AN: There are many references to events in Esme's past in this chapter. If you have not read Intermezzo, you might want to before proceeding. While it's not necessary for understanding, it is helpful. Thanks to me beta, Coleen651, for her usual insightful attention to detail.

Chapter 25

September 1921

CPOV

Truth be told, I was relieved that Edward wasn't able to see just how obsessive my mind had become in the days since he'd left. Without the constant weight of hiding from him, I found myself luxuriating in my thoughts about Esme, watching her carefully as she made her way through daily routines.

I was already familiar with some of her idiosyncrasies from my normal days off, but I realized that she and Edward changed their routine when I was around, catering to my presence. In a normal week, she wouldn't paint when I was home, opting instead for less solitary pursuits. But since we were going to be alone together for so long, I encouraged her to keep her routine. It was selfish, really. I wanted to see those parts of her that, due to my schedule alone, were hidden from me.

The first day, I learned that she typically changed clothes three times a day: pants for hunting or running, an old, sturdy skirt and blouse for painting or sculpting, and finally, for when she joined me in the library to read or talk or play chess, an impossibly feminine dress that shimmered in the light and caressed her skin enticingly. I was captivated by all of them for different reasons, but the last generally rendered my brain useless and my tongue thick and clumsy, causing me to struggle to make simple conversation.

She was simply stunning.

The second day I learned that her skin, which looked smoother than any marble or glass I'd ever touched, was radiant with different subtle hues depending on the time of day. In the morning, lit by weak, golden light, it shone rich ivory. Midday it was clear, pure alabaster. In the warmth of sunset it glowed with the colors of hope and passion and sweet promise. And at night, the blue light of the moon made her appear ethereal and otherworldly, a mysterious fey sent to ensnare me.

I was her willing captive.

Of course, shadows passed across her face, too. They came suddenly, darkening her expression and hollowing her eyes, and I knew she was remembering some unspoken horror. In these moments, I ached to touch her, to smooth away the clouds and shadows and see her face shine brightly again. But it wasn't my place.

When she smiled, her eyes crinkled just a little, and dimples appeared in both her cheeks. When she laughed, she threw her head back, but when she was trying not to laugh, she'd bite her lips together and her nose would wrinkle slightly at its bridge. I found myself telling her stories, trying to make her laugh.

The third day I was utterly lost. She sat in the window seat at dawn, still in that dress that looked as soft as rose petals, holding a steaming cup of tea to her lips. And I was jealous of the cup, for it knew the softness of her lips. I was jealous of the wisps of steam that rose around her face and caressed her cheek. I was jealous of the very light that traced her skin and made it glow, of the breeze that combed through her hair, brushing it from her brow with the intimacy of a lover.

If she touched a table in passing, I found myself following, brushing my fingertips along the same place to feel her subtle warmth lingering in the wood. And I envied it; I envied the wood, for it knew the brush of her fingertips. If she left a room too long and her perfume faded from the air, I sought her out, unwilling to breathe without bringing some part of her into me. If she went outside to paint, I would position myself in the library so I could see her favorite tree through the window, and watch for the shine of her caramel hair among the warm colors of the changing leaves.

And I knew it was wrong of me. I knew that as her mentor I should not allow these feelings to take root. She needed to be able to trust me, and though I still didn't know the details, I knew she'd been hurt by men before. Any attentions from me would be…unwelcome. I was desperate to keep my growing infatuation hidden so she would not feel uncomfortable, tried to keep my actions subtle and my gazes brief, giving relief to my curiosity without drawing her attention to it. I tried to not be fascinated by her, but it was no use. I couldn't help it. Everything she looked at or lingered near drew my attention. Anything that interested her, I wanted to understand. Anything she touched, or allowed to touch her, I wanted to be.

And sometimes I was. Sometimes I entered the room, and her face lit up as though I'd given her a gift. Sometimes she seemed to walk out of her way just to pass a little closer to me. Sometimes she'd stand so close that the slightest movement on my part and we'd be touching. I would stand completely still, mesmerized by her proximity: her scent, her subtle warmth and glowing skin, enticing.

