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Women, considered not only as moral, but rational creatures, ought to endeavour to acquire human virtues (or perfections) by the same means as men, instead of being educated like a fanciful kind of half being.

—Mary Wollstonecraft

Sitting in the Welton classroom, I flipped through the pages of my copy of Frankenstein, barely heeding Miss Perkins’s instruction for us to find the scene we’d last read.

It was difficult to focus on discussing Frankenstein, with my apprehensions boiling over what had happened with Blythe. At Danforth’s, she could have turned us in or exposed us, but she’d chosen to help Greer and me. That had to count for something. I wasn’t a suspicious person by nature, but I wasn’t na?ve, either. I’d seen far too many girls our age throwing each other under carriage wheels…over a boy, new friends, or power and influence. In truth, I was accustomed to being used by others as a means to get closer to my illustrious mother and father or, when Keston had been unattached, to get into his good graces.

No one in the ton did anything without a motive.

What was Blythe’s ?

I centered my focus on Miss Perkins, who was in the middle of writing the major themes of the novel on the chalkboard. I was still inspired by the fact that the author of such a gripping, horrifying tale was a young woman my age. Mary Shelley did not cave to the restrictions placed on our sex by society, nor had she felt inferior to the Eton- and Harrow-educated male writers of her acquaintance, like her husband or Lord Byron. On the contrary, she’d written a story that had been hers to tell in all its gruesome glory. Though the authorship was anonymous, for valid reasons, the pride I felt in my chest for a fellow young woman defying convention filled me up. The members of our secret book club weren’t the only ones attempting to break free from gilded cages.

We were at the forefront of a quiet but fierce revolution.

An educated mind—an enlightened mind—was a thing to be esteemed. Women were just as capable as men in thinking, creating, reasoning, and philosophizing. Our brains were fertile lands in desperate need of cultivation. In Strictures on the Modern System of Female Education, Hannah More, another writer I admired, likened the human mind to soil, which had to be properly tilled, depending on its composition, for the best possible result. Why should we have our God-given gifts quelled? As Miss Perkins always said, ignorance wasn’t bliss; it was and would always be a woman’s curse.

Said sharer of wisdom stared at each of us in turn after she’d finished writing on the chalkboard.

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS

Prevailing themes and motifs

Creator → Creation

Conception → Animation

Life Death

“Before we begin,” Miss Perkins said, “might I inquire, Lady Petal, if you are comfortable pressing forward with the material? I know you had expressed concerns about the subject matter last week.”

Petal blushed when all eyes landed on her, her discomfort evident. “I believe I can persevere,” she said after a moment of hesitation, though her voice wobbled.

“Very well,” Miss Perkins said. “But do let me know if at any point you are put off.”

“I will,” Petal said.

Sarah raised her hand. “Miss Perkins, are you certain this wasn’t written by Lord Byron or even Shelley? It seems rather absurd for an eighteen-year-old girl to pen something so indecorous.”

“How is it indecorous?” Greer shot back. “Even so, isn’t that why we are here? To read and discuss things that others have decided are too vulgar for our precious female sensibilities?” She narrowed her eyes. “And why does a story of this kind have to be written by a man anyway? Our brains are not childlike, infantile organs. Mrs. Shelley is as capable as any of her male counterparts.”

Sarah tossed her head. “I just think that such profane subjects are better suited to male temperaments.”

“Is that true of your dear Lord Byron?” Greer scoffed. “I thought he was the epitome of charm and chivalry.”

“That’s a gross generalization,” I said, glancing over my shoulder to see Sarah’s fair skin heating to crimson at Greer’s scornful tone. “Controversial ideas and profanity aren’t limited to sex. We must question the status quo. I, for one, think it’s admirable that Mrs. Shelley is the author.”

“Anyone else agree with Miss Peabody?” Miss Perkins asked, and as expected, Petal’s hand flew up. A few seconds later, so did Lalita’s. I raised my eyebrows, but everyone was entitled to their own opinions.

“Fair enough,” Miss Perkins said. “All views are valid, though I must echo Lady Zenobia’s mission to question societal structures built in the shadow of the patriarchy. We are, after all, here to expand our minds, and I encourage you to be open.” She cleared her throat and pointed to the chalkboard. “Moving on. In this novel, we have a creator and his creation, and everything that lies between its conception and earthly animation. What other themes do you see at play here other than those of life anddeath?”

“Family,” Blythe volunteered first, surprising everyone. “Part of the reason the monster went down the path he did was because he felt so alone. He had no one. And he even says that was what made him a murderer.”

“Well done,” Miss Perkins said before adding that to the chalkboard.

“What about ambition and power?” Sarah asked. “Dr. Frankenstein broke the natural order of things to create his ungodly creature after his mother’s death, simply because he was obsessed with life, creation, and resuscitating the dead. He wanted to play God.”

“Good!” Miss Perkins said as Sarah preened. I wanted to roll my eyes. It was no secret that she was obsessed with both power and ambition and would do anything to elevate her station in the ton. “Any others, girls?”

“Revenge?” Lalita ventured hesitantly. “The monster is innocent at first, but when he is spurned, mistreated, and abandoned, he becomes angry and wants vengeance.”

“Wonderful, Miss Varma.” With a pleased expression, Miss Perkins wrote that on the board as well.

