Copyright 2023
Prologue
“Am I still the vessel reserved for your malice, the unlucky recipient of your hatred?”
I clutched the railing of the ship, trying to keep my feet. The waves were rough this evening,
which was strange because there was very little wind. The furled sails hung limp overhead,
completely motionless. It seemed as though God had simply animated the sea with a blast of
lightning.
“I cannot say,” I replied honestly, eyeing the human silhouette in the fading light.
The man before me was tall, unnaturally so. I was grateful that he was facing away from me,
for I had been tormented my entire life by the memory of his demonic face. My every dream was haunted by his hideous features: his yellow skin, glassy eyes, deformed visage, and thin, black lips. I fainted the first time I ever saw him, and it was a testament to my strength that I did not do so now.
“You had both right and reason to harm me,” said the creature. “I killed young William
Frankenstein and framed Justine Moritz for his murder—a crime for which she was hanged. I
killed Henry Clerval in England, and then I returned home to kill Elizabeth Frankenstein on the very night of her wedding. My villainy reeks to heaven. I should simply have taken revenge upon my creator, and him alone. I instead destroyed all that he loved, killing the innocents around him. The world of men stripped away my innocence with its rejection. I felt that I was entitled to respond in kind.”
I dropped a hand to my skirt, feeling the dagger underneath it. The weapon was strapped to
my thigh, as it had been since I was sixteen years old. A brief moment of immodesty would place it in my hand, and I could have my vengeance once again.
But I would find no peace in doing such a thing. This I now knew. “You were a child,” I said. “No one taught you right from wrong. No one raised you, sheltered you. Even your creator recoiled in horror at the first sight of your face. Children act on instinct, on rage, and passion. Whatever guilt exists in your deeds can be laid at Frankenstein’s feet. He abandoned you. He lied to you and broke his word when he refused to make you a mate. He left you alone and despised. The deaths of William, Justine, Henry, and Elizabeth are his atrocities, not yours. Victor Frankenstein chose to play God, and he paid the price for his evil. That you were that price is no fault of yours. He gave you life, but he did not teach you how to live.”
“Do you truly believe that?”
“I do,” I said firmly.
“Can you ever bring yourself to look upon my face again? It is strange. One of the first times
that I set foot upon a ship, I came to bid a tearful farewell to my hated creator. He sewed me
together from stolen corpses and brought me to miserable life. I despised him, but I mourned
him, nevertheless. Here I stand now, at sea once again. Can you bear to look at me?”
“Yes.” The word was difficult to say, but my tone was resolute.
The monster turned to face me, but all I could see in the darkness was the gleam in his eyes.
“What shall we do now?” he whispered.
Chapter One
To know the name for something is to create intimacy with it.
When one knows the name for something—or someone—that knowledge creates a bond.
One can share the nature of the thing with another. One can whisper the name with affection, or with hatred.
To know the name for something is also to seize power over it. One can praise that name, or
even elevate it to a higher station. One can also blaspheme that name, and heap shame upon it.
My name is Agatha DeLacey, but I do not use it. I would not give others power over me,
either for adulation or for slander. The surname “DeLacey” is one of ill repute in France, and my full name is morbidly familiar in certain literary circles. So, I protect the name of Agatha
DeLacey by using another: Talitha de Morte.
I adopted the name when I was eighteen. I am French by birth, and I developed a respectable
grasp of languages during my university training. Mort is the French word for “death,” and
talitha is Aramaic for “little girl.”
It is a fitting name, for when I was sixteen, my innocence—my naivete—was stolen from me.
How this occurred is a strange story.
In 1818, a young lady named Mary Shelley published a novel entitled ‘Frankenstein.’ Mary
Shelley was the daughter of an anarchist, and the oft-betrayed wife of the besotted, philandering poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. The reading public was not at all surprised when such a scandalous character penned such a tale.
Frankenstein’ was published as a series of letters between the ship captain Robert Walton and
his sister, Margaret Saville. The world believes that those letters are simply the maudlin’
imaginings of a disturbed young woman. I know the truth of the matter, although no one will
ever know how young Mary came to be in possession of those letters.
Robert Walton was real. Margaret Saville was real. They could still be alive, although I do
not know this for certain.
But this is a truth of even more importance: Victor Frankenstein was real, although he is now
deceased.
His monster was also real.
