CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Rachel sat at the mahogany desk, laptop open, ledger in hand.
Saturday evening, April, 1817.
I walked Mrs. Shelley out to her cabriolet. She promised to return by mid-morning to ensure I am well looked after during my recuperation.
“How can this possibly be real—this talk of demons, of vampyres?” she asked as we said our goodbyes under the portico.
I recalled something she had said on the shore of Lake Geneva last summer. “We are asleep until we are awake, unaware until aware. There have always been stories, and we assume their creatures live only within the words of a book, a song, a myth. We dare not view our own world through the same lens, lest we discover the types of creatures we actually share it with.”
Mary conceded, and I believe it was right then we accept
