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Though I had imagined tearing it open on the spot as soon as it arrived, I walked out behind the house into the deep woods there. Ahead of me loomed the mountains. I had spent many happy days at their feet, and even one perfect day on the glacial plains. Their silent strength brought me no peace now. I turned to the thickest portion of the forest, pushing through the brambles and bushes until I found a hollowed tree trunk.

And then, as though returning to my feral roots, I curled into it. I peered out, wondering: Could I live here? Could I make a nest, a home? Sleep deeply during the winter? Prowl the undergrowth at night for prey?

It was the type of fantasy that had sustained me before the Frankensteins. I knew better now. I would starve, or freeze. There was no home for me here in the wild, the place I loved best. I would have to settle for what I could capture on my own.

I opened the letter.

Henry’s hand, usually sprawling with confident loops and self-indulgent flourishes, was shaky. The edges of the paper were splotchy, some of the ink smeared as though he had not waited for it to dry before folding it.

“Dear Elizabeth,” I read, and I had my answer. No “Dearest Elizabeth,” no “Better Half of my Soul,” no “Dream of My Future Happiness.” Henry was incapable of writing so plainly unless his heart was truly broken.

“I have spoken with Victor and expressed my desire to enter into an engagement with you. I am afraid I have broken our friendship irreparably. Where I saw in you two companionable friendship or the love between two people raised so closely, I failed to see the depth of his connection to you. It was a betrayal most unforgivable to assume I could ever come between you two. It is an attempted theft he will not overlook. Nor should he.

“In pondering my attachment to you, I suspect it stemmed from jealousy. I have always envied Victor. I wanted to be him. And in place of being him, I wanted what was his. That included you. Please forgive my arrogance.”

The next several words were splotched beyond recognition. But the last paragraph continued, “to England to settle my mind and my spirits. I do not expect to contact you again. It is best for everyone if I leave behind my false friendship forever and attempt to become someone new.

“Forgive me,

“Henry Clerval.”

Even Henry’s signature lacked any flourish. It barely looked like his, though I knew it to be. It was as though someone else had possessed him and written this letter. But perhaps that was precisely what had happened.

The Henry I knew had always admired Victor and watched him with an almost jealous hunger. Had it all been an act, then? Was Henry a far better actor than even I was, convincing me, the ultimate liar, of his infallible sincerity?

That did not feel quite right. I wondered if perhaps Henry had genuinely believed his own attachment to me, and, when confronted by Victor, had finally realized the true motivation behind his actions.

Sometimes we were strangers even to ourselves.

So it was settled. Henry would leave, and Victor still wanted me. But where, then, was my letter from Victor? Did Victor want me, or did he simply not want Henry to claim me?

I curled deeper into my temporary burrow, hollower than the tree and less capable of providing shelter. I would wait for Victor’s letter.

I had no other choice.

* * *

—

Justine caught me staring out a window at the evening landscape. I had been watching it since Monsieur Clerval left and we had

finally dared to come back inside. Whether I was waiting for something, or fearful that if I looked away, I would miss some vital threat, I could not say.

“Where are you?” she asked, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I sighed. “In the past.”

She led me to the sofa and sat us down, so close that our legs touched. “I thought you would be happy. You did what you set out to do!”

I offered her the best smile I could manage. Soon I would have to go dine with Judge Frankenstein. I needed to get back to pretending. “You are right. I am afraid the trip was more exhausting than I had realized. I am not quite recovered yet.”

“Thank goodness we will never have to do that again! All those decisions. I was frightened the whole time.”

“Me too,” I lied. “I suppose, returning home, I miss Victor all the more. And Henry, too. I am sorry he left for England without the blessing of his father.” Justine had not seen Monsieur Clerval, and I did not mention his visit, or the papers he had left for Judge Frankenstein, though those things contributed to my lack of ease. No wonder Judge Frankenstein had wanted to excise me from their expenses. He had debts, apparently. What if I had secured Victor, only for him to be rendered a pauper?

I did not think that would happen. Wealth like his family’s had a way of replenishing itself. And Victor was a genius. He would take care of me.

Justine clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Men are always doing things without thinking of how they will affect others. It is a woman’s heart that is big enough to hold another’s feelings. We will miss Henry, but we will be fine.”