Chapter 36

July 1931

CPOV

"Esme, is your suitcase ready for the car?"

I put my case in the trunk, along with the briefcase containing paperwork and the contact information for the realtor. We weren't expected for two days but had decided to take a detour through some of the Finger Lakes if we could make the time for it. The weather was fine, so we were going to travel at night. I could only hope that the forecasted thunderstorms would hit before it was time to meet the realtor for our home search.

I made my way in the house and realized I might want to bring some other reading material in case we got trapped inside the hotel by sunny weather. Sighing, I squared my shoulders and entered the library. Many of the books were already packed for the move, and I went to the stack by the sofa and opened the second box down, retrieving Middlemarch. Fearing and preparing for change was something I could understand at the moment— the residents of Middlemarch would be my friends.

I looked around the room, unable to resist the dismal sight — the extraction of two people from a room that had housed three. For the most part, our books had all been separate. My bookcases held my books, Esme's hers, and Edward's his. So now there were two nearly empty bookcases, and one that was completely full. It made the room look oddly lopsided, but I was sure the activity of packing my bookcase had been less painful than separating my books from Edward's would have been, had everything been mixed together.

The walls were another matter altogether. I'd pulled down mine and Esme's paintings and left Edward's. The result was an unbalanced arrangement full of obvious gaps. When he returned — if he ever returned — it would be obvious we'd just extricated ourselves from our... well, his home.

I walked over to one of his paintings, still on the wall. It had been his father's, and I was particularly fond of it. I traced the frame with my finger and memorized the strokes making up the trees and lake, light shimmering on the water and quaking leaves. I didn't know if I'd ever see it again once we were moved. Beside it was a barely visible rectangular mark on the wall where one of my paintings had rested, protecting the wall from the fading effects of the sunlight. I wondered if it would depress him, these gaps and dark marks on the walls. He'd probably just move the paintings into a better arrangement and think no more of it. I shook my head at my sentimentality. The sooner we found a new house, the better. I could still hear shifting fabric in the bedroom as I took the stairs two at a time.

"Esme, what on earth are you packing?" I asked as I saw a second case. "We're only going to be gone a few days." I looked at the dresses spread out on the bed. Years ago, when she'd still been burning on the sofa in Wisconsin, I'd asked Edward how many clothes one woman needed. Even after a decade of living with her, I was still constantly surprised.

She gave me a look that would have been withering if not for the humor in her eyes.

"Carlisle, I am a doctor's wife. There are certain standards that must be kept."

I rolled my eyes and snorted, reminding myself again of Edward. "Have you forgotten, my dear, that I'm coming straight from residency? Again. We are but modest newlyweds."

She walked over to me and wrapped her arms around my neck. "Newlyweds. That has an appealing ring to it." She tipped her face up and caught my bottom lip between hers. And that nearly always distracted me from whatever I was thinking only moments ago. Esme's lips just had that power over me. I wrapped my arms around her tightly, deepening the kiss, aligning our bodies, and calculating a new route that would get us to Rochester on time even if we left two or three — Esme's tongue delved more deeply into my mouth — or seven hours later than I'd originally anticipated.

I was drawing my fingers through her hair and cupping her head in my hand when the doorbell rang.

"We have a doorbell?" I mumbled as I broke off the kiss.

Esme laughed, pulling away from me and moving down the stairs toward the door. I followed, curious. We seldom had visitors, and the movers hadn't even been called with a date yet.

Esme froze several feet from the door

"Esme—" I started, and then I smelled it, too. Smelled him.

Esme rushed to the door and threw it open. I didn't even get a clear view of him before he was engulfed in Esme's hug. His eyes were closed. As I watched from the base of the stairs, his arms slowly came up across her back, and his chin lowered to rest on her shoulder. He surrendered completely to her embrace, holding her tightly for several long moments."

"Come in," she said, starting to loosen her grip.

His eyes opened, and his gaze met mine over her shoulder. His amber gaze. Not as light or golden as I'd seen it in the past, but a far cry from city crimson.

"Not yet, Esme," he said, untangling himself as his eyes held mine from the other side of the threshold. "Maybe Carlisle would be willing to come out with me — for a talk."

Talk? After all this time and silence, it was almost difficult to process the request.

"Please."

I looked into his eyes, realizing he must have been feeding on animals for weeks to have cleared the color so much. It gave me hope. And with that came fear.

But I'd never been particularly good at refusing him anything. Not when the only thing risked was my own pain. Wariness and joy fluttered in my stomach, and I damned my schedule to hell and vowed to drive all night and day if necessary to have this time with Edward.

"Okay," I said, moving forward. I placed my hands on Esme's shoulders and kissed her temple as I passed. "We'll be back soon." Or I would be. I still didn't understand Edward's intentions. I immediately felt a sense of familiarity as I nodded to him.

Lead the way.

He nodded to Esme and then turned, sprinting into the forest.

Damn, I'd forgotten how fast he was. I pushed myself to keep up as he headed north and east. My mind was reeling with the irony of time. For this felt so familiar — following my best friend through the forest — and only minutes ago I would have sworn it could never happen again. I was at once struck by the fact that it felt as if he'd never left. Like I must be dreaming, and he was only a figment or phantom.

