CHAPTER 21 – Roulette
Bella

That night, I danced with my husband on as private a corner of the dance floor as we could find. I hugged Charlie, Cindy, Jacob, and Billy again before Edward carried me and Miles home at an hour that felt much later than it was. I awoke two hours later to the cries of an empty stomach wailing from its crib, to which Edward responded with a bottle faster than I could have gotten out of bed.

Thus our life continued, quaint and simple, until he received another invitation to Volterra. Aro had been pleased with the Yukon Territory resolution, despite not receiving Georgia into his court. Given that she hadn't actually violated newborn regulations, and her legion consisted entirely of political malcontents, he shrugged off the loss of sport.

He had, of course, inquired about Miles, and was enchanted by what he saw in Edward's memories. Satisfied that our son posed no more of a liability than any other baby on the planet, he congratulated Edward and informed him that our family would be called upon to visit in the future. He insisted the invitation was purely sociable in nature, and while he recommended against refusing it, he promised it would be free of ultimatums or "business deals," as he endearingly called them.

Miles' first birthday came surprisingly fast. Though I tried reasoning with Alice that he was too young to appreciate – much less remember – anything from the party, she crammed the house so full of streamers and balloons that half the furniture was buried. Emmett was recruited to perform clown duty, which was quite the sight. I worried that his bizarre appearance might frighten Miles, but thankfully he found his oafish uncle – dressed in patchwork flood pants and a rainbow wig – to be endlessly amusing.

Just when I thought I'd seen the full scope of Alice's lavish party designs, she herded us into the back yard. Tethered to one of the tree trunks was a stocky little pony with an iridescent birthday hat strapped between its ears.

"Alice…" I rolled my eyes. "How many times do I have to remind you – he won't remember any of this."

"Maybe not, but I will," she huffed. "And so will you. Besides, that's what pictures are for. Now let's saddle him up for a ride around the house."

Esme, official photographer for the event, dutifully followed us as we paraded Pickles the pony along the edge of the property. A distinctly low-energy animal, Pickles could carry a towering wedding cake for ten miles without jostling it. When at last his jaunt was finished, it was time for our own cake. I was glad the fiasco was almost over, not only because it was as ridiculous as it was exhausting, but because Miles and I were the only ones eating the cake. I anticipated feeling a little silly and conspicuous while everyone watched us eat.

How accurate that premonition had been. One bite into the marble cake, whose mint frosting I'd been eyeing with pleasure all morning, and a strange sensation spread across my tongue. My taste buds backfired, refusing to relay the correct flavor to my brain. This didn't taste like cake. The texture was right, but everything else was all wrong.

"Does it taste all right?" Esme asked. Poor Esme – always the hapless chef behind these incidents.

"Um, Edward, can I see you inside for a minute?" I mumbled through the mush I was loath to swallow.

Minutes later, we sat in the stillness of our room, his ear pressed against my abdomen. I shakily held my breath, as if my lungs might interfere with his listening. Time suspended itself while I waited anxiously for him to turn his brilliant face upward and announce the verdict. When endless seconds passed without the slightest movement or sound from him, I assumed it was because he heard nothing. Disappointment began to creep its way into my spirit.

Then, with what I perceived to be reluctance, he withdrew his ear and stared at me. Slowly, his face transformed from a mask of neutrality to one of smiling elation.

Ivy was born seven months later, much to the delight of her older brother. And like her brother, she weighed an exorbitant amount at birth, inheriting the same "brittle bone disease" as Miles. The two enjoyed each other's company immensely, at times sharing an incoherent language only they understood.

Round two of roulette had been a success. As Edward and I watched them, each miniature replicas of ourselves, I marveled at their existence and wondered if we would end up with two more. In all honesty, I imagined my luck had been expended with Miles and not enough remained to defy the odds a second time. Yet with that theory already debunked, what stopped me from being proven wrong multiple times?

Not long after Ivy's first birthday, I received the answer to that rhetorical question. On an uncommonly mild winter afternoon, Edward lay in the middle of a sprawling blanket with both children resting against his chest, their favorite book held aloft as he narrated it. Ivy giggled at the diamonds dancing along his neck while I finished my chips and salsa, reaching over to the picnic basket for a napkin.

The motion of bending at the waist caused my stomach to churn abruptly, and I barely reached the bushes in time to hide the unsavory sight from my family. Halfway through the retching, I knew what it was. From the way Edward's eyes gleamed roguishly as he rinsed out my mouth, I surmised he knew as well.

With the children tugging at my legs to ensure I was recovering, Edward saw no need to delay the ceremony. I closed my eyes and stood as still as possible while he brought his ear to align with my stomach. No anxiety troubled me as I awaited his response. Two reasons for my peace were currently clinging to my ankles. A third would arrive before the year was through, and our family would find itself even more abundantly complete than it already was.

A fragrant breeze stirred the meadow as Edward stood. The message in his eyes perplexed me. Yet I saw he wasn't stalling or being intentionally enigmatic just to provoke me.

"Well?" I entreated, unable to withstand the tension any longer.

Glancing down at Miles and Ivy, he seemed to be gauging whether or not to respond in their presence. Apparently satisfied with my state of health, they'd engaged themselves with some wildflowers and twigs – Ivy carefully plucking the former into a bouquet while Miles thrashed them with the latter. They weren't attuned to us at the moment.

"It's what you think," he said quietly. "But different than before."

I squinted at him as he waited for the implications to sink in. If it was what I thought, why did I detect a melancholy tint to his eyes? How could my prediction be correct, yet "different" than previous events?

Suddenly, like a tsunami wave slamming into me, I understood. Seeing realization dawn on my features, Edward pulled me in to a soft embrace. "I smell a difference in your blood," he confirmed, "but I can't hear a heartbeat."

Author's note updated 5/20/11:
My response to the comments about Edward & Alice's talents: everything I chose - from the relative lack of their talents to their lack of communication with Bella while in Canada - was for dramatic effect. Delineating what could've been done differently is not only pedantic, it undermines my prerogative to compose however I see fit. It also loses sight of the big picture. Just chill, babes.
Plus, I grow easily tired of reading italicized mental thoughts, so I wanted to keep those to a minimum.

A number of readers felt obligated to remove my story from their Favorites list after reading my Afterword. I find this amusing rather than offensive. The story's plotline & syntax are the same quality as before. I didn't realize a brief, politically incorrect statement could summarily spoil everything preceding it. Are there other "magic wands" I should know about? :)