last, mercifully, she stopped. Mr. Poe held her, his face tight with fear.
Mrs. Poe smiled weakly as she leaned against her husband. “Sorry,” she whispered to me.
My gaze went to the handkerchief, which had fallen from her hand. In its center was a coin of liquid crimson.
My skin tingled with fear. “I should go now and let you rest,” I said.
“No,” she whispered. She pulled away from Mr. Poe as her mother draped her own black shawl over her. “Please. Stay.”
I laid my hand on her arm. “I will come back at another time.”
“Promise?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Reluctantly, Mrs. Clemm moved the table to release me from the sofa. After a tearful good-bye, Mrs. Poe sank against the sofa and watched as Mr. Poe helped me with my cloak.
He followed me outside and shut the door behind him.
“Thank you for coming,” he said quietly.
“It was my pleasure,” I said.
“You cannot know what this means to my wife.”
I felt a rush of sympathy for the man. His fragile young wife seemed so helpless and ill. Again I wondered why a person of his means did not take her to a more suitable clime to heal her sickenedlungs, when he so obviously doted on her. I was beginning to understand that Mr. Poe might not be so wealthy after all.
“I was glad to do so. I hope your wife gets better soon.”
His silence told more of his worry than could words.
The wind tossed his hair, shining black in the weak March sun. I became conscious of how handsome he was and how noble in his restraint. He was as buttoned-up as his frock coat, as if he felt that all who depended on him would fall apart should he relax for one moment.
“Thank you again for the coffee.”
“May I see you safely to a cab?” he said.
“You are hardly dressed warmly enough for the cold. At any rate, I walked. It’s not so far.” I would not mention that I did not want to waste money on a hackney.
“I would like a little air. Do you mind if I accompany you for a ways?”
“Doesn’t Mrs. Poe need you?”
He kept any emotion from his face. “She is probably asleep by now. Her mother will watch her.”
We walked silently along the pavement, the soggy flotsam left by the melted snow oozing under our feet. I wondered how long Mrs. Poe had been suffering with bronchitis, or if she was consumptive and that was why she had not borne the children she so fervently wished for.
A woman swathed in veils rounded the corner and commenced in our direction. I tried to see her face when she passed us but she was so heavily covered that it was impossible to get a measure of her. I turned to see her hurry past Mr. Poe’s home and toward the building beyond, where I had seen the other shrouded figure enter earlier.
“Is there a nunnery on your street?”
“Nunnery?” He turned to see what I was watching. “No. Not a nunnery.”
He offered no further explanation as we strolled on. “What are you working on now?” he asked.
“Not much.” Except on projects meant to siphon from your glory. I could feel my face radiating with shame. “How is your book coming along on—what was it—the spiritual universe?”
He glanced at me. “You remembered.”
“Of course.”
He returned his gaze forward. “Unfortunately, I’ve had to put it aside for something that might actually sell.”
I gave him a look of sympathy. “Something frightening?”
“There is nothing more frightening than cold reality. But readers don’t want that, do they?” He allowed me a rueful smile. “What do you think I should write about?”
“I needn’t tell you. You are the most popular writer in New York.”
“Do you think so?” He scanned my face as if to detect any insincerity.
“ ‘The Raven’ is on everyone’s lips. My friend Eliza heard ‘never-more’ worked into a scene in a play at the Castle Garden Theatre. The little girls jumping rope in my neighborhood were chanting it. I have listened to ladies gush about meeting The Raven, as if you and your poem
Mrs. Poe smiled weakly as she leaned against her husband. “Sorry,” she whispered to me.
My gaze went to the handkerchief, which had fallen from her hand. In its center was a coin of liquid crimson.
My skin tingled with fear. “I should go now and let you rest,” I said.
“No,” she whispered. She pulled away from Mr. Poe as her mother draped her own black shawl over her. “Please. Stay.”
I laid my hand on her arm. “I will come back at another time.”
“Promise?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Reluctantly, Mrs. Clemm moved the table to release me from the sofa. After a tearful good-bye, Mrs. Poe sank against the sofa and watched as Mr. Poe helped me with my cloak.
He followed me outside and shut the door behind him.
“Thank you for coming,” he said quietly.
“It was my pleasure,” I said.
“You cannot know what this means to my wife.”
I felt a rush of sympathy for the man. His fragile young wife seemed so helpless and ill. Again I wondered why a person of his means did not take her to a more suitable clime to heal her sickenedlungs, when he so obviously doted on her. I was beginning to understand that Mr. Poe might not be so wealthy after all.
“I was glad to do so. I hope your wife gets better soon.”
His silence told more of his worry than could words.
The wind tossed his hair, shining black in the weak March sun. I became conscious of how handsome he was and how noble in his restraint. He was as buttoned-up as his frock coat, as if he felt that all who depended on him would fall apart should he relax for one moment.
“Thank you again for the coffee.”
“May I see you safely to a cab?” he said.
“You are hardly dressed warmly enough for the cold. At any rate, I walked. It’s not so far.” I would not mention that I did not want to waste money on a hackney.
“I would like a little air. Do you mind if I accompany you for a ways?”
“Doesn’t Mrs. Poe need you?”
He kept any emotion from his face. “She is probably asleep by now. Her mother will watch her.”
We walked silently along the pavement, the soggy flotsam left by the melted snow oozing under our feet. I wondered how long Mrs. Poe had been suffering with bronchitis, or if she was consumptive and that was why she had not borne the children she so fervently wished for.
A woman swathed in veils rounded the corner and commenced in our direction. I tried to see her face when she passed us but she was so heavily covered that it was impossible to get a measure of her. I turned to see her hurry past Mr. Poe’s home and toward the building beyond, where I had seen the other shrouded figure enter earlier.
“Is there a nunnery on your street?”
“Nunnery?” He turned to see what I was watching. “No. Not a nunnery.”
He offered no further explanation as we strolled on. “What are you working on now?” he asked.
“Not much.” Except on projects meant to siphon from your glory. I could feel my face radiating with shame. “How is your book coming along on—what was it—the spiritual universe?”
He glanced at me. “You remembered.”
“Of course.”
He returned his gaze forward. “Unfortunately, I’ve had to put it aside for something that might actually sell.”
I gave him a look of sympathy. “Something frightening?”
“There is nothing more frightening than cold reality. But readers don’t want that, do they?” He allowed me a rueful smile. “What do you think I should write about?”
“I needn’t tell you. You are the most popular writer in New York.”
“Do you think so?” He scanned my face as if to detect any insincerity.
“ ‘The Raven’ is on everyone’s lips. My friend Eliza heard ‘never-more’ worked into a scene in a play at the Castle Garden Theatre. The little girls jumping rope in my neighborhood were chanting it. I have listened to ladies gush about meeting The Raven, as if you and your poem
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