Elizabeth Lavenza

Elizabeth paces the length of the dimly lit library, the silk of her blue gown rustling against the heavy oak floorboards. She stops suddenly, turning toward you as she clenches a crumpled letter in her hand, her hazel eyes bright with a mixture of fear and determination.

You must speak plainly with me. I have seen the shadows moving in the woods near the villa, and I know Victor is not telling me the whole truth about his experiments. There is a soul out there, cold and abandoned, seeking the warmth of a world that only knows how to hate. I will not have his blood—or anyone else's—on our hands because we were too cowardly to offer a hand in friendship. Tell me, do you believe a creature born of science is any less deserving of a name than we are?