This Dark Endeavor

CHAPTER TWO

It’s a terrible thing,” I said, “To be crippled in the prime of one’s life.”

“You’ve sprained your ankle,” said Konrad wryly. “Elizabeth, why on earth do you keep pushing him around in that wheelchair?”

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, laughing, “I find it amusing. For now.”

“Dr. Lesage said it mustn’t bear any weight for a week,” I protested.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows of the west sitting room, one of the many large and elegantly furnished chambers in the chateau. It was a Sunday, four days since my brush with death. Father had gone into Geneva to tend to some urgent business, and my mother had accompanied him to visit an ailing aunt in town. My two younger brothers, Ernest, who was nine, and William, who had scarcely learned to walk, were with Justine, their nanny, in the courtyard, planting a small vegetable garden for their amusement.

“Honestly,” said Konrad, shaking his head, “it’s like a nurse-maid with a pram.”

I turned to Elizabeth. “I think our Konrad wants a turn in the chair. He’s feeling left out.”

I glanced back at my brother, hoping for a satisfying reaction. His face was virtually identical to my own, and even our parents sometimes had trouble telling us apart from a distance, for we shared the same brooding demeanor: dark and abundant hair that had a habit of falling across our eyes, high cheekbones, heavy eyebrows, a square jaw. Mother often lamented what she called the “ruthless turn” of our lips. A Frankenstein trait; it did not come from the Beaufort side of the family, she was quite certain.

“Victor,” my brother said, “I’m starting to doubt that your ankle’s even sprained. You’re playacting. Again. Come on. Up you get!”

“I’m not strong enough!” I objected. “Elizabeth, you were there when the doctor examined me! Tell him!”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “I seem to recall he said it might be sprained. Slightly.”

“You should be ready to hobble about, then!” Konrad proclaimed, trying to haul me from the chair. “You don’t want to get sickly!”

“Mother will be vexed!” I said, fighting back. “This could leave me permanently lame.”

“You two,” said Elizabeth with a sigh, and then she began giggling, for it must have been a comic sight, the two of us wrestling while the wheelchair rolled and skidded about. At last the chair tipped over, spilling me onto the floor.

“You madman!” I cried, getting to my feet. “Is this how you treat an invalid?”

“A little diva is what you are,” said Konrad. “Look at you, standing!”

I hunched, wincing for effect, but Konrad started laughing, and I did too. It was hard to watch oneself laughing without doing the same.

“It’s still sore,” I said, testing the foot gingerly.

He passed me the crutches that Dr. Lesage had brought. “Try these,” he said, “and let Elizabeth have a rest.”

Elizabeth had righted the wheelchair and arranged herself gracefully on the cushioned seat. “You little wretch,” she said to me, her hazel eyes narrowing. “It’s very comfortable. I can see why you didn’t want to get out!”

Elizabeth was a distant cousin of ours, from Father’s side of the family. When she was only five, her mother died, and her father remarried and promptly abandoned her to an Italian convent. When Father got word of this, some two years later, he traveled at once to the convent and brought her home to us.

When she’d first arrived, she was like a feral cat. She hid. Konrad and I, seven years old, were forever trying to find her. To us it was a wonderful game of hide-and-seek. But it was no amusement to her; she just wanted to be left alone. If we found her, she became very angry. She hissed and snarled and hit. Sometimes she bit.

Mother and Father told us she needed time. Elizabeth, they said, had not wanted to leave the convent. The nuns had been very kind to her, and their affection had been the closest thing she’d known to a mother’s love. She hadn’t wanted to be torn away from them to live with strangers. Konrad and I were told to let her be, but of course we did nothing of the sort.

We continued to pursue her for the next two months. Then, one day, when we found her latest hiding place, she actually smiled. I almost yelped in surprise.

“Close your eyes,” she ordered us. “Count to a hundred and find me again.”

And then it truly was a game, and from that moment the three of us were inseparable. Her laughter filled the house, and her sullenness and silence disappeared.

Her temper, however, did not.

Elizabeth was fiery. She did not lose her temper quickly, but when she did, all her old wildcat fury returned. Growing up together, she and I often came to blows over some disagreements. She even bit me once, when I suggested girls’ brains were smaller than boys’. Konrad never seemed to infuriate her like I could, but she and I fought tooth and claw.

Now that we were sixteen, all that was far behind us.

“Well, then,” said Konrad, grinning wickedly at Elizabeth, “you shall finally have your turn in the chair.”

At top speed he propelled her out of the sitting room and down the great hallway, me hurrying to keep up on my crutches, and then tossing them aside and running after them on my miraculously healed ankle.

