I wrote Victor once a week without fail, desperate to remind him of how much he adored me. He had never mentioned when he might return. And then his letters stopped. Judge Frankenstein inquired about his son on occasion—making it clear that Victor had never bothered to write to his own father—and I resorted to making up responses, filling the ever-expanding months with stories about Victor’s studies, the exasperating and admirable qualities of his fellow students, and always, always, how much he missed me.

Justine could sense my growing unease and increased her kindness toward me. It was no use. As much as I loved having her there, she could do nothing to protect me.

I needed Victor back.

Or at least, I thought I did, until Henry Clerval surprised me with a different possibility.

“Come into town with me,” Henry said, nearly a year after Victor’s departure. He was working for his father now, and we rarely had time together. “When was the last time you were there?”

I went, sometimes, with Judge Frankenstein. But it was always in his boat and then his carriage, all our destinations predetermined and run by his pocket watch and adherence to his schedule. The idea of going to town and simply wandering struck me as delightful.

“We will find a gift for Victor,” I said, just like the last time we had gone alone. What gift could remind Victor to set a damned pen to a damned piece of paper and write me a damned letter?

Justine stayed behind with William, who demanded a game of hide-and-seek. Justine was always happy to do whatever he wished. We were silent across the lake. Henry manned the boat himself, since the servant who used to do it had been dismissed after Madame Frankenstein’s death. In all our years as friends, we had been so rarely alone that even being together in a boat on the open lake felt surprisingly intimate.

I kept my eyes on the water, a delicate parasol protecting my face. Though it never got unbearably hot this close to the mountains, the sun could redden any complexion within a few minutes.

Henry did not mind. He tipped his head up, closing his eyes against the brightness as he pulled us across the lake with measured, confident strokes.

“You should marry me,” he said, his voice as light and breezy as the afternoon.

The rippling brilliance of the sun reflecting off our wake dazzled my eyes, nearly blinding me. Had it affected my ears, as well? “What?”

“I said, you should marry me.”

I laughed. He did not. He fixed his piercing blue gaze on me and gave me his purest, most sincere smile. I knew he had meant it.

And I was livid.