Author's Note: I combined the last two chapters into one. This is it. To my friend and beta, Kim: I hope you like your surprise cameo in this chapter. (No pressure, Josh.) To everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and/or followed me or my story over the years: thank you so much. Thanks for giving it a go, for sticking around, for reaching out. I hope you enjoyed the ride.

Over the years, announcing one's engagement at the Dubois Masquerade had become something of a magnificent coup de'tate; a status symbol one would carry with them for many years to come. And so, at the stroke of midnight, three couples stepped up onto the raised platform at the front of the ballroom, and a hush fell over the crowd.

The first couple clasped hands and removed their masks, and the majordomo announced their names in a loud, booming voice; it was Lord Joshua and his beautiful fiancée, Kimberly; they had been courting for over a year, and were widely known and loved. The ballroom shook with applause at their announcement.

The second couple removed their masks and a ripple of excitement passed through the crowd, carrying whispers and murmurs of delight. Their names were called, echoing across the room. Edison Rothwell dropped to one knee and took his future bride's hand, lifting it reverently to his lips. His fiancée, Daphne, blushed and giggled. And from several feet away, her father, the Duke of Westchester, watched on with an expression that, though not quite happy, per se, was at least somewhat satisfied.

The third couple pulled away their masks with great relish and offered a theatrical bow to the room at large. Their names were called, and the roar of applause that followed was nearly deafening. Then Jasper, the Earl of Montford, swept his lovely, exotic fiancée into his arms and kissed her right there, in front of all of London. And his fiancée, Abigail De Lacey, laughed joyously and kissed him right back.

And just beyond the golden light of the house, a beautiful young woman in a white gown leaned out of her carriage window and placed a soft kiss to her husband's scarred cheek. He sent her a dashing smile in return, and then leapt up to the driver's bench and took the reigns.

From within the carriage, two young voices, one male and one female, began arguing about the proper way to say the word 'thirteen,' while another young male voice indicated, with great displeasure, that Zeus was slobbering all over his brand new boots.

And amidst the chaos, one very little boy began explaining, to no one in particular, that this was, by far, his most favoritest sword in the whole entire world.

Three Years Later

SAMSON

Samson took a deep breath as he gazed up at the house that stood before him. It was smaller than he remembered. Brighter. Flowers bloomed in chaotic explosions of color, windows glinted in the bright sunlight, trees swayed in a warm, gentle breeze. Ancient, snow-capped mountains framed the valley. The air smelled like fresh rain and springtime.

It was a lovely scene. Enchanting. Peaceful.

And, for Samson, it was absolutely terrifying.

He stood on the brick path, staring up at the house that had haunted his dreams for years. How many times had he imagined this moment? How many times had he wondered what he might face on the other side of that simple, blue door? Would it be fear? Rage? Hatred?

Beside him, his wife intertwined her fingers in his.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Lena asked again.

"Yes," he replied. "But I must warn you; he may be… disagreeable."

Lena lifted one pale eyebrow. "So he may," she agreed. "And I will be at your side if he is."

Samson sighed. He did not wish to subject Lena to the kind of censure he had endured in his life.

"Even if I asked you not to be?" he wondered.

"Even if you asked very, very nicely." She leaned into him, calming him with the slight weight of her body against his.

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "I could have sworn you mentioned something about obeying my every command in our wedding vows."

"You must be mistaken, darling," she murmured, sending him a sly smile. "Perhaps you're referring to when I promised to fulfill your every desire?"

Samson chuckled and shook his head. "Temptress," he murmured.

"Yes, dear?" she replied innocently.

Samson lifted her hand and placed a kiss to her knuckles. "I love you."

Lena smiled and leaned into him, caressing his cheek with soft fingertips. "I love you, too."

Together, they approached the house. Samson's heart slammed in his chest. A flurry of sparks danced over the door when he touched it. He felt the electricity tingle through him, then to his wife. Lena jumped slightly, and then she grinned.

