The Slow Spiral of Ernest Frankenstein

Chapter 1

The day my father died, perhaps I should have felt something.

I could not. For one, I did not find out until several days later, when Monsieur Clerval came round to the Estate. He was there to demand payment for his debts, and—obviously—did not succeed. He found the manor in a curious state: burnt to ashes, with the nearby trees barely singed, and a chemical stench wafting from the remnants. Clerval, after a good bout of cowardly shrieking, reported the arson.

I did not hear of any of these occurrences until sixteen days later, when the information at last reached Paris via newspaper. The report did not directly state the death of one Judge Frankenstein, but my father did not particularly enjoy excursions from the house, especially after William's death. I am certain he was there.

And thus, my life as an orphan officially began. I reviewed the list of the dead. Justine. William. My mother. My father. And Victor, well, if there was a God above, he was dead too.

There was to be an inheritance, but the Estate's burning had ensured I would not see a penny beyond the education Father had already paid for. Father did not tend to pay in advance, as he was the type of person to revel in physical assets, not cash. Whenever he bothered to speak with me, Father always held something of value, as if it were a talisman for the continuation of his own good fortune. Evidently, those all failed.

When the headmaster beckoned me into his office after morning classes, I suspected the nature of the following conversation. However, I had not recognized the immediacy of the situation. Foolishly, I believed that perhaps Father had paid through the rest of the year, or the headmaster might let me stay out of pity.

No. The headmaster was a hulking brute of a man, broad shouldered and over two meters tall to my one and three quarters (not that I measured), and as I stood in front of him, his deep-set eyes betrayed a complete lack of emotion. I found myself struggling to match his expression as he briskly explained that I would need to be packed by the day's end.

I nodded and thanked him, because that is what Justine taught me to do, and inside, I seethed. The school, with its rigid structures and demanding courses, was the only place of security I had ever known. The few boys that I spent luncheons with gave me nods and a parting word in passing, but they did not offer anything else as I shuffled down the corridors. I was, for the first time, really and truly alone.

Bizarrely, as I stepped outside the doors to the Geneva Academy of Military Training, I laughed. A harsh bark of a sound, it echoed in the quiet street, abandoned even at the early hour of eight. The city had been bustling when I arrived, but news of the rumored monster that haunted us at the Estate traveled quickly. The timid people here, who spoke in whispered, fleeting French, seemed to creep through the streets on feet of fog. If one pushed past them, a mistaken jostle en route to a market, perhaps, they startled backward, immediately apologizing.

The stars twinkled above, but I had no use for their brilliance tonight. With my solitary lantern, I marched in the direction of a flickering window with a sign proclaiming LODGING. It was nondescript, a bit ramshackle, and everything the rest of my family would detest. I took an instant liking to it.

After a moment of negotiation with the innkeeper, I settled on paying one banknote too many. Typically, I would leave the haggling to people like Elizabeth, who could bend her words until the clerk would beg to pay for the gift of having her business. But tonight, I regarded the value of my wallet in a way I had not days ago, when it was seemingly bottomless.

I had my pick of three rooms, and chose the one closest to the exit. The scar on my forearm was not the only one that had pushed me to this habit.

I switched on the light, letting my lantern rest on the floor, and locked the door firmly. The room was just as I expected: tidy, but not quite clean; sparse, but not quite barren. A singular painting hung on the wall across from the bed, and the sight of it made my stomach clench. The mountains by the Estate.