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“If it might be dangerous, we should stick together.” Mary leaned down to look at the pages on the floor.

I crouched low and picked up the exterior of the book that had been so violently destroyed. I knew this book. It was the alchemical philosophy Victor had lost himself in during our holiday at the baths. And I knew Victor. I was not worried for Mary and Justine’s safety.

I was worried for his.

“What is that?” I pointed outside. “Has the man climbed out of the river already? He needs help!” Justine and Mary rushed out the door.

I slammed and locked it.

* * *

—

“Stay here,” I told Henry. He was not suited to whatever would need to be done. Because I knew that scream—it had been little Ernest. Whom we had left downstairs alone with Victor while the nursemaid was asleep and the adults traveled to town. We were trapped by rain and boredom in this holiday cottage. I had gone upstairs with Henry out of perverse curiosity. Out of a desire for something exciting to happen.

Selfish, stupid.

Henry’s hands tightened in their embrace. “But—”

I shoved Henry away, ran out the door, and locked it from the outside. I practically threw myself down the stairs, burst into the sitting room, and took in the scene in one wide-eyed glance.

Ernest, howling in animal shock, holding his arm. It had been cut almost to the bone and was dripping blood onto the floor. A puddle had already formed.

Victor, sitting on his chair, staring white-faced and wide-eyed at his brother.

The knife, on the floor between them.

Victor looked up at me, his jaw clenched and his fists trembling.

I knew only two things for certain:

One, I had to help Ernest so he did not bleed to death.

And two, I had to find some way that this would not be blamed on Victor.

Because if it was blamed on Victor, maybe he would be sent away. Certainly I would be. What use would the Frankensteins have for me if I could not control Victor?

I would protect all three of us.

I grabbed my shawl and wrapped it around Ernest’s arm as tightly as I could. The knife was a problem. I picked it up and forced the nearest window open, pushing the knife out into the rain and mud, where all traces of its crime would be quickly erased.

I needed a culprit. No one would believe Victor was innocent no matter what he said. They were all prejudiced against him. If only I had been down here, where I should have been! I could have been a witness. Henry, too.

Ernest had stopped howling, but his breath was quick and fast like an injured animal’s. His nursemaid had not even woken from her laudanum-aided sleep.

His nursemaid.

I darted from the study and into the back of the house, behind the kitchen, where her quarters were. The room was dim and too warm, and she snored lightly from her bed.

I picked up her bag of sewing supplies and retreated.

Back in the study, neither of the Frankenstein boys had moved. I pulled out the nursemaid’s sharp scissors. I dipped the blades into the pool of blood on the floor, then dropped them nearby. Victor watched in silence.

My shawl was growing heavy and dark with blood around Ernest’s arm. “The wound needs to be closed,” Victor said, finally breaking out of his stupor.

“Cleaned first. Get the kettle.” I reached into the nursemaid’s sewing bag and found a tiny needle and the thinnest thread I could.

Ernest looked up at me. I was so angry with him for being stupid enough to threaten everything. “I will fix this,” I said, pushing his hair back from his sweat-soaked forehead. “No more crying.”