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My Son,
I do not know what possessed you to leave us in the midst of so much trouble. It was poorly done. Regardless, you should know that Elizabeth has gone. Where, I do not know. She left without warning.
We need her back. I cannot lose her. Not after everything else. Please return home and help me find her.
Your father,
Alphonse Frankenstein
I set down the letter, shocked. I had expected accusations, condemnations. Instead, I found only desperation to have me back. I felt the first pang of guilt toward the man who had allowed me to become part of his family. He had lost so much, and I, ever ungrateful, had not even told him where I was going.
I resolved to make peace with him when I returned. And that would be done with Victor, safe, at my side. It was the kindest thing I could do for Judge Frankenstein.
The second letter was more recent and postmarked from London, which shocked me.
Victor,
Fredric Clerval has taken some notion of revenge in his head. I cannot dissuade him from seeking you out. I fear for what mischief he might create for you on foreign soil, where I have no influence. I have followed him here and will endeavor to find you before he does.
If you see that idiot son of his, tell him to write his damned father a letter.
Alphonse Frankenstein
Judge Frankenstein and Henry’s father! Both in England, perhaps getting close to Scotland now. I did not know whether that made things easier or harder for me. I hoped it did not affect me at all. Neither of them had any idea the forces of life and death Victor was wrestling with.
Only I could help him.
* * *
—
It was twilight when George steered the boat up onto the rocky shore of the tiny island Victor had claimed. One other boat was there, though it looked as though it had not been used in some time.
“I do not want to cross back in the dark,” George said. “Makes navigation tricky. Will you be all right?”
I nodded, wishing he could see my warm smile beneath my veil but preferring anonymity. “I will. And I can take the letters up myself so you do not have to delay. Thank you so much for your kindness today, George. I am forever indebted.”
He ducked his head, tipping his cap. “I hope things go well for you.”
“I hope so, too.” If Victor was not here, I faced a long, uncertain night on a cold, inhospitable island. I turned to the steep and jagged tumble of black rocks. There was a barely visible trail that wound its way up to a narrow plateau. I followed it, stepping carefully in the fading light. The first cottage I saw—though cottage was a generous word for something that looked more suited to being a chicken coop—was empty and, much like the docked boat, held no evidence of recent inhabitants.
The second was dark, as well. I peered in the windows. There was a cradle by the cold fireplace, no books or pens or anything that made me think it was Victor’s.
I walked on. The island was not large, but I could have been wrong in my judgments. Perhaps the first cottage had been Victor’s. Or I had come to the wrong place and missed him yet again.
Just as I was certain my entire life would be spent in pursuit of Victor, I passed an outcropping of lichen-splotched boulders and saw a third cottage. This had a cramped living space and a larger wooden outbuilding attached to the rear wall. Though the whole thing leaned from decades of relentless wind, it seemed sturdy enough.
There were no lights here, either, but I rushed forward with more hope. The cottage was at the highest point of the island, and the wind whipped me with vicious force. It whistled through the rocks, singing a mournful and solitary song. I nearly lost my veil, and as I turned to catch it, I saw on the horizon of the sea two lonely boats bobbing far offshore—my only company for the night.
Bracing myself for disappointment, I opened the door to the cottage. Inside, I found a sparsely furnished space: a stove, a cot, a table with one chair. On the table was a journal. My heart pounding so loud I could hear the blood pulsing through my veins, I stepped across the slate floor and looked down. The last lingering light of day revealed Victor’s handwriting.
I had found him.
Letting out a trembling sigh of relief, I resolved to sit and wait. His things were here; he would be back eventually. And when he returned, I would tell him I had discovered the truth and wanted him with me. We would fight this monster together, as we should have from the beginning.
But I wondered—what was he doing out here? Did he hope to lure the monster to such a secluded spot? To keep it away from me, or to destroy it?
The outbuilding could contain anything. Or it could be empty. But I suspected with growing excitement that it held a trap for the monster, or some other means of destroying it. That must have been the work Victor referred to.
