by Cat Winters
Stephen stretched out his other leg. “He also runs a fan over ice blocks in between sittings to cool the air in there. He tries to make everyone feel like phantoms are hovering around the studio.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I’ve caught him doing it. And he leaves the windows open all night to capture the chill from the sea. He locks the doors to the studio to keep me from getting in, but I’ve crawled through the windows and closed the panes to save the equipment. He’s contemplating installing bars to keep me out.”
A lump of disappointment settled in my stomach, even though I had started off so skeptical about the spirit images. “My poor aunt. She’s convinced Julius will find my mother and grandmother for her.”
“Tell her the truth. I hate seeing people so desperate for proof of the afterlife they’ll sacrifice just about anything to communicate with the dead.” Stephen pursed his lips and rubbed his thumb across The Mysterious Island’s leather cover. “I hear them crying when they receive their finished photographs. It’s heartbreaking. They react to Julius’s photos like rummies chasing bottles.”
I thought I heard a moan in a floorboard down the hall. My eyes darted toward the sunbeam-hazy front entrance to make sure no one was listening.
Aunt Eva and Mrs. Embers tittered over some shared anecdote in the dining room.
Nothing else stirred.
I turned back to Stephen and asked in a lowered voice, “Why is Julius doing this to people? I didn’t think he ever wanted to have anything to do with photography.”
“He didn’t, but an odd, ghostly image appeared in one of Dad’s photographs last Christmas, and Julius showed it around the hangouts of rich tourists. He claimed he was saving Dad’s business by finally bringing some solid money to it. Dad hated having his studio turned into a theatrical exhibit. It could be one of the reasons his heart failed.”
“I’m so sorry.” I wrapped my arm around the slick newel post at the end of the stair rail, so close to Stephen that the citrus and spices of his bay rum aftershave filled my nose. “I know you were close to your dad.”
He turned his head so I could see only the side of his face. His eyelashes fluttered like mad, and I could tell he was fighting off tears. “You always told me …” His voice cracked with emotion. “You always said you feel like a piece of you is permanently missing.”
I bit my lip and nodded. I’d often told him part of me was missing because my mother died the day I was born. “Yes.”
“Now I know what that feels like.” He cleared his throat and regained control of his breathing. “It’s agonizing.”
“It’ll get better over time. You’ll always feel that missing piece, but it will get easier.”
His eyes, now bloodshot, traveled back to mine. He took hold of the baluster closest to my hand. “It’s really good seeing you again, Shell. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.” A lump caught in my throat. “You know, you’re still the only boy who hasn’t ever made fun of my science experiments and machinery obsessions.”
“I’m sure that’s changed, now that you’re looking”—a grin awakened in the corners of his mouth—“older.”
I shook my head and felt my cheeks warm. “It’s only gotten worse. They still call me names, like Monster Brain and Frankenstein, but now they also make obscene jokes about me and some lecherous old professor who lives near the high school. The girls can be terrible, too.”
“I’m sure everyone’s just intimidated by you. They’re probably afraid of sounding stupid when they talk to you.”
“That never stopped you from talking to me.”
“What?” His mouth fell open. “Hey!” He chuckled, a new, deep laugh I didn’t recognize, and nudged my arm.
I giggled and nudged him back, though what I wanted so badly was to wrap my arms around him and hold him close.
“Stephen?” called his mother from the dining room. “Are you back there? Did you find Mary Shelley?”
“Show me some of your new photographs before we have to go sit with the ladies,” I whispered.
“They’re going to wonder what’s taking you so long.”
“I don’t care.”
“All right.” He put The Mysterious Island aside on the stairs and stood to his full height, about five inches taller than me but probably six inches shorter than his giant of a brother. I noticed his sturdy arms and lean stomach beneath his white shirt and found my blood burning fiery hot in my veins. I debated placing my goggles back over my eyes in an attempt to conceal my physical reaction to him.