If I were allowed to touch her…

If I were allowed to caress her cheek, I would be as soft as the curling steam of her tea. If I could touch her hair, I'd be as gentle as the breeze. If I were able to touch the skin of her shoulder or throat, I'd be as warm as sunlight, as intimate as moonlight. If I could touch her lips… kiss her lips…

If I could…

EPOV

I walked through the dark empty rooms, familiar though I'd never been here before. I was reminded of going with Carlisle to visit my parents' home when I'd first been changed. But where that home was filled with happy memories, these rooms held mostly horrors. Esme's horrors. And as terrible as it had been to relive those memories, until now, there was still a part of me that found them unreal, like something from a book or surreal dream. Now that I was here, in a place that matched those memories so precisely, they felt all too real.

I crept to the cellar, wanting to see for myself the hidden space behind the loose brick where she'd hidden her saved money, waiting for her chance to escape. The brick moved easily, and I drew my fingers across its rough surface in wonder. Brave, brave Esme. So giving, after all that had been taken from her. I noticed the dried blood on the stone floor on the other side of the room; memories flooded my mind of just how it had gotten there, and my lips curled back into a snarl on their own accord. But I wasn't here for retribution. Not yet.

I went back to the kitchen and collected the empty pack. There wasn't much of this life that she missed, but I had every intention of returning to her those few things she did. I packed them carefully, grateful to find them unharmed where she'd hidden them in the back of the cupboard. I went to the attic to collect the few sketches she had left there, focused on ones that she regretted leaving the most. He had been here. Her supplies and art were strewn across the attic floor, dirty and torn. I rummaged through them, finally finding the sketches of her and Rachel among the mess. I smiled as I studied it, easily recognizing the kind face of her friend, the woman who had helped her escape this hell.

And that was it. There was nothing more here but echoes of Esme's suffering. Suffering that needed to be repaid. I left the cold house for the colder night air.

CPOV

"No, no. It's much harder than it seems," I said laughing, Esme's face clearly showing she was unconvinced. "We need to start practicing soon. It's a very important part of your training."

"It's important to my training that I learn to blink like a human?" she asked through her smile.

"You wouldn't believe the mistakes I made over the years."

She cocked an eyebrow and leaned back into the sofa, pulling her legs up underneath her as if she were getting comfortable for a long story. "It's hard to imagine you making mistakes, Carlisle."

"Well, there was the time I was in medical school in Prague, and held too still for too long, and was mistaken for a cadaver."

"What, no!" She was shaking hard enough with laughter that she had to set her tea down.

I nodded, laughing. "I was alone in the basement, studying one of the several cadavers that were left out for the students at night. A fellow student came in as I was looking very intently at some vasculature, and I guess he thought someone was playing a joke, dressing one of the cadavers and propping it up. When I spoke he screamed loud enough to bring the caretaker in. He then accused me of doing it on purpose. Claimed I wasn't even breathing, which was probably true." Watching Esme laugh, I decided, was one of life's great joys.

"I made that mistake several times, actually. I stood so still in a park in Vienna once that a bird actually landed on me before realizing that I wasn't a harmless statue but a vicious top predator." I wagged my eyebrows. "Not that it had anything to worry about; songbirds couldn't possibly be worth the trouble."

"No. Stop." She was now laughing hard enough that her breathing was erratic. "I can just picture it. Did it land on your shoulder?"

I pointed to the top of my head, and she rolled with fresh peals.

"So you can see, blinking is very important. But the reactions are the trickiest. Humans react well to things that we are either ambivalent to or feel active revulsion for. Smells, for instance. When I was at university in Paris, I lived over this little French bakery that started baking every morning at four a.m. My fellow students all loved the smell, but to me it was… Esme, are you okay?"

She had gone stiff and still and her expression was pained. I thought back to what I had said, but could find nothing that would be offending.

"I need to go," she whispered to the floor.

"What?" I stood to follow her as she bolted for the door. "Esme?"

But she was gone.

What had happened? We were… we were happy. She hadn't been skittish around me for days, despite my growing infatuation. And during this conversation she'd been completely open, completely with me. Had I shown it? Had I shown her what she did to me? How I would do anything to secure her happiness? I could find nothing offensive in what I'd said. I should let her be, but without Edward here to keep track of her mentally, I needed to at least keep her in a line of sight to make sure she wasn't heading for town. After one more second of indecision, I was out the door.

