The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein

“I have had a letter from my cousin, Victor Frankenstein, that gives Inverness as his most recent address. I am afraid I have terrible news, the type which is best delivered in person. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

He scratched his head beneath his cap. “Well, that is a funny thing. I was just now gathering all Mr. Frankenstein’s letters to have them sent along.”

My heart and spirits leapt. He was here, then!

“Give me the address, and I will deliver them myself,” I said, trying to sound both friendly and forceful at once. I even held out my hand in expectation.

“That will be a bit of a challenge.” He gave me a gap-toothed grin. “Mr. Frankenstein has moved along to the Orkney Islands, which are a day away by horse—if you have a good horse—and almost as long by boat.”

I swayed, my travel-weariness crashing back down after the cruel and taunting surge of hope.

The kind postmaster must have sensed my upset. “But as I was saying, I was about to send them along. By boat. My brother has business near the Orkneys and was going to deliver them in the course of his day. I am certain he could be persuaded to take a passenger along with the parcels.”

“Oh, thank you!” I clasped my hands in front of me and bowed my head. “I have come so far with such terrible weight, and I fret with every minute lost.”

He patted my shoulder with what I assumed was paternal kindness. I had never received such a thing, and it filled me with the oddest sense of sadness over what I had missed. “There, there. We will get you to your cousin before nightfall. I can ask George to travel straight there and drop the rest of the parcels off on the way back instead.”

Full of emotions that defied categorization, I threw my arms around his neck. “Thank you, sir. You may have saved a life.”

I released him to find him blushing as he fixed his cap. “Well. I will go get George and send you off.”

* * *

—

I packed a light bag, leaving the rest of my things at the inn in Inverness with a fee to ensure they were stored safely. George, a wiry man whose face was lined wi

th decades of sun and kindness, was silently companionable, leaving me with my thoughts. They were mournful, anxious, distracting company, but the gentle motion of the boat as he guided it along the line of the shore, the cool wind, and the occasional salt spray of the ocean did much to soothe me.

The Orkneys, he told me, were a lonely group of islands jutting off the northeastern coast of Scotland. Victor’s new dwelling was on the barest of them all, with only two or three cottages there.

“Orkneys are for folks who do not fancy seeing anyone,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, “Or being seen themselves.”

I eyed Victor’s letters hungrily. Who else was writing to him? Had his father written to warn him of my approach? I had not told Judge Frankenstein where I was going, but surely he could guess.

George caught me gazing at the bundle of letters as we shared a simple lunch of cheese and bread. He turned to the prow. “I will be looking this way for quite a while, Madame. I would have no idea if you were to, say, open your cousin’s letters to search for news of home. My brother would not approve, so I cannot say I do, either. But I also cannot say anything about what I do not notice.”

“Thank you,” I said, tears in my eyes from the sun and the wind and the kindness found in such unexpected places.

There were several letters. Two of which, I was surprised to see, were from Henry Clerval’s father.

Victor,

You have not answered my letters. I blame my son’s abandonment of his family and his duties on you. Your father tells me you have gone on to England to convince Henry to return. As it is your fault he was driven away from his responsibilities, the burden of restoring him to us is yours. Do not think any past friendship will compel me to discharge the debts of your father. I will wring blood from the stone of Frankenstein Manor if I must.

Find Henry and send him home, and perhaps I will find some forgiveness.

Fredric Clerval

Victor,

I have seen your most recent letter. You are a liar and a fiend. I have hired a detective to find both you and my son. If my son has been ruined through association with you, I will take everything your family has ever owned and find a way to make you pay for the corruption of my son in the courts, as well. You will find that my wrath can reach you even on the moors of Scotland.

Fredric Clerval

I had never known Henry’s father well, but I cringed to think of what news the detective would bring back. It would not end well for poor Henry. If Monsieur Clerval was this harsh to Victor, I doubted he would show any kindness to his son.

Another letter was from Judge Frankenstein. I opened it with trepidation.