One, I had to help Ernest so he did not bleed to death.

And two, I had to find some way that this would not be blamed on Victor.

Because if it was blamed on Victor, maybe he would be sent away. Certainly I would be. What use would the Frankensteins have for me if I could not control Victor?

I would protect all three of us.

I grabbed my shawl and wrapped it around Ernest’s arm as tightly as I could. The knife was a problem. I picked it up and forced the nearest window open, pushing the knife out into the rain and mud, where all traces of its crime would be quickly erased.

I needed a culprit. No one would believe Victor was innocent no matter what he said. They were all prejudiced against him. If only I had been down here, where I should have been! I could have been a witness. Henry, too.

Ernest had stopped howling, but his breath was quick and fast like an injured animal’s. His nursemaid had not even woken from her laudanum-aided sleep.

His nursemaid.

I darted from the study and into the back of the house, behind the kitchen, where her quarters were. The room was dim and too warm, and she snored lightly from her bed.

I picked up her bag of sewing supplies and retreated.

Back in the study, neither of the Frankenstein boys had moved. I pulled out the nursemaid’s sharp scissors. I dipped the blades into the pool of blood on the floor, then dropped them nearby. Victor watched in silence.

My shawl was growing heavy and dark with blood around Ernest’s arm. “The wound needs to be closed,” Victor said, finally breaking out of his stupor.

“Cleaned first. Get the kettle.” I reached into the nursemaid’s sewing bag and found a tiny needle and the thinnest thread I could.

Ernest looked up at me. I was so angry with him for being stupid enough to threaten everything. “I will fix this,” I said, pushing his hair back from his sweat-soaked forehead. “No more crying.”

He nodded, silent.

“You should not have cut yourself.” I stroked his cheek and pulled him close. “That was naughty to play with the scissors and cut yourself.”

He whimpered, nuzzling his head against my shoulder.

Victor returned with the kettle. I held out Ernest’s arm, careful not to pour the water where it would wash the scissors clean. He cried out again, but he was exhausted from fear and shock and quickly quieted. The only sound was Henry’s pounding on the locked door above us.