He stopped abruptly, giving me a strange look as I nearly ran into him.

What? I finally asked when I couldn't decipher his expression.

He gave a rueful snort. "Others have thought I was a phantom. I thought you'd know me better."

"I used to."

He looked away, chagrinned. We stood for a moment in awkward silence.

"Here?" he asked.

I looked around. Whenever we'd had these difficult one-on-one talks in the past, we'd always found some high ground. We weren't far from a ridge I used for hunting. I patted his arm as I passed him.

"This way."

He followed, and again, I was overwhelmed by the sense of familiarity. I was still too stunned to find joy in Edward's presence — too unsure what it meant — but the pull of our friendship was still so strong that familiarity itself was almost joy. Having him there with me, running through the forest, felt almost like happiness.

I stamped down any other thoughts as we began to climb. Edward already had every advantage in this situation. Handing him my every hope and fear before we'd even started talking only made me feel more vulnerable.

I didn't dare to hope what this meant — his arrival, before we left, with cleared eyes. He could be just saying goodbye, but if that were the case, why change his diet? He could be wanting to discuss the transfer of the property to his name, but again, why change his diet? Why come in person?

No, I didn't dare to hope. And yet, it was there — a warm weight in my chest. It was thrilling and terrifying, and as we reached the top of the ridge, it was all I could do to contain my impatience and push down the swirling confusion of emotions trying to escape me.

I stood at the crest and faced him. His expression shifted from determination to awkward hesitance.

"Edward?"

He tried several times to start his sentence, only to falter and turn away to study the view. We were being as awkward as we'd been in the Grey Dawn, only this time we didn't have the spectacle on stage to distract us. A fleeting, irrelevant concern crossed my mind as I wondered idly if Miss Dove was okay.

"I don't know," he whispered. "That's part of the problem."

That you lost track of Billie Dove?

"Yes. Well, no. But it's a symptom of what's wrong."

"And what's wrong?" I asked, hope that he was coming home flaring in my chest so brightly I could swear it was visible. I forced it down, willing my gaze and voice to remain steady. I was his friend. If he was coming to me for advice, I would listen and offer what I could.

"I..." He paused, looking at the ground. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "I... damn, I really didn't think this would be so hard," he muttered, running his hand through his hair nervously. "I... no. You. You were right."

"I was right."

"Yes. You were right."

I waited for more. "About?"

"Pretty much everything," he admitted, shoving his hands in the pockets of his suit pants.

I studied him for several long moments, memories of the boy that had lived with me, the man he'd grown into, and the hunter he'd chosen to be all juxtaposed with my current view of him. It was as if time collapsed in on itself, and I could see all of my versions of Edward at once. His brows furrowed in a manner so familiar it made me ache. I suddenly felt old.

I sat down, facing the valley view, and patted the grass next to me to encourage Edward to sit beside me. And again, there were flashes of memory of us sitting beside each other — in the car, high in a tree, at his piano. This was often how we spoke of difficult things.

"Perhaps you should start at the beginning. 'Everything' encompasses a lot, and I seriously doubt I was right about so much."

He looked out over the tree tops, leaning back on his hands. I resisted the urge to move my shoulder closer to his.

"You were right about the hunting," he said after taking a deep breath. "It made so much sense at first. It made me feel so righteous and free and in control. But it changed over time."

I nodded and waited, knowing he would continue when he found the words.

"At first, I waited weeks between meals. I would scout likely candidates for days —weeks if necessary — making sure I had the worst offender in my sights when it came time to finally hunt. And in between, I played, wrote, and heard music. It was just amazing, Carlisle. I was hearing world-class musicians every week. Music was my life. Feeding was just something I had to do, and hunting that scum was... well, that was far more exhilarating than it probably should have been; I won't try to deny it. But I felt like I was doing something good. Using my powers to help those who couldn't defend themselves."

I'd tried to imagine his life for so long. I'd dreaded thinking of how he lived. Had he been homeless? Had he been alone? Had he found others of our kind?

"I was alone, but not homeless. Actually, I lived the last place we spent time together."

"The Grey Dawn?"

"No, before that."

I thought back to the night he left. "Carnegie Hall?" I asked, doubtfully.

He nodded. "At first, I lived in a basement rehearsal room."

I snorted. I couldn't help it. It was just so... perfect. If he couldn't be home, at least he had been somewhere that could support his talent and obsessions.

"God, Carlisle, it had the most beautiful Steinway. Another two feet longer than mine. The upper register was just magic. I played it nightly. The janitors thought the place was haunted."

I laughed outright then. My Edward, haunting a basement rehearsal room under the most famous stage in New York City. I was surprised I hadn't read about it in the newspaper.

"I tried to be discreet," he added. "I failed, but I tried. Vampire speed came in handy. They never actually found me. They may have heard Chopin through the floorboards, but they never found any evidence that I was there. Sometimes I was hiding within ten feet of them."

"What would you have done if they'd found you?" I asked, trying to imagine living so dangerously.

