Sam listened anxiously while JB tried to reach his boss on the elucidator.
"Cira, did you get any of that?" he said.
A woman responded in a crisp tone. "What do you need, K'Tah?"
K'Tah? Was that JB's last name?
"There seems to be a potential issue involving an alternate universe—Sam is here with me," JB added.
Sam straightened her shoulders and smiled in case Cira was watching from some futuristic monitor. "It's an honor to be working with the agency, Ma'am," she said in her most professional voice. "I'm thankful for the opportunity you and your team have given—"
Cira cut her off. "K'Tah, do you suspect this involves the disguised man who killed the Ashford girl?"
Sam felt her insides recoil. Of course Cira didn't want to hear from her.
JB patted Sam's shoulder and rolled his eyes at the elucidator as if to say, Don't take it personally. To Cira, he said, "I do suspect that. The man in the hood obviously has no qualms about making chronological chaos. Can you tell me if anything has changed in the life of writer Edgar Allan Poe?"
"Who?" said Cira.
Sam stifled a gasp. Really? Even JB's boss had no idea who Poe was?
"A nineteenth century writer," said JB. "I believe he knew Emily Dickinson."
This seemed impossible. Sam remembered her high school English teacher doing a whole unit on Poe for Halloween. His old letters were preserved in museums and archives. There were even movies based on his fiction. How could there be a universe where Poe's name meant nothing?
"Edgar Allan Poe…" Cira murmured. The line went silent for a few seconds, then Cira said, "…Ah, yes, there are some files on him in the system."
JB held the elucidator closer to his face and said eagerly, "What does it say? Is there evidence of a time split anywhere around 1849?"
"Late September, early October," Sam whispered to JB, recalling the story of Poe's last days. "He left Richmond, Virginia on September twenty-seventh, then disappeared until October third. He died four days later."
JB raised his eyebrows, but relayed the information to Cira.
"What in the—?" Cira suddenly didn't sound so cool and collected. "I can't see any footage of 1849. It's blocked. It was fine just a second ago, and then…gone."
A vein twitched at JB's temple. He sucked in a long breath. "It's almost like the hooded man wanted us to see this. Like the quote was a clue and he knew we'd check the timelines at this exact moment." He raked a hand through his fringe and then changed gears. "Okay, what can you tell us about original time, Cira? What's Poe's life supposed to look like?"
"One second. I'll get the records."
Sam scraped at her thumbs, impatient.
"I've got them," said Cira a moment later. "Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston on January nineteenth, 1809…that means right now—for you, that is—he's eight years old."
So weird, she thought. It had never occurred to her that Jane Austen and Edgar Allan Poe were both alive between 1809 and 1817.
"His parents were both actors," Cira continued. "He lived with them until his father left in 1810 and his mother died the next year…"
Sam knew this part of Poe's biography already. Poe was eventually taken in by John and Frances Allan in Richmond, Virginia. He grew up with the Allans, but his relationship with John Allan deteriorated as he got older and the death of Frances only temporarily brought about amends. In his early adulthood, Poe worked as an editor and critic for literary magazines in Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, publishing some of his own work and reviewing the work of others. In 1836, he married his cousin Virginia Clemm. By 1845, he was living in New York City with his wife, his mother-in-law, and the family cat. That same year he published his big hit, "The Raven." Virginia died of tuberculosis in 1847.
The next two years were a struggle. He was briefly engaged to poet Sarah Helen Whitman, but that fell through because of his alcoholism and her mother's disapproval. He rekindled a relationship with his childhood sweetheart, Sarah Elmira Royster and the two were engaged in 1849. His life seemed to be looking up when he boarded a boat in Richmond, headed to Philadelphia and…
This is where the story changed. In Sam's reality, Poe was found near a tavern in Baltimore on October third, delirious. But according to Cira's files, Poe made it to Philadelphia. "He gave a lecture there, then made it home to his fiancé and they married," said Cira. "Eventually they moved to Massachusetts and he gave his first reading of his poem 'Annabel Lee' in Boston."
That's not right, thought Sam. "Annabel Lee" was published after his death.
"It was in Massachusetts that he met Emily Dickinson and they bonded over their love of writing. He even convinced her to publish her work, which she'd refused to do previously. Dickinson and Poe remained in contact throughout the next decade, writing back and forth."
But Emily Dickinson never published! Sam wanted to object, even though she knew it didn't matter to Cira that history as she knew it was crumbling around her. Instead she pressed her lips together and dug deeper into her thumbs as she listened.
"For most of his life, Poe had stuck to his southern upbringing, chastising abolitionists and their supporters. His support of slavery severed quite a few of his friendships in the north."
Sam shuddered at the realization that Poe held such disturbing views about abolitionism. For so many years she'd been a fan of his work and it didn't even occur to her that, as someone raised in the south where slavery was normalized, he likely grew up believing it was okay. Yet, she hardly understood even that. If someone had a front-row seat to one of the most shameful parts of America's history, wouldn't that give them even more reason to oppose it? That question, she realized, could be posed to everyone who supported the confederacy.
"…but somehow Emily got through to him," Cira went on. "By the time war broke out in 1861, Poe was writing in support of abolition and the Union. He did, however, still identify as a southerner and was quoted as saying, 'If my brothers in the south could only see the error of their ways, this war would end and I could go on saying folks in Massachusetts have as much taste as a herd of blind goats.' This sort of mockery of Dickinson's home state spurred a friendly poetry war between the two poets. They published witty pieces back and forth to each other in newspapers and it became a source of much-needed laughter during the years of unrest in America."
"This is the part most people know about," JB whispered to Sam.
"Unfortunately, their friendship came to an end in 1864 when Poe published a poem alluding to a romantic relationship between Dickinson and her sister-in-law, Sue. He'd meant it as a joke, not realizing that indeed there was a relationship between the two women. The publicity upended the Dickinson family and Emily ceased all contact with Poe and never wrote publicly again."
Sam knew most Dickinson historians suspected that Emily and Sue had a relationship—their letters made it quite clear—but to be outed in the media like that must have been devastating.
"Poe and his wife moved to California after the war and he once again focused on writing mystery and horror. He died from a brain tumor in 1870 and was mostly forgotten by history. If he is remembered, it's usually in association with Emily Dickinson."
If Poe died in 1870, that did explain one thing.
"So Poe outlived the man that made him famous," said Sam, piecing things together as she spoke. "In my timeline, he was made famous by his enemy, Rufus Griswold. After Poe died mysteriously, Griswold published a slanderous biography of Poe, painting him as a drug-addicted vampire-like lunatic. That ended up backfiring, though, because it was totally on brand for a horror writer, and people went nuts for Poe after that." She tried not to smile, but the story always amused her. Even JB breathed a short laugh.
Cira changed the subject. "Do you still have a coach scheduled to leave Birmingham this week?"
"Yes, tomorrow evening," said JB. "It's headed to Winchester, but that isn't really necessary anymore."
"Keep the coach," Cira dictated. "You'll need a reason to leave Birmingham. The agency will make sure you're in 1849 before nightfall tomorrow. Be ready."