When I went down to the dining room, I found only Judge Frankenstein.

“Where is Victor?” I asked.

He looked up from his papers. I recognized some of the sheets from Monsieur Clerval. Judge Frankenstein slid them beneath a leather book. “He asked me to give this to you.” He passed me a sealed letter in Victor’s cramped and efficient handwriting.

I opened the letter and then sat in the chair, wounded and shocked.

Victor was gone.

Part Three: Long Is the Way and Hard, That Out of Hell Leads Up to Light

Chapter Seventeen: Which Way Shall I Fly

I STEPPED OFF THE boat, the passage along the coast of England up to Scotland as rough and wild as the night around us. The wind tore at my long black veil as though demanding I reveal myself and my intentions.

I tucked it more firmly in place.

“Madame? Your trunk is here. Shall I call a carriage?” asked a tiny, stooped porter.

“Yes, thank you.” I waited, hands clasped primly in front of my black dress. A carriage rumbled close. My trunk was loaded, and I settled into the back.

“Where to, Madame?” the porter asked as he closed the door.

“Inverness,” I replied.

“So far? Would you not rather spend the night and leave in the morning?”

“I do not like being questioned.” My voice was as cold as the late Scottish spring.

The porter nodded, chastised, and passed along my instructions. I was on my way. And it had all been so much easier than I thought.

My Dearest Elizabeth,

I am sorry to leave you so soon after being reunited. I would not do it under any other circumstance, but there is a complication from my past that compels me to resolve it.

I go to England, where I will work. I also hope to find Henry. As Henry is still retrievable, I shall do all in my power to retrieve him for you. I hate him; I always shall. But perhaps I was wrong to banish him from our lives.

When my business is finally resolved, I will return to you, I hope triumphant in all things. And then our life together can truly begin as it was always meant to.

With all the affection of my soul,

Victor Frankenstein

“Foolish boy,” I muttered, resting my head against the hard wooden back of the carriage. I took out my notebook and replaced his letter. Next to it, I had the rest of the letters that had arrived before I left. And I had made notes of all I knew and suspected.

Victor had, in some combination of genius and madness, created a monster from body parts of dead things.

That monster had followed me to our home for revenge.

It killed William.

It implicated Justine.

It somehow threatened Victor such that he immediately fled.