I was sixteen when he entered my family’s cottage, seeking solace, and comfort. I was there
with my older brother, Felix, and his lover, Safie. My old, blind father was sitting near the fire,
as he often did.
I fainted when I saw the creature.
We fled immediately to Hamburg, desperate to escape the vile golem. I did not know what he
was then, although the letters of Robert Walton would eventually reveal the truth to me.
It was in Hamburg that disaster overtook our family.
The scarlet fever was the local epidemic du jour. Safie, being Arabian, and unaccustomed to
European illnesses, was the first to perish. My father, being elderly, followed her in short order.
Felix was the last to die. He was a young, strapping man, but he had exhausted himself caring
for Safie and my father.
When he took his last breath, I was left alone in the world.
The Americans say that God works in mysterious ways, and perhaps this is true. I had
abandoned all hope and accepted my fate as a destitute woman. I would become a beggar,
perhaps even a prostitute. Young girls with shapely figures and golden hair make an easy living as prostitutes.
Then a letter arrived from Paris.
The French government confiscated the DeLacey family fortune, as punishment for some of
my father’s political dealings. We fled to Germany as paupers. But political winds often shift,
and the winds suddenly shifted in our favor. Our fortune was restored, and, as the only surviving heiress, it was granted to me.
I was well educated before my family fled my native country, and I was desirous to expand
my wealth of knowledge. Thus, I went to Geneva, Switzerland to pursue a medical education.
The Swiss are more respectful of women than the English or the Germans. A woman might earn a place in Swiss society, if she works hard enough.
I did not have an easy road of it, constantly having to prove myself in a world governed by
men. University was difficult for me, and all I had was my father’s guitar to comfort me. Still I
persevered, and I became a proper doctor at the tender age of twenty-four. In spite of my success, the memory of the monster’s visit never left me, and never stopped haunting my dreams.
After Felix succumbed to his illness, I bought a dagger and strapped it to my thigh. I have
been carrying it ever since. Should I ever see the creature’s hideous face again, I thought, I
would be ready.
I found settling into one place difficult and finally gave up trying. I took a position as a ship’s
doctor on the Virgin Mary—a British merchant vessel that sails the trade routes of the Caribbean.
I learned to accept that I might live a lonely life. I am too guarded, and too damaged, for one to engage in a romantic manner. I thought spinsterhood would be my fate.
Then I met Ben.
Chapter Two
Piracy on the high seas has been waning since the defeat of Jean Laffite. But it still exists,
and it is best not to forget that it does. Romantic novels often portray pirates as glamorous
creatures, but I know better.
Pirates are savages.
I was lying in my hammock, fast asleep. I enjoy hammocks, the way they sway with the
motion of the ship. It is like being rocked to sleep. I also find comfort in the sound of the waves lapping against the hull. I always slept like an infant at sea, and I was doing so upon that fateful night.
The creaking of ropes, the flapping of sails, and even the sounds of sailors walking the deck
above my tiny room were not sufficient to awaken me.
The gunshot was.
I rolled out of my hammock and opened the porthole to let some moonlight in. I could hear
shouting above me. I checked to ensure that my door was locked and waited anxiously. Perhaps it was simply a violent dispute among some of the deck hands, but I knew—deep down—that it was not. Captain Dillard was a fair, decent leader, but he also maintained strict discipline among his men.
So I waited.
I heard several men running below deck, followed by an urgent knocking on my door. My
heart began pounding furiously.
“Who is it?” I called.
“Worthington, ma’am! You must let us in!” Worthington was the first mate, a man whom I was inclined to trust. But I could also imagine a cutlass being held to his throat.
“What is your business?” I shouted.
“Big Ben has been shot.”
This could still be a trick. I had the brief thought that I might end up being violated, but I am
a doctor—a creature of duty—and I had taken an oath. I opened the door, relieved to see that the first mate was not being held hostage. He and a crew member were holding up the “able seaman” known only to me as Ben. I took the oil lantern from the crewman and ushered everyone inside.
Blood was pouring down Ben’s chest, staining his white shirt with crimson stripes. I
unlatched my hinged operating table from the wall and lowered it to the floor. The first mate and the crewman struggled mightily to get Ben onto the table, but they managed.
I opened my bag, pulled out my scissors, and began cutting open Ben’s shirt. “What
happened?” I asked.
