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Isobel woke with a sharp gasp.
The outline of long tombs and graves swam into her focus. Hunched in the gloom of the catacombs, they looked like shadow creatures waiting to attack.
Beside her, Gwen sat propped against the tomb of J. Meredith, her head lolled onto one shoulder, her mouth slightly agape, emitting soft snores.
Isobel twisted where she sat, whipping her head to look in the direction of the door that had taken her into the separate chamber of the marble crypt. It was closed, and the light filtering in through the opaque grime-stained sheet of glass no longer shone ethereal blue, but a dull bone yellow.
She’d been dreaming after all. Or was she still?
Isobel grabbed the flashlight once more and felt a funny sense of déjà vu as she reached for the butterfly watch next. She unclipped it from her backpack and clicked it open to see if the hands were still spinning, but they remained still, except for the second hand, which twitched along at its normal rate.
The moment her brain registered the time, a strange prickling sensation spread through her, causing the metal casing of the tiny watch to turn ice-cold in her palm.
The hour hand and the minute hand were almost aligned; both aimed a full notch past twelve.
It was five after one. More than an entire hour past midnight.
Isobel shot to her feet and dropped the keys. They landed on her backpack with a muffled clank. Shoving the watch into one pocket of Varen’s jacket, she launched into a run, leaving Gwen behind as she scuttled around tombs and hopped over broken stones. Blindly, not caring if she fell, she made her way to the door that she hoped would, this time, take her out of the catacombs and into the graveyard, to the site of Poe’s original burial.
But what if she found that the roses had already been placed? What would she do if she’d missed him? If Reynolds had already come and gone?
Pushing all thought aside, Isobel pulled the iron handle of the door, yanking it open. The rusted hinges shrieked, their cries echoing through the catacombs. A gust of frozen air laden with a cascade of powdery snow whirled in over the threshold, sweeping between her feet to mingle with the dust, creating ghostly swirls.
Isobel paused to give one last backward glance toward Gwen, who still lay sound asleep, bundled to her chin in her coat, and the scarf Isobel had given her, looking like someone’s lost doll.
Before she could change her mind, call out to Gwen and wake her, she ducked through the door and out into the darkened cemetery.
Snow sifted from the sky in downy flakes, giving the tops of the tombs thin, fleecy blankets. It collected on the walls and gathered in the crooked elbows and outstretched fingers of the withered trees. Flecks of white caught in Isobel’s lashes, blurring her vision. She blinked them away. Then, from somewhere close by, she heard the echo of voices.
The sound of people chatting and laughing arose from beyond the far wall. A woman’s high-pitched laugh ricocheted through the cemetery, bouncing off silent headstones and tombs, their slate faces impervious to her glee.
Isobel set her footsteps down carefully as she ascended a small set of brick stairs that led from the catacombs. She glanced from side to side, only to find her view blocked by several tall crypts, and entered into a narrow space between two garage-size tombs. She put her hands against the walls on either side of her to help guide her as she pressed forward through the tight passageway.
She stopped when she reached the end. From where she now stood, Isobel could just make out the silhouette of Poe’s old grave, recognizing its shape from the grainy photo of the Poe Toaster. Thick and heavy-looking, like a milestone marker, the solemn stone stood between two squat, snowcapped shrubs.
Even though she could not make out the writing on the face of the stone, the tiny figure of a raven engraved into the top curved portion left her with no doubt that it was the one she sought.
Unable to see the base of the grave due to the shrubs, Isobel could not tell if the roses had been left. But she could still hear the nearby jumble of voices as the talking and laughing continued to grow in volume.
Crouching low, she poked her head out slightly and peered around the side of the tomb, leaning forward just enough to catch sight of the crowd that watched from beyond the Greene Street gates.
They stood huddled together in a tight cluster, gloved hands wrapped around the iron bars.
Most of the onlookers wore heavy coats, hoods, and ski caps, but there were several decked out in long Victorian-style cloaks as well. At least one of the men sported an old-fashioned top hat. Thick scarves wrapped their throats, while plumes of white breath accompanied their loud talking.
Isobel saw that some of the watchers held cameras; the lenses glinted silver in the glow of the streetlamps, and the red dots of power lights pierced the darkness like demon eyes.
She sank slowly back into her hiding place, aware that one wrong move on her part would no doubt unleash a flurry of flashes. She knew the observers had to be combing the spaces between tombs and scanning the landscape for even the slightest hint of movement among the gravestones. And that fact alone was enough to allow her a small measure of relief.
Reynold’s fan club wouldn’t still be here if he’d already come and gone, right? If he’d already paid tribute, the crowd would have dispersed by now for sure.
Then again, Isobel thought, maybe not.
Taking a brief glance back to the place where Poe’s marker stood, Isobel saw that the view from the Greene Street gates to Poe’s old grave was completely blocked by another aboveground tomb. No one watching from the street could ever get a clear shot, just like Mr. Swanson had said. And that had to be why so few pictures of the Poe Toaster existed.
Still, something told her the group wouldn’t be waiting, watching with an almost palpable, nervous excitement, if they weren’t expecting something to happen at any moment.
Isobel’s ears perked up when one of the voices emanating from Greene Street, a man’s sturdy baritone, lifted above all the others and began to recite lines from “The Raven.”
