by R. R. Smythe
“Pity, really,” Oleander says, with no pity in her voice, whatever.
“Brute force is necessary.” He gives the other two a significant look and says, “We’ve tried diplomacy, with no success. He’s too far gone.”
“How do we find him?”
“The tunnels. They’ll show you the way.”
Chapter Eighteen
Who’s Afraid of a Tell-Tale Heart?
“Be careful, Mia. I am anxious to see your power. And take care, Mr. Kelly,” Blue Jeans says; his blue eyes somehow dancing and serious at once.
The fireplace, blazing with heat, shrinks, fizzles, and dies. The whole of the stone hearth, mantle and all, lifts to reveal another tunnel. “Here is your entrance. Or exit, however you prefer.” Blue Jeans steps out of the way. Georgian Toady looks grim, but remains silent. “Bon chance!” Oleander says.
I whisper to Morgan, “She actually sounds sincere.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course she does. It’s a suicide mission — one they don’t want to address. So they’re sending us, the pawns. I don’t trust them. First, it will be Poe — then another, and another…”
“You think more Literati are going postal?”
“It happens. It’s stressful, as you can image. Especially if they are alone too long.”
Morgan and I grasp hands and enter. One step past the entrance, and it’s freezing cold. Snow swirls about the tunnel in huge, white flakes.
My breath rushes through my teeth and my lips quiver; I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. Morgan is black and white again. Dread settles in my chest. This is significant.
He stops, eyes focused on my face. “What? You’re pale as the snow.”
“You’ve lost your color again.” A tear escapes.
He swipes it away with his fingertips and pats himself playfully. “I don’t know what I could’ve done with it.”
But I can’t smile. It’s important — but I don’t know what it means. Beth and I don’t lose our color in the tunnels. When Louisa peered down in, her flesh was unchanged. My mind searches for reasons.
Louisa was a courier, like Morgan — so that isn’t why.
“I can’t believe I forgot to ask them,” I moan.
“You think her highness Oleander would answer?” Morgan scoffs.
“No, but Blue Jeans seemed… at least civil?”
He shrugs and grabs my shoulders with both hands. “We have more important things to worry about.”
More important than you? I don’t think so. “Fine.”
As we approach the tunnel’s end, street sounds hit my ears. Horses are whinnying, their clopping hooves muffled by the snow blanketing the streets.
I stare down at my clothes. And out in the streets.
I squint, and can make out people, heads down, hurrying against the wind. I close my eyes, searching my mental catalog of period clothing.
Morgan turns to me. “Well — my guess is—”
“Early 1800’s.”
He smiles. “Yes.”
I close my eyes, imagining the clothes. I hear a rustling of wind, and my hair flies up, circling my face. On the ground lies a dress and man’s attire.
I bend over, picking up the day dress. “You need to turn around and close your eyes.”
He smiles, despite everything. “Don’t know if I can.”
“Hmm.” I close my eyes, and gasp as a circular dressing divider appears. I laugh. I wish the creative matter were permanent — and wouldn’t fade.
And the profoundness of the thought smacks me. How easily one could be seduced by this power. Even if its time-slides and matter changes aren’t permanent.
People could make themselves wealthy, stop tragic events… postpone death, like our target.
Something occurs to me. Fear closes my throat. I shouldn’t — but I’m going to anyway.
I close my eyes and ball my fists against them. In my mind’s eye, my perception shifts, like it’s lodged in a house of mirrors — where miles of images repeat, each more distorted with the depth of the reflections. I feel the ground under my feet shudder and rumble.
“Mia, what are you doing?”
I hear Morgan step behind the divider.
The reflections are racing, causing vertigo. I bear down harder, raising both arms before me. The tunnel walls shake and boulders let go from the ceiling, falling around us like hailstones.
“Mia, stop! What are you thinking? The tunnel’s rebelling!”
I clear my mind and the rumbling instantly stops.
His hands are on my shoulders, shaking me. “Open your eyes! What was that about?”