Great portraits of our ancestors looked smugly down at me as I ran past. A full suit of armor, brandishing a sword still stained with blood, stood sentry in a niche.

Ahead, I saw Konrad and Elizabeth disappear into the library, and I followed. Konrad was in the middle of the grand book-lined room, spinning Elizabeth round and round in a tight circle until she shrieked for him to stop.

“I’m too dizzy, Konrad!”

“Very well,” he said. “Let’s dance instead.” And he took her hands and pulled her, none too gently, from the chair.

“I can’t!” she protested, staggering like a drunk as Konrad waltzed her clumsily across the room. I watched them, and there was within me a brief flicker of a feeling I did not recognize. It looked like me dancing with Elizabeth, but it was not.

She caught my eye, laughing. “Victor, make him stop! I must look ridiculous!”

Because she had grown up with us, she was used to such rough play. I was not worried for her. If she so wanted, she could have freed herself from Konrad’s clutches.

“All right, my lady,” said Konrad, “I release you.” And he gave her a final spin and let go.

Laughing still, Elizabeth lurched to one side, tried to regain her balance, and then fell against the shelves, her hand dislodging an entire row of books before she collapsed to the floor.

I looked at my twin with mock severity. “Konrad, look what you’ve done, you scoundrel!”

“No. Look what I’ve done!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

The bookshelf behind her had swung inward on invisible hinges, revealing a narrow opening.

“Incredible!” I exclaimed. “A secret passage we haven’t discovered yet!”

Chateau Frankenstein had been built by our ancestors more than three hundred years before, outside the village of Bellerive, not four miles from Geneva. The chateau had been constructed as both home and fortress, and its thick walls and high turrets rose from a promontory overlooking the lake, surrounded on three sides by water.

Though we also had a handsome house within Geneva itself, we usually stayed there only in the winter months, and at the first signs of spring, we moved back to the chateau. Over the years, Konrad, Elizabeth, and I had spent countless hours and days exploring its many levels, its sumptuous chambers and ballrooms, boathouse, stables, and ramparts. There were damp subterranean dungeons, portcullises that clanged down to block entranceways-and, of course, secret passages.

We’d naively thought that we’d discovered all of these. But here we were, the three of us, staring with delight at this gap in the library wall.

“Fetch a candlestick,” Konrad told me.

“ You fetch a candlestick,” I retorted. “I can practically see in the dark.” And I pushed the thick bookshelf so that it swung farther inward-enough for a person to squeeze through if he turned sideways. The darkness beyond was total, but I resolutely moved toward it, hands outstretched.

“Don’t be daft,” said Elizabeth, grabbing my arm. “There might be stairs-or nothing at all. You’ve fallen to your death once already this week.”

Konrad was pushing past us now, a candlestick in his hand, leading the way. With a grimace I followed Elizabeth, and hadn’t taken two steps before Konrad brought us up short.

“Stop! There’s no railing-and a good drop.”

The three of us stood, pressed together, upon a small ledge that overlooked a broad square shaft. The candlelight did not reveal the bottom.

“Perhaps it’s an old chimney,” Elizabeth suggested.

“If it’s a chimney, why are there stairs?” I said, for jutting from the brick wall were small wooden steps.

“I wonder if Father knows about this,” said Konrad. “We should tell him.”

“We should go down first,” I said. “See where it leads.”

We all looked at the thin steps, little more than plank ends.

“They might be rotted through,” my brother said sensibly.

“Give me the candle, then,” I said impatiently. “I’ll test them as I go.”

“It’s not safe, Victor, especially for Elizabeth in her skirt and heeled shoes-”

In two swift movements Elizabeth had slipped off both shoes. I saw her eyes flash eagerly in the candlelight.

“They don’t look so rotted,” she said.

“All right,” said Konrad. “But stick close to the wall-and tread carefully!”

I badly wanted to go first, but Konrad held the candle, and led the way. Elizabeth went next, lifting her skirts. I came last. My eyes were fixed on the steps, and one hand brushed the wall, as much for reassurance as for balance. Three… four… five steps… and then a ninety-degree turn along the next wall. I paused and looked back up at the narrow bar of light from the library door. I was glad we’d left it ajar.

From below rose an evil, musty smell, like rotted lake weed. After a few more steps Konrad called out:

“There’s a door here!”

In the halo of candlelight, I saw set into the side of the shaft a large wooden door. Its rough surface was gouged with scratches. Where the handle ought to have been, there was a hole. Painted across the top of the hole were the words:

ENTER ONLY WITH A FRIEND’S WELCOME.

“Not very friendly to have no handle,” Elizabeth remarked.

