Chapter 51:
As the Clouds Cry
It was dark outside – so early in the morning, it looked like night. It may as well have been night.
Esme breathed in the scent of burning wood that came creeping through the cracks of the old house from upstairs where she was reading. The aroma had grown steadily stronger over the course of the cold night. Every hour it seemed, a billow of smoky perfume would meet her nose, distracting her from the words on the page.
The clock chimed five times to signal the oncoming morning, and she slipped her books back into the shelf with a sigh. Unable to ignore the suspicious scent any longer, Esme drew a blanket around her shoulders and ventured out into the hall.
The outside cellar doors opened and closed with a hearty thump, then Edward's voice mumbled something too low for her to decipher. His footsteps clomped down the stairs and then fell silent.
Esme's ears were roused by different footsteps, approaching the front door outside in the snow. A gust of cold air entered the foyer as Carlisle came inside, rushed to his study, then went back out again.
This series of actions had been going on all night. Until now, Esme hadn't cared to question Edward and Carlisle's odd antics. But having deemed their behavior a little too suspicious to ignore, she finally went downstairs to investigate.
Opening the front door, she noticed two bright orange lanterns had been left on the porch to light the pathway that led around the side of the house. The scent of burning wood was stronger outside, coming from somewhere further down the path, out of view.
Unexpectedly, Carlisle appeared suddenly out of the shadows, clutching a dimly lit lantern in one hand and a pair of gloves in the other.
He caught her staring and smiled wryly – if not a little apologetically – as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't, but was prepared to talk his way out of trouble.
"You've been out here all night," she accused from the doorway.
He reached the porch steps and set the lantern down on the ground by his feet, pulling the gloves over his hands. They looked like they fit him too tightly.
"Yes, I've been out here...all night," he admitted, somewhat amused.
Esme crossed her arms over her chest.
"I don't like it when you leave." Her voice was soft but displeased.
His shining golden eyes raised in light shock. "I don't leave," he defended.
"You aren't in the house," she pointed out.
"Why don't you come out, then?" he laughed gently, the orange lantern flickering over his amber eyes. Her stomach felt warm.
"Why can't you just come in?" she asked, making a spectacle of her shivering in the doorway.
"I want to walk." He smiled agreeably, flaunting his adorable pair of dimples.
Her teeth chattered. "Then walk the halls."
"I want to walk outside."
He was infuriating.
Stay inside with me. Just stay inside, Carlisle. Stay in one place...
She wanted to shout at him, but instead she sighed. The argument was circular. He wanted it to be that way. He was trapping her.
Carlisle tilted his head back in invitation, obliviously revealing the smooth strength of his throat, and something inside of Esme tingled, like her nerves were whispering, 'yes.'
His voice was gentle. "Come with me."
The multiplicity of the suggestion was not lost on her; briefly she wondered if he'd recognized it himself. He was still smiling, so it could have gone both ways.
His eyes were sparkling in an entirely chaste manner.
Good God, he was oblivious.
"Yes. Fine." She muttered her way onto the porch, struggling to keep her shoes on as she shut the door behind her.
She huffed into the cold air, shrugging the cover over her shoulders, and she huddled closer to his side as he led her over the path. Too late after they had started walking into the darkness, she realized they'd left the lantern behind.
Carlisle didn't seem to care.
"I thought you hated the cold," she mentioned suspiciously.
He chuckled, low and breathy. "I do."
"Then why were you fumbling around out here all night?"
"I was burning some documents," he explained as they came up to the small fire by the shed.
"So that's where all the smoke was coming from." Esme wrinkled her nose, even though the scent of charred papers was suddenly somewhat pleasant knowing Carlisle had been the one responsible for it.
He tossed another pile of bound papers into the flames then settled down on a fallen log beside the fire.
Taking the subtle invitation, Esme stumbled awkwardly through the thick snow to his side. It sometimes worked to her advantage to pretend that a vampire's grace did not come naturally for her.
His laughter was warm and slightly rough in the loveliest way as he helped her down easily with his arm. "Don't injure yourself."
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at her own expense, wondering if he knew that she was only teasing him by tripping over her own feet.
Her eyes swerved back up to catch a glimpse of his profile as he watched the fire. He was peaceful this way, she noticed. More often than not, fire seemed to complement Carlisle's face with fine grace. He seemed content, not lost in thought; for once, purely thoughtless. The expression made her smile.
The longer she watched him, the more obvious it must have been to him that she was staring. Subtly, the muscles in his cheeks began to twitch, and in the moment an abrupt but blinding smile burst on his face, he turned to her and choked lightly on the word. "What?"