“Pirates, no more than a dozen,” said Worthington, “aboard a small schooner. They must
have been desperate to attack a ship this size. They pulled alongside asking for supplies, but
when we let two of them aboard, they tried to hold the captain at gunpoint. The captain is safe. But Ben—”
I pulled open Ben’s shirt and looked at his wound.“Pistol ball to the shoulder,” I said grimly. “Straight through the ball-and-socket joint, and very near the artery. I shall have to remove his arm.”
Just then, Ben stirred. He grabbed my wrist, staring into my face with desperate, sky-blue
eyes.
“Not my arm,” he pleaded. “Please, do not take my arm.”
“I have no choice,” I said. “You will never use it again, and it will certainly become
gangrenous. I am sorry, my friend.”
“Please, simply remove the ball,” begged Ben.
“I may nick your artery, and I might be unable to staunch the bleeding. I must remove your
arm and cauterize the artery, or you will die.”
“Take the ball out,” said Ben firmly, his eyes hardening. “I will not give up one of my
limbs.”
“It is your choice, but I tell you that you will perish. Do not be a fool.”
“It is my arm, my good woman, and my foolish decision to make in regards to it!”
“So be it,” I conceded. “Worthington, if you would, please ask the second mate to sterilize
my instruments. He knows what to do. You—what is your name?”
“Locksley, ma’am.”
“Locksley, please help me secure Ben for surgery.”
My table has leather restraints bolted to it. It was difficult getting Ben secured, for he was a
frightfully large man—nearly seven feet tall, by my estimation, and as burly as a man could
possibly be. I had to make a number of adjustments to my equipment. Ben’s long, black pigtail I pulled to the side, lest he get blood in it, or hair in his wound.
Ben was beginning to fade as I waited impatiently for my sterilized instruments. I studied his
face curiously. He was fastidiously clean-shaven, as Captain Dillard requires of all his men. His face was strong, masculine, and more than a little handsome.
You are a beautifully foolish man, I thought, quite against my will.When Worthington returned, I asked Ben to open his mouth. I put a wooden rod between his
teeth and bound a leather cord around one end. The cord I then pulled around his head and tied securely to the other end of the rod.
“Thank you, Worthington,” I said. “Would you leave Locksley with me, please? I may
require assistance.”
“Of course, doctor. May God bless your hands.”
May God bless my hands, indeed, I thought, steeling myself.
Steadying my nerves, I reached for the scalpel.
Chapter Three
I woke late the next morning, feeling haggard. I had only slept for a few hours, but I judged it
best to rise anyway.
I drew some seawater for a sponge bath and tried to freshen myself as best I was able. The
cook was kind enough to prepare some boucan for me—dried, seasoned pork—which I ate with some bread, and my daily lime. As always, I was careful to put a splash of rum in my water to purify it, for dysentery is ever the seafarer’s nemesis.
I felt better after I ate and went to the sick bay.
There were two men there, an apprentice seaman who broke his leg falling from the rigging,
and Ben. I examined young Toby first.
“Your fever has broken,” I said. “That is a good sign. Bone marrow does not belong in the
blood, yes? Try to stretch your upper thigh so it does not stiffen.”
Satisfied that Toby was on the mend, I went to Ben’s bedside.
My heart was heavy. Had I done wrong in abiding by his wishes? Should I have taken his
arm, even without his consent? I stared off into space for a moment, unwilling to look at my
patient.
Then I felt him tugging on my skirt.
“Doctor de Morte,” he whispered. “Good morning.”
I looked down at him, stunned.
I had meant to check his pulse. The odds were not in favor of his surviving the night. I pulled
back his blanket, examining his wound.
“You are healing!” I said, shocked.
And indeed he was. The stitched lacerations looked as if they were days old, not fresh. “The
ball seriously damaged the bones in your shoulder,” I said. “Can you feel your arm?”
“Yes.”
“Can you move it? Any movement at all?”
Ben grimaced, but much to my amazement, he lifted his arm from the bed.
“How can this be?” I asked, laying a hand on Ben’s forehead to check his temperature.
Ben gently took my hand and placed it on his chest. “These hands saved me, and I will never
forget. Bless you, Talitha.”
I trembled as I stood there, unwillingly relishing the feel of his powerful, hairy chest beneath
my hand. No one ever calls me Talitha. It is always “ma’am” or “Doctor de Morte”, but never
Talitha. Somehow, the utterance seemed strangely intimate.
“Have you eaten?” I asked, in a whisper.
“I have not.”
“I shall bring you something to eat, and then I will sponge your wound. I will return shortly.”