I lifted my hand, but Nori beat me to it. “The definition of monstrosity. Is the monster monstrous for being who he is? Or is Victor Frankenstein more so for having created him?” She tapped a thoughtful finger to her chin. “Furthermore, as Lalita noted, the monster when he is awakened is innocent, but then he is shaped by the monstrous things he encounters and hears from humans. He becomes a monster and a killer by virtue of external factors, so that’s a matter of nurture, not nature. And also, is his maker even more monstrous for abandoning him when he is the one responsible for giving him life in the first place?”

Miss Perkins nodded. “Very insightful, Miss Kaneko. Do you think the monster could have had compassion and empathy if he’d been treated with such?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Biological nature and environmental influences are both factors in the growth of any individual. The creature was molded by his circumstances and surroundings.”

Miss Perkins gave a firm nod. “So then, was Frankenstein’s creation a human turned into a monster?”

Petal snorted. “The thing was always a monster. It was never human, so how could it be expected to learn human behavior and mannerisms?”

“But did he not live and experience the same pains we do?” Miss Perkins pressed.

“An amalgamation of many men does not make one man. A human can be a monster, but a monster cannot be human,” Lalita said.

“I agree. It was an abomination, a killer, which meant it was going to behave as such. A dog doesn’t know it’s anything other than a dog,” Petal added, nodding at Lalita.

I frowned. “That’s a narrow way of thinking of life. A dog is a dog, yes, but said animal isn’t born vicious, unless it has been grossly mistreated,” I countered. “And by your definition, as a woman, I will always be constrained to the preconceived notions of my sex—always considered lesser. Ergo, I must fit into this box labeled female that has been constructed by a male hand. I should not want to study mathematics. I should not want to fence or ride astride. I should not write gruesome gothic tales. I should not speak or do anything out of turn or be anything that fathers and husbands do not deem appropriate. That inherent bias weakens any power I might have.”

Miss Perkins offered me an encouraging smile. “Lady Zenobia has a point here on prejudice. We’ve read Wollstonecraft, Mary Shelley’s mother, and her views on women being seen as fully realized humans and not diverting half creatures solely dedicated to the existence of men. If I, as a woman, were given the educational tools to better myself, treated with empathy, and placed on even footing as my male counterparts, would that impact who I became?”

“Yes!” Greer and I said at the same time.

“No, wait. It’s not the same thing,” Petal argued sullenly. “None of us is a perverse, pieced-together, immoral creature.”

Greer laughed. “So, a monster can’t be taught? You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Take that back, you beast!” Petal screeched so loudly that my ears rang.

“Girls, please.” Miss Perkins threw a worried stare to the door, and sure enough, not a handful of minutes later, heavy footsteps came marching down the hall. We instantly quieted, including a purple-faced Petal. Our books went under cushions and were tucked between skirts.

An urgent look from the teacher had us sobering before a hard rap on the door came, and it opened to display the most senior Perkins sister…and the strictest one. Her reddish hair was scraped back into such a severe bun that her face appeared gaunt. The coloring and physical resemblance between the sisters was clear, but that was as far as their likeness went. If Miss Perkins was unconventional and progressive, her eldest sister was the polar opposite. She was focused on piety, modesty, and intense religious instruction. Thank goodness I wasn’t boarding here. Greer and the others had told me chilling stories of her lessons.

“What is going on here, Ada?” Mrs. Perkins asked with narrowed eyes, surveying the room. “I heard quite unladylike screaming. Young ladies do not raise their voices.” I swallowed down the instant urge to bellow at the top of my voice, just to prove her wrong. Our voices were meant to be heard, even Petal’s. “You are not scheduled for a lesson.”

“Remedial instruction, Sister,” Miss Perkins replied, lifting her worn copy of a conduct manual— The Mirror of Graces by a Lady of Distinction. “On etiquette.”

I almost snorted aloud. That particular manual was another useless piece on how to ensnare a husband.

Mrs. Perkins’s eyes narrowed. “And the noise?”

“Lady Petal was quite overcome when a monstrous spider crawled over her desk, Mrs. Perkins,” Greer said, her face the picture of innocence. At Petal’s glare and Greer’s emphasis on monstrous, I bit back a bubble of laughter and ducked my head. I was under the elder Perkins sister’s power to bar me from her school. Or worse, force me to endure hours of devout instruction to calm my overzealous humors.

“Where is said creature?” Mrs. Perkins asked suspiciously.

“Miss Sorensen kindly relocated it through the window, Mrs. Perkins,” I said ever so sweetly with a graceful cant of my chin. I did not require The Mirror of Graces to know how to turn on the charm or employ the clipped politesse of my station. I had been bred to be a peeress from birth. “The creature was a surprise to us all, though we will endeavor to instruct Lady Petal that there is naught to fear. A spider, after all, is only a spider, not bearing any malicious intent, unless threatened.”

Nori covered her chortle with a cough, while Miss Perkins’s eyes glinted with a spark of humor.

Mrs. Perkins’s hard gaze softened, most likely because of my father’s generous donation to her institution rather than my impeccable conduct. “Well, then. Thank you, Lady Zenobia and Miss Sorensen,” she said at the door. “Lady Petal, do remember that a spider is a precious creature of God’s making.” She sent a dismissive glance to her sister. “Carry on.”

The minute her footsteps faded, nearly everyone erupted into smothered giggles. Petal wore an infuriated glower, which sent Greer and me into stronger fits of laughter.

“I believe that’s enough tempting fate for today,” Miss Perkins said, her own lips twitching. “See you at our next class. Until then, remember, Alis volat propriis. Do try to spread yours once or twice.”

I grinned. She flies with her own wings had to be the best adage of all time.

Because we, women, were born to soar…and I intended to see the sun.