"Nothing," she gasped, lifting her hands in defense as he settled from his brief, nervous laughter. "It's just... If I'd known you were out here just watching the fire all by yourself, I might have come out sooner—"
"No, no." He waved his hand, looking slightly embarrassed. "Edward was with me for a while. You were reading. I didn't want to bother you."
"You're never a bother to me," she reassured quietly.
He chewed his lip a little bit, his eyes flitting everywhere but her, and she had to wonder what he was thinking.
He never answered her.
"I turned my library into a garden," she aided the quiet with a happier topic. "With the 'Valentine' flowers you gave me."
He pulled several fingers sheepishly down the side of his face and chuckled. "They don't last very long in this weather."
"Yes, many of them are already dead," she informed bluntly.
He scoffed in amusement. "That was bound to happen after a week or two."
"It's all right," she shrugged cheerfully. "They still keep me company."
"Company," Carlisle repeated the word, so reverent a whisper that Esme almost burst into tears.
Her eyes went up to his face, studying his profile with something close to wanton obsession. He looked positively torn between sadness and profound gratitude.
"The next time you're alone out here, tell me. Right away." She was forceful with her words, but gentle with her tone. A bit motherly, but this was the way Esme spoke sometimes without even knowing it.
Carlisle stared at her, his gaze sharp but unreadable.
"It isn't a problem for me anymore," he said in soft defense. "Being alone."
She all but interrupted him, her voice a fierce whisper. "I don't believe that."
His jaw tightened slightly, and her fingers ached to travel along the smooth line of it, to chase the tension away.
Why not ease this ache? She thought for a second, it was possible. For a second, whom she seized, it was reality.
Tenderly, her fingers flickered over his chin. His skin was soft. Softer than she thought it would be.
The rippling light from the yellow flames danced in his dark eyes. He was absolutely still.
Her lips parted. Then slowly, softly, his eyelids slipped closed.
The stirring scent of his breath was warm and soothing, like apple butter – sweet but rich.
"You're not arguing with me, Carlisle," she marveled, her tone a loving admonishment.
"Do you expect me to?" he rasped from behind closed eyes. His brows lifted gently when she did not answer.
She shook her head.
Her hands were bare. His were still gloved. She noticed this only when he lifted his hand to hold hers against his jaw.
"I hate that you ever have to feel alone," she said, her voice stronger now, but quiet enough not to stir the sun which had yet to rise.
Carlisle opened his eyes.
"There is a difference between being alone and being lonely," he whispered wisely.
"Were you lonely?" she asked, her fingers shaking slightly where he trapped them against his skin.
He drew back his face, taking the heat of his gaze to a simmer. "That isn't the question you meant to ask."
Her chest tightened in confirmation, and she drank the chilly air into her lungs.
"Are you lonely?" she breathed guiltily.
He smiled. It wasn't sad, but it wasn't particularly jubilant either. It was just a simple smile.
"No."
She stirred restlessly beside him, pulling her fingers down from his chin. His hand still held to hers.
"Will you come inside now?"
He nodded. "Yes."
With a knowing smile of her own, Esme lifted herself to her feet in the snow, tugging his hand up with her.
"Come with me," she quoted him.
She laughed, and Carlisle was happily confused by her laughter as she dragged him back to the house.
Their short time together was bittersweet, however, as Carlisle prepared to leave for the hospital as soon as the sun rose.
Esme was slightly disappointed that he had not stayed to watch the sunrise with her and Edward from their favorite spot on the roof. It wasn't as pleasant being covered with ice, but they enjoyed it enough to do it in sub-zero weather occasionally.
Carlisle wore approximately twenty layers before he left the house that morning. Edward wore about one and a half.
The preciousness of warmth was not taken for granted by the doctor. Neither was a proper goodbye.
"I still smell like smoke," he said in a hilariously bemused tone as he stood facing the doorway, his scarf halfway around his neck, and his hands still in an absent struggle to work the gloves over his fingers.
Esme giggled, straightening his scarf with a flick of her fingers. "Your patients will think you caught on fire. You do spend quite a lot of time in front of the fireplace."
"At least you'll have a somewhat exciting excuse for why you were so late," Edward added pointedly from the stairs, snapping his father back to life from his awkward reverie.
Carlisle gave an agitated grunt as he stuffed the stethoscope into his bag and tried for the last time to fit just one leather glove over his hand.
"Your hands are quite large," Esme commented absently.
Carlisle gave her an awkward look. Edward laughed.
"For the gloves," she finished hastily, flaming inside. She reached over to pinch the leather. "These gloves are too small."