"Honestly, Carlisle, I have no idea," he said, chuckling.

Our laughter died down slowly, and it felt good. It felt so good to laugh with him. Even though I knew something worse was coming.

"It started changing with the Depression. Shortly after I met with you. I was... unsettled. And the thoughts around me grew darker and darker, and people just... they sort of lost their minds with worry and grief and fear. And they did things. Sometimes it was for survival, but just as often, it was to dish out the cruelty that they'd been handed. Everything just escalated or spiraled down, and I couldn't block enough of it out. It just... wore me down."

His voice became rough, and his words more faltering. He was confessing to me. I wasn't sure if he just needed a friendly ear or was hoping for absolution, but I could tell he was struggling.

He leaned forward, gazing across the valley, worrying his lip as his foot jittered.

"You can tell me anything, Edward."

He nodded shakily. His breathing was ragged, and I felt sure he'd be fighting tears if we had the ability to shed them. I placed my hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort against horrors I still didn't know.

"After months of it, I just started hating them. All of them. I couldn't distinguish anymore between the ones that were really, truly bad and the ones that had just had bad luck. I just felt contempt. They were all bad.

"I started hunting more often and playing less. The voices were everywhere, and the blood didn't quench the thirst that was plaguing me anymore. I'd kill and drink, and nothing got better. I didn't feel better. Removing the thugs I killed didn't make the world better. Everything just got worse. And I killed... God, I killed so many, Carlisle. I was barely aware of how many until I stopped."

He was trembling now, and I moved my hand to his far shoulder and drew him against me as his last words echoed through my mind. He'd stopped. He'd stopped! I knew it, of course, from his amber irises, but to hear him say it made my heart soar. The parable of the prodigal son flashed through my mind, and I suddenly understood it in a way I never had before. I may have been a minister's son, but never before had I felt the desire — the need — to forgive absolutely anything. It pressed against my heart like a weight. Perhaps it was a feeling only a fa—

"Carlisle, stop," Edward groaned, and dread flooded me as I realized what he'd just heard. I'd already ruined it.

He shook his head. "I do want to come home. But you have to understand how bad I got. You have to understand what I did. You might not want me." His voice had shuddered to a whisper.

My entire being rejected the words, but I remembered enough about ministry to know that some things needed to be said before they could be let go. I squeezed his shoulders, resisted kissing the top of his head, and urged him to continue.

"Do you remember what you told me after the Horowitz concert, just before I left with my first kill?"

I nodded. I remembered the conversation vividly. I'd often gone over it, trying to think of something I could have said that wouldn't have led to me losing my only son… friend… brother… Edward, I finally settled on realizing there was no single word for what he was to me. At least not in a language I knew.

"You told me: 'Why would you focus on the darkness in the world? It will eat at you, Edward. It will consume you until you no longer recognize yourself.' And you asked me to come home with you."

I nodded, remembering exactly how it felt: exactly how the shadows of the alley played across his face and the smell of the garbage and the incongruity of my shining Edward in this place, in a tuxedo, holding a human aloft with the intention of feeding on him. My mind still had trouble accepting it.

He closed his eyes against my memory.

Sorry.

He hissed violently, "You have nothing to be sorry for!" and then collapsed against me, trembling.

After several moments, he'd gotten himself under control again. I tried to keep my mind open and accepting. He was already suffering so much. He swallowed several times and then took a deep breath.

"A little over a month ago, I realized that I hadn't played for over half a year. Not in the basement, not in the jazz clubs, not anywhere. I hadn't touched any of my sheet music. I hadn't listened to music in months. I'd become something I didn't recognize."

Someone you didn't recognize, I corrected.

"No, something. Just a vacant, mindless hunter. And not nearly as discerning as I'd started out."

But you only killed those you thought deserved it? Who had harmed others? And for some reason, that question was easier to ask without a voice.

He paused, and I closed my eyes, realizing I'd asked a question that would cause us both pain.

"I did at first. But after everything got so desperate — the Depression's been terrible in the city — it was harder to tell what was in people's hearts. Good people were driven to evil deeds. And I cared less about being sure of myself. There was one I killed... by the next week, I was sure it had been a mistake. She wasn't perfect; she beat her kids. But there were others who were worse. She just made me mad, and I didn't study the situation well enough. While I was hunting humans, I thought she was my only mistake. But in the last month, living in the forest again, I finally had enough quiet to think again. And now I believe there were many others I can't really be sure about. They weren't innocent, but who is, Carlisle?"

"Not very many," I agreed. "No one I know."

He laughed ruefully and leaned more heavily into my side. I regretted that holding him like this prevented me from seeing his expression, but perhaps that was easier for both of us at the moment.

We sat together in silence for a long time as his breathing became calmer. And despite the pain of the conversation and the wide gulf between his actions and my ideals, I could only find joy in his presence. His scent was in my nostrils, his solid skin under my fingers, and the man I'd feared was virtually dead to me was here and breathing and hurting and very, very real. And god, I loved him.

