A/N: This is a totally different style of writing from Nine Weddings But Ours. I like to write serious stuff too!XD. But, seriously, please read if you read Nessie&Jake's story, and let me know what you think of this one- it's very different in writing style, and some people like a diverse writer, other's don't. Kinda like if Stephenie Meyer had've switched to third person narrative in the third book- like it or not? This story doesn't have much to do with Nine Weddings But Ours, but it does have some pretty neat parts where Picia kicks Jane's butt (later on in story). If you hate Jane and or Alec, you'll like, if not love, this story! Kay, I'll dissapear now. A brief reminder, though, before I do- this one is not meant to be funny-sorry.

L3VE, P3C3, & C#0C0LT3!

Elle

Ps. Carlisle's in it too (later on, though)!

Where To Run

In A Room Of Mirrors

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, Stephenie Meyer does. I just put them in my own masks

Epilogue:

A Short

Lived Acquaintance

Great perils have this beauty, that they bring to light the fraternity of strangers. - Victor Hugo
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It was, by Picia's account, the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard.

Of course, it was to be considered that Picia had means to compare it by, aside from brief, long faded memories of mama playing. But still, as it was her first time ever out, she was to enjoy it by all means necessary.

It must be said that it was quite the scandal for such a young girl to be out at such a concert. Picia was a mere ten years old, and she had been brought along with her father, him not thinking a single thought about how the people would stare at her. How all the ladies, with their fine gloves and neatly piled hair would think her sweet, but would hate to have her around. A concert was a place for suitors and their chosen, debutantes, families of grown people, those entertaining, and most importantly, the rich and higher middle class. Especially, her presence would be talked of, what with her father's badly damaged reputation.

But none of this was Picia's concern. She had all she could want, which was plenty. Her father had let her wear her mother's gloves and gems, for a dead woman needs little such frivolities. He'd bought her a fine fan, and Nurse Dea had let her wear her favorite gown. Before they had arrived, Picia had hoped it would make someone look at her as see her as a lady. No one had, for she was far to young.

But again, little of this mattered. Her main concern now was the man, playing on the, the- whatever it was. His appearance was not much, just one man, sitting quite normally of a stool. There was nothing but him there, but the performance needed nothing else. It was his fingers, really, that made it so captivating, almost magical. Picia was sitting close enough- such was father's money, that she could see the gleam in the player's eye. He not only played the music, he lived in it, loved it. The piece was slow, a waltz, but he played it so prettily that it was as invigorating as a fast march or dancing reel. She could tell he adored playing, not for the crowd, not for the money, but for the ability to make everyone smile- himself included.

Picia sat fixed in the music, following the player's every move, until, sadly, with a melancholy flourish, the music stopped.

For a moment, Picia reeled in the moment. Then, when the audience clapped, she snapped back. People started to stand, the highest praise being given, so Picia did too. Amazed by the loudness of the applause, she turned her gaze across all the people see could. Her gaze traveled and traveled, up and down rows, happy for the musician, who ever he was.

Until she felt the eyes.

The eyes, she felt, were looking down at her, and slightly behind her as well. She, being a child, looked around curiously, eager with childlike innocence to see who was so interested in her, out of all these people.

The gaze she met belonged to a man. He appeared young, though something about his eyes were old, almost ancient. He looked at her without fear, and almost as if it was she who should be looking away. Picia had never in her life surrendered to taking a lower place then others, and she didn't now. The strangers stared, almost unblinking, at each other. Picia even stopped clapping, and with a boldness quite familiar to her, but not to the stranger, waved. I was small, but enough to be seen by a sharp eye.

The stranger, after a moments pause, slowly – almost regally, waved back. He waved as if he'd never done it before, as if for the first time ever, he acknowledged someone he looked down on.

"Come now, Sulpicia," Father said, "It's time to go." he stood at the end of the isle, letting the ladies of another party through. Picia turned, defiant, and stuck out her tongue fearlessly.

From above, came the faintest sound of a chuckle. Picia looked up to see the man, smiling for the first time, still looking at her. His eyes felt curious, and were almost looking at Picia like an exhibit at the zoo. Usually, Picia hated people looking at her like that. But this man had taken her side on something, and for that, she liked him.

Sweetly, and quite clumsily, she tipped a slight curtsey, her gaze fixed on the man. He looked startled, at first, but then, almost as if he couldn't help himself, he nodded slightly back.

And with that, the young girl turned, smiling, and walked out of the theater with her father.

Unknown to young Picia was that her small encounter with the stranger had not gone unnoticed. Picia, quite enthralled by the man had not spared a glance at the other two in the box, or the one's wife.

"My dear brother," the dark one said, "What is the meaning of that?"

"I have no idea to what you are referring to." the stranger replied, his eyes still following the girl.

"I believe I know," the third, fair one spoke. "Marcus is asking about the girl that you just nodded to, I think."

"Oh, that." the girl was out of sight, so he turned to face his company. His ears were still trained on her, though. "It was nothing that should bother me. It is surprising you noticed." they began the slow walk out of the box, carefully moving as to not be noticed.

