Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I just make her characters do my bidding.

Chapter 1

"You need to get away," they'd said. "You need to learn to live again. You need to revive yourself."

Even now, with their voices on continual replay in my head, and safely ensconced behind a large suitcase on the other side of the Atlantic, I still didn't want to believe them. But, even with my apprehensions, something within me had listened to them all – Angela, Ben, Mom and Dad – something within me had recognised that they were right - recognised an escape - despite how much I still wanted to believe that they were wrong.

"Long flight?"

I sat up straighter, startled by the voice directed my way, and met the crisp blue eyes of a not-so-unattractive man, earnestly waiting for a response. My brow furrowed automatically.

The man chuckled to himself and simultaneously unbuttoned his suit jacket and loosened the tie around his neck.

"Yes, I am talking to you," he said in a clear and precise British accent, before pointing to a sign. "You can respond, you know. This isn't one of those "silent carriages"." Sure enough there was a sign directing you to Carriage 1 if you wished for silence.

"Silent carriages?" I queried more to myself and his eyes seemed to widen.

"Ah – so you flew in from America? That would answer my first question." When I didn't respond immediately, he added, lowering his head, as if trying to prompt me, "You know . . . long flight?"

Maybe you should have gotten on Carriage 1.

Why was this guy so eager to talk with me? Whatever his motives, I took in his keen expression, surrounded by almost a halo of his neatly cut and styled blonde hair and decided that there was no way that I could get out of conversing with him without creating an awkward situation.

What the heck? I shrugged internally and fought my lethargy, deciding to appear friendly – deciding to follow their advice to try and revive the old me.

"Oh, yeah . . . it was, I guess." I swallowed back the dryness in my throat, before progressing the conversation. "So . . . silent carriages . . ."

"Yes. They're relatively new. Apparently there are guards that patrol them saying, "Silence! I kill you!"

I found myself unable to suppress a small grin.

"Achmed the Dead Terrorist works for the Heathrow Express, does he? I'm not sure that would go down well."

He smiled.

"I was hoping that you'd get the reference." He paused and studied me for a moment, before he extended his hand. "I'm Michael."

Taking a quick glance around the carriage and noticing many other occupants, I managed to overcome my initial reluctance to meet his hand.

"Isabella."

"What brings you to London, Isabella? Work or leisure?"

"A change of scenery," I said, somewhat reticently, cautious to not give away too much information. "Which will probably involve some work and some leisure. Do you work in London?" I tried to divert the conversation away from myself. Michael readily answered and I was confronted with how confident he was in his own skin.

"Yes. Visited my sister in Dublin over the weekend. Got an early flight back this morning and now I'm headed into work. No rest for the wicked."

"And are you in a wicked profession?" I continued, my curiosity piqued.

Michael laughed.

"Some might call it that – I'm a finance paralegal."

"Oh."

""Oh" is right. It's not the most exciting work, but I at least enjoy it. And you – what interesting line of work are you in?"

I bit down on my lip and ran a hand through what I could only assume was now like a nest on top of my head – my once smooth, straightened hair. The action gave me enough time to decide that it was okay to lift my guard somewhat and be honest.

"I . . . I worked in law, too, actually."

"Worked in?" he questioned. "Did you have enough of it then?"

"Something like that," I answered, just as an announcement reverberated around the carriage, notifying everyone that we were approaching Paddington Station.

Michael reached into his suit jacket and, before I knew it, held out a business card to me.

"It's been nice talking with you, Isabella. If you need help finding your way around this place or settling in, just give me a call. You know where you're headed from here?" He asked as I dropped his card into my handbag.

"Umm . . . yeah. Yeah, I do." I didn't want to give him any means to stalk me, even though my instincts told me that he was simply being friendly. My Dad – a Police Chief - had engrained in me an instinct to play it safe.

"Well, then, I've got to dash," he said, as we moved towards the opening door. To my surprise, he picked up my suitcase and placed it on the platform, before I could protest.

"Thanks, Michael."

"Not a worry. Nice meeting you, Isabella."

I watched him swing his leather satchel over his shoulder and quickly manoeuvre his way through the myriads of people.

In my twenty six years on this earth, had I ever been that comfortable – that content? Memories flickering through my mind told me that the answer to my question was "yes".

Once again, their words resounded in my ears as if they were standing right next to me.

"You need to get away. . . You need to learn to live again. . . You need to revive yourself."

"You need to try," I said to myself, taking a deep breath of London air, before hiking my carry-on bag up my shoulder and grasping the handle of my suitcase. "Let's roll," I said, pulling it along, which earned me a raised eyebrow from a balding business man, who I followed through, what might have otherwise been, an impossible-to-navigate cluster of people. Thankfully, he led me towards the taxi rank.