"237," he said, and the pain and uncertainty in his voice made me ache. This, I realized, is where he thought he'd lose me. Somehow he thought that I could forgive Esme her one kill but wouldn't be able to forgive Edward his... not once I knew the number.

"It's completely different," he whispered. "Esme's was an accident. I reveled in my kills."

"You aren't reveling now," I said quietly, rubbing my cheek against his hair as he leaned into me.

"No," he choked out.

It was an awful number. It was shocking to think of Edward consciously selecting 237 people for death: stalking them, finding a place to feed from them in a busy city, and disposing of them... for he had been at least that discreet. I lived close enough that if there had been a body found drained of all blood, I would have read about it in the paper. He had not made the choices I would have wished for him, but he had been an exemplary vampire.

And as awful as 237 was, it could have been worse. He'd been gone three and a half years. His total was a little more than one per week, on average. I'd seen half that many taken in a single feeding frenzy of the Volturi. And those had been random victims, entirely innocent.

"Some of mine were not as guilty as they should have been," Edward repeated. He was clearly distressed by the fact that his original plan of only taking the wicked had slipped as his instincts focused on the hunt rather than his ideals. "I just can't be sure. Toward the end, my perceptions were so skewed. It took me weeks in the forest to clear my head enough to see it, but once I did..." His voice trailed off.

"I'd seen it in the city," he continued. "Drunks would lose their minds while they were drinking and hurt those they loved. And when they sobered up, they would hate themselves for what they'd done. I was like that. Not so extreme, perhaps — I never blacked out like they would. But I was altered. My judgment, my pursuits. Lost to the hunt. I was lost.

"And I think," he said, gasping, "I think I caused more harm than I meant to. Possibly more harm than good. I don't think so — I hope not — but it's possible. I was trying to protect the innocent, and those people I took did bad things... some of them did terrible things. But was that all they were? In the beginning, I was careful, taking only the worst of the worst. But toward the end, I didn't weigh the good against the bad. I just saw the bad and punished it, wiping out whatever good there might have been along with it. Their lives were complicated, interwoven with people who were good. It was all just far more complicated than I expected. Some of those people I killed probably left a gap in the lives of those they touched. Like the gap I left in your life. I know I harmed you and Esme, and for that..."

I held him tighter, almost rocking him as his shuddering breaths bordered on sobs.

"I'm sorry, Carlisle. I'm so sorry."

My thoughts were scattered as I held him, waiting for his breath to even out again. I felt shocked and relieved, wary and hopeful. But through it all was a small joyful feeling deep in my chest, warming with the unspoken chant, He is home. He is home. And not just physically. My thoughts turned to the story of the prodigal son. I'd never shunned Edward for his choices, but he had been lost to me. And I'd feared he was, for all intents and purposes, dead to me... at least as our relationship had been. And now he was here and speaking with an understanding and maturity that I couldn't have predicted him capable of just a few years ago. And I understood that biblical father's disproportionate reaction. I wanted to celebrate and shower him with affection, but I knew it was too soon for him to accept it. And despite all his admissions, I truly did not know his intentions or desires.

I took him by the shoulders and shifted him until we were facing each other. He would not meet my gaze. I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck, as I'd done when I first started guiding him, and used my other to push his hair from his eyes.

Edward.

He sighed, raising his gaze to mine as if to accept a verdict. "Edward, taking the life of another is a terrible weight. I know it. Both those I've had to take in battle and those I couldn't save on the operating table. And life is complicated. I've thought many times about what you told me that evening in the Grey Dawn. You worry that you may have killed some who were better than you assumed, but now I've started to wonder if I've saved some who are worse than I assume. Who then go on to hurt others. I'll never know. Neither of us will ever know the full balance of our effect on the world. We can only do what we think is the best decision in the moments we are given. No one can predict all the outcomes of their actions.

"You have killed 237 people, and that is a terrible burden. But compared to any vampire other than Esme or me, it is a small sum, Edward. Vampires live hundreds, sometimes thousands of years. Many take several humans a week. Some think it's their responsibility to do so, thinking that without a predator like us the humans would just overpopulate. Obviously this is not my viewpoint, though I've had troubles formulating a good counter argument. The point is, we live long, and like any creatures on this earth, we make mistakes, or at least do things we regret. And unlike humans, we remember perfectly, regret for an eternity. I'm sorry you will suffer that.

"But because of that, it's all the more important that we accept our mistakes and move on. I will help you get through whatever turmoil you are suffering, but what I really want to know — what I need to understand — is this: What do you want? How do you wish to live the rest of your life? That is what I wish to help you with. I am here for you, Edward, but you must decide how."

His eyes delved into mine, and I could almost feel him searching my thoughts to determine the truth of my words. Finally, he swallowed and seemed to brace himself.

"I want to come home," he said quietly. "I've already begun living by your rules again. My rules now. For the last six weeks, I've been living in the forest, proving to myself I could still do it — drink from only animals. I couldn't bear to come to you until my eyes had started to clear. I needed you to know I could do it, want to do it. Whether you accept me again or not, I'll never drink from another human. It's just not worth everything I lost, and everything I might have caused."