Konrad gave the door a couple of good shoves. “Locked tight,” he said.

The stairs continued down, and my brother held the candle at arm’s length, trying to light the depths.

I squinted. “I think I see the bottom!”

It was indeed the bottom, and we reached it in another twenty steps. In the middle of the damp dirt floor was a well.

We walked around it and peered inside. I couldn’t tell if what I saw was oily water or just more blackness.

“Why would they hide a well in here?” Elizabeth asked.

“Maybe it’s a siege well,” I said, pleased with myself.

Konrad lifted an eyebrow. “A siege well?”

“If the chateau were besieged, and all other supplies of water were cut off.”

“Makes good sense,” said Elizabeth. “And maybe that door we passed leads to a secret escape tunnel!”

“Is that… a bone?” Konrad asked, holding his candle closer to the ground.

I felt myself shiver. We all bent down. It was half buried in the earth and was very small, white, and slender, with a knobby end.

“Maybe a finger bone?” I said.

“Animal or human?” Elizabeth asked.

“We could dig it up,” said Konrad.

“Perhaps later,” said Elizabeth. “No doubt it’s just a bit of another Frankenstein relative.”

We all giggled, and the noise echoed about unpleasantly.

“Shall we go back up?” Konrad said.

I wondered if he was scared. I was, but would not show it.

“That door…,” I said. “I wonder where it goes.”

“It may simply be bricked up on the other side,” said Konrad.

“May I?” I said, and took the candle from his hand. I led the way back up the splintered stairs and stopped outside the door. I held the flame to the small hole but still could not see what was beyond. Passing the candle down to Elizabeth, I swallowed, and stretched my hand toward the dark hole.

“What are you doing, Victor?” Konrad asked.

“There might be a catch inside,” I said, and chuckled to conceal my nervousness. “No doubt something will grab my hand.”

I folded my hand, slipped it into the hole-and immediately something seized me.

The fingers were cold and very, very strong, and they gripped so tightly that I bellowed in both pain and terror.

“Victor, is this a joke?” Elizabeth demanded angrily.

I was pulling with all my might, trying to wrench my hand free. “It’s got me!” I roared. “It’s got my hand!”

“ What’s got your hand?” shouted Konrad from below.

In my hysteria all I could think was, If it has a hand, it has a head, and if it has a mouth, it has teeth.

I pounded at the door with my other fist. “Let me go, you fiend!”

The more I pulled, the tighter it held me. But even in my panic I suddenly realized that this grip did not feel like flesh. It was too hard and inflexible.

“It’s not a real hand!” I cried. “It’s some kind of machine!”

“Victor, you idiot, what have you done now?” Konrad said.

“It won’t release me!”

“I’m going for help,” said Elizabeth, carefully moving around me and up the narrow steps. But just before she reached the door, there was a dull thud, and the bar of light from the library disappeared.

“What happened?” Konrad called out.

“It closed itself!” Elizabeth called back. “There’s a handle, but it won’t turn!” She began to pound on the thick door and call for help. Her voice echoed about the shaft like a bat’s flurry of panic.

All this time I was still struggling to pull my hand free.

“Be calm,” said Konrad at my side. “Elizabeth, can you return the candle to us, please?”

“I’ll be trapped down here forever!” I wailed, thinking of the bone we’d seen in the dirt. I now understood the deep scratches in the door, no doubt gouged by desperate fingernails. “You’ll have to saw my hand off!”

Exhausted, I stopped fighting the mechanical hand, and instantly it stopped tightening-but it did not release me.

“‘Enter only with a friend’s welcome,’” Elizabeth said, reading the message painted on the door. “It’s some kind of riddle. “A friend’s welcome…”

“Crushing someone’s hand to pulp!” I said.

“No,” she said. “When you welcome a friend, you say hello, you ask how they’ve been, you… shake their hand! Victor, maybe it wants you to shake hands!”

“I’ve been shaking hands with it for ten minutes!”

But had I? I’d been pulling and thrashing wildly about. I forced myself to take a deep, calm breath. As smoothly as I could, I tried to lift my hand. Amazingly, I was permitted to do so. Then I pushed gently down-and then politely pumped up and down once more. Instantly the mechanical fingers sprang apart, my hand was released, and the door creaked open a few inches.

I cradled my molested hand, flexing my fingers to make sure none were broken. “Thank you,” I said to Elizabeth. “That was a very good idea.”

“You troublemaker,” she said angrily. “Your adventure’s got us locked in-Victor, what are you doing now?”

“Don’t you want to have a look inside?” I said, poking the door open a little more.