"Where to, miss?" The driver asked, as I placed my luggage and then myself into a rather roomy seating area. Fumbling my way through my bag, I pulled out my phone and found the address that Angela had given me.

"Westgate Terrace, Chelsea, please."

With a nod of his head, the driver moved into the line of cars and wordlessly gave me a tour of London. While I caught glimpses of famous landmarks, my heavy eyes often closed and I found myself preparing for the inevitable meeting with my host, replaying the conversation I'd had with Angela, her cousin.

-()-()-()-

"I got you the caramel latte."

"Thanks," I said taking a sip of it as Angela sat down in her traditional spot on the couch beside me and pulled out the pencil that she'd left in her hair.

"Just think, in a month I won't have my coffee buddy anymore."

I shook my head.

"I'm not going, Ang. We've been through this a—"

"-a million times and you, the wonderful attorney that you are, are still yet to present an argument that convinces me that you shouldn't go!"

I looked into my best friend's eyes and saw the steadfast expression that I'd become accustomed to the past twelve years. I ran a fingertip along the rim of my mug.

"Marcus won't let me go," I stated, thinking that my boss would recognise my value to his firm all too well.

Angela folded her arms across her chest and turned to face me.

"That's bullshit! I spoke with Marcus and he is willing to give you a year sabbatical."

"So now you're all talking about me behind my back?! Making decisions for me -"

Angela put a stop to my rant.

"Shut up, Swan and listen! We're all just . . . worried about you." She paused to soften her tone. "You need to find that part of yourself that . . . that he took with him."

My jaw shook with the effort I made to try and keep my emotions in check, but I couldn't prevent the tears welling in my eyes. I was broken.

"Bella, you need to go. My cousin, she's a musician and, if you can put up with her and her "muso" tendencies, she has a spare bedroom with your name on it." I felt her hand encase mine. "All you have to do is say yes."

I stared at the streams of caramel sinking beneath the foam of my latte.

Angela squeezed my hand and I met her eyes - her eyes that implored me to give her an answer. I did.

"Yes."

-()-()-()-

Chelsea was further from Paddington than I thought. Fortunately, though, I'd exchanged enough cash to pay the cab driver. When the cab drove away, I examined the length of the street before finally settling my eyes on the building in front of me.

This cousin of yours lives in a good part of town, Ang.

Audis, Mercedes and BMWs lined the street and whitewashed, four storey buildings lined the roads like the Brownstones I'd become familiar with near Harvard, in Cambridge.

Taking a deep breath, I looked, once again, at the address in my cell, lifted my suitcase up the stairs and searched the side of the door for the apartment in question. It wasn't difficult to spot the name Rosalie Hale written in elegant script beside a polished buzzer.

"Hello," the cool, English, feminine voice, almost sang from the small speaker.

"Uh . . . Hi, Rosalie? I'm Angela's frie-"

"Oh! Bella Swan!" She said over a muffled noise in the background. "Door's open. Come on up!"

As I dragged myself and my baggage into the hallway, I looked at a beautiful set of balustrades and froze. Never had the task of climbing a flight of stairs seemed so daunting.

It's the climb. . .

Miley Cyrus' one good piece of advice fuelled my muscles, as I bent my legs, picked up my suitcase with both hands and managed to waddle my way up to the first floor of the building. My earlier hesitancy disappeared as I was greeted by an open door. Sighing, I moved over the threshold.

"Oh, Lord! I'd have helped you with your suitcase if I'd known how big it was."

My eyes snapped up to meet the person who owned the voice.

Rosalie Hale looked nothing like her cousin. While Angela had straight, almost black, brown hair, angular features and a lean, straight figure, Rosalie had waved, golden hair, pulled back into a messy bun, and soft curvy features, reminiscent of old Hollywood glamour or one of those women drawn on Jane Austen book covers. I knew that Angela's outer beauty was a reflection of what lay beneath her exterior. I could only hope that there was a beauty to Rosalie as true as the endearing cornflower blue of her eyes.

"You must be exhausted!" She exclaimed, taking charge of the handle of my suitcase and ushering me forward into a light and classically chic, white, beige, light green and pink sitting area, which was well situated next to an off-white kitchen. The rubber soles of my Chucks squeaked against the timber floor as I was guided to sit down on the soft sofa.

Rosalie smiled at me and I felt myself truly begin to relax when I noticed a pencil tucked in her hair near her bun. It seemed that she and Angela did have something in common.

"I'd just put the kettle on when you buzzed me. Would you like a cup of tea?"

It was easy to say "Yes" to that question.

With Rosalie's back to me, as she moved to prepare the tea, I was able to take in the finer details of the room. It had the typical coffee table, flat screen TV, family photos and iPod dock, but it also had an almost warded off section that I realised showcased an essential component of Rosalie's identity – her music. A very expensive looking cello was resting on its side, a bow hung over the edge of a music stand and a pile of old and new music books sat near the legs of an armless chair.

