“You killed my brother!” Ernest was backed up against the far wall, staring in horror and hatred at the woman who loved him best in the whole world. “You killed him!” He collapsed into sniffling sobs. “Why would you do that?”

Justine tried to stumble to him, swaying and nearly falling. The constable used her shift in balance to pull her away from me. Another official I did not know jumped between us.

“She did no such thing!” I shouted, trying to push past the man.

While I was blocked, the constable rushed Justine down the hall. “She cannot account for her whereabouts,” he said.

“She is not well! She cannot even stand!” I twisted free and darted after them. “This is absurd! She loved him!”

“William,” Justine sobbed, losing her strength and falling to the floor. Her arm was wrenched where the constable had not released his grip. Another officer—where were all these men coming from? Where had they been when William was in danger? Why were there seemingly dozens now, as though Justine were a threat?—grabbed Justine’s other arm, and they continued to drag her away.

Someone grabbed my arm, and I turned with my other hand raised, ready to strike.

It was Ernest. I stayed my blow. He was still crying, and I saw a resemblance to Victor in his enraged visage. “She stole the necklace! That is evidence!”

“That is not evidence, you stupid child.” I flinched at the hurt that managed to break through on his face. I dropped to my knees and looked up at him. He was a child, but somehow I felt that if he believed in Justine, it would be proof of her innocence. And I knew how badly it would hurt her to hear that Ernest had believed this false and terrible accusation. “She knows I would have given it to her if she had so much as asked! She had no reason to steal it! She lives here. She could have taken anything at any time.”

“Then why did she have it?”

“Perhaps the maid was framing her,” I snapped. The men had paused in the entry hall, and I stood to give chase, stopping short only when one stepped into my path.

“Why?” Judge Frankenstein asked. “What motivation would the maid have? She loved Justine, as did we all. And she was here all afternoon with the cook. Neither of them had any reason to fear accusation, or a need to deflect blame.”

Ernest jumped in, parroting what he had heard from the constable, who was already building a case against Justine. “And why would she spend the night in a farmer’s barn not a mile from where William was murdered?”

“She was sick with grief over her mother! Who among us can claim to act rationally when faced with the death of family? Neither of you is!”