Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

Begin by Knowing

"To fly as fast as thought, you must begin by knowing that you have already arrived."

- Richard Bach

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Rosalie's POV – June, 1932

I sit across from my father, wondering if he realizes how handsome and commanding he looks behind his antique desk. My father is timeless. He is my ally and friend against mother's campaign to make me Rochester's reining princess.

My back is straight, but I fiddle with my fingers, nervous about what father wants.

Dinner had been a quiet affair. We didn't have any social obligations or any of our acquaintances over for after drinks. Father had quizzed me on current events, making sure I knew what was happening, not only in our community, but the Country in general. He wasn't coolly harsh like mother, but concerned. I could see the love shining in his eyes as he asked me questions about the news and school.

Father understood the trying times we lived in, more than mother and I – we were far removed from that. However, he made sure I was socially and economically familiar with the constantly changing landscape of our nation. He wanted me aware and vigilant.

"I need you protected, darling. You must be diligent, Rosie. It's for your safety. I cannot imagine anything happening to you." Tears clogged my eyes at his beautiful sentiment. I knew he loved me unconditionally.

It was at my father's insistence that Clarence was hired. My father wasn't vain like mother and I, but he also wasn't ignorant. He witnessed the way men stared at me. He probably realized their intentions a lot more than I did. Father wanted me protected and looked after. He knew my immense beauty was like a lighthouse beacon, calling many to my attention. It scared me at first, father all but demanding someone protect me. I didn't know all his intentions or causes. But the more I came to learn and like Clarence, it was quite a blessing in disguise.

"I have my reasons. You shall abide by them, daughter! I give you many liberties, but I also expect you to heed this stipulation. It's for your protection and your own good. I love you, Rosie." Those words stuck with me and I heeded the warning. However, Clarence also gave me some space, but that didn't mean he shirked his responsibilities.

"There's no need to be nervous, Rosie," my father says, pulling me from my thoughts. His smile is lingering and calm. I give one in return. "You haven't displeased me in anyway. Is there something to feel guilty over?" he ask, a sly smirk on his face.

I give him a wiry smile before shaking my head.

"Are you quite certain?" he croons. I love my father and his teasing; it takes me back to being his little princess and unconcerned with finding a husband.

"Why don't you tell me, daddy?" I counter.

"Fine . . ." There isn't a need for him to sound long-suffering. I laugh at his antics. "I received an interesting missive today." He goes silent and stares at me. I raise my eyebrows.

"It was written to you but sent in care of me." I am beyond interested. I wonder who has written to me and what their desire is. My father receives all the mail and usually hands it out to the perspective owners after dinner. I can't fathom who had written to me.

"Okay, daddy, just tell me already," I laugh between words. He has me right where he wants me, strategically well played.

"Well, Mrs. Esme Cullen has written and asked you over to her house for tea. Even though she addressed the letter to you, she had a personal segment for me, praising my daughter on her manners, attitude and regard for others. She is quite taken with you, darling . . . not that I blame her," he says, biased. My eyes water slightly.

"Thanks, sir," I mumble, embarrassed over my errant emotions. "May I go?" My fingers start to entwine again, waiting for his answer is nerve-racking.

"Would you like to go?" he counters. I think of someone else entirely different than Esme as he asks the question, before relegating it to the back of my mind.

"Yes, I would. Mrs. Cullen is truly lovely, daddy. She is so genuine, yet knows how to also put on proper Aires at parties." My father takes this as a compliment instead of a slight. He knows how boring and time-consuming those parties can be. "She sees past what others don't." And that knowledge has my father smiling.

"I'm glad, baby girl, and you have my permission to go. As for your mother," he says, and I dread this part, "I'll handle her."

And I trust his word. Father always has the last word in regards to our family. He is quite fair in consulting with each of us and wanting to know our opinions if the situation pertains to us, but he has the last say. Something I'm eternally grateful for.

. .

"I've the final say, Lillian," I hear my father say later that night. "And regardless what you think of Mrs. Cullen and her peculiarity, I find no fault with her, her husband or brother-in-law."

