Though Isobel could recall only a few specifics regrading the appearance of Poe’s wife-a handful of vague characteristics picked up during her study with Varen, retained from the one or two glimpses she’d had for her portraits- Scrimshaw, it seemed, had forgotten nothing.

Isobel’s heart crashed against the cage of her chest, beating against his.

Don’t let the elegance act fool you,” Varen said, drawing out his notepad. “She farts.

Isobel, this was the only way I knew how to reach you. After tonight it will all go away. I never meant for you to be pulled into any of this-ever. Please believe that. Somehow I’ve lost control of everything. I only wish I could see you again. I wish I could tell you everything that I couldn’t before. Most of all, I wish there was a way we could start over. Whatever happens now, please believe that I didn’t mean for it to end this way. Yours always. – V.

Oh come now. It’s no fun if you don″t know why I’m gutting you when I’m gutting you. Think!

Isobel looked down at her lap, at her hands. She turned her left one over, remembering where Varen had written his number on her that first time. Those numbers were gone now, but in hindsight, he may as well have tattooed the moment onto her soul.

She’d never been kissed like that before – like the shell of her soul had evaporated.

Dreaming aside,” he went on, “how can you be so sure your world is the real one?

She could just hear her little brother asking all sorts of stupid questions, like if his underwear was black too.

It was here that Isobel first felt the twinge of an inward pull on her mind. Slowly the words started to get out of the way and let images of courtiers revolve, in slow motion, through her mind’s eye. It was as though she had somehow adapted to the density of the language. Soon the words smudged away from the page, and in their place, she was left with the sensation of gliding through the scene, like she’d become a movie camera, sweeping through the sets of rooms and over the heads of costumed actors.