She was not heading to town.

Moments later I was standing under her favorite tree, the one she painted in, looking up to see her feet and the rustle of her yellow chiffon skirt. And she was safe, and not a threat to others, and I should leave and give her the privacy she obviously wanted. But I couldn't.

"Esme, please. I… I don't know what happened. How did I hurt you? Help me understand, so I can avoid it in the future. I just…I don't know what I did."

She was silent for a moment more, and I leaned heavily against the trunk of the tree, miserable.

"Please, Esme."

She shifted on her branch, away from the trunk, and then patted the space beside her. I was up the tree and next to her in an instant. I watched her for a long, drawn out moment. She looked miserable.

"Esme, please. What did I do?"

"You did nothing," came the whisper.

I shook my head. "I must have. You were happy, and then… and then you were gone."

She shook her head, and I swallowed down frustration and bile.

She eventually broke the silence. "Charles was in France, too. During the war."

I nodded to show I'd heard and understood her, but this was new information, despite the fact that it made perfect sense. "He told me a story, about a bakery. Every morning, when it was still dark, as the eldest daughter worked the dough, he went in and… and," her breath shuddered and I gave a silent prayer that I wasn't about to hear what I thought I was about to hear. "Every morning," she said shakily, "he went in when the rest of the village was asleep, and he bent her over the table where she was working the dough, and he lifted her skirt, and…"

I couldn't help it. My hand went to hers, and I felt relief as she clung to me. "He told you this? Why would he tell you this? Where were you?" It was bad enough that he had done it, but what purpose could be served by telling his wife of such things? I could feel the fury begin to build deep within me.

She took several shuddering breaths before answering me. "He had me bent over the kitchen table where I was working dough. He was holding me down and lifting my skirt…"

"Okay." I squeezed my eyes shut against the vision of Esme being forced like that, by the man who was meant to honor and cherish her. I was livid, trying desperately to exude calm as I boiled within. I wrapped an arm around her, and she leaned heavily into me. I was torn between wanting to comfort her and needing to know. Finally, struggling, I asked, "Did he… was that the only time he…"

She shuddered in my arms. "Charles rarely asked for what he wanted."

Oh, God. That meant it had been a regular occurrence: his normal way of interacting with her. He didn't cherish her at all. He used her. He used her terribly.

"And of course, you know he beat me. You saw the evidence on my bones. I heard you say it once to Edward."

I nodded, rubbing my cheek against her hair, wishing I could protect her from these long faded dangers.

"I could always handle it. I didn't like my life; I knew I was pathetic and trapped, but I held on, I endured… but when he told me about the French girl… when I realized that it wasn't just me. That by letting him do that to me and not exposing him or stopping him, I'd endangered others, too..." Her breathing hitched and she began quietly sobbing.

"Okay, hold on." I moved her away from me and rearranged myself so I was leaning against the tree trunk, straddling the branch. I opened my arms to her, and her momentary confusion eased as she leaned in. I pulled her against my chest, wrapping both my arms around her and stroking her hair as she cried.

"You aren't responsible for his actions, Esme. And you didn't do anything to hurt that French girl. Those sins are his alone to bear."

"But I might have stopped him—"

"—and he might have killed you, if you'd tried." I stroked her cheek, thinking. "Your reactions were very normal, I think. You were protecting yourself as best you could."

She nestled into my chest and slowly, brokenly, told me everything: her entire history with Charles. How the match had soured within weeks, but her family ignored her pleas to come home. How her pastor had known of Charles's violence before he married them. How she had felt betrayed on all sides. How Charles abused her body, abused her mind, abused her trust…

And I was roiling inside. I wanted to chase him down right now and make him pay for Esme's suffering. I wanted to break him, smash him, hurt him as he'd hurt her. But I couldn't. It was far more important that I stay where I was, comforting her, protecting her, caring for her.