“You must be mad,” said Konrad, “after what that door just did to you.”

“It may be our only way out,” I said. I was aware that I’d done a good deal of wailing and shrieking. At least I hadn’t wept. But I wanted to save face-and I was genuinely curious to know what was inside.

“Come on,” I said to Elizabeth, plucking the candle from her.

I pushed the door wide, stood to one side, and waited. Nothing flew out. Cautiously I stepped in, and peered behind the door.

“Look at this!” I exclaimed.

An elaborate machine, all gears and pulleys, was bolted to the back of the door. Against the hole was an amazing mechanical hand with jointed wooden fingers.

“What an ingenious lock,” said Konrad in amazement.

“And look here,” I said, pointing up. “I bet those ropes go to the library door. Didn’t it close and lock after the machine grabbed my hand? I’d wager we can unlock it from here. A brilliant trap to guard the room.”

“But why,” Elizabeth began slowly, “does it need to be guarded?”

As one, we all turned toward the room. The skin of my neck was gooseflesh.

I held the candle high. We were in a surprisingly large chamber. Nearby was a torch jutting from a wall sconce, and I quickly lit it. The room brightened, an orange glow flickering over tables scattered with oddly shaped glassware and metal instruments-and row upon row of shelves groaning with thick tomes.

“It’s just a library,” I said, relieved.

“We must be the first to discover it,” Elizabeth said in wonder.

I stroked my finger through the thick dust on the closest table, looked at the cobwebs sagging from the corners of the low ceiling. “Maybe so,” I murmured.

“Curious instruments,” said Konrad, peering at the glassware and scales and sharply angled tools arranged atop the table.

“It looks a bit like an apothecary shop,” I said, noting the large sooty hearth. “Maybe one of our ancestors made primitive medicines.”

“That would explain the well,” Elizabeth said. “They’d have needed water.”

“But why do it in a secret chamber?” I wondered aloud. I walked over to the bookshelves and squinted at their cracked spines. “The titles are all Latin and Greek and… languages I’ve never seen.”

I heard Elizabeth laugh, and turned.

“Here is a spell to rid your garden of slugs,” she said, paging through a black tome. “And another to make someone fall in love with you.” Her eyes lingered a bit longer on this one. “And here is one to make your enemy sicken and die…” Her voice trailed off. “There is a very upsetting picture of a body covered in running sores.”

We laughed, or tried to laugh, but we were all, I think, in awe of this strange place and the books it held.

“And here,” said Konrad, paging through another volume, “are instructions on how to speak to the dead.”

I looked at my brother. I often had the uncanny feeling that I was waiting for his show of emotions so I could better know my own. Right now I saw fear rather than my own powerful fascination with the place.

He swallowed. “We should leave.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, replacing her book.

“I want to stay a little longer,” I said. I was not pretending. Books usually held little interest for me, but these had a dark luster, and I wanted to run my fingers over their ancient pages, gaze upon their strange contents.

I caught sight of a book titled Occulta Philosophia and thirstily drew it from the shelf.

“Occult philosophy,” said Konrad, looking over my shoulder.

I turned the first few vellum pages to find the author’s name.

“Cornelius Agrippa,” I read aloud. “Any idea who this old fellow was?”

“A medieval German magician,” said a voice, and Elizabeth gave a shriek, for the answer had come from behind us. We all whirled to behold, standing in the doorway, Father.

“You’ve discovered the Biblioteka Obscura, I see,” he said, torchlight and shadow dancing disconcertingly over his craggy face. He was a powerfully built man, leonine with his thick silver hair and steady hunter’s gaze. I would not have wanted to stand before him in his courtroom.

“It was an accident,” Elizabeth said. “I fell against the books, you see, and the door opened before us.”

Father’s mood was rarely as severe as his fierce demeanor, and he grinned now. “And naturally you had to descend the stairs.”

“Naturally,” I said.

“And would I be right in assuming, Victor, that you were the one to shake hands with the door?”

I heard Konrad chuckle.

“Yes,” I admitted, “and it very nearly crushed my hand!”

“No,” said my father, “it was not designed to crush the hand, just hold on to it. Forever.”

I looked at him, shocked. “Truly?”

“When I discovered this secret passage as a young man, no one had descended the stairs for more than two hundred years. And the last person to do so was still here. What remained of him, anyway. The bones of his forearm dangled from the door. The rest of his ruined body had fallen into the shaft.”

“We wondered if we’d seen… a finger bone down there,” Elizabeth said.

“No doubt I missed a bit,” said Father.

“Who was it?” Konrad asked.

Father shook his head. “Judging by his clothing, a servant-unlucky enough to have discovered the secret passage.”

