‘We mustn’t answer it!’ Miss Clairmont cried. ‘Whoever’s out there, don’t let them inside!’
Felix looked to Lord Byron, to the Shelleys, hoping someone would tell him what to do. In the story Christabel took a stranger into her home. What became of her in the end? He never got to hear, though he could guess; the group looked terrified.
Thud thud thud.
‘I cannot endure that pounding!’ Lord Byron said, pressing his fingers to his temples. ‘Felix, see who it is.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ He nodded, determined not to appear scared. This was a chance to prove himself worthy. To show he could keep his head in a crisis and serve his master well. Straightening his shoulders, Felix left the room – this time taking a candle with him.
The knocking went on. Yet bizarrely, the closer he got to the door, the fainter it sounded. Just as he reached for the handle, it stopped completely. Felix hesitated, holding his breath.
Outside, the wind had picked up. There was another flash of lightning. Another thunderclap. Then all fell eerily silent. Felix waited. The knocking didn’t resume. A few moments more and he decided whoever had been out there had seen sense and returned home. He breathed again. There was really no need to open the door.
Then came a single thud.
Felix jumped. The sound was against the lower part of the door. Someone – or something – was still out there. Bracing himself, he gripped the handle. It wouldn’t turn. It felt like the stupid thing had been greased. Wiping his damp palm on his breeches, he tried again.
A screaming wind blew the door inward so hard it slammed against the wall. The candle died. Everything outside was dark and dripping. There was definitely no one there.
Then he looked down.
In the hallway behind him, someone must have opened a door because a shaft of light spilled onto the doorstep. At his feet was a person. A body. He gasped out loud.
‘Oh! Oh my …’
Felix’s mind leapt backwards. He was on board ship again, sailing from America to Europe with Mother. Those first few days she’d spent mostly on deck. ‘This is how freedom smells,’ she’d said.
But on the open water the ship was hit by great, grey waves that rose from the sea like monsters. The captain ordered everyone to keep below deck. They stayed crammed into the ship’s hold for days on end, too many people in bunks awash with vomit and urine. The fever spread fast. Six passengers died in just one night; seven, counting Mother. Their bodies were wrapped in sheets and dropped overboard. He arrived in Europe alone.
Felix blinked.
He knew a corpse when he saw one, and this girl couldn’t be long dead: only moments ago she’d been knocking at the door. And the body was a girl’s, he saw, though she wasn’t wearing a bonnet and her frock had seen better days. She lay on her side, knees drawn up. Felix dropped beside her, his hand hovering at her shoulder.
Should I move her? he wondered. Should I call Lord Byron?
He wanted to handle things properly, like the best servant of a fine gentleman. And not make a fuss, because there’d already been plenty of that tonight.
Behind in the hallway, someone was approaching. He scrambled to his feet.
‘What is it, Felix?’ It was Mrs Shelley. ‘Is everything all right?’
Stepping aside, he gestured to the girl’s body. They both stared in shocked silence.
‘Let’s bring her inside. We might be able to do something for her,’ Mrs Shelley said, eventually.
‘But she’s dead.’
Mrs Shelley shot him a withering look.
‘Very good,’ he muttered.
As Mrs Shelley put her hands under the girl’s arms, Felix took hold of the feet. Together, on the count of three, they lugged her down the hall, a line of filthy water trailing after them.
Inside the parlour, Mr Shelley, Lord Byron and Miss Clairmont waited in a nervous huddle.
‘Is she dead?’ Miss Clairmont cried, as they carried the girl in.
‘Yes,’ Felix said.
‘We don’t yet know,’ said Mrs Shelley, speaking over him.
They laid the girl down on the hearthrug. Gentle though they were, the movement made her head loll to the side, revealing a strange mark on her neck. It resembled a birthmark or a visible knot of veins.
‘Poor mite,’ Mr Shelley remarked, seeing it too. ‘What an awful-looking scar.’
It was certainly unlike any scar Felix had ever seen. This one was not the work of a whip or a branding iron – and back in America he’d had experience of both. The thought made him tug at his jacket sleeve to make sure the S-shaped mark on his arm was covered. Then, unsteadily, he got to his feet.
So much for ghost stories.
There’d been no need for tales to freeze the blood. Not when real life had brought death to the front doorstep. As if, thought Felix wearily, he needed reminding that the dearest people, the simplest things could be snatched away in a moment, and only darkness left in their place.