Joy soared through my heart and mind, and I struggled to tamp it down before elation distracted me from the very real work ahead. We were not done.

"If you don't want me to come home," he said, mistaking my silence and dampened thoughts for rejection, "I'll go to the farmhouse in Chicago until I can sort out my next plan. If you're willing to, you can write me there—"

"Edward—"

"—and send me your new address so—"

"Edward!"

His mouth shut with a click.

I rubbed his hair out of his eyes again, still marveling that he was here and real and wanting to return. But I still had concerns.

"Edward," I started again, more softly. "Of course I want you to come home. Want it so much I can taste it. But I saw you playing on the stage at Grey Dawn. I saw how you interacted with the other musicians — your friends — how you were respected and valued and happy. You were happy on that stage, Edward. Don't try to deny it. And if you come back, well, none of the things that drove you away in the first place have really changed. I've changed perhaps, but the need for secrecy, the need to protect our privacy... none of that has changed. You'd be miserable, and I couldn't bear it, Edward. I couldn't bear the idea of you being unhappy just to please me and Esme."

He closed his eyes, and I was afraid I'd convinced him to go.

"Carlisle, do you know what I missed when I was gone?"

I shook my head. He'd lived in Carnegie Hall, heard great music all the time. He'd been in an Edward-shaped heaven.

"I'd be reading in my attic room, sitting sideways on my one armchair." And that I could picture perfectly. "And I'd read something and comment on it out loud. But you wouldn't be there. I would come home from a concert and want to share some insight you would understand, but I'd pushed you away.

"I missed the sound of your pacing when you think, and the smell of Esme's tea and turpentine, and the way your face used to light up when you got home to find me and Esme still in the house waiting for you, and the way you'd come home with sheet music just because you thought I'd like some. I missed talking to someone who knows my name. Who knows my likes and dislikes and irritating habits as well as you do. I missed home.

"Those other musicians valued me as a session player, but they weren't my friends, Carlisle. They certainly weren't my family. Music will always need to be a part of my life, but I don't need to perform to be happy. Even when given the chance, I didn't perform all the time. It got old, rote. And everything I was seeing and hearing felt less real because I couldn't share it with you and Esme. I couldn't share myself with anyone. It was like being a ghost in my own life. And I realized that's how you must have felt for the first few centuries of your life. All the connections to other people were temporary and fleeting. None of it had the substance of my relationship with you or Esme, but I just didn't value it back then. It was all I'd known. I had no idea how alone we could feel. This last month, as my eyes and head have cleared, I've thought a lot about my life with you and Esme, and then my life alone. Performing with humans isn't worth what I gave up. Not even close, Carlisle."

And now my joy ran rampant and froze my brain and my tongue. I could only stare at him, brushing the hair out of his eyes and reminding myself that vampires do not dream, so this must be real.

"Please, Carlisle. Please let me come home."

Unable to stop myself, I kissed his forehead and drew his shoulders against me in an awkward hug. Edward didn't seem to mind.

Yes. Come home.

He clung to me for several moments, and I felt the tension in his shoulders relax marginally. Then he pulled away.

"Carlisle, the last time I disappointed you, you let me do something to atone."

The Chopin? I asked, still not trusting my voice.

He nodded. "This is so much larger a debt. I have no idea what could come close to right these wrongs, but if you can think of anything—"

"Edward, the Chopin was never really about the hunt in Canada. It was about getting you to face something you were hiding from. But this time, you've faced things all on your own. And I'm proud of you. This experience and what you had to do to come out of it — I think it has left you changed. More introspective. That is atonement enough for me."

He looked unconvinced but didn't argue, nodding once through his grave and intense gaze.

And it was done. The thing that had seemed impossible an hour ago was decided. Edward was coming home. Not coming... he was home. Joy surged through my mind, and even Edward's serious expression was lightened by it. And then the logistics hit me. We needed to leave. We were already behind schedule, and I needed to call the realtor and specify new search parameters for the house. I'd specified the edge of town, but further out would be better if Edward were coming, and—

"Slow down, Carlisle."

I froze. He was coming, wasn't he?

"Yes. I'm definitely coming. But we need to talk to Esme. And I need to bathe before I see any humans. I haven't had a bath for two weeks."

I leaned back to look at him. He was rather rough around the edges, but not rough enough to have been in the woods for six weeks.

He rolled his eyes. "I went back to get my things from the city and got a hotel for a night, so I could clean up. I wanted to go again before coming to you, but the trip to Rochester forced my hand."

"You know about Rochester?"

He pushed his hands into his pockets, looking toward the ground. Sheepish. "I've been monitoring you for a few weeks. Not consistently, but every few days, I'd approach from downwind and listen, trying to gauge if I'd be welcome when I showed up. I wanted to come home ages ago, but I couldn't face you until my eyes had clearly started changing. I just would have been too ashamed, and I wanted you to understand I was serious about stopping. I heard about this trip last week."

"Is Rochester all right?" I asked. I hadn't taken Edward's needs into consideration when I chose it. Was there even a music school there? I'd purposefully not looked into it.

"It will be fine, Carlisle."