A crestfallen expression crossed Carlisle's features as he sighed and gave up trying to squeeze his hands into the gloves. He handed them to Esme.
"Well, they're of no use then, I suppose."
They could be of no use just as well in the back of her nightstand drawer.
Esme beamed inwardly, clutching the useless pair of leather gloves just a bit tighter.
Carlisle opened the front door, letting in a breeze of icy air. "I'll be back early today."
"How early?" Esme demanded before she could censor herself.
Edward snorted softly behind her.
Carlisle's eyes glowed. "Very. Really, very...early."
She accepted the stuttered promise with a pleased smile. "Good."
Edward tapped his foot on the step while Esme embraced Carlisle hastily, and then she sent him rushing out the door.
"How early is 'very early'?" she asked Edward as soon as they heard the engine start.
-}0{-
Much to Esme's delight, "very early" lived up to its name.
Anticipating that the doctor would be gone longer than he'd claimed, she had promised Edward a full lesson in oil painting before Carlisle's return.
It so happened that Carlisle had welcomed himself home while they were discussing the finer points of arbitrary colors.
Esme was aware that Carlisle was watching Edward and her from the doorway. He was just standing there in the threshold behind them, disconcertingly quiet, but without a doubt attentive. He'd been there for nearly ten minutes now, scarcely breathing. Just watching.
For this reason, her antics were slightly more theatrical than they would have otherwise been.
"Why the hell would I put purple in the snow, Esme?" Edward demanded, nearly snapping the paintbrush in half as he slapped it against the canvas. She'd imagined he would take her unique advice a bit personally.
"Use your imagination, darling," Esme struggled not to laugh as she waved a finger toward the window. "Can't you see the hints of violet when the sun hits it just so?"
"Umm..."
"Trust me, there's purple in the snow," she insisted.
He sniggered softly. "You know, I think I see some orange!"
"I don't appreciate being mocked, Edward."
Despite the uselessness of her efforts, Esme still tried to conceal her smile.
Edward heaved a groan of frustration as he stood back from the canvas with his hands on his hips. "This is no good."
"You have to be patient."
"Maybe I should sit you down at the piano for an hour, and see what you can come up with."
She sent him a simpering smile and fluttered her lashes with mocking enthusiasm. "I think that's a lovely idea."
"Hah. I don't think I've got the patience to teach you any more than I already have."
"Then I haven't the patience to teach you," she retorted.
"I'll teach myself," he said, straightening up to his full height. "It's not that hard."
Wiping her hands on a dry cloth, Esme walked over to survey Edward's partially painted canvas. The strokes were liberal, and clearly impatient, but there was no denying a certain charm to the piece, even in its early stages. It had potential.
"You know you're off to a very impressive start, Edward."
He sent her a glare from the corner of his eye.
"I'm not just saying that, truly!" she assured enthusiastically. "I love what you've done here." She bent in closer and swept her finger over the center of the canvas where several strokes of pastel colors met with a passionate clash.
Seizing the compliment, Edward eagerly lifted his discarded paintbrush to the site and attempted to enhance it to her liking.
"No, no! Don't ruin it!" she gasped, pulling the brush away before he could cover the aesthetic imperfections. "You have to let it dry properly before you can add the details."
The paintbrush finally snapped.
"Oils are maddening," he declared with an exasperated sigh. "I want to try watercolors."
She bit her lip to hold in a fond laugh.
"I have some watercolors upstairs." She sent him a fleeting mental picture of their relative location, and he waited not a moment before dropping his wasted oil paints in the basin.
"I'll go get them."
Her eyes followed Edward as he rushed for the door, and subconsciously her gaze drifted to Carlisle where he'd been observing their scene silently from the doorway. He leaned lazily against the wall, moving slightly out of the way as Edward passed through. His eyes never left her the entire time.
"You've been awfully quiet," she said amusedly once Edward was gone. "I'd hardly realized you were here."
Lies.
Carlisle only smiled wearily at her, something strange at a steady simmer in his eyes.
With a heavy sigh, he straightened to his full height and walked over to her. "My son is terribly ungrateful for all your efforts to teach him," he whispered teasingly.
Edward, strangely enough, made no comment to show he had heard this from upstairs.
"He has every right to be stubborn," Esme said with a smile. "And he's right, anyway. I would probably be just as frustrated to learn just one song by myself on the piano."
Carlisle looked distant.
She cocked her head curiously. "Are you all right?"
He nodded.
Unsatisfied, but hoping not to press the matter further, she returned to her canvas with him standing behind her.
