Arlo’s stomach sank at the choice presented. “And this is what you require of me, in order to leave them be?” The Frankenstein siblings were arguing good-naturedly now. “Life would go on for them, just as it always has?”
“It would keep Victor Frankenstein from the gallows, and I would tell the archdiocese that Father Northcott is the product of the holiest of miracles, witnessed by the highest officials in this parish. It would reinvigorate the entire village, bringing positivity and renewed faith.”
“And Angelika?”
The old man’s stare cut to her, and it was so vicious that Arlo turned to block her with his body. “Witches have not burned in this forest for over two hundred years. But traditions are often revisited.”
“Under no circumstances will you ever harm her,” Arlo intoned darkly.
“Good boy.”
They were interrupted by the sound of metal on wood. “It was me,” Victor and Christopher shouted in unison, then began to squabble like schoolboys as they scraped at the coffin lid.
Nothing else that happened from there was a surprise.
They dug some more, fetched ropes, realized they were unneeded, and Victor and Christopher passed the coffin up with one-handed effort. A crowbar was procured. Everyone pinched their nose, the lid was opened, and nothing but a plushly upholstered interior was revealed.
“It looks rather comfortable,” Father Arlo Northcott told everyone as they stared at him. “But as you can now see, it was not my time.”
The smile was fading off Victor’s face. “What the hell, Will?”
“I echo that sentiment,” Christopher said. “Did you know about this?” This gobsmacked question was for Angelika. “If you knew about this, I think you very wicked.”
Her pretty mouth dropped open in hurt.
No matter that she loved Arlo, she craved Christopher’s approval all the same. It was a dangerous loose thread; one that the accomplished hunter would find, and pull on, until her faithful heart slowly unraveled. Weeks, years, the commander would never stop, because why would he settle for a sturdy widow and her son, when he could have this magical creature, this heiress, this trophy?
Would Father Northcott see a carriage pass by one day after his Sunday sermon, and see a married woman’s silhouette, and die completely?
“Miss Frankenstein is a good and honorable Christian woman, is she not?” Father Porter slanted his eyes toward Arlo.
The magistrate found his voice. He was emotional, his eyes glassy with tears, apparently having a religious epiphany. “Father Northcott, I don’t know how this has happened, but I believe now. Miracles do happen. Praise the Lord.”
“I believe there is something more complicated at play,” Christopher interjected, but he was interrupted.
“Amen,” Father Porter said. “Thimms, please prepare a faithful record of these remarkable events. If you agree with us that a miracle has occurred here, Father Northcott, please lead us in prayer.” No one else heard the threat in his tone.
Arlo opened his mouth, and badly out of breath, he managed: “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Your name. Your kingdom come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”
Victor turned on his heel and strode off into the night.
“It’s time to go,” Angelika said to Arlo firmly. “What is happening to you? We are leaving now. Bring the carriage alongside,” she shouted after Victor. They had all traveled in grandeur into the village today, as a reminder of their standing in society. Arlo had ridden Solomon alongside. Now he couldn’t possibly get a foot in the stirrup.
“I cannot go,” Arlo told Angelika. “I feel strange.”
“Come now, of course you can,” Angelika urged, pulling a face. “My goodness, don’t you look pale.”
Christopher observed it, too. “Perhaps you should sit down.”
If Father Porter ruined them, the Frankensteins would not be able to set foot in the village ever again. Crowds bearing torches would advance on the manor, chanting, eyes gleaming at the prospect of a little comeuppance.
Sometimes, love required a sacrifice.
“I think . . . I think . . .” Arlo’s heart was beating erratically, first gulping up in his throat, then dropping to his belly. It must have been the exertion. “I think you must leave me here, Angelika. It might be for the best.”
He was practically eight years old again, putting on a brave front, being left somewhere he didn’t want to be, aching for the moment he could put his face into a strange pillow to cry. The one in the coffin would do at this point. He tapped on his chest now with his fist. Heartbreak felt different than how he imagined.