A few folks have commented on Mousehole (and other locations) being real. I always find it easier to base stories in real places rather than making somewhere up from scratch. If anything, it inspires details I might not have otherwise imagined on my own. For those of you who follow me on twitter, you've likely seen me nattering on about vintage maps lately. The British Library has an amazing feature of allowing you to see Horwood's map from 1794 transposed over Google's modern map.

Thank you for reading & reviewing.

The Men of that Second Sight do not discover strange Things when asked, but at Fits and Raptures, as if inspyred with some Genius at that Instant, which before did lurk in or about them.

The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies
Robert Kirk

twenty five

Her gaze was turned to the window, always the window. Whether framed by maroon damask or navy brocade, she was a fixture as unmoving as the earth beneath her feet, ever watchful. Though she no longer leapt and started at every approaching horse or coach, heart racing with anticipation, cheeks flushed with the promise of answered prayers, she had never ceased her watch. Every morning she could be found angling a chair before the panes, failing to rise until the road was too dark to see. Her hopes had grown terribly faded and worn with the years, yet she could not stop watching, waiting for him to return.

Gray threaded through the hair at her temples, silvery and unmistakable against the chestnut and burnished auburn of her tresses. Fine lines carved a path from her nose to the corners of her lips; it was apparent they were not due to frequent laughter, unaccompanied by a flare of lines at her eyes. No, they were formed from tension and fear, anxiety and hopelessness. These lines only eased in sleep, sleep that she increasingly required laudanum to find, unable to rest without the dulling affect of the tincture on her racing mind.

Though the parlor in which she sat was much finer than the cottage in which she'd been raised, the rugs bright, the furniture waxed by the diligent hands of servants, the curtains at the window richly heavy, her surroundings had not made her happy. They had never made her happy. Her gaze did not appear to see the tasteful furnishings, taking no notice of the comings and goings of the servants of the household, as if the comfort and ease had no meaning for her.

"Supper is growing cold."

The masculine voice was full of concern but she did not start or turn from her post, chocolate eyes fixed on the road.

"I'm sorry." Her voice carried the unmistakable weight of sadness.

"Make no apology to me, Miss Swan." The gentleman speaking entered the parlor more fully, his expression all concern. "There is no need to fret over the servants—they can clear the table as easily as they set it."

She simply nodded in response, her gaze unmoving from the clear panes of the parlor windows. Nor did she turn as he crossed the patterned carpets covering the polished floors—though the muffled sound of his footsteps was perfectly audible to her ears. For, in some ways, his appearance was a terrible reminder of what she awaited, a torturous mimicry of the traveler she longed to see riding up to the doorstep.

The gentleman's countenance was unnaturally pale, a chalky pallor more similar to snow or marble, any tint of blood completely absent from his cheeks and brow. Because the fashion for powder had long since passed, he was forced to tell tales of poor circulation and Nordic ancestors whenever acquaintances expressed concern about his health. His golden hair was brushed away from a high, unlined forehead, his amber eyes tinged with a sadness that nearly mirrored Isabella's deep, resigned melancholy. He spoke quietly, his gaze falling from the window panes to Isabella's graying hair. "I do wish you would eat, however."

"I know," she softly answered. But she made no move to leave the chair, unable to find her appetite, unable to bear leaving her post should that be the moment he chose to return.

When she had first joined Carlisle Cullen's household, the explanation given to the servants and his small circle of acquaintances was that his sister was newly arrived to the area, her husband abroad on the Continent with the sixty-second regiment. The regiment was known to be billeted in neighboring Wiltshire, and if anyone thought to question Carlisle announcing he had a sibling when he had never before mentioned any living family, those questions were not voiced to him directly. It was then broadly shared that his sister's husband had died in battle only weeks after her arrival; it was only natural then that her stay with Carlisle become permanent. As the years passed and they had been forced to leave Oxford and then York, the story had shifted, adapting to the reality that she was aging while Carlisle was not. She was still a widow, if only to explain her unending grief, but she became his aunt, no longer young enough to be convincing as his sister.

