Fire on the Water

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

The back shelves in the Librairie Rue de la Rouvenettaz had become a favorite afternoon haunt. Mary touched her gloveless hands to manuscripts written on fine vellum and caressed the dust away from words that had not been read in decades. She pursed her lips and blew on the book she held, watching as the fine motes lifted into the air to sparkle in the light from the lanterns above, then settle on the disintegrating digests and novels on the highest ledge. The bookseller had begged her to not venture into this part of the store, lest her beautiful afternoon dress become soiled. She humbly assured him, however, that the treasures she sought would not be in the front window with the picture books. She pulled her gown tight about her, compressing her empire silhouette further that she might squeeze between the walls filled with ancient tomes. Her neat little pile of volumes was growing higher: Cornelius Agrippa, Paracelsus, and two by Albertus Magnus. She hoped to find at least one essay by Newton.

Mary was exhilarated by her newly acquired independence in Montreux—something she had never before experienced, something her mother had long championed, something her father would approve of, though he’d still be reticent toward the possible dangers of a young lady left to her own devices, even if only for a few days. She had bade farewell to Percy and George under the grand porte cochère of Villa Eden Au Lac that morning, long before the sun had made its appearance, and definitely before any other guests at the residence had stirred in their bedchambers or commenced their morning toilette.

Several donkeys from the livery, burdened with trunks and supplies for the long and arduous journey through the Alps to Chamonix, had stood amongst the pristine white columns of the villa’s entrance. Their large, dark eyes blinked in the blazing light from the lanterns about them. Her darling Percy had leaned against his animal, ensuring his packs were secured, and promised to write to Mary every day. He’d implored her to do the same and brushed his lips against the back of her hand, held tight in his own, before climbing up onto the frayed remains of a well-worn saddle. He’d patted his buttock and grimaced at the days of pain he was about to endure. Mary laughed at his antics before placing young William into his arms for one last cuddle before the journey.

“Be good for your mummy, Willmouse,” he’d said before returning the babe to the nursemaid and leaning down to brush the back of his fingers against Mary’s cheek. The team had moved off into the first rays of morning light. George, Lord Byron, had turned on his mount to give an overly dramatic wave to Mary as he called out his goodbyes.

“Keep us apprised of how your ghost story evolves, Mrs. Shelley. Your concept has me intrigued and excited.”

The bell above the librairie’s front door rattled, and Mary peered through the shelves toward the dashing man who entered.

“Doctor Frankenstein, bonjour,” the keeper said before making several apologetic noises. “Just one moment, sir, I certainly have the book you requested.”

Mary caught a glimpse of the few wisps of hair on the top of the storekeeper’s balding head as he shuffled his short, tubby body down the aisle. Several feet away, he pushed against a decrepit wooden door. It scraped open in uneasy jerks, hindered by the defiant, hidden literary detritus of the merchant’s private existence. “Won’t be just a minute, Doctor,” he called.

Mary continued observing the gentleman at the counter. She removed one of the tablets from the shelf before her, to afford a better view, and lowered her gaze to one of her books when he stared in her direction. She read a few words, the occult esoteric meanderings of Agrippa, and then turned the page before again peering through overhanging tresses toward the stranger. He was staunch, mature, not old enough to be her father but perhaps a much younger debonair uncle. He wore a blue riding coat and cape spattered with mud and with . . . something much darker. His hair glistened, lush and brown, as were his eyes. Distinguished streaks of gray hair lightened his otherwise ominous appearance. Quite the handsome mystery, thought Mary, unable to contain a gentle chuckle. The doctor turned in her direction and gave a slight bow before placing both hands on the counter and awaiting the storekeeper’s return.

Mary selected several more books for her own library, determined to ignore the doctor and any conversation he may have with the merchant, as she did not want to appear impertinent or rude for, indeed, she was not. By the time she returned to the front of the store, the doctor had already departed. The merchant, flecks of ancient parchment scattered in his wisps of hair from the excursion into the back room, took the pile of books from her arms. He seemed happy by the number. Mary stood patiently as he placed them side by side along his counter, then rearranged their order by some unknown configuration.

“May I ask what book the doctor purchased?” Mary asked, as off-the-cuff as she was able.

“Of course, Madame Shelley,” the storekeeper said. “Milton. Paradise Lost.”

Mary looked out the front door of the librairie at the bustle of horse-drawn cabs and summer tourists on their afternoon constitutionals, and then back toward the merchant who was writing her purchases into his ledger.

“Do you have another copy?”