"I know I should have told you earlier," she finally whispered, and I squeezed her shoulders in a way I hoped was reassuring. "I feel rather ashamed that it took me so long to leave him. At first I had no money, but I saved, I was ready. Then he came back from the war and he seemed different, but he wasn't. He wore me down, day by day, and I felt helpless. But after he told me the story of the French bakery, I knew he hadn't changed. And then I learned I was pregnant, and what if I had a daughter… there was no way I could bring an innocent into that house."

Of course, Esme had been innocent when she'd entered it.

I squeezed her again, realizing that this information explained so many things: Esme's reactions when she first awoke and realized she now lived with two men. Edward's pain… he'd seen all the memories and could share them with no one. It's not my story to tell, he'd always say when I asked. This had hurt him, as well.

"I'm glad you've told me," I whispered, stroking her hair. "I understand why you didn't want to share it earlier, but I'm glad I know now. And you shouldn't have to bear this alone, Esme. You aren't alone anymore."

"Edward knew," she said ruefully. "I know it shouldn't bother me; he knows everything. But I hate that he knows. I hate that he's felt it: my humiliation and pain. I would have spared him that if I could have. And I know Charles can't touch me here, but I can't help being afraid. I had a good life while he was fighting in the war. I had work, I had friends; I was beginning to feel comfortable in my home again. Then he came back, and I lost it all. Now my life is good again, and part of me just keeps waiting for him to show up."

"He won't come, Esme. But if he were to, God help him. I don't see him faring well in that situation." I held her back far enough that we could see each other, framing her face gently with my hands, searching her eyes. "You aren't alone anymore. Not unless you want to be. You are safe, you are cared for, and you are not alone. And you know that neither Edward or I would ever, ever…"

"I know," she whispered, touching my hand with hers. "I know. I feel safe here. I feel…cared for. You and Edward are my family now. I don't want to leave."

I wrapped her in my arms again, smiling against her hair. "There's no reason for you to ever leave, Esme. I actually can't imagine my life without you anymore. I've been hoping you would stay for quite some time."

EPOV

I finally caught his scent outside a bar on the other side of town. The place reeked of sweat and alcohol and filth, and I watched from the shadows through the window. He had clearly been here a while; his balance and speech were already compromised. It would be nothing to overwhelm him once he left. I hid my pack in the nearby woods and returned to my sentry post.

He was not a popular man. Several of the other patrons seemed to fear or shun him, and others glared openly. There were bruises on his hands and a cut on his cheek, as if he'd been in a recent fight.

At one-thirty in the morning, a new group of men entered the bar, and Charles Evenson was quickly surrounded. Alarmed, the barkeep told them all to leave, and I watched as Charles was removed forcibly and dragged to a dark alley. I moved silently, keeping my prey in sight as others began to abuse him, moving into the shadows at the end of the alley, pressed against a wall. Harsh words were spoken: money, gambling debts, another man's wife. And then blows flew, and I watched in fascination as the violence in my heart played out before my eyes, without my involvement. When his skin was finally broken, I grasped the drainpipe behind me and held my breath. I felt like Odysseus, lashed to his mast while the enticing and lethal song of the sirens beckoned. Even in the darkness, I could see the blood pouring from his face. The monster within wanted it, wanted him. Wanted to bathe in it, soak in it; let it soak my throat and skin. The red haze blurred my vision, forcing me to close my eyes. Even then, I could hear the squelch of the wet flesh being punched, the splatter of blood droplets to the ground. Wasted, the monster thought.

I knew that the blood was trying to attack all my senses: smell, sight, sound, and certainly touch and taste if I let it. Only by cutting all but one sense out did I have a chance of not being overwhelmed. And I did not want to succumb to the monster. Whatever I did to Charles Evenson tonight, I did not want it to be mindless reflex. I wanted it to be calculated: slow and painful. I wanted him to understand. This was not mere predation. This was personal. A vendetta. Justice. Besides, the thought of touching much less lowering my mouth to the man that had done those things to Esme made me want to wretch. The monster would get over these reservations, but I would regret them later. Regret letting any of him into me. I needed to maintain control.