"Your care for me is always so solicitous," she quietly added, as if to apologize for the burden of her company. Carlisle had always taken his charge of her seriously, ensuring her health and safety. If there was ever a rumor of visitors from Cornwall, he had been sure to alert her—though there was little of her behavior to alter as she never went out socially. Finding the willpower to visit the market or venture to a nearby park was often more than she could manage. She had never minded their frequent moves for this reason—from Oxford, to York in the north, and now finally to Brighton—for she never grew close to anyone where they resided.

"It will always be," Carlisle assured her. After a few more moments of silence, he departed on quiet feet, leaving her to her endless watch.

The curtains of the fine parlor abruptly swung shut, bathing the room in impenetrable blackness. Isabella immediately rose, desperately groping for the fabric, fighting to part the heavy drapes, panicking with the need to return her gaze to the road. For she never knew when he might return, when he might come back to her, black eyes playful, his half-grin ever charming.

"Edward!" she cried, thrashing amongst the folds of fabric, the heavy swaths of damask like a stifling shroud. "Edward! Please!" Tears streamed down her cheeks, her throat swollen with desperation. It was all she had left to live for, the waiting.

"I'm here, Isabella." His hands were at her jaw, brushing away the tears, soothing and strong. "I'm here."

"Edward, oh, Edward!" she cried, flinging her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in his neck. Even as she held him, she could not believe it to be true, her body shaking as though buffeted by a baleful wind, clinging to him with the certainty that it was a dream. "How could you go? How could you leave me?"

"I'm here, Isabella," his hands were stroking her back, her hair, his voice a soothing murmur against her ear. "I'm here…"

But it was not enough. Though she was disoriented by the realization that she was lying upon a hard narrow bed, her body garbed in a loose nightdress rather than the black bombazine widow's weeds she had been wearing only moments before, she could feel nothing but panic at the thought that she would never see Edward again.

"You must promise me," she insisted as she pulled away from his embrace, struggling to find his countenance in the darkness. "I beg you—I cannot bear it." She shook her head, disoriented and confused but certain she must secure his promise. "You must not leave me."

"I am here," he repeated the words, but there was a distant solemnity to his voice. "I have not left."

Her skin grew cold as she slowly realized these words were not the promises she sought. She began to tremble with new desperation, clammy sweat forming at the small of her back with sheer panic. Desperate, she clung to him, her hands scrabbling at his shoulders, as if she could physically keep him with her. "You must promise. Promise, Edward, I beg you!" She shook her head, her voice growing wild with agitation. "Promise you won't leave me!"

Her shaking grew only more violent as he did not speak, blind with fresh tears as she clung to him, sobs choking from her throat. "Edward…please…"

The only sound for some time was her ragged breathing and whimpering sobs, certain she could not bear it if they were parted. When he finally spoke, there was no mistaking the torment in his voice. "I promise. I won't leave."

Her relief was like the passing of a storm, her arms loosening their bind around his shoulders, her tears and sobs slowly subsiding to small, breathless gasps. "Edward, oh, Edward…" And it was only then that she began to realize the gloomy room was not a Brighton parlor inexplicably blackened by heavy drapes, or some strange, suspended hell—but that she was in the upper room of a country inn bordering the Dartmoor forests, the stars dimly filtering through the single bedchamber window.

"But it was not a dream," her whisper was insistent, filled with the certainty that what she had seen, what she had experienced, had been no hazy fabrication of her imagination. She had witnessed some vision of the future to be, crisply detailed, horrifyingly true. "I was not dreaming," she insisted again, eyes sinking shut as her arms tightened around Edward's frame. She still could not quite believe that he was with her, that he was real.

"Isabella," his voice was wondering and filled with worry. "I am confounded—what happened to you?"

She shook her head, hiding her face against the already damp lapels of his coat as if she could blot back the fresh tears blinding her eyes. "You left me," she whispered, the words forlorn. "You were gone."

When he did not respond, did not refute that such a thing was possible—though he had spent the past few days attempting to convince her that his interest in her was genuine, that he wished to make her his wife and bind her to him forever—it was a damning confirmation that what she had seen had somehow been his intent. Tendrils of fresh panic threaded through her veins at the thought, her fingers digging into the fabric of his coat, eyes wide with fear. She knew with utter certainty that she had not dreamed—she had seen the result of his decision.

"Edward," she spoke desperately, lifting her head and trying to find his gaze in the dark. "What you are—it does not matter." She thought of Marie's words, of her own question to him only the day before. What objection can I hold? "It changes nothing." She would have scratched the words into her flesh to convince him.

