Lizzie wore Angelika’s work apron. “Are you all right, Jelly?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
The sight of her wearing that apron hit in the way the diamond ring should have; it was a jealous-lonely-loss type of feeling compounded on top of the feelings Mary had just instilled. She could see on the opposite bench that a simple chemical experiment was laid out, one she had learned many years ago.
There was steam rising from her regular mug, and her pencil was behind Lizzie’s ear, and the apron looked better on her. Mary was not the only one retiring today.
“Jelly? What’s the matter?” Lizzie asked again.
“You’re officially his new assistant?” Angelika asked, trying her best to smile and sound normal, but it was clear from their faces that she was not succeeding. More tears fell. “I’m sure he’ll keep you terribly busy, just like I was. Make sure you don’t make him repeat himself, or he’ll positively shout at you, and don’t ever drop a glass tube again. That’s the only one you’re allowed to break for your whole life.”
“Jelly.” Lizzie said her nickname like an apology.
It was time for another escape—as dignified as she could—this one made worse by Victor’s disgusted voice. “She’s seeking attention, as usual.” He was right, of course. He always was. “Let her go.”
Angelika fled the building. “Let me go,” she chanted as she ran across the lawn in the direction of the orchard, Will, anywhere but here. She felt like she could run all the way to Larkspur Lodge, to lie on her true childhood bed, until she worked out her new place in this world. “Let me go, let me go—”
Then, she saw him, on the edges of the forest, with a gold glint on one hand. The last man she ever expected, and he was looking right at her, and she imagined she saw compassion in his look.
It was Victor Frankenstein’s missing creation.
And because she did not know what else to do, she lifted her hand in a wave, and walked to him.
Chapter Eighteen
It made perfect sense in the moment.
If she could just get Will’s ring from this man’s hand, things might turn out all right today. Even better if she could end this day with this big chap tucked into a bed in the manor, full from a hot meal. She indulged in determined daydreams as the lawn turned to meadow, and then tussocks, then rocks.
Tonight, the entire secret society could regroup by the fire to study the ring. There would be a pat on her shoulder from Victor and a grateful look from Will. Christopher would be speechless at her bravery. Clara would exclaim, I say! Angelika and Mary would exchange apologies in the hall, and Angelika would bring a cup of tea to her for once. Lizzie would catch her sleeve later and say something like, I could never replace you.
It was all going to work out.
If Angelika could manage this one little thing.
“Hello,” she puffed as she hiked over the difficult terrain. “Do you remember me? I’m Angelika.” The sun was at an awkward angle above, casting such a black shadow line between the forest and clearing that she had a terrible feeling she had simply imagined him. She shaded her eyes, squinted, and saw he’d retreated further into the trees.
He was bringing something up and down into his mouth. It was a deeply familiar action.
“You’re here for some apples.” She stepped across the shade line, and once in the cool dim light, she could study Victor’s friend properly.
The size of him took her breath away. While Angelika was choosing the most handsome body parts, Victor was sorting through for the biggest. This man was clothed, and what a good thing, too. He wore stolen garments, with the pants calf-length and stiff with mud. His peasant shirt was designed to be worn loose in the heat. On this man, it was a vest. He wore no shoes or hat.
He was in a distressed state; equal parts dirty, tired, hungry, and hopeless.
Also, wordless.
“Can I please assist you?” Angelika asked, wincing at the sight of his feet. They’d covered many hard miles. Her advance frightened him; he shook his head and backed against a tree, furiously biting the apple, even chewing the core. Juice and seeds ran down his chin. “It’s quite all right, do not rush. Please, be easy. Sir, do you have a name?”
He said nothing but looked down at her boots. She did, too, and saw an apple by her toe.
“Here.” She picked it up and held it out. He was a color she did not think would wash away: ashy gray, with bruise-purple tones around his eyes and mouth. She tossed him the apple, but it dropped into the grass uncaught.