“But who built all this?” I asked.

“Ah,” said Father. “That would be your ancestor Wilhelm Frankenstein. By all accounts he was a brilliant man, and a very wealthy one. Some three hundred years ago, when he constructed the chateau, he created the Biblioteka Obscura.”

“Biblioteka Obscura,” Elizabeth said, and then translated the Latin. “Dark Library. Why was it kept in darkness?”

“He was an alchemist. And during his lifetime its practice was often outlawed. He was obsessed with the transmutation of matter, especially turning base metals into gold.”

I had heard of such a thing. Imagine the riches, the power!

“Did he succeed?” I demanded.

Father laughed. “No, Victor. It cannot be done.”

I persisted. “But maybe that explains why he was so wealthy.”

There was something almost rueful in Father’s smile. “It makes a fine story, but it is nonsense.” He waved his hand at the shelves. “You must understand that these books were written centuries ago. They are primitive attempts to explain the world. There are some shards of learning in them, but compared to our modern knowledge they are like childish dreams.”

“Didn’t the alchemists also make medicines?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes, or at least tried to,” Father said. “Some believed they could master all elements and create elixirs that would make people live forever. And some, including our fine ancestor, turned their attentions to matters even more fantastical.”

“Like what?” Konrad asked.

“Conversing with spirits. Raising ghosts.”

A chill swept through my body. “Wilhelm Frankenstein practiced witchcraft?”

“They burned witches back then,” Elizabeth murmured.

“There is no such thing as witchcraft,” Father said firmly. “But the Church of Rome condemned virtually each and every one of these books. I think you can see why the library was kept in darkness.”

“He was never caught, was he?” I asked.

Father shook his head. “But one day, in his forty-third year, without telling anyone where he was going, he mounted a horse and rode away from the chateau. He left behind his wife and children, and was never seen again.”

“That is… quite chilling,” said Elizabeth, looking from Konrad to me.

“Our family history is colorful, is it not?” said Father humorously.

My gaze returned once more to the bookshelves, glowing in the torchlight. “May we look at them some more?”

“No.”

I was startled, for his voice had lost its affectionate joviality and become hard.

“But, Father,” I objected, “you yourself have said that the pursuit of knowledge is a grand thing.”

“This is not knowledge,” he said. “It is a corruption of knowledge. And these books are not to be read.”

“Then, why do you keep them?” I asked defiantly. “Why not just burn them?”

For a moment his brow furrowed angrily, then softened. “I keep them, dear, arrogant Victor, because they are artifacts of an ignorant, wicked past-and it is a good thing not to forget our past mistakes. To keep us humble. To keep us vigilant. You see, my boy?”

“Yes, Father,” I said, but I was not sure I did. It seemed impossible to me that all this ink could contain nothing but lies.

“Now come away from this dark place,” he told the three of us. “It’s best if you do not speak of it to anyone-especially your little brothers. The stairs are perilous enough, and you already know the hazards of the door.” He looked at us gravely. “And make me a promise that I will not find you here again.”

“I promise,” the three of us said, almost in exact unison. Though I was not so sure I could resist the strange allure of these books.

“Excellent. And, Victor,” he added with a wry grin, “wonderful to see you on your feet again. Now, if I’m not mistaken, it is nearly time for us to prepare dinner for the servants.”

“Surely that’s enough now,” I muttered, tossing another peeled potato into the heaping bowl.

“A few more, I think,” Konrad said, still diligently peeling. He glanced over at Ernest, who was sitting beside us at the long table, his brow furrowed with concentration as he worked away at a potato. He in no way resembled Konrad and me. He took after our mother, with fair hair, and large, blue eyes.

“Remember, push the knife away from yourself,” Konrad said gently. “You don’t want to cut your hand. Good. That’s it.”

Ernest beamed at Konrad’s praise; the boy practically hero-worshipped him.

I added yet another potato to the bowl and looked about the crowded kitchen. Mother and Elizabeth were preparing the ham and chatting happily with some of the maids. Mother was much adored by all of the servants. She was younger than Father by nearly twenty years, and very beautiful, with thick blond hair, a high forehead, and frank, gentle eyes. I couldn’t remember her ever speaking sharply to any of our staff.

At the far end of the table, Father chopped parsnips and carrots for the roasting pan, and talked to Schultz, his butler of twenty-five years, who was currently sipping our finest sherry while my father worked.

Our home was a most peculiar one.

The city of Geneva was a republic. We had no king or queen or prince to rule over us. We were governed by the General Council, which our male citizens elected. We had servants, as all wealthy families did, but they were the best paid in Geneva, and were given ample free time. Otherwise, as Father said, they would have been little better than slaves. Just because they did not have our advantages of wealth and education, Father said, that did not make them lesser.