"Isabella," her name was a whispered word, as if he had not heard her speak. "Where did you go?"

She briefly thought to try to explain, to describe the parlor, the gravel drive before the window, the wrinkles and veins in her aged hands—but she knew it would sound too wild to be true.

"You fainted," he softly continued. "Or…I thought you fainted." He shook his head. "Which would be an all too-apt response to the truth of what I am—and perhaps the first time you have reacted to me as you should."

But Isabella shook her head, her hands shifting from his shoulders, touching his cheeks, his hair, still marveling that he was there with her—that it had not been decades since she had last seen him. "Please don't say such things," her voice shook, the words teary but adamant. "You have never hurt me. You have only protected me." And the only people he had harmed were in defense of her. "What you are—it matters not."

But she could see him shaking his head in the darkness, could feel him withdrawing from her even now, moving as if to leave the bed upon which she reclined. She was filled with fresh anxiety that he would not keep his promise, that he had only spoken to allay her panic, to quiet her sobbing—that he had not meant the words he had spoken. Desperation coursed through her limbs, her breath rendered little more than agitated pants as she sought some way to convince him.

The words burst forth without thought, unable to think how else to make him see. "If you leave me," she began, her voice insistent, "I will wait for you. I will wait for you every day, with a chair in the parlor that always faces the window. I will look for you, even when I'm grown gray."

He had stilled, hesitating in his withdrawal from the bed, frozen by her words. She could sense his gaze upon her face, as if mesmerized by what she was saying.

"How can you know that?" he finally whispered. "How can you be so certain?"

Her lips parted, a frown of frustration forming on her brow. She knew it to be true. It was written in her bones. When she finally spoke, she returned his question with one of her own. "Who is Carlisle?"

Edward leapt to his feet so abruptly that she did not see or hear him move, her arms briefly suspended in the darkness before she let them fall to her sides. She would have risen from the bed as well but she could hear the tread of his feet upon the floorboards; it reassured her momentarily that he was still with her, still in the room, restlessly pacing. She repeated the question, her heart pounding with the certainty she felt. "Who is Carlisle?"

Several seconds passed but Edward finally responded from the darkness, the words rough. "I knew him years ago, when I first came to England. My acquaintance," he clarified, "living in Oxford."

Isabella nodded her head, her voice dropping to a tortured whisper. "We will live in York after Oxford—and then in Brighton after York."

Edward's response was quietly solemn. "Like me, he doesn't change."

"No," Isabella replied in agreement, a chill washing over her skin as the memory of this terrible future crystallized in her mind. "First we will say that I am his sister—but then I will be his aunt, widowed years ago—for he remains the same as I change and grow old."

Edward was suddenly next to her, his figure reassuringly close, his hands on either side of her face. The light dimly glowing through the window had brightened, the clouds parting to allow the moon to brightly shine—and allowing her to see the intensity of his gaze, black eyes flecked with impossible gold. "What I am—"

"I cannot judge you, Edward," she interjected softly, her voice certain. "All I know of you is honorable, is good—"

He groaned, as if tormented by her words. "I told you," he began, his voice desperate, "your affect upon me—you drive every feckless, irresponsible impulse from me like some angel burdened with saving me."

"You saved my life," she quietly responded, lifting her hands to his face in turn, stroking the smooth planes of his cheeks. "You have never taken advantage of me, despite how many instances in which you have found me vulnerable, alone."

But he was shaking his head, his eyes sinking shut, his lips twisting. "I have committed such wrongs," he confessed. "I have taken lives—not just that of the man who would have hurt you." He inhaled. "I do not live as others of my kind live," he shook his head again. "But I am no saint."

"Edward," she quietly replied, stroking his hair, his jaw, seeking to sooth the torment from his expression. "We are both creatures apart." It was her turn to inhale, struggling for the strength to confess the truth she had not been willing to admit even to herself. "The storm—I now fear…" She swallowed, thinking back to that day. She had never suspected all that she could do, but given the certainty of the vision she had just experienced, it no longer seemed outside the realm of possibility. "The storm that killed those two men—I fear I caused it." She shook her head. "How can I judge you?"