He led me into a back sitting room wallpapered in peacock green. Chairs and a sofa upholstered in a pinkish hue that reminded me of the inside of a seashell formed a circle around the room’s center. Vases of dried lavender sweetened the air. Framed photographs—nature scenes, family members, still lifes—formed a patchwork quilt of glossy sepia across the walls.
Stephen headed toward the corner behind the largest armchair, lifted one of the photos off its nail, and brought it to me. It was the image of a monarch butterfly drinking nectar from a rose. Even though the photograph was printed in brown and white, the clarity of the insect’s shading made me feel as though I were looking at wings a vivid orange, a flower the softest whisper of yellow.
“This is one of my favorites,” he said.
“It’s gorgeous. How did you manage to catch a butterfly in a photo? They fly away so quickly.”
“My father taught me how to stay extremely still and keep a camera pointed in the right direction. I had to sit in our backyard for an hour before I caught it.”
“You’re the most patient person I’ve ever known, Stephen. I wish some of that quality had rubbed off on me.”
“You’re patient when you work on a project you love.”
“Not the way you are.” I reached out and touched the frame, a couple of inches below his fingers. “What did you write down here at the bottom?” I squinted at two words in the lower right-hand corner. “Mr. Muse?”
“That’s a fake title. Julius makes fun of the names I give my pictures, so I turn the real ones into anagrams to keep him from figuring them out.”
“I wonder … let’s see … Mr. Muse…” I examined the words, letting their letters unscramble and fit back together like puzzle pieces in my brain. “Ruse … rum … sum … Summer?”
“Cripes.” He grinned. “You’ve gotten faster than when you were little.”
“You taught me well.”
“I’m going off to war, Shell.” His words just flew out there, smacking me in the face like a stinging bucket of ice water.
“I know.” I shrank back. “Your mother told me. Why on earth did you enlist when you’re so close to finishing school? I thought you were going to college.”
His eyes shifted toward the window to his right. “I need to get out of this house. Everyone on this island ends up spoiled or corrupt. There’s so much wealth and pampering and selfishness. I’m tired of being part of it.”
“Are you running away?”
“I don’t know.” His fingers inched closer to mine on the frame. “Maybe.”
“Be careful over there, Stephen.”
He turned his attention to the floor.
“I’ve grown up looking at my father’s Spanish-American War scar,” I said. “Remember that pink line running down his left cheek?”
Stephen nodded. “I remember.”
“He says it gives his face character, but it’s always made me terrified of war.”
“I’ll be fine.” He looked directly into my eyes with an expression that made me think he wasn’t necessarily sure he would be all right. He held my gaze, and I almost felt he was about to lean forward and kiss me, even though we had never once kissed when we were younger. We stood close enough that I could smell spearmint on his breath, even over the aftershave.
I slid my fingers up the frame until I touched his hand. “Please stay safe. It’s not everyone who has the patience to pho
tograph a butterfly.”
He gave me a smile that seemed both grateful and sad.
I swallowed, and he continued to search my eyes with his own, as if he were trying to say something he couldn’t articulate with words. The space between us shrank. Our breathing accelerated until it became the only sound in the house. My heart pounded like I was about to leap off a cliff a hundred feet high.
Before I could say anything awkward to break the spell, he pulled my face toward his and kissed me. I lost my balance at first, but then I closed my eyes and held his smooth neck and enjoyed the warmth and hunger of his mouth. His hand moved to the small of my back and brought me closer. Our stomachs touched. Our chests pinned the photograph between us. He wrapped his arms around me and held me tight against him, as though he were kissing life itself good-bye.
A deafening bong rang out in the hallway. Our lips parted, and the grandfather clock chimed eleven times. Neither of us said a word—we simply panted and remained together, entangled, tipsy, our mouths hovering a few teasing inches apart. His hairline above his neck felt both soft and bristly against my fingertips, which intrigued me.
The clock fell silent.
“Stephen?” called his mother.
