Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe by David Niall Wilson Read Free Book Online

were eggs, and there was bacon.   The boy, Tom, had returned with a basket in one hand and a large sack over one shoulder.   He'd struggled gamely under the weight, and when Edgar stepped out of his room and spotted him, he hurried over to lend a hand.
    "I've got it," Tom said.
    "I'm sure you do," Edgar said, "but I am going to assume that you remembered to do me a certain favor, and with that in mind, it's the least I can do to carry the basket to the tavern for you."
    Tom grinned.
    "Got the corn right here in my pocket," he said.   "Whole bag of it.   I know it's the right stuff 'cause my ma spends half her day chasin' crows out of the bin where we keep it."
    "Sounds perfect," Edgar said.   "Let's get this food inside."
    Lenore was already seated at the table to the rear of the tavern, beneath the great window.   Instead of shadows, the surface of the table was bathed in morning sunlight. Anita bustled among the tables, polishing the surfaces, wiping down the chairs.   The morning was far less forgiving than the dark of night; food, stains, and stray glassware had found its way to the far corners of the room, and now kept her occupied.
    Edgar took it all in in an instant, and smiled.   He crossed to the bar, laid the basket on top, and turned to Lenore.
    "Do you mind if I join you?"
    "I would be offended if you didn't.   I trust you slept well?"
    "I slept as if every ounce of energy and strength had been drained from me.   There were no dreams, and all things considered, I will consider that a boon."
    Lenore laughed, and Edgar took a seat beside her, but not too close.   She was drawing, and he didn't want to bump her arm, or to spill something on the work in progress.
    "What do you see?" he asked.
    "Nothing," she said.   "I am as drained as you are.   For once, I'm just drawing.   It's difficult, creating art – and then cutting out pieces of it – knowing that once the faces and spirits are gone, I'll have to fill back in the blanks.   It's how I make my living, such as it is.   I sell the drawings.   I do portraits.   I draw or paint people's homes.   It's not a bad life, but it's not always very lucrative, either."
    "It sounds very similar to the life of an author," Edgar said.   "I am beginning to do a bit better, but it has been a long road, and there have been…problems."
    "You live in a cloud," Lenore said.   "I saw it last night, but there was too much else to concentrate on.   It follows you – and defines you.   What is it that has caused such pain?"
    "There are many things, but the worst of them is the failing health of my wife.   Despite all that I have been able to do for her, none seems able to help.   She wastes slowly away…I fear that soon I will lose her."
    "Life is a cycle," Lenore said.   She turned back to her drawing.
    Edgar glanced down at the paper.   She had drawn a crow in flight, wings spread and eyes bright.   It reminded him of Grimm, and, at the same time it did not.   This was a wild creature, young and strong.   Grimm was strong – but his strength was of a deeper kind, and he was – as the farmers were fond of saying – no spring chicken.   Still, somehow, she had reached inside, and drawn out the spirit.   There was no doubt that it was Grimm, and there was no doubt that she possessed an incredible talent.
    "It's amazing," he said.   "I think you captured him in a different time, or a different life, but it could be no other."
    She shaded the feathers of one wing carefully.
    "Time does not work like that," she said casually.   "It's not a string with an end tied and another winding off into some unknown dimension.   It is more like…a plane.   Do you study mathematics, Edgar?"
    "I have dabbled, but I don't see the connection."
    "There is always a connection.   Some believe that time is a direct path, beginning to end.   Others claim that it is a circle, or a figure eight, winding in and back upon itself like the serpent Ouroboros.   History