His hands grasp my shoulder and I wince at the pressure.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to see… the future. I thought it would help us — to bring Poe in. And to see our fate.”
His face reddens. “You have to know that’s wrong. That would never be permitted! Plus — fate is determined by choices, actions, emotions — so many variables. No one’s life course is set in stone. There are checks and balances for power… and that would be an abuse of your position.”
Tears of shame bead on my lids. “I know. I’m scared. I’m sorry. We’re supposed to be redeeming Beth, and here I am breaking the rules myself.”
He folds me into him and murmurs into my ear, “It’s ok. But you must think. Stop and think — fight the panic. One wrong move could kill us both.”
He bends, picking up the dress. He hands it to me with a bracing look. He steps back out, pulling the divider shut to give me privacy.
I slide the dress on and slip my hand inside a hidden fold. Inside is a crumpled piece of paper. I unravel it and read the address. Poe’s address. “The tunnel will show you the way.”
I close my eyes and destroy the divider.
I hand him the address, and he gives a stiff nod.
Morgan is all seriousness now. All trace of teasing banished from his eyes. “Are you ready?”
I take his hand. “Can anyone really be ready?” I don’t wait for his answer. “Let’s go.”
****
We walk down the street, searching for the address. We finally see it, on the corner of 192nd Street and Kingsbridge Road.
The snow has relented to a chilling drizzle of rain. As we draw closer, I see two burly men flanking the door. A flickering flame is visible in the window, and the shadow of a man rocks back and forth, grasping his hair in his hands.
We look horribly suspicious, soaked to the bone, gawking at the cottage. “We need a plan. I didn’t expect muscle.”
Morgan eyes the bodyguards. “Yes, I saw an inn down the street.”
He grabs my arm, and we head for shelter from the storm.
An hour later, we’ve secured a boarding room, under Mr. and Mrs. Morgan Kelly, and purchased dry, more fashionable clothing. I was close, but not perfect with my styles for the time period.
The smell of coffee is heavenly after the soaked afternoon. I stare at Morgan, smiling at our server, and a pang squeezes my heart. I’m struck, again, by how fragile life can be. I want to stay here, with him. Watch him smile all night long. I can’t imagine ever getting enough of that smile.
The urge to halt time grips me again. Stay at this table, and chat about nothing — and everything… and not deal with broken rules, crazy authors, or hearts that belong to other people.
To watch his hair gently gray before my eyes. Just stay at this table, together, till time ends.
His eyes flick to mine. “Mia? Where’s your mind love?”
I sigh. “A plan. What do you suggest, soldier?”
Morgan bites his cuticle, his eyes far off as he considers. He sips his coffee, and I wonder if he even tastes it, as one hand balls into a fist.
“Direct is not the best approach, others have already tried to reason with him. There must be a tunnel nearby, and most likely it ends at his cottage, opening into it, even.”
“So we go look for the entrance?”
“Yes. Then I’m afraid
it will be you against him. Once we’re in the tunnels, I’m useless.” His mouth puckers in frustration. “I can disable the bodyguards, if they interfere — but Poe won’t let me get near him.”
The server, a young woman, deposits a paper on our table. “Compliments of the house.”
She turns to speak to an elderly couple seated beside us.
“Morgan. Look. At. The. Title.” My finger jabs at the paper.
At the top, the flyer proclaims, The Literati of New York City.
Chills lift the hair on my arms. I whisper, “Is Poe playing with fire? Naming his publication after the society?”
Morgan’s gaze sweeps across the paper. His hand reaches across the aisle and grasps the server’s wrist. Her eyes widen for a moment, but she smiles seeing he means no harm.
“Yes?”
“What can you tell us about this Poe fellow? The author of this paper?”
Her face alights, reminding me of Apple, ready for gossip and slander. I grit my teeth and plaster on a closed-lip smile.
“Ah. Mr. Poe. He’s a bit of an odd one. Married a thirteen-year-old, can you believe that? Of course, she’s older now — or was, anyway.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I try to look overly eager and fight the urge to deck her.
