Outcasts by Sarah Stegall Page B

“How will Dame Nature respect me, if I let her bully me? You will see; all will be well.”
    â€œI cannot lose you!” she said. Images of his burned, blackened body danced in her imagination. Without him, where would she go? How would she and William live? “Have you thought about what it will mean if something goes wrong? If there is some accident, how will I live without you? I cannot bear the thought!”
    His fingers tightened around hers, and he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “My love, I go out on the lake every day. That is far more dangerous. More men drown than die from the lightning-strike. Would you have me cower?”
    Before she could answer, he was turning away. Claire was ahead of him, flinging open the French doors with a laugh. The rain struck him in the face as he stepped through, and Shelley laughed.
    â€œThis is madness,” said Polidori angrily. “I will have no part of it, my lord. It is detrimental to your health.”
    â€œThen if I am struck by the fire of heaven, I shall not owe you this month’s salary,” Byron said testily.
    â€œAlbé …” Mary said. “Can you not stop him?”
    He caught her look, held it, and shook his head. “Too late, my dear,” he murmured. Byron stayed long enough to catch up the Leyden jar into his arms, then he limped out after Shelley.
    Thunder cannonaded through the mountains on the other side of the lake, their peaks outlined by the flicker of lightning. As the party descended the terrace and crossed onto the sodden lawn, the wind whirled through the vineyard, causing the leaves to dance in a satanic frenzy. Ahead of Mary, Shelley’s tall form strode along, with Byron hobbling behind as fast as he could. Ahead of them both, Claire laughed and twirled down the aisles between the vines, her dark hair haloing around her head. Lightning strobed, illuminating her as if she were in a theatrical show—the light now starkly blue-white, so bright that Mary squinted, now black as a windowless dungeon.
    And always, the singing of the wind. Mary clutched her arms around herself. Here, near the shore, it was beating the waves to a froth, but overhead she heard the deep groan of high altitude tempests shaped by the peaks of Mont Blanc and Jura. Rain beaten to mist by the blast gusted in her face and then was flung elsewhere, so that she was alternately ignored and taunted by the rain.
    Ahead of her, the trio halted near the little beach. She could see them only by intermittent flashes; torches or lanterns were out of the question in this cyclone. As she approached, placing her feet carefully on the slippery grass, she saw them as a series of images caught in succession: Shelley taking the Leyden jar from Byron, the two of them placing it on the sand, Shelley uncoiling the silk, and Claire dancing about with the kite in her arms, laughing in near-hysteria.
    â€œâ€¦ need a key, such as Franklin used?” Byron was asking. Coming close, Mary could see water running off his bare back and shoulders.
    â€œNo,” Shelley said. He was tying her embroidery silk to the wire leading from the Leyden jar, his movements quick and expert. He tossed his limp, wet hair impatiently over his shoulder. “I have a refinement on that technique. We must set a wire from the jar’s outside metal band into the ground. This will draw off the more dangerous electrical vapors. What we must avoid at all costs is contact with the silk, once the kite is in the air.”
    â€œOh, no, Shelley!” cried Claire. “I want to hold it! I want to feel the wind tugging at it, begging it to fly from my fingers!”
    â€œMore likely it will strike you dead,” Shelley said prosaically. “Once the kite is launched and the silken cord is wet, it will suck the electrical fluid from the sky. If you are touching the silk at that moment, you will be killed.”
    â€œOh, Shelley, this is too