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543 pages, Paperback
First published August 31, 2010
He stood on the farthest edge of the cliffs, boots caked in ash.
Like clawed fingers, the black rocks jutted out over the torpid waters far below, pointing toward the distant horizon. A vast motionless sea, canvas white and still as death, spread itself wide and long before him. It met, in the distance, with the thin black line that separated it from a torn
violet sky.
At his back stood the skeleton ruins of the once-grand palace, now a crumbling structure forged of forgotten words and thoughts long since given to slumber.
“We,” he said at last, “are doing our project on Poe.”
He shifted the huge book around and scooted it toward her, one finger indicating a black-and-white thumbnail photograph. The image portrayed was of a gaunt, deep-browed man with unruly hair and a small blackcomb mustache. His eyes looked sad, desperate, and wild all at the same time. Sunken and pooled by enormous dark circles, they seemed to ache with sorrow.
To Isobel, he looked like a nicely dressed mental patient in need of a nap.
She sank farther into her chair, picking at the pages. “Didn’t he marry his cousin or something?”
“The man is a literary god and that’s all you have to say?”
She glimpsed it in a flash—someone standing in the gym doorway. She only caught the outline of the form in a quick blur, but whoever it was, he’d been wearing what had looked like a black hat and... a cloak?

“Lady Ligeia," he began again, "is a woman in the literature who returns from the dead, taking over another woman's body to be with her true love."
"Oh, yes. Lovely" Isobel blanched. "I guess the other chick didn't mind at all?”
“There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion.”
“When there is no way, you must make a way.”
Just because I wear black and keep a private journal, that doesn't mean I'm going to blow up the school. Or terrorize mindless cheerleaders, for that matter.”
“Hands quivering, she reached toward him.
"Don't." He turned his back to her, facing the door.
That word had stopped her once before. But not now. Not now that she had glimpsed through the funeral front of Varen's own eternal Grim Facade. Despite all the dark armor, the kohl eye liner, the black boots and chains, she saw him clearly now. She peered through the curtain of that cruel calmness, through the death stare and the vampire sentiments and angst and, behind it all, had found true beauty.”
“My beautiful, my Isobel. My Love. You ask me to wait. And so I wait.
For all of this, I know, is but a dream.
And when, in sleep, at last we wake,
I will see you again.”