This Dark Endeavour (with Bonus Material) by Kenneth Oppel Page B

glanced over at Elizabeth and Henry, then Mother and Father, and could tell they were all just as eager as me to hear what the strange doctor would say next.
    “Blood is an incredible substance,” he explained as he accepted a glass of port from Father. “It’s no simple fluid. Think of it as a liquid metropolis. Thriving with activity!”
    “What kind of activity?” Mother asked.
    “The blood’s filled with what I call cells, Madame Frankenstein. Tiny, enclosed compartments—invisible to the naked eye—inside of which all sorts of important work is being done. The cells are like living machines that go about their work completely without our knowledge or will.”
    None of my tutors had ever been this excited about their subject. There was definitely something hypnotic about the way this bizarre, cadaverous doctor spoke—I was hanging on his every word, desperate to understand more about the microscopic world I’d glimpsed earlier in his laboratory.
    “There are so many of these cells,” he continued, “that a man could spend a lifetime observing them and still not understand them all. What I do know is this. Almost all of these cells do some vital work to keep the body healthy. Some carry nutrients. Some fight disease. Some send messages that spur other cells into action.” He paused to push his glasses back up his nose. “Sometimes, though, the body, through some freak of nature, produces cells designed to destroy itself.”
    “Destroy itself?” murmured Elizabeth.
    It was a frightening idea, to think that our own bodies could turn against us.
    “In Konrad’s blood,” Dr. Murnau went on, “I’ve identified many rogue cells making mischief, and I believe these have been the cause of his wasting fever.”
    Making mischief.
He made it sound no more serious than a children’s game.
    “Is there a cure?” Mother asked, her fingers tight around her goblet.
    Dr. Murnau cleared his throat. “The disease is rare, but I’ve had some early success developing a treatment.”
    I noticed he did not say “cure”—but I remained silent.
    “With the samples I’ve taken,” the doctor said, “I’m hoping to produce a compound that will attack these rogue cells.”
    “Have you any idea how long this will take?” Father asked.
    “I’ll need two or three more days to prepare. As for the treatment itself, it will take place over a week, as I inject the medicine into his veins.”
    “Into his veins?” I asked, remembering all those needles with a shudder.
    “Oh yes. It’s the most direct route,” said Dr. Murnau, licking his lips.
    My parents looked at each other. Father took Mother’s hand and nodded.
    “Very well, Doctor,” said Mother. “Please proceed with all possible speed.”
    I wondered how great my parents’ confidence was in Murnau. Were they filled with hope? Or did they think his treatment no more reliable than a recipe from an alchemist’s book?
    Three days later, Konrad’s treatment began.
    Beside his bed was a metal stand. Hanging from it, upside down, was a sealed glass flask. It was filled with some manner of clear fluid—the special medicine Dr. Murnau had concocted. From the flask’s rubber stopper snaked a long tube that joined a hollow-tipped needle snugly tied to my brother’s forearm. The tip of the needle pricked his flesh and entered one of his veins. The liquid, through some ingenious device, dripped slowly, entering his blood gradually, minute by minute, hour by hour.
    Dr. Murnau had given my brother a potent sleeping draft.
    For two days, Konrad lay in bed, still and pale as death.
    Tomorrow night, during the new moon, we would make our trip to the Sturmwald.

Chapter 6
STURMWALD
    I nside the boathouse, where the mighty foundation of Chateau Frankenstein rose slick and black from the lake, there was a thick door reinforced with bands of iron. It was always kept locked, though long ago Konrad and Elizabeth and I had found the key, hidden within a chink in the