I shook my head. "I've accepted the job, but I could tell them something's come up. We could head west—" And I really needed to fill Esme in. She was probably climbing the walls back at the house.

"It's fine, Carlisle. I don't care where we are as long as I've got some distance from the city," he said, rising to his feet and offering me a hand.

"But what will you do?" I asked as I took his hand and got up.

He shrugged, suddenly looking very young. Smirking, he said, "I could always go to high school."

I laughed, remembering how he'd told me he never wanted to do that again.

As my humor faded, I was struck again by how surreal this all felt.

"You're really coming with us?" I asked, still somewhat dazed.

"I'm really coming. If I'm welcome."

"Let's go tell Esme," I said, and he'd already turned toward the house before I could finish the thought. We walked back together, and I felt... everything. It was familiar but new, reassuring but frighteningly tentative. He was home. I wondered how long it would take my old mind to get used to it and how long before the walls I'd built against the pain of his leaving would start to crumble like the fortresses in my old country.

Esme's suitcases were packed and on the porch when we cleared the trees, and she fidgeted next to them waiting for us to approach. Her face lit up when she saw we were smiling. Edward took the porch steps in a single leap, landing neatly in front of her. He was swallowed by her embrace.

"Don't ever do that to me again," my wife scolded in hushed tones.

"Yes, Esme," he whispered, squeezing her more tightly. He pulled away from her slowly as I climbed the steps, and though she hesitated at first, she let him go. "Give me ten minutes to wash and change," he said, kissing her on the cheek. And then he climbed the stairs to his old room, leaving us alone on the porch.

Esme looked at me expectantly.

"He's coming home. He's coming with us."

She threw her arms around my neck and clung to me, wracked with dry, happy sobs. And I hushed her and stroked her hair, but I was the same inside. After such a long time spent waiting and suppressing any reactions to his absence, we couldn't help but react to his presence. There would be much to heal. Esme was still hurt that he never met with her all the times she'd looked for him, but I knew her heart and how it forgave. I knew they would be close again.

She finally pulled away, wiping her eyes with her sleeve as if tears might be there. There were noticeable splash noises still coming from the upstairs bath.

"I'm glad he didn't see that," Esme whispered.

I raised an eyebrow. How quickly she forgot.

"Well, of course, he saw it, but I mean... Turn away," she ordered, realizing that Edward could see her face through my eyes if he chose to look. I laughed and turned as she continued straightening her hair and dabbing her face. There was no need; she looked lovely as ever and happier than I'd seen her in a long time.

"Esme, he's been living in the city for years. I'm sure he's learned to block the thoughts of others—"

A soft snort from upstairs interrupted that thought.

I changed tack. "You look lovely."

She stifled a laugh, and I turned back toward her to see her grinning at me. "And you're not very smooth at all, Carlisle Cullen," she answered, wrapping her arms around me.

"No," I said, pulling her close. "I never have been."

We held each other for a moment, and then she whispered, "I'm so happy."

"Me, too."

"I can't believe it," she said, her hands caressing my back as her face nuzzled against me.

"Me neither."

"Is it a dream?"

"Shall I pinch you?" I asked, shifting my hands lower.

She swatted my chest, and laughter bubbled up from both of us.

"Tell me everything," she whispered, turning her face up to mine.

I kissed her. Not a kiss of solace, like the ones we'd shared many times over the last few years, but a kiss suffused with joy. And humor, as she smiled and retreated an inch.

"Was that your answer?" she asked, her dimple showing as she smiled.

I huffed a laugh and moved a stray hair from her brow. "I'll let him share the details, but the salient point is he decided the life he led in the city no longer suits him. He's been drinking from animals the last six weeks and wants to come home. He wants to go with us to Rochester."

And again the parable of the prodigal son entered my mind — though I knew the comparison would likely make Edward angry, or at least exasperated. But it wouldn't leave my mind. Because I did want to celebrate his return, and perhaps it was perverse, but I felt I appreciated him more now than I had when he'd been faithfully by my side. That lack of appreciation had been a mistake I would not repeat. I swore from now on I would not take him for granted, and I would do my best to balance his needs with mine and Esme's. And I could only hope that it would be enough.

Edward came down the stairs carrying a packed case and wearing a familiar suit, sleeves rolled up and jacket off for the long ride. He hadn't even buttoned his vest all the way.

"We're going to be in the car for hours, aren't we?" he asked, frowning and looking down at his clothes.

"Yes," I reassured. "No need to be formal yet."

And as he reached the bottom step, Esme wrapped her arms around his neck again, pulling him into another tight hug. And Edward allowed it, sinking into her embrace and resting his chin on her shoulder as he closed his eyes. He seemed to understand that Esme and I both needed the tactile proof of his presence and his affection.

His eyes opened, and he looked at me, still deep in Esme's grip.

"I don't mind," he said softly.

About the hug?

He shook his head. "Earlier."

I wasn't sure what he meant, but Esme pulled back before I could ask.

"We should get going," she said. "We have a long drive ahead of us, and we can catch up in the car."

Edward reached down for his case, smiling.

"Oh! I should call the realtor. Give him some new ideas to guide his search."