‘Our resident doctor should examine her,’ Lord Byron said. ‘Fetch him from the kitchens, Felix. He must’ve finished with that servant girl by now.’
Felix straightened his shoulders.
‘Very good,’ he said.
*
On his return to the parlour where a corpse now lay, Dr Polidori barely flinched. He was used to death, Felix supposed, though he didn’t know how anyone could reach a point where the sight of a person dead didn’t make them feel sad or sick or … something, at least.
‘Don’t stand there frowning, boy. Out of my way!’ Dr Polidori said. ‘Now, the rest of you, kindly step back.’
The doctor knelt beside the girl. Taking her skinny wrist between his forefingers, he watched the mantel clock. Everyone else watched him. Felix had never known a minute pass so slowly.
Eventually, Dr Polidori moved aside, rather awkwardly because of his bandaged foot. ‘I cannot feel a pulse,’ he said.
‘What about her scar?’ Mr Shelley asked, gesturing to the girl’s neck. ‘It looks almost familiar, though I don’t know how.’
The mark was now clear to see. It looked dark red and spidery in the firelight. Dr Polidori leant forward to examine it.
‘A disfigurement from birth, most probably,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine it’s the cause of death.’ Which, to Felix’s mind, meant he didn’t know.
‘Oh, right. I see,’ Mr Shelley said, moving back.
With a sudden movement, Mrs Shelley twisted free of her husband’s arms, falling to her knees on the hearthrug. The girl looked more lifeless than ever. Yet tucking up her skirts, Mrs Shelley sat directly behind her, wrapping her arms around the girl’s waist and heaving her into a sitting position.
‘Mary, the girl is dead,’ Mr Shelley said, taking hold of his wife’s shoulders.
Mrs Shelley shrugged him off.
‘I won’t stand back and let her die, not when there’s a chance I can help her, Percy. Don’t you recall what we witnessed in Somerset?’
Mr Shelley flinched as if she’d slapped him. Miss Clairmont, who’d been surprisingly quiet until now, gave a low, dreadful moan.
‘My nerves cannot bear it,’ Lord Byron said, clutching his forehead. It was unclear to whom or what he referred, but the playful glint in his eye had now most definitely gone.
The whole mood of the room had changed. It was like someone had opened a window and let in the cold; Felix felt the chill of it seeping into his bones. He should do something, he decided. Bring more wine. More firewood and candles.
‘You’ll know Percy and I lost our baby girl last year,’ she said, looking at each of them in turn. ‘As I grieved, I dreamed I brought her back to life by rubbing her before a fire.’
‘No, Mary.’ Mr Shelley tried to take her arm. She turned away.
‘At least let me try,’ she said. Her eyes, reflecting the firelight, were full of little, dancing flames. She looked capable of almost anything.
‘It won’t work, Mary,’ Mr Shelley said. ‘You’re not a scientist. And even if you were …’ he trailed off dismally.
Just last night they’d spoken of science as a glorious, brilliant thing. Experiments had been done on executed murderers who somehow – in some way – had been revived, or at least made to twitch. More research was needed, of course, but wasn’t it exciting? Who knew where all this might lead?
And yet a wave of panic came over Felix, like he was speeding downhill in a runaway carriage.
You couldn’t really bring a person back to life. Could you?
No, he thought, of course you couldn’t.
Mrs Shelley had started rubbing the dead girl’s back. Felix shuddered. There was no pleasure in watching, no terrible thrill, but he looked on with a gruesome fascination. In another part of the room, Miss Clairmont was crying again. She demanded to be taken back to their villa. Lord Byron and Mr Shelley argued over who would accompany her: it seemed both wanted an excuse to leave.
Between the dead girl’s shoulder blades, Mrs Shelley’s hand kept moving. Felix wanted someone to tell her to stop. Though he didn’t think anyone could or would. And it made him afraid.
He was aware of the parlour door swishing open. Swishing shut. Lord Byron’s voice grew fainter; the others, Felix realised, had gone. His gaze didn’t shift from Mrs Shelley’s hand. Round and round it went. On and on and on.
There was sweat on Mrs Shelley’s forehead. Her rubbing wasn’t gentle – the tendons in her wrist stood out like cords. That poor girl might have been dough beneath her fist.
And yet, despite himself, he began to feel the smallest tingle of hope.
What if it worked? What if it was actually possible to bring a dead person back to life? Felix stared hard at that hand. As if staring alone would do the trick.
Breathe, he urged the dead girl, breathe!