Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.
Light footfalls in the hallway alerted me to Edward's approach. My thieving palms were sweaty and I made a mental note to cross criminal activity off my list of potential careers. I was not cut out for lying.
"Your chariot awaits, Miss Swan." He gave me an appraising once over before he added, "Your color is already beginning to come back. I should've made you eat both sandwiches instead of keeping mine." When had he eaten his?
I felt myself redden under his perusal. "Even better color. Esme is holding you a plate of supper. I am taking you to our house unless you object too strongly."
Of course I objected -- I had a home of my own. "I don't want to impose. You all don't have to entertain me just because I'm a fellow ex-pat."
He had the decency to look apologetic before he informed me that the invitation had been more of a summons. "Alice knows you too well already. She said to tell to please come to our home, it's no imposition…well, a less polished version of that."
"Did it begin with, 'get over yourself' or something along that line?"
"It did, in fact. You two are made for one another, I do believe. She can be overwhelming for new people. It's been lovely to watch her develop a friendship with someone so accepting of her. Not to mention that we all love having you around. It would have been nice to have done all this in Forks years ago."
All? As in Edward too? Things had been pleasant today. Why not?
Nonchalantly he noted, "Your bag is heavier than earlier."
I sighed. Heavy with my guilt.
The letters couldn't actually weigh enough to notice. Still, I felt the need to cover my lie and offered lamely, "I took my scarf off and shoved it in there. Plus my phone and iPod are in there now."
He nodded.
Classical piano enveloped me in his car, calmed my racing heart and shallow breathing. I turned my head and rested my cheek on the seat facing Edward. The revelation I'd had about Sophie and William continued to demand my attention at first, stomping around my head and pounding the mental furniture like a toddler. Now wasn't the time.
The music helped.
I tried to make my thoughts as still and quiet as possible. Not dishonestly compartmentalizing them, but acknowledging the toddler trying to rule my head and telling him we'd talk later. Eventually, all I heard was the music.
I wasn't an expert on classical music -- far from it, in fact -- but I'd recognized the first two pieces from Renee's collection. The next two were unfamiliar.
One was a sweet, simple melody that swelled, layer by layer, into a joyous celebration. It ended again with the same simple melody, the same notes, but they sounded less stark, rounder in tone. Reborn.
The other pulled at my chest, full of haunting, intentionally discordant notes that floated fragilely on top of a darker melody, pastel-colored lilies dotting the surface of a swamp that housed who knew what kind of malignancy. A lullaby or maybe a pleading tale of unrequited love. It was the strangely compelling story of some desire, a desire beautiful despite its murky depths. It conjured up images straight out of Grimm's fairy tales and the Black Forest. Whatever the composer -- the pied piper -- wanted, I wanted too. His plea was well-made, even without words.
My breathing hitched, musing on what he could want. Or she? Somehow, I didn't think so….
A pair of dark eyes were examining me when I decided I was ready to rejoin reality.
"Are you really feeling better? I can call Carlisle and have him meet us at the hospital if you think you need to."
The threat of a hospital trip helped my reality check even more. I had no intention of sullying my perfectly clean medical history in the British Isles this evening. "Please, no. I have been embarrassed enough for one day, I think. I was just kind of involved in this piece. I'm breathing normally again." I illustrated with one long, even inhale and exhale. "See? Right as rain."
"Indeed." He smiled ironically.
"I really like this." I gestured to indicate the music coming from his stereo. "What is it?"
"Mostly some of my favorite pieces. Debussy, Beethoven, Liszt…."
The darker one was coming to an end. "The last two are lovely but I don't recognize them. This one is breaking my heart, could I hear it again?"
I noticed that we were pulling in to the Cullens'
"I'll play it in the house. Let's get you something to eat."
I wasn't allowed to carry a thing into the house, not even my purse. The messenger bag was draped diagonally across his chest and I watched it like a hawk. As a result I tripped twice between the car and the door in the back of the garage.
"I won't plunder your belongings, I promise. If you don't remain upright, I will, however, put them down and carry you in."
I made it to the den without further stumbling.
Alice and Esme had me swaddled and propped up with a plate of food, a glass each of water and Chianti and two aspirin before I realized that I'd been overrun. Somewhere behind me, I heard Edward's musical laugh harmonize with Carlisle's.