“Thank you.”
I leaned against the wall as I left the sick bay, wondering why my heart was fluttering so. I
whispered the name by which Ben had called me, remembering the way he said it: Talitha.
Chapter Four
I removed Ben’s stitches three days later.
I was amazed by how quickly—and thoroughly—he was healing. After three days, he’d
nearly regained the full use of his arm.
I was sitting in my room, with the porthole open to let the sea breeze in. I was wearing only
my underclothing, as I often did when I was alone. In regards to weather, the Caribbean is not
France, or Germany.
The Caribbean is hot.
I was scribbling restlessly in my sketch book. I took up drawing at university and was
surprised to discover that I had an aptitude for it. A few years of lessons made me quite
proficient.
I turned the page, mentally searching for an image that might strike my fancy.
Almost against my will, a face began to appear beneath my scratching charcoal stick.
It was a rugged face, a handsome face, with a pale gaze, and framed by hair as black as
midnight. I sketched into the late hours of the night, until the portrait was so realistic that I half expected it to speak to me.
I put down the sketch at last, trembling. What had come over me? I felt silly, like a schoolgirl
in love. I closed the sketch book, feeling my cheeks reddening.
But I could not get that face out of my mind’s eye.
I slipped on a dress, wondering what I was doing. I started to leave my room, but then I
paused.
I took a moment to select a book from my trunk before I headed for the sick bay. I was
stricken by how quiet it was below deck. The only men awake were topside, manning the sails. I opened the door to the sick bay, holding my oil lantern high.
Ben was asleep. He looked peaceful, and I could see the blanket rising and falling with his
breath. I stepped inside and closed the door.
He turned to face me and smiled.
“Hello, Talitha,” he said. “What brings you here at this hour?”
“I am discharging you,” I said.
“Now?”
“Partially. I find that when patients who have been lying down for too long first rise, they
often become giddy, or disoriented. So I will ask you to sit up for a while. If that agrees with
you, you may return to your feet on the morrow.”
“I see. What shall we do while I am sitting?”
“I—I thought I would read to you,” I said, blushing. “Do you like books?”
“I am very fond of books,” said Ben gravely. “Shall I read to you, doctor? It would be a good
way to ensure that I am not stricken by pneumonia.”
I looked down at my feet, suddenly realizing that I had not donned my shoes.
“I would like that,” I whispered, eyeing my toes.
I set my book down on the bench along the wall and pulled some blankets out of the supply
chest. I lined the back and seat with them, and then beckoned to Ben.“Do you need help?” I asked, patting the seat.
“I think not,” said Ben, throwing off his blanket. He rose and sat on the edge of the bed, his
eyes twinkling.
Then he rose and walked toward me. I shook as we sat down beside one another, and Ben
gently took the book from my hands.
“Don Quixote,” he said approvingly. “I am relieved. I was afraid you might have brought
some cumbersome medical treatise.”
I giggled at that and then slapped a hand to my mouth. I was suddenly appalled that I had
momentarily lost control of myself.
Ben turned to the opening page, and began reading in a deep, resonant voice.
“In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived
not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing.”
I closed my eyes, borne away by the sound of Ben’s smooth, rich voice. I could hear the
breeze wafting through portholes, and the sea lapping against the hull, as it always did. The soft array of sounds sounded like a love ballad, played gently with instruments of both flesh and nature.
On impulse, I pulled the end of the blanket around myself and leaned against Ben.
He stiffened for a moment, although he did not falter in his reading.
Then—after a moment’s hesitation—he put his arm around me.
I lost myself in the story, the sound of the sea, and Ben’s comforting touch. He was sturdy,
and powerful. I had never before known what it was like to feel protected, to be sheltered by
someone stronger than I.
“The curate was tired and would not look into any more books, and so he decided that,
‘contents uncertified,’ all the rest should be burned; but just then the barber held open one, called The Tears of Angelica.”
I smiled and laid my head against Ben’s shoulder, overwhelmed by a pleasant sort of fatigue.
I awakened with a jolt the next morning, nearly falling out of my hammock.
Why was I in my hammock?
I was still wearing my dress. I hastily put on my shoes and searched the ship, until at last I
found Ben. He was in the storeroom, searching through the barrels of limes.
“Hello, doctor,” he said pleasantly. “Captain wants me to check for any bruised—or
molding—limes. It only takes one to spoil the whole barrel. He says I will be on ‘light duty’ for a few days.”
