The Madman's Daughter (The Madman's Daughter 1)

“You were aiming for me.”

My reflection smirked. “I must have been more clearheaded than I thought.”

Alice’s wide eyes focused on the towel she dried her hands with. Montgomery’s lips fell open and I thought he might say more, but then he shook his head. “I’ll tell the doctor you’re awake.”

My reflection caught in the mirror, just a glimmer of a passing expression. Some part of me was sorry to see him leave. I still cared about him, and that made me angriest of all. Angry because he knew that what he was doing was wrong, yet he was still loyal to my father. It surely hadn’t been the mirror I wanted to shatter, but Father’s spell on him.

Alice dipped the towel into the copper pot. She dabbed my brow, gently. “He’s a good man, miss. He means well.” Her eyes were alight.

I knew that look. She was in love with him.

The trickle of water ran down my face and tickled my ears. It made sense, I supposed. He was the only young man without a hoof or claw on the island. And he was handsome. Oh, was he handsome. I felt my face getting warm and blamed it on the steam from the copper pot.

“Your getting lost gave the doctor quite a scare,” Alice said softly, dabbing at my neck. She was a gentle, pretty thing. Had I been ignoring something obvious? An odd feeling crept over me, that maybe her feelings toward Montgomery might be returned. I suddenly felt like an idiot. I’d thought he felt something for me. He’d practically told me as much; he almost kissed me. . . . Had I been exaggerating his affection in my mind, when it was really someone else who had his heart?

“His creatures gave me a scare,” I muttered, my thoughts elsewhere. The lavender mingled with my breath, infusing my body. It was meant to calm me, but I found it choking. “Did you know about them?”

Alice ran the towel down the sides of my neck, over the bridge of my nose, the curve of my chin. “Yes, miss. We all know.”

“It’s madness. Humans made from animals.”

“It’s the way of the island.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

The towel paused on my neckline. Her lip twitched. “Most things scare me, miss.”

She began cleaning under my fingernails with a metal file. The caked dirt didn’t bother me, but she went after it with a vengeance.

“He thinks he’s God,” I said. She didn’t stop scrubbing. The file pressed at the sensitive skin under my nails, making them tingle. “But he’s insane.”

Her hand jerked, and the file dug into my skin. Blood appeared in the hollow under the nail. I can’t say why, but I started laughing. The more the blood flowed, the more I laughed, until I felt like a madwoman. Alice squeezed the towel around it, her eyes wide.

“You should rest, miss. You still aren’t well.”

The laughter died on my lips. I pulled my hand back, licked away the blood the towel didn’t get. It tasted rich, like iron. “Where are the others? Where’s my father?”

“The salon, miss.”

I sat up, throwing a dressing gown over my chemise, and hurried across the courtyard barefoot.

I INTERRUPTED A SULLEN tea in the salon. A few dried-out plain cakes rested untouched on the coffee table. The tea looked cold. Montgomery stood when I entered, but Father waved him back down. I glanced at Edward. No visible broken bones. At least Father hadn’t drowned him for that punch in the jaw.

“Are you feeling—?” Montgomery said, but I cut him off.

“To hell with how I’m feeling.” I folded my arms, staring at Father. “I want an explanation.”

To my satisfaction, Father closed his book. Apparently profanity had a way of making men listen. The clock ticked, slowly. Father nodded toward the leather armchair. I sank into it, gripping the armrests. Montgomery hung back near the bookshelves. Close enough to listen, far enough to distance himself.

“You think me a monster,” Father began. “Or a madman. Though I assure you, the research Montgomery and I conduct here is quite the contrary. We are pioneering the science of manipulating living forms.”

“Butchery, you mean,” I said. My gaze flickered to Montgomery, challenging him.

Father didn’t flinch. “I can’t control how a handful of ignorant boors label it.”

“And the creature on your operating table?” I snapped. “What label would it use?”

“It doesn’t think in those concepts, Juliet. It was merely a panther, used to hunting. Instead of craving flesh, it will now gather fruit and live in a society with others of its kind. I gave it intelligence. Reason.”

“Impossible. No surgery can do that.”

“My technique is not limited to the physical form. The brain, as well, can benefit from the surgical process. It’s a simple matter of mapping the mind, learning what to tweak, to stimulate, to cut out. It requires special instruments and infinitesimal patience, of course.” Father took a sip of tea.

I briefly wondered where cruelty resided in the brain. Whether you could cut it out with a scalpel. I glanced behind me, where Montgomery pretended to read a book. Had he ever tried to stop my father? Was he a prisoner here, or a willing participant?

As if he could read my thoughts, he slammed the book shut and shoved it onto a shelf. His sleeve tore on a loose nail. He pounded his balled fist on the nail as if his anger could hammer it down.

“I don’t believe you,” I said.

Father smiled thinly. “The proof is right here. Balthasar, won’t you come here for a moment?”

Balthasar shuffled into the room, his hands enveloping the teakettle. Father motioned to a chair. Balthasar sat down, blinking nervously. Across the room, Montgomery’s attention focused on us. A flicker passed over his face, a memory maybe, and he smacked the shelf so hard the books rattled. Edward glanced up at the noise, but Montgomery turned and left through the door.

Coward, I thought, leaving Balthasar to face my father alone.

“Now, take Balthasar.” Father’s voice pulled me back. “One of my finer creations, even able to pass among the streets of London, though admittedly somewhat unusual with the odd slanting forehead and profusion of body hair. He speaks. He thinks. He’s capable of compassion. Why, he even carried a garden slug outside this morning so the chickens wouldn’t eat it. Didn’t you?”

Balthasar nodded.

“Tell me, Juliet, would you call this man an abomination?”

Balthasar grinned. He thought he was pleasing us. He had no notion that Father was talking about his own horrible origin. I remembered that Balthasar was the one who’d taken care of the little sloth on the Curitiba. He’d cried softly when I played Chopin on the piano.