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Prologue

Washington University Hospital Baltimore

October 7, 1849

“Edgar?”

Speaking softly, Dr Moran leaned over his patient His eyes traced the wan and pallid countenance of the faar Poe But the man who lay on the hospital bed before hiht, bore little resenified portraits He seehostly shell of that man, a wasted imposter, his cheeks shadow-sunken, his skin waxen, white as the sheets beneath hi to blacken the deep crescent-shaped hollows beneath each eye Sweat glistened on his broad brow, less from fever and more, the doctor knew, from exertion

Rain pattered against the vaulted Gothic s, glittering crystal beads that quivered into long streaks against the backdrop of darkness

Though ht pervaded the otherwise empty room

Outside, the wind moaned, while the clop of horses’ hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels echoed from the alley below

“Edgar,” Moran spoke again, “can you hear me?”

Poe’s eyes drifted lazily open, glassy and distant, like the sightless eyes of a child’s doll, black as inkwells He stared at the ceiling

Moran checked his patient’s pulse, his thu the cla throb marked the seconds

The doctor hesitated He did not wish to send his patient into a frenzy yet again Still, he could not help but press for another limmer of the man locked within the mania Another clue to the puzzle of what had happened four days ago, when Poe had been brought into his care, delirious, covered frorit, insensible, dressed in another le coherent detail as to where he had been—or who he had been with, for that matter

“Do you remember where you are?” Moran asked The doctor shifted in his seat, and the old wooden chair creaked beneath him

Suddenly Poe’s ar his wrist in a grip that held all the strength of rigorin his chest, his voice husky, raw fro “Who is here?”

“Be calrip to reround hi him back, tether him to reality