"It is not the same," he whispered. His eyes opened but he did not meet her gaze, his expression so lost that she longed to pull him close, to hold him and sooth him, desperate to comfort him. "It was an accident—you had no knowledge of your abilities."

Isabella was shaking her head but he did not allow her to interrupt, speaking quickly, the words a torrent. "I am a predator. I know very well what I am. It is in my nature to kill, to feed. And though I may no longer take the lives of my fellow man, it does not change what I am."

"Do you have a choice about how you live?" Isabella rejoined. "Could you eat as I do if you so chose?"

Edward did not speak but finally shook his head once. "And if you abstained," she asked. "Would you not eventually starve?"

His lips twisted again, his eyes squeezing shut. "I do not think it possible—" he appeared to choke on the words, blindly shaking his head, too tortured to continue. "I cannot, Isabella. With every admission to you, I fear losing you. Your reaction just now—"

Isabella could no longer resist her impulses, uncaring of how bold she might appear, pulling his unresisting figure close to her upon the bed. "It was shock, Edward. It was shock…" She shook her head gently. "Shock, surprise…some fear," she confessed. "But it was momentary, I promise." She inhaled, thinking back to what she knew was only minutes before—but it felt an eternity, as if an entire lifetime had passed during the moments in which she'd been lost to this world, and trapped in another.

"But you should fear me, Isabella," his voice was a murmur against her shoulder, low and intent. "And you should be angry with me." His arms tightened where they had wound around her waist, as if desperate to hold her close though he knew she should flee. "I deceived you, I kept the truth from you." He shook his head. "Though I had no idea of what I was about when I first met you, I should have parted ways from you long before tonight."

"And I would be dead," she whispered. "Dead in that spring as surely as I am alive with you here now." She stroked his hair. "And I would not call your failure to be explicit with me deceit. I knew you were different the day I met you—I simply had no notion to what extent." Her chuckle was wry, "And you knew I was different, too." She thought of his teasing question about Raginnis' bull, and her flustered response, darting away as quickly as her feet could carry her.

But he would not agree, lifting his head to meet her gaze, his brows low over his eyes. "It was unforgivable, hoping that you might come to care for me—that your care for me might help you to overlook what I am. It is unforgivable."

"I do not overlook what you are," Isabella softly disagreed. "I have accepted it."

The expression that passed over Edward's features was absolutely haunting, sweet relief mixing with something akin to tortured resignation.

"I knew you were different," she repeated the words softly. "And you allowed me to see." She paused, thinking back. "It alarmed me, when you disappeared so suddenly in the meadow that day." Her eyes sank shut, marveling at her reaction even then. "But my alarm was mostly because I did not understand how you could seem so taken one moment and then utterly disregard me the next."

Edward frowned at this, brows low over his eyes. "I did not disregard you," he nearly growled. "I didn't want to hurt you."

She stroked the hair at his nape, the strands soft against her fingers. "I know that now." She thought of the bandage, the sharp sensation of the linen tearing away from her skin—and turning to find Edward gone. She longed to deny that he would have dared harm her, but she did not think he would listen, that he would find no solace in those words.

"When you first left Mousehole, had I not known that you intended to return, I don't know what I would have done. Even then…" She hesitated only a moment but felt there was no sense in holding back—not when she had seen what losing him could mean. "Even then, I felt such desolation at your absence." She had begun to hope, against her best judgment. "And when you returned, and I tried to rebuff you, you showed me what you were." Her lips twisted as she thought back to that first demonstration of his speed—and how she could only be distracted by his nearness rather than harbor any concern for how such an act was not possible. "And so much else. You never allow servants around, you have spoken of no family. Yet you allow me so close, you allow me to witness how you are different, your strength, your speed. And I did not ask. Because long ago, I decided it did not matter."

He protested, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, unable to meet her gaze, "The fear in your eyes just now, the disgust with me, with what I am—"

"Shock, Edward, I promise," she insisted. "I had suspected gambling debts, illegitimacy, a duel—" She felt him lift his head again but could not meet his gaze, a faint flush stealing up her cheeks as she sensed his incredulous expression. "Idiocy, I know now. If all illegitimate children were empowered with the ability to leap off roof tops, I imagine it would be more widely known by now."

Edward's responding chuckle was reassuring, giving her the hope that he had begun to accept that her sentiments were true.

