Such Wicked Intent (4 page)

“Thank you, Maria,” I said.

We made bland comments about the painting until she walked off to resume her work. We waited for her tread to fade away.

“Do you think she heard anything beforehand?” Henry asked.

“No,” I said. “But let’s be quick.” I stared at the portrait hard, willing it to open up its secret meaning. “What of that mirror?” I said, squinting.

Near the top of the painting, in the background, hung an oval mirror in an ornate gilt frame. I could see that there was something reflected in it, but the images were too small, and too high up for me to see.

Elizabeth nodded. “There may be something interesting up there.”

I ran to a closet that I knew contained a stepladder, and when I returned, I saw that Henry had taken a magnifying glass from Father’s study.

“It’s really quite amazing,” he said, examining the painting. “Did you know that there’s virtually no craquelure on this canvas?”

“Craquelure?” I said.

“Those little wrinkly cracks you get on old paintings as the oils dry over time. This piece was done three hundred years ago and has hardly a blemish.”

An unexpected shiver went through me then. “You really do know a great deal about paintings,” I said.

“My father deals in antiquities sometimes.” Henry climbed the rungs of the stepladder so that his face was almost perfectly level with the mirror. “Did you know this was a self-portrait?” he asked.

“No one ever mentioned it.”

“He was a talented man,” Elizabeth said. “Your father said as much.”

Henry leaned closer. “He shows himself painting, with a brush in his…” His voice trailed off.

“What?” I demanded, stepping up the ladder and jostling with Henry.

He passed me the magnifying glass, looking a bit pale.

Truly the painted details were amazing, for even through the lens my view was as crystalline as something seen beyond a window. Within the mirror Wilhelm Frankenstein stood behind an easel, his right hand raised. But his fingers held no brush, only pointed to the canvas, as though giving directions, while the actual brush hovered just above, in midair.

“What do you see?” Elizabeth asked impatiently.

“The brush is floating,” I said. “It must be some joke. He’s just congratulating himself, saying it’s like magic.”

“Look more closely,” said Henry.

I squinted at the brush. “Is that not shadow?”

Henry shook his head. “The light comes from the other direction.”

What I’d mistaken for shadow was in fact a pair of black butterflies who together held the paintbrush, wings aflutter.

“Let me have a look,” said Elizabeth, and Henry stepped down to allow her room. Her warm body pressed against mine as I passed her the glass. She studied the painting.

“It gives me gooseflesh to see it,” she said.

Henry cleared his throat. “Victor’s right, of course. It could all be a joke.”

“Or he could truly be commanding some spectral force to do his work,” I said.

Elizabeth was slowly moving the magnifying glass across the painted image within the mirror. “Behind him, did you see the large window? And is that…”

“What?” I demanded. “What do you see in the window?”

“The sky. There are clouds, some of them in the shape of angels, I think. But in the middle of the sky…” She stood back and swallowed. “You’d better look at this.”

Almost reluctantly she passed me the magnifying glass. I found the window, marveling once again at the painting’s clarity. I saw the blue of the sky, the feathered clouds—and there, in the center of this blue sky, was a keyhole.

A star-shaped keyhole.

I lowered the glass and looked back at the pendant hanging from Wilhelm Frankenstein’s neck.

“The pendulum weight is a key,” I said.

Elizabeth nodded.

“We must find this lock,” I said.

“A keyhole in the sky?” Henry said skeptically.

“It must be somewhere in the house, surely,” I replied.

“You’ve lived here your entire life,” Henry said. “Have you ever seen a keyhole like this?”

“No, but it may be covered up. Wilhelm built the château three hundred years ago. It’s been added on to considerably over the years, but it would have to be in the oldest part, the original part. A window,” I said, thinking aloud, “or perhaps someplace on the ramparts, where the château is closest to the sky—”

“I know where it is,” said Elizabeth quietly.

Henry and I turned to her together. “You do?” I said.

“In the painting—that’s not the sky. It’s the ceiling of our chapel.”

*   *   *

We never used the chapel in Château Frankenstein. My parents did not believe in God, and my siblings and I had been brought up to believe that only mankind could make a heaven or hell of earth. So no candle burned on the chapel’s altar to signal Christ’s presence. No priest ever came to say Mass here. Yet in Wilhelm’s time it had surely been a place of Roman Catholic worship.

