“I do not want to shoot you,” he said, exasperated. “I keep this pistol in case the creature returns.” I ignored him, kneeling at Mary’s side. Her shoulder was bleeding freely.

“He did not hit anything too important.” I pulled a tablecloth off a table in the hallway. The table had always held flowers several days past their prime, their scent cloying and fulsome. The flowers there now were so old, they were covered in fuzzy black mold. The vase tipped off and shattered on the floor. I used my knife to cut a portion of the tablecloth and pressed it to her wound, using another strip to tie it off.

“Of course I did not hit anything important.” Victor stood over me, with the pistol trained on Mary. “That would be a waste of good material. But if you do not do what I say, I will shoot her in the head. I do not have much use for her brain. Drop your knife.”

I dropped it. He kicked it away with disdain. Mary’s had been lost in her fall; I did not see it anywhere.

“What are you wearing?” Victor scrutinized my clothes with as much horror as that with which we had viewed the body on the table. I still wore the nurse’s uniform, with a cloak buttoned at my neck. “Go and change immediately.”

I was aghast at his priorities. “I have just escaped from the asylum where you trapped me, have come here with the express purpose of killing you, and you want me to change my clothes?”

He kicked Mary viciously, and she cried out in pain. “We do not have time to argue. If lightning strikes, I need to take immediate advantage. Any delay will ruin the whole process and render the body unusable. And then I will have to prepare another one.” He gestured meaningfully at Mary. “So go and change.”

He waited until I was moving, then nudged Mary roughly with his foot. “Into the laboratory, please.”

I tensed to pounce on his back, hoping to throw him off balance, but he angled himself toward me so he could watch my progress while keeping the gun trained on Mary. She was pale, her clever features pulled tight with pain. She was in no condition to fight him. Her injured arm hung limply at her side.

She turned her back to me as though she was cringing. Her limp arm hid the knife, tucked in her hand and half up her sleeve.

“Go and change, Elizabeth,” she said. “He is right. You look dreadful.” She walked into the dining room and sat heavily in a chair by the door.