I eavesdrop on my parents' private conversation once again. I feel some remorse, especially after everything my father is doing for me, but the need to know what mother thinks is overwhelming.

"You've met Edward Cullen, then?"

"Yes, Lillian." Father sounds aggravated. I know firsthand how trying she can be and pushing one to the edge.

"He came into the bank to settle some business with his brother's account. I found him very respectful and polite. He was a little stiff, but still amiable. Why does it matter about the young Cullen? It's Mrs. Cullen she shall be having tea with . . ."

"Don't you want your daughter married to the best available gentleman in town?" his wife counters. "Don't you want her to make a connection that will not only have her set, but benefits us socially, economically and politically? It's imperative she makes a match that will reflect greatly on our family, Rich!" Mother is starting to sound exasperated.

"I won't lie and say those things wouldn't be a bonus, dear, but I also want more for my baby girl. I want her to have every advantage."

I can see mother's face in my mind's eye. This is a discussion they've had before. They both see my future so differently. Mother wants me married to the person with the best bloodlines and familial connections. Sometimes, I think she doesn't care if he were to treat me like a pariah or worse; as long as she gained what she wanted.

Father would see me happily married and to someone who is somewhat deserving of me."No one is ever good enough for you, baby girl," he whispers to my young ears. He sounds sad for some reason. "I guess we shall have to wait and see. It's a day I dread forever, Rosie." His words from long ago still bring tears to my eyes and I can recall them with perfect clarity. Father is impressed by my accurate memory recall.

"Yes, Rich, I'm well aware that Rosalie is the shining apple of your eye. However, there will come a time you'll have to let go. It comes with the territory of being a father." Her words sound sweet, comforting. I want to believe they are, and not patronizing.

"That's still quite far in the future, Lillian," my father naively states.

It's what he wants to believe, even though he knows his wife's agenda. Mother wants me married by the age of nineteen – less than two years away. The thought is both scary and exhilarating.

"Regardless, Rosie shall be having tea with Mrs. Cullen, and I won't hear of you giving her a difficult time. Don't say anything to her or even try to make things harder for her, Lillian. I shall know!"

I sigh in relief. Mother will concede to him. It's not often Richard Hale lays down a command for his wife; therefore, she takes him all the more seriously. I love and appreciate my father. He's the only one who can truly handle Lillian Hale . . . well, him and Aunt Jacqueline. Perhaps there's something in their blood I didn't inherit?

They go on talking, but I back away. My curiosity has been sated. I go back to my room and start to get ready for bed. The excitement is coursing through me, and I can scarcely keep it inside me. However, I must keep my whits about me; mother is going to be even more sufferable than usual.

After my nightly routine, I go to bed, excited at the prospect of seeing Mrs. Cullen again, and if Edward so happens to be there . . . well, that thought is left for another time. I already know my dreams will be filled with him.

. . .

"You amaze me, Mrs. Cullen. This garden is quite beautiful and extensive. One would think you have unlimited time on your hands," I comment courteously. I'm simply in awe of her garden and the hundreds of flowers that permeate my nose. Her lovely-pitched laughs pull me off guard for a moment. It sounds a little frantic.

My eyes turn and search her face. I see nothing but contentment and gratification. These Cullen's have me off-center and always second-guessing myself, I ponder affably. How am I ever to stay afloat? Perhaps you're not Rose . . . they allow you to be something only wished for . . .

I feel crazy as my mind talks to itself, but I smile nonetheless.

"Please, Rosalie, call me Esme. Remember, I've asked you several time?" she inquires sweetly. "Mrs. Cullen is for social functions and endless dinner parties. My flowers only recognize me as Esme," she quips. She may not realize, but it helps me to feel less self-conscious about talking to myself.

"How are you able to devote so much time and attention to such beauty?" I ask, wanting to change the topic from something which still makes me uncomfortable. All my life I've been Rosalie Hale; being this comfortable, light-hearted Rose still makes me unsettled in my skin.

