Angelmonster by Veronica Bennett Page B

much frightened by the alchemist’s ambition as interested. I did not tell Shelley and George about the lonely, feverish dawn I had spent before my daughter’s birth, when the scientific and moral implications of tampering with death had played so forcibly on my mind. But I joined their discussions of the subject very readily. If base metal could be turned to gold – and who was to say the secret of alchemy would never be discovered – why could mankind not dream of restoring a lifeless corpse to animation?
    Switzerland’s summer displayed dramatic elements that year. There were many sunny, calm days, but we also saw rain, strong winds, racing skies and shafts of sunlight piercing the grey clouds, glancing off the waters of the lake like daggers. There were beautiful rainbows. Then more rain, more thunder, more electricity in the sky. My letters to Fanny described ferocious storms that whipped the waters of Lake Geneva into fury, blackening the sky and patterning it with lightning bolts.
    One June evening Shelley, Claire and I left William with Elise and set out on our customary after-dinner walk along the shore to the Villa Diodati. It had been a hot, airless day. Claire and I wore no shawls.
    “We shall have a mighty storm tonight,” predicted Shelley.
    “Good!” Claire was always enthusiastic about storms.
    “You only hope for a storm because it will provide you with an excuse to stay the night with George,” I remarked.
    “My dear sister, you are mistaken,” said Claire coldly, though we both knew I was not.
    “I wonder how Mr Polidori’s ankle fares,” I said.
    Three days ago George had encouraged his friend to make the reckless leap from the balcony of the Villa Diodati in order to help me, the object of his unspoken desire, up the steep path to the door.
    “I wish it better,” said Shelley. “Temporary insanity must have caused him to sprain his ankle in such circumstances.”
    “I have heard
love
called temporary insanity,” said Claire, with a meaningful look at me.
    George and Polidori, who had evidently enjoyed a hearty dinner and a great deal of wine, were sitting in the drawing-room, smoking and attempting to play cards when we arrived. George rose to greet us, but Polidori remained sitting by the empty grate, his heavily bandaged foot propped up on a footstool.
    “My friend’s injury still prevents him from walking, as you see,” explained George. “We are prisoners in our castle.” He grasped our hands as warmly as if he had not seen us for years. “I cannot tell you how welcome you all are!”
    He patted Polidori on the shoulder. “Come on, man!” he encouraged. “Tell the ladies how your foot is going on. Ladies like nothing better than to hear of ailments.”
    Shelley commandeered the cards and dealt anew. Claire and I sat down. The room was shady and very still. A bashful Polidori told, haltingly, of how he could still put no weight on the sprain, and of George’s insistence that they call for a physician the next day.
    I hardly listened. The air oppressed me; the perspiration on my skin would not evaporate; my hair stuck to my scalp. I wished I was safe at home with William and Elise. I did not want to walk back through the rain, but nor did I want to spend the night in this palatial but cheerless house. I wished we had not come.
    “How dark it gets!” observed Polidori, glad to steer the subject away from his embarrassing ankle. His large, rather feminine eyes alighted on me. “But do not fear, ladies, the gentlemen will not allow any harm to come to you.”
    “Pray, Mr Polidori, what good are men against such whims of nature?” asked Claire briskly. “If the storm wishes to blow the house down it will do so without intervention from anybody.”
    “Who else is playing cards?” asked Shelley. “Claire?”
    “I do not think so.” She went to the long windows, which overlooked the lake. “I feel out of sorts tonight.”
    I did not sit down at the card table either. I