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“I do.” Mary grinned, her breath fogging out in front of her face. “At least well enough to order dinner and get a room. My uncle loved Saint Petersburg. I want to see it for myself.”
“That settles it.” Adam patted my hand one more time and then gently pried it free. “I have already seen it.”
“In another life,” I countered.
“That is enough for me. I will meet you back here in three days.” He loped away, within seconds too far away to argue with.
Mary climbed back into our open carriage and took the reins. “Come. I want to be warm for more than a few hours at a time.”
I joined her, and we rode down toward the city. Our carriage was a sled, so she stopped on the outskirts and found a stable for the horses. We rode in a hired buggy to the center of the city. I wanted somewhere nondescript and anonymous. Mary chose the nicest hotel she could find.
That night at dinner, our bowls filled with soup and our glasses with wine, she glared at me. “We are in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I want to go to an opera. I want to visit the cathedrals. I want to enjoy this expensive meal. And you are determined to be miserable. Adam is fine. He likes the solitude, and he likes coming back to us afterward.”
“It is not that,” I blurted out, and then I realized what it was. I looked down at my bowl and the silver spoon next to it. It blurred. “How can I enjoy myself when Victor is still out there? How can I enjoy myself when Justine is dead? William? Your uncle and Henry—not dead, but not alive, either. Not really. I bring their restless ghosts with me. They were killed because of me. Because of Victor’s twisted need to possess me forever. How can I ever smile, how can I ever enjoy myself again, knowing what my life has cost?”
Mary reached across the table and took my hands in hers. I wore black now, all the time. She wore deep red tonight, complementing her beautiful complexion. She smiled at me, squeezing my hand. “Because I know my uncle. I see glimpses of him in Adam. In his kindness. In his wonder at nature. In his love for both of us. I am certain Henry is in those things, too. And your Justine is gone, but you carry her in your heart. Would she want that heart to be heavy and burdened for her sake?”
I shook my head. “She made me promise the opposite.”
“I am not saying you should not feel remorse or sadness. But if nothing else, your past should teach you the value of life. The wild and precious joy of it. Do not let Victor steal that, too. He has already taken enough.”
I nodded, freeing one of my hands to wipe my eyes. I held her other hand for a long time, until my chest felt light enough that I could breathe. And then I offered her a guileless smile for no reason other than that I loved her and I was glad to have her with me. She returned it.
That night, curled against her in the warmth of our bed in front of a gently crackling fire, I slept deeply. For the first time in months, no nightmares troubled me.
* * *
—
“I brought you a present,” I said, smiling. Adam’s blue eyes widened in surprise. Under the furs and supplies we had bought was a stack of books. Poetry, plays, philosophy—everything I knew Henry had loved, and that Mary knew her uncle had loved. And aside from those, we had brought books on a dozen other subjects, so that Adam could discover what he loved.
“Thank you,” he said solemnly, running his misshapen fingers over the books. Mary and I both hugged him, and he wrapped his arms around us, to encompass us both. “Thank you,” he whispered, and I knew the gift we had brought him was not a gift of words or knowledge, but of companionship. We would never leave him. He would never leave us.
The family that had nearly destroyed me had inadvertently given me a new family. I would keep my promises to Justine. I would embrace whatever strange life I had, for as long as I had it. And, with Mary resting her head on my shoulder and Adam driving the carriage, I allowed myself to smile for no one.
For myself.
* * *
—
Mary strapped on her furs, belting them in place until she looked more beast than girl. I laughed at her as I pushed aside the crate and checked the opening in the floor to make certain the hole we had carved in the ice for water and fish was still clear. I broke the ice forming around the edges, then pulled up the line. “Three fish!”
The wind howled around our tiny shack, searching desperately for a way inside between the mud and wood that sealed out the elements. Snow had drifted so high it covered the single window, making even the daylight hazy and soft. We did not know who had built the shack or to whom it belonged, but we had been there for two weeks with no visitors. And if the owner did appear, we would happily pay for our time here. I could not imagine anyone idl
y venturing to us, though. The snow was a lashing, blinding constant. Adam frequently had to dig us out so we could go for supplies.
The shack was far emptier without his gentle, soft-spoken presence. I always felt better when he was home. But he did not mind the solitude during his trips to be glimpsed at villages within a few days’ travel, and he felt uncomfortable with his massive bulk in our tiny space.
We did not mind, and we made certain he knew. He would be back the next day, and then we would discuss our next move. I would miss this howling shack. But it was time to make a decision about where to go next.
“He really is a genius, you know,” Mary said.
“Who?” I put the fish on the stove, then shoved the crate back over the opening to the ice hole. I would cook the fish that evening for supper when Mary returned from her supply run. She would bring back food and any news she could find. So far we had heard nothing of Victor. No trace of someone inquiring about us. And, thankfully, no rumors of strings of murders in Geneva or anywhere nearby.
I wanted to imagine we could continue like this forever. Mary had begun to suggest that Victor had died from his wounds, or that our flight had been too successful. She wanted to go back to Saint Petersburg, find a secluded home to purchase for the three of us. To settle. Maybe Victor would find us in a month, or in a year, or never. I did not know what I hoped for. I only knew that, since Saint Petersburg, with Mary and Adam, I was…happy.
“Victor. Is a genius,” Mary said, patting a stiff section of her furs. She pulled them aside to reveal his journals. “Also insufferable. Did you know he was keeping a journal, too? He was writing an account of his life, but editing out the parts where he murdered people for their body parts. He made himself the hero. I think he fears his legacy, should anyone discover what he has done, and wants to control what they know. You are—if you were worried—an angel on earth, faultless, beautiful, and utterly and completely in love with him.”