An eternity later, the door opened.

A thin, handsome woman stood at the threshold, blinking up at him with curious hazel eyes framed by golden spectacles. There was something about her eyes that reminded Samson of someone…

Recognition lit her gaze. Her face went pale. She fell back a step, clasping her hands to her heart.

"It's you," she whispered.

Then she turned and fled.

Samson waited. Lena's grip on his hand tightened, his only anchor in the face of the coming storm. He stood, resolute, ready to face whatever may come.

The woman reappeared, followed by a slender, gray-haired man who looked to be in his late thirties.

"Are you quite sure, Margaret?" he said as he rounded the corner and approached the door. "After all, there is no way of knowing for certain…" He stopped in his tracks, staring up at Samson.

He had Victor's eyes. Pale, brilliantly blue. Clever. Sharp.

Stunned.

"Oh," he said. "It.. it's you, isn't it?"

"My name is Samson," he said. He was surprised that his voice was even. He was surprised he could find his voice at all. He stepped forward. "I have come here to beg for your forgiveness."

"Oh." The man took a deep breath.

The world hung suspended for a terrifying moment.

And then:

"Would you care for some tea?"

For years, Samson had prepared for this moment. For years he had dreaded this moment. But in all the times he had played this interaction out in his mind, never even once had he imagined that Ernest Frankenstein might offer him tea.

When one is prepared for the worst, sometimes they do not know how to handle the best.

His wife, however, knew exactly how to handle it.

"We would be delighted to join you for tea, Monsieur Frankenstein," she said with a smile.

Both strangers fixed their eyes upon her.

Samson found his voice again. "This is my wife, Helena."

Lena curtsied, and that seemed to snap both of them out of their dazes.

Ernest bowed politely. Margaret smiled. "A pleasure to meet you, Helena. My name is Margaret, and this is my husband, Ernest. Please, do come in."

Samson and Lena followed the Frankensteins down the hallway to a bright, sunny parlor on the north side of the house. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and windows filled the rest. Lena took a seat on a small sofa, but Samson remained standing, too wary to sit.

Two pairs of intensely curious eyes fixed on him, and he waited for the onslaught of questions.

But no questions came.

Instead, Margaret smiled.

"Sixteen years ago," she began, "my brother, Robert, embarked on an expedition to the North Pole…"

And so it was that a young, widowed schoolteacher named Margaret Saville had learned the incredible story of a man named Victor Frankenstein and his creation.

"Unfortunately, Walton died several months after his return to England," Ernest said. "He'd contracted tuberculosis while in Russia, and the cold of the arctic accelerated the progression of the disease."

After his death, Margaret had set out for Switzerland, determined to discover what truth, if any, lay behind her brother's words.

She had shown up on Ernest Frankenstein's doorstep one sunny, Spring day, fourteen years earlier, and had never looked back.

"Ernest didn't believe me at first," Margaret said, some time later, as she reached over to take her husband's hand. "He just humored me because he thought I was pretty."

Ernest chuckled. "I was smitten the moment I first laid eyes on you, my dear."

"I don't understand," Samson said quietly, glancing between them. "Do you not despise me?"

Ernest smiled a sad, thoughtful sort of smile. "I loved my little brother as much as anyone, Samson, but I do not think his death lies on your shoulders alone. After all, you never would have come here if not for Victor. You never would have hurt anyone, if he had not made you. You did not ask to be brought into this world. You did not ask to be abandoned."

"I am so sorry," Samson said, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. "I am so sorry that I hurt him. That I hurt you."

"I forgive you," Ernest said simply.

"After all I have done?" The question was whispered, more a statement of disbelief than anything else. Could it really be that simple?

"What man lives his life without sin?" Ernest said. "You behaved as anyone in your position would have." At Samson's disbelieving frown, Margaret smiled.

"Ernest and I have spoken about this at great length, Samson," she said. "We suspected that Robert's narrative was heavily biased against you, and Renaud's testimony confirmed it."