I cast the thought from my mind, having much practice, and take in all the flowers.

The picture before me is quite exquisite. Even though the air is somewhat sweltering and I can feel my skin heating up, one cannot help but feel like they are taking a stroll in Eden itself. The only thing missing seems to be the Tree of Knowledge . . . I was never a fan of apples anyway.

Dozens of flowers touch every surface of the structure. From the hanging planter boxes hosting Martha Washington's Geraniums and Purple Osteospermum flower to the Indigenous Section, my eyes are confused as to where to look. Every color of the rainbow is accounted for and creates such a superlative and glorious spectrum.

From the moment I walked in until now, I have yet to catch my breath. I'm truly in awe. I think of a greenhouse being dirty and grubby, but Esme's puts my preconceived notions to shame. I'm embarrassed at my line of thinking, and hope my cheeks don't show too much of my discomfort.

I do, however, know greenhouses are quite rare and are usually only afforded by those with money. Surprisingly to Rosalie, the wealth doesn't seem to matter as much as the people themselves. Is Rosalie Lillian Hale (and simply not Rose) able to grow in depth and substance? It's a question that stays with me for the remainder of the week.

Even though the sun is hiding behind thick grey clouds, it doesn't take away from the majesty of the cultivated picturesque. It only allows the colors of the plants to shine even more radiant.

"These plants make it easy for me, not withstanding how crazy that makes me sound." Her tinkling laugher seems to bounce off the glass.

I can also imagine the plants leaning in towards her, wanting to feed off her happiness and attention. The notion can't be far from my imagination, the flowers themselves attest to her love and devotion for them. The abundance and healthy nature of them tell the story quite happily.

I giggle at her explanation. She seems to make everything around her flourish under her maternal manner. I wonder if the warmth wafting from my skin is actually from the heat of the greenhouse or Esme's attention.

"It's as if they know my devotion to them, wanting to make them beautiful and thriving," she whispers

Instead of looking to her bounteous plants, she is staring at me. It is somewhat alarming, her being able to read me so easily, but also freeing. There are no masks needed when in the privacy of her home and greenhouse. It is no wonder I feel like such an intruder when I observe her and Dr. Cullen in their intimate moments. Even though they are only watching each other, the love and tenderness is excruciatingly private. Everyone must feel like me when catching them staring at each other. I ponder about such a sweeping kind of love. It's what I envision when I think of my little ones.

"Plants, people and creatures alike thrive under that kind of attention, Rose. I know I may sound sentimental and foolish, but I believe love makes our world turn. I know of nothing more endearing, reaching and sought after. Bad things happen in this life, but intermingled is the benevolence and love. To endure the good, we must also accept the bad; as unfortunate as it may seem."

Her eyes turn somewhat misty and out of focus. I wonder what she is seeing or perhaps remembering. Esme is nothing but glorious, I cannot imagine someone ever wanting to hurt or bring misfortune in her life. Of course my relationship with her has been miniscule compared to the life she's already lived. My interpretation of her life can be far, far off.

"What do you mean, Esme?" I ask her, a little scared of the answer. Her eyes become focused again and her smile luminous. However, I can still see a little longing in her eyes.

"Simply that love is irreplaceable, darling. The stories of my life and how I've come to that conclusion are left for another discussion." She puts an end to my curiosity, but there is no spite or meanness in her words.

"What is your favorite part?" she asks instead. I give her a reassuring grin, my feelings haven't been injured.

"The wild flowers," I whisper wistfully, not really understanding why.

"Oh yes, they also rank amongst my favorite, but my other flowers won't hear that from me," she murmurs back, conspiratorially. She gives a quick wink before walking on.

We stop at a place that seems more natural to the atmosphere than the land itself. Though we are surrounded by glass, the naturalness seems genuine. Among the Sweet Grass and Prairie Dropseed, lay the Nodding Wild Onion. The little weeping flowers look like polyps before they bloom. They are quite endearing and gorgeous. Golden Marsh Marigolds seems to add little sun drops. And one cannot forget the wild rose. I think it quite ironic. I can relate to the white flower sprinkled with pink on the unsullied petals.