"I tried to warn you. Like magic, but not a ripple." He had tried; I couldn't accuse him of withholding information this time.
Carlisle stepped forward. "Good evening, Bella. How are you feeling?"
"I really am fine. I'm sorry for the scare, it wasn't a big deal."
"Tell me what happened, if you don't mind my asking."
"It's kind of embarrassing, not the sort of thing I'd like to make a big deal over. I was saying something and the way I said it, I hadn't thought of things that way until I heard them out loud.
"I had a sort of revelation about my thesis and I got excited. Overwhelmed, I guess. That was it. Truly. Edward made sure I had lunch -- a sandwich and hot tea -- and I'm not coming down with something. I promise -- nothing's wrong." I smiled gamely to further attest to my excellent health.
Carlisle looked at me like a physician for another moment, appraising, looking for symptoms that would contradict my statements. He touched my forehead with his cool fingers and felt my neck. "Fair enough. You seem just fine now. So, what new revelation about long-dead poets could make a perfectly healthy young lady hyperventilate?"
I narrowed my eyes at Edward. "I did not."
"You most certainly did. Now, answer the good doctor. I'm intrigued. Still breathing normally, but intrigued nonetheless."
I wanted to hold my tongue to punish him for being so cheeky in front of his dad. But, Carlisle was looking at me as if I were about to regale him with the most riveting story ever told.
I caved in what was probably record time.
I think I saw Edward barely roll his eyes at Carlisle. They were like a comedy duo or partners on a police force -- Edward's sarcastic bad cop to Carlisle's unflappably good cop, naturally.
Deciding how to say what I'd half-pieced together at the Copeland's took me thirty seconds or so. It was all so jumbled up.
"Sophie's verses about innate goodness and redemption aren't simply poetry. The letters are replies to William's letters. The poems are replies to his as well. It can't be a coincidence that he's looking for forgiveness and goodness in an evil world and her verses are overflowing with both. She sees the nocturnal devices that he fills with malice as misunderstood and transformed in the daylight. He writes of desire and she of redemption. And, neither write with a trace of cynicism.
"Everything he wants she has. To answer him so completely, she has to know why he wants it."
They were still. Edward looked uncomfortable -- maybe because he hadn't thought of the connection?
I'd put off articulating my thoughts, even to myself, and now wished I hadn't. What I said to the two of them was oversimplified and sounded like I was reaching a bit when I heard the words aloud.
So, I backpedaled.
"I need to see her actual letters and read them in the context of his letters -- my timeline seems more useful now. That could all be a reach. But if it's not…if it's not the implication is that William is either looking for redemption because of something he did or for reassurance because of an occurrence he learned of. Both cases seem to require a precipitating event to inspire such a mass of verse about so pointed a subject."
The two Cullen men were quiet as they considered my theories.
That they didn't dismiss them out of hand or smile patronizingly encouraged me.
I squirmed uncomfortably in the silence.
Carlisle spoke first. "You have had a breakthrough in your research today, haven't you? That's an ambitious endeavor, proving that an event or events occurred centuries ago. I might be overwhelmed at such a prospect myself. I'm glad I already have an occupation and can leave it to the two of you.
"Son, you may end up embarrassed if you're not on your game."
Without a hint of sarcasm, Edward said, "I was just thinking the same thing."
He was full of surprises recently. One more to file away for later consideration.
"Bella, let me know if you decide you really aren't feeling well. As far as I'm concerned, I think you're right -- you just inundated yourself with too much information at once, maybe got a little excited. It's always lovely to see you.
"And, dear?"
"Yes, sir?"
"It might help to remember that these events are centuries old. No one is in peril if you don't unravel Sophie's mysteries overnight. You're doing so much already by airing out her lovely verses. Pace yourself." He patted my shoulder, a very fatherly gesture.
"Thank you, Dr. Cullen. That sounds like pretty solid advice. And, before I forget my manners completely -- I'm always glad to see you. I'll try to do it without making you work on your day off next time."
"Carlisle, Bella. It's no trouble. Finding you here has been a happy coincidence for me, too -- for all of us, I think. Good night." He passed a hand over the top of my head and smiled. He looked concerned, like he didn't believe that I would take his advice to pace myself.
Esme seemed the luckiest woman in the world from my nest-like little perch. He was probably just as lucky, I decided.
Edward was looking at my untouched plate of food and asked, "Is your food still warm? I can fix it if it's not."
