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

may run in cycles, but time?   Time is a static thing.   What is happening now – and what happened in your grandfather's time?   Both happen simultaneously."
    "It's an interesting theory," Edgar said.   "But I am not certain it's quite right."
    "No?" she glanced up at him.   "Then how would you explain the fact that your bird – at the direction of your pen just last night – disrupted a gunshot that occurred a full year ago?   Or how the spirit of the man that was killed by that gunshot could have waited, trapped in the branches of a tree, for you to come along and do it?   Is he dead now?   Was he dead a year ago?   Will he ever really be simply dead, or will he be alive, and dead, for eternity?"
    "Questions too heavy for early morning sunlight, and offered before a proper cup of coffee."
    "Laugh if you will," Lenore said.   "I have seen this more times than I can count – never like what happened last night – but there are things that just can't be explained in a linear fashion.   If it was not true, I suspect you'd be very short of stories – or at the very least, that your stories would be much more mundane and ordinary.   I believe, never having read one, that they must be spectacular.   Dark, deep, drenched in mystery – and pain."
    "The latter is certainly true," he said.   "I have been told more than once that my stories lack hope.   That people want to be dropped into the shadows, but only if there is a ladder, or a rope that will bring them back into the light.   I write, and I tell my tales, but it seems that I am fresh out of ladders, and there are no ropes in sight…"
    “And yet,” she said, “you sensed the need last night, and you responded.   You write about the shadows, but I think – maybe – you dream of other things – lighter, happier things.”
    “Let’s just agree,” he said, “that it is progress that I dreamed of nothing this past night.”
    Lenore’s smile widened.   With quick flicks of her wrist, she added sprinkles of shredded corn dropping from the crow’s beak.   Edgar watched the way the muscles rippled in her arms, the way her fingers played across the surface of the paper, brushing aside flecks of lead and smoothing the surface.
    “So, why are you here?” Edgar asked.   “I can’t believe it was accident.   I mean – I believe you are traveling, and paying your way with your art.   You are very talented.   This just doesn't seem like a very … art conscious location?"
    "You'd be surprised who might want a drawing, a portrait, or a painting," she said.   "This area is filled with old money – it's as old as the country, after all.   Still, you read me correctly.   I sought this place out.   You might say I was drawn here."
    There was a loud squawk, and Grimm dropped to the windowsill outside.   The bird cocked its head, tilting to one side to stare in at the two seated beyond the glass pane, and at the drawing on the table.
    Edgar grinned at the bird.   Lenore glanced up, smiled, and then shot back away from the table as if she'd been smacked.   She nearly toppled her chair over backward, and it was all that Edgar could do to prevent her smacking her head on the floor as she went over.
    "What…" he said.
    She shook her head, and then pulled away.   She was on her feet in an instant, staring at the window.   Grimm sat there, met her gaze for a long, silent moment, and then, with a great cry, leapt from the sill and back into the sky.   Edgar stood, stunned, and everyone in the tavern had turned to gape.
    "Are you okay?" Edgar said.
    Lenore shook her head again, and then turned to him.   "I'm not sure.   I…I saw something that I did not expect to see – something I can't explain.   I'm not even sure that I should tell you – I…"
    Edgar took her by the arm and led her back to the table.   She took her seat, and he helped her organize her pencils and the loose sheets of paper she'd scattered.   Anita walked over, her pretty