“How did I get to my room?” I demanded. “I do not remember waking up.”
“I carried you, of course,” said Ben pleasantly. “You looked so content that I could not bear
to rouse you.”
“That was foolish of you,” I scolded. “You could have injured yourself.”
“I did not, as you can see,” said Ben. “Would you care to examine me?”
“Cheeky!” I retorted.
Ben rose and walked toward me. He towered over my petite form, big enough to throw me
through the porthole if he wished.
But he did not.
Instead, he leaned down and kissed me.
I should have rebuffed him.But I did not.
Instead, I kissed him back, with a passion I had never before felt. I could smell his sweat and
taste his lime-laced breath. My head spun dizzily as he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. All I could do was keep kissing him.
Something in me hoped that that moment would never end—but naturally, it did. Ben gently
pulled his lips from mine and continued to hold me close as he looked down upon me.
“Mistress Talitha,” he said gravely, “may I have your permission to court you?”
“Upon one condition,” I whispered.
“What is that?”
“You must kiss me again,” I whispered. “Only then may you court me.”
Ben acquiesced, stirring up my passion even more strongly than he had the first time.
We only stopped when we heard boots coming down the corridor. I fled the room, keeping my face down as I walked past the puzzled sailor.
Ben went back to studiously inspecting his limes.
Chapter Five
Captain Dillard became aware of our relationship rather quickly. He was a seasoned leader,
our captain, and he paid studious attention to the goings-on of his ship.
Since Ben was not slacking in his duties—and I was not a crew member—he chose to let us
be, although he did make a point of telling us that he knew we were courting. I was grateful for his indulgence.
I climbed the ladder onto the deck, sighing.
I had just set a broken finger for one of the deck hands. He had been holding a rope tied to
the mainmast, when the wind suddenly changed. The rope pulled taught around his pointing
finger, snapping it like a twig. My patient was young, and rather unnerved by the injury. I did not have the heart to tell him that this would only be the first of many.
Such is life at sea.
I looked toward the setting sun, appreciating its miraculous beauty. It lit the sky in muted
shades of pink, orange, and purple, painting the sky with a spectacular array of colors. The sea was completely calm, with only a slight breeze lingering in the air.
The captain would be upset by the lack of headwinds, I knew. We would lose time on our
voyage. I, for one, appreciated the momentary sense of peace. I raised my head, smelling the air.
Then I smiled.
I headed for the aft section of our ship, following the sweet, aromatic smell of pipe smoke.
The Caribbean is famed for its fine tobacco, and most connoisseurs have their own preferred
blend.
I knew this blend.
It was Ben’s.
Ben was sitting on an inverted tar bucket, puffing away at his clay pipe. He held the pipe
away from me as I approached, careful to blow the smoke in the opposite direction.
“I do not mind,” I said, sitting down cross-legged beside him. “That smells wonderful.”
“Sometimes the ladies do not care for pipe smoke,” said Ben, running a hand through my
hair. “That is why proper houses have a smoking room for the gentlemen.”
“Most ladies do not live at sea,” I said, taking Ben’s hand, and kissing it. “You look idle, my
love.”
“I worked the sails most of the night,” said Ben, taking another puff, “and spent most of
today caulking the hull. Captain said I could have the evening to myself.”
“Will you share it with me?” I asked.
“I hoped you might say that,” said Ben, blowing a puff of smoke as he reached for the glass
jar secured between his feet. “The cook wanted the nigh-empty rum barrel out of his kitchen, so he dipped me some from the bottom before he moved it to the storeroom. Fate is smiling upon me today.”
Ben offered me the jar, and I took a long pull from it.
“That is good,” I said, wiping my lips as I handed it back. “Usually ship’s rum is quite
coarse, but this is smooth and sweet.”
“I thought so. I prefer rum from the bottom of the barrel. You can taste the oak in it.”
“It is also much stronger,” I said, giving Ben a wink. “Alcohol settles to the bottom, being
denser than water.”
“There is that,” agreed Ben, taking a drink.
“Why are you not sleeping?” I asked.
“I hoped that a pretty, golden-haired lady might visit me,” said Ben, rising just enough to
kick aside his bucket.
He sat down on the deck beside me and pulled me close. “I also hoped to see the whale,” he
said. “They do not often show themselves along this route, but I caught a glimpse of its tail this afternoon.”