I wouldn't have let him go through more trouble if it were frozen, but it was just fine. I didn't have to lie about that, at least.
"I'll play that song while you finish eating. When you're done, we're hashing out your hypothesis, though."
He stood, to get his iPod I assumed, and I started on the heaping pile of vegetable lasagna. I had to stifle a moan; it was heavenly.
Warning me that we would be hashing out my theory seemed polite on the surface, a nicety I would usually have appreciated from Edward. His every word and action seemed orchestrated to keep me off balance.
This empty gesture was no different. He didn't want me to notice his destination until it was too late for me to speak. Instead of watching him to his destination, I stewed over which Sophie and William theories I wanted to discuss, sifting out the most embarrassing ones.
To my staggering disbelief, Edward sat down at the baby grand across the room and began to play. No way could I have interrupted once he began -- my reaction was visceral and immediate. The painfully sweet tugging began again in my chest.
I swirled my Chianti, occupying my hands in an effort to settle my thoughts.
Edward never looked at the keys as his fingers caressed their surfaces.
No sheet music sat propped up before him.
As intimately involved as he was in the delicate swells and melancholy cadence he played, I never felt uncomfortable. I never felt as if I were interrupting his reverie. I was just as swept up in it as he was, drawn along with him. The act of being so intimately involved in the presence of another person usually made me uncomfortable but, when I closed my eyes, I was washed into it with him and without any lingering self-consciousness. I could convince myself that the melody swelled up as I inhaled, that it became part of me, that it would forever take up satisfied residence inside the rise and fall of my chest.
My heart felt like a metronome.
As the music drew towards its bittersweet end -- I knew without being told that it was ending -- I realized the glass in my hand was empty. Yet, still I swirled my nonexistent wine. I must have drained it at some point and I wiped a drop of red from the corner of my mouth -- more evidence that I'd been moving something other than air as he played.
The house could have come down around us and I might or might not have taken note.
I stilled my hand and the thoughts roiled again.
Had he written that? No wonder Alice missed his playing -- his "compositions" -- while he was away. What was Edward denied that could have provoked such a response? I wanted to spend as much time poring over him as I did Sophie, a thought I'd have to work hard to banish later. Something else to repent at my leisure.
My dreams now had a musical score.
We'd been sitting in silence for more than a minute before the din in my head quieted.
In a low voice, one that barely stirred the atmosphere between us, he stated, "Your glass is empty, I'll be right back." I knew better, of course, but I wanted to believe that Edward ghosted a hand over the back of my hair as he left, so I did. Certainly, it was only the air being displaced as he slid by the back of my chair.
The bottle he returned with was more than half-empty. Edward said repentantly, "I didn't even ask. Could I interest you in another glass?"
I wanted to take the bottle from him, tip it up to my lips, empty it and wait for the warm calm to wash over me. Do you have anything stronger?
Instead, I only said, "Please."
I hadn't noticed him take a drink, but his own glass was close to empty.
Without any lead in, I said, "You could've told me in the car."
He countered immediately. "You could've told me in the library. Or the car."
I was oxygen-deprived, he had no such excuse! "Touche, Mr. Cullen. So, that was yours, yes?"
"I wrote it but it belongs to someone else. When are we going to return that box of letters, Miss Swan?"
"Tomor-- what do you mean?" Damn him. He'd gotten a confession -- twice -- before I'd even noticed.
He knew, the conniving bastard, and he knew I was still wrapped up in that damned song, that I was unprepared. How did he know and why did he maneuver things this way? Couldn't we have a conversation on equal footing?
Why were things so contorted where he was involved?
Every memory of every conversation we'd had felt like watching the reflection of a normal dialogue in a fun house mirror. Edward's height put his reflection one wave higher than mine and he loomed, distorted, over tiny me.
I had to take a breath and remind myself that no human being was capable of the manipulation I was crediting him with. I felt childish. I wasn't the same high school girl who felt the need to bring myth and fantasy into every coincidence. He wasn't that manipulative.
Things could be worse. It didn't seem he had any intention of ratting me out to the Copelands or the authorities. But, if he didn't care too much that I was bringing my criminal misdeeds into his home, he was -- surprise! -- attempting some misdirection.
He laughed. From his Italian-leather clad soles to his impossibly upright bronze locks, he laughed at my shoddy deceit and indecision. I was just grateful that the mood had lightened.
