"I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you--especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly."

- Mr Rochester, Jane Eyre

Prologue

A couple of months ago, Bella Swan would have been quite able to explain who exactly she was to anyone who was bored enough to listen: she was the devoted girlfriend, the dutiful daughter and, more often than not, the pseudo-parent to her scatter-brained mother.

Until recently, Bella Swan would have been able to say that she was content with her lot in life and with the comfortable love she had in it, with no hint of a lie.

Before September, Bella Swan's life had been everything she'd expected it to be.

That's when everything had changed; that's when the lazy Septembers of her childhood had been ripped from her memory and had been replaced by fire and ice; that's when she'd met him.

The past months had led her here. The ghoulish barrenness of the classroom curled around her trembling body, its empty ribbons tightening the invisible chains that bound her to the spot where she had first seen him. She didn't try to pretend that the shiver that crawled up her spine was because of the room's dancing shadows; she just closed her eyes and welcomed the blackness.

She felt him before she saw him; the cord that bound his body to hers tightening the knot in her chest and allowing her to drink in the smell that always made her think of libraries and old books and knowledge.

"Bella." It was a fervent whisper, a hushed plea, a searing chill.

She didn't turn around or look at him or even acknowledge his presence beyond a shuddering sigh. All she did was breathe.

"Bella."

She wondered what everyone who had ever known timid Bella Swan would think of the situation she'd wandered into of her own free will.

"Bella."

Would they see a phoenix, rising glorious out of the molten ash? Or would they imagine Eve, the temptation of man, in the body of a scared twenty-one year old?

"Bella."

With another deep breath, her eyes flashed open and were momentarily blinded by the shadowy darkness.

"Please say something. I know I don't deserve your understanding but please..." He trailed off, the warm rivulets in his voice transformed into shattered glass.

One of her feet jerked. She looked down and with a choked laugh of bitter irony realised which shoes she'd nervously pulled on this afternoon: her birthday present, the ones Jacob had sold one of his bikes for. There was nothing but shame.

"Don't be afraid."

Was it like this for everyone?

"Your heart's racing." She could hear his footsteps, clear and determined, travelling along a course he'd already charted. "You need to calm down. Please."

She turned and hungrily drank him in. His mouth was slightly open, hinting at the delights within. "Does your family know where you are?"

He nodded, suddenly mute.

"Do they know that you're...that you're with me?"

"Yes," he rasped.

"They don't approve."

"No."

She edged closer to him, "I haven't told anyone about you."

"Why?"

She shrugged, "I don't even know why I came here tonight."

"Me neither but I had to. I couldn't bear not to." His words faded to a tremble as she grasped his hand in her smaller one and drew it to her chest, drawing an unnecessary breath as he let himself be dragged down onto the seat next to hers.

"So tell me Edward Cullen, if we're going to do this, tell me who exactly you are."

Bella Swan could tell you that she was content with her lot and its familiar comfort. She could tell you that her entire world was wrapped up in Forks, Washington and a small house in Florida. She could even tell you that she wanted nothing more than what she already had.

Yes, Bella Swan could tell you all that - but she'd be lying.

A/N: Please let me know what you think of this story so far - reviews are always appreciated.

Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer and Jane Eyre to Charlotte Bronte.

But now a question: if you had to, would you choose Edward Cullen or Mr Rochester?