Up ahead sits the cottage of my friend Ebenezer—my boon companion who swam in the falls every summer with me and the other young miscreants of Richmond; who steered me up the James in his sailboat, guiding us on adventures through the wild river islands.
I tear across his lawn, spring into a tree, and climb up the white trunk to the snow-slick shingles of his roof. With a lift of the sash of his gabled window, I slide feetfirst into his room.
Ebenezer bolts upright in bed—not yet tucked beneath his blankets—not yet dressed in his nightclothes—but stretched out with a book atop his cotton bedcover.
“Aha!” He snaps the book shut. “I knew I’d see you here tonight.”
I close the window. “Why do you say that?”
“Bishop Moore’s sermon.”
I bend over to catch my breath, brushing snow off my pantaloons in the process, but I don’t yet answer.
Eb swings his long legs around until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. His tawny hair sticks up like matted dog fur from the way he lay on his pillow.
“You looked like you might vomit up your breakfast after the bishop commanded us to silence our muses,” he says. “And I loathed what he said about your parents’ theater company. What an ass he was this morning.” Eb flinches at his own words and glances at his door. “Don’t tell Ma I said that.” He snickers. “Or God, for that matter. Forgive me, Lord.”
I rub at my throat, still feeling the grip of Pa’s fingers. “I’m here because of Pa, not the bishop.”
“Oh?” Eb sets his book next to the lamp burning on the table beside his bed. “And what did King John of Moldavia do this time?”
Instead of replying, I make a beeline to Eb’s wardrobe, home of a glorious stash of pilfered liquor.
“Oh, Christ, was it ‘getting splashed’ bad?” he asks.
I dig around in his piles of pantaloons and nightshirts. “If I can only survive until this weekend . . .” My fingertips bump against the curves of a smooth piece of glass. With a smile, I pull out a beautiful black bottle of sherry by its neck. “Oh, God, if I can make it to the university, Eb, I’ll be free. I’m so damn close to escaping.”
Behind me, the window rattles.
I wheel around, the sherry sloshing in my hands, and I gape at a dervish of tree branches flailing about in the darkness. The window shakes harder, as though it might shatter, and the air in Eb’s bedroom crackles with static that raises the hairs on my neck. A palpable force barrels toward me.
Eb jumps up from his bed. “What the devil is that?”
“Keep the window closed.”
“What?”
“Keep the window closed!” I toss him the sherry, lunge for the window, and hold the sash down. The windowpane buzzes against my right ear, and then—oh, hell!—I feel the force of a firm set of hands fighting to raise the sash.
“She’s trying to open the window!”
“Who is?” asks Eb.
I push down with more strength and close my eyes—unable to bear the sight of her again. I know it’s her. It must be her, for Ebenezer’s room just turned shadowy and cold, and I’m clammy and panicky, as though trapped in a coffin, buried alive. I can’t breathe!
“What the devil is happening, Edgar?” asks Eb.
“I’m not letting anything confine me here in Richmond!” I yell, gasping for air. “Go away, Lenore! Go away! Pa will see you! He’ll trap me in Ellis & Allan!”
My shouting is futile—my strength inadequate.
The window flies open, and the smell of smoke rushes in.