We passed through the commercial center, then into more residential streets. The medieval wall around the city was maintained in good repair and still marked the boundaries of Ingolstadt. We walked along it until we came to a passage through an unused gatehouse that would lead us out. The noise of the rain against our umbrellas hushed for one long breath as we walked beneath the wall.

In that moment I thought I heard again the noise of my dreams. The haunting cry of a soul so alone, even being in hell in the company of the other damned would be a comfort.

I whipped my head to the side, peering into the dark recesses of the gatehouse. There were doors there, barred, but one looked as though it had recently been forced open and clumsily drawn shut again. “Did you—”

Mary waved dismissively. “It is an old city. Even the stones mourn the passing of time. It is not much farther, though we must cross the bridge.”

Justine, however, looked as unnerved as I felt. “We cannot be gone much longer,” she said. “Mind the hour. Frau Gottschalk will lock us out.”

“Charming,” Mary said, her voice the only bright thing out that dreary afternoon. “Hurry, then.”

We left the ancient borders of the city. This section of the Danube was crowded with boats for loading or unloading goods, though most sat idle, waiting out the rain. We nearly made it over the bridge without incident, until a passing carriage splashed murky puddle water on our skirts. The thought of showing up to see Victor in a dress anything other than pristinely white filled me with terror. All the insecurities of our first meeting engulfed me, and I felt I was once again the little girl with dirty feet.

What could I offer him now? I had seen no trees for climbing, no nests filled with eggs. I had no tiny, fragile hearts to give him as an offering, only my own. I lifted my chin, determined not to be weak. I would be his Elizabeth, the one so carefully shaped with his help. And he would remember, and love me again, and I would be safe.

Henry, who had abandoned and betrayed me, would never again get a single beat of my heart. I should never have let him so far in. He had threatened everything from the start.

—

Those fleeting childhood years, when Henry guided our play and Victor was satisfied with his school studies, were suffused with light and the closest I had ever felt to ease. There was something remarkable in having Victor and Henry—the one so prone to fits of anger and cold aloofness, the other so bright and joyful and open to the wonders of the world without questioning how they existed—revolve around me.