“Well, she’s just expired, hasn’t she? I just saw the artist headed to Poe’s cottage. Mr. Poe realized he hadn’t any portraits of her — so commissioned him to paint her… on her deathbed.”
Morgan’s face is ashen. “I see. What about the weather here? It’s quite rainy.”
“We’ve had an odd week. When I think on it, the weather took a turn the day Mrs. Poe died. Tuberculosis, you know. But she’d been ill for some time. It was a blessing, really. But I’ve heard he’s mad with grief. He hasn’t left his house since it happened.”
“Molly!” A sharp, male voice calls from another room.
“Oo. I must get back to work. Let me know when you’re finished.”
We finish the meal as the sun is setting. I yawn into the back of my hand as Molly bustles back over.
“I think we will retire. Thank you, it was spectacular.”
She raises a mischievous eyebrow. “So early? How long have you two been married? Are you newly wed?”
Morgan’s smile is wide. “Yes, you have us figured.”
I can’t stop worrying. His cheeks are flushed red with heat at the moment. I shiver, remembering his lack of color in the tunnels.
It’s wrong, I know it. I must tuck it away — there’s so much to deal with right now. One problem at a time, as Beth always chides me.
As he leads me to the room, I realize in this time — I really could be his wife. And no one would think it odd, or old fashioned, or a waste.
I sigh as he opens the door. He shuttles me in and closes it behind us.
We both stand perfectly still, staring at the bed. My desire for him is a poignant, painful ball in my chest.
My head turns slowly — my eyes dragging to find his face. “Morgan — I—”
He reaches me before I’ve exhaled. His arms wrap around me, and I bury my face in his thick hair.
“I know, love. Sometimes…” he smiles ruefully, “words are useless. Let’s just be together. There is no tomorrow. Just us, here together.”
He gathers me into his arms and places me gently on the bed. I roll over as he slides beside me, pulling me tight against his chest.
We lay quiet, listening to each other’s breathing. When I feel his chest relax, and his arms slip the tiniest bit, I let the darkness come.
Chapter Nineteen
A Beating Heart, Stilled
“Mia, let’s go.” I pry open my eyes, looking out at the early morning darkness.
Oppressive dread is instantly upon me.
“Morgan, I love you.”
He smiles. “As do I. No melancholy. You’ll lose your focus. Fight, Mia — so we can have a chance at forever.”
I feel determination flare and race under my skin. And my heart kicks up a strong beat. I nod.
We exit the boarding house into the still night. The rain’s gone, but mud and puddles fill the streets like a miniature swamp.
Morgan’s eyes search the darkness. “Let’s get off the road.”
We head into the trees, keeping the houses and road in sight.
“What am I looking for? What would the entrance look like?”
“It’s as varied as the author. Think… Poe.”
I bite my lip. Think Poe. A graveyard, with whitewashed stones as far as the eye can see, is to our left.
I point. “I think we need to go there.”
Morgan’s eyebrow rises. “You’re probably right.”
We change direction, quickly arriving and plunging into the sea of monuments.
After ten minutes, I’m getting frustrated. Nothing is striking. No holes in the ground. No signs of Edgar Allen Poe.
“Hey, you there!” A voice calls, far off. A man holding a lantern is winging through the stones, making a direct line for us.
“Maybe he’s the caretaker,” I whisper.
Morgan’s lip’s press tight and he shakes his head. “No. Run.”
He yanks my arm, dodging and weaving past the markers.
“You there! Halt, I say!”
Morgan runs faster, yanking my wrist to keep up. Finally, I see it.
“Look! There’s a bird on that headstone.”
I leap over the tiny children’s stones, trying not to think of the lives beneath my feet. We reach it — the stone raven peers down at us.
“I said — Halt!” I can hear his footsteps now.
Morgan stands in front of me, arms splayed protectively — ready to battle. His fingers twitch in anticipation.
I turn my back on him to lock stares with the raven.
