by Shelly Jones
1.
Mary Shelley sleepwalks. The rest of the party dares not wake her, unsure what demons they might unleash. Byron clears a pathway to his bedroom, but the sleeping woman veers away, her bare legs stumbling toward the garden.
A small family cemetery takes up a corner of the yard, and Mary’s slim feet trod upon the plots. Still, no one awakens her. Byron giggles, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his robe. Percy is embarrassed and annoyed, apologizing for his wife (is she his wife yet?), for Mary. Byron shrugs, grows tired of the mewling man, considers returning to the house. Dr. Polidori comes outside with smelling salts and wafts them beneath Mary’s nose. She collapses on a grave, her cheek hitting the rough hewn stone, the hem of her sleeping gown soiled. The doctor lifts the bruised woman, and the party returns inside, grateful for once it isn’t raining.
2.
Mary retreats from Percy’s room. She slinks down the hall towards her own. She wonders how Miss Clairmont is able to animate his lifeless flesh during their rendezvous. What draughts and tinctures, what alchemy stirs him to life in her bed? Mary considers turning back, suggesting she and Percy tryst in the family graveyard, an effort to rekindle their first passions in the churchyard behind her mother’s grey stone, but at the smell of meadowsweet and hawthorn drifting down the corridor, she thinks better of it.
In her room, Mary sorts through correspondence, searching for a letter worn smooth at the edges from oily fingers. She reads the words once more even though she could recite them, then folds it carefully, placing it back in a drawer. Falling asleep, she wonders if Percy was earnest when he suggested she take to their friend Hogg’s bed, or if this were merely another test of her loyalty, like the times Percy left her, supposedly to escape creditors. Mary sleeps fitfully, her skin puckered, pimpled in the drafty room.
3.
“A ghost story contest,” Byron suggests. He stands near the fire as rain streaks down the windows. Miss Clairmont rolls her eyes and slumps further into her chaise lounge. Mary lifts her head from her book and peers at Byron, his words echoing.
“Something piqued your interest, Mary?” Dr. Polidori lifts the girl’s wrist and feels for her pulse. Mary complies, her eyes still fixated on Byron, his cleft chin jutting toward her as if daring her. “Mustn’t overdo it.”
Percy excuses himself. He mutters something about a headache. Byron downs his drink and throws another log on the fire while Miss Clairmont stands and inquires about tea.
“A contest. That is what this rainy summer calls for,” Byron concludes. “I shall get to writing this very moment.” He withdraws from the parlor behind Percy.
Mary fetches paper and quill and settles at the table. She sits, pen poised, her mind racing, willing the words to materialize, as Dr. Polidori takes a long drag of opium. A distant part of the house creaks, and Mary notes the storm has picked up. All the more reason to write, she thinks.
4.
Last winter Miss Mary had stood over her baby, her breasts falling out of her night shirt as if enticing the babe to suck. But the baby wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t move. And then the miss covered herself and wrapped the baby in a blanket before withdrawing. She wrote to him then, Master Shelley, wrote to him that the baby had died, but this letter she threw into the fire. Instead she wrote to Master Hogg, begging him to visit, and it’s this letter she gave me to post before birdsong, with the babe still dead in its crib.
For months she would cry out, thinking she’d seen the babe again in the fireplace ashes, in the chest of linens, even her own bed.
But now we’re here this dreadful summer, and I see the eyes the Master gives Miss Clairmont, all perfumed and fresh, when I bring in the teas, and Miss Mary does nothing but scribble and pace all day and all night, her eyes drab, her flesh wasting. And Master Hogg is kindly, but the miss is only devoted to Master Shelley and her words. I fear she’ll find no comfort here.
5.
Mary sleepwalks again, but this time the party does not see. They are cloistered in their rooms, too sleepy or busy to notice the half-dressed girl shuffling up the stairs to the attic room where Byron does everything but sleep.
She climbs the narrow steps and awakens to the moans coming from above her. From the stairwell she can peer into the room, across the uneven floorboards to the bed, its plain white sheets crumpled to the ground. There she sees Byron kneeling over her husband (are they married yet?), over Percy. Byron unbuttons Percy’s shirt, revealing a bare, hairless chest like a boy’s, flesh Mary has seen, but has long forgotten. Then Byron slips his finger into Percy’s chest, cracking his ribs, and issues forth his heart, slick with black blood. Mary has never seen Percy’s heart. She wonders if Miss Clairmont has, wonders if it too smells of meadowsweet. Byron wraps the heart in a handkerchief and places it in a decorative box along with other glittering jewels. Percy smiles, ignoring the hole gaping in his chest, and pulls Byron down on top of him.
6.
Mary spends the evening in the cemetery writing. Dr. Polidori checks on her twice, offering to bleed her, to disperse the ill vapors that behold her. But Mary’s quill never falters, and she writes until the sun’s rays stretch across the lake.
As the others breakfast, Mary sneaks back up to the attic, the stench of sweat and fluids clinging to the curtains. She rummages through the sheets, beneath the bed, but can find no box. She walks back to her room, cold and empty, and wonders where Byron’s heart rests.
Mary Shelley sleepwalks. The rest of the party dares not wake her, unsure what demons they might unleash. Byron clears a pathway to his bedroom, but the sleeping woman veers away, her bare legs stumbling toward the garden.
