windows, highlighting a shape behind a velvet curtain. I flicked it aside and held my fingers to Byron’s throat in the manner of
a knife. He feigned a terrible scream, ‘
Byron is murdered! Oh woe! Oh woe!
’ Then, to my terror, he continued with the sound effects, pinning me to the wall and gasping
breathlessly, ‘I’m dying . . . oh God save my soul . . .’
Then, just as suddenly, he stopped. I struggled against him, but he held me tight and smiled down at me, licking his lips.
And then it happened again. The ghost of Anthony. My desire flooded away and I was filled with guilt. As Byron leaned in, I lowered my head.
In the distance a voice called out, ‘I’m Shelley, the Detective!’ and a candle bobbed in the darkness.
‘You little flirt!’ Byron whispered laughingly. ‘I shall get you yet!’ He turned back to Shelley. ‘I think we ought to have something to drink.’
‘The Detective has to question us all . . .’ I began, but nobody seemed interested – either that or they hadn’t quite got the hang of the game. I noticed that Mary kept
looking at me and Byron, her looks curious and slightly concerned. I bit my lip, filled with confusion. I had, after all, come here to escape Anthony and have some fun . . . hadn’t I?
Back in the library, I saw Shelley taking out a bottle filled with green liquid, a wicked fairy sketched on its label.
Absinthe.
I watched Byron line up the glasses, clearly revelling in the debauchery. He put a slotted spoon over each glass, with a little sugar cube in the centre, then poured cold water over the spoon;
as it hit the absinthe it flared into opalescent clouds that seemed to swirl and take flight in the glasses like little green dragons.
Absinthe. Favoured by all the greats, from Oscar Wilde to Edgar Allen Poe to Ernest Hemingway. Considered by some to be a ticket to the mental asylum – at 68 per cent it was rather
stronger than the Bacardi Breezers I drank back home. I felt torn between propriety and debauchery. If I drank it, I’d be pissed within twenty minutes, and how on earth would I be able to
keep up my already flimsy nineteenth-century act? But if I held back, I’d just have to sit and watch them get drunk, and how boring would that be? I’d already taken some opium when I
didn’t even like drugs much; Anthony always claimed it was because I hated losing control. And wasn’t the whole point of this journey to forget my boring life back home, to throw off my
shackles and go wild?
Byron passed me a glass. He saw the hesitation in my eyes and narrowed his, as though enjoying my struggle between inner angel and inner demon. Then, as I raised my glass, his smirk became a
smile.
I took a swaggering gulp and nearly dropped the glass; luckily Byron’s hand steadied my wrist. It felt as though a tiny dragon was hovering at the back of my throat. Then it took flight,
spinning down my windpipe in a blur, hitting my stomach in a ball of fire.
‘Drink up,’ said Byron lightly, pouring himself a second glass.
By the time I’d managed to force down my glass, I already felt drunk. When Byron subsequently suggested we all go skinny-dipping in Lake Geneva, I barely batted an eyelid. Mary was a
little reluctant, but Shelley, who was completely gone with opium, yelled that it was a marvellous idea.
Outside, we pulled off our clothes, giggling, and hid them in heaps amongst the reeds. Mary and Shelley jumped in, yelling and shouting at the shock of the cold water. I hid behind a bush,
eyeing up Byron, who was standing naked in the moonlight, his body glistening like a unicorn’s.
‘Come, then,’ he challenged me.
‘Uh-uh. It looks like ice.’
‘If you don’t come here, I shall pick you up myself and dash you into the water!’
‘OK,’ I said, my eyes gleaming. ‘Catch me if you can!’
I ran into the forest, Byron chasing after me. I was vaguely aware of my feet curling against brutal brambles and branches, but in my inebriated state I
a knife. He feigned a terrible scream, ‘
Byron is murdered! Oh woe! Oh woe!
’ Then, to my terror, he continued with the sound effects, pinning me to the wall and gasping
breathlessly, ‘I’m dying . . . oh God save my soul . . .’
Then, just as suddenly, he stopped. I struggled against him, but he held me tight and smiled down at me, licking his lips.
And then it happened again. The ghost of Anthony. My desire flooded away and I was filled with guilt. As Byron leaned in, I lowered my head.
In the distance a voice called out, ‘I’m Shelley, the Detective!’ and a candle bobbed in the darkness.
‘You little flirt!’ Byron whispered laughingly. ‘I shall get you yet!’ He turned back to Shelley. ‘I think we ought to have something to drink.’
‘The Detective has to question us all . . .’ I began, but nobody seemed interested – either that or they hadn’t quite got the hang of the game. I noticed that Mary kept
looking at me and Byron, her looks curious and slightly concerned. I bit my lip, filled with confusion. I had, after all, come here to escape Anthony and have some fun . . . hadn’t I?
Back in the library, I saw Shelley taking out a bottle filled with green liquid, a wicked fairy sketched on its label.
Absinthe.
I watched Byron line up the glasses, clearly revelling in the debauchery. He put a slotted spoon over each glass, with a little sugar cube in the centre, then poured cold water over the spoon;
as it hit the absinthe it flared into opalescent clouds that seemed to swirl and take flight in the glasses like little green dragons.
Absinthe. Favoured by all the greats, from Oscar Wilde to Edgar Allen Poe to Ernest Hemingway. Considered by some to be a ticket to the mental asylum – at 68 per cent it was rather
stronger than the Bacardi Breezers I drank back home. I felt torn between propriety and debauchery. If I drank it, I’d be pissed within twenty minutes, and how on earth would I be able to
keep up my already flimsy nineteenth-century act? But if I held back, I’d just have to sit and watch them get drunk, and how boring would that be? I’d already taken some opium when I
didn’t even like drugs much; Anthony always claimed it was because I hated losing control. And wasn’t the whole point of this journey to forget my boring life back home, to throw off my
shackles and go wild?
Byron passed me a glass. He saw the hesitation in my eyes and narrowed his, as though enjoying my struggle between inner angel and inner demon. Then, as I raised my glass, his smirk became a
smile.
I took a swaggering gulp and nearly dropped the glass; luckily Byron’s hand steadied my wrist. It felt as though a tiny dragon was hovering at the back of my throat. Then it took flight,
spinning down my windpipe in a blur, hitting my stomach in a ball of fire.
‘Drink up,’ said Byron lightly, pouring himself a second glass.
By the time I’d managed to force down my glass, I already felt drunk. When Byron subsequently suggested we all go skinny-dipping in Lake Geneva, I barely batted an eyelid. Mary was a
little reluctant, but Shelley, who was completely gone with opium, yelled that it was a marvellous idea.
Outside, we pulled off our clothes, giggling, and hid them in heaps amongst the reeds. Mary and Shelley jumped in, yelling and shouting at the shock of the cold water. I hid behind a bush,
eyeing up Byron, who was standing naked in the moonlight, his body glistening like a unicorn’s.
‘Come, then,’ he challenged me.
‘Uh-uh. It looks like ice.’
‘If you don’t come here, I shall pick you up myself and dash you into the water!’
‘OK,’ I said, my eyes gleaming. ‘Catch me if you can!’
I ran into the forest, Byron chasing after me. I was vaguely aware of my feet curling against brutal brambles and branches, but in my inebriated state I
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