At least he wasn't angry. He did have every right to be since he'd get in just as much trouble as me if I were caught.
He prompted me, "Tomorrow, you were about to say? If we are risking an entire night, I demand an equal share of the plunder in exchange for my equal risk of punishment."
The hell, you say! "You want half the letters?"
"No. Just equal access."
He did have a point, so I considered letting him stay up to read as long as I did. Begrudgingly, I offered, "I'll have them at my apartment, you can drive me home and then stay till you're done. How's that?"
"Not good enough."
"Okay, now you're just being greedy. Plus, there's nowhere for you to sleep in my tiny place." Once the words left my mouth, my neck and face heated immediately. Of all the stupid things to suggest….
"I was thinking of something significantly less scandalous."
"I wasn't suggesting--"
He cut me off. Never had I been so relieved for an interruption. "No, I didn't get the impression you were. I was just thinking that you staying here tonight would be a simple solution. Alice and Rose and Esme are bound to have just about anything you'd require. I think they have everything any woman would require for an overnight visit in any corner of the globe. You'd have a room of your own and we could work here undisturbed until we had to return them tomorrow afternoon.
"Esme assumed you were staying when she wrapped you up earlier and has already promised a lovely breakfast and a fluffy robe."
When I didn't respond immediately, he stooped to asking, "How does that sound?"
Like heaven and hell and everything I want so fiercely that I have to pretend it doesn't exist. Say 'no', Bella. Firmly but kindly, no.
"Okay." I'd never agreed to anything, not even something sweet and harmless, so meekly.
He looked relieved. Probably at the fact that he could have what he wanted without having to be alone with me in my tiny apartment. "And, for the record, I'm not against 'borrowing' antique documents. But, next time, let me be the one engaging in questionably criminal activity. It makes me uncomfortable to push my dirty work off on someone so…pristine."
I balked at his insinuation. "The way you say 'pristine' is almost insulting. I just cut a fairly significant corner, especially for a police chief's daughter. That's far from above reproach."
All the talk of scandalous behavior, and that generous glass of wine, made me brave. I leaned forward and cocked my eyebrow at him. "You don't know what I am or am not capable of. You and I are just getting reacquainted, Mr. Cullen. Any number of awful things could have occurred in your absence."
"Forgive my impertinence, I'll have to update your dossier." He punctuated his faux-remorse with my favorite crooked grin. I knew better than to try to voice my acquiescence so I simply beamed in return.
Indicating the slim box that had -- somehow -- magically teleported itself from my bag to a side table, he said, "So, now that we are officially partners in crime, let's plot some criminal activity."
My intention had been to sort through the letters at home, without his piercing observations, so that I could cipher out his organizational tabbing system. He was piecing things together like I was and I didn't want to accuse him of hiding something. He just always seemed like he was. If anyone understood the importance of being able to concentrate on a subject without interference, I did.
Resenting Edward's secrets was an old habit dying hard, flopping and drawing out its death-throes melodramatically. I needed to find a way to get over it.
I heard my fifth grade teacher explaining prepositions. Or around it, through it, under it, on it…something a rabbit does to a stump. How I avoided the obstacle of my resentment was less important than doing it.
Our conspiracy helped me feel better about his secret-keeping.
I sighed aloud at the memory of my co-conspirator abandoned on the other side of the globe. Imagining Jake's choice words for my involvement in the Cullens' crime syndicate made me momentarily doubt the decision to let Edward into my confidence on this.
But, who better to engage in sinister behavior with than a person whose entire life was a giant box of questions? He was as silent as the grave on the subject of Edward Cullen.
I wrote it but it belongs to someone else? What the hell kind of response was that? I reminded myself that it was another reason my trust was not misplaced.
It was still annoying as hell.
I watched him leaf through the letters again and we began to settle in for the evening. Already a few edges were slipping from underneath the others but no discernable pattern was emerging.
With no other alternative presenting itself, I stirred the pot to see what would bob to the surface.
"Do you have the letter that talks about her garden?"
"There's more than one in this pile -- which one do you need?"
"Hmm. Now I don't remember…may I?" I gestured towards his stack. "I'll be quick, I promise."
"Now who's being greedy?"
I made a noise of protest, going through the motions so he wouldn't suspect my real intent.
