Author: Megan Shepherd

“It’s against the law,” I muttered. My pulse matched the thumps of the frightened rabbit’s still-beating heart. I looked at the placement of the organs on the table. At the equipment carefully laid out. It was all familiar to me.

Too familiar.

“Vivisection is prohibited by the university,” I said, louder.

“So is having women in the operating theater,” the surgeon said, meeting my eyes. “But you’re here, aren’t you?”

“Bunch of Judys,” a dark-haired boy said with a sneer. The others laughed, and he set down a curled paper covered with diagrams. I caught sight of the rough ink outline of a rabbit, splayed apart, incision cuts marked with dotted lines. This, too, was familiar. I snatched the paper. The boy protested but I turned my back on him. My ears roared with a warm crackling. The whole room suddenly felt distant, as though I was watching myself react. I knew this diagram. The tight handwriting. The black, dotted incision lines. From somewhere deep within, I recognized it.

Behind me, the surgeon remarked to another boy in a whisper, “Intestines of a flesh-toned color. Pulsing slightly, likely from an unfinished digestion. Yes—there, I see the contents moving.”

With shaking fingers I unfolded the paper’s dog-eared right corner. Initials were scrawled on the diagram: H.M. Blood rushed in my ears, drowning out the sound of the boys and the rabbit and the clicking electric light. H.M.—Henri Moreau.

My father.

Through his old diagram, these boys had resurrected my father’s ghost in the very theater where he used to teach. I was flooded with a shivering uneasiness. As a child I’d worshipped my father, and now I hated him for abandoning us. Mother had fervently denied the rumors were true, but I wondered if she just couldn’t bear to have married a monster.

Suddenly the rabbit jolted and let out a scream so unnatural that I instinctively made the sign of the cross.

“Good lord,” Adam said, watching with wide eyes. “Jones, you cad, it’s waking up!”

Jones rushed to the table, lined with steel blades and needles the length of my forearm. “I gave it the proper dose,” he stuttered, searching through the glass vials.

The rabbit’s screams pierced my skull. I slammed my hands against the table, the paper falling to the side. “End this,” I cried. “It’s in pain!”

Lucy sobbed. The surgeon didn’t move. Frustrated, I grabbed him by the sleeve. “Do something! Put it out of its misery.”

Still, none of the boys moved. As medical students, they should have been trained for any situation. But they were frozen. So I acted instead.

On the table beside me was the set of operating instruments. I wrapped my hand around the handle of the ax, normally used for separating the sternum of cadavers. I took a deep breath, focusing on the rabbit’s neck. In a movement I knew had to be fast and hard, I brought down the ax.

The rabbit’s screaming stopped.

The awful tension in my chest dripped out onto the wet floor. I stared at the ax, distantly, my brain not yet connecting it with the blood on my hands. The ax fell from my grasp, crashing to the floor. Everyone flinched.

Everyone but me.

Lucy grabbed my shoulder. “We’re leaving,” she said, her voice strained. I swallowed. The diagram lay on the table, a cold reminder of my father’s hand in all this. I snatched it and whirled on the dark-haired boy.

“Where did you get this?” I demanded.

He only gaped.

I shook him, but the surgeon interrupted. “Billingsgate. The Blue Boar Inn.” His eyes flashed to the ax on the floor. “There’s a doctor there.”

Lucy’s hand tightened in mine. I stared at the ax. Someone bent down to pick it up, hesitantly. Adam. Our eyes met and I saw his horror at what I’d done, and more—disgust. Lucy was wrong. He wouldn’t want to marry me. I was cold, strange, and monstrous to those boys, just like my father. No one could love a monster.

“Come on.” She tugged me through the hallways to the street outside. It was cold, but my numb skin barely felt it. A few people passed us, bundled up, too concerned about the weather to notice the blood on our clothes. Lucy leaned against a brick wall and pressed a hand over her chest. “My God, you cut its head off!”

Blood was on my hands, on the tattered lace of my sleeves, even dotting the tiny diamond ring my mother had left me. I stared at the paper in my fist. The Blue Boar Inn. The Blue Boar Inn. I couldn’t let myself forget that name.

Lucy took both my hands in hers, shaking me. “Juliet, say something!”

“They shouldn’t have done that,” I said, feeling feverish in the cold night air. The paper was damp from my sweating palms. “I had . . . I had to stop it.”

I felt her hand on my shoulder. “Of course you did. Our cook kills a brace of hares for dinner all the time. That’s all you did—killed a rabbit that was already going to die.” But her voice was shaking. What I had done was unnatural, and we both knew it.

A cold breeze blew off the Thames, carrying the pungent smell of sweat and Lucy’s perfume. I drew a shallow breath. The rumors of so long ago crept through the streets, coming back to life. All I had were slips of memories of my father: the feel of his tweed jacket, the smell of tobacco in his hair when he kissed me good night. I couldn’t bring myself to believe my father was the madman they said he was. But I’d been so young when it happened, just ten years old. As I matured, more memories surfaced. Deeper ones, of a cold, sterile room and sounds in the night—recollections that never entirely disappeared, no matter how far I pushed them into the recesses of my mind.

I didn’t tell Lucy about the diagram with his initials in the corner. I didn’t tell her that he used to keep it neatly in a book in his laboratory, a place I only glimpsed when the servants were cleaning. I didn’t tell her that, after all these years trying to accept that he must be dead, a part of me suspected otherwise.

