“Drink,” Poe muttered from above, “for the moon never beams without bringing me dreams…”
I held the cup to my lips, not yet tasting.
“Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,” he finished, his voice firm and clear.
Dearest reader,
Yes, I drank it—all of it, in fact. Every last drop.
I sat there in Sylum’s study with my hands folded neatly, my lips painted in a polite smile, and swallowed what I was sure would be laced with something wicked.
To my surprise… it was perfectly ordinary. Light. Pleasant. No bitter twist at the back of the tongue. No dizzying fog curling behind my eyes.
Just tea.
Chamomile and lemon, perhaps. Or something gentler still.
And yet… I saw the way Sylum watched me.
He didn’t drink much of his own. He just sat, his dark gaze never quite leaving mine. As if waiting. Watching. Measuring the exact moment when my smile would falter.
But it didn’t. I was very convincing, you see.
It wasn’t until later—much later—that I began to question everything again. The tea tasted fine, yes, but something in me remained uneasy. A splinter I couldn’t pull free.
It’s just that… things blur a little after that.
You must understand, I don’t mean to be vague on purpose. I simply… can’t remember.
Not clearly, at least.
There are gaps. Strange little absences where time should be. I recall returning to my room… I think. Or perhaps we spoke a bit longer? He may have kissed my hand before I left. Or did I kiss his cheek? I’m sure that I never found Lydia again that day, though I cannot be certain if I even looked for her.
The hours seem soft around the edges—like paper left too long in the rain.
It’s a sensation rather like waking from a dream you can’t quite recall.
You remember how it made you feel. You remember flickers of images, glimmers of color or sound—but nothing that anchors it in time.
That’s what comes next, dear reader.
As I promised, I will do my very best to share my experience as I remember it, though in truth what came directly after having tea with my husband is little more than a blur of memories I’ve never been able to piece together.
What I do remember next may shock you… or if you’ve already decided that I am mad, then perhaps, you won’t even bat an eye.
I do not know.
But I do know this…
The horror had only just begun.
—L
Chapter 17
The air was damp and cool when I stepped outside, the scent of moss and roses heavy on the evening breeze. Poe perched on my shoulder, his claws pricking lightly through the thin fabric of my sleeve.
“Come along then,” I sighed, brushing my hand along his glossy feathers. “A walk will do us both some good.”
