The wind howled around our tiny shack, searching desperately for a way inside between the mud and wood that sealed out the elements. Snow had drifted so high it covered the single window, making even the daylight hazy and soft. We did not know who had built the shack or to whom it belonged, but we had been there for two weeks with no visitors. And if the owner did appear, we would happily pay for our time here. I could not imagine anyone idly venturing to us, though. The snow was a lashing, blinding constant. Adam frequently had to dig us out so we could go for supplies.

The shack was far emptier without his gentle, soft-spoken presence. I always felt better when he was home. But he did not mind the solitude during his trips to be glimpsed at villages within a few days’ travel, and he felt uncomfortable with his massive bulk in our tiny space.

We did not mind, and we made certain he knew. He would be back the next day, and then we would discuss our next move. I would miss this howling shack. But it was time to make a decision about where to go next.

“He really is a genius, you know,” Mary said.

“Who?” I put the fish on the stove, then shoved the crate back over the opening to the ice hole. I would cook the fish that evening for supper when Mary returned from her supply run. She would bring back food and any news she could find. So far we had heard nothing of Victor. No trace of someone inquiring about us. And, thankfully, no rumors of strings of murders in Geneva or anywhere nearby.

I wanted to imagine we could continue like this forever. Mary had begun to suggest that Victor had died from his wounds, or that our flight had been too successful. She wanted to go back to Saint Petersburg, find a secluded home to purchase for the three of us. To settle. Maybe Victor would find us in a month, or in a year, or never. I did not know what I hoped for. I only knew that, since Saint Petersburg, with Mary and Adam, I was…happy.

“Victor. Is a genius,” Mary said, patting a stiff section of her furs. She pulled them aside to reveal his journals. “Also insufferable. Did you know he was keeping a journal, too? He was writing an account of his life, but editing out the parts where he murdered people for their body parts. He made himself the hero. I think he fears his legacy, should anyone discover what he has done, and wants to control what they know. You are—if you were worried—an angel on earth, faultless, beautiful, and utterly and completely in love with him.”

“I had no idea he had such a talent for fiction.”