"We'll load the car," Edward said, taking Esme's bags as well as his own.

Ten minutes later we were in the car driving northeast.

"How long will it take?" he asked.

"If we can maintain a speed of thirty-five miles per hour, it should take just over twelve hours. We can get a good chunk of that done tonight," I said, looking up at the crimson and orange clouds. The sun was setting, and we had a good eight hours of darkened safety. "I'm hoping we can make it through Syracuse before dawn, and then we can turn south and spend the day around Skaneateles Lake where it's not nearly so populated. We can hunt there, too, before going on to Rochester."

"Are we meeting anyone tomorrow night?"

"No, not until the following morning. But the realtor had said he'd drop some new home descriptions by our hotel so we could look at them and prioritize. Then we'll be out looking at houses the next two days. Esme also has an appointment at a local museum. You and I could explore the town. Oh, and I asked the realtor, and he said that the Eastman School of Music accepts eighteen-year-olds and is being run right now by an American composer named Howard Hanson. Have you heard of him?"

Edward nodded. "He's a modern symphonic composer. I've heard his second symphony."

"Is it good?"

Edward shrugged. "The second movement is... evocative. It's not really my taste, but there are many who like it. I think he's got some interest in opera, as well. But he's really an evangelist for American music. He wants to elevate American composition to its own art, on equal footing with the Europeans. But it doesn't matter. I don't need a music school, Carlisle."

He seemed almost guilty. As if considerations of his needs weren't important as we moved forward. Just as I'd vowed to take better consideration of his needs, he'd decided to forsake them.

"I'm not," Edward answered softly. "That's just not one of them."

Esme looked back and forth between us, knowing she was missing something, but let it be. She tried again, drawing Edward into conversation, and eventually it worked. She asked about the music he'd seen, and slowly he started answering her, growing more and more animated. It seemed almost cathartic for Edward. He'd listened to so much fine music the first few years he was gone, and had apparently not been able to express his views with anyone. And it all poured forth now. Esme asked questions about what composers he'd seen — both jazz and classical — and Edward answered for hours. He spoke haltingly at times, as I'm sure the memories of music were intertwined with darker memories. But he talked and seemed better for it. We were all careful to avoid the topic of his hunting, or even the hard times people had been suffering in the city. Esme didn't want to hear those details, and Edward didn't want to speak of them —though I made it clear in my thoughts that if he ever did want to discuss any of those dark moments, I was willing to hear them and try to help him process his thoughts. He met my eyes in the rear-view mirror and nodded as he continued to regale Esme with the differences between New York jazz and the music of New Orleans and Chicago.

We reached the small town of Skaneateles at the lake's northern tip just as dawn was breaking pink and violet over the rippling water. We turned south and traveled a road that skirted the eastern edge of the lake about ten miles. I'd forgotten how handy it was to have a mind-reader with me. Edward knew when we'd moved south of the settlements and into unpopulated areas. He easily directed us to a deserted dirt lane off the main road. We parked the car in the forest near an isolated stretch of beach and got out to explore.

We'd have to stay here until cloud cover grew thick, or the sun set. But meanwhile, my family sparkled like the clear, deep water before us — both literally and figuratively. I hadn't seen Esme so carefree for years. I hadn't felt this light myself since... well, I wasn't sure. Certainly not since before Edward left, but I was sure some time before that, as well. The last several years before Edward left had been tense. It was part of what had driven him away. But now an uncertain contentment seeped into my skin. It would take a while for this to feel natural again, but I felt confident it would.

We hunted in the forest and then returned to walk the beach. By early afternoon, the wind had picked up, though it was still bright and clear. Edward ran a bit ahead of Esme and me, skipping stones on the water and sending flocks of ducks and geese into the air.

Esme laughed, chastising him gently. The wind whipped her skirt around her legs as she balanced on an unsteady stone. Edward turned just in time to see a gust grab her cloche and carry it in his direction. He caught it neatly as I helped Esme gain better footing. As he approached and handed it to her, I noticed his brow was furrowed.

Edward?

He shook his head absently, obviously deep in thought.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," he said, looking out over the lake. "I think I just had a deja vu. Or... I think I used to walk on a lake shore with my family. Before."

My eyes widened. I'd wondered how many of his human memories he'd retained, but we hadn't discussed it much since the year Esme joined us. "Lake Michigan?"

He shrugged. "It must have been."

The mood after that was a bit more subdued. Content still, as we walked in the sunshine. Edward still had some of the exuberance of youth I'd always associated with him, but it was tempered now with his experiences. The consequences of his decisions and actions.

He was a man now. And like all men — certainly like me — he bore the weight of his choices. The good and the bad that come from just living in the world and making decisions, some of which are utterly life-altering. Regret and joy. And as I watched him, I knew, as always, that any pain he bore was ultimately my responsibility. I had snatched him from his natural death, and I had made his burdens immortal.

And I couldn't regret it for a moment. I could regret the pain he felt, the lives he'd taken, but never him. Never my choice to save him. How hollow my life would be if I'd chosen differently.

He looked up at me, a small smile on his face. Then he nodded to the west.

