Free Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe by David Niall Wilson

a hole in the chest.   A hole in the heart."
    Lenore lurched for the table.   She knew, even as he spoke, that he was right.   She'd gotten so caught up in what was happening, in what might happen, that she'd forgotten her duty.
    The drawing sat where she'd left it.   She had to gather her pencils from the floor, and the chair, where Tom had accidentally knocked them climbing back into the room.   She smoothed the drawing and focused.   She did not have the time she would usually take to drop back into the trance-like state she had grown accustomed to.   She pressed the tip of the pencil to the paper, and began to draw.   The image was fresh in her mind, and she knew she would get no help with it.
    Grimm had changed.   She knew that she could not draw the raven; she had to recreate the crow.   She had to drop back under the control of a broken glamour and bring back what she'd helped to shatter.   She tried to relax, but her fingers gripped the pencil so tightly her knuckles whitened and she feared the shaft of the pencil would break, sending the tip skittering across the page.   She controlled it.
    No one in the room made a sound.   Anita stood back, breathless.   Edgar waited, the silent bird held in the open palms of his hand, as if offering a benediction.   Tom just stared, wide-eyed, uncertain what he'd been drawn into but aware enough to play his part and do nothing to spoil the moment.
    The world grew still.   It is possible that it was simply the gravity of the moment and the depth of their concentration, joined in a single wish – a single work – but all four would swear to the end of their days that something closed around them, something that prevented the world from realizing something remarkable was happening, while at the same time helping them hold onto the spirit they fought for, the inexplicably intelligent and powerful spirit of a bird – a single small, dark bird.
    Lenore worked quickly and with abandon.   She spent no time staring at the page, or worrying at details.   She knew them, or she did not, but it was a race against time, her gift against entropy and the slowly leaking energy she had to contain.   The feathers returned.   The glistening quality, darkening where strong, avian legs began, the shape of the woman's face, blanked from the center of the original image, disappeared.   She thought about the morning.   She though how happy she'd been, drawing the bird for the sheer joy of drawing, drawing it so she could show what she'd done to Edgar – possibly even to Grimm – who knew what the bird saw, or felt, or appreciated?
    She remembered how the sun had wound through the trees and played across the window.   She let the memory of the scent of hot coffee, bacon, and hot bread return to her.   She heard voices, though no one around her spoke, and she drew.   Her hand flew across the page, returning lines, shading, highlights and subtle background shading.   As she worked she forgot, even, to breathe.   There was not much to do.   It was such a small yet complicated task, a one-shot succeed or fail moment in time.
    It seemed to her that it took an age to complete the work.   She threw the pencil over her shoulder to distance it from the page.   She pushed away from the table and stood, staring down at what she'd recreated.   The image of the bird and the girl stood, staring at her from the windowsill with beady, knowing eyes.   Just for an instant she was certain she saw herself reflected in those dark, glossy surfaces.
    And then it was gone.   All of it.   The energy drained from the room.   The walls seemed to draw in on them, shrinking the space where they stood.   The light returned to that of late morning.   She looked around the room.   The others blinked and stared, as if waking from a shared dream.
    It took only seconds to re-focus on Edgar.   She walked over slowly and raised her hands beneath his.   He stared down at the bird he held intently.