Eventually, the sounds eased. Footsteps retreated, and even voices from the road faded, until only wet raspy breaths and moans remained. I opened my eyes and saw a crumped form in the middle of the alley, halfway between the main road and me. No light came from the road. The bar was closed. I scanned my surroundings: the few minds in the area were too drunk to notice anything, and were moving further away from us. It was time. I grasped the drainpipe more tightly and took a shallow breath. The burn in my throat was excruciating, but I thought around it, remembering the way he pushed her to her knees, the way he belittled her and demeaned her every day. His blood wasn't enticing, I told myself, and after a few minutes I could breathe evenly, and the pain receded.

I took a tentative step toward him and saw his body twitch at the sound. He was struggling to look toward me as I approached. He was sure his luck had changed for the night, and that finally someone was going to come along to help. How wrong he was.

I stood over him, looking down. I was no medical man, but even I could tell that if he weren't delivered to a hospital soon, he'd not likely make it through the night. His eyes pleaded with mine. "Help me," came his whisper.

I tilted my head, wondering how long it would take for him to realize I was not his salvation. "Oh, I intend to, Charles." I placed my foot on his sternum, applying just enough pressure to be threatening,

His eyes grew wide, and his thoughts fluttered toward death as I bared my teeth. He flinched. "Who are you? How do you know me," he whispered.

I paused for a moment, enjoying the fear that was starting to grow in his mind. "I'm a friend of Esme's."

"That cunt left me."

"Language, Charles. You and I are going to have a little chat." I jerked my foot and heard two ribs crack through his scream, and the monster reveled.

CPOV

A thunderstorm kept Esme and me in the house after our hunt, and she was as anxious and restless as a caged animal. She sat in the window seat watching the rain beat against the windowpane and lightning flash violet-white through the room. She jumped up, pacing, before forcing herself to sit again. After watching her agitation for thirty minutes, I couldn't take it.

"Just go paint, Esme," I said, laughing. "Go paint in the kitchen. I promise I won't come in without your permission."

She looked at me, her expression equal parts guilt, relief, and annoyance.

"It feels wrong to be in the other room if you're in the house."

I shook my head, smiling. "That's very sweet, Esme, but I assure you it's fine. Edward and I often didn't speak for an entire day when we were alone together. And surely you don't spend every moment of every day with Edward. Why would I be different?"

She huffed. "I hope I have better manners than Edward," she said, bypassing the second question.

"Your manners are perfect, but this is your home just as much as mine, and you should do what makes you comfortable. Clearly, sitting still through a thunderstorm doesn't." I couldn't help the amused affection that seeped into my voice, and I hoped she didn't find it too presumptive.

She smirked, clearly not offended. "I've always loved them."

"I remember. You once climbed a tree just to get closer to one.

She chuckled. "You know me so well," she said, ruefully.

I cocked my eyebrow, and she laughed. "All right. You're right of course. I'm dying to paint. There are better windows in here though. If you promise not to peek…"

"You want to paint in here, with me?"

She tilted her head in silent query.

"I'd love that, and of course I won't look unless you want to show me your work." I was longing to see it, but I was a patient man, if nothing else.

She smiled. "I'm going to get changed."

I returned my attention to my book, smiling as she left the room. Moments later she returned, her filmy pale yellow dress exchanged for a paint-covered frock, and I couldn't help my grin. I found her charming like this: industrious and concentrated, moving furniture (no, she insisted, my help wasn't necessary), positioning her easel such that I couldn't see her work, facing me yet hiding behind it as she arranged her tints, oils and brushes on a small table she'd brought in from the kitchen. I tried not to look at her palette to see her color choices as she mixed them, finding pleasure even in the strong odor of the linseed oil. I felt privileged to be permitted to see her like this, and didn't want to ruin it by being obtrusive.

I watched her stealthily, enjoying the flick of her wrist as the way her brow furrowed as her attention moved from the window to the canvas. The passion of the rain driving through the trees and against the glass separating us from the tempest was reflected in her face. The glint of the lightning flashed in her eyes, her melancholy mood lost to fire and industry. And I was mesmerized. Perhaps in some context I was capable of being as focused as she was in this moment. Perhaps when I was first studying medicine, my face exhibited this concentration, but it was always for the sake of control. To do what I loved required painstaking control and repression. It was nothing like the emotion that played on Esme's face as she painted. My skill as a surgeon was almost antithetical to the vibrant freedom in her limbs as they approached the canvas, not as though they were imposing something on it, but rather as though they were coaxing something from it. Lovingly. As if the golds and violets were hidden in the white canvas and needed only to be uncovered by patience and care. She moved with almost a pulsating energy, yet there was precision, too. Not a speck of paint fell to the carpet or surrounding cushions, though plenty was smeared on her cloth and frock as she worked the paint.