Flipping through the letters quickly while wearing cotton gloves wasn't easy and I didn't want the aged paper to pay for my clumsy fingers. My heart pounded in my chest. My eyes narrowed and I was certain my pupils had dilated -- I was on the hunt.
"You must really be onto something."
Holy crow, must he notice every cursed detail? Seriously?
"I don't know. I'm not too anxious to embarrass myself again, so give me a minute." There. My tone was nonchalant and the answer vague enough to elicit approval from even the King of Few Details.
I didn't need his approval, just his temporary indulgence….
The only difference I could see between the pulled letters and the rest was that they had William's unpublished poems in them. And, none of the letters he'd left alone contained an unpublished poem. I wasn't too concerned with anything but the unpublished stuff myself. All that top-notch acting to discover that we were barking up the same tree.
Not as interesting as I'd hoped.
"Here it is…no not the same flowers. I noticed her fascination with gentians and I couldn't remember what blossom she used in this verse, I was hoping they might be indicative of something…not the same. What do you think?" He didn't seem to fond of parting with theories of his own for all of his spouting about sharing.
I leaned forward and let my v-neck t-shirt gape at the neck just a bit -- even nice girls own push-up bras.
I could do distracting if I tried.
Edward swallowed thickly.
My eyes never left the letters in my hand. Slowly, hoping I looked like I was very concerned with their content, I turned them so that he could read as well. "She only mentions gentians in this letter." He moved forward to point out the letter I needed at the same time I pulled the throw -- the same one I'd worn at dinner the other night -- off my shoulders to lean towards him. He tensed and his black eyes locked with mine.
Why did I look up?
The notch reappeared.
"I…um…pajamas." And he was through the doorway where Alice stood with an armful of jersey knit. Intent on holding Edward's attention, I hadn't noticed her there.
"Would you like to change? Esme said you'd be staying here tonight!"
"Thank you. That would be really nice."
"Edward's supposed to be getting a robe for you. It's on my top shelf and Jasper's not here to reach it so he gets to be my gopher." He was up before she appeared in the doorway, wasn't he?
"This is all very sweet but I don't want to be too much trouble. I can sleep in my t-shirt and some pajama bottoms."
"Nonsense. I bought these for company and they've never been worn. Please? It will be one purchase Jasper can't hound me about."
"Well, if it's a public service…" I took the proffered stack.
They were delicious. Peacock blue jersey bottoms and scoop-neck top. No bows or lace, but they were trimmed in distressed velvet and felt like just barely more than nothing. A kiss, if such a fabric existed.
My cheeks warmed at the thought.
"I have these in black and gray -- I love them. I threw some socks and slippers in there too. I have tons of clothes if you need something in the morning. I'll make a little pile you can choose from for tomorrow. C'mon, your room's just up the hallway. I'll show you while Edward gets your robe."
My room was just a couple doors down from the library. The walls looked as if they had once been jade but, having seen centuries' worth of occupants, had faded to a sheer wash reminiscent of water. I had a feeling the only occupants it had actually seen were the Cullens and the aged paint was courtesy of a clever painter. The bed was roughly queen sized and had no headboard or footboard. The bedding looked like a creamy cloud the color of steamed milk.
Too bad I was hours from sleeping.
A glass chandelier -- Venetian, I guessed -- hung over the middle of the bed. Centered at its head was a gilt-framed mirror easily seven or eight feet tall, crackled and stained with age. The top was a half round. A bench shaped like a church pew sat at the foot of the bed. I made a mental note of its location to avoid a broken toe on the way to the bathroom. Alice had already put toiletries and knit booties on it.
Beside the bed was a window hung with curtains that looked like tapestries. That the gold and rust and sable looked so appropriate against the water-colored walls surprised me. Mismatched alabaster lamps were on the beside tables and tiny paintings and landscapes adorned the wall behind them. Esme seemed to have a talent for bringing harmony out of discord.
It was charming and comforting but not stuffy.
Alice said in a soft voice, "This is my favorite room in the house, I think."
"It doesn't look at all like you, Alice. I'm surprised -- you seem more the old Hollywood glamour meets Tom Ford type. I'll have to see your room again to decide if I believe you. I just remember being bowled over by it."
"You don't miss the details, do you, Bella?"
My room -- the guest room -- shared a bathroom with Edward. Alice said the other guest rooms were downstairs and across the house. She thought it might be easier to find it on my own if it were close to the library.