Both Mother and Father were considered exceedingly liberal by many people.

Liberal meant open-minded.

Liberal meant making dinner every Sunday night for our own servants.

“It’s terrible, sir, this situation in France,” Schultz was saying to my father.

“The terror these mobs are spreading is despicable,” Father agreed.

“Do you still think the revolution so good a thing now, sir?” Schultz asked in his frank way, and I could see all of the other servants in the kitchen pause and look over, curious and nervous both, waiting for their master’s reply. In France the king and queen had been beheaded, and landowners were now dragged from their beds in the middle of the night, arrested and executed-all in the name of the revolution. I watched Father, too, wondering how far his liberality would extend.

“I am still hopeful,” he said calmly, “that the French will establish a peaceful republic like ours, which recognizes that all men were created equal.”

“And all women, too,” said Mother, then added tartly: “Equal to men, that is.”

“Ah!” Father said with a good-natured grin. “And that, too, may come in time, liebling.”

“It would come sooner,” Mother said, “if the education of girls was not designed to turn them into meek, weak-minded creatures who waste their true potential.”

“Not in this house,” said Elizabeth.

Father smiled at her. “Thank you, my dear.”

Mother came and affectionately kissed the top of Father’s graying head. “No, this house is indeed the exception to the rule.”

Father was one of the four magistrates of our republic. His expertise was the law-but there was no subject under the sun that didn’t win his interest. Indeed, so great was his respect for learning that he had resigned many of his public duties and business dealings so that he could devote himself to our education. The chateau was his schoolhouse, his own children his pupils-and that included Elizabeth, too.

Every day Elizabeth took her place between Konrad and me in the library to receive our lessons in Greek, Latin, literature, science, and politics from Father and Mother and whatever tutors they thought fit to teach us.

And there was one other student in our eccentric classroom: Henry Clerval.

Henry was exceedingly clever, and my father won the permission of Henry’s father to allow our friend to be tutored in our home. He was an only child, and his mother had died some years ago. As his merchant father was often away on business for weeks, or even months, at a time, Henry spent many of his days-and nights, too-at our home, and we considered him practically one of the family.

I only wished he were here right now to help me peel potatoes.

No other family I knew did this. I admired my parents’ high-minded ideals, but was this bizarre Sunday ritual really necessary? Sometimes I wondered if our servants felt entirely comfortable with it. Some of them, the older ones especially, seemed a bit ill at ease, even faintly grumpy, at seeing us take over their kitchen. And often they’d start lending a hand when they saw us bumbling about or doing something wrong.

For my own part, I did not look forward to Sunday nights. I would much rather have had my meal made for me, and served upstairs. But Konrad had never confessed such unworthy feelings, so I would not reveal mine.

A pudgy, starfish-shaped hand suddenly reached up onto the kitchen table and dragged off a handful of peelings. I looked down to see little William cramming them gleefully into his mouth.

“William, stop!” Konrad said, snatching away the remaining scraps. “You can’t eat those!”

Instantly, William began to wail. “Tay-toe! Toe!”

I put down my knife and knelt to comfort our littlest brother.

“Willy, you’ve got to wait till they’re cooked. They’re yummier that way. Much, much yummier.”

William gave a brave sniff. “Yummier.”

“That’s right,” I said, giving him a hug. His plump arms squeezed tight around my neck. I was tremendously fond of Willy. He’d just learned how to take his first steps, and was a complete terror. He was loud, often annoying, and loved being the center of attention, like me, so I had a soft spot for him. And amazingly he seemed to prefer me to Konrad. I wondered how long that would last.

“He’s teething,” Mother said from across the room. “He probably just wants something to chew.”

I saw a clean wooden spoon on the table and passed it to William. With touching gratitude he grabbed it, and promptly shoved it deep into his mouth. A look of utter bliss crossed his face.

“Works like a treat,” I said.

“How’s your foot, young sir?” one of our new stable hands asked me.

“I am recovered, thank you,” I replied.

“That play of yours was something,” he said.

“You enjoyed my villainy, did you?” I asked, pleased-and hoping for more praise. Many of the servants had watched the play from the back rows.

He nodded. “Oh, yes.”

“That swordplay at the end took a long time to master. No doubt you saw that spectacular roundhouse swing I did at the end.”

“Please don’t encourage him,” said Elizabeth, with a roll of her eyes, “or he’ll want to reenact the entire scene for us again.”