"It looks like the clouds are finally blowing in. It will probably be safe to leave soon."

I agreed, and we turned back toward the car.

The rest of the drive was quieter as we took in the environment around our new home and considered the game that were likely present. There were many farms in the area, but I knew just over the Canadian border were extensive forests. It was one of the advantages of being so far north.

We pulled into Rochester around four-thirty in the afternoon, much earlier than I'd anticipated. The rain was still light, but growing harder. I could only hope that it wouldn't rain itself out overnight.

We drove around town admiring the fine homes along East Avenue and the many city parks along the Genesee River. We wouldn't live here, but the grand houses were still lovely and reflected what I knew of the community: they wished to become a destination city, showing their wealth through fine living and patronage of the arts. I hoped, with some subtle help from Esme, their museum would finally get off the ground.

We eventually found the hotel and donned gloves and hats. I held the umbrella for Esme as she exited the car and rushed —at human speeds — to the door. We entered a modest but well-appointed lobby where a gentleman holding a stack of papers talked anxiously with the man behind the reception desk. As we waited, Edward tried to get my attention just as I heard my name.

"I'm Doctor Cullen," I offered, interrupting the gentlemen. And as I felt myself flanked by Esme and Edward, I was struck by a sense of belonging. So much of my life I'd looked for new homes alone. Even when we moved to Connecticut to live as a family, I'd shopped for the home alone. To think that we'd be deciding together was somehow heartening. I was still in mild disbelief that Edward was here and staying, but if he were selecting a home with us, surely it was true.

The man with the papers turned, and the irritation on his face gave way to relief. "Doctor Cullen! I'm Robert Jensen," he said, offering his hand for me to shake. "We spoke on the phone yesterday. I'm so glad you made it into town before the rain got too heavy. The roads, I fear, are going to be bad for our search tomorrow."

"That's fine," I said, shaking his hand. "We actually prefer a bit of rain over the heat we've had the last week."

He smiled. "Well, I'm glad you won't find it too troublesome. I have some new homes for you to look at," he said, handing me the sheets of paper. Each had a photograph clipped to it. "These are further out of town, as you requested. There are also some listings in the outlying villages and a few near the south end of Irondequoit Bay. You said you like hunting and fishing, and there is a lot of wildlife out there."

"That sounds promising. I'll go over these with my family tonight, so we can start in the morning with the best looking options."

"Excellent," Mr. Jensen said, looking at me expectantly. I realized I was being rude, just as a panic hit me. Because with all the time we had driving out, we had never discussed this. And it seemed an idiotic oversight on my part. We'd spent so much time just getting caught up and just getting used to being in each other's presence again, we hadn't spent much time thinking about the future.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Jensen," I said, stalling for time and starting with the easy introduction. "This is my wife, Esme."

He took her hand in greeting as I turned toward Edward. When we'd moved to Connecticut, he'd posed as Esme's younger brother, orphaned in his early teens by the Spanish Influenza. But Edward was still seventeen. So now we'd have to claim that his parents had died of the flu when he was four — which was possible but wouldn't be as clean as our old story. There would be foster parents or an orphanage if Esme were thirteen when orphaned. Or we could keep to our previous story, their deaths happening when Esme was an adult and Edward a teen, but make their parents die in an accident more recently—"

"And I'm Edward," he said, unable to keep a smirk from settling on his face as he glanced at me sideways. He was resisting the urge to roll his eyes, but in their gleam I could almost hear the exasperated complaint, 'paralysis by analysis.' He began to extend his hand toward Mr. Jensen, and in that fraction of a second I wondered what story he would invent — what role in his life I would take for the next decade as we made Rochester our home? It was a strange moment of suspense, and I almost reveled in my lack of control. Edward would decide, and I'd be happy with the role he offered. Nervousness flashed in his eyes, but I nodded reassuringly.

His eyes left mine as he turned his attention back to Mr. Jensen. He grasped the realtor's hand in a firm shake, and said in a steady voice —

"I'm their son."

AN: That was the last line as I conceived the story three years ago. It is, admittedly, not quite canon. According to the Illustrated Guide, Edward still posed as Esme's brother while they lived in Rochester. However, I needed this to finish Prelude's arc, and so I ask your forgiveness for the minor change in timing of the sentiment.

I have so many people I should thank for helping me, I am sure to leave someone out. Again, I ask your forgiveness. But I think it very likely I would not have been able to keep writing without the support, inspiration, write chats, and friendship I receive from my fellow fanfic authors and readers: StormDragonfly, Malianani, Eeyorefan12, WoodLily, BookwormBaby2580, NixHaw (playlist goddess), Juje aka Skylark, and HeartofDarkess. I will probably update this AN several times as I remember additional names.

Special thanks to the people who have betaed or preread Prelude chapters for me over the years: Coleen561, Juje/Skylark, and Eeyorefan12.

Prelude is officially finished, but I can't mark it as complete, yet. I've written a short epilogue that I'll post soon.

Thank you all for reading and sharing your thoughts. It's been a fun ride for me, and I hope you've enjoyed it, too.