“Whale?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Ben, carefully blowing his pipe smoke away from me. “I am fond of whales. They are large and powerful. They could crush a ship just by crashing onto it, but they do not.
They are creatures of peace, and beautiful in their own way.”
I leaned closer to Ben, cuddling tightly against him.
“Is it still here?” I asked. “The whale, I meant.”
“I do not know. I am hopeful, though.”
I laid my head on Ben’s shoulder, completely content. I enjoyed the sweet aroma of his pipe
smoke, and I could still taste rum.
In that moment, the world stopped its turning. There was only Ben and me, and the sunset,
and the calm sea. Nothing else existed.
My eyelids began to droop, as Ben held me close.
Then the whale breached the surface of the sea, frighteningly near the Virgin Mary.
Ben and I both sat bolt upright, wide-eyed as the creature crashed back into the sleepy
waters. Then we leaned back, laughing together as we were both hit with the splashing ocean
spray. The ship rocked below us as I giggled giddily, taking the rum jar from Ben.
“Are you satisfied?” I asked, taking a gulp. “You have seen your whale!”
“I am,” said Ben, taking the jar from me. “I appreciate any experience that puts me in the
moment.”
“In the moment?” I asked. “What does that mean?”
“Life is full of pain,” said Ben, taking a long draw from his pipe. “So often we dwell upon
what has been, or fret about what will be. We live our lives forever pulled in three directions: the past, the present, and the future. It is enough to drive one completely mad.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“It is a rare moment, indeed,” said Ben, “in which a man can sit, and simply think that there
is nowhere he would rather be. A moment in which the past and future cease to exist, and there is only the time at hand.”
“I think I understand now.”
Ben looked down at me, with his alluring, sky-blue gaze. “I knew that you would,” he said,
setting aside his spent pipe. “For me, there is only this moment. This sunset, the sea, and you. We are sitting here together—wet—because we were drenched by a diving whale. How many others will have such an experience? When will we ever re-live a moment such as this?”
Ben leaned down, and I kissed him as I ran my hand through his thick hair.
“If we never see such a moment again,” I whispered as I pulled away, “I will still consider
myself blessed.”
“As will I,” said Ben, looking toward the dying sun.
Chapter Six
I stood in the bedroom of our borrowed house, trembling.
It had been three months since Ben and I had first kissed below the deck of the Virgin Mary.
Captain Dillard married Ben and me at sea, shortly before we put into port in Barbados. The
ship’s crew generously took up a collection and rented this house as a bridal suite for our all-too-brief shore leave. I was touched by their gift.
Ben was now my husband.
I—like our ship—was the Virgin Mary, but only for the time being. The consummation of
our marriage would happen soon enough, and I was not sure how to feel about that.
I was wearing a dressing gown, and nothing more. A part of me felt eager. Eager to end my
loneliness, eager to connect with my husband in the most intimate possible manner. Yet a part of me was also afraid. That part of me was still a frightened young woman, the one who had fainted at the first sight of Frankenstein’s monster.
The door creaked open, and Ben entered the room. He was shirtless and wearing nothing but
a pair of pantaloons.
“Hello, my love,” he whispered.
I smiled, despite my nervousness. Ben was handsome, with a strong, chiseled body. The sight of him conjured up the same sense of lust that I had felt when I first kissed him.
“Hello, my love,” I replied.
Ben looked away as he pulled down his pantaloons. He was ready for me, and I eyed his aroused manhood with a newfound sense of sexual curiosity. He kicked away his clothing and
stood naked before me.
I took a deep breath, and opened my gown.
I trembled as I let it fall to the floor. Was I attractive enough? I had tried hard to appear so. I
had groomed my body, and bathed myself with the scented soap for which the Caribbean islands are known.
Ben eyed me from head to toe, with obvious appreciation on his handsome face.
“So this,” he said, “is the definition of the word ‘beautiful.’”
I smiled at that, and relaxed as Ben approached me.
He pulled me close and kissed me on the cheek. “Try not to faint,” he whispered. “I know
that you are prone to fainting.”
“I will not faint,” I whispered. “This I promise.”
Ben kissed me passionately, and I kissed him back with a will. Before I knew it, he had
cupped my sex in his strong hand. I kissed him fiercely as he fondled me, growing ever wetter
beneath his touch.
By the time he gently pushed me onto the bed, I was as ready for him as he was for me. I
spread my bare thighs invitingly, eager to end my long era of solitude.