Why shouldn't this arrangement be preferable? I couldn't even articulate that response to myself, I was so ashamed.
I got the sneaking suspicion Alice was putting me on a collision course with her brother. Our imagined collision worried me only slightly less than the fallout.
Alice was kind enough to add a camisole to wear underneath the pajama ensemble. The saturated blue was not something I would have picked out on my own but the color was pretty. Once I had them on, I remembered a blue blouse I owned in high school close to the same shade. I'd worn it for my yearbook picture from junior year.
Footsteps announced someone's path down the hall and the tap on my door, their destination. "Bella, I have your robe. I can leave--"
In my inexplicable rush to open the door I jammed my toes on the church pew bench. I felt certain no supplication of the Almighty had been vocalized quite so colorfully in its presence before that moment.
The doorknob was already turning when I reached for it.
Edward averted his face. "I'm sorry. I heard…and I thought you might need something."
"No. It's fine. Thanks. I knocked the sh…enanigans out of my toes."
"'Shenanigans'? No need to bother editing now, not on my account."
We shared an uneasy laugh. He held out a heap of pewter cashmere to me.
"Your robe, madam." As I sunk my arms in the sleeves he continued, "Esme made you a mocha. I told her I'd never seen you drink anything espresso-based, but she sent it up anyway. I think she knows were pulling an all-nighter."
I wondered what she'd think if I confessed that this wouldn't be my first late night with her son. I wondered what he'd think.
"All-nighter?" I eyed him warily.
"Backing down so soon? I'm disappointed, Bella."
"I shouldn't have downed all that wine and pasta. I'm getting sleepy already." As sleepy as I might have been on the surface, my subconscious keeper of Dream Edward readied herself for an exciting night of no-work and all-play.
"You can take a nap…or you can down this mocha. Your call."
"Oh, it's the mocha all the way. You've thrown down the gauntlet."
"That's what I thought." He smirked and nodded in approval.
Why did that make me want to do exactly the opposite? He wasn't insinuating that I was an awful person for wanting to stay up all night to comb through stolen manuscripts -- he was probably agreeing. Just get over it already, Bella. You're friend…ly research partners.
Sometime after two in the morning, my eyelids began to droop dangerously. I was teetering on the edge of drooling all over antique documents -- a no-no to say the least -- and I knew I needed to call it a night soon.
My night would not end without a sense of accomplishment, though. Everything I'd read reinforced my theory that William was looking for forgiveness for something specific, the details of which I couldn't quite wrap my head around, and Sophie was trying to comfort him, extend what mercy she could. She reminded him of his worth at every turn.
From the beginning I'd sensed their bond was out of the ordinary -- more than avuncular -- and perusing these letters again with that thought in mind brought supporting quotes to the surface. Ten pages worth of supporting quotes.
To get some blood moving, I paced the room a bit, rolling my neck to work out the kinks I'd made spending the last six hours hunched over a notebook.
"So, should we call it? Time of death, two--"
I knew it was time to go to sleep -- I was so exhausted I hadn't spoken a word in over an hour -- but I hated conceding anything to him. I shook my head at my own pigheadedness. Being an occasional ass didn't make him any less right.
"No? You can barely shake your head. You're exhausted; we should go to bed."
I didn't have the energy to laugh properly at the possible sexual innuendo he'd made but I didn't have the wherewithal to bite it back either.
"Now, what fun would that be if you were too exhausted to even laugh at me? None at all."
Oh. My. God.
He chuckled. "And don't look so shocked, I know what an innuendo is. Your brain is the one that's too shot to even form words. Come on."
"I wanna sleep but I keep thinking I'm overlooking something…" I punctuated my thought with a yawn.
"Like Carlisle said, these people are long buried, there's no rush. We've got weeks before the Copelands toss us out for good. You are doing yourself no good."
"Speak for yourself, buddy."
He peered down his nose at me.
"I'm not the one who can't even hold her head up."
"You win. My muscles are a knotted mess, I'm going to be so sore tomorrow, and my toes are already throbbing."
"Let me see…" He patted his knee for me to prop my foot on. He put down his mug of chocolate and I sat down across from him. I propped my foot up -- bootie and all -- on his thigh.
