I set a course for winds of fortune/But I hear the voices say/Carry on my wayward son/There'll be peace when you are done/Lay your weary head to rest/Don't you cry no more

I lean against the doorway of a classroom as the others inspect the latest victim. "She could be a prostitute, the way she's painted up," Cantrell points out, looking down at the body that's lying on a metal examination table. I roll my eyes at his observation, not taking any offense to it, but annoyed that it was the first thing that popped into his head.

"Contrary to popular belief, Cantrell," I say in a bored tone," not all of us whores like to wear makeup." The man blushes, eyes dropping from my face back to the body. He is a good man, one of the few who doesn't judge me, though I think he's afraid to have a real conversation with me because he believes his wife would somehow find out and beat him with a broom.

I join the men around the table, looking down at the woman's corpse; her eyelids had dark blue shadow on them and her lips were a dark red, almost matching the blood splattered all over her face and hands. "She doesn't work in Reagan's tavern," I inform the others, able to recall all of the other women I work alongside. My brows knit together as I notice the pearl and ruby earrings she sported. "No whore, no matter how skilled, can afford earrings like the ones she has even if they're fake." Emmett nods at me, examining the padlock that had been keeping the casket closed.

"Did you open this," he asks in his quietly controlled tone, noticing a black mark near the keyhole. The professor that called in the crime nods his head. "Were your hands clean?"

"Yes," the old man nods again. "I didn't leave that smudge, inspector."

"She must have fought him or scratched him," Cantrell observes, pointing first at her hands and then at her neck, both a bloodied mess. Emmett shakes his head, putting the padlock down and moving closer to the body. "I mean, the blood can't be hers since there is no cuts anywhere on her." Emmett moves the woman's head to the side, revealing a length of rope tied around her neck.

"He came at her from behind." I look over at my brother, noticing the fearful gleam that has taken resident in his dark eyes since Emily was grabbed a couple of nights ago. Since then, he'd kept me even closer, sitting in a chair beside my bed at night with a bottle of brandy and a loaded pistol. "Another one of your stories?" Edgar doesn't answer him, looking to me instead.

"The Mystery of Marie Roget," I answer for him. Emmett nods, returning his gaze to the body and cutting the rope that is tied around her neck to examine the knot. They all looked the same to me, but I could see the realization bloom in Edgar's eyes.

"A bowline knot," my brother informs them," just as it was in the story." Emmett looks up, nodding his head for Edgar to continue explaining. "She was a girl..." He trails off, trying not to break down. "...Who worked in the stores in Paris, near the quay. She drowned, but there was no mention of blood on her hands. That detail was added." Emmett looks down at his pocket watch.

"You must write down every detail, we have no time to lose."

Emmett approaches the Poe household, about to knock when a woman's muffled screams reach his ears. He opens the door and rushes in the direction they're coming from, fearing the worst. He knew they belonged to Sarah and he hoped to God that the killer hadn't broken in and attacked her.

He kicks in a door, finding Sarah lying in bed, her face ashen as she lets out cries of pain. He wastes no time in shaking the young woman awake, catching her wrist in time to keep her from striking him.

"Sarah," he whispers, brushing some of her dark hair off her face. "Sarah, it's me, it's Emmett." Slowly she calms down, letting him pull her closer to him; her head rested on his chest, her breaths coming out in short gasps as the fear dissipates. "Calm down, you're safe now." She looks up at Emmett, tears still in her eyes, but able to swallow the screams.

"His name was Theodore," she tells him softly, shaking a little and snuggling closer to him. "We were engaged and he wanted to take me to see a play. On the way back this... This man dressed in all black came out of nowhere and slit h-his throat; there was blood everywhere." She lets out a strangled sob, gripping his vest tightly in her small fists. "The man pushed me to the ground and held me there by my throat until I passed out. When I woke up, I was in the hospital and Theodore was dead." Emmett looks down at her with sorrow-filled eyes. "Hand me my laudanum, it'll help me sleep without seeing the images." He does as she asks, staying with her until she's sound asleep.