A palpable sense of urgency passed between us. Stephen took my hand, hurried me across the sitting room, and closed the door, sealing us inside. He kissed me again and knocked us both off balance until I found myself bumping against one of the peacock-green walls.
His mouth left mine and kissed its way down to my neck. “Your goggles are in the way,” he whispered.
I snickered and struggled to yank the lenses over my chin, but they wouldn’t budge. He helped me pull the straps to the top of my head and then dove back to my awaiting throat, where his lips sent delicious chills spilling down to the tips of my toes. I closed my eyes again and sighed in a way I never had before, losing myself in his dizzying scent, the pressure of his hands around my hips, the pulse-quickening intimacy of his mouth against my bare skin.
The door opened.
“Jesus, Stephen. Control yourself.”
Stephen and I both jumped.
The spell shattered.
Julius clutched the brass doorknob with his paw of a hand and smirked at our entwined bodies and flushed faces. His hair was darker and wavier than Stephen’s, his features more rugged. His six-and-a-half-foot form filled the doorway. “Is that what you used to do to her back when you were little kids? Back when I thought you’d grow up to be a fruit?”
“Leave us alone.” Stephen drew me closer. “Give us five more minutes.”
Julius snorted. “You think I’m going to close this door and let you ruin Eva Ottinger’s niece when she’s sitting right out there in the other room? Have you ever met Eva Ottinger?”
“For Christ’s sake, Julius, I haven’t seen Mary Shelley in four years. We might not ever see each other again. Give us five more minutes.”
Julius pondered the request while running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. He cocked his head and parted his lips, and for a moment I thought he was about to give us one small, precious gift of time.
Instead, he pushed the door farther open with the tips of his fingers. “Mary Shelley, the ladies are waiting for you.”
My heart sank.
Julius waved for me to leave. “Let her go, Stephen.”
“You’re an ass, Julius,” said Stephen. “I’ll never forgive you for this.”
“Let her go. Don’t tease the poor girl before you run clear across the world.”
Stephen swallowed loud enough to hear. He cupped my cheek and studied my face as though he were creating a photograph of me in his mind. I followed his lead and memorized every single one of his features—his dark eyes and brows, the soft shade of his lips, the faded freckles on his cheeks from summer days when he forgot to wear his cap—sick with fear that he was right: this would be the last time I’d ever see him.
He gave me one last kiss. A small, tender one fit to be seen by a brother. “Keep Mr. Muse, Shell.”
“Keep it?” I felt the picture frame dangling from my fingers against his back. “No—I couldn’t.”
“It’s just going to disappear off the wall. Julius has destroyed my work before.”
“Why?”
“Who knows?”
I glanced at Julius and saw his jaw tense. “But he’s your brother.”
“Half brother,” Stephen reminded me. “Only half. We had different fathers.”
“But still—”
“His father was a drunk who treated my mother terribly before she left him. And violent, thieving drunks often breed violent, thieving children.”
Julius tugged Stephen away from me, straight out of my arms, and hurled him against the sharp wooden ridge running across the top of the sofa. The impact knocked the sofa askew, and Stephen landed on the floor with an awful thud.
“Why did you say that to her?” asked Julius with genuine hurt in his voice.
“Obviously, I’m not lying,” Stephen said from the ground. “You just proved my point.”
“Mary Shelley, go back out to the ladies.”
I didn’t budge.
Julius’s eyes pierced me. “I said go back.”
“What are you going to do to him?”
“Now!” Julius stormed toward me with enough anger and humiliation in his eyes to send me scrambling out of the room. I ran away, foolish coward that I was. I ran away and left Stephen on the floor, twisted in pain.
The door shut. Something slammed against the wall in there—once, twice. I could hear all those picture frames rattling from the force.
Silence followed.
The door opened, and Julius exited, alone.
• October 19, 1918 •
FOOTSTEPS WOKE ME AT SUNRISE.
