“Two shadows,” Poe croaked from thecanopy above my bed. “One bone.”
I squeezed her eyes shut.
“Not tonight,” I begged. “Please… not tonight.”
But it was happening again whether I begged or not.
That sharp pain in my skull that I was becoming all too familiar with, beat painfully behind my eyes. I swallowed, forcing back the sudden nausea that threatened to overtake me.
Stumbling forward, I sat on the edge of my mattress, inhaling and exhaling slowly.
“You’re fine,” I whispered, assuring myself even though I knew it was a lie.
Poe’s wings flapped sharply, sending my pulse skittering, as he circled around the room before landing next to me.
“Sorrow,” he murmured, quietly, nuzzling my arm with his head. “Sorrow for my lost Lenore… namelesshereforevermore.”
Dearest reader,
Have you decided?
Have you cast your judgment upon me?
It is quite fair if you have—indeed, I expected nothing less. What sane mind would not look upon my accounts and see only fevered imaginings, hysteria, or wickedness festering beneath a fragile veneer? And yet, this tale is not quite through. There are still truths—dark, winding truths—I must place in your hands before the end draws near.
You see, people assume madness blooms all at once. But it does not. It is a slow drip, a patient whisper, a shadow that lengthens each passing day until the light recoils. I have walked through this house as both prisoner and wife, beloved and suspect, cherished and hunted. And though you may think my mind fractured long before now… I ask you to wait. Just a little longer.
Before you read these final chapters, I wish to leave you with this:
“For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very sensesreject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not—and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified—have tortured—have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but horror—to many they will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place—some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.”—Edgar Allan Poe
And so, dear reader, I leave you with my trembling hand, my unraveling heart, and the small, stubborn certainty that I am not mad.
Not yet.
But soon, perhaps.
Soon.
—L
Chapter 26
I sat propped in bed several hours later, the silver tray gleaming before me as Nelly prepared my tea.
I watched her closely, every herb, every cube of sugar she stirred into the cup. Though I was nearly certain of my own insanity, I never could quite shake the fragile doubt that I clung to stubbornly.
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” she asked after a time, breaking the silence.
I blinked, startled from my thoughts. “Hmm?” I murmured.
“Anything else,” Nelly repeated softly, but I couldn’t help noticing a note of impatience… or perhaps annoyance laced beneath her gentle tone.
“No,” I answered, shaking my head. “That will be all.”
“Very well,” she said briskly, turning at once to gather the dress I’d worn that day for laundry.
An uneasiness prickled the back of my neck as I watched her.