When he reaches the doorway he looks back at her one last time, noticing the way all the worries disappear, her face taking on a more peaceful expression. Her brow was smooth and her breathing regular, legs still tangled in the sheets. Frowning, he moves back to the bed and straightens out the thin sheet before pulling the comforter up to her chin. "Goodnight, Sarah." She sighs, leaning against his palm when he cups her cheek.

She really was a pretty woman, her fiery attitude really capturing his attention. Perhaps after all of this was over, he could ask to spend more time with her away from crimes and mysteries? He'd like that, would love to hear more of her little comments, and see the way her hazel eyes lit up in wonderment whenever he said something she didn't know. He would have to ask her brother for permission—he was quite certain the elder Poe sibling would gut him without remorse—and he prayed that it would be granted.

With that thought in mind, Emmett moves down the hall to the open door where lamplight was spilling out across the floorboards. Edgar doesn't notice Emmett knocking on his office door, becoming lost in the world of fiction as he does as the killer wants; anything to keep Emily alive and his little sister safe from that monster.

He jumps as Emmett's voice echoes in the room, placing his pen on his desk and looking up at the other man, the first man to catch his sister's eye since Theodore's murder. "I'm sorry to disturb you," Emmett begins as Edgar stands up," I was a little concerned about your..."

"My progress?"

"Yes." Edgar looks down at the paper he had been writing on, flexing his hand to make the cramps vanish before he had to start again.

"I feel as though I've gone from author to character in one of my tales," he admits, meeting Emmett's worried, but understanding gaze. "I'm as trapped and bedeviled as any of the hapless bastards I ever created." Emmett nods, walking over to look at a painting hanging on the wall as Edgar sits back down in the uncomfortable office chair his sister had scrounged up for him last year on Christmas.

"I may not understand completely, but I'm sorry you have to feel this way."

"Regardless of what you think of me, Fields, I am a master of my art and I will not fail, ever."

To be honest, Edgar just needed to hear confirmation of that statement from someone other than Sarah, whom had endless faith in her elder brother's abilities as a writer.

"I know that," Emmett nods, sensing the other man's doubts. There's a short pause in which the only things heard is the ticking of the clock and the rustling of paper. "Look, I, uh, I think I was overly harsh with you the other day and, for that, I would like to apologize." Edgar gives him a long look, trying to find any dishonesty in the statement, but finding none. It comforted him that not everyone was a liar in this cruel world.

"My wife was singing at the piano when she first coughed up blood." It seems that tonight the Poe siblings simply needed to get terrible memories off their chests, Emmett muses silently to himself as he listens to Edgar's heart wrenching tale. "I prepared myself for the worst as Tuberculosis is the Poe family disease, but Virginia seemed to recover and I foolishly succumbed to hope. By year's end, the blood had returned and seemed to drench everything, a flood of crimson that no one was able to stop. I-I kept my sister far from the house when it happened, I couldn't lose her when she was still so young."

"I doubt even such a sickness could take your sister before she was ready."

"You're probably right, I've never met a more hard-headed woman in all my days." For a moment, affection colored his tone and Emmett found himself realizing that Sarah was the only real family Edgar had left. "I paid for a room in Raegan's tavern for her, paid for her food and drink, but I made sure she was never allowed in here until it was over and Virginia's things…."

"It's alright, Mister Poe." Edgar swallows hard and blinks back his tears, his fingers tight around his pen.

"I felt a great relief when it was over, knowing my wife was no longer suffering, but that was soon replaced by the dark, clinging sorrow that has haunted my footsteps since the day I was born. It was eased when I met Emily, like I could finally breathe again without a weight pressing down on my chest. I know…. I know Sarah feels the same when she looks at you. She's been acting since Theodore was murdered, but she doesn't pretend when you are nearby."

Emmett looks down at the ground before meeting Edgar's dark eyes once more, understanding completely about what he meant. He'd always thought there was only one person you were meant to be happy with, but Sarah was quickly proving his hypothesis wrong.