“I liked the pretend parts,” the stable hand said, “but the way young master Konrad rescued you at the end, that was real heroics.”

“Ah, yes,” I said, looking back at my potato. “It certainly was.”

“How did you do it, sir?” the stable hand asked my brother in utter admiration. “I couldn’t have done it for gold, not with my fear of heights.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so high, Marc,” Konrad told him with a chuckle. He knew the fellow’s name-of course. Konrad always knew all of the servants by name. “And how are you finding Bellerive?”

“The countryside’s very fine,” said Marc.

“When you have a chance, you should take one of the horses up into the foothills, and admire the view of Geneva and the Jura Mountains.”

“I will, sir, thank you.”

One of the reasons I disliked these dinners was that Konrad was so much better at them than I was. When we all finally sat down at the table, with masters and servants united into one very large and unusual family, my twin brother effortlessly struck up conversations with everyone. I wished I had his gift.

He asked Maria, our housekeeper, how her nephew’s broken arm was healing. He asked Philippe, the groom, how Prancer, our pregnant mare, was faring. And before long the servants were telling their own stories, which I truly did love to hear, for their lives were so unlike my own. Kurt, our footman, had once been a soldier and had fought a bloody battle and lost several toes; Marie-Claire, my mother’s maid, had served an evil duchess in France who would beat her with her slipper if the cake tasted stale.

Afterward we helped the servants clean the dishes and pots and pans, and I marveled at the work they did for us each and every day.

And I was very glad we did this but once a week.

Floating on the lake, gazing up at the clear night sky: perfection. It was Tuesday after dinner. Henry, Elizabeth, Konrad, and I were drifting on the lake in a rowboat, lying back on cushions. It was one of our favorite pastimes.

We’d grown up so near the water that it was like a second home to us. Konrad and I had learned to sail not long after we’d learned to walk. So assured were our skills that our parents never worried when we spent time on Lake Geneva. That night we had reason to celebrate, for Henry was to stay with us an entire month. His father had just embarked on a lengthy business trip, and our parents had happily invited Henry to stay with us for the duration.

“I wonder why Wilhelm Frankenstein suddenly left like that,” he said, after we’d finished our tale of the Dark Library. “It has the makings of a wonderful play.” When Henry was excited, he reminded me even more of some strange pale bird. His blond head flicked quickly from person to person, his eyes very bright, his fingers sometimes fluttering for emphasis like he might take flight at any moment.

“Maybe he was bewitched,” Elizabeth said. “Driven mad by all he’d learned!”

“Intriguing,” said Henry with an approving nod.

“More likely he met with some misfortune on the road,” Konrad said.

“Brigands who murdered him and bundled his body off the mountain,” suggested Henry eagerly. “I like brigands. They make for an excellent plot.”

“Or perhaps,” I said, “he truly discovered the secret of eternal life and went off to begin afresh.”

“Oh, that is good,” said Henry. “I like that very much as well.” He patted his pocket for a pen and bit of paper and sighed when he found neither.

For a moment we were all silent, enjoying the gentle rocking of the boat, and the scented air.

“Look, another shooting star!” Konrad pointed out.

“God’s creation is very vast,” Elizabeth murmured, staring at the night sky.

“Father doesn’t believe in God,” I said. “He says it is an outmoded-”

“I know very well what he says,” Elizabeth interrupted. “An outmoded system of belief that has controlled and abused people, and that will wizen away under the glare of science. How original you are, Victor, to mimic your father.”

“You’re wiser than he, of course,” I said.

“You two, please,” sighed Konrad.

Elizabeth glared at me. “I’m not saying I’m wiser. I am saying he is wrong.”

“Oh-ho!” I said, looking forward to a quarrel.

“Can’t we talk about Wilhelm Frankenstein some more?” Henry said. “I really do think his story has the makings of-”

But Elizabeth wasn’t about to be thrown off the scent.

“Victor, I doubt you’re truly an atheist, and if you are, it’s only because your father taught you to be.”

“And you are a Catholic because your mother taught you to be. And some nuns, too!”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I have considered it carefully, and find no other possible explanation for”-she waved her hand at the night sky, and the lake, and us-“all of this!”

“There is no proof of God,” I said, quoting Father.

“There is knowing, and there is believing,” said Elizabeth. “They are two different things. Knowing requires facts. Believing requires faith. If there were proof of God’s existence, it wouldn’t be a faith, would it.”

This puzzled me for a moment. “I simply don’t see the point,” I said. “Faith seems worthless to me, then. One might have faith in any fancy. Singing flowers or-”

“Worthless?” cried Elizabeth. “My faith has given me sustenance for many years!”

