” I said, nodding toward the door. They boys followed my gaze and grew quiet. Lucy slid off her glove and found my hand in the dark.

Adam started toward the operating theater, but I grabbed the fabric of his cuff to hold him back. The hallways were filled with the normal smells—chemicals and rotten things. Usually it didn’t bother me, but tonight it felt so overpowering that my head started to spin. A wave of weakness hit me and I grabbed his wrist harder.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I waited a few seconds for the spell to pass. These spells were not uncommon, coming upon me suddenly, usually in the late evening, though I wasn’t about to explain their source to him. “The skeletons are the other way,” I said.

“Someone’s in the theater after hours. Whatever they’re doing, it
has
to be good. The skeletons can wait.” His voice was charged. This was a game to them, I realized. If they got caught, the dean might give them a stern talking-to. I would lose my livelihood.

He cocked his head. “You aren’t scared, are you?”

I scowled and let go of his cuff. Of course I wasn’t scared. We made our way silently down the hall. As we approached the closed door, a sound began to gnaw at my ears. It took me back to my childhood, when I would hide outside the door to Father’s laboratory, listening, trying to imagine what was happening within before the servants chased me off.

The sound grew louder, a
scrape-tap, scrape-tap
. Unaccustomed to being in a laboratory, Lucy threw me a puzzled look. But I knew that sound. The scrape of scalpel on stone. A gesture surgeons made to clean the flesh from the blade between cuts.

Adam threw open the door. A half dozen students huddled around a table in the center of the room, over which a single lamp formed an island of light. They looked up when we entered, and then after a few seconds their faces relaxed with recognition.

“Adam, you cad, get in and close the door,” said one of the students. He threw Lucy and me an annoyed look. “What are they doing here?”

“They’ll be no trouble. Right, ladies?” Adam raised his eyebrow, but I didn’t answer. A good part of me contemplated bolting out the door and leaving them to their sick lark. Yet I didn’t. As we drifted closer with hesitant steps, I could feel the stiffness in my bones easing, as though releasing some pent-up, slippery curiosity from between my joints.

Why
were
they in the operating theater after dark?

Adam peered over the surgeon’s shoulder. Their
bodies blocked the table, but the metallic smell of fresh blood reached me, making my head spin. Lucy pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Memories of my father flooded me. As a surgeon, blood had been his medium like ink to a writer. Our fortune had been built on blood, the acrid odor infused into the very bricks of our house, the clothes that we wore.

To me, blood smelled like home.

I shook away the feeling.
Father left us
, I reminded myself.
Betrayed us
. But I still couldn’t help missing him.

“They shouldn’t be here,” I murmured. “This building’s closed to students at night.”

But before Lucy could answer, the scrape of the scalpel sounded again, drawing my gaze irresistibly to the table. We stepped forward. The boys paid us little attention, except Adam, who moved aside to make room. My breath caught. On the table lay a dead rabbit, its fur white as snow and spotted with blood. Its belly had been sliced open, and several organs lay on the table. Lucy gasped and covered her eyes.

My eyes were wide. I felt vaguely sorry for the dead rabbit, but it was a far-off sort of thought, something Mother might have felt. I wasn’t naive. Dissection was a necessary part of science. It was how doctors were able to develop medicine and how surgeons saved lives. I’d only ever glimpsed dissections a handful of times—peeking through the keyhole of Father’s laboratory or cleaning up after medical students. After work, in my small room at the lodging house, I’d studied the diagrams in my father’s old
copy of
Longman’s Anatomical Reference
, but black-and-white illustrations were a poor substitute for the real thing.

Now my eyes devoured the rabbit’s body, trying to match the fleshy bits of organ and bone to the ink diagrams I knew by heart. An urge raced through my veins to touch the striated muscle of the heart, feel the smooth length of intestine.

Lucy clutched her stomach, looking pale. I watched her curiously. I didn’t feel the need to turn away like normal ladies should. Mother had drilled into me the standards of proper young ladies, but my impulses didn’t always obey. So I had learned to hide them instead.

I looked back at the rabbit. Creeping vines of worry wound around my ankles and up my legs.

“Something’s wrong.”

The student performing the surgery glanced up, irritated, before selecting another scalpel and returning to work.

“Sh,” Adam breathed in my ear. My chest tightened as my eyes darted over the rabbit.
There
. The rabbit’s rear foot jerked. And
there
. Its chest rose and fell in a quick breath. I clasped Lucy’s hand, feeling the blood rushing to the base of my skull.

My brain processed the movements disjointedly, with an odd feeling like I had seen all this before. I gasped. “It’s alive.”

The rabbit’s glassy eye blinked. My heart faltered. I turned to Adam, bewildered, and then back to the table, where the boys continued to operate. They ignored me, as
they ignored the rabbit’s movements. Something white and hot filled my head and I gripped the edge of the table, jolting it. “It’s not dead!”

The surgeon turned to Adam in annoyance. “You’d better keep them quiet.”

“It isn’t supposed to be alive,” Lucy stammered, her face pale. The handkerchief slipped from her hand, falling to the floor slowly, dreamlike. “Why is it alive?”

“Vivisection.” The word came out of me like a vile thing trying to escape. “Dissection of living creatures.” I took a step back, wanting nothing to do with it. Dissection was one thing. What they were doing on that table was only cruel.

“It’s just a rabbit,” Adam hissed. Lucy began to sway. I couldn’t tear my eyes off the operation. Had they even bothered to anesthetize it?

“It’s against the law,” I muttered. My pulse matched the thumps of the frightened rabbit’s still-beating heart. I looked at the placement of the organs on the table. At the equipment carefully laid out. It was all familiar to me.

Too familiar.

“Vivisection is prohibited by the university,” I said, louder.

“So is having women in the operating theater,” the surgeon said, meeting my eyes. “But you’re here, aren’t you?”

“Bunch of Judys,” a dark-haired boy said with a sneer. The others laughed, and he set down a curled paper covered with diagrams. I caught sight of the rough ink outline of a rabbit, splayed apart, incision cuts marked with dotted lines. This, too, was familiar. I snatched the paper. The boy
protested but I turned my back on him. My ears roared with a warm crackling. The whole room suddenly felt distant, as though I was watching myself react. I knew this diagram. The tight handwriting. The black, dotted incision lines. From somewhere deep within, I recognized it.

Behind me, the surgeon remarked to another boy in a whisper, “Intestines of a flesh-toned color. Pulsing slightly, likely from an unfinished digestion. Yes—there, I see the contents moving.”

With shaking fingers I unfolded the paper’s dog-eared right corner. Initials were scrawled on the diagram:
H.M
. Blood rushed in my ears, drowning out the sound of the boys and the rabbit and the clicking electric light. H.M.—Henri Moreau.

My father.

Through his old diagram, these boys had resurrected my father’s ghost in the very theater where he used to teach. I was flooded with a shivering uneasiness. As a child I’d worshipped my father, and now I hated him for abandoning us. Mother had fervently denied the rumors were true, but I wondered if she just couldn’t bear to have married a monster.

Suddenly the rabbit jolted and let out a scream so unnatural that I instinctively made the sign of the cross.

“Good lord,” Adam said, watching with wide eyes. “Jones, you cad, it’s waking up!”

Jones rushed to the table, which was lined with steel blades and needles the length of my forearm. “I gave it the proper dose,” he stuttered, searching through the glass vials.