by Mackenzi Lee
“So none of it is based on true events?” the reporter asked. “There is no Dr. Frankenstein, and no resurrected man?”
“No,” Mary said, and this time she looked at me. Met my eyes, and touched her fingers to her heart. “It’s only a story.”
There were a few more questions after that; then the reporter stood up and shook hands with all of us. “I don’t think I caught your name,” he said when he reached me.
“He’s a friend of the family,” Shelley interjected.
“Well, good to meet you, friend of the family.” I could see him reaching for his pad again. “Would you care to comment on anything?”
“No,” I said flatly. “No, I would not.”
Shelley watched the reporter leave through a gap in the drapes. Then he twitched them shut and rounded on Mary and me. “How dare you go behind my back,” he snapped at Mary.
She smoothed the front of her dress and said calmly, “It’s not your choice, Percy. It’s my book, and I want people to know that.”
“This had nothing to do with credit, it’s because of him. And you—” He swiveled his gaze to me. “You have no right to be in my house. You’ve done your damage, now get out.”
“Don’t be cruel,” Mary said.
“I want him out,” Shelley snapped, and he stalked from the room, coattails swinging.
Mary looked like she might cry, so I said quickly, “It’s all right. I need to go. We’ve got a journey.”
Mary helped me into my coat and followed me out onto the front step. Clémence was waiting at the end of the drive, sitting with her back against one of the gateposts. When she saw us, she stood up, but didn’t come closer.
“Is Oliver all right?” Mary asked me.
It was such a stupid question after everything she’d done that I was tempted to say something just as thoughtless back, but I swallowed that and said instead, “I hope so.”
“Will you see him again?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” A gust of wind caught me under my coat, and I shivered. I looked down the drive at Clémence, who raised her hand. I nodded, then looked back at Mary. “I should go.”
She glanced at the house, then back at me, and tugged at her necklace. “I have to tell you something. I probably shouldn’t . . . but this may be my last chance, and I need you to know that when we first met, you weren’t wrong in thinking I was a bit in love with you. I was. And I think . . . I think I still am. Being with you again reminded me of that. And I think we could make each other happy. You could stay here in the city. We could see each other. See what happens. And I just think it would be good . . . for both of us . . .” She paused, and took a deep, shaky breath. “I want you to stay with me.”
I had waited two years to hear her say that, but my heart didn’t swell like I expected it to. It didn’t even stir. It was two years later than it needed to be, and there was too much between us, too many dark, jagged things filling the holes she’d left behind.
So I said, “No, Mary. I can’t.”
“Oh. That’s . . . unexpected.” She looked away, face turned into the wind so that it tugged her hair backward in a thick spiral. “Is it her?” she asked, and I followed her gaze down the drive to where Clémence was still standing straight as a soldier, watching us but out of earshot. “It’s all right if it is,” she added. “I just want to know.”
“It’s not Clémence,” I said, and it wasn’t.
Mary pressed her chin to her chest, and I thought for a moment she was crying, but when she spoke her voice was steady. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” I said. “You’re just . . .” I paused, not sure how I meant to finish. You’re not who I thought you were was the first thing that crossed my mind, but instead I said, “You’re just too late.”
She took my hand and squeezed it. “Take care of yourself, Alasdair.”
“You too,” I said.
She nodded once more, eyes still down, then turned and retreated back inside the house. The door shut behind her, so softly it barely made a sound.
I walked down to where Clémence was waiting. The wind whipped her hair around her face, but she made no move to push it away.
“Everything all right?” she asked.
I almost told her about Mary’s invitation to stay, but changed my mind at the last second. Instead I said, “Yes,” stumbling a bit on the lie, but Clémence didn’t ask.
“We could stay here another night,” she said as we turned off the drive and onto the street, “or leave now, if you feel up to it. Are you going back to Ornex?”
“For now. I think I should be with my parents for a while. There are things I need to explain.”
“And then?”
I put my hands in my pockets and took a deep breath. Freedom was still so unfamiliar that it felt like an empty space around me, gaping and vast, but alive with possibilities. “I still want to go to university. Not Ingolstadt—not anymore—but somewhere I can learn more about medicine and mechanics, and do research, and work with people who don’t think you’d have to be mad to be a Shadow Boy.”
“Well, you’ll certainly have a leg up on all other applicants. I’d bet none of them can put ‘reanimating the dead’ on a list of qualifications.” I snorted, and she ducked her head with a half smile.