For hours she painted as I read. She stiffened defensively at first when I got up to change the gramophone record or retrieve something from my study, but eventually she became comfortable that I would not abuse her trust by peeking. And I loved the growing confidence between us, and the…almost intimacy… in being allowed to see her when she was at her most creative.

Finally her arms fell to her sides, and her head tilted slightly as she studied the canvas. For the first time in hours, it seemed appropriate to speak again.

"Taking a break, or is it finished?" I asked quietly, not wanting to disrupt the comfortable air of the rom too much.

She wiped her brow, accidentally smearing paint near her temple. The warm dark gold matched her eyes as they turned to mine. "It's done I think. If I do more it will just go mushy. The colors can be overworked." She paused for a moment, and then took a deep breath. "Do you want to see it?"

I smiled and stood; my answer was so obvious there was no need to state it. She must have felt the waves of curiosity and interest rolling off me all afternoon. I walked toward her, keeping my eyes on hers until I was by her side, and then I turned to face the canvas.

I drew a sharp breath as I studied the painting. It was exactly as I'd imagined it a decade ago, except for the flashes of gold.

"Your purple clouds," I whispered.

"Yes, from the first time we met. And here are branches from my tree," she said, pointing.

"You shouldn't have been in the tree if there was lightning nearby," I said, worry clear in my voice, as if she could still be hurt by the storm.

"The lightning was far away. But it felt like this. Exciting… promising."

Gold cut through the deep purple, illuminating it, casting other areas in deep shadow. And while real lightning was blue-tinted cold and brutal white, Esme's lightning was warm and gleaming, a perfect complement to the purple clouds. Harmonious.

As if reading my mind she whispered, "In my dreams, the lightning was always gold." She looked into my eyes and my breath hitched again, seeing the gold on her forehead and in her eyes, and knowing the same gold was in my eyes as well. As it had been for as long as she'd known me.

"In your dreams?" I whispered.

She nodded, biting her lip for a moment before taking another deep breath. "I don't remember it well now, of course, but know I dreamt about that storm years later. When I felt… stifled. I dreamt of the promise in that moment…of the feeling that the storm was bringing change, something exhilarating and new and just for me…" She stopped abruptly, as if she'd said too much. She looked away, toward the painting, and I immediately missed the anchoring of her eyes. I felt adrift and off balance when she continued. "The storm in my dreams always started dark and purple and humid, but always ended awash in cool breezes and bathed in gold."

I swallowed, wondering, hoping. "So you painted your dream."

She looked back into my eyes and I once again felt simultaneously grounded and dizzy. "I think I always paint my dreams. Even now, when I can't sleep."

"Just because you can't sleep, it doesn't mean you can't dream, Esme. I would be horribly sad to think you no longer dreamed."

She seemed to consider that and then whispered, "Do you still dream?"

"Oh, yes. More and more, I think."

Almost of its own accord, my hand reached up to brush her hair. But as her eyes grew wide with… alarm? fear? (surely not) … I steered my hand to her brow, wiping it with my thumb.

"And you are still bathed in gold, I think," I said, showing her the paint on the pad of my thumb.

She giggled, and the tension that had been building since I first came to stand by her dissipated. She reached for her cloth, but instead of wiping her brow, she handed it to me. I carefully found a clean corner of the rag and told her to close her eyes and be still. She complied, with a trust so blinding that I was awed. I stared for a moment at her lips, the urge to kiss her nearly overwhelming. But how could I abuse such trust? I pushed the desire down, instead savoring the feeling of her brow under my fingertips, even if it was through layers of paint-covered rag.

She sighed, "It's yours," as I lowered the cloth and she opened her eyes.

"What is?" I whispered.

"The painting. If you'd like it, that is."

