CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Rachel placed the unaddressed letter back into the depths of the trunk. Her fingernails scraped across the indented details of the small rosewood box beneath, and for a moment she was intrigued at the design, which looked like the scales of a dragon.
She slipped her nail under the clasp that secured the lid but then stopped, uncertain, and let the box drop onto the layers of envelopes.
There was no doubt that the contents of the trunk belonged to Mary Shelley—that the correspondence, the fragile nibs in their case, the beautiful shawl with its empire design, all belonged to Mary. Rachel leaned over until her face hung within the plush, red silk confines of the trunk.
She could smell the faint sweetness of lavender.
For almost two hundred years the contents of this
