InterludeOrkney Isles, September 1, 1790
The red-gold sun hovered in the western sky, readying itself to begin its slow liquid descent into the sea. Viktor Frankenstein watched it from the window above his sleeping pallet, and reflected that there was no point in recommencing his labors now, as he would shortly be deprived of light sufficient for his employment. It was true that he had on previous occasions worked day and night with a pause only long enough to light candles—but his store of candles was at the present moment sadly depleted, and he had been warned often enough of the deleterious effects of incessant labor upon his health. If he spent himself too freely now, he would have no reserves to draw upon when the next fever of inspiration seized him.
Admittedly, working fits were n
