By the time Mrs. Poe died, her children had been picked out, one by one, and sent to live with their respective new owners like a litter of puppies. Willem, the oldest, boarded a carriage and went to live with their grandparents. Rosalie, who was as sweet and helpful as could be, never even said goodbye and went to live with a wonderful young couple a few towns away.

That left Edgar awaiting his own new family in their rather tiny, bleak house. The Poe family hadn't had much money, and whatever belongings had been left had been packed away or sold within hours of burying Edgar's mother. His bed, his wooden pencils and notebooks, gone in an instant.
"Well, think of it this way." Willem had told him the night before he left. "It's going to be a fresh new start for all of us. Well, Rosalie and I, at least. You always were kind of strange. I'd be surprised if anyone adopted you at all."

Was he strange? Edgar touched his hair, then smoothed his shirt. He didn't think so. His mother had always called him her raven boy, because of his wild, dark hair. But now she was gone, and her words nothing but a memory. And so he waited by the front window, suitcase packed with his clothing and books. The day was particularly bleak, he noted, the sky low and brewing like hot tea. The muddy path to their house well saturated. It was not the outside impending storm that worried him though, but the darkness at his back.

The house had taken on a type of odd presence during the removal of his mother and all their furniture. It was cold, wooden, and the creature in his bedroom often stood in the corner at night, watching him for hours. He believed it to be some type of large bird, but he wasn't entirely sure.

A carriage pulled up to the house, a set of black horses leading the way. They were the Allan family, who could never have children of their own. Mr. Allan, a stern man who appeared more giant than man, got out first. Then helped Mrs. Allan, who reminded Edgar so much of his mother that his breath caught, stepped out next. "Are you sure about this?" Mr. Allan asked his wife. "The boy is strange. There's something odd about him, I just can't put my finger on it."

"John, he's just a boy!" Mrs. Allan argued.

"He has a mustache, Franny." Mr. Allan growled. "He's not even old enough to--"

Edgar opened the door. "Mr. and Mrs. Allan?" He called, and dragged his suitcase out behind him. "Thank goodness you're here! I've been waiting for hours!"

"Oh, isn't he just delightful?" Mrs. Allan grabbed her husband by the arm. "Look at him in his little suit!"

Mr. Allan, in fact, did not think that Edgar was delightful. In fact, the boy unnerved him. It was a feeling that would last for years, long after he was dead and buried. "He's...charming." He ground out, and then extended his curled hand out to the Poe boy. "Come, boy, it's time to go home."

Edgar took his hand and walked to the carriage with both Mr. and Mrs. Allan. As he did so, he turned to bid his childhood home goodbye. And saw it in the window. The dark, hooked beak. The feathers, as dark as the night sky. "Nevermore." Edgar whispered.

"What was that?" Mr. Allan questioned, and opened the carriage door.

Edgar clamored into the carriage. "Nothing," He mumbled, and scooted over to make room for Mrs. Allan. She smelled of powder and perfume, like a wealthy woman. Not like the sweat and sickness of Edgar's own mother before she died.

"Wave goodbye, Edgar." She told him cheerfully. "Your new life begins now." And so it did.




© Jessicaadame2020