A pale hand reached around and drew back the curtain. Mary saw the tallest woman she had ever seen, taller than most men, but thin and stooping. She had a long, gentle face and sad eyes. “Hello,” said the woman, hesitantly. She had an accent Mary could not place.
“That’s impossible,” said Beatrice. She stared at the tall woman as though looking at a ghost.
“What’s impossible?” said Diana. “Is this the Giantess?”
“This is the Giantess,” said Catherine. “Also known as Justine Frankenstein.”
“But you were disassembled,” said Beatrice. “The parts of your body were thrown into the sea. That is what my father told me, and it’s described in Mrs. Shelley’s book. Frankenstein refused to create a female counterpart of his monster for fear that she would have children. Forgive me, I’m being terribly rude,” she added, for she could see tears welling in Justine’s eyes.
“Frankenstein was a liar,” said Catherine. “He and that brother of his . . .” She paused, and sniffed. “Miss Jekyll, are you sure you weren’t followed?”
“No, I’m not sure,” said Mary. “We changed omnibuses several times, but this morning, there was a man outside my house. . . . I don’t know why, but he gave me the shivers. I thought it was my imagination. Why, do you see something?”
“No, I smell something,” said Catherine. “Something like a man, but not like a man. I think we’re in danger. Is there someplace safe we could go?”
“My house is as safe as anywhere, I suppose,” said Mary. “If we were followed, he’ll know where it is, but there is a strong door with a lock, and if need be, I can ask Mr. Holmes for protection.”
“Then we’ll go there. Justine and I always knew we’d have to leave, someday. This is that day. But we can’t leave looking like this, all together. We would be spotted at once. I have an idea. You, monkey-girl,” she said to Diana. “You can move silently, can’t you?”
“Of course,” said Diana scornfully.
“Then come with me.” Catherine parted the curtain dividing the tent and stepped through to the other side. After a moment, Diana followed.
“Wait, where are you going?” Mary called after them. Could she trust Catherine Moreau? She was starting to learn that Diana could take care of herself. Nevertheless, that was her sister disappearing under the tent flap—she could not help feeling concerned. Catherine should at least have told her where they were going. “You must trust Catherine,” said Justine, as though sensing Mary’s thoughts. “This tent, on that side it is close to the others. I do not know where she is going, but you will see—she is to be trusted. She saved my life.”
“Your life—,” said Beatrice. “How is it that you are alive? If what you say is true, you were made almost a century ago. . . .”
“Yes,” said Justine, simply. “I had lost track, but you are correct. If it is correct to say that I am alive at all. For seventeen years, I was alive, as you are—a servant in the Frankenstein household. But then I was accused of a terrible crime. Although I was completely innocent, I was hanged . . . And my father, Victor Frankenstein, took my body. He made me as I am, larger and stronger than most women. He brought me back to life, or to a semblance of it. Am I alive? I have not aged like an ordinary woman. I do not know when I will die. So perhaps I am not alive after all. . . .”
Listening to Justine, Mary felt as though she had stepped into a story she did not understand. Everyone—well, at least Catherine and Beatrice—seemed to know so much more about what was happening than she did. And everything was happening so quickly. If only the world could be ordered and comprehensible again, just for a moment.
JUSTINE: I felt that too. The circus had been my home, and now suddenly I was about to leave it, at a moment’s notice.
CATHERINE: Monsters don’t have homes, not permanent ones. You should know that.
JUSTINE: Then what is this, Catherine? You do not believe in such sentiments, I know. But this is a home, for all of us.
MRS. POOLE: And if it’s not, I’d like to know what I do all the housekeeping for. Not a home, indeed!
Suddenly, the curtain was drawn back. There were Catherine and Diana, carrying a stack of blankets—no, clothes. Men’s clothes.
“Put these on,” said Catherine. “I found them in the tent of the Flying Kaminski Brothers. There are five of them, and the tallest is almost as tall as Justine. The youngest is fourteen, and perhaps his clothes will fit Diana. We’ll have to wear our own boots. Ill-fitting boots would be a danger when trying to evade pursuit on the streets of London. At least you had the sense to wear low-heeled ones.”
Mary looked at the clothes doubtfully. How did one put on men’s clothes? “Well, at least they won’t be expecting five men!” she said, lifting a shirt from the pile. It was a strange experience, dressing as a man. Everything felt different, everything buttoned a different way. But when she had put on the shirt and trousers, she realized what freedom they would give her. How easily she could move, without petticoats swishing around her legs! No wonder men did not want women to wear bloomers. What could women accomplish if they did not have to continually mind their skirts, keep them from dragging in the mud or getting trampled on the steps of an omnibus? If they had pockets! With pockets, women could conquer the world! And yet she felt, too, as though in putting off her women’s clothes, she had lost a part of herself. It was a confusing sensation.
She looked at the others. Diana was clearly in her element, although her pants were too long and needed to be rolled up. As soon as Catherine had put the pile of men’s clothes on the bed, Diana had said, “Give me some scissors.” Snip snip, and off had come all her red curls before Mary could object, although she gasped when she saw them lying on the floor of the tent. “I’ve wanted to do that forever!” said Diana triumphantly. Now she stood there, hands in her pockets, with short, curling hair in a halo around her head. She looked exactly like one of the London newsboys, or one of Mr. Holmes’s Baker Street Irregulars. Beatrice seemed uncomfortable, as though she did not know what to do with her hands. A man’s suit could not disguise her femininity. She looked askance at the scissors, clearly reluctant to undergo the same shearing. “Let me do your hair,” said Mary. “I think one cropped head is quite enough, thank you!” She unpinned Beatrice’s elaborate chignon and pinned her hair up in a simple coil so it would be hidden by a bowler hat Catherine had brought with the clothes. Beatrice would be showing her face now, but at least it would be shielded by the hat brim. Mary’s own hair was already as simply dressed as possible.