And then, as though returning to my feral roots, I curled into it. I peered out, wondering: Could I live here? Could I make a nest, a home? Sleep deeply during the winter? Prowl the undergrowth at night for prey?

It was the type of fantasy that had sustained me before the Frankensteins. I knew better now. I would starve, or freeze. There was no home for me here in the wild, the place I loved best. I would have to settle for what I could capture on my own.

I opened the letter.

Henry’s hand, usually sprawling with confident loops and self-indulgent flourishes, was shaky. The edges of the paper were splotchy, some of the ink smeared as though he had not waited for it to dry before folding it.

“Dear Elizabeth,” I read, and I had my answer. No “Dearest Elizabeth,” no “Better Half of my Soul,” no “Dream of My Future Happiness.” Henry was incapable of writing so plainly unless his heart was truly broken.

“I have spoken with Victor and expressed my desire to enter into an engagement with you. I am afraid I have broken our friendship irreparably. Where I saw in you two companionable friendship or the love between two people raised so closely, I failed to see the depth of his connection to you. It was a betrayal most unforgivable to assume I could ever come between you two. It is an attempted theft he will not overlook. Nor should he.

“In pondering my attachment to you, I suspect it stemmed from jealousy. I have always envied Victor. I wanted to be him. And in place of being him, I wanted what was his. That included you. Please forgive my arrogance.”

The next several words were splotched beyond recognition. But the last paragraph continued, “to England to settle my mind and my spirits. I do not expect to contact you again. It is best for everyone if I leave behind my false friendship forever and attempt to become someone new.

“Forgive me,

“Henry Clerval.”

Even Henry’s signature lacked any flourish. It barely looked like his, though I knew it to be. It was as though someone else had possessed him and written this letter. But perhaps that was precisely what had happened.

The Henry I knew had always admired Victor and watched him with an almost jealous hunger. Had it all been an act, then? Was Henry a far better actor than even I was, convincing me, the ultimate liar, of his infallible sincerity?

That did not feel quite right. I wondered if perhaps Henry had genuinely believed his own attachment to me, and, when confronted by Victor, had finally realized the true motivation behind his actions.

Sometimes we were strangers even to ourselves.

So it was settled. Henry would leave, and Victor still wanted me. But where, then, was my letter from Victor? Did Victor want me, or did he simply not want Henry to claim me?