I whimpered a little as my flesh was slowly torn, as Ben broke the seal upon the letter that
was my body. I knew the pain would pass. My brother’s lover, Safie, had once told me how such affairs go.
Ben was not invading my body. No, he was trying to bond with it, and I welcomed his
intrusion—even if the cost was a moment of pain.
My new husband was gentle at first, but as I began to relax, he became more insistent. I
covered his neck with kisses as he began—as the whores put it—truly fucking me.
By the time he spilled his seed into my willing womb, I was a sodden, sweaty mess. I hadn’t
achieved climax, but I knew—as Safie told me—that would happen over time. As it was, I was
content to simply lie next to him and rest.
As I had upon that fateful night—which now seemed a lifetime ago—I fell asleep with my
head against Ben’s shoulder.
Chapter Seven
I woke up in the middle of the night. The “hopeless romantic” would say that such
awakenings happen so a lover can admire her sleeping mate, but such was not the case.
Alas, I simply had to use the pisspot.
My sex felt sore as I relieved myself. Ben was snoring gently upon the bed. He was
gloriously nude, with his sizable member lying carelessly across his abdomen. I watched him
with admiration as I rose from the pot, smiling as I mentally re-visited our recent coupling.
I fondly remembered his pretty words, words like “definition” and “beautiful.”
Then something else he said struck me.
Try not to faint. I know that you are prone to fainting.
How could he have known such a thing? I had never fainted in his presence. I never fainted
at sea, even during the most gruesome of surgeries.
Then I was overcome by a horrifying realization.
I donned my dressing gown, suddenly unwilling to be naked. I crept into the sitting room,
closing the bedroom door behind me.
I pulled my sketch book from my sea trunk and opened it to the portrait I had drawn of Ben.
The night upon which I had fallen in love with him had seen me succumbing to girlish lust, but
now I was beginning to suspect that that night also hid a sinister secret.
I smudged out most of Ben’s face and reached for my charcoal stick.
I began re-sketching his features, but this time in a sharper, more angular fashion. I drew in
some scars, highlighting and shading them in livid lines across Ben’s face.
Then I smudged out his mouth and redrew his lips in a dark tone. When I was finished, I
added shadows around his eyes, making them appear deep-set and hollow. After that, I wiped out his irises and pupils so that they appeared flat and gray, like the eyes of a dead fish.
My sense of horror only grew as I rubbed out his thick, straight hair, and redrew it in dirty,
greasy strands.
When my portrait was finished, I raised the sketchbook and stared at it in utter terror. I was looking at the very image of Frankenstein’s monster, the beast who had once caused me to faint.
Try not to faint. I know that you are prone to fainting.
My lover had now become my worst nightmare. I had surrendered my virginity to the very
creature that destroyed my life and drove my family to its grave. I had given my love to an
abomination.
Above all else, I had been deceived.
Trembling, I set down the portrait. My thoughts went numb as I reached into my sea chest
and pulled out my dagger. I had always carried it in preparation for meeting the monster again.
Now I had.
I crept into the bedroom and turned up the wick on the oil lantern burning dimly in the
corner. I wanted to see the monster’s face as I took my revenge upon him.
I only hoped that I would not soon be carrying his child.
As I crept toward his naked body, my thoughts went wild. This is for William, I thought. This
is for Justine and Henry. This is for Elizabeth, whom you murdered on her wedding night.
I shook with rage as I raised the knife.
Above all others, I thought, this is for my family!
I screamed as I attacked, driving the knife home just above the monster’s thigh, slightly
below his abdomen.
Ben awoke, his eyes wide with pain.
“Why?” he asked, looking at me with bulging, blue eyes.
“You know why!” I snarled.
Tears poured down his face as he stared at me.
I was shocked to feel tears streaming from my own eyes, and suddenly I began to question
myself.
I had hated Frankenstein’s monster my entire life. Yet here he was, making no move
whatsoever to defend himself. Despite being stabbed, he had made no response save to ask a
single, poignant question.
Why?!
The monster ruined my life. But Ben had not treated me as a monster would. He had treated
me as a suitor would, as a lover would.
I had carried my hatred for years, without ever considering that the monster might have
changed. I hated him for what he was, without ever giving a second’s thought as to what he
might have become. In that single, damning moment, I realized that Ben was not the monster. He may once have been, but he was no longer.
I was the monster.
