“He is restored to himself. And he insists we go home immediately.”

Justine closed her eyes and bowed her head, smiling in silent prayer. “I am so glad.”

“That he is restored, or that we get to go home?”

“Both! And that we will have only one more night in that horrible boardinghouse.”

I pursed my lips thoughtfully. I had already bidden farewell to Victor. Everything was settled between us. He loved me. I had secured my prize and protected Victor’s reputation through a few careful acts of destruction. My future was once again free from the threat of poverty and destitution.

Judge Frankenstein could take himself straight to hell.

Smiling, I tucked Justine’s hand into the crook of my arm. “We should leave tonight. As soon as we have secured our things. I do not want to spend another moment in this town, either.”

Justine kissed my forehead, then pulled an extra pin from her hat and carefully pinned my hat more firmly in place. As we walked out the door, I glanced over my shoulder and thought I saw Victor passing back into his room. Had he come to say goodbye? Why had he not called out to us?

Perhaps he, too, was shy in front of Justine, wearing only sickbed clothes. He did not like talking to people in general, much less when he was ill. Or perhaps it had been the doctor, not Victor. It nagged at my mind as we hurried back to the boardinghouse. I would have been much more settled if he were returning with us.

But I had to trust that he would come home as he had said. Victor did not lie to me.

Back in our room at Frau Gottschalk’s, I closed our trunk with emphatic flair.

“Oh!” Justine exclaimed with dismay. “What about Mary? She was so good to us. It would be rude to leave without saying goodbye.”

I agreed. It would be rude. And also the most prudent thing to do, given what she knew of my activities while I was here. “Write to her and give her our regrets. Tell her I am grateful for everything. Particularly the cloak she lent me.” I ran my fingers along its edge, surprised to find I already missed Mary.

Justine, ever dutiful, sat down at the scratched and peeling desk and proceeded to write a letter more sincere and elegant than I could have managed. Under other circumstances, I might have been friends with Mary. Circumstances under which I could afford such indulgences as friends, that was. She had her uncle and her shop. She had no need of me. And I had no need of her sharp and perceptive eyes. Besides, I had Justine and Victor. I had lost Henry, but that only showed how one truly could have too many friends.

—