Belladonna made an impassioned squeal that meant, Never.
“I don’t think Arlo has minded being holed up at Larkspur in the country,” Christopher said with amusement. “I’m sure he’s been well-occupied.”
“Reading poetry,” Clara said, and even Edwin laughed.
Mary wasn’t in on the joke. “My grandniece, Mary—”
“I have never heard so much about a stranger as this new Mary,” Victor complained.
“She writes and reads poetry. She wishes to write a book, but she cannot find a topic. That is why she is coming to stay. She will find inspiration here. She has torn her hair out with frustration, according to her letter.”
“She will find your home positively charming,” Clara encouraged with a smile. “You have decorated it to look so wonderful. I see Angelika has treated you to some fine furnishings.”
Through the window, Mary’s little cottage was a miniature palace, decorated in the finest French wallpapers. “She is a decadent young woman,” Mary said, and then added in a voice like she was practicing: “But that is a reason we love her. Or, I should say, I love her.”
Clara rubbed her arm. “Doesn’t it all look so pretty. We might go and say hello to Jacob and Adam. Is Sarah here, too?”
Mary replied, “Sarah will be at school, but Adam and Jacob are here.” The little family departed up the path. “Master Victor, I want to know something. Can I tell young Mary about the comings and goings of Blackthorne Manor? I think it might inspire her.”
Victor thought, shrugged, and gave his apple core to Belladonna. “Why not? I’ll send Schneider a copy. Won’t that just burn his biscuits? We would have to ask Jelly if she consents to being a character. After all, I’m nothing without her.”
Mary let out a bark of laughter. “I would strongly suggest changing every detail possible. If I know her, she’ll say that under no circumstances will she allow her name in print to be attached to this scandalous tale.”
“Shame. She was right there, next to me, achieving the same as me.”
Mary squinted up at him. “She was. It’s nice to hear you say it, too. But she’s less vain about it than you.”
Victor put a dramatic hand on his chest. “I submit to your grandniece that I am pure inspiration, through and through.” He straightened the huge green emerald pinned to the old woman’s cardigan. “Wouldn’t it be fun to give Jelly a copy of this future book at some Christmastime? Perhaps Lizzie can adapt it for the stage.”
“You are getting ahead of yourself. It’s not written yet. And I doubt Angelika will have time to read it, what with all their traveling,” Mary replied, and she watched Victor walk back to the house with her heart in her eyes.
Now free of the vines and cobwebs, and appreciated at last, Blackthorne Manor had regained the power of crystal-clear omniscience, and it had observed these exchanges. It knew that the apples would no longer fall, that visitors would be frequent, and that the stockpiled gold was now circulating in the villages. The hair-plaiting, bath-filling Angelika Frankenstein had moved away, but it wasn’t something to be sad about. There was very little sadness left at Blackthorne. The regular evening-time routine that followed was as familiar to it as a heartbeat.
Chimneys threaded pale blue smoke into the dimming twilight; Adam’s stomach rumbled at the smell of Mary’s stew.
Victor climbed the staircase inside to kiss Lizzie breathless, but not before pausing beneath his new picture frame, hanging directly above the staircase. It looked ridiculously small, just a framed page, centered on the brighter rectangle of wallpaper, in Caroline Frankenstein’s recently vacated space.
“I’m better than him,” Victor said gently, and smoothed his hand over the letter from Herr Jürgen Schneider, which affirmed the sentiment. “I’m so much better than him. Lizzie, my duchess, guess what?” This he shouted, utterly invigorated.
“What, Bear?” she called from her nest in their bed.
“I’m going to live on in history, forever!”
Lizzie cackled. “I have no doubt. Now get in here and give me my kiss.”
*
Miles away, at Larkspur Lodge, a similar evening routine was playing out, with a slight difference. “Are you sure?” Arlo was asking Angelika. He put another log into the fireplace, and then knelt down between her slippers. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Do you believe I am incapable of counting the passing days?” She held her arched eyebrow a fraction longer, and then laughed. “Yes, I am sure.”