"All these grasses and plants are native to the area," she explains as she takes me on a tour of her 'home away from home'.

"I find it important to pay homage and respect to the area. I can bring in all my favorite and grand flowers, but I mustn't forget the local beauty around me. It would be almost disrespectful," she whispers as if she'd hurt someone's feelings.

I am confused by Esme, but also find her so very knowledgeable.

Small trails lead in between the natural landscape, ending at a rustic wooden bench. One wouldn't think it comfortable, but it truly is. I find that I could spend all day amongst the wildness of Upstate New York's splendor.

I willingly become lost and let my thoughts travel.

I'd never imagine the resplendent and stunning Esme to have such an infinity for plants and flowers, but then again, I shouldn't really be surprised. It's something I've learned about her character from simply watching her with Dr. Cullen. She seems to have a love and respect for all things surrounding her. I cannot fathom that type of pure affection.

What would it feel like? Would it drive me completely insane, not being able to contain such an innocence? Would my mother have washed her hands of me, after learning I was unattainable to her will and wishes? It's question after question that washes up against my mind.

Do I fall short in Esme's eyes? Does she mostly see my hard edges and not the softness inside I try (but often fail) to cultivate. Does she see a difference between Rosalie and Rose? Is there such a difference?

"Would you like to go back inside, darling?" I hear her soft voice ask.

"Please," I all but beg. Suddenly being around the flowers is overwhelming.

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As I take my last sip of sweetened tea, my throat becomes blocked, causing me to cough harshly. I should have guessed it would be when Edward made an appearance. It seemed to happen, when the opportunity to best make a fool of myself would be presented.

"Oh my, Rosalie, . . . are you alright?" I hear Esme's slightly worried voice in my ears.

Her small hand faintly hits my back, trying to help me to swallow my clogged tea. I'm amazed at how strong she really is. It shows how one can never judge by appearance alone. It must be from all the heavy lifting she does in the greenhouse, I hear my mind reason. I want to chuckle stupidly; it doesn't matter that I'm in the middle of choking.

Once I manage to swallow the tea in my now sore throat, I allay her apprehension, "Fine, Esme. It simply went down the wrong tube . . . when someone decided to enter at the most inopportune moment," I finish sarcastically in my mind.

"If you insist, darling," she says skeptically. My throat does still sound pretty raw from the coughing fit.

"I'd be willing to take a look, Esme," I hear him volunteer slyly. Goodness what that voice alone could solve . . .

I shiver from the tone caressing my skin. I can feel my cheeks pinking. I want to bury my head in the settee cushions.

". . . seeing as Carlisle is working." Of course Carlisle is working . . .

"Oh, Edward, darling, I didn't notice you come in." Esme sounds more embarrassed about the situation then she should. There is no reason for her to be wholly self-conscious. I monopolized her attention, after all.

"It's of no consequence, Esme. Rose is quite entertaining." I can hear the playful banter in his tone. It was like our last meeting in the library. I smile a little, despite my aching throat.

"Edward!" she sounds scandalized. "She could have done major damage to her throat. It is not a laughing matter!" I giggle a little, wincing slightly from the rawness. I'm amazed at how protective she sounds about me. I can't help but feel my heart swell with affection for her. These Cullen's and the emotions they summon from me.

Esme turns toward me, and her face turns into mock-indignation. The smile in her eyes gives her away. Edward also chuckles lightly. It sounds as if the angels of heaven themselves are upon us. I can't understand how he is able to walk unobstructed down the street, what with every woman from one to hundred years of age throwing themselves at him.

"Well," she squeaks. Her chin rises regally. She stands from the settee and brushes the nonexistent wrinkles from her day skirt. "I shall leave you two children to your antics. Rose, darling, come and find me when Edward is finished making sure you're well. I wouldn't want to interrupt playtime."

