…pairing between the homologs is inhibited. However, it differs from classical gene conversion by its high frequency, its requirement for P transposase, its unidirectionality, and its occurrence in somatic and premeiotic-
I looked up from my article, distracted by a gentle tap on my home office door. "Come in," I called softly. The door opened and Edward came in, carrying a large brown folder. I smiled and closed my journal. "You're back early. Didn't Renesmee like the aquarium?"
"She loved it," he answered as he sat down across from me. "Until we got to the sharks, that is."
"She was afraid?"
"No, she got thirsty. It was feeding time, and she was fascinated by their movements as they took their prey. She was wondering what shark blood tasted like, but Bella got her to settle for a hot dog. Anyway, we decided to come home after that."
"Sharks to hot dogs," I mused. "She's a marvel."
He grinned. "I know. So, are you curious?" he asked, waving the brown folder toward me. I held out my hand and took it, breaking the seal.
"It's a little gift for Father's Day," he said casually.
Inside the folder, I found a brochure for the National Gallery in London, along with two plane tickets, scheduled for arrival at Heathrow on July 1st. "You're sending Esme and I to London?" I asked in confusion.
His smile faded. "Oh. I was thinking of going with you myself- just the two of us. But, of course, if you'd rather take Esme-"
I held up my hand. "It's perfect," I said with a smile. "You and I haven't traveled alone together in what, eight years?" It'll be just like old times. What's at the gallery that week?
"Check the schedule."
I opened the brochure, scanning down to the right date. On the week of July 3rd, there was a special exhibition of works by selected Baroque painters, featuring Caravaggio, Rembrandt, and…
"Solimena," I read aloud, sitting up straighter in my chair.
"I called, and they said it's going to be the most complete Solimena exhibition to date. They've spent the past two years getting collectors to lend their originals for the week. In fact, they're only missing one," he added with a sly grin, his eyes drifting back toward the painting in question. "We wouldn't want the exhibition to be incomplete, would we?"
.
.
.
Two weeks later, we were in the air. I had sent the painting on ahead via a private courier service, and we had packed light. I only required a couple changes of clothes, a black hair dye kit, and a pair of eyeglasses. It was unlikely that anyone was going to recognize me in the painting, but it was better to be on the safe side.
It was wonderful to be travelling with Edward again. Up until today, he had never been away from Bella and Renesmee for more than six hours at a time. Now that Renesmee's growth was slowing down, though, he was more willing to be apart from her for a few days. As for Bella- well, I was sure that he would be calling her the instant the plane landed.
The last time the two of us had traveled alone, it had been for quite a different purpose. It was back in 2003, right before we moved to Forks. The possibility of there still being werewolves on the Peninsula was the only thing keeping us from our final decision, and rather than move everyone and everything needlessly, Edward and I had decided to take a weekend trip to scope out the area. We had spent a full day and night zigzagging across the peninsula, searching for any trace of werewolf scent. When we didn't find any, we cautiously approached the treaty line and spent another night walking along the length of it. Edward had wanted to cross the line and get a closer "look" at the minds within the Reservation, but I had felt that we should respect the treaty, even if the wolves had died out-which it appeared they had. We had returned to our family the next day, reporting that the move was a go. Ironically enough, it may very well have been that brief visit that triggered Sam's transition during the months that followed.
I remembered feeling a bit anxious on that trip, as we were flying to Washington. I had had no way of knowing if we were going to find any werewolves, and, if so, how our visit would be received. Edward and I were both hoping that the werewolves had died out, so that we could return to the Olympic Peninsula in peace. Ever since our family – minus Alice and Jasper- had lived there back in the thirties, we had always wanted to return. We had lived in so many places, but that was the one that had always felt like home. And now, flying back to my true homeland, I felt some anxiety as well.
It wasn't as though I had been avoiding London all these centuries. I had certainly avoided it for most of the remainder of the seventeenth century, for several reasons. I had avoided all populated areas, in the beginning; I didn't know much about what I had become, but I knew what would happen if I let myself get too close to the human populace.
It was more than that, though. I suppose I wanted to avoid running into the coven of vampires that had been my undoing, and I certainly didn't want to encounter any more raiding parties like the one I had led that fateful night. But the real reason was my human father. After fifteen years, I had finally felt strong enough to go visit him. Oh, he never knew I was there. I didn't know of the Volturi's law at the time, but I knew better than to reveal myself. Not just because of the danger, but because I knew what my father's reaction would be. He was a self-righteous, compassionless man whose only joy in life was finding things to hate. And while he never came out and said it, it was clear that I was one of those things. I had been the one who had caused my mother's death, and he had made sure- quite often- to remind me of that fact. My brief human life had been one futile attempt after another to earn his approval.
So when I finally got up the courage to approach the parsonage, back in 1678, I kept my distance. I got close enough that I could see him walking around at night, hunched over in his old age as his gnarled hands carried the night candle from the kitchen to the bedroom. And I was close enough to see the ever-present scowl on his face, deepened now with wrinkles. I could also see, scattered around the property, the familiar evidence of his favorite ministry: wooden stakes, a garlic patch, and a row of burned-out torches.