It was on the château’s main floor, in the very oldest part. A narrow room, the chapel had only a few windows covered with stained glass, and a stone altar at one end. A large chandelier hung from the high ceiling.

My entire life I don’t think I’d ever spent more than a few seconds at a time in this room. It offered no hiding places for games. It was cold and drafty and unwelcoming. And I’d certainly never taken the time to gaze up at the ceiling, as the three of us did now, with great attention. We’d made sure to close the door securely behind us, and turn the lock so Maria or any of the other servants couldn’t wander in and see us.

The ceiling had once been painted but had been left to fade and flake, though you could still see the traces of what once must have been a brilliant and colorful fresco. Through the painter’s skill the ceiling had been transformed into a vast vault of heavenly blue sky, and all around the base peered smiling cherubs and angels.

Head tilted back, I said, “The chandelier.”

“Same as in the portrait,” Elizabeth concurred. “Only larger.”

“The ceiling’s too high to see if there’s any keyhole,” I muttered.

The chandelier was suspended by a stout rope that ran along the ceiling, through a complicated pulley, and then down the wall, where it was tied off at a cleat. Like all the other chandeliers in the house, it needed to be lowered so the candles could be lit.

I walked over to the cleat, un-looped the rope, and braced myself for the chandelier’s weight. Given its size, it was surprisingly light. Hand over hand I lowered it, and tied it off a few feet above the floor.

“It seems solid enough,” I said, gripping and testing the strength of its brawny wooden arms. “One could easily sit on one of these braces.”

Henry looked at me in surprise. “You don’t mean—”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll have a much better view. Hoist me up, will you?”

I sat near the middle and gripped the tall central column with one hand, and a wooden brace with my other.

Henry grasped the rope and hoisted me toward the painted sky.

“Is it difficult?” I asked.

“No,” said Henry, “and I don’t quite understand why.”

“It must be the pulley system,” I said, peering up at the mechanism on the ceiling. “And the chandelier itself is made of some light wood.”

For a giddy moment I felt like a child again, and pumped my legs.

“Stop rocking it, Victor!” Elizabeth cautioned.

But I wasn’t ready to surrender the moment just yet, and kicked out my legs, straining for the sky.

I was nearly at the ceiling when I heard the crack and felt the brace beneath me fracture. I was spilled off my perch so quickly that I scarcely had time to get both hands around the central column. Legs kicking, I dangled from the chandelier, which was still swinging crazily, some fourteen feet above the merciless stone floor.

“Hold on!” I heard Henry gasp. “I’ll bring you down!”

In his haste Henry lowered the chandelier so violently that my left hand—the one with all its fingers—was jerked off the column.

“Stop, stop!” I grunted, struggling to hold on as the chandelier lurched and spun. “Do nothing!” I flailed about for another brace to grip, but felt my three-fingered hand begin to slip, and knew my time was running out. I swung my legs with all my might and managed to hook one over a solid brace. Grasping it with my right hand, I swiftly hauled my belly up over the top of the brace, and prayed it would hold.

“Thank God,” I heard Elizabeth murmur below. “Victor, you idiot!”

With both hands I seized the central column and pulled myself into sitting, making sure to move very slowly. The chandelier was swinging only a little now. My pulse slowed.

“I’ll lower you,” Henry called out. “Hold on.”

“No! Raise me. All the way.”

“Are you mad?” said Elizabeth. “The thing’s clearly unsafe!”

I looked at the splintered brace, angling down slightly like a broken branch. I wondered if it would be noticed. No one really ever came into the chapel, after all, but I was grateful it hadn’t snapped off completely.

“I just put too much strain on it,” I said. “It’s fine. Haul away, Henry!”

“You’re sure you—” Henry began, and then laughed abruptly. “Of course you’re sure. Very well. Up! You! Go!”

I turned my attention to the ceiling and the fresco painted there. Closer, I could appreciate how clever its illusion was, for even though the paint was faded and cracked, for a moment I thought there was no ceiling at all, only sky.

“This is as high as it goes,” said Henry.