"Do you think Emily's still alive?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Even if you're lying, I appreciate the gesture." Emmett gives a polite nod in response, gaze still roving over the office. It was a bit too cluttered for his taste, but it seemed to match the chaotic thoughts that filled Edgar's head, disjointed and yet making so much sense to the older man. "I had thought to try and support you while you wrote since I doubt I could be of any help, perhaps watch over your sister to ensure she's safe." A wry smile makes itself known on Edgar's face and Emmett can't help but think that it seemed odd. "What?"

"You're concerned for her."

"Of course I am, she's an innocent woman that may have a deranged killer stalking her." Edgar just quirks up a brow, another similarity he shares with his little sister. "That's- I mean, I wouldn't ever…." He lets out a sigh and sits down, ignoring the fur pelt that had occupied the chair before him. "Is it really so obvious?"

"Mm, to all except the person that matters. All I ask is that you're gentle with her and try not to take things too fast because I would hate to have to feed you to Carl." Emmett's brows furrow and he stares at the other man in confusion until a fat raccoon crawls out from under the desk. "Emmett, meet Carl."

"You keep a raccoon in your home?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

+-+-+-+-+-The Next Morning -+-+-+-+-+

I groan, attempting to ignore the person who's foolish enough to wake me up. "Sarah, we have to go. We might know where the killer is going to be."

"Keep shaking that shoulder and I'll show you a killer, Emmett," I threaten, opening one eye to glare at the tall man leaning over me. "Then again, we could always send your men to wherever you think the killer will be and you could join me in bed." I smile coyly up at him, well aware of the fact that one sleeve of my threadbare nightgown is hanging off my shoulder. I can't help teasing Emmett, he made it so easy even this early in the damn morning.

"We have no time for your teasing." Emmett frowns at me, throwing me my robe and picking me up over his shoulder, carrying me down the stairs and to the carriage where my brother was waiting for us.

"Would it be too much trouble for someone to tell me where we're going?"

"To the theater," Emmett informs me," Cantrell is already there so the exits are secured." The theater? I can feel the blood drain from my face at the thought, having stayed away from them after what happened to Theodore. "The victim was still in her costume, which suggests she was abducted directly from the theater." Emmett gives Edgar a pistol. "We'll find her."

"I would gladly give my life for hers, Mister Fields," Edgar states solemnly," just as I would for Sarah."

"I know you would." I notice that Edgar's eyes flick from the Detective to me several times as if urging the man to say more. "I'd happily do the same."

"What play is it," I ask breathlessly, pulling my robe on and tying the sash around my waist.

"Macbeth." Okay, I could handle Macbeth, Theodore and I had happy memories from that performance. The carriage comes to a halt and Emmett, Edgar, and I rush out and into the theater, adrenaline running through our systems. I follow closely behind my brother as we barge into the building, up onto the stage, and to the back where the rigging is.

A man walks over to us, demanding to know why we were interrupting the play and looking as though he'd just stepped in something foul.

"By order of the police department, I have a warrant to search these premises."

"Why," the man demands hatefully. "There's a show going on." Growing impatient, I grab the front of the man's shirt and press him against the wall.

"You'll let them do as they please, you flea-bitten mongrel, or angry patrons will not be the ones you have to worry about," I threaten in a low voice that had the man's eyes widening in sheer terror. "Believe me when I say that I've had a bad week and would just love to take it out on a piece of trash like yourself. Now, get all your stagehands out here this fuckin' instant." Breathing heavily, I let go and watch as the man scrambles to do what I asked. I turn to look at the others, all but Edgar wearing shocked expressions. "What? We needed to get things moving and obviously the 'I'm a cop, do what I say' routine wasn't working."

"Have I told you how much I loved your temper today," Edgar asks with a wry smile. Men file out of the backrooms and crawlspaces, forming a line in front of us and looking none too happy about the interruption. A sailor spits in the space between him and Emmett, a glare making him seem more childish than anything.

"Oh yes, that's classy. I'm so shocked you're not yet married." He shoots me a look that usually means shut up and I send him one of my own. Emmett simply shrugs it off with a faint smile in my direction.

"Put out your hands," he demands in that soft voice of his. Never shouting, always carefully controlled, and sending shivers down my spine whenever he spoke to me. The old guy holds out both hands for inspection, looking smug when Emmett continues down the line. While Emmett's doing his interrogation, Edgar turns towards the stage manager that I threatened earlier.

