Mary Shelley

Scarcely had the demon cast his burning stare upon her.

Scarcely had...

...the demon cast his burning stare upon her...

...leaving his face entirely without symmetry...

...leaving his face entirely without form...

...and as her fingertips touched upon his lips...

...he melted into her.

She's looking for you.

Next time you run off to read ghost stories, take me with you.

Who says I was reading ghost stories?

- It's thrilling, isn't it? - My heart was racing, I was so scared.

If I were you, I'd be more scared of your father catching you reading it.

I don't know how he vexes so.

People liked his Gothic novels.

Your father is in the bookshop working.

Claire has been tending to the house.

I have spent all hours going through the ledgers.

Where were you today that you couldn't relieve your father for a few hours?

I completed my work for today. I just went out for some fresh air.

I know where you were.

Look who has returned, my dear.

I just went out for a walk.

Glad to see you devoting yourself to these great works, Mary.

"To love reading is to have everything within your reach."

Payment is over-due, Mr. Godwin.

Need I remind you of the conditions of your loan?

Business has been very poor.

Allow me one more month.

Another month? It's six months already.

Now, weren't you asking for a ghost story?

- Is it a new one? - Another month. Understand?

I will rise from the grave...

...to tell the tale of the treachery I have suffered.

And to seek my revenge!

Scarcely had the demon cast...

...his burning stare upon her...

...in her icy cheeks...

Claire, Claire. Claire!

It's just a nightmare.

It's all right.

Go back to sleep.

It's all right.

Go back to sleep.

You can't sleep?

Do you miss her?

She was so full of passion.

So full of defiance.

As if she were at war constantly with everyone and everything.

And enjoying every moment of the battle.

Warriors like your mother are never long for this world.

The Devil's claws lunged at the maiden's neck.

Sinking his talons...

...deep, deep into her ripe, pale skin.

Blood dripped...

...like tracks in milky snow.

- Mary? - She screamed.

Where are you?

No one watching the shop, and you back here scribbling away like a child.

Let's see what's so important that it's kept you from your work, shall we?

It is private.

What thoughts haunt the daughter of these esteemed writers?

Let go!

- Mary. - She pushed me!

- Did you not see her... - I didn't do anything.

- You all right? - I can't live with someone like this.

There's not a grain of respect in her.

- I didn't do anything! - That's enough. That's enough.

He's an old friend.

Mr. Baxter is as firm a believer in education as I am.

- You'll find his house very comfortable. - Scotland?

I'm sending you away because I love you, Mary.

And because I sincerely hope that you'll find the refuge that you need there.

Also that the solitude will give you time for introspection.

Your writing...

...this is the work of an imitator.

Rid yourself of the thoughts and words of other people, Mary.

Find your own voice.

Mary! Welcome. Oh, my God, you look so much like your mother.

And, thank the Lord, not a thing like your father. I'm William Baxter.

This is my daughter Isabel.

We'll do our best to keep you amused out here, Mary.

It may not be as bustling as London...

...but I'm sure we can find some ways to pass the time.

The night is so different here.

How do people sleep with all this silence?

Come on, I know just where to go.

I've thought of trying to summon my mother...

...by séance.

But she suffered so long with illness...

...what if she has finally found peace at last?

Wouldn't it be cruel to disturb her?

Do you think it could really work...

...reaching the dead?

I already feel her presence.

I miss her so much.

Not a day goes by when I don't think of her.

Would you ever consider trying to contact your mother?

Maybe she wouldn't want me to.

Given I was the one who killed her.

She died just days after I was born.

Oh, Mary.

I love it in Scotland.

Nothing is as I expected it would be.

You've only been here a few weeks. Give it time.

In London it's not often we have occasion to picnic by the river.

Your mistake is waiting for an occasion.

I looked upon the rotting sea and drew my eyes away

I looked upon the rotting deck And there the dead men lay

I looked to Heaven and tried to pray

But before a prayer had gushed A wicked whisper came...

Come in. Come in. You must be freezing.

If I could just give you a couple of my essays.

My contribution to this evening's entertainment.

- How are you? - Good. How's the party?

Isabel... who is that?

Oh, that's Shelley.

Beautiful, isn't he? He's a radical poet.

He thinks poetry should reform society, and so he's often in trouble.

Sounds like quite a catch.

- Let me introduce you to some friends. - There's someone I'd like you to meet.

Good luck.

- Percy, may I present Mary. Mary... - Baxter! Come and join us!

Oh, it's Coleridge. Mary, could you put these nameplates out, please?

Let me get those for you.

I'm Percy Bysshe Shelley.

I am Mary Wollstonecraft-Godwin.

Of course. Baxter mentioned you'd be joining the family here.

I am a great admirer of both your parents' work.

I hope I can entrust you to this task, Mr. Shelley.

- Or will you try to incite me to revolution? - My reputation precedes me.

Won't you welcome a change from the deafening quiet?

I've grown accustomed to it.

In London I spend most of my time in my father's bookshop.

So the deafening quiet is not as dramatic as you may think.

Baxter does his best for these gatherings. Any lover of poetry will surely find a...

...great thrill in the work that is being presented here.

So surely you are a writer yourself?

Not really. Nothing substantial.

I hope to, someday.

And what, may I ask, would you constitute as "substantial" in your eyes?

Anything that curdles the blood...

...and quickens the beatings of the heart.

Ah, perfect!

Now may I steal Mr. Shelley away?

- We would love a poem, sir. - Certainly, sir.

Without an audience, ideas remain mere words on a page.

- Mr. Shelley, your essay. - Oh, I have no need for those.

Thank you. I shall trust in the spark of new found inspiration.

Oh, not the visioned poet in his dreams...

...when silvery clouds float through the wildered brain...

...when every sight of lovely, wild and grand...

...astonishes...

...enraptures...

...elevates...

...so bright...

...so fair, so wild a shape...

...hath ever yet beheld as that which reined the coursers of the air...

...and poured the magic of her gaze...

...upon the maiden's sleep.

Alone, alone, all alone...

...upon the wide, wide sea...

...and God will not take pity...

...on my soul in agony.

- This weather. - Ah, stop complaining.

- It's Scotland, what do you expect? - So I say to you...

...if all things come from God and we all come from God...

...are we not part of God?

When we think, do we not behold the very thoughts of God?

- Can't say I feel like much of a god. - Your body is tired, Baxter...

...but your spirit, it longs to soar.

What of you, Miss Godwin?

Do you think you are of God...

...like the great poet Coleridge?

I'll admit...

...I thought Coleridge was much more captivating when I was a child.

There you go.

I'm surprised you can remember back that far.

Behold the majesty of God's creation...

Well, just how old are you then...

...dear ancient one?

Old enough to know why you are asking.

Ah.

It's inspirational, don't you think?

- I'm 16. - Hmm.

- How about you? - 21.

A wise old man indeed.

As mountain springs under the morning sun...

...we shall become the same...

...we shall be one spirit within two frames...

...oh, wherefore two?

One passion in twin hearts which grows and grew...

...till like two meteors of expanding flame...

...those spheres instinct with it become the same...

...touch, mingle are transfigured ever still...

...burning, yet inconsumable...

Mary...

...I'm afraid I have some terrible news from London.

It's your sister Claire.

May I ask you...

...could you tell Mr. Shelley I said goodbye?