Even though she tries to keep angry, the happy smile takes over her lips. I wonder what she is so pleased about. I look to her brother, but he is giving her a secret, silent message. She actually smirks at him before taking her leave.

His mouth falls slightly opened, and I'm amazed. It's like a theatric performance, and I need a Strauss publication, explaining what's happening.

A few seconds pass before he rearranges his facial features into a more acceptable pose. I smile softly at his behavior. He is so wonderfully different than everyone . . .

Edward gives me his undivided attention as he steps over to where I'm seated and takes up the empty spot. I'm not sure how acceptable it is, us being alone, but I find myself not really caring.

My body goes completely still as his fingers reach out and touches my neck. I'm taken aback; my eyes seek out his and stay locked. Even if able, I wouldn't want to break the connection, it feels beyond intimate.

Is Edward thinking the same thing? Does he think me inappropriate? Does he think me too forward? Does he think me even beautiful?

Many questions filter through my mind as I study his darkened orbs. He is so stunning and tender. My eyes want to tear up at the thought.

His chilled fingers work over my throat, feeling for any tearing, or what I assume to be. I'm not a Medical major.

"How are you feeling, love," his sweet voice whispers. Water mists my vision. Can he truly know the effect that one word has on me? The tears are a give-away, Rose. "Is your throat still feeling raw?"

More than you or I could possibly imagine . . .

I nod minutely.

"It feels a little inflamed, but nothing damaging," he reassures me. His fingers play over my flesh for a moment longer than necessary before he pulls away. I stifle the urge to sigh dramatically at the loss of contact.

"T-Thanks," comes the expected stutter. It is almost now required when he is around me. I smile good-naturedly, knowing it won't be helped – there is no reason to get flustered or angry over it any longer. I've made my peace with it, I think absurdly.

My emotions are all over the place, but Edward makes me feel that freeing.

"Have you been here long?" Before I can answer he continues. "Esme didn't tell me who her guest was going to be; simply, she was inviting a new friend over for high tea." My heart flips happily at the thought of Esme considering me a friend and not a social contact or obligation. "I hope you don't think I left, having the knowledge you'd be here this afternoon. Had I known . . ."

"It's fine, Edward," I tell him amiably. I hold no ill-will or anger towards him. I couldn't think that of him. "I've been here for several hours, and perhaps Esme didn't know we were um . . . familiar with each other?"

I don't want to presume Edward and I are friends or something more indefinable. I don't want to offend him in assuming something only I feel.

When he looks at me, not commenting, I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Perhaps I've already offended him.

"Maybe I should go find Esme and make my goodbyes. I don't want to overstay my welcome. Esme has been such a fine and gracious host," I ramble stupidly.

As I go to get up, to take my leave of this sinking situation, Edward's soft voice pierces my anxiousness.

"May I show you somewhere, Rose, . . . before you leave?" he shyly asks. I only ever thought Edward assured of himself. I am more than happy to be proven wrong. If someone as wonderful and beyond gorgeous as him can find self-doubt within, then my own self-reflections and many shortcomings aren't all bad.

"Of course, Edward," I say positively. "Anything you wish."

He gives me a wobbly smile. He stands up gracefully and what seems like without any effort at all. He extends his pale and refined hand out to me. I tremble a little as I put mine in his. I feel as if my soul is all but quivering, recognizing something I don't.

"It's a place I love, go to reflect," he says as he assists me to a standing position. He gently drops my hand and starts to lead on. I follow!

"Esme tries to cultivate in me a love for natural beauties. Even though I'm jaded, one can't help to fall a little for this place. The woman has such vision for pure beauty. Even the most cynical among us has to feel something in here. I'm a testament to that truth." He falls quiet as he continues to lead me.

I feel as if Edward is revealing part of himself to me. I don't know if he is trying to warn me off, or show to me what he may think is his ugliest parts. I don't know his purpose, but it falls short with me. I can help but see the goodness he seems to refuse to see in himself.