"Oh, Esme. Thank you. You honor me."

"It's the beginning… our beginning. Of course it's yours."

Our beginning. Implying that there was more to come. I found the word as beautiful as the painting it inspired.

EPOV

I stood in the shadows between the two buildings as dawn began to creep across the sky, heralded by songbirds, even in the heart of the city. I smelled the air once more, making sure that there were no traces of blood remaining on me. My fresh clothes were wrinkled, but clean, my skin washed spotless after my night's… adventure.

I didn't have long to wait. Before the sun had even made it over the trees, she was stepping out through the door to collect the paper and milk from the porch. I was in front of her before she stood straight again.

"Rachel Carmichael?"

She started so violently that she dropped the milk, and I caught it, cursing my own stupidity.

"Yes?" She was eying me warily, but not quite fearfully, and her mind showed more curiosity than alarm. I was too well dressed, she thought, to need a room at the Hospitality House.

"I was hoping I could have a word with you, alone." I dropped my voice, "I'm a friend of Esme's."

She stiffened and raised her chin. "I don't know where she is. I've already told everyone I don't know where she is. It's been over a year since she worked here."

I leaned in conspiratorially, "Yes, but I do know where she is." I smiled, hoping Rachel would see that I was, by extension, her friend too.

Her eyes grew wide, and she motioned me through the door, leading me to her office, where she shut the door and invited me to sit.

"Esme?" she asked cautiously.

"She's well. She's happy. It's probably not safe for you to know many details, but I was in the neighborhood, and the way she… talks… about you, I thought you'd want to know." She'd thought about Rachel more than she'd spoken, but the sentiment was the same.

"Thank you," she whispered. She was silent for a moment and then she asked, "Her baby?"

I grimaced. "Died shortly after birth. Lung fever."

"Oh no! Did she… I mean, was she—"

"She didn't take it well, but she's okay now. She's living with my uncle and me. He's a physician, and she was ill for a while and needed his attention. She's fully recovered now." We fell into an awkward silence. Each of us considered Esme a close friend, but we were strangers to each other. Rachel had been Esme's best friend for more than a year, had given her hope after her abuse, and had helped her escape it. After the night I'd had, it was a relief to be with a mind that was so… kind. I tried to think of something truthful I could offer her. "She took your name, you know… she goes by Esme Carmichael. She drew strength from you, even when she was on her own." I paused, fiddling with the arm of the chair, trying to decide how to express my feelings toward this stranger. This familiar stranger. "I feel grateful for it. For you. She's become such an important part of my uncle's and my life, I feel grateful she had your help and friendship when she needed it. I didn't want you to have to wonder your whole life what had happened to her."

She smiled and took a shuddering breath. "Thank you. I appreciate that so much…"

"Edward," I offered.

"Thank you so much, Edward. Does she… does she know you're here?"

I shook my head. "But I'm confident she'd approve. She misses you, but it's not safe for her to come back. Oh, and you should have this."

I reached into the pocket of my coat, pulling out one of the sketches Esme had done of the two of them.

She traced her fingertips over the sketch of Esme's face. Her eyes met mine, and they were glistening. "Thank you," she whispered. She fell silent for a few moments, wiping her eyes and thinking. Then she looked up at me. "I'd like to write her."

I smiled. "We're likely moving soon, so our address won't be good much longer, but I'm happy to bring a letter to her, and make sure she has this address."

She scrutinized me for a moment, debating whether I was controlling like Charles had been. She decided that I wouldn't be talking with her now, letting her know that Esme was okay, if I were domineering.

"Just give me ten minutes to write a letter," she said.

I grinned. "I have fifteen before I need to head to the train station," I said, though the truth was I'd be taking the 8:30 train tomorrow or the next day, after the paper reported Charles' death.

Then my work here would be finished.

CPOV

"Honey, I'm home!" Edward's voice carried from the forest, and Esme and I grinned at each other before she leapt up from the sofa and ran barefoot out the door. By the time I got to the porch Edward had set down his three packs and Esme had her arms around his neck. He embraced her warmly, and smiled at me over her shoulder. Before this trip I might have felt jealous of their easy affection, but now that Esme and I were more comfortable and open around each other, it just pleased me.

