“Then it’s a miracle.”
“I’ve always had faith in you,” she replied as he began to kiss her stomach. “And you have put your heart and soul into it. Every room in the house, you have made an attempt. Over and over, just when I thought your inspiration had run dry, you surprised me.”
“It’s true.” Arlo laughed, and when he put both hands into hers, she luxuriated in the warmth she felt in his fingers as she massaged his lingering aches away. She was the furnace that fueled and healed him. Her body was the giver of all life. She now had an extra reason to be smug about it.
Angelika sewed, night and day, creating exquisite garments for all she loved. Arlo had protested that a baby did not need a cloak and silver-beaded slippers, but his protests were cheerfully ignored. She occupied herself making hampers of baby clothes and food that were delivered to new mothers in the neighboring counties.
She funded a small army of midwives.
She was a benefactress to anyone she believed in.
Before the baby arrived, Arlo occupied himself in the evenings by rereading his beloved copy of Institutiones Rei Herbariae by Tournefort to make sense of the wild varieties of plants that grew across their estate. Blooms and weeds filled the intertwined courtyards and mazes that made up Larkspur Lodge’s jaw-dropping grounds. He had found a strange little thistle in a hedgerow that required some research. He opened the cover and smoothed his fingertips over the inscription, never again allowing a single one of his wife’s declarations to go unnoticed. It was perhaps a little sacrilegious to write in such a rare old book, but she had amended her annotation several times:
To my love: One day I will write your true name here.
Will, then Father Arlo, and then just Arlo, my husband,
and now a father!
With all that I am,
I am always,
your Angelika.
The seasons changed again, and the day came that Angelika Northcott gave her beloved Arlo what he had feared was impossible. She gave birth to the baby in her bathtub and cut the cord with her favorite sewing scissors. She wouldn’t need them for a little while; at least until her new arrival required a wardrobe refresh.
From her new home above the mantel, the portrait of Caroline Frankenstein observed the scene below. Her daughter had made her perfect match, and it was that forever, Frankenstein kind of love. Larkspur Lodge held a similar view.
The baby boy looked absolutely nothing like his father.
They loved him more than any little boy had ever been loved before.
That much was certain.
Acknowledgments
Before I thank some people, I want to acknowledge that this book surely contains historical inaccuracies. I know that men did not usually wear wedding rings in 1814, but I could not resist, for the sake of the story. Sometimes, when writing fiction, you take certain licenses and risks—and for me, this book was the best risk ever.
Next, I must acknowledge, and possibly apologize to, the genius Mary Shelley. There was a plague in my time, and I borrowed your characters for a short while.
Now, my thank-yous! Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings, aka Christina Lauren, I have loved you two since the year 1814, and this book is dedicated to you both. When I write a book, it’s done safe in the knowledge that you will understand the heart of it—even in this instance, when it’s a heart from the morgue. Thank you, Roland, Tina, Katie, and my mum, Sue, for always being in my corner. I can’t do this without my agent, my rock, Taylor Haggerty. Thank you, Root Literary. I gain a great amount of confidence from my editor, Carrie Feron, and the amazing team at Avon. The fact that so many people continued to work and try their best during a pandemic was inspiring and humbling. Publishing a book is a team effort, and I am a part of the best team there is.
Thank you to my readers and Flamethrowers, who have told me they’d read anything that I wrote. I clung to that as I unexpectedly began writing Frankenstein fan fiction. I hope you all meant it. Allowing me to have this incredible job is something I am grateful for, every day.
These last few years have had some wonderful moments, including the movie adaptation of my first book, The Hating Game, being released worldwide. But I have also cried an ocean of tears, and I finally understand Angelika completely.
I lost my horse on November 7, 2021. Louie, my special boy, to save you I would have bled myself dry. I have done some really astonishing things trying to turn back time. I hope you’re a star above my house.