DIANA: As though you let us forget it.
But for now . . . should she stay here? She could go anywhere, she could survive under any conditions, but Justine needed a home. This one would do, at least for now. After all, she had enjoyed the camaraderie of the circus. She supposed that was the human part of her, the part Moreau had created. She would have to tell Lorenzo what had happened to his performers. He had always treated her well, and he deserved to know—not the whole story, but at least that she and Justine had found another home. And then, they would begin a new life. It would, in some ways, be not much different from the circus. Both the circus and the house on Park Terrace had their monsters. . . .
CATHERINE: Yes, Mary, I know how you feel about that word. But I’m not going to stop using it. So you can stop cluttering up my story with your objections.
The adventures of the previous night had not tired Catherine as much as the others—she was nocturnal, after all. But she, too, needed rest. She clambered down the drainpipe and climbed through the window, then curled up under the blue silk covers and fell asleep, twitching as she dreamed of hunting deer on the slopes of the Andes.
JUSTINE: I like Catherine’s writing. It’s dramatic—perhaps overly dramatic at times. But I can see what she saw, feel what she felt, as an animal transformed by Dr. Moreau. That is good storytelling, I think.
CATHERINE: Thank you! And if any of you want to write this book, you’re more than welcome to try.
Beatrice was not asleep. She looked around the room that had once been a laboratory, and before that an operating theater. Yes, she thought it would do. The glass dome let in plenty of light. She could put plants on the desks where students had once sat observing dissections and demonstrations. The laboratory could become an indoor greenhouse. Some of the plants would be poisonous—would Mary allow that? She did not know.
She climbed up the stairs to the office. What had happened here, so long ago? How had Dr. Jekyll falsified his own death, to escape as Hyde?
The room itself was spotlessly clean. The only pieces of furniture were a desk and chair, two glass-fronted cabinets, empty now, and the sofa on which she had slept the first night she had arrived. In one corner stood a cheval glass. What must it have seen so many years ago? Jekyll’s transformations into Hyde, she guessed. She looked into its depths, but saw only herself—a woman of uncanny beauty.
BEATRICE: Catherine, you know I don’t think of myself that way.
CATHERINE: Well, everyone else does. Really, your modesty is one of the most annoying things about you. That and your absolute mania about Votes for Women and Dress Reform. And no, you can’t comment here about the importance of the suffrage movement or the dangers of tight lacing.
DIANA: Is this one of those scenes where the monster looks in a mirror?
It had been one of the most terrible nights of her life. She had almost killed another human being—a child, this time. She must never do that again. Here she could stay secluded, away from others. And perhaps her medicines could heal—making up in some measure for the deaths she had caused.
Beatrice lay down on the sofa and pulled a blanket over herself. She was so tired . . . not from lack of sleep, but from a sense of hopelessness that had been with her since the death of Giovanni. Here, she thought, she might find . . . not happiness, but peace.
Beatrice closed her eyes and dreamed whatever flowers dream.
BEATRICE: That’s very poetic, but they don’t dream anything. Flowers have no cerebral cortex.
CATHERINE: Oh, for goodness’ sake. Can’t you be the romantic heroine? Mary is too sensible, Diana is too impulsive, and Justine is too tall.
BEATRICE: But I’m not a romantic heroine. I’m a scientist.
When Mary woke again, it was almost dark. She looked at her wristwatch, but could not make out the hands. She must have slept all day! And in her clothes, too.
She heard voices downstairs, and for a confused moment she thought it must be Enid and Nurse Adams. Then she remembered the events of the past week. Had it all really happened? It must have—she could not have made such a thing up. Not Poisonous Girls and Beast Men and Adam Frankenstein.
Who else was awake?
When she went downstairs, rubbing her eyes, she found they all were. The gas had been lit in the parlor, and there was a fire in the grate. Catherine, Justine, and Diana were sitting around the tea table, on which there were cakes and sandwiches, as she had predicted. Beatrice was still sitting away from the group, by the window.
“We didn’t want to wake you,” said Catherine. “We’ve been making plans.”
“What sorts of plans?” Were they going to stay? Or had they been talking about going back to the circus? Even Beatrice could make a good living in the circus sideshow. Mary hoped, more than she had hoped anything in the past week, that they would be staying. After all they had been through, she wanted them together, in this house.
Just then, Alice walked into the parlor, holding a glass filled with . . . well, it was green. “Mrs. Poole sent me up with this, miss,” she said to Beatrice, handing her the concoction. “She says she’ll be up herself in a moment.”
“That’s very kind of you, Alice,” said Beatrice. “Particularly since I almost poisoned you. I cannot apologize enough—”
“Oh, that weren’t your fault. You couldn’t help it, being all tied up.”
Beatrice sipped from the glass and smiled. “Mrs. Poole is a genius, I think. This is perfect. Will you tell her from me, Alice? And—if I am to remain here, if this is to become my home, you must call me by my name. I have no intention of standing on ceremony with anyone.”
“Yes, miss . . . Beatrice,” said Alice. “If you’ll excuse me . . .” And then she was gone again, like a mouse that disappears into the woodwork before you’ve had the chance to blink.
“I hope she’s not afraid of me,” said Beatrice, sipping her green sludge. What in the world had Mrs. Poole put into it? It looked like weed soup. “After all, I almost killed her.”
“No, she’s just shy,” said Mary. “She always has been, since she first came here. I would never have expected quiet little Alice to be as brave as she was last night. So . . . what were you talking about before I came in? Will you stay?”
“Of course we’re going to stay,” said Catherine, as though it were obvious. She picked up a sandwich, looked at it, and said, “Watercress. That’s pig food.” She handed it to Justine. “Where’s the ham?”
Just then, Mrs. Poole came in with the teapot.
MARY: Mrs. Poole, do you realize that you’re always coming in with tea?
MRS. POOLE: It’s a good thing I am, or you girls would never eat, with all the gallivanting you do.