I sat up, my head spinning. “Your arm!” I lifted my hand to her shoulder. It had been bandaged again; only a little blood had seeped through.

“I will survive. And so will Victor, unfortunately. You could not have stabbed him in the neck? Or in the eye? Or in the chest? Or in—”

I put my hand over her mouth. “Mary. I have not trained with glass shards. You will have to excuse my amateur aim.”

She pushed my hand away and waited for me to stand. Once I steadied myself, I helped her get up.

And then I had to look at the monster.

Henry.

As though sensing my thoughts, he spoke from where he lurked in the darkest corner of the room, shoulders stooped and face turned away from us. “I caught you as you fell and absorbed some of the shock so it did not kill you. Victor got away. I could not get him in time and lost him in the storm. He took a boat, and I do not swim or trust your boat to hold me. I am sorry.”

“It is not your fault. It is mine.”

Mary clucked her tongue. “Now then. I hardly think you can take credit for Victor. You did not make him do all that he did.”

“But I did not stop him.”

“When would you have?” Mary walked over to the leather trunk, opening it. “Oh, this is nice. He will be quite unhappy to leave all this behind.” She shut it again, then continued her exploration of the room. “Would you have stopped him when you were a child, depending on his family for survival? When you were locked in an asylum without any recourse for release?”

“I am not blameless.”

“Not being blameless is not the same as being guilty.” Mary smiled gently at me.

The monster shifted, trying to fold himself even smaller in the darkened corner. “Henry…,” I started, not letting myself look away from him.

“My name is not Henry. Not really. He is part of me, but I am not him.”

“What is your name, then?” Mary asked.

“It was Henry. And I think it was Felix, as well.”

“My uncle’s name was Carlos.”

“Then that is also my name.”

“It is quite a long name,” she said. “I think, because you are something new, you should name yourself.”

There was a pause, and then the monster nodded. “Adam,” he said. His voice rumbled as low as the thunder now receding from our mountain valley.

“I like it. Literary, with a touch of irony. It is a pleasure to meet you, Adam.” She busied herself with more snooping around the dining-room-turned-laboratory. I suspected she did it in part so she would not have to look at him. She had not believed me that he existed. Even in the room with him, I struggled to make sense of his form, disbelieving that it was real.