Directly above me, not two feet away, was the great loop that supported the chandelier, and next to it was another cleat for tying off a rope, which confused me for a moment before I realized what it was for.

“
He
did this!” I called down to the others.

“What?” Elizabeth said.

“Wilhelm Frankenstein. He sat on the chandelier and hauled himself up to the ceiling. He could tie off the rope right up here.”

I knew what this meant. I looked at the ceiling, among the shadows of clouds, the flaking paint. It would have to be nearby… and there it was. From the ground I would have missed it altogether, or mistaken it for a blemish on the fresco.

A key-shaped hole in the sky.

“Found it!” I called down to Elizabeth and Henry.

“You’re certain?” Henry asked.

“Well, let’s find out.” From my jacket pocket I took the key.

“Wait, Victor,” said Elizabeth. “Are you sure this is a door you want opened?”

“What else does one do with a door?” I said.

“How do you know it’s not a portal to—” Henry began.

“Hell?” I said, smiling down at him. “In a sky filled with angels?”

I reached up and pushed the star-shaped key into the hole. I turned it. I heard a click, and at once a trapdoor sprang down, a little ladder attached to one side.

Ruined angels watched as I climbed up inside the vault of heaven.

I
CROUCHED AT THE THRESHOLD, WAITING FOR MY EYES TO
adjust. It was a tiny room, low-ceilinged and airless. Near my hand I saw a candle in a holder, and I took a match from my pocket and lit it.

A reclining sofa. A small table, and on it a book, a pocket watch, a glass flask, a dropper, and a star-shaped key. I picked it up and saw that it was identical to my own. Wilhelm Frankenstein must have had a second copy made, for safekeeping. Dust carpeted everything.

“Victor?” Elizabeth called from below.

I peered down through the trapdoor. “Come up. You should see this. Henry, you hoist Elizabeth, and then take the rope and haul yourself up.”

“I hardly think that’s safe,” Henry objected.

“It held me; it can hold you,” I replied. “Just keep your head, Henry, and no swinging.”

“Ah, hilarious,” he said, swiftly lowering the chandelier and casting a wary eye over it. “The thing’s clearly rotted through.”

But I smiled when I saw Elizabeth immediately perch upon the braces and hold tight.

“I’m ready,” she said to Henry.

It did not take long before both of them had joined me in the chamber, the chandelier tied off at the cleat. We closed
the trapdoor, just in case a servant should enter the chapel, and dust swirled up into a dense mist.

“Do you think your father knows about this room too?” Elizabeth asked when her sneezing abated.

It was possible, of course. Father was full of surprises, as I knew better than anyone else. Over the summer I’d discovered that he’d tried his hand at alchemy as a young man. He’d failed to transmute lead to gold. But it hadn’t stopped him from selling the fake substance in faraway lands to ensure his family fortune.

“I don’t know,” I said, handing my handkerchief to her.

“Strange man, your Wilhelm Frankenstein,” said Henry, dabbing his nose. “Most men are satisfied with one secret room, but he apparently needed two.”

We’d all gathered around the small table and the book atop it. I quickly picked it up and opened it.

“Some kind of workbook,” Henry said at my shoulder, for the early pages were dense with scribbling and crossing-outs, and numerical charts, written any which way across the page. Page after page of ink so dense and dark it appeared like thunderclouds—and then, on a calm page, some orderly lines of handwriting.

“This must be Wilhelm Frankenstein’s hand,” I said. “Written in Latin—of course,” I added with a sigh. “What is everyone’s obsession with Latin? It’s absurd. Henry, will you do the honors?”

My long-suffering friend took the notebook and exhaled. “This feels too similar to our last adventures in the Dark Library.”

“If you don’t read it, I’ll only puzzle it out myself,” I told him with a smile.

“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “The first line says here ‘One
drop and one drop only, taken on the tongue.’”

Elizabeth took up the flask. The glass was a dark green, but through it I could see the darker shadow of some liquid near the bottom.

“I’m amazed it hasn’t all dried up,” she murmured. “Could it have been here three hundred years?” With some difficulty she uncorked the flask.

She took a sniff at the neck and recoiled. “It smells like something that should not be drunk under any circumstances.”