I closed my eyes as I recalled his signature on the ship’s registry. “B. Hall,” it read. My
knowledge of Greek brought me to a new realization. I knew now why Ben had chosen his alias.
Behal: terror.
But Ben was not the terror.
I was. Perhaps it was my expertise as a doctor, a surgeon. Or perhaps it was simply my need
for vengeance. But either way, I had plunged my dagger through Ben’s femoral artery. The
moment I pulled out my fateful blade, he would perish. He would bleed out within minutes, and even I could not save him.
Nothing could change that now.
So—feeling like a condemned prisoner—I pulled out my dagger and threw it aside.As I left the room, Ben repeated the word that I knew would forever be seared upon my memory.
Why?!
I sat upon the sofa, watching the sun rise through the window.
I had committed murder.
I had every intention of surrendering myself to the authorities. Just as Frankenstein’s monster
killed Elizabeth Frankenstein on her wedding night, so I had killed him upon mine.
I rose and dressed myself with some clothing from my sea chest.
I walked slowly toward the bedroom door. I was unwilling to look upon Ben’s body, but I
had no choice. Just as Victor Frankenstein forced himself to look upon the abomination to which he had given life, I too had to gaze upon the work of my hands. I looked into the room.
There was no body.
There was only a pool of drying blood upon the floor.
I closed my eyes, suspecting that Ben might have survived my attack. I had seen him recover
from grievous wounds before.
If he was alive, I knew where to find him.
His home.
Our home.
Before I knew it, I was walking up the gangplank, toward the deck of the Virgin Mary. It had
taken me until nightfall to regain my courage and sally forth. The sun was setting as I stepped
onto that oh-so-familiar deck, the one I’d trodden so many times before.
Before long, I was offering my apologies—my sympathies—to the very “monster” that I had
so once hated.
“What shall we do now?” asked Ben, turning around.
“I do not know,” I whispered, wiping away my tears. “I only know that I am sorry, and that I
will go wherever you lead me. You are a good man, Ben—and I love you.”
“And I you,” said Ben warmly, “even though you tried to kill me. But I cannot live among
men. I simply cannot.”
“Why not?” I asked. “You no longer look like a monster. Time has miraculously healed
you.”
“It was not time that healed me,” said Ben, approaching me and putting his strong arm across
my slender shoulders. “Nor was it your surgical skill. No, it was something else.”
“What was it?”
“I read my creator’s notes,” said Ben, dully. “He alluded to both amniotic fluid and fetal
tissue.”
“I do not understand,” I said, confused.
“I would like to think that Frankenstein’s tissue harvesting came only from stillbirths, but I
know his mad ambition all too well. The bodily tissue of infants holds incredible power, my
love. It can sustain life, heal injuries, slow aging—and even create life. I would know, for I am
living proof.”
I sucked in my breath, horrified by Ben’s stoic words.
“If science ever discovers the mystery hidden in my blood,” said Ben, gravely, “it will lead to
a holocaust of the innocent. Evil men will prey mercilessly upon the unborn, ruthlessly tearing open legions of hallowed wombs in order to prolong their own wretched existences. This is why I hide away at sea. I was once a murderer. Now, I would rather play the reluctant savior. I must forever hide Frankenstein’s secret, so that wicked men can never wield its power.”
I looked away from Ben’s mournful face, horrified.
Then I collected my senses.
“Ben,” I said, taking his hands and pulling him close, “I ask only this.”
“What?”
“Let me hide with you.”
He went silent at that.
During that moment of painful silence, I kissed him.
Epilogue
As I write this memoir, I am securely sheltered upon dry land, as I was upon my wedding
night. This feels rather strange, but it must be so, for I am about to become a mother.
My husband and I have agreed that if our child is a girl, she shall be named Victoria. If it is a
boy, he shall be named Victor. We have both lived lives defined by hatred. Forgiveness shall be
the final, burning flare tossed upon the pyre of our angst.
We are not naming our child Victoria—or Victor—because we admire my husband’s creator
for his selfishness, mad ambition, or low morals. No, I wanted to so name our child because, for better or for worse, Victor Frankenstein blessed me with the greatest love of my life.
Frankenstein’s damnable evil has been purged by my union with his “monster.” I pray that he
rests in peace. Perhaps his soul deserves such well-wishes, or perhaps it does not. But that
matters not one whit to me. Such affairs are best left to God.
All I know is this: I am happy.
The End
