Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
To my relief, Abel drives me home in silence, but my thoughts are chaotic. Images of my mother clash alongside her mystery lover, black-feathered birds flapping their wings against the inside of my skull along with the haunted look on Valdemar’s face as I walked out of his house and left him. My inner thighs burn with the slightest of movements, my stomach muscles sore, my throat feeling hoarse—reminders of what I’ve just done, who I’ve just fucked.
“I wish things could be different.”
I already know I’ll never feel pleasure like it. No other man will ever compare to him, but what choice have I got except a life of celibacy? If I were to sleep with another man now, I know my thoughts would stray to Valdemar. It would be the memory of his hands upon my skin that would make me burn, his fingers inside me and his hand around my throat that would make me come. Not only can I not have him, but he’s ruined me for anyone else.
The slam of my apartment door is loud enough to wake the dead, and just as I’d hoped, my mother is sitting at the table, her hands clasped, her back straight, but there’s no smile.
“What is this?” I slam the book onto the table, full of anger at my predicament, that I’ve given in to temptation, that I’ve slept with the enemy. But he doesn’t feel like the enemy. He hasn’t for a long time—and maybe that’s why I’m so angry.
As expected, she doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t smile either. She merely looks at the book like I’ve just slapped a dead rat onto the table.
“Who is ER? Who was he to you?” I ask.
She stares at me, and I wish I could grab her and shake the answers from her.
“Why won’t anyone answer me?” I shout at the walls, but they don’t answer me either, so I grab my laptop from the middle of the table and fire it up, my fingers itching to surf the keys.
While everything loads, I freshen up in the bathroom, changing out of my dress and into leggings and a hoodie. Mouthwash makes my eyes water, and I rub some micellar water over my tired skin.
Feeling a little more alert, I begin.
My first search is for the poem “The Raven.” It must have some significance to my mother. Her name was Lenore, just like in the poem, and she called my brother Edgar, like Edgar Allan Poe. I search for the name Evangeline, wondering if my name is also from Poe, and find out that he composed a poem called “Evangeline” that was part of an essay he wrote and first published in 1884, but I’m lost in the old jargon, so I return to “The Raven.” What was her fascination with this poem? What did it signify?
There are chat rooms and forums dedicated to the poem, containing many discussions on its origins, the meaning behind it, and what a master of the macabre Poe was. But after an hour, all I learn is that the poem is about the death of a loved one and how the raven symbolises the never-ending suffering and pain of the narrator remembering his Lenore. The message Poe was sending was to let go, as holding on to the mournful memories will cause eternal suffering—something I can wholly relate to.
Is that the reason Valdemar gave me this book? Is he trying to tell me to let go of my brother and live my life? But it still doesn’t answer why my mother had it and who ER was.
In a change of direction, I search for the initials ER, thinking there can’t be that many male names beginning with the letter E , but I’m wrong. It’s a needle in a haystack.
After looking at Edmund, Edward, Egor, and Ethan for what feels like hours, I take a break. The need to shower is compelling, but I don’t want to wash the scent of Valdemar off me. The water would pummel away his touch, and I’m not ready to let the memory of him go just yet. That thought only prods at the ache of how messed up my feelings for him are—how I want him but won’t allow myself to have him because he can never change what he’s done. Instead, I delve into the furthest depths of my closet and pull out the old box that has sat at the back for the past ten years.
I’ve never looked at the contents of this box. It’s always been too painful, but I’m on a mission, and the recollection of Valdemar saying that the book was the only thing he had of Ed’s makes me wonder what else I might find if I look.
My father, William, had been the one to eventually clear out Ed’s room, and I don’t think he kept anything of value except what he gave me in this box.
The room stills as if it’s holding its breath over what I’m about to find. And I know she’s here, sitting on the window seat, her favourite spot when I’m in my bedroom.
“What am I going to find in here?” I ask her, but she just motions towards the box, urging me to open it.
There’s no dust on the surface of the lid, a testament to it having been shoved in the back of my closet for so long, buried beneath old handbags, worn-out shoes, and tatty scarves. The box itself is made of thick cardboard, slightly larger than a shoebox, and decorated with the wallpaper that adorned Ed’s bedroom for nearly six years.
Grief fights with my adrenaline, this memory so stark, it almost punctures my chest. I remember him choosing the geometric wallpaper in the DIY store, my father paying someone to come and hang it, and Ed asking if there were any offcuts. My father hated it, saying it made him feel dizzy, but Ed loved it, the triangular design saying something to him that no one else could hear.
Swallowing my tears, I pull the lid off quickly, like a plaster from a wound.
It takes me a few moments before I can bring myself to touch his things.
As expected, his wallet, phone, and keys all stare at me, the familiarity of these inconsequential items almost choking me. Ed was forever losing his keys, so every year I bought him a new keyring that he would add to the bunch in the hope that they would be so large, it would be impossible to lose them.
I gave him so many over the years that he whittled it down to his favourites, and it breaks my heart to see the large red E I gave him one Christmas and the stainless steel one that reads “Thank you for being my brother.” And then there’s the silver one I remember seeing in a souvenir shop. I got it because Ed went through a phase of drawing birds, but the significance of it now has me holding my breath.
The keyring is of two birds facing in opposite directions, their bodies overlapping, their feet touching. I remember being attracted to the swirling patterns on their bodies, the beauty of the design, and the fact that the two birds reminded me of Ed and me, both the same but heading in different directions. It’s only now that I realise what I bought him: the two birds are ravens.
I take the keyring off the bunch and place it next to the box.
Next, I pull out a wad of paper, each page small but cut out with precision. I trace the delicate pencil lines with my fingers, knowing that at some point, Ed had touched these. They’re drawings, sketches, some detailed, some just an outline, but every single one is a bird. I haven’t forgotten how good at drawing he was, but I had forgotten his obsession with drawing birds. At the time, they were just birds, but now I recognise the angle of the beak, the dip of the head, and the sleek black feathers for what they are.
Ravens.
Had Ed seen Valdemar in a vision? Had he known he was to become a Raven Hand?
Ed was very particular about wallets and would only use one he’d purchased himself. He said they had to smell right if he was going to walk around with it in his pocket all day.
Opening it up, I find his debit card, a receipt for a jumper from Landor’s, and a ring pull from a can of pop. Shoving my finger behind the small flap at the bottom of the wallet, I pull out three pieces of paper.
Two are photos.
The first is a photo of me and Ed when we were about five. It was taken by our father while we’d been playing in the back garden. There’s a smudge of mud on my cheek where I can remember digging for treasure under the large oak tree, Ed watching me with fascination, telling me that I would need to dig really deep before I found anything. The second one is of our mother, smiling softly, eyes warm and happy. She’s sitting on a step, a house looming behind her.
The steps look familiar.
I squint at the door behind her and can just make out the intricate detail on the woodwork.
“This was taken at Corvus House,” I tell her.
Her hands rest in her lap, and her smile returns.
“What were you doing there? Why were you at the Raven Hands’ house?”
Ignoring her silence, I look at the last piece of paper, and my heart skips a beat.
There, in Ed’s familiar handwriting, is a name.
Ellison Rue.