But we were no longer children. I was drawing near to fifteen, Victor and Henry almost seventeen. Justine, with us a month now, had turned seventeen the day before. Though she had tried to keep her birthday quiet, I would not hear of spending the whole week as we always did. After pleading with Madame Frankenstein, I received permission for a special day trip to the glaciers.

We rose before dawn, setting out a company of four friends. Henry and Justine got along well. Though Justine was quiet and shy, Henry’s ease with happy conversation drew her out until they were laughing.

I considered their dynamic with appraising thoughtfulness, always with an eye on the future.

Victor walked fast and steady, as though the day trip were something to be accomplished rather than enjoyed. I laughed at him, taking his hand and skipping merrily beside him until he shook his head in exasperation. But I had managed to tease a smile from him, and his manner lightened.

The journey through the valleys to the glaciers took all morning and into the afternoon. We stopped frequently to admire pretty cascades, to nibble some of the food we had packed, or to rest. The day was as beautiful as any I had lived. The blue of the sky, the deeper blue of the glaciers, the sheer size of the mountains and scope of their majesty, allowed me, too, to step outside my constant worry and simply be. I truly understood for the first time the meaning of the word sublime.

Though we were supposed to return home by evening, we lingered, everyone loath to abandon the fun and freedom of our excursion.

It was a mistake. The light left faster than we had anticipated, and watching it go, we knew we could not navigate the treacherous glacial plain in the dark.

“There!” Justine pointed. A dark shape slumped against the white of the plain. We crossed to it, slipping and sliding. Though we should have been worried, we could not quite manage it. I felt safe with Victor and Henry and Justine. I knew we would be fine.

The shape turned out to be an old shack, the purpose of which we could not guess. But inside was a dusty pile of wood and a dented stove. Delighted with our stroke of luck—providence, as Justine declared it—we settled in for the night.

None of us slept. We sat, shoulder to shoulder, our legs stretched out across the floor nearly touching the opposite wall. Justine was to my left, Victor to my right, Henry to his. I was in the middle of the three people I loved best.

The only three people I loved at all, if I was being honest.

The night was cold and long and still somehow the brightest and warmest I had ever spent.