"I was bleeding in your arms," she softly added. "And you did not hurt me."

Edward was immediately filled with tension again, his muscles rigid, his arms like a vise around her waist. "How can you forgive me?" he whispered.

"Edward," she said his name firmly. "You did not hurt me." She shifted beneath him, her own remembrance of that moment under the shadowed oak equally filled with mortification—but for very different reasons. She recalled his lips on her temple, trailing a silken path down her throat as a wild flame curled in her belly.

Edward lifted his head, as if sensing her agitation, his gaze curious as he examined her face. Though the room was dark, he could detect the faintest hint of pink in her cheeks, heat seeming to rise from her skin as though she were covered by a heavy counterpane—though they had been returned from the cool outdoors for only a short time. Her gaze was carefully trained upon the ceiling, unwilling or unable to meet his curious stare. "You should fear me," he murmured, "but you do not fear me."

Isabella could not shift her gaze from the ceiling but she did not hesitate in answering, softly whispering, "No." She shook her head. "I feel no fear with you."

Edward was still, listening to the sound of her breath, the whisper of the tree branches beyond the window, the quiet of the sleeping inn. Almost imperceptibly, his hands began to shift, inching from her waist to the gentle swell of her hips, dusting over the thin fabric of her nightdress. His gaze remained fixed on her face, as if watching for a shift in her countenance, as if testing her.

Isabella's gaze had swung from the ceiling at the first intimate motion of his hands, breath caught in her throat. But there was no fear in her countenance, only surprise, her eyes wide and lips parted as she absorbed the foreign sensation of his hands upon her body. The flush in her cheeks grew steadily hotter and brighter as his hands shifted lower, lower, down to her knees before catching at the hem of her gown and settling on the bare skin of her legs. "Edward," she whispered. There was no fear in her voice, only fascination, anticipation.

"Isabella," he responded softly, her name a caress, his gaze softening as he saw her expression fail to shift, to change. Even after all these days and hours in close quarters, it still seemed a miracle to him, that she felt no fear. Though it had not been his intention to venture further than where his hands rested, impudent as he knew it to be, he could not resist the sensation of her skin, silken and impossibly warm. As if of their own will, his hands drifted over her knees, pressing into the softness of her bare thighs, luxuriating in the feeling of her.

"Please," she whispered, though she knew not what for. To her relief, his gaze tore from her own, but only so he could lower his head, his lips gentle against her throat. Her breath began to come in quick pants, her hands frozen upon his shoulders, eyes wide and blind.

Though Edward could feel her heart racing against his chest, her pulse fluttering against his lips, she did not tremble or flinch away from him. No, her palms suddenly pressed against his back, wanting him closer, her quickening breath stirring his hair.

"Oh, Isabella." He murmured her name as he reluctantly drew away, struggling to treat her as her background and upbringing deserved. Though he longed to linger against the smooth softness of her thighs, he drew her skirt down her legs between them, restraining a smile at the whimper of disappointment that escaped her lips.

For some time he simply held her close, the only sound her ragged breathing, the birds in the trees beyond the window all slumbering, the inn quiet and still. He listened as if it were an exquisite concert, focusing upon the slowing pulse of her heart, the easing of her breath as she gradually grew calm. He could not have spoken to confess how captivated he was by something so simple, the sound of her heart and breath, reassured so long as he knew she was in this world.

"It's true," he whispered against her skin, confessing the decision he had impulsively made as he had seen her expression transform, filled with the horrifying knowledge of what he was before she had abruptly lost all color and slumped to the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory. "I determined to leave you—to pass as quickly through London as possible, and to trust you to Carlisle's care." Edward knew she would be safe with him, the honorable pastor's son—and that she need never see him again.

Edward lifted his head as the sound of her breathing abruptly grew distressed again, but this time, it was not excitement or anticipation causing her to struggle for air. This time, he could see her pale face was filled with profound fear. He lifted a hand, his own gaze full of wonder as he saw it was only these words that could restore the fear to her eyes, gently stroking her cheek, hoping to reassure her. "But oh, my dear Isabella," His voice nearly broke upon her name, for her eyes sank shut at his touch, her tousled head tilting into his hand, impossibly drawn to him.

"How could I ever bear to part with you?"