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“From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seenAdvertisement

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I lov’d, I loved alone.

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

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The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.”

“It’s so sad,” she said, looking up.

“Most of them are.”

She frowned, turning pages. “But not all of them, right?”

To this he offered no answer.

From somewhere downstairs, she became aware of the distant ticking of a clock.

“Read me something?” She heard herself say, as though someone else was speaking through her.

He hesitated. Then, after a moment, she felt him slide nearer, causing every one of her senses to become amplified. His shoulder brushed against hers, igniting a tremble that ran through the length of her, and she tried to hide her shaking hands by gripping the sides of the book. He began turning pages once more. She could feel the movement of each sheet with her entire frame, first as it lifted, then as it settled on the other side.

At last he stopped, and she stared down at the printed column of words, unable to comprehend a single one. His hand, warm and steady, wound its way around hers, wrapping it like a spider would its prey. She surrendered it to him, unable to watch even as his thumb traced the place, just above her knuckles, where he had once written his number in deep violet. Isobel ceased to breathe. Her heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts shattering into senseless fragments. All the while, her eyes remained trained and unblinking on the open page. Lines without meaning stared up at her, little more than black sticks in an otherwise white world.

“Ulalume,” he began, and the word itself, which he’d pronounced “You-la-loom,” flowed from him like a string of soft notes.

“The skies they were ashen and sober;

The leaves they were crisped and sere—

The leaves they were withering and sere;”

He enfolded her hand between both of his, and she felt the silver bands of his rings press into her skin. She turned her head slowly in his direction, though she dared not meet those eyes.

She breathed in, rewarded with that mixed scent that she’d found impossible to pinpoint before. Now that he was so close, she thought she could almost decipher it. Crushed leaves.

Incense that had had time to soak into cloth. Worn leather. There was a spice essence there too, sharp and crisp, like dried orange peels.

“It was night in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year:”

His voice flowed low and smooth, and she concentrated on its tone more than on the words themselves as it buzzed through her like music. With her hand pressed between both of his, her whole body seemed to hum, and she began to feel fuzzy from the inside out, like a radio stuck between channels. Her eyes fluttered shut.

“It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

In the misty mid region of Weir—”

Isobel’s brow creased, her momentary paradise interrupted. Her hand, as though by reflex, tightened around his. Something in that phrase stirred her from deep within, breaking up the settled debris of her subconscious. Had she heard him right? She opened her eyes, listening hard for the first time.

“It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of We—”

A loud crack, like a gunshot, resounded through the house. Isobel started violently, dropping Varen’s hand and jumping so that the book toppled out of her lap. It thudded against the floor and snapped shut, just missing Slipper as she launched herself beneath the bed.

Isobel looked up to find Varen already on his feet, though she hadn’t felt him rise.

Footsteps on the stairs.

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

Her heart quickened. “What?”

She rose to her knees and then stood, pulling the book after her—heavy as an anchor. She gripped it to her chest. “What? Who’s that?” pqdm.com