I blinked my eyes and tried to reorient myself in the foreign landscape of my new bedroom, but the lingering shadows of night crouched in the corners and crept across the unfamiliar furniture. My traveling trunk and Boy Scout boots huddled together in a disheveled heap next to a pine wardrobe.
It was October, no longer spring. I now lived in Aunt Eva’s house as a refugee in the middle of a pandemic. Stephen was long gone.
My aunt couldn’t afford electricity, so her face and flu mask glowed in the flickering light of a candle next to my bed. “Why are you wearing your goggles?” she asked.
I pulled off the straps and felt indentations from where the rubber had pressed against my skin. “I must have fallen asleep with them on.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, why?” I lifted my head. “Do I look sick?”
“No. I just worried all night you’d wake up with the flu from the train.”
“I feel fine.” I rubbed my dry eyes.
“We need to leave for Julius’s studio in two hours. Get dressed soon so we can eat breakfast. We also need to make sacks of camphor balls to wear around our necks so the stink can fight off germs on the ferry.”
On that repulsive-sounding note, she left the room.
I curled beneath my covers and watched the sun rise behind the lace curtains of my new window. Portland felt impossibly far away. I wondered when my father would go to trial. After the authorities had locked his wrists in handcuffs and punched him in the gut, I grabbed my bags, headed out the back door, and ran to telegraph Aunt Eva from the Portland Union Depot, as Dad had instructed me to do. I spent the night on a bench at the station until the morning train took me away. No one came looking for Mr. Robert Black’s sixteen-year-old daughter. There were too many other concerns in the world for anyone to bother with an accused traitor’s grown child.
I shut my eyes and pushed back the memory, finding breathing painful.
My thoughts turned to Aunt Eva’s troubles and poor, dead Uncle Wilfred. He had died in June in the tuberculosis home, but I wondered if his spirit had found its way back to his own house. Despite my skepticism of Julius’s spirit photography, and of ghosts in general, the
possibility of life after death never seemed entirely foolish when I lay in bed all alone, my imagination whirring. I actually convinced myself I heard Uncle Wilfred cough in the room next door, which sent me flying out from under my blankets to get dressed.
I lifted the lid of my traveling trunk and grimaced.
“Cripes. What a morbid wardrobe.”
My dresses and skirts were either black or a navy blue so dark it was almost black. The lack of German dyes in the country drained every ounce of color from our clothing, ensuring we all looked as grim as the world around us. I pulled out a navy dress with a calf-length hem, a sailor-style collar, and a loose tie the same shade as the rest of the garment. In an attempt to brighten my appearance, I opened the wide mouth of my mother’s leather bag, slid my fingers inside the same slippery pocket that had held my goggles, and pulled out a necklace my father had made me from a clockmaker friend’s spare brass gear.
Even the gleaming metal looked dull against my drab, dark wool.
“You’re not going to see Stephen at his house,” I reminded my reflection in the mirror. “You can look dour. Who’s going to care?”
I gathered my long hair in a white ribbon at the base of my neck and tucked my gauze mask into the sash around my waist for later. Fumes from Aunt Eva’s onion omelets bombarded my nostrils.
“Are you almost ready for breakfast, Mary Shelley?” my aunt called from downstairs.
“Who’s there?” squawked Oberon.
“I’m coming,” I said.
I looked at another of my treasures nestled inside my mother’s black bag—Stephen’s butterfly photograph, Mr. Muse—before facing the rest of the day.
WE TRAVELED TO CORONADO ON THE SAME FERRY WE’D taken back in April—the Ramona—and leaned against the polished rails of the vessel’s bow while the cool winds of San Diego Bay whipped through our hair. During the trip in April, the breeze had carried the sharp scent of tar from the slips where the ferries docked, but this time around I could only smell my own onion breath stinking up my mask, as well as the menthol-like pungency of the camphor pouches hanging around our necks. Steam whistled into the clear sky from the ferry’s two black smokestacks. Side paddle wheels churned the waters into a salty white spray that flicked against my hands.
