William blinked his heavily lashed eyes at me, confused. “What?”

“Cousin Elizabeth means you can be whatever you wish.” Justine ruffled his curls. For her, his dimpled smile appeared.

Was it wrong to envy a five-year-old child? As the third son of the family, he would have means but lack pressure. He truly could be whatever he wished. Perhaps he could even change into a fire-breathing hellbeast. Wealthy men did whatever they wanted, after all.

Though from what I had heard, if Monsieur Clerval had his way, none of the Frankensteins would be wealthy.

“I want to go shooting,” I said to Ernest, who regarded me with surprise.

“Really?”

“Yes. I would like to learn. And I think you are old enough to teach me.”

“Me too!” William said. Justine glared at me across the room, shaking her head vehemently. She grabbed William around the waist and guided him back to his seat.

But Ernest stood undeterred, his face alight with anticipation. “I will go and—”

The maid knocked on the door, peering meekly in. “A letter for you, Miss.”

I stepped forward, but she shook her head. “For Miss Justine.”

Justine never got letters. She appeared as puzzled as I about who would be writing her. I wondered if perhaps it was Henry. Another stab of jealousy pierced my heart, but I let it go. I had wanted both Victor and Henry for my own. It was inevitable I would lose one. I could be glad just to hear that Henry was doing well in England.

Justine opened the letter with a distracted smile, still paying more attention to William’s disastrous writing. But as she read, the color drained from her face. She looked up, searching for me. I rushed to her just as she stumbled and fainted, insensible, in my arms.

“What is it?” Ernest demanded, fear raising his voice to a piercing whine.

I nodded toward the sofa. Ernest helped me get Justine placed comfortably there. Then I retrieved the letter that had fallen to the floor. I scanned the contents.

“Oh! Her mother died. Last week.”

“God rest her soul,” Ernest said sadly, crossing himself in imitation of Justine.

If God has any sense, he will damn her worthless soul for how she treated Justine, I thought.

—

After Victor left for Ingolstadt, with Henry occupied working for his father, Justine was my only friend. She took her role as governess to the boys as seriously as Victor had ever applied himself to his studies. I might have brought her to the Frankensteins out of an impulse to save her, but she turned out to be the best thing possible for the younger brothers. The death of their mother saddened them. But in beautiful, bright, infinitely loving Justine, they had more of a mother than their own had ever been.