"The last time you acknowledged one of them," the fair one spoke, "Was before you killed that queen."

he spoke too softly to be heard by the surrounding people, but his friends could hear him fine. "And even then, it was a slight one. That stunt had your chin on your chest."

"I would hardly call it a stunt. Just the polite thing to do. The child curtseyed, so I gave her the greeting back."

"That was not the only thing, brother," the fair young man added. He had always rivaled everyone, trying to get the best of even a higher opponent, which was the case here. "You waved as well."

"On honor, you make it seem as if it was a dance! It was a childish amusement, 'tis all. You make it seem like the hazard is upon us."

The fair one ignored the last words."Precisely. And why would you, in all your states, lower yourself to a child? For the fun of it?"

"It has given us a vigorous conversation," Marcus chimed in, in a dead tone of honesty.

"You always side with him." the fair one accused, holding the door for his silent wife. "You do know she's dead, and there's no use charming him now." before Marcus could react the fair one sprang out the door behind his wife. Marcus sighed, and held his head in his hand for a brief moment.

"Come come," the stranger said, tired of the others mourning. "It's been many a year, and really, even as my sister she was hardly worth that." Marcus looked up, pain in his old eyes. But the stranger cared little.

They went out the door, and walked through the lobby gracefully, touching no one, though the place was packed.

The stranger caught the scent of the girl, but a few feet from him, and couldn't help himself, he moved forward towards her. When close enough, he brushed against her hands, held neatly at her back. It was a small thing, faint enough that a normal person wouldn't notice. But the girl did. She turned, fearlessly to face him. And then, quietly, surely, she held out her hand and spoke.

"If you want to touch my hand, then do." her voice was young, but didn't have a quiver of terror. It had been a long time since someone had spoken in such a way.

"Gladly," he took her hand, softly. "Sulpicia." he went as far as to kiss her soft skin. He knew, then. This child had lost her parent, her father, and was looking for him. She was worried, but still, the girl smiled, happy to see him.

"I hate to be called that," she said, not angrily.

"Then what do I call you?" he had lowered his hand, and, acting on impulse, took the other. It was bold for the time, but no one was watching, he knew.

"Picia." she said, gleefully.

"Then that is is," he smiled, genuinely. He couldn't remember the last time he had. "But, just for the record, Sulpicia is one of my favorite names." he released one of her hands, taking the other to the crook of his inside arm, and walked her through the crowd towards her now very drunk father. "It's the same name as a very good writer I used to know."

"It is?" Picia's large brown eyes widened, meeting his gaze.

"Yes. Do you like writers?" the girl nodded. "What else?" the child started a list of things, sweet things of knowledge. She spoke of books, and music, and people. She told him about how her father had got her lessons on the piano and harp, and how she could sing. And for the first time, the stranger didn't feel like taking her gifts for his own. He had quite a collection of talented people, he was patron to many, many artist time and time again. But this girl, the Picia, he liked simply because she made him smile.

"So you came to this concert because?"

"Because I loved the man who played. I have all his music, and I make my maid or music teacher play then all the time for me."

"You don't play them yourself?"

"I've started to, but," she sighed, unhappily. "I'm not very good."

He laughed to himself again. Picia said it as if it was a crime not to be a master. "Well, my dear," he was near the father now, and softly brushed the hand the man held behind his back. "I have a feeling you'll get very, very good at your music."

They talked for a little longer, just a brief time, and then the stranger called Picia's father's carriage, arranged for the stumbling fool of a father to be lifted in, and handed the little dear in beside him.

She closed the door, and then opened the window, sticking her head out.

"You will write me, won't you?"

"I don't know if I could."

"Oh please!" Picia huffed. "I'm allowed nearly everything I want, so father or Dea wont object to me getting letters from people!"

He laughed. For the first time in a long time, it wasn't a simple chuckle, but a full bodied laugh. "Well then, I will."

And with that, the coach pulled away.

When the man had reached his own coach across the street, Marcus and the fair one could talk of nothing but the child.

"What were you thinking?" the fair one asked.

"I don't know, Caius."

"What were you doing?"

"Acting human."

"What is the point of answering me so short, when it just gives me more questions?"

"What is the point of asking when I might have told you regardless of your interrogation?" Caius fell silent for a moment. "You'd do well to remember your place, brother." he finished.

"Aro," Marcus spoke for the first time. "Quite honestly, the answer meaning relatively nothing to me, what exactly were you doing?"

Aro sighed, and sat back."The girl seemed sweet. I was entertained to keep her company, that's all."

"Is it?" Marcus quickly took Aro's and, showing him his thoughts. "Is it really?"

"No. It's not anything like that." Marcus' gaze questioned him, as did his thoughts. "She, truthfully made me smile, nothing more."

"Made you smile?" Caius was speaking again. "Of all the things, that's why we came to hear that player!"

"Well, it did bring me joy, so it proved it's purpose."

"What did you think of the music?" Marcus directed the conversation away from arguments, such was his way. " Should we keep him?"

"Maybe, but lets wait a few years." Aro replied, thinking of how Picia had liked his playing. If they took him, she could not hear his music.

"If anything, he shouldn't use such grace notes." Caius spook, moodily.

"Oh, I quite disagree," Aro started.