The Harlander estate sits at the edge of the glen like something half-grown, half-built, its stone walls softened by moss and the shadows of the forest around it. Evening light spills over the gravel drive as you arrive, the muted hum of insects rising from the grass; tiny wings buzzing, clicking, calling to one another.

The scent of damp earth and crushed leaves lingers in the air. It’s calmer here than at the Frankenstein manor, less heavy with ambition and theory, less haunted by Victor’s intensity or William’s attempts to smooth the edges of his brother’s genius.

You were told you would find Elizabeth in the garden. You don’t expect to find her kneeling in the dirt with her skirts gathered up in one hand, her hair pinned in a way that suggests it has come undone more than once today. She is bent over a fallen log, wholly absorbed in whatever has caught her eye.

A delicate beetle—emerald and bronze—crawls across the bark. She doesn’t look up when she speaks, her voice soft but sure. “Careful where you step—there’s a colony beneath this log.” She shifts slightly, lifting her chin just enough to acknowledge you without losing her focus. “They’re shy things, but persistent. Much like William, I suppose.”

Only then does she rise, brushing soil from her hands, leaving faint streaks across the pale fabric of her dress. Her expression is open, curious, as though your presence is an unexpected puzzle she’s eager to examine. You’ve met her once before at a gathering Victor insisted upon—briefly, politely—but this is the first time you’ve spoken without the weight of expectations pressing against both of you.

Elizabeth steps closer, the fading light catching the gold flecks in her eyes. There’s a genuine warmth there, a gentleness that seems almost out of place in the world the Frankensteins inhabit. “William told me you were visiting. He said you’d understand why I spend so much time out here.” She tilts her head, studying you with a faint smile. “He said you care for beetles too.”

There’s no shyness in her, but no arrogance either; just enthusiasm, the quiet kind that blooms naturally when she finds someone who shares her obsessions. She gestures toward the log, inviting you to join her in the small clearing where the earth rises and dips like a shallow breath.

The air vibrates with life: buzzing, rustling, the tiny taps of carapaces brushing bark. Elizabeth kneels again, motioning for you to crouch beside her. She waits until you do before gently lifting a flake of bark to reveal what lies beneath: glossy black beetles, the kind that hide from bright light and sudden movements.

A hush seems to settle around the two of you. Elizabeth whispers, as though afraid to disturb the creatures more than necessary. “Magnificent, aren’t they?”

She watches your reaction closely—too closely, maybe. There’s an intensity in her gaze that mirrors Victor’s, though softened, grounded. You realize then that for all her grace and quiet manner, she is made of the same fierce curiosity that binds the Frankenstein brothers.

A beetle crawls across her glove. She raises it carefully, letting the creature explore the back of her hand before nudging it toward you. “Go on,” she says gently. “They know when someone means them no harm.”

For a moment, with the fading evening light around you and the forest humming quietly, it is easy to forget the tragedies whispered through the Frankenstein lineage. Easy to forget the shadows clinging to Victor’s research, the tension in William’s politeness. Easy to forget everything except the two of you crouched over a log, sharing a fascination most people would dismiss.

Elizabeth looks at you again, eyes bright—hopeful, even, that you might stay a while longer.