Kelly Creagh - Nevermore

Purple writing, his writing, dominated the page in quick yet beautiful curves and loops. Her eyes traced the lines, soaking up each sentence, one word at a time.

In the shadows of the dreamland, he waits. He watches the gaping window to the world he had so longed to open. Now flown wide, bleak and empty, ravaged—like him—it grants his wish. He belongs.

It cannot compare to the memory of her eyes. Blue azure, warm as a summer sky.

If he could but fall into their world.

Would that he had.

Now he writes the end to the story that past its Midnight Dreary —that too late an hour—has its own without him. It was always, he knows now, meant to end this way.

Like that circle that “ever returneth into the selfsame spot.”

My beautiful, my Isobel. My Love. You ask me to wait. And so I wait.

For all of this, I know, is but a dream.

And when, in sleep, at last we wake, I will see you again.

Isobel stared at the paper in her quivering hand, able to do little more than trace and retrace, through her searing vision, the deep violet ink that comprised that final line.

Despite its literal meaning, she knew that he had meant it to say “good-bye.”

Never, she thought, trailing a fingertip over the swirl of those carefully crafted letters. A thousand times never. They were entwined now, irrevocably. Ever since that day he had set his pen to her skin. And if this rift that stretched between them now extended beyond the confines of time and space, of dreams and reality, she still had to believe that there was a way to cross it, still a way to keep her promise. There had to be.

Slowly, Isobel lowered the note, lifting her free hand to brush away the tears that fell.

A chill of ice air rushed up behind her, causing her to start. The breeze stung her dampened cheeks and combed cold fingers through her hair. She twisted to peer over her shoulder.

Her window. It was open. She frowned, unable to recall having raised it.

The lace curtains fluttered and whispered in the brisk wind, the white gauze of their fabric slipping and uncoiling against the panels of her wall with every swell, creating a sound like the rush of distant waves.

The winds picked up again, growing fiercer, with a hint of the sharp, bitter tang of the oncoming winter. The breeze tugged and jerked at the note in her hand, as if to snatch it from her grasp.

Refolding the paper, Isobel stood with a shudder. She pulled the jacket tightly around herself, wrapping her arms in close. She rounded her bed and went to her window, but paused at the sight of its reflection in her dresser mirror. There, around the square of black and empty night, she watched the white lace curtains flutter and snap. They waved at her like twin ghosts in the wind until, she thought, one took the shape of a familiar figure—a shrouded, translucent form—with skin the perfect whiteness of snow.

He stood on the farthest edge of the cliffs, boots caked in ash.

Like clawed fingers, the black rocks jutted out over the torpid waters far below, pointing toward the distant horizon. A vast motionless sea, canvas white and still as death, spread itself wide and long before him. It met, in the distance, with the thin black line that separated it from a torn violet sky.

At his back stood the skeleton ruins of the once-grand palace, now a crumbling structure forged of forgotten words and thoughts long since given to slumber.

Varen closed his eyes, allowing the dead nothingness around him to numb his mind and still the rhythms of his body until all he knew was the buzz of static, that dull vibration, as familiar to him now as breathing. His concentration drew to the cool, soft sensation of the pink satin ribbon wrapped around one hand, held tight in his fist.

“Is that why you return to this place each night?”

At the sound of her voice, musical and deep, Varen opened his eyes, though he did not turn. If he looked, then he would only be trapped again, lured by that ivory seraphim face framed by those endless waves of black.

His gaze narrowed on the horizon. He held his silence as the winds stirred, brushing his hair from his eyes. It flicked cold fingers at the bare skin of his arms.

“But do not forget that it was she who left you here.”

Far below, the frost white seas began to churn. The waters turned choppy until restless waves lapped at the rocky cliffs, as though to test their resolve to stand.

There was a billow of white gossamer to his left as she floated to stand beside him. The gales picked up with yet more speed, whipping her hair wildly about her face.

Below them, the sea’s voice rose from a whisper to a roar. Waves crashed, throwing themselves as though in suicide upon the pointed rocks.

The wind howled past them, lifting her veils into a violent dance. The satin ribbon rippled and snapped. Varen clutched it tighter.

“Standing here, so alone for so long . . . Do you not grow cold?” he heard her ask.

He stared forward, unblinking, as a knife of blue lightning sliced the sky.

“No,” he said.

Acknowledgments There are so many people to whom I owe a wealth of gratitude. A huge thanks and many hugs go to my ninja agent, Nadia Cornier. Thank you as well to all of my friends at Simon & Schuster and Atheneum; to my superhero copyeditor, Valerie Shea; and to my amazing editor, Namrata Tripathi, for her brilliance, for being my sounding board, and for pulling things out of me I didn’t know I had.

I would also like to thank all of my partners in crime from Spalding University’s MFA in Writing program, especially my Writing for Children peeps; thanks for your insight, your friendship, and for being my cheerleading squad. Splvoe and Spuddles, always. Thanks also to my Spalding mentors who helped me shape and form the first draft of Nevermore: Louella Bryant and Luke Wallin, with special thanks to Joyce McDonald, who believed in this story when it was just a spark and who encouraged me at every stage to go full speed ahead.

I have so many spectacular people who have played an integral part in my life while writing Nevermore, and I want to thank you all for being there as both my friends and my early readers.

Thanks to Amy Ameno Blew, for reading along and for pointing me firmly to Poe (you were right).

Thanks to Marcus Wynn, for reminding me to check my batteries (judo chop! *Force field*), and to Nick Passafiume, for listening to me jabber and for helping me to laugh at the absurdity that is me.

Thank you to my dear friend Jenny Haskell, for meeting me at the Grind and for continuing to answer my ceaseless research questions. I would also like to thank Melody Molito, Angela Cook, and Jeannine and Laura Buhse, for their infinite patience, friendship, and for steering me through the occasional midnight dreary. (On that note, I would like to offer double thanks to M-Pony and J-Pony, for standing outside of a certain Baltimore, Maryland, graveyard after midnight in the middle of January, shivering and watching the snow flurries fly while waiting for that guy with the scarf and hat to appear. You guys must really, really love me.) And to A-Pony—I fear I would still be lost within the woodlands if you hadn’t taken me on that long walk and talked me through that one scene (you know the one).

Additional thanks goes to Susan Luka, Jackie Marrs, Judith Robin, and Megan Evans. I heart your faces (for days). And I can’t forget Michael Luka (a.k.a. Freddie Jo), for the prank calls and for being my football coach.

More thanks goes to all of my friends at the Louisville Free Public Library. Thanks for the constant encouragement and making such a fuss over me.

This novel took a lot of research, and I would like to thank Mr. Jeff Jerome, curator of the Poe House in Baltimore, for taking the time to chat with me and for all he does at the Poe House. I would also like to thank the staff of the Poe Museum of Richmond, who answered all of my questions with lightning speed and for making my visit unforgettable. Additional thanks goes to the Poe Society of Baltimore, for their extensive and informative web page and for their dedication to all things Poe. I would also like to include a special thanks here, if I may, to the Poe Toaster. I admire you so. (And I hope you don’t mind that I put you in the story.) A very heartfelt thank-you goes to my family. I love you all. Thanks for understanding, for being so supportive, and for cheering me along. And Mom, without you, this would never be. Thanks for insisting all those years that I was really a writer. You were right. Thanks for believing in me no matter what; for helping me put the binding on that first book, Pink Lettuce; and for being my best friend.