I should be surprised when we arrive, but I'm not. I knew I liked this section for a reason beyond my comprehension.

"It's all natural to the area. There are so many artificial things around us: things we seemingly don't believe in or think are fiction." I tilt my head to the side as I listen to his monologue. I truly find myself perplexed, not understanding the lying subtext. I know, however, it's there.

"But this . . ." he whispers, pointing to the indigenous section of Esme's greenhouse, "this is real, meant to be, wild yet tenderly cultivated. I think myself unreal at times, Rose, but coming here and sitting amongst this natural wildness, I can believe myself real for a moment." I feel my eyebrows draw closely together. I don't know what to say or even how to form a reply.

And when I go to say something witty, something profoundly insightful, he floors me even more. My breath becomes stolen from me. "You give me that same feeling," he speaks ever-so-softly.

Would my ears be so cruel as to make up those words? No, I reason.

My eyes close of their own will. Perhaps the truth of his words hangs heavily on my body and thus my eyelids become weary. The thought make no sense, yet neither does this frantic beating in my chest.

Is his heart beat matching the pace of mine? Do his hands sweat at the announced truth like mine? Does he feel as faint at his confession as me? Does anything overwhelm him, like his presence does me? Does he feel like an entirely different person around me, like I do around him? Am I completely crazy in not understanding these sudden and emotionally-provoking reactions he instills in me? I just don't understand myself around him . . .

"Edward –" I start to say, but he cuts me off.

"There's no need for response, Rose. I tell you not these things to invoke some kind of confession from you. I don't know why I tell you these things," he says more to himself, as if he's trying to see the light beyond the fog.

I should be offended at his latent confession, but I'm not . . . more relieved. I'm not the only one confused and tossed about in uncertainty. It's just another coincidence to unite us.

He doesn't say anything else for a while, and I don't respond. I take in the quiet buzzing in my ears, the soft hum of his even breaths, the mixture of fragrances permeating the air and my heart thudding in my chest. I raise my head up and look at the lazy drifting clouds. The sun is about to set, and even though I can't see it beyond the grey clouds, I know it is still there and about to retire for the day.

"We're friends, love," I finally hear murmured, breaking the silence. The beating in my chest picks up at the hopeful expression. I truly want to cry. He's seen me at my worst and yet looks beyond all the imperfection. Does he still think me beautiful on the inside?

"Then I'm beyond fine, Edward," I answer just as reverently, delicately. He grins softly as I finally answered his long-asked question, "How are you feeling, love?"

The silence settles again but with a difference . . . a chilled finger is wrapped around my own. My breath catches in my chest, and if not for Edward's gentle touch keeping me grounded to the wooden bench, I would have already floated away with the slowly drifting clouds.

. .

"How are you feeling, love?"

Wholly unreal, yet grounded in your friendship.

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Author's Notes: Well, for those of you who are still reading this after the lengthy delay, thanks. I hope you liked the chapter. I'm not entirely happy with it, but after suffering from MAJOR writer's block I decided to post it. Goodness, it was quite painful trying to write anything through the maddening beast. Writer's block has to be a terrible form of torture.

Anyhow, thanks to all who are still with me. I have most of the next chapter written, so the delay won't be nearly, nearly as long. PROMISE. Also thanks for all the reviews. They make my day so beautifully happy.

I hope all is well with everyone, and please, if you have the time leave a review. They help more than you can ever know or imagine. Thank again, darling! So much love sent your way!

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Factual Notes:

(1) New York businessman, Frank Vance Strauss, in 1884 approached larger theatres, offering to provide them, free of charge, with magazine-style 'theatrical programmers'. For each theatre
that accepted there was a special color cover and pages with cast-list and brief information about the performance. The other pages – with short articles and a considerable amount of advertising – were the same for every theatre. In the USA, the Strauss publications were being given free of charge throughout most Broadway theatres. Over the years, they had several name changes until, in 1934, the name 'The Playbill' was finally adopted.

Updated: Wednesday, 11 July 2012