Page 4 of Clutching Cthulhu's Pearls

I throw on a housecoat and slippers. There’s no sense in drawing a full bath before I start the laundry. My bed must be stripped, laundered, and remade before I can sleep tonight. Looking at the smears of mud and pond sludge I left under my duvet gives me pause. Should I check on Leopold and have a cup of coffee with him or start the Washteria machine steaming first? My bedding must be washed in batches due to the small size of the machine, but at least I won’t be hunched over a washboard all day.My nightclothes will be a fifth load if I can convince Leopold to hand over his shirt to join them.

“Harriett!” Leopold’s bellows declare he’s not only over the sight of my nude form but also as impatient as a child on Christmas morning.

“Coming, coming,” I answer as I strip the bed, sort the sheets, and carry them to the wash area on the opposite end of the house from his laboratory. The cool water as I wash up reminds me of last night, so I pause to caress the sink bowl. Yeah, I’ll listen to Leopold’s dribble when I’m ready to face him. My humming joins my slippered feet in a clumsy waltz into the kitchen. I set bread to toast in the oven and the butter on the counter for light refreshment.

“Harriett, what’s taking you so long?” I wait for the petulant foot stomp and smile to myself when his toes slap the floor. He thunders into the kitchen like a stormcloud, fists clenched at his waist. I must admit it’s fun to wind him up when he has nothing to lord over me.

“I thought we would talk over coffee,” I say with the urn in hand. “Did you have your coffee today?”

“No, I suppose I didn’t,” he says with a furrowed brow. The poor man looks as puzzled as if he’s just arrived from a distant planet. I busy myself with preparing a platter ofcold cutlets, cheese, jam jars, and cherries from my garden.

“Did you eat? Let’s share a light luncheon in the dining room, and you can tell me about your news,” I say pleasantly. Despite my best intentions, the mention of the dining room snaps him out of his trance. He narrows his eyes as he rubs his jaw.

“You hide something from me,” he says absently. He takes in my disheveled hair, laying in snarls on the back of my head. His eyes scan the soiled skin at the collar of my robe as I turn. I stink of mildew. He must smell me, even from across the kitchen.

The blood drains from my face and pools at my feet. Will he guess? As I squeeze my toes in anticipation, my pulse resonates in them. Holding the empty coffee mugs in the air, I’m frozen. We stare at one another as the wheels in his brilliant mind turn. Do I confess?

“Wh-what do you mean? What secrets could I have when I spend my days alone?”

“Whose lab do you work for?” His cold tone runs a chill up my spine. The knife I balanced on the butter tin is in his hand. He waves the blade at the end of my nose. “Which one of your father’s friends paid you to spy on me?”

My mouth opens and closes with shock. How was I to have kept in touch with my father’s friends? Not one of them gave a woman the time of day unless they wanted to bed her. As my father’s daughter, Iwas off limits, or at least that’s what I tell myself. More likely, my pointed nose, frizzy hair, and minimal bustline frightened them away. Maniacal laughter slips from my mouth for the second time this morning. The knife tip scrapes my cheek as I throw my head back.

“Right,” he replies to my theatrics, rubbing the half-dozen hairs on his head. “You aren’t a woman to be bought. Courting you taught me that. No gift I bought you was impressive. Are you seeing one of their sons behind my back?”

Too sleep-deprived to focus and too shocked to process his words, I’m dumbfounded. I stand with a face-pulling smile because I can’t formulate a better response. He’s threatening to end my life because of his delusions. Could I be a spy under his nose? How? I have limited contact with the outside world. Those who would answer my calls for help don’t want his research secrets—they think he’s gone against nature’s laws. I don’t think anyone copies his research because they have an abundance of ethics, not a lack of intelligence.

But the shine of the knife in the morning sunlight keeps my mouth from spewing my opinions.

“How would I travel to the nearest city and back without you noticing? We are hours away from anywhere, and I don’t drive—” The kettle’s whistleinterrupts me before my words find a way to enrage him further.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” he says with a head shake. “You are my eyes and ears in this house and never report visitors. I’m so close to the discovery of our generation that I see similar experiments in every lab across the country. The papers are full of lectures by Charles Darwin. How does he know my conclusions before my data is collected?”

“I never met Darwin, but I’ve read the same papers as you. He observed natural selection,” I reply with a small smile. There’s a major problem with my husband’s accusations.

“You don’t think he’s engineering his animals, like me?”

“No! He’s dead—for over ten years, if not longer. Even if he still lived, you’re the only one known to surgically enhance animals before breeding them.” The knife clatters on the counter as his anger loses steam. I take advantage of his pause to remove our dark toast from the oven.

I hand him a mug of black coffee. He prefers coffee that has sat on his desk for hours, lukewarm with dust floating on the surface film. He ponders over the mug’s rim as he sips. I doctor mine with three lumps of sugar. Milk would require Mr. Breyers to milk one of the goats when they haven’t birthed kids in years. It’s easier to adjust my palate to acidiccoffee than to organize milk production. Besides, Leopold would find a way to sabotage the breeding by incorporating the goats into one of his experiments. After we eat this flock, we may convert to vegetarianism.

“Millicent laid eggs,” he says with the pride of a new father. I’m surprised he remembers her name. I name all the animal hybrids because I care for them like pets. While all the bird/reptile/primate hybrids hate me, Millicent is the least likely to peck my hands as I clean her cage.

However, the fingernails on her tiny hands dig into my nailbeds with amazing accuracy. I remember Leopold’s pride when I complained about her behavior. He was overjoyed she’d developed the forethought to attack my weak spot and the dexterity to strike at such a small area of my hand. I was less than thrilled.

I sigh into my coffee. No more threats today, with or without knives. My husband’s temper cools with the healing balm of science. A dead scientist can’t use me to spy on his research, so I am absolved of conspiracy…for now.

“Let’s check on our new mother before we sit to eat,” he announces. My mug better remain hot while he shows me his darling. I doubt I will find the pile of eggs amusing, but acting impressedwith his abominations is how I pay for my lodgings. My slippers clack on the tiles as I cross the hallway to the stairs. I thump up them with tired feet. Laundry can wait; my achy body needs a salt bath.

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” he whispers as we enter the dusty lab. His shoulders slump as he peers into the bird cage. I busy myself with collecting soiled dishes to return to the kitchen. “Harriett, the first hatchling is a chick.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” I mumble.What did he expect?Millicent started as a bright yellow parakeet and paired with a myna bird. Fuzz the Myna Bird had his wings removed to attach hands. Millicent has an extra set of arms protruding from her chest. Snake tail stumps replaced both birds’ feet. Leopold hoped they would regenerate tails if he cut them off. Nothing grew…except my concern for the welfare of the animals in his care.

“Don’t fret, Harriett. There’s still hope that the other hatchlings will have tails, hands, or even unattached variants,” he says with an awkward pat on my back.

My body turns wooden at his touch. While my mystery lover might not be my future, Leopold lost ownership of my body last night. The door between our bedrooms wasn’t open before, but my side is now locked. I’ll die with only the memories of last night before I pursue Leopold again. I’ve changed. Leopold senses it too. I’m fortunate he’s too wrapped in hisresearch to realize what’s different about me.

Do I risk his temper and see my lover again? Leopold pulled a knife on me because he suspects I keep secrets. Was it because I threatened his work or his pride? Would his masculinity drive him to violence if I did take a lover regularly?Ha! His masculinity withered away before our wedding night—like his shriveled cocklet.Is the man in the swamp a threat to Leopold’s discoveries? Surely, the mystery man would have spoken to me if he wanted to pump me for information.Giggle.He pumped me senseless instead.

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