"I'm going to have to take this off to actually see your foot, Bella." Without waiting for a response, he slid the cable knit cuff down my calf and slipped the whole thing off my foot. His hands were warmer than I expected -- hot from the cocoa -- warmer than the Edward who caressed my face in my dreams.
Because they're not the same.
Wordlessly, he pressed his thumb into the pad of my foot, probing methodically, closing in slowly on the injured toes. I curled my toes over, guarding the hurt part of my foot, and he grazed his thumb over them, coaxing them back to a relaxed position.
Breathe, Bella. His dad is a doctor, he's just making sure you aren't injured too badly. He's saved you from more injuries than Charlie and Renee combined, touching your foot is no big deal.
I took another breath and memories of all the stumbles and bumps flickered past my eyes. He'd picked me up more than a dozen times, put my books back in order, dusted off my backpack and handed it back silently.
We shook on our exchange of letters in the manuscript room without taking our gloves off.
In my mind, I saw his hands on my sleeves, on my hair, around my clothing-covered middle or carefully dropping my keys into my upturned palm. Everywhere but in contact with my skin.
I felt my breath slow as the significance of his slim fingers probing my digits for injuries sunk in. My hair fell forward and covered my face, giving me a moment of imagined privacy. I wanted to yank my leg back and hobble off to bed, pretending like I hadn't noticed anything, blissful in my lack of discovery.
Examining Edward never got me anywhere, that much I already knew. That didn't mean I had to stop entirely, but I didn't need to dwell on how and why and where he touched me. The idea should have been intuitive -- like not putting my hand into a fire -- not something I had to remind myself.
He leaned forward and pushed my curtain of privacy back.
"Hey. Does that hurt too badly? Should I go get Carlisle? Or maybe an anti-inflammatory for now?" He brought his fingers around the crest of my ear and secured the hair they held behind it. The outside edge of my ear burned and tingled in his wake.
I think I shook my head in response.
I was certain now that his skin had never touched mine. This I would have remembered.
Exhaustion had me dancing on the uncertain edge between reality and fantasy. Rather than the pencil-thin, straight gray line I expected, what I found was the ebb and flow of waves on the shore. Of course, the coupling of two states of mind so disparate would be gradual, a portion of the map constantly subject to alteration -- always changing, never allowing me to get my bearings. If I stilled myself, the fantasy washed over me in an Earl Grey tinged lick of tide and I just knew Edward's face would close in on mine.
Then, it sucked back out to sea, taking my imagined certainty with it and leaving me reeling.
I closed my eyes and blinked them back open. The reality was that Edward's right hand remained behind my ear and his left hand held my foot by the arch. I closed my eyes again.
I registered the sensations of him picking me up and carrying me to my bed like a child, but I didn't see the hallway or know how he opened the door. I just remembered him tucking me in.
"Good night, Bella."
"Wait."
He chuckled. "There's something more you want? "
The answer slipped out before I could work up a slick transition. "Why aren't we friends? I think we should be."
He sighed, a breathy resignation. "Bella, I am not a good friend for you but I won't pretend anymore like I don't want to be your friend. Like I haven't always wanted to be your friend."
Blinking open my heavy lids, I mumbled, "You did?"
The house was so quiet and he was so close, his voice was a low murmur. "Of course, I did. Didn't I make that plain today?"
"So, what'd I do to keep you away? I wanted to be friends. Really. I know I was sarcastic, but you always made me so damned mad. You still do, kinda. I think you do it on purpose." I propped myself up on my elbows, fighting the cloud of sleep I was all tangled in.
"I wish I could undo that, erase my regrettable conduct from your memory. But, what's done is done. I won't make you regret being friends with me now, I promise."
"I'm thinking about making you write that down."
He smiled. I wasn't being funny. "Probably a wise move on your part."
He continued, his sugar-coated voice pleading with me now. "Now, will you please sleep? You won't even remember this exchange in the morning." I thought he said, "You never do," but I couldn't quite make out his whisper.
"Yes, I will -- you're going to write it down."
"If you sleep, I will write it down."
I leaned up more, practically sitting now. "Something else."
"Bella, can't it wait? I'll be here tomorrow, I swear -- I am two doors down and I'm not leaving tonight."
"That's just it. It won't be tonight, probably, but it will happen sometime -- you're always in the process of communicating a farewell to me. So, I will do this while I'm punch-drunk and brave."
