We finally made it across the churning lake. We slipped over the dock, buffeted by the storm. The night had given itself to violence. A tree crashed to the ground with a tremendous crack and we both jumped, barely dodging the branches. The wind pulled my hair from the pins Mary had given me, and long wet strands whipped my face with stinging blows.

The house was waiting. None of the bedroom windows glowed warm; only the entry hall held a hint of light. Another flash of lightning threw the building into perfect relief, and I noticed one detail that had changed in my absence: a long pole, topped with a metal orb and wrapped with coils, now rose from the roof over the dining room, soaring far above the sharp peaks of the house.

“He made another laboratory,” I whispered. But the wind and the rain stole my words. I grabbed Mary’s arm and pointed, screaming my observation in her ear. She nodded grimly, wiping water from her eyes. I gestured to the back of the house, where I knew we could climb the trellis and pry open a loose window in my bedroom.

I entered my old home like a thief in the night. I was there to steal the life of its heir. I set my feet on the richly polished wood floor on which generations of Frankensteins had trod. My soaked skirts dripped a steady puddle of water that would damage the wood if left unmopped. As a child, I would have cleaned it immediately, wishing to leave no trace of myself and no opening for censure.

I leaned over and wrung out my hair all over the floor.

After my time in the asylum and our nighttime travel here—Mary and I had slept during the day, hidden in a barn—the room was a riot of visual stimulation. I had always liked it as a child, but now I saw the garish roses on the wallpaper as pale imitations of reality, like everything in this cold house. The windows were draped with heavy cloth, which blocked both light and the view of nature’s majesty. Next to one window was a painting of the same mountains one had only to step outside to see.

Perhaps that was why Victor was so desperate to imitate life with his own twisted version. He had never been able to feel things as deeply as he should; he had been raised in a home where everything was pretense and no one spoke the truth.

Not even me.

I had accused Victor of creating a monster, but I had done the same.