"You spoke with Renaud De Lacey?" Lena asked quietly.

"Almost ten years ago, now," Margaret said with a nod. "He requested to meet us in person, so we traveled to Ingolstadt. He could not write but through his nurse or his son. And Felix did not like to speak about…well, about you." She sent him an apologetic smile.

Samson nodded. That wound had long since been healed. He kept up a regular correspondence with Felix, now. In fact, it was with Felix and Safie that they would be staying while Lena tended to Abigail during the last weeks of Abby's pregnancy.

"Monsieur De Lacey died shortly after we spoke with him," Ernest said, "but he told us what happened; what you did for his family. He said they would not have survived without you." He stood and walked over to one of the bookshelves, where he picked up a small parcel that was wrapped in old brown paper and tied with twine. And then he handed it to Samson. "He gave this to us, as proof of his story. I believe it belongs to you."

Samson unwrapped the package with trembling hands.

Tarnished gold leaf winked up at him in the light.

Paradise Lost.

He smiled sadly. The old memories still stung, deep within him. He had long since forgiven Felix, but he had never been able to find closure with Renaud. He opened the book. Inside the cover, inscribed in shaky, uneven pen-strokes, were three simple words.

De la cindres.

From the dust.

So long ago. A lifetime ago, in humble little cabin in the middle of Germany, a hideous, nameless wretch and fallen to his knees and clasped the hands of an old blind man in thanks and said to him, in a voice that trembled with joy and hope:

"You raise me from the dust by this kindness."

And now, almost twenty years later, the very oldest and deepest wound in Samson's heart simply… faded.

Into the darkness of the past.

After that, there was not much left to say. The Frankensteins walked Samson and Lena to the door, and they stood together in the glorious sunshine.

Before saying their goodbyes, Margaret tilted her head up at Samson and smiled. "Forgive my curiosity, Samson, but we were under the impression that Victor did not bestow a name upon you."

"That is correct," Samson replied. "I did not have one until recently. Helena's sister teased me about my hair once, and when I suggested that it was the source my strength, she called me Samson."

"It fits you well," Ernest said. "And your surname? Did you choose that for yourself as well?"

"I did," Samson replied. He opened his mouth to continue, but he was interrupted by a frenzy of barking that echoed from the carriage sitting beneath a copse of oak trees several yards away.

All eyes turned to follow Zeus as he galloped across the lawn after a very unhappy squirrel.

"Blast it, Zeus, get back here this instant!" Samuel shouted, leaping down from the carriage to give chase, followed closely by his youngest brother, Mickey.

From beside Samson, Lena chuckled and called for Zeus, who turned and headed straight towards his mistress. When the big mastiff reached her, he promptly flopped onto his back for a belly rub. Sam skidded to a halt soon after, panting, and offered a quick, polite bow to the Frankensteins. "I beg your pardon, sir, madam," he said, his accent perfectly cultured.

"Not at all, my boy," Ernest said with a chuckle. "Quite a beast, isn't he?"

"A right monster, he is," Mickey said, coming up beside Lena to kneel down and rub Zeus's belly as well. He turned and looked up at Lena with an earnest frown. "Mama, Jackie has found a frightfully large toad by the pond, and I do believe he plans to keep it in his trouser pocket as a pet."

Lena laughed, and the sound made Samson's heart skip a beat. He watched her swing Mickey up onto her hip. She turned, and nodded her farewell to the Frankensteins.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," she said, every inch the proper French noblewoman, even with a bright-eyed, shaggy-haired little boy clinging to her neck. She started back towards the carriage, and directed her attention to Mickey. "Let's see if we can find a more suitable place to keep a pet toad, shall we?"

"Yes, Mama. I think that would be wise."

Samson turned back to the Frankensteins and smiled.

"For my surname, I chose Benedict," he said simply. "It means blessed."

The End.