I turned over on to one elbow. "Why hadn't you touched me before tonight? Why had I never felt your fingers before that?"
"I've picked you up and dusted you off more than once, Miss Swan. I've touched you. It must not have been too memorable -- what did you say, 'you give it more weight than it deserves by simply mentioning it'? Why are you assigning such weight to my making sure you were uninjured? Again."
"You think I wouldn't rem…you didn't…stop toying with me."
For once, Edward Cullen looked ashamed at the exact moment I wanted him to.
"My fingers were on your skin. You felt them. Do I really need to elaborate?" I could hear that he clenched his jaw. And that he sounded disgusted.
"When you say it like that, no. But I'm sure we're not communicating on the same level. We never do. Tell me why you've never touched your skin to mine. I promise I'll go to sleep if you do, cross my heart."
"I just didn't for so long…even though I wanted to…and then it occurred to me that if I did, I would be so conscious of it, your skin would sear me like a brand. Things this evening were so relaxed -- today's been a high water mark for us, I think -- that I decided to get it over with, to touch you in a controlled setting.
"Because, if I was right about how I'd react, being overwhelmed in front of strangers wouldn't be a great idea. Or, what if you really hurt yourself and I was so wrapped up in taking care of a real injury that I didn't get to even think about it?"
A realistic concern.
I turned over his palm and traced a lazy line from its center up his wrist to his forearm. My finger lingered there in haphazard curlicues, loitering contentedly. "There are no strangers here. No blood has been spilled so, for once, I don't need rushing to a hospital…what's the verdict?" I looked pointedly at my finger dancing up his wrist, tracing the surface of what I imagined were the paths his blood traveled with the back of my fingernail. There was something so vulnerable about that stretch of skin.
Vulnerable but rock-solid. He seemed so knotted with muscles that I'd barely noticed before now.
When I looked up to see why he hadn't responded, his eyes were closed.
"You can't imagine how that feels."
"I can…I think. Help me."
His eyelids raised deliberately, like the curtain on a stage, and I made sure the face he sought was clean of all pretense. My motives were less than unimpeachable but were certainly muddled. I had no idea what I hoped to gain here.
Whatever it was, I knew I'd regret its acquisition soon enough.
It just felt like somewhere I needed to go. Again, I felt the ebb of reality and the wash of fantasy taint my thought processes.
With painful slowness, handling me like an artifact on the verge of collapse, he put three fingers against my radial pulse and his thumb on the opposite surface of my wrist. He turned it over by degree.
I wanted to look at anything but him, to avert my eyes from the disaster that this could become, but I was mesmerized.
The three fingers began to alternate pressure, rocking and I realized that he was drawing, leaving a signature I felt down into bone and sinew, without moving them from their place. The rhythm loosened and hung there in a holding pattern. The teasing meter continued but they held their ground, not leaving their place.
It felt like a warning, this halt in his advance. I exhaled and closed my eyes, the only assent I could muster.
He stopped moving altogether. An exhaled noise of protest crossed my lips without proper consent and I looked up at him, crushed.
That must have been the assent he wanted -- like he sensed my struggle with delusion and wanted to test that I capable of saying 'yes' -- and he continued, progressing from simply resting the weight of his fingers on the sensitive underside of my wrist to lightly exploring the irregular sheath over the twist of blood vessels and tendons.
He continued to widen the scope of his ownership up and down my forearm.
I had to remind myself to breath in and out; the now overloaded nerve-endings in my forearms had short-circuited the rest of my body's synapses.
My desperation for sleep made the whole experience more than a little surreal. I was Bella through the looking-glass.
I faltered in my hold on consciousness, flitting in and out of wakefulness, vaguely noting that he was putting me to sleep when I refused to go there myself. I wanted to object…really, I did.
My limbs were leaden, my head dipped forward. It must have because his other hand curled into the hair at the nape of my neck, supporting it, as his arm eased beneath mine to take my weight from off my elbow.
I was laid on my side in the position I fell asleep when in my own bed. His left hand still lolled along my skin.
"'M not asleep."
"Sleep, Bella. It will make my job so much easier." He pulled my left arm out of my robe.
Author's Note: Danni and Clementine -- you two are the Sapphire and lime to my tonic. Victorian porn, indeed.
Is it blasphemous for a good Irish girl to drink Earl Grey in Ireland? On St. Paddy's Day?