Nevermore: A Novel Of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe - Plot & Excerpts
Normally, she would have settled for a fraction of the detail she'd already included, and still, even as she expanded the lines and shading, her pencil darted back to something that was not quite perfect, inserted a line here, or a shadow there that could be rendered with more clarity. Anita had been back to check on her three times, but she had never even glanced up from her work. She felt the intrusion, and the shadow that crossed over the paper, but she could not draw herself from the trance the drawing had created. The lighting shifted as the sun rose to its zenith and dropped toward the horizon, but she did not falter. Though the shadows shifted, her memory supplied the details, and she drew, though her fingers were on the verge of cramping, and she feared if she gripped the pencil any tighter, it would shatter. She knew that something was wrong, or, at least that something was different. When she had released spirits in the past, it had been a detached, very personal act. This was an entirely new experience. It had been her will that pressed her to the task, her stamina and talent against fatigue and time. She felt the shell of the tree crumbling as she drew, felt tendrils of thought working their way out to meld with her own. Whoever, or whatever, was trapped was taking an active part in the escape, and she didn't know if she approved, or if she should be fighting with every ounce of her strength, pushing the pencil to fail in its task, dragging herself up and away to run and run and never look back. In the end, it did not matter what she thought; she did what she had come there to do. She drew, and her mind was filled with the image. It was all she could do to maintain surface control of her senses, and her actions.
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