“What about you?” I asked.
“What about me?”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and the words came out in the middle of a frosty sigh. “I don’t know if there’s anywhere I can go.”
“Don’t say that. You can go wherever you want to.”
“And do what? I’ve got no skills.”
“You could find something.”
She pushed her nose down into her coat collar so that her voice came out muffled. “There’s nowhere I’d fit. When I joined up with the rebellion, it was mostly because I thought I’d found somewhere people could know what I was made of and still want to speak to me. But I wasn’t like the other clockworks, and I wasn’t like Oliver either. No one would listen to me, or trust me, not like they did him.”
I looked sideways at her. With the sun full on her face, I realized there were freckles across her nose I’d never noticed before. “I don’t understand what that has to do with having nowhere to go.”
“Because everything about me is wrong,” she replied. “I’m not the same as other clockworks, but I’m not wholly human either. I say things I shouldn’t. I cuss. I’m contrary. I don’t act the way young women should. I can’t even love who I’m supposed to.” She wrapped her arms around herself and frowned down at the cobblestones. “I’ve sort of got nothing.”
“You’ve got me.”
Her mouth twitched. “And now I’m losing you too.”
I remembered the feeling in the days after Oliver died, the impossible loneliness of it, and the way I’d watched him wear solitude for two years after. The same sort of sadness was playing about her face, and before I knew what I was doing, I stopped walking and said, “So come with me.”
She stopped too. “What?”
“Come with me. Back to Ornex. You can stay with us until you get things figured out on your own, and after that . . . I don’t know where I’m going to end up, but if you want to come along, you could do that too.” Her mouth twisted, and I added quickly, “It doesn’t have to be forever, but you shouldn’t be alone like that. No one should.”
She stared down at the ground for a moment, then looked up at me. The sunlight caught her eyes, turned them sea-glass blue, and she smiled, the first true, genuine smile she had given me in perhaps the whole time I’d known her. “That’d be good.”
“So you’ll come?”
“Yes,” she said, and her smile went wider. “I’ll come.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I would have dragged you along if I had to.”
She laughed, and it sounded so extraordinary that I laughed too. Ahead of us,
the sun was collapsing into the rooftops, turning the sky wine-colored and rosy. Mary’s house was long out of sight, and though the street around us was full of people, it felt for a moment like there was no one there but the two of us. Just Clémence and me, and without saying anything to each other, we started walking again at the exact same moment.
Side by side, and sure as clockwork.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley is the story of two monstrous young men—the medical student who refuses to believe in mortal limitations, and his creation, whose wild heart proves itself to have tremendous capacity for both love and hate. The creator of this creation myth, Mary Shelley, was herself much like her two lead characters—a bold, ambitious young woman caught up in and trying to make sense of a changing world around her. When I first got the idea of writing a Frankenstein reimagining and began my research, I was amazed to discover that Mary’s life was not that of a proper Regency woman—it was full of dramatic and shocking stories, even by today’s standards. There were secret love affairs and scandals, midnight escapes and haunted castles, heartbreak and grief and misty moors, and through it all, a stalwart young woman struggling to find her footing in her own impossible life. The more I learned about Mary, the more I realized I wanted to write about her as much as I wanted to write my reimagining. The plot of my novel finally came together for me when I realized I could do both.
Mary Godwin Shelley was the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft, author of one of history’s most important feminist texts, A Vindication of the Rights of Women, and William Godwin, a prominent English political thinker of the late 1700s. Wollstonecraft died shortly after giving birth to Mary, and Godwin raised his daughter to be “singularly bold, somewhat imperious, and active of mind1.” He encouraged Mary’s curiosity in an age where women were often silenced, and she grew up educated, liberal, and acquainted with a range of important figures, including American Vice President Aaron Burr and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whose poem “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” is referenced throughout her books.
When she was seventeen, Mary became involved in a forbidden romance with Percy Bysshe Shelley, a notorious and radical poet who already had a wife and several children when he and Mary began to meet in secret at her mother’s grave. When William Godwin found out about their relationship and disapproved, the couple fled from England to the European continent, beginning a period of travel as they tried to evade their families’ displeasure and Percy’s many creditors. By the time they arrived in Switzerland in the summer of 1816, Mary was broke, shunned by her family, and suffering from depression in the wake of her and Percy’s daughter’s death.
