“Oh, thank you!” I clasped my hands in front of me and bowed my head. “I have come so far with such terrible weight, and I fret with every minute lost.”

He patted my shoulder with what I assumed was paternal kindness. I had never received such a thing, and it filled me with the oddest sense of sadness over what I had missed. “There, there. We will get you to your cousin before nightfall. I can ask George to travel straight there and drop the rest of the parcels off on the way back instead.”

Full of emotions that defied categorization, I threw my arms around his neck. “Thank you, sir. You may have saved a life.”

I released him to find him blushing as he fixed his cap. “Well. I will go get George and send you off.”

—

I packed a light bag, leaving the rest of my things at the inn in Inverness with a fee to ensure they were stored safely. George, a wiry man whose face was lined with decades of sun and kindness, was silently companionable, leaving me with my thoughts. They were mournful, anxious, distracting company, but the gentle motion of the boat as he guided it along the line of the shore, the cool wind, and the occasional salt spray of the ocean did much to soothe me.

The Orkneys, he told me, were a lonely group of islands jutting off the northeastern coast of Scotland. Victor’s new dwelling was on the barest of them all, with only two or three cottages there.

“Orkneys are for folks who do not fancy seeing anyone,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, “Or being seen themselves.”

I eyed Victor’s letters hungrily. Who else was writing to him? Had his father written to warn him of my approach? I had not told Judge Frankenstein where I was going, but surely he could guess.

George caught me gazing at the bundle of letters as we shared a simple lunch of cheese and bread. He turned to the prow. “I will be looking this way for quite a while, Madame. I would have no idea if you were to, say, open your cousin’s letters to search for news of home. My brother would not approve, so I cannot say I do, either. But I also cannot say anything about what I do not notice.”

“Thank you,” I said, tears in my eyes from the sun and the wind and the kindness found in such unexpected places.

There were several letters. Two of which, I was surprised to see, were from Henry Clerval’s father.