I smiled at him as I read the final lines of the tale of William Wilson, a tale of a man haunted by his doppelgänger… a conscience wearing flesh. A horror born from within.
It seemed quite fitting for the situation I found myself in.
“In me didst thou exist—and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.”
Poe hopped closer, talons clicking lightly against the wood.
“Two shadows!” he croaked sharply. “One bone!”
I startled violently, clutching the worn book. His wings flared once, twice—agitated, urgent, his black eyes glittering like obsidian struck by flame.
“Two shadows! One bone!” he repeated with a rising urgency, hopping in a small, frantic circle.
I stared at him, brows furrowing.
“Two shadows…” I murmured, tasting the words as if they held a key I had overlooked. My gaze drifted down to the open page, the inked name, William Wilson, leering up at me.
“A double,” I whispered. “A mirrored image. A second self…”
Poe’s feathers puffed, his head bobbing emphatically.
My chest tightened painfully. Was he speaking of the story? Of me? Of my fraying mind? Or of something far darker moving beneath the surface of Blackthorn?
“Poe…” I breathed, eyes widening. “What are you trying to tell me?”
The raven fell abruptly silent. He turned his head to the window with a sudden whip-like motion, as if sensingsomething approaching.
I closed the book with slow, deliberate care. The soft thud of the cover meeting the pages rang out with finality.
Before I could let my mind unravel the knot he’d flung at my feet, a gentle knock sounded at my chamber door.
Poe chattered under his breath, feathers bristling as he turned toward the sound, his black eyes sharp with something unreadable.
“Master,” he exclaimed. “Master is home.”
I rose, the blanket slipping from my shoulder. I smoothed my skirts, heart thudding painfully, and crossed the room.
When I opened the door, I nearly forgot how to breathe.
Sylum stood there.
It had been days, long, terrible days of silence and isolation. Days of wondering whether he was plotting my confinement or my salvation. Days of craving him with a desperation that felt both shameful and inevitable.
Now here he was, hair slightly mussed, shoulders tense beneath his dark coat, eyes shadowed with something achingly human.
He looked as though he were afraid I might shut the door in his face.
“Lucy…” he murmured, voice low, the single word laden with hesitation. “May I come in?”
A knot formed in my throat.
Longing slammed into me with the force of a wave. Guilt followed, sharp and acidic. And beneath it all pulsed the strangest, most terrible truth. Now that I was nearly convinced of my own unsteadiness—nearly certain that I had mistaken shadows for monsters and illusions for violence—the weight of what I had accused him of crushed me.
This man—my tormentor, my haven, my beloved, my executioner—had borne every hysterical accusation, every scream, every fracture of my mind… and had still come back.
I stepped back, silent, granting him room to enter.
The moment Sylum crossed the threshold, Poe launched from the windowsill with a flurry of black feathers and glided straight to him. The raven landed on Sylum’s shoulder with an eager hop and pressed his beak to Sylum’s cheek in a soft, affectionate nuzzle.
