“Through that story,” Isobel sniffled, her voice muffled against him as she kept her face stupidly smashed to his chest, now if only to see how long he would tolerate it.
“My book, the only novel Edgar ever wrote, was meant as an experiment,” Reynolds explained. “Edgar’s idea was to take my story, which I told to him over the course of many dreams, and adapt it to fit a real location in your world. He would then publish the piece in increments, touting it as a nonfictional account. In so doing, he hoped to create a link that would allow me to cross physically into your reality and become a part of it. His plan worked, and might have saved me from my imprisonment in the dreamworld had he not been working on another piece at the same time. A story called ‘Ligeia,’ inspired by another dreamworld entity. The Nocs were unleashed from his soul, and I perished by the hand of Scrimshaw. Edgar, who wed shortly after, never knew of my demise; unbeknownst to him, his union with Virginia had severed his ties to the dreamworld. It was only after she died that Lilith again pursued him.”
“She went after him again,” Isobel said, “and pulled him into the dreamworld.”
“I found him there. When he discovered what had become of me, that I was now bound to the woodlands forever as a Lost Soul, his remorse was deep. We reconciled, and after exchanging clothing, I agreed to both play the part of his decoy, and to use the ability he’d granted me to help him return to his reality—your reality.”
Isobel pulled back from Reynolds, and taking up the edge of his heavy cloak, she ran her fingers along the material. “That’s why they found him wearing someone else’s clothes,” Isobel said. “This . . . this is his cloak, isn’t it?”
Reynolds didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to.
“You knew what Varen would do, didn’t you?” Isobel asked. “You knew what he’d decided. That he needed to die in order for the worlds to separate again?”
Silence again.
“Typical,” Isobel said. “I should have known, but, whatever. As long as you’re not answering my questions like you said you would, can you at least tell me what happens now? Where you’ll go?”
“Presumably,” he replied, “wherever Lost Souls go when they are found. But you needn’t worry. I will not be alone. See for yourself.”
He extended an arm toward Greene Street.
“Who said I was w—” Isobel’s words halted, evaporating out of her mouth at the sight of who stood beyond the gates.
No. Flipping. Way.
Stern-faced but not unkind, there stood a man in a top hat and a black comb moustache.
Touching the brim of the hat, Edgar Allan Poe bowed his head at her very slightly.
Isobel, unsure of what else to do, gave a small, shell-shocked wave.
She jumped when Reynolds brushed past her, making his way toward the gate.
Though she wanted to call after him, to dash forward and catch his hand, she let him go.
Reynolds opened the gate, and with a low groan, it swung in toward him. As he stepped through, he unclasped his cloak and unfurled it from around his shoulders, extending it to Poe, who, without pause, drew it around his own.
The two men clasped hands, shaking fiercely.
Poe turned to go then. But Reynolds, pausing, glanced back at Isobel.
He touched the brim of his own hat, giving her the signal.
The salute of the one true Poe Toaster.
The real deal indeed.
49
Only This and Nothing More
Isobel’s eyes opened on their own. Above, her bedroom light blazed bright, stinging her eyes.
She breathed in fast and deep, her chest rising quickly as the final images of her dream flipped through her head. Desperately, her mind groped for them before they could turn to vapor, sorting them and storing them in an effort to preserve every last detail, every shared word. Poe standing beyond the gate, nodding to her as if she were an old acquaintance. As if she and he had somehow known each other the whole time . . .
Isobel shifted to get out of bed but stopped when she saw her father.
Seated in a chair at her bedside, Isobel’s dad watched her with folded arms, his gaze steady. His eyes red-rimmed and tired.