The couple took up residence with Lord Byron, the “mad, bad, and dangerous2” celebrity poet in his lakeside villa in Geneva, where he entertained a wild crowd who practiced free love, reveled in substance abuse, and read from a variety of scandalous books that ranged from German ghost stories to scientific texts on the possibility of reanimating dead tissue. They spent most of their summer indoors—due to a volcanic eruption that disrupted weather patterns, 1816 was known as “The Year Without Summer”—and in her 1831 introduction to Frankenstein, Mary called it “a wet, ungenial summer . . . incessant rain often confined us for days to the house.” It was that confinement, combined with their healthy diet of opium and dark literature, that prompted Lord Byron to issue a challenge to his guests: Which of them could write the best horror story?
Mary’s entry in that contest was the resurrection scene from Frankenstein. Upon Percy’s encouragement, she expanded it into a novel, which was published anonymously in 1818 when Mary was only twenty-one. She claimed the inspiration came to her in a dream—“I saw the pale student . . . kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir,” she wrote in her introduction.
But that dream was likely a product of the world in which she was living. Frankenstein can be read as a science creation myth, a product of Mary’s Age of Enlightenment—a period defined by a societal movement away from God and toward scientific scholarship. What happens when we take divinity out of creation, and instead man becomes the vehicle by which life is made? An examination of Frankenstein as an Enlightenment-era creation myth was one of my main access points to the story, and the one I found the most fascinating. Months after my curiosity with the novel began, I heard it misidentified as the first steampunk novel. I knew that was incorrect—Frankenstein could not be steampunk because it was contemporary for its time, and the definition of steampunk involves creating an altered past—but I started to wonder what that steampunk creation myth might look like. What was the mechanized equivalent of Adam and Eve, and where were the lines drawn between God, men, and monsters when those men were made from metal pieces? With the Industrial Revolution in full swing in 1818, I decided to shift the focus of Frankenstein from Enlightenment anxieties to industrial anxieties.
As a writer of historical fantasy, I get the marvelous job of adjusting pieces of history to serve my narrative, and I took some liberties, both with the technological and social landscape of my alternate Europe and with the life of Mary Shelley herself. But the fictional anxieties that plague Alasdair’s world are reflections of real anxieties of the time. Though almost none of the steam-and-cog-powered technology in my Geneva existed in 1818 (and some never existed at all) and no one was worried about clockwork cyborg men, they were worried about and often fearful of the rapidly industrializing world and the societal shifts occurring because of it. The discrimination and prejudice Oliver, Clémence, and the clockwork men and women face is a reflection of the very real and equally nonsensical cultural prejudices that defined European society at the time. Oliver’s failed uprising is fictional, but inspired by the June Rebellion in Paris in 1832 and the age of revolution in which Europe was entrenched.
And then there are facts that I ignored completely, because I am willing to play fast and loose with history in order to tell a better story. Mary Shelley had two children—one living and one dead—when she came to Geneva in 1816, both of which I omitted. She and Percy also left Geneva in September of 1816, but I extended their stay to match the timeline in Frankenstein. The university in Ingolstadt was closed in 1800, but I wanted Alasdair to share the same collegiate aspirations of his literary alter ego, Victor Frankenstein. The sections from Frankenstein have been altered to reflect my steampunk creation myth rather than Mary’s science-based one, and they are meant to read as the novel might have looked had it been written in my alternate hyper-industrialized history.
All stories set in the past are shadows, impressions of the way things were, but still half-imagined. It’s what excites me most about both reading and writing historical fantasy—the collision of truth and invention. This book is my invention, and, above all, a work of fiction. I take responsibility for all the truths within it that I stretched, massaged, and fused clockwork to.
1. Quoted in Sunstein, Emily W., Mary Shelley: Romance and Reality. (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989), 58.
2. Lady Caroline Lamb, quoted in Hoobler, Thomas and Dorothy, The Monsters: Mary Shelley and the Curse of Frankenstein. (New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2006).
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MACKENZI LEE holds a BA in history and an MFA from Simmons College in writing for children and young adults. She lives in Boston, where
she works as a bookseller. This is her first novel. Find her online at www.mackenzilee.com and on Facebook and Twitter (@themackenzilee).
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COPYRIGHT
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THIS MONSTROUS THING. Copyright © 2015 by Mackenzie Van Engelenhoven. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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