"Is this your entire crew," my brother inquires in a low voice. The man nods, looking uncertainly at me. "Are you sure?" Another nod. My brother pushes him towards the line of men. "Well, count them again."

"What are you doing," a beefy man with a thick accent demands of Emmett. "You know, we got less than seven minutes before the act change." Emmett turns to face the man who spoke.

"Where are you from," Emmett asks, sounding unconcerned.

"Liverpool, got three days' shore leave to make some extra scratch, so if you don't mind, please—" Emmett holds up the summery of Macbeth, cutting the man off and demanding he read it aloud. The man grabs the paper and throws it to the ground. "It's Macbeth, I know the play."

"Someone's missing," the manager says once he's reached the end of the line, beginning to sweat when he sees my glare.

"Who," Emmett demands. We all face the nervous man, the light sweat on his forehead gleaming in the stage lights.

"Maurice."

"Where is he?" The manager shakes his head with a shrug.

"I don't know, but nobody's allowed to leave until the show is over."

"Shoot any of these men that attempt to leave!" Heaving a sigh, I follow after Emmett and the two of us head beneath the stage, he holding a pistol and I a lit candle. We walk through the deserted area carefully, listening for any sound that was out of the ordinary, ignoring the sounds of the play continuing upstairs. A clattering noise makes Emmett and I turn sharply, seeing a flash of clothing and following after it as silently as we can.

"Come out," Emmett demands in a whisper," show yourself." He hears another small noise and walks forward a few steps before turning again and pointing his pistol into a dark crevice that most grown men would find difficult to fit in. "I have a pistol aimed on you, come out now and put your hands where I can see them or I will fire." If what Emmett said was true, then the man we were looking for couldn't possibly fit in such a small space; hell, only a child—

"Emmett, no," I shout right as gunfire and panicked screams fill my ears. I wince, expecting to see blood coming from the small crevice but instead I hear the frightened voice of a child.

"Don't shoot me, I'm in the play!" I drop to my knees, holding out my arms.

"Come here, sweetheart, nobody is going to hurt you." The small boy hurtles himself into my arms, letting out a terrified whimper as he looks up at Emmett. "If you didn't fire your gun, then who the hell did?"

"Stay here with him until I come back."

"The hell I will!" I wrap a dusty blanket around the child's shoulders, promising him that he was safe now before rushing after Emmett. I swear, the man has longer legs than I thought humanly possible.

God, please let Edgar be okay!

"Seal the doors," Emmett was shouting as the child and I come up the stairs, the child clinging tightly to my robe. "Sarah, I told you to stay where you were safe!"

"Shouldn't we be hunting for the masked fiend that kidnapped my best friend?" He makes a noise of frustration, handing the boy off to the stage manager before dragging me after him with Edgar falling in step beside him.

"If I'm correct, then the crew should have lockers downstairs." The wooden lockers had letters painted on their fronts in white, allowing us to figure out the owners. M for Maurice and for missing, how appropriate. "Poe," Emmett calls, opening what I hope is the right one. On the top shelf of the locker is a small, wooden box, which Emmett places on a nearby table. With Edgar raising a lantern to provide light, the three of us crowd around the box, Emmett opening it slowly like he suspected a trap.

I quirk up a brow when I notice what looks like a piece of fish with a quill stabbed through it. "What is that," Edgar asks," is it some type of fish?"

"That... Is a human tongue." I close my eyes for a moment and swallow back bile. Of course it's a human tongue, why wouldn't it be? This day just keeps getting worse and worse. "What does it mean?" Edgar looks away, thinking for a moment before the answer seems to smack him in the face. I move away from the table and cover my mouth with a hand, feeling sick to my stomach.

"The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar. He was a man suspended between life and death by mesmerism. He's a living, conscious corpse who can only speak via the vibrations of his tongue. It's a bit of burlesque." I make a face as I remember the tale, preferring Edgar's poems to his macabre stories.

"Mister Poe, sir," Cantrell shouts breathlessly as he joins us," your house! I'm afraid there's been an accident."

The lyrics are from the song Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas