Disclaimer: The Twilight series is the creative property of Stephenie Meyer. I do not own any of the characters. Any references or quotes from Meyer do not belong to me. This is a fan-based story. In this chapter, several lines come directly from Eclipse. Part of this chapter is sort of a development of what SM writes in Chapter 7 of Eclipse. It is not my intention to plagiarize. The lyrics in this chapter are from Cab Calloway and His Orchestra. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: Thank you to all my readers, new and old! I love to hear what you're thinking as you read, so drop me a review and let me know! Notes on historical research, etc. at end of chapter.
Warning: Heavy content in first chapter. Anyone under 13, please use caution.
"Weep not that the world changes—
Did it keep a stable, changeless state,
it were a cause indeed to weep."
-William Cullen Bryant
It was April 29, 1933. A cold, overcast day. Edward sighed and pulled his hat farther down over his eyes. He had always disliked this stretch of Rochester - with its large overstated homes and wide, gleaming store windows, bright with things few could afford. Passing on the street, men who lived comfortably nodded in his direction but kept their distance, instinctively. Smart.
The ragged breathing and pulsing of a small heart came from behind him several feet.
"Hey! You! Someone stop that kid! He's got my wallet!" an angry voice called from down the street.
Edward debated for half a second, his eyebrows furrowing. A small smile touched his lips as he stepped deftly to the side, allowing a frightened eight-year-old boy to brush quickly by. Carlisle would have disapproved, Edward mused. Aiding and abetting a pick-pocket. But the boy's harried thoughts were dwelling so much on the hot meal he might eat tonight that the younger vampire couldn't bring himself to stretch a hand out and stop the child.
Behind him, the huffing and puffing of two large men, panting in pursuit, made him step aside again.
He crossed his fingers for the under-sized thief and his flight to safety.
A musical laugh quite close by made him turn to glance across the street.
"Well, of course, Charlene," a girlish voice chided. "But you know I simply can't. Even though," she added longingly, "Montgomery Ward's says it is the height of fashion."
"Rosalie Hale," came an answering voice. "You know Royce would buy you anything you asked for." The girl who had spoken last turned and caught sight of Edward hurrying to reach the corner. She gave a little gasp.
Edward groaned silently and walked a little faster, trying to maintain the clumsy human rhythm of the people around him. He was no in mood to exchange pleasantries with that particular crowd.
He gritted his teeth together in frustration as he felt them cross the street towards him, two of them whispering in hushed tones. As if he couldn't hear them. He sighed again, dipping one hand into his high-waisted trousers in an effort to appear relaxed. There was no way he could escape now. The immodesty of their thoughts made him wince as their eyes trailed over him and he worked to keep his face smooth and unaffected.
Rosalie's voice was the loudest as she protested, "Why do we have to speak to Edward Platt?" Little did she know he was asking a similar question.
"It's rude not to," Vera whispered back, blushing a little as she caught his gaze for a moment. Her mind was the most innocent of the four. He tried not to smile as she mentally compared his physical attributes with that of her husband's. She decided loyally that Edward was too pale to be as handsome as her good, kind Tommy, ruddy and tan from his days in the sun.
Edward smiled politely as they approached, tipping his hat formally. "Miss McCall, Miss Daniels, Mrs. Murphy, Miss Hale."
"Mr. Platt," Laura Daniels breathed. "How are you this afternoon?"
"I'm well, thank you. And yourself?"
The girl giggled, her face going scarlet. How bizarre, Edward thought. "Oh, I'm…well."
"And your sister?" Vera asked.
"Quite well. Thank you for asking."
Rosalie yawned once deliberately, covering her shockingly red mouth with a dainty white glove as she did. "I'm sure we're all so pleased to hear dear Mrs. Cullen is doing well."
Edward let his amused eyes survey the girl for a moment. Rosalie Hale was tall with a slender figure accentuated to her advantage in a pale blue gown that fell in perfect silhouette about her hips. She was sporting a clearly brand new double-breasted jacket in a deep coral color. She fiddled absent-mindedly with one of the shiny brass buttons near her throat. Her pale golden hair was set in perfect waves around her face. Her skin was soft, pink, her round cheeks full and dimpled. Her eyes were a deep blue and framed by long, dark lashes. There was no denying it. She was exquisite. And she knew it. Her thoughts were full of resentment and jealousy as she stared back at him.
There's no denying I look good enough to eat in this dress, Rosalie thought. So why does that pill, Edward Platt look like he's about to burst out laughing? What does he have to be so smug about?
The fact was, Rosalie knew exactly what he had to be so smug about. While reluctant to admit it, she was quite sure she had never laid eyes on anyone quite so beautiful before. Her eyes roamed his entire frame, taking in his well-made suit that could not disguise the muscular form beneath. This irked her and she frowned, sniffing once in dismissal.
"I'll be sure to pass on your warm wishes," Edward said, casting his golden eyes downwards. Rosalie knew she could never prove it but she was quite sure the beautiful boy was laughing at her.
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Edward Platt, as he was currently going by, strode down the woodsy lane; tall, willow trees shading him on either side. Far from the prying public eye, he easily jumped the white picket fence. Going up the short walkway, he smiled as he heard the Cab Calloway's Orchestra playing on the gramophone inside.
As he stepped through the front door, Esme waved at him from the kitchen where she was kicking her heels up in the jitterbug.
"Edward, come dance with me!" She held out her hands, her feet flying back and forth. "I want to be perfect before Carlisle comes home."
Edward shook his head, unable to keep from grinning at her.
"Come on! I think I've almost got the turn!" she begged, her golden eyes flashing at him.
He sighed and snaked an arm around her waist, dipping her once before twirling her away from him.
"Oh, c'mon! Don't be a spoilsport!" Esme laughed. "Do the feet, too!"
Edward rolled his eyes, but turned his ankles slightly outwards as he made the passing turn with ease.
"Have you seen the cute and keen, baby sweet as a tangerine? That's my gal, Mezzanine!" Esme sang, pinching one of Edward's cheeks before she spun again. "Got blazin' eyes, like temptation, no more like 'em in creation; That's my gal, Mezzanine!" She looked at him expectantly.
"Oh, no…I think you're doing enough singing for the both of us. I don't even know how it goes."
Her soft, motherly eyes grew large with pleading.
Edward picked her up effortlessly, pulling her around his back and setting her down. He frowned, twisting slightly, shaking his head again in resignation, "She's the red hot mama from Bahama with the red hot cootchie-coo."
She squealed in delight, clapping her hands.
"Get sweet infection in the deep hot section, when that gal looks at you…" Edward sang, laughing sheepishly.
"I knew you knew all the words!" Esme crowed in triumph.
"Yeah, well, don't tell Carlisle," Edward warned her and then softened. "I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time." The record ended and the song drifted to a stop.
Esme looked nervous, "I haven't danced in front of anyone for…years."
"It doesn't show," he assured her.
"Yes, but it's at the Mayor's. It's a very important event for Carlisle." Her face grew slightly anxious.
"I promise," Edward said.
"I still don't understand why you won't come with us," Esme sighed.
"You know parties aren't my forte."
"But Edward," she protested. "You're so charming and such a wonderful dancer. There'll be so many people there!" Edward heard her unspoken thought…so many girls there.
"All the more reason for me to stay at home," Edward told her darkly.
"You've adapted back to this way of life very quickly. I don't know why you think one night out would hurt."
"I know better than to put myself in the path of temptation," he said grimly. "Besides," he went on, shrugging, "I have a novel I'm reading."
Esme sniffed, straightening his collar, "Someday, the sun is going to come up and you will have run out of novels. Then maybe you'll have to consider the possibility that there might be something else out there for you…someone else."
"I sincerely doubt that," he said, without a trace of bitterness.
"I think you're wrong about that, Edward," Esme smiled again, her eyes staring up lovingly at his eternally youthful face. "I think you're wrong."
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As she let herself out the gate in front of Vera and Tommy's, Rosalie pondered the evening. When little Henry had thrown his small, chubby arms around her neck and smacked her firmly on the lips with a sweet baby kiss, Rosalie felt her heart squeeze. Someday, very soon, she would have that, too.
She let her imagination go, painting a picture in her head in vivid watercolors. A little boy looking so much like Royce, dressed in a smart sailor's suit, his blue eyes bright with excitement as he chased his dog across the lawn. He would climb trees and fly kites and when he scraped his knee, he would come running to her and she would pull him into her arms and brush away the tears and the dirt. Royce Joseph King, Jr. And a little girl, her soft blonde hair in bouncing ringlets would rock her baby doll the way Rosalie had rocked her, crooning sweet, little lullabies. She would climb into her mother's lap and smooth her hair back with her tiny, dimpled hands. They would name her Patricia. Patricia Frances King. She imagined Royce with his arm around her waist, his handsome face soft with pride and admiration as he watched their children play. He would laugh gently and kiss her forehead, murmuring tender words in her ear. For some reason, this last image was the hardest to conjure up. Royce's face kept turning back into Tommy's.
An icy wind blew through the thin chiffon of her dress. She shivered, picking up the pace as she crossed St. Paul Street. Rosalie thought anxiously for a moment about the white linen tents her guests would dine in after the ceremony next week. Would they have to move inside if it rained? She sighed. It wouldn't be nearly as beautiful.
With surprise, Rosalie noted that all the street lamps had been turned on. She had not realized how late it had grown. The sidewalks appeared deserted. Up the street and one over, the sound of several raucous male voices could be heard. Rosalie regretted very much rejecting Tommy's offer to walk her home. She was just considering returning to Vera's when the loud group of men she had heard rounded the corner onto Andrews Street. There were five of them, stumbling slightly as they walked under the street lamps towards her.
She pulled her jacket tighter around her and lifting her head high, walked forward, her eyes straining to look past them.
"Rose!"
She knew that voice.
"Royce?" she called hopefully. Relief colored her voice. It was only Royce and his friends. It was all going to be alright.
"Here's my Rose!" he shouted. She saw with surprise that he was drunk. They were all drunk. As they approached, she could smell the bittersweet scent of alcohol, whiskey maybe, or scotch. She used to sniff the decanters in her father's study, the smell often making her nose wrinkle. But it was not familiar or comforting as it had been then.
The laughter was rude and made her feel uncomfortable.
"Royce, would you please walk me home?" Rosalie asked, shakily. "I realized I shouldn't be out alone after dark."
"You're late," he slurred. "We're cold. You've kept us waiting so long."
"I'm sure Father would be happy to have you stop in and get warm," Rosalie said. Her father would not be happy, at all, but she was anxious to get out of the dark. She was frightened now and longed for the comfort of her mother's parlor and her father's crinkly laugh eyes.
Royce ignored her request, pulling roughly on her arm. He gestured to his friend – a man she had met only once, the day before. "What did I tell you, John? Isn't she lovelier than all your Georgia peaches?" He smiled at Rosalie and she tried to smile back. He had complimented her, hadn't he? That was good of him.
All the same, Rosalie didn't like the way the man John eyed her. Or Royce either. She felt embarrassed. "Royce," she murmured, trying not to make a scene. "Please…"
"It's hard to tell. She's all covered up."
She felt her face growing hot. Royce reached out and pulled roughly at her coral jacket, his present to her. There was a loud, ripping sound and Rosalie watched the beautiful buttons as they flew through the air. She gasped and pulled back, putting her arms around her nearly bare shoulders.
"Show him what you look like, Rose!"
Rosalie felt tears pricking her eyes. This was a Royce she had never seen before. Suddenly, he grabbed her hat, yanking it swiftly from her head. The pins tore at her hair. She bit back a small sob.
Someone grabbed her arm; in her growing confusion and panic, she could not see his face. She wrenched away from him. A fist hit her squarely across the mouth. She tasted something bitter and salty. Looking down at her dress, Rosalie noticed the angry, red drops dripping down the front of her gown. She stared, uncomprehending.
And then everything began to swim around her as if in slow motion. Every sound was far away, even her own voice as it pleaded. She felt herself being pushed down on the street. Cigar smoke and the stench of liquor filled her nostrils. She was dimly aware of their faces, though she tried not to focus on anything, tried to force her eyes to glaze over. And then there was pain. Searing, horrible, terrifying. So much pain that Rosalie wondered how she could still be breathing. She hoped vainly that she might faint from it. Humiliation and degradation swept through her and, though she lay quite still, the tears flowed freely down her cheeks, stinging her face where the wind burned it. As the minutes passed, Rosalie tried desperately to leave her own body, to go back to her beautiful watercolor painting. But the children in it had changed. They had grown distorted, blurred. Patricia looked like she was crying. Royce Jr. only stared blankly. And then…the dream children disappeared altogether.
Rosalie was not sure how much time had passed. Minutes…hours…but the voices of the men began to drift farther away from her. The most familiar voice was the last she heard, "I'll have to learn some patience first." She realized dully that Royce was answering some joke. She squinted her eyes into the darkness but could see nothing, not even the street lights now. She wondered vaguely if this was what it felt like to die. To lose the light.
Anguish pulsed through her limbs and torso. Every inch of her felt crushed. Once, she managed to turn her head for a moment and caught sight of her own blood, a pool of it near her head. There was no pain like this.
She did not bother to move again. Death would come and when it did, she would run into its arms, relieved at the mercy of it. To take her out of this dark, cold agony.
And then, though she had not heard a sound - perhaps that was the way death was…silent- icy fingers, gentle and probing were around her thin, bruised arms. A thick layer of fear coated her throat, keeping her from screaming. Had he come back…to hurt her again? But this touch was different. It was almost clinical in its approach.
She struggled to see into the blackness. There was a face, hard, white, startling. A shock of blond hair fell in his eyes as he worked over her but even so, Rosalie would have known him anywhere.
"Let me die," she moaned softly. "Just let me die."
Dr. Cullen's voice was pained as he answered her, "Miss Hale, I am going to help you."
"I don't want your help," she tried to spit out, but she couldn't seem to make her mouth move fully.
And then Rosalie felt her body leave the ground. This is it, she thought grimly. The end. Finally. And then she was airborne. She had not imagined death would feel so much like…flying.
The earth flew under her until the very second that absolutely everything halted. She felt the cool hands moving over her again. This time, it seemed like there were more hands. She felt warm water and soft dressings touch her skin.
Someone muttered an oath as she cried in pain.
"I don't think she will live," Carlisle murmured to someone else. "She's lost too much blood."
There was a hiss and a door slamming.
The dim light above her seemed to fade in and out and Rosalie hoped fervently that the doctor was right. Oh, God, let this be the end, she prayed.
She felt Dr. Cullen's cool breath on her ear as he spoke, "I am so sorry, Rosalie." And then there was a new pain, something Rosalie was not prepared for. It was like a tiny thousand swords had dug themselves into her throat. She screamed, tears of horror at this new agony. She felt the room thud and pulse around her as a slow, deep fire began to boil in her veins. She had been wrong before. There was worse pain.
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"You know it's the right thing," Esme said, her voice gentle as she looked at the hard lines in Edward's face.
He stood, leaning against the wall, hidden in the dark shadow of the staircase. The muscles in his jaw stood out, rigid. "So we want her to suffer more, is that it?"
"You heard Carlisle! She was too young! Too young to see the end of her days."
Edward shrugged callously, "Everyone has to die."
"Edward! How can you say that? You know what happened to her! You saw it in her mind!"
He didn't answer.
"You don't think she deserves this?" Esme looked horrified.
His eyes flashed, "I never said that!"
"He's only doing what he thinks is right."
"Nothing we do is going to take away the pain," Edward said harshly. "I don't know why we don't just let her go. She doesn't want this."
A scream came from the other room and Esme flinched.
Edward shook his head, his voice seething, "This is barbaric." He bolted from the room, jumping lithely through the open window and into the night.
Esme watched him go, her doe eyes full of sadness.
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Author's Note: Review and let me know what you think. For those of you who might be waiting for me to write Hush-A-Bye Baby, don't worry, it's coming! This story is only 6 or 7 chapters long and I wanted to write it first so I could take longer with the other one.
Regarding Research: Thanks to the Twilight Lexicon, , and many other helpful websites. I spent a good deal of time searching for period clothing, hairstyles, and street maps in order to write this. I believe it's reasonably accurate though I have yet to find which of these streets actually existed in 1933. This writing is based on a more modern map of downtown Rochester. If you have questions regarding anything, please let me know!