I empty my mind of him, of fear, of regrets — and flee to my imagination — just like I’ve done every night, alone in my room, for as long as I can remember.
I feel Morgan leave our back-to-back stance. The sound of crunching bones grates my ears as Morgan’s fist connects with the man’s jaw. I clench my jaw in response, fighting the panic.
I glance back again.
The man grasps Morgan’s shoulders and hurls him forward, his knee flying up to connect with Morgan’s gut. “Oof!”
I whirl back to the bird, squaring my shoulders.
I hold up my arm and see Poe’s raven shake and caw.
I feel my mind vibrate against my skull. He knows I’m here.
My mind senses a connection. A foreign entity.
My stomach freefalls and my head feels sluggish — like a haze of alcohol, or something stronger, has invaded every cell.
I think, “Open.”
The bird laughs. A disturbing, throaty chuckle.
Fear creeps into my head, misting around my thoughts. Is it Poe or is it me?
I hear a voice. Not my whispers. Nothing like my whispers.
“You will lose him. And you will understand… and you will do anything to get him back.”
My eyes flick to Morgan, away from the bird — fear for him strangling my thoughts.
A guillotine of panic slices through my head, disconnecting my own feelings. All that I am is his deep, dark despair.
Morgan’s fist busts the man’s jaw in an uppercut. Blood splatters and flows from his mouth, dousing his shirt.
The man staggers, disoriented.
“Mia! Do not watch me! Focus!”
I flip my head back around to the raven, meeting his stony glare.
Now it speaks, the same voice from my head. “Such a waste — working for the Literati. I am not a follower. Neither are you. Ally yourself to me, Mia. Perhaps then, you may save that young man, who’s completely stolen your heart. Mended your heart.” I cock my head, listening.
Morgan halts, dodging swings, deciphering my expression. “Mia, darling. Do not listen to him. He’s acting like a serpent. He will say anything to defeat you. Remember me, my word
s—” The man’s fist collides with Morgan’s cheek, and a sickening crack drowns out the bird.
“Do you want to taste my heart? Drink, and see. It’s a poisonous draught.”
My head, my soul is falling; it’s as if a vial of utter hopelessness was injected directly into my heart. I feel us breathing together, choking on his desperation. A cry seeps out, and I clasp my hands over my mouth.
I see her face, his love. Pale, creamy complexion, with lips drawn back like a jackal.
“Mia! Are you alright?” Morgan’s voice is frantic, but his eyes don’t leave the man’s flying fists. He steps closer to me. “Oh my word! You reek of spirits.” He amends, noting my confusion. “Alcohol! You reek like a brew house.”
I shake my head, but do, indeed feel slightly intoxicated. Is it from the connection with Poe?
He whispers, mortified. “He was perpetually drunk after his wife passed, Mia.”
I fill my mind with water; clear, cool streams of it, whirling and rushing through my tangled thoughts; washing away the stupor.
Poe’s slurred voice jars me and my teeth snap together. “The veil of sadness may be lifted. Join me. We’ll keep eternally happy. Never feel the sting of death again.”
I know that’s wrong. Against the natural order of things. Man may wish to live on indefinitely — but not in this imperfect world.
“I—” I break off into sobs.
Morgan keeps stealing looks, bobbing and weaving around the flying fists. Fear flickers through his blue-green eyes.
“Mia. Fight him. You’re stronger. Find your voice — don’t listen to his.”
I fight through the veil of despair, both hands burning and flaring with color as I rip it to shreds. I feel Madelon’s heart speed, and throb, hard and fast — urging me forward.
“No, Mr. Poe… Edgar — you must accept her death. I’m so sorry for your loss. I will help you if I can — but you must stop this selfishness.”
A sigh fills my head, and our connection breaks, like an electrical stream unplugged.
I wheel around staring at the raven. “No. Open. Now. You cannot stop me.”
The grave-marker upends and the earth rumbles. Piles of earth break away and fall inward to form a hole. The headstone topples inward, and I hear the raven’s caws get further and further away as the stone slides into the gaping maw of earth.