"Welcome home, Edward," I said, wrapping my arm over his shoulder when Esme finally deigned to release him. He grinned at that thought.

"Did I miss anything interesting?" he asked, and flashes of memory crossed my mind, mostly of Esme confiding and me comforting her in the tree.

His eyes grew large as I said, "Nothing we couldn't handle. Did you have a good trip?"

"It was productive."

"Did you buy all of Chicago?" Esme asked, picking up one of the packs as I grabbed another. A third was on Edward's back, and they all appeared full.

"I may have done a bit of shopping," Edward said evasively. "That one's half full of dresses, so I wouldn't be too critical, Esme."

She flashed him a guilty smile. "That's good… I may have ruined my yellow chiffon while you were away."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I climbed a tree in it, snagging it terribly, and then since it was ruined anyway, I went hunting in it, which finished the job rather effectively."

"Esme," he said, rolling his eyes, and I laughed at our easy banter. It was good to have him home. He smiled at the thought and nodded his agreement as we entered the house.

Soon we were in the library with the packs open, Edward tossing Esme dress after dress as he emptied the first one. "I think there's a suitable replacement for the yellow chiffon in there somewhere, but Esme, from now on tree-climbing is for—"

"—cotton frocks or pants, I know Edward. It won't happen again." She started removing the paper wrapping from her new clothes when Edward caught my attention and tossed me a book.

"A Text-Book of Physiology for Medical Students and Physicians," I read aloud. "Oh, By William Howell. I think I have an earlier version of this."

"You do, but this is the new edition, just out this year. Northwestern's medical school is using it as their text. Apparently, there have been a lot of advances."

"Thank you, Edward." There were definite advantages to having access to a large city with a major university. This book probably wouldn't make it to Wisconsin for another year or two.

"I got you some new Bach recordings, as well," Edward said as he started unpacking new gramophone records and sheet music… mostly jazz, but classical and new composers as well. Esme started on the third pack, picking up something wrapped in layers of cloth.

"Careful, that's fragile."

Esme looked quizzically at Edward and then proceeded to unwrap a dainty teacup with a band of cobalt blue interrupted with salmon-colored roses.

Esme froze, looking at it as if she were seeing a ghost. "Edward?" she whispered. "Is this Nana's…" She didn't finish aloud, but after a moment he nodded, and she lovingly placed it back in a nest of cloth before hugging him fiercely. "Thank you!" she whispered though heavy, metered breaths.

"You don't live there any more. No part of you remains there. Okay?" She nodded into his shoulder, clearly fighting her emotions. "And it's been far too long since that tea set saw any actual tea." He pulled away smiling, and reached into his pack, handing her a box.

"Earl Grey," she whispered, reading the label. Edward smiled and she abruptly kissed his cheek and then ran to the kitchen.

"You went to Columbus?" I asked.

He nodded. "She left some personal effects there, and I remembered how you let me take the things that were important to me from my parents house. She couldn't take much when she fled. Her Nana gave her that tea set."

I nodded, looking at the cup sitting on the top of the pack. It was vibrant and beautiful. "That was really kind of you, Edward."

He shrugged, and I wondered if that were the only reason he'd gone to Columbus. He reached into the pack for a moment and pulled out a newspaper, tossing it to the table in front of me. It was turned to the obituaries. After scanning it for a second, I looked at him, shocked.

Edward! What have you done?

AN: The imagery in the first scene was largely inspired by/borrowed from the lyrics of "Like a Lover", aka "Cantador". My favorite version of the song will be added to the Prelude playlist soon (thanks NixHaw!), which can be found on my profile. Please, go listen. There are few more hauntingly beautiful (unrequited) love songs on the planet. I reference the song in Chapter 2 of my first fanfic, Midnight Sun Bridge, in which Edward shares the song with Carlisle, saying it reminds him of this moment of their lives. Two years later, I'm finally able to use it. I never dreamed I'd be at this so long, but I thank each of you for continuing to read and share your thoughts. And thanks to StormDragonfly and my other author friends on twitter who keep me motivated and sane (or at least reasonably so). I promise the next one won't take two months.

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