That maybe my father was alive.

Three

LONDON SOCIETY WAS NOT kind to the daughter of a madman. To the orphan of a madman, even less. My father had been the most celebrated physiologist in England, a fact Mother was quick to mention to anyone who’d listen. My parents used to host elegant parties for his fellow professors. Long after bedtime I would creep downstairs in my nightdress and peek through the drawing room keyhole to take in the sound of their laughter and the smell of rich tobacco. How ironic that those same men were the first to brand him a monster.

After the scandal broke and Father disappeared, Mother and I were shunned by the company we once called friends. Even the church closed its doors to us. The government seized our home and assets, claiming Father was a criminal. We were left penniless for months, relying only on Mother’s prayers and a string of grumbling relatives’ sense of duty. I was young at the time, just ten years old, so I didn’t understand when suddenly we had an apartment again, a small but richly appointed second-story pied-à-terre near Charing Cross. Mother would take me to piano lessons and have me fitted for gowns and buy herself expensive rouge and satin undergarments. An older gentleman came by, once a week like clockwork, and Mother would send me out for chocolate biscuits in the cafe downstairs. He wore strong cologne that masked a pungent, stale smell, but Mother never said anything about it. That’s how I knew he must be rich—no one ever says the rich stink.

When consumption took my mother, the old gentleman hardly wanted to keep the dead mistress’s bony daughter around. He paid for Mother’s funeral—though he didn’t attend—and let me stay in the apartment for a week. Then he sent over a brusque maid who boxed up and sold Mother’s things and handed me a bank note for their value. No doubt he considered himself generous. I was fourteen at the time, and totally on my own.

Fortunately, a former colleague of my father’s named Professor von Stein heard of Mother’s death and inquired at King’s College for suitable employment for a young woman of distinct background. Once they found out who my father was, though, the best offer I got was to be a part of Mrs. Bell’s cleaning crew. It paid just enough for a room at a lodging house with twenty other girls my age. Some were orphaned, some had come to the city to support younger brothers and sisters, some just showed up for a week and vanished. We came from different backgrounds. But we were all alone.

I shared a room with Annie, a fifteen-year-old shopgirl from Dublin who had a habit of going through my belongings whether I was there or not. She once came across the stamped, locked wooden box I kept at the back of our closet shelf. I never told her what was inside, no matter how much she begged.

The night I killed the rabbit, I kept the blood-spattered diagram under my pillow. At work the next day I tucked it into my clothing, like a talisman. It infused my every waking thought with memories of my father. Every remembrance, every gesture, every kind word from him had been eclipsed by the terrible rumors I’d heard in the years since.

I slipped away from my mop to find Mrs. Bell scrubbing towels in the laundry room. Her light eyes, narrowed like she knew I was up to no good, found mine through the billows of steam.

I picked up a bar of soap and chipped at it with my fingernail. What did I expect to find at the inn, anyway? My father, raised from the dead, smoking a cigar in his tweed jacket and waiting to tell me a bedtime story?

“Mrs. Bell,” I asked, setting down the mutilated bar of soap. “Do you know where the Blue Boar Inn is?”

I HAD TO WAIT until Sunday after church before I could follow Mrs. Bell’s directions south of Cable Street, avoiding the swill thrown out from lodging houses. As I paused at the corner to find the right street, I became aware of someone watching me. It was a girl around my age, though her face was caked with powder and rouge that made her look older. A striped satin dress limply hung on her thin frame. She stared at me with hollow eyes. I looked away sharply. If it weren’t for my employment at King’s College, that might be me on the corner, waiting for my next gentleman. I leaned against a brick wall, queasy. Lucy had told me what happened at brothels. That had been my mother’s desperate solution, at the expense of the virtues she held so dear. I might not have as many virtues to lose, but I was determined that wouldn’t be my future.

The prostitute ambled down the street, coming toward me leisurely, and I hurried in the other direction, until I suddenly came upon a faded blue sign swinging above a thick door, painted with a tusked beast I assumed was once meant to be a boar.

The inn was a wooden three-story building, keeling slightly toward its neighbor. I tugged on the heavy iron latch and entered. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Little sunlight passed through windows coated with smoky residue. I found myself in a dining hall, among sullen patrons murmuring in low voices over their midday meal. The furniture was worn but made of heavy oak that had recently been polished. None of the patrons looked up except a thin man twice my age, face marred with pox scars, who stared at my Sunday dress. It seemed the Blue Boar did not see many young ladies.

A portly woman came out from the kitchen and raised her eyebrows. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked me over, my face that hinted of aristocracy and clothes that spoke of poverty. “Come for a room?”

“No . . . I haven’t,” I stammered. “I’m looking for a man. A doctor.” My heart pounded, warning me not to get my hopes up. “His name is Henri Moreau.”

She peered at me queerly. I must have been the color of ripe tomatoes. “We aren’t in the habit of giving out our patrons’ information. You understand.” It was a command, not a question. Was he there, I wondered, in the same building, maybe right above our heads?

“I mean no trouble. I only need to speak with him.”

Her face didn’t budge. “No one by that name here.”

The ground fell out from beneath me. She was mistaken. She had to be. Or else I’d been a fool, thinking some old paper meant my father was here, in London, the city from which he’d been banished.