So, she's a classical musician. Thank God she's not in a death metal band!

"Is this your first time in London?"

I moved my attention back to Rosalie in the kitchen.

"Yes," I said, before realising that I should probably elaborate and show her that I did actually have an extensive vocabulary. "This is my first time out of the United States."

Rosalie looked up at my admission and left the kitchen carrying a plate of what appeared to be cookies.

"Really? It takes a lot of courage to travel to a foreign place on your own, even when you've travelled before." She held the plate out to me. I took something that looked like and oatmeal cookie covered in chocolate and nodded in thanks.

"Oh, I've travelled before and I've lived away from home when I went to College," I replied, as she returned to the kitchen. The look she gave me as she took out two attractive white mugs made me want to share more. "But, yes, this is . . . different."

She seemed to consider me for a moment and I had a feeling that Angela had told her some things, but not everything.

"Hmmm . . . milk, sugar?"

"Just milk, please." I gave my practised response, suppressing the memories it tried to bring to the surface by trying to steer the conversation in a new direction – a direction that would also help me learn about my host. "So, you're a professional cellist?"

She smiled at me, before picking up the two cups and moving to place them on the coffee table in front of me.

"Yes – you know you should try dunking your biscuit in your tea," she added, indicating to the biscuit, who's chocolate had started melting against my fingers, before sitting beside me.

Biscuit? Is that what they call cookies here?

I did as she said and was quite pleased with the result when I tasted it.

"It's good, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"Do you play in an orchestra? Teach?"

"All of the above," she grinned, then took a sip of her tea. "Angela told me that you work for the same law firm."

Rosalie seemed to be keen to steer the conversation back towards me.

"Not for the next year," I answered, a hint of bitterness entering my tone.

"Angela's quite persuasive, isn't she?"

I'd known the woman barely ten minutes and she'd already begun to read me like a book. Perhaps Angela had told her more than I'd thought.

"You could say that," I said after a slight hesitation.

Rosalie offered a knowing grin over the rim of her mug.

"She tells me that you're quite the lawyer."

I scoffed.

"I'm not so sure about that."

"Why?"

I placed my mug on the table and ran a hand through my hair, considering how much to give away. I could tell that Rosalie was carefully trying to chip away at my shield.

"Well, I recently provided a poor defence for the "Let Bella stay in Seattle" case."

Melodious laughter affirmed that Rosalie was a musician. She placed her mug on the table next to mine and glanced at the clock, before meeting my eyes, seemingly intent on conveying a message.

"Perhaps you need to start thinking of this as a getaway, rather than a get away."

The heaviness in my chest descended to my stomach and I felt my jaw tense as I tried to contain my emotions.

Rosalie seemed pleased with herself as she stood and took her mug to the kitchen sink.

"I'm afraid that I have go away for a bit, Bella. I've got a rehearsal from four till six. It might give you some time to rest, have a shower . . ."

I swallowed, trying to regain my voice.

"Mhmm."

Rosalie continued talking as she moved to place her cello in a large, blue, hard case.

"Make yourself at home, okay? There's plenty of food in the pantry and fridge. If you follow me, I'll quickly show you your room and the bathroom."

The theme of the lounge area was easily carried through to the bedroom. My room was small, but neat, immaculate and welcoming. I thanked Rosalie as she left me alone in her apartment without showing an inch of concern, and, for the second time that day, I found myself confronted. Rosalie's trust in me – someone who she barely knew – but, more essentially, her faith in her cousin's judgement, made my total lack of trust all the more obvious to myself. I mulled over this as I washed off the aches and grime of my travels in the amazing rain head shower. It didn't take long for my own tears to meld with the droplets from the shower, mourning the person who I used to be.

He took a piece of you with him. You need to get it back.

My shower finished, I entered my room with a new resolution. Quickly finding my cell phone, I perched myself on the edge of the bed and tentatively found his number. After a few shaky breaths, and with some even shakier hand movements, I initiated the call and held my breath waiting for an answer. I got a message.

"Hey, this is Jacob Black. I'm tied up with something right now, but leave your name and phone number and I promise that I'll get back to you . . ."

I didn't wait for the beep. I ended it.

You were always shit at keeping promises . . .

Sliding under the covers, angry at myself for making a call that I knew he wouldn't answer, I wasn't surprised when tears traced salty paths down my cheeks. My chest tightening, I gasped for air as I cocooned myself deeper beneath the sheets, hoping that, by some miracle, I might one day be able to wake up, break free and fly away to a new life.

A/N: This is something that popped into my head the other day and I had to get it down. I'm keen to continue it, but only if people are intrigued. Would appreciate knowing what you think. Karry.