“Oh, I doubt that,” Maureen said coldly. “Your father has no regrets.”

“He must. All good men do, and he must have been that for my mother to have loved and married him.”

Maureen studied me, and I felt pity in her gaze. Of course she thought I was naïve, and I suppose I was. I’d been kept away from the world, and what I knew of it were bits and pieces that didn’t add up.

“Love is odder than anything you might find here,” Maureen instructed. Her voice was kind, yet I felt she was delivering a warning. She sometimes carried Mr. Morris’s edition of Jane Eyre with her, for it was pocket size and she was very attached to it. I wasn’t certain if it was the story she was faithful to, or if her loyalty belonged to the man who had given her the book.

“Did you love Mr. Morris?” I asked. It was bold of me to question her so, for I’d been warned by my father never to bring up his name. But I was truly interested in Maureen’s welfare, and I think she softened when she saw my earnest expression.

“He read to me when I was with him in his room, and I went there willingly. All I can tell you is that when it was dark, he was like any other man. Better,” she told me. “Far better than anyone who’s passed through this yard.”

THERE CAME an evening when I was reading in my father’s library, as was my habit when he was out and I had my pick of what was on the shelf. When I grew drowsy, I started for bed, going first to the kitchen to make sure the back door was locked. I happened to glimpse a bit of light as I passed by the stairs to the cellar. When I peered down I noticed the door to the workroom had been left ajar. I went down the steps, drawn by my curiosity before I could think things through. The door to this room was always locked and bolted twice, but somehow the Professor had forgotten to do so on this occasion. As usual, he hadn’t informed me where he was going or when he would return, but he was often gone past midnight. I wondered if the open door was a sign sent to me from above suggesting I should look inside, or if it was a simple act of forgetfulness.

It was in this cellar room that my father maintained scientific experiments, dissecting and studying some of the strange creatures he had discovered in morgues and hospitals, and in the back rooms along the docks. No one was to disturb him when he was locked away, not even if he missed his dinner. There were times when the liveryman he employed dragged a bundle down the stairs and the two men would then stand together and argue over a price in low tones. I had heard them raise their voices more than once, and I hadn’t known whether I should fear for my father’s safety or for the safety of the liveryman.

I made my way to the threshold of the workshop. I pushed open the door so that I might peer through the darkening shadows. Jars of specimens gleamed and dust motes hung in the unmoving air. From the corridor where I stood I could see that there were canisters of salt and formaldehyde set upon the shelves, all in readiness for any new specimens. I spied the skull of a leopard that was being fitted with a third set of teeth so that it might appear more ferocious and strange. There were fingernails that had grown ten feet long before they’d been cut and were now soaking in bleach, and a box of the bodies of bright birds captured in New Guinea, their feathers tinted even brighter shades with red and orange dye. On a white metal table there was a selection of knives and surgery tools. My father, it seemed, did not shy away from helping nature create miracles. In this way he was a tailor of the marvelous, a creator of dreams.

Although I was well behaved on most occasions, I still possessed my natural curiosity, an urge I tried my best to ignore. Perhaps my rebel’s soul had been inflamed by the Wolfman’s tales of wandering the world. Surely something had ignited my disobedience, which flared with every passing day. I slipped into the workshop, closing the door behind me. The decision was quick, like diving into the sea. One step, and I was inside. The scent of amber and incense lingered, and the room felt close, for the single window in the cellar had been boarded over and no natural light entered the room other than a few pale rays of renegade moonlight that filtered around the nailed planks. No one came to clean here; Maureen was not allowed to pass through with a mop or a broom, and nothing had been tidied or organized for many years. Papers were everywhere, letters and graphs of all sorts left in a jumble. I went to my father’s desk, and there I saw the bones of a baby’s skeleton set out upon the blotter, like a puzzle. The bones were so tiny I could have picked up the entire spine and rested it in my palm. I, who was rarely cold, felt a chill as I stood there.

I had once asked Raymond Morris why he thought God had made him the way he was, and he’d laughed and said he did not think God had a hand in every error that humans made. He shocked me when he admitted there were times when he did not think there was a God at all, for when he looked into a mirror he believed only the devil had been at work in his creation. I disagreed with him. I thought that God had blessed Mr. Morris in some way, and that was why he was so knowledgeable and so kind. I was convinced that God had a hand in everything we did on earth, though we might never understand his ways, but I did not say so, for I was a girl at the time, and didn’t believe I had the right to speak my thoughts aloud.