Nevermore

The fire feels good enough to make me dizzy. I sink deeper into the leather chair and stretch my bare feet toward the massive hearth while rainwater drips steadily from the hem of my dress onto the polished floor beneath me. My boots sit beside the fire now, steaming faintly in the heat. The skin of my toes burns pleasantly as feeling starts returning to them.

Somewhere beyond the walls of Crawford Manor, thunder rolls endlessly across the Blacklands, but inside the sitting room the fire crackles warmly enough to almost convince me I am safe. Almost. I lean forward slowly, holding my hands toward the flames, and that is when I finally get a good look at the portrait hanging above the fireplace.

Bertram Crawford stares down at the room with the cold confidence of a man who believed God created the world specifically for him to own pieces of it. Powdered white hair frames a long severe face. Dark colonial clothing hangs sharply from narrow shoulders. One hand rests atop a cane while the other grips the arm of an ornate chair carved with ravens.

The painting itself feels old. The eyes seem wrong somehow, too alive beneath the firelight. I stand carefully and step closer to the hearth, drawn toward the brass plaque mounted beneath the portrait frame.

BERTRAM CRAWFORD, FOUNDER OF CRAWFORD MANOR, A.D. 1762

Below that, etched in smaller faded lettering:

THE **** OF RAVENS SHALT THOU ABHOR, LEST THE CRAWFORD LINE BE NEVERMORE.

I stare at the inscription for several seconds, trying to decide whether it sounds more like a family motto or a curse. Then lightning explodes across the towering windows behind me. The entire room flashes white. Thunder crashes hard enough to rattle the glass cabinets and make me jump before I can stop myself.

At that exact moment, a calm voice speaks from the doorway behind me. “I apologize for the delay, Miss James.” I turn sharply, instinctively reaching for the Peacemaker resting on the armchair beside the fire. Corbett stands motionless in the doorway, somehow managing to look perfectly composed despite appearing and disappearing from rooms like a vampire with a pension plan.

“The storm has unfortunately downed the telephone lines,” he says politely. “I am afraid contacting town this evening will be impossible.”

“Well,” I mutter, glancing toward the rain-lashed windows, “that figures.”

“However,” Corbett continues smoothly, “Mister Crawford has graciously offered you a room for the evening. Our chauffeur, Mister Rook, can drive you into town once the roads are safer in the morning.” I look back toward the fire, toward my drying boots, then too the impossible storm outside.

Every instinct I have tells me this place is dangerous. Unfortunately, every instinct I have also remembers the thing standing in that cornfield. “Yes,” I say quietly. “I think I’d appreciate that.”