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Lucy conspired to help me sneak away from wedding planning whenever I could, tiptoeing into the hidden alcoves in the walls and reading every book I found in the library on anatomy and galvanism, though I already knew most of the information by heart. It was the Origin Journals I needed, the ones Elizabeth kept hidden.

“I know this is probably silly,” I told Elizabeth one evening after dinner, dropping my voice conspiratorially. “But Balthazar was telling me about some old journals he’d found while tidying up the manor. Said there was quite a bit of German in them. I know you keep the Origin Journals well hidden, but I thought you might want to make certain he hadn’t accidentally found them.”

Her eyes went wide for an instant, then she dismissed it with a wave. “He must have stumbled upon other old volumes. Lord knows there’s no shortage of dusty books around here.”

But there was uncertainty in her eyes, just as I knew there would be. That night, after the household went to bed, I crawled into the passages and peeked through all the spy holes until I found her in her bedroom. She climbed silently up the stairs to her observatory. I followed in the walls and watched through a small hole. She went to the globe with the hidden compartment where she kept her Les Étoiles gin, and knelt down and opened the bottom half—a second, hidden compartment.

She took out three dusty leather-bound books, checked them quickly to make certain no one had touched them, and then stowed them away again. As soon as she left, I crawled through a trapdoor and took them. I stayed awake all night reading over them in fascination and copying important sections, then replaced them in the morning so they wouldn’t be missed, only to repeat the process for the next few nights. Finally, I finished reading the last one.

“I’ve learned all I can from the books,” I told Lucy. “Elizabeth’s going to Quick tonight to telegraph Jack Serra in London to see if he’s discovered anything. Come with me to the laboratory after everyone’s gone to bed. It’s time for us to practice.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, whether to hold in fear or excitement, I couldn’t tell. I imagined that, like me, it was a combination of the two. All through dinner I could scarcely keep my hands from twitching, thinking about working the controls of the machine in Elizabeth’s laboratory. It wasn’t storming, so I’d have to reanimate something small, like a bird or a small mammal, that wouldn’t require lightning.

Once everyone had gone to bed, I left my room quietly and was accosted by Lucy—she’d been waiting for me on pins and needles. We tiptoed to the south tower and up the winding stairs.

“Don’t touch anything,” I whispered to her. “We can’t give Elizabeth any suspicions that we’ve been here. Stand next to the table and wait for me to tell you what to do.”

She nodded and I unlocked the door. We closed the curtains, using only shaded candles so any girls wandering outside wouldn’t see a light on in the tower. The laboratory was just as I’d remembered, tidy and comfortable. Lucy held the candles up to the row of surgical instruments, the flame reflecting both in their metal blades and in her wide eyes.

“I can’t believe she’s operated on all the servants,” Lucy said. “They seem so normal.”

“They are normal,” I answered. “They’re just people who needed a little help beyond the realm of conventional medicine. They aren’t like father’s creations. Besides, you like Balthazar, and he’s as abnormal as they come.”

She reached out to touch a pair of clamps but paused, remembering my instructions. “Balthazar’s different. No one in the world could dislike him, even if they tried.”

I went to the glass jar. As I suspected, the latest of Hensley’s victims were there: three rats to chose from. I smelled them to see which was the freshest, and gently probed their bones to determine which had been suffocated, which would be far easier to reanimate. The ones he had crushed to death would require intricate bone-setting that would take too long.

I found a good specimen and set it on the table. Lucy made a face.

“You like Edward, too,” I reminded her. “He’s also one of Father’s creations.”

She lifted a shoulder in a helpless shrug. “I don’t care how he was made, or how I was made, or how the trees outside were made. All that matters is what we are now. In Edward’s case, what he’ll be once we cure him of the Beast.”

I pointed to the lever attached to the windmill controls. “On my mark, give that a solid pull.”

I delicately lay the rat on the table and hooked up the various wires. At its slight weight, how easy it would be to smother it all over again. I wondered if such thoughts had ever crossed Father’s mind as he worked. Did he smooth his hands over the puma’s matted fur before he shaved it off? Had he marveled at a tiny eyelid, a little claw, and felt wonder at the natural world, before he tried to bend it to his own will?

“It’s your lucky day, little rat,” I said softly.

I signaled to Lucy, and she pulled the lever.

THAT NIGHT, LONG AFTER we had carefully cleaned Elizabeth’s laboratory of any signs of our presence, Lucy and I huddled in her bed under the blanket with the live rat. It was incredible to see a creature that only hours ago was a lifeless cadaver now sniffing at the corn kernels we left for it. Even Lucy, who hated rats, seemed enchanted.

As I watched her play, my thoughts turned to my parents.

Perhaps Father’s madness had always been a part of him, but it hadn’t fully manifested until he’d left London for the island. I remembered him so clearly back then, at fancy dinners and garden parties and lectures in our salon. He’d been determined, but not mad. There had been one party in particular, summertime in the back garden, when Montgomery and I had played hide-and-seek among the azaleas. We’d heard angry voices and peeked out from the branches to see Father arguing with one of his students. I’d never seen him so cross: red face, eyes glassy, a string of expletives that made Montgomery reach over to cover my ears. Mother had come and whispered soothing words into Father’s ear. The anger had melted off his face. Mother had such a calming influence on him, once upon a time.

I sighed, holding out a finger to pet the rat. If only she could have maintained that influence on him, maybe everything would have been different.

The rat ran down my arm onto the bed.

“We can’t keep it,” I told Lucy. “If we let it run wild, Sharkey or one of the barn cats will kill it.”