Isobel had entrusted the note to Gwen just before Baltimore. And the small scrap of paper still remained her only tangible evidence that Varen had loved her.

Expect...he didn't anymore.

You loved her," Isobel said.

"Worshipped," Scrimshaw corrected. "But more ludicrous than that, let us not forget, she loved me." He gave a short ironic laugh. "Not just him-the poet. But me as well. I, the epitome of our own penchant for self-destruction. Do you know how difficult...how impossible such a feat must have been?

I love you." Isobel said. Because even if the words could not stop what was coming, they were still her first and sole defense.

"I know," Varen surprised her by saying as he turned away. "That's why you're gone.

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.

Not anymore, though," he said. "And I guess that's the one perk of loving a dead girl. She never changes.