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Montgomery came to peer within the murky water. “It’s your father’s design, for certain,” he confirmed. “Although I’ve never seen one created in this fashion. They haven’t been stitched together. It’s as though they’re growing them here, using these tanks as artificial wombs, made from various animal components. Rat and opossum, I would guess, given their physical traits, with something to account for their large size.”

Memories returned to me of a glass jar in Father’s laboratory, a strange living thing pulsing the water. Is that what Father had been doing with those glass jars I’d smashed on the island? Could this be how he’d created Edward? My stomach shrank to think of Edward in a tank like this; he was too real for such things, too much a person like me.

“There’s more!” Lucy said. She shone the candle against the opposite wall, which had a dozen more half-formed creatures in tanks.

“What are these things?” Lucy asked.

“Experiments,” I said, glancing at Montgomery. “This is where the King’s Club does their experiments. They’ve already begun.” The horror of it crashed into me, and I leaned against the wall, afraid I’d be sick. Lucy’s face had gone white as the walls.

Desperate to know why, I grabbed the candle from Lucy’s hand and went to the cabinets lining the walls. A stack of journals sat on one end with a bundle of loose notes. Flipping through the pages, I recognized Father’s precise handwriting. This was the research he’d sent, in exchange for them funding his expenses and supplies. I pored over it quickly, but as well trained in anatomy and physiology as I was, little of it made sense to me. Highly detailed explanations of cellular replacement and something Father kept referring to as “hereditary transmutational factors,” with complex pen-and-ink blueprints of the water tanks and creatures within.

“See if you can make some sense of this,” I said, handing the pages to Montgomery, who took them and pored over them with careful attention. I started in on the notebooks, which were all in the same hand, but not Father’s. I called Lucy over, who said it wasn’t her father’s handwriting, either. The notebooks contained dated records of their experimentation. The most recent was on top, the latest entry just this morning. I read it with stilled breath.

DECEMBER 22, 1895, 7:10 AM.

Provided the specimens with a nutrient-rich compound. Rate of growth is 29/38, even faster than we had anticipated. By all projections, specimens will be full-grown within one week of receiving the cerebrospinal fluid replacement. With an estimated 2000 ml of cerebrospinal fluid from the host, we will have enough for a minimum of 200 cellular replacement therapy procedures.

I let the notebook tumble from my fingers as I turned to study the half-formed creatures in the water tanks. This wasn’t the vivisection I had witnessed in Father’s laboratory. This was something new, the procedure he’d designed to create Edward. And now they just needed Edward’s spinal fluid—the host—to finalize their development and bring them to awareness.

“Father’s letters outlined the process for them, blueprints for these tanks and the fluids to use and how to grow the creatures. But his letters could only take them so far. It’s one thing to build a body, quite another to give it life. For that they need Edward and the transmutational code in his spinal fluid. If they can insert that code into the host bodies, they’ll replicate and make life possible.”

Lucy put a hand over her mouth.

I flipped back through the notebook quickly and saw that the attending biochemist came twice a day, morning and evening. All the evening entries were dated between eight o’clock and eight-thirty at night.

“Montgomery, what time is it?” I asked quickly.

He drew a watch from his vest pocket. “Ten till eight.”

“The King’s Club’s doctor will be back soon. Blast, he can’t find us here.” I replaced the notebook in a hurry and arranged the stacks to give no sign that we’d been there. “It’s time we told the professor about this. I wish we didn’t have to involve him, but he knows these men and can give us information.”

We locked the door behind us and climbed the stairs back to the basement level. Whoever had been pursuing us was long gone, and only silence echoed in the hallways. We climbed up yet another flight of stairs to the main floor, where the lecture hall was just emptying of sleepy-eyed ladies, and we joined the crowd headed back out into the dark evening. Montgomery helped us into the carriage before climbing into the driver’s seat outside.

Once we were safely alone in the carriage, Lucy leaned forward. “You said they need something within Edward’s body,” she whispered in a trembling voice. “Does that mean they’ll have to kill him?”

I was glad the carriage was dark enough to hide her face. “I believe so, yes.”

We were silent the rest of the way to Lucy’s house, where we dropped her off with plans to meet tomorrow. Alone in the carriage, I worked through what I’d tell the professor. Perhaps it had been a mistake not to tell him sooner; he’d exposed my father’s crimes because it had been the right thing to do, and I knew he would do what was right now, too. He was a quiet old dog, but he could bite when provoked. Once I explained everything, they’d understand. Elizabeth would make us her licorice tea, and the professor would dig up some cold meats from supper, and we’d come up with a plan and have a good night’s sleep for once.

At the professor’s street, Montgomery stopped the carriage up short in front of the neighbor’s house. I didn’t understand why until I climbed out and saw another carriage already blocking the professor’s front gate.

A heavyset horse with a cropped dark mane stamped its feet besides a constable. I caught sight of Elizabeth on the front steps, talking to another police officer. The front door was open, spilling warm light into the night shadows and over her face and hair. At the sound of my footsteps, she turned.

Tears streaked her face. She wore her housedress with an old coat of the professor’s hastily pulled over it. The lecture had only run a little late, so I couldn’t imagine we’d worried her. When she caught sight of me, she pressed a hand to her chest and stumbled down the steps.

“Juliet,” she breathed. “Thank God you’re home.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Her hands pulled at my hair, reassuring herself that I was safe.