A small family cemetery takes up a corner of the yard, and Mary’s slim feet trod upon the plots. Still, no one awakens her. Byron giggles, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his robe. Percy is embarrassed and annoyed, apologizing for his wife (is she his wife yet?), for Mary. Byron shrugs, grows tired of the mewling man, considers returning to the house. Dr. Polidori comes outside with smelling salts and wafts them beneath Mary’s nose. She collapses on a grave, her cheek hitting the rough hewn stone, the hem of her sleeping gown soiled. The doctor lifts the bruised woman, and the party returns inside, grateful for once it isn’t raining.
2.
Mary retreats from Percy’s room. She slinks down the hall towards her own. She wonders how Miss Clairmont is able to animate his lifeless flesh during their rendezvous. What draughts and tinctures, what alchemy stirs him to life in her bed? Mary considers turning back, suggesting she and Percy tryst in the family graveyard, an effort to rekindle their first passions in the churchyard behind her mother’s grey stone, but at the smell of meadowsweet and hawthorn drifting down the corridor, she thinks better of it.
In her room, Mary sorts through correspondence, searching for a letter worn smooth at the edges from oily fingers. She reads the words once more even though she could recite them, then folds it carefully, placing it back in a drawer. Falling asleep, she wonders if Percy was earnest when he suggested she take to their friend Hogg’s bed, or if this were merely another test of her loyalty, like the times Percy left her, supposedly to escape creditors. Mary sleeps fitfully, her skin puckered, pimpled in the drafty room.
3.
“A ghost story contest,” Byron suggests. He stands near the fire as rain streaks down the windows. Miss Clairmont rolls her eyes and slumps further into her chaise lounge. Mary lifts her head from her book and peers at Byron, his words echoing.
“Something piqued your interest, Mary?” Dr. Polidori lifts the girl’s wrist and feels for her pulse. Mary complies, her eyes still fixated on Byron, his cleft chin jutting toward her as if daring her. “Mustn’t overdo it.”
Percy excuses himself. He mutters something about a headache. Byron downs his drink and throws another log on the fire while Miss Clairmont stands and inquires about tea.
“A contest. That is what this rainy summer calls for,” Byron concludes. “I shall get to writing this very moment.” He withdraws from the parlor behind Percy.
Mary fetches paper and quill and settles at the table. She sits, pen poised, her mind racing, willing the words to materialize, as Dr. Polidori takes a long drag of opium. A distant part of the house creaks, and Mary notes the storm has picked up. All the more reason to write, she thinks.
4.
Last winter Miss Mary had stood over her baby, her breasts falling out of her night shirt as if enticing the babe to suck. But the baby wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t move. And then the miss covered herself and wrapped the baby in a blanket before withdrawing. She wrote to him then, Master Shelley, wrote to him that the baby had died, but this letter she threw into the fire. Instead she wrote to Master Hogg, begging him to visit, and it’s this letter she gave me to post before birdsong, with the babe still dead in its crib.
For months she would cry out, thinking she’d seen the babe again in the fireplace ashes, in the chest of linens, even her own bed.
But now we’re here this dreadful summer, and I see the eyes the Master gives Miss Clairmont, all perfumed and fresh, when I bring in the teas, and Miss Mary does nothing but scribble and pace all day and all night, her eyes drab, her flesh wasting. And Master Hogg is kindly, but the miss is only devoted to Master Shelley and her words. I fear she’ll find no comfort here.
5.
Mary sleepwalks again, but this time the party does not see. They are cloistered in their rooms, too sleepy or busy to notice the half-dressed girl shuffling up the stairs to the attic room where Byron does everything but sleep.
She climbs the narrow steps and awakens to the moans coming from above her. From the stairwell she can peer into the room, across the uneven floorboards to the bed, its plain white sheets crumpled to the ground. There she sees Byron kneeling over her husband (are they married yet?), over Percy. Byron unbuttons Percy’s shirt, revealing a bare, hairless chest like a boy’s, flesh Mary has seen, but has long forgotten. Then Byron slips his finger into Percy’s chest, cracking his ribs, and issues forth his heart, slick with black blood. Mary has never seen Percy’s heart. She wonders if Miss Clairmont has, wonders if it too smells of meadowsweet. Byron wraps the heart in a handkerchief and places it in a decorative box along with other glittering jewels. Percy smiles, ignoring the hole gaping in his chest, and pulls Byron down on top of him.
6.
Mary spends the evening in the cemetery writing. Dr. Polidori checks on her twice, offering to bleed her, to disperse the ill vapors that behold her. But Mary’s quill never falters, and she writes until the sun’s rays stretch across the lake.
As the others breakfast, Mary sneaks back up to the attic, the stench of sweat and fluids clinging to the curtains. She rummages through the sheets, beneath the bed, but can find no box. She walks back to her room, cold and empty, and wonders where Byron’s heart rests.
Shelly Jones (they/them) is a professor at a small college in upstate New York, where they teach classes in mythology, folklore, and writing. Their speculative work has been published in Podcastle, New Myths, The Future Fire, and elsewhere www.shellyjonesphd.wordpress.com | Twitter @shellyjansen
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