It was the garlic patch that confirmed my suspicion that he hadn't changed. The patch was still well-tended, and I knew that my father hated the taste of garlic. There was only one reason that he was continuing to grow it: to keep monsters like me away. When I saw this, I felt an uncharacteristic stirring of anger, and a ridiculous urge to throw open the door, and take a huge bite of garlic right in front of him. As I watched my father walk through the house, I noticed something new hanging in the sitting room: a portrait of myself. As my father walked past it, he reached up and laid his fingers reverently on the image, bowing his head for a moment of prayer before moving on into his bedroom.
I suppose it was what any father would have done- keeping up a picture of his son, long presumed dead. Another father might have kept it out of love, or nostalgia. But I had recognized the reverence in his movements as he had touched the picture. It was the reverence he held for all Christian martyrs, and I had seen him do it with other paintings before. It seemed that with my death, I had done what I had never managed in life: I had finally made him proud. He had lost his only son in the battle against evil- it must have been an immense source of satisfaction to him. In a way, his prophecy, that he had muttered under his breath more than once during my childhood, had come true: I really was better off dead.
By the time the candle was blown out, my anger had faded into grief. Not grief for the father that I had lost; grief for the father I had never had in the first place.
I came back at the same time every night, watching from the distance. The parsonage was far enough out of town that it wasn't too painful for my throat, and I felt a sense of duty to watch over the pitiful man who lived alone there.
My duty didn't last long. Less than a fortnight into my vigil, the parsonage was devoid of candlelight one evening. The smell of death was already on the air, and I only entered the cottage long enough to close his eyes and cover him with a blanket. I stole over to the nearest neighbor and left a note on their door alerting them to their parson's death, and ran away after knocking on the door.
I kept running. I ran until there wasn't any land left, and then I started swimming- anything to escape my father's dead eyes. It wasn't until I heard a fisherman speaking French that I realized where I was.
I never returned to London again. It was superstitious nonsense to think that my father's spirit was hovering over the city, frowning down on me, but that was how I imagined it. London had never brought me any kind of happiness before, and though I had visited other corners of the British Isles since, I had never wanted to return.
I was brought out of my memories by a light touch on my knee. I opened my eyes to see Edward leaning toward me, his brow furrowed with worry.
"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "I never thought about what it might be like for you to return to London."
No, I want to do this, I thought back. That was a long time ago. A smile twitched at the corner of Edward's lips as he settled back into his own seat, no doubt watching my thoughts warily. I closed my eyes again, reassuring him mentally that I would be all right.
.
.
.
I spent the rest of the day showing my son around the city of my youth. There were some familiar sights: Hampton Court Palace, the Tower of London, The Banqueting House, Eltham Palace. But almost everything else was new. Edward and I had a good laugh as we looked through the "Historic Sites" brochure, discovering that most of the sites were younger than me.
"At least it's still cloudy," I remarked, tossing the brochure into a recycle bin. "That particular feature has stood the test of time."
As night was falling, we decided to check out the National Art Library. We slipped in just as they were closing; we would spend the night here. Our hotel room was just that, after all; a room. While the city slept, we would be poring through the historical riches that awaited us.
The Library was beautiful, inside and out. We made our way upstairs and hid while the watchman made his rounds. After the lights were off, I settled down with a couple of books I had found about Solimena's life, while Edward went off in search of some musical literature.
It was less than an hour later that I heard the telltale creak of a window opening. It seemed that it was coming from somewhere on the eastern end of the building. There was a flash of white and Edward was standing next to me.
"Vampire," he whispered, and I left my books, sniffing the air curiously. Before long a unique sweetness filled the air, and I shook my head silently; it was no one I knew.
"He's thinking about some sort of research project. He likes to come here, but it's been a while. We should leave."
I hardly think he's a threat, son. Anyone who sneaks into a library at night is probably not the type to attack without question. Anyway, he's probably already smelled us. Come on, let's see who it is.
Edward followed me reluctantly as I made my way toward the source of the scent. He had been with me a few times that I had met new vampires, and despite his gift, he simply wasn't as trusting as I was. Having met so many of our kind over the centuries, I had long ago lost my trepidation. Most nomads were skittish, but not unfriendly. I had encountered few among our kind who weren't eager for some conversation, even if they didn't want to keep in touch.
Edward stiffened beside me, and turned back around. Standing before us was a pleasant-looking vampire, impeccably dressed in a gray suit. He was tall and lean, his grey-speckled hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. He wore stylish sunglasses, which he now took off as he nodded pleasantly to Edward. He turned to greet me, as well.
His smile faded instantly. Edward gasped aloud half a second later, drawing closer to me in a flash. It took me another full second, as I filtered through my hazy human memories at lightning speed, to recognize him. As I looked into his crimson eyes, fear and shock raced through me as my hand crept up to the right side of my neck. Images of dark streets and torchlight flashed before my eyes, and the memory of a burning pain where my hand was now.
This was him. This was the vampire who had bitten me.