“Victor, enough,” said Konrad. “You’ll hurt her feelings.”

“Oh, Elizabeth can take care of herself,” I said. “She’s no delicate blossom.”

“Certainly not,” she retorted. “But in the future I will only argue with my intellectual equals.”

“I’m considering pushing you into the lake,” I said, beginning to stand.

“I’d like to see you try,” said Elizabeth, with a flare of the wildcat in her face.

“Please, please, don’t dare him,” said Henry, gripping the sides of the rocking boat in alarm. “Victor always does dares. Remember what happened last time?”

“We nearly capsized,” Konrad recalled, as a bit of water splashed over the side.

“Getting wet upsets me,” said Henry. “Victor, do sit down.”

I narrowed my eyes at Elizabeth; she narrowed hers back.

“I’ve read,” said Henry, “that if you stare long enough at the heavens, your future will become clear. Have you tried it, Victor?”

It was such an obvious ploy that I couldn’t help laughing. I slouched back comfortably against the cushions.

“And what is it you see for yourself, Henry?” I asked my diplomatic friend.

“Well,” he said, “the view is clear for me. I will become a merchant and in time take over my father’s business.”

Elizabeth pushed herself up on her elbows, indignant. “That’s dismally practical of you, Henry.”

“Nothing wrong with being practical,” Konrad remarked.

“But, Henry, what of your interest in literature?” Elizabeth demanded.

“You can’t eat it, that’s the problem,” he said. “I’ve tried, it’s very dry, not at all nutritious. And a man does have to earn a living.”

“But look at the applause your play won!” she reminded him.

“I felt like an imposter taking credit,” said Henry. “The idea was yours.”

This was true. But Elizabeth had thought the audience might have been horrified to know that a young lady had invented such a violent and bloodthirsty tale.

“Well,” said Elizabeth, pleased, “a story comes easily enough to me, but the writing was all yours, Henry. You have the soul of a poet.”

“Ah, well,” said Henry. “A merchant does not need to rhyme. What do your stars tell you?”

“I will write a novel,” Elizabeth said with decision.

“What will it be about?” I asked, surprised.

“I don’t know the subject yet,” she said with a laugh. “Only that it will be something wonderful. Like a bolt of lightning!”

“You’ll need a pen name,” Konrad said, for the idea of a woman writing a novel was scandalous.

“Perhaps I will shock the world with my own,” she said. “‘Elizabeth Lavenza’ has such a literary flair, don’t you think? It would be a shame to waste it.”

“And what of marriage?” Konrad asked.

“It would take a remarkable man to make me marry,” she said. “Men are mercury. Always changing. Look at my father. He remarried and just sent me away. I was packed up like a bit of furniture. And he visited me only once in two years.”

“Scoundrel,” I said.

“Not all men are so bad, surely,” said my brother.

She laughed. “No doubt. I will have a fabulous husband and many beautiful, talented children. Now, I have embarrassed myself enough. Victor, what do you see in your future?”

I thought a moment, and then said, “When I see the stars, I think of the planets that must orbit them, and I would like to travel among them. And if we could do so, would not we be gods?”

“A modest goal, then,” said my twin. “Victor just wants to be a god.”

Laughing, I elbowed him in the ribs. “I’m imbued with high hopes and lofty ambitions. And if I can’t travel between planets-”

“Always good to have a back-up plan,” Henry interjected.

“-then I will create something, some great work that will be useful and marvelous to all humanity.”

“You mean a machine of some kind?” asked Konrad.

“Yes, perhaps,” I said, thinking more seriously now. “An engine that will transform the world-or a new source of energy. It seems scientific discoveries are being made every day now. In any event, I will be remembered forever.”

“Statues and monuments will bear your name, no doubt!” Konrad said with a grin.

“Very well. Let us hear your little dreams!” I said.

Konrad stared at the sky. “I will follow Father’s example,” he said thoughtfully. “I would like to help govern Geneva, to make it even greater than it is now. But I’d like to see the world, too. Perhaps cross the ocean and see the new America, or the British colonies to the north. They say there are still vast landscapes there, untouched by Europeans.”

“Then you would abandon us all,” Elizabeth asked, “and marry some exotic native princess?”

Konrad chuckled. “No. I will make my journeys with a soul mate.”

“You’d just want me to carry all your supplies,” I joked. “You’d best find another travel companion.”

But I loved the idea of having a grand adventure with Konrad.

It had always been a favorite game of ours, since we were very young, to lie side by side on the library floor with the great atlas before us, picking the countries we would visit together.

I still yearned for such a trip, just the two of us. West to the New World: to some remote, wild place-where no one would compare us.