Painting was twice as thrilling, but also twice as challenging whenever he first started watching her.
"Oh, I've ruined it yet again," she whimpered with a soft chuckle of frustration as she struggled to smooth the muddled colors of a distant snow bank.
He shook his head. "Everything you do looks perfect."
"Surely you jest, Doctor."
His eyes were heady with something so terribly warm, she all but scoffed in scandal as she tore her gaze away.
"This is my favorite," he said softly as he leaned closer to point out a section of the canvas she hadn't thought to be anything special at all. "Right in here, every nuance in the colors... I don't know how you do it."
Oh, but he must have known. He had done it himself in the painting hidden upstairs.
"I'm guessing I need some water if I'm going to use watercolors," Edward mumbled from the doorway.
Both Carlisle and Esme turned to look back at him in heavier interest than they probably realized. Edward just stared strangely, his mouth twitching as if to contain a snigger.
Esme wanted to say something in response to the boy, but her lips were caught in a strange slur of words that never quite made it past the tip of her tongue.
Edward cautiously backed into hall, leaving them alone again.
It wouldn't take him very long to fetch water. They could be just fine until he came back.
Carlisle sighed in resignation. His eyes were sad as he looked from the window to Esme's painting.
"What is it?" she pressed gently.
"Hm? Oh, nothing. I'm fine."
She tilted her head again, but did not narrow her eyes. Esme recognized that she must be gentle with Carlisle when he acted this way. Only with the most careful coaxing would he feel secure enough to open up to her when something was bothering him. She knew this now.
She laid her paintbrush down on the table, and before she could allow herself to over-think it, she reached out and touched his arm. "Carlisle, I can see something is wrong. You don't have to hide it. You can tell me anything, remember?"
These words were his. He had used them before, to comfort her.
But both of them had yet to take the most advantage of this offer.
Carlisle looked to be considering it, now.
"I made an incorrect diagnosis today," he said lightly as his fingers raked stressfully through his blond hair. "It may have cost my patient his life."
Something in her had been expecting precisely this, but just hearing it out loud, confirmed by his tentative voice was still a little jarring. Esme gaped for a few moments while she gathered the right words to say.
She sighed. "It happens to all doctors... doesn't it?"
He winced a little.
Wrong thing to say.
His voice held a deep edge to it as he responded, "I have less tolerance for such mistakes because of... what I am, Esme."
At this, Esme's heart was slightly outraged.
"What you are is a doctor. In the hospital, that is what you are," her words poured out, firm but with fiercest care. "You have as much right to be mistaken about something as the next doctor. Being so hard on yourself just because you aren't human is wrong, Carlisle. You should know that."
These words! Wherever where they coming from? And so bold they felt as she said them. She shouldn't have dared to speak to Carlisle like this, and yet... he was receiving it with a look of wonder. Like she was the very font of wisdom in his world. It was intoxicating and slightly overwhelming. But brilliant.
She felt strong.
She had almost been ready to apologize, but then... why would she?
So instead she stared up at him, firm but gentle-eyed, warm with this new strength she had discovered deep within.
Something was telling her that Carlisle may have needed her to be this way. He needed someone to be passionate with him – in more ways than one.
"You're right," he said simply. "I should know that."
Her hand on his arm slipped a little – from the elbow, to the forearm, to the wrist.
"You're a wonderful doctor. Nothing can change that," she assured. "Even the best doctors make mistakes. It's... human to make mistakes."
She dared to say it. He may have cringed a little, but it was the only way she was sure her words had sunk in. He needed to hear it.
But she could see that this was not all that was bothering him. Tentatively, she tightened her hold on his wrist and tilted her head to the side, staring up at his eyes.
"There's more?" she guessed.
He nodded.
"Tell me?"
He sighed. "A patient of mine passed away while...giving birth to her son." He looked up at the window, eyes bright with unshed venom tears. "The boy lived. His mother is gone."
Immediately, Esme put the pieces together. Carlisle's emotional response to this particular incident would not have been any less strong for his compassion, but this was his very past coming back to haunt him.
"I was reminded..." He choked slightly on the words, losing his voice to the grips of emotion. There was nothing more heartbreaking to Esme than watching Carlisle stumble on his words. It was such a discomfiting contrast to his usual eloquence. His words would not cut off suddenly; they instead slimmed away so softly that it seemed he would continue the sentence in just a moment's time... but he never did.
With her free hand, Esme took hold of Carlisle's arm and forced his eyes to meet hers.
"Shhh," she hushed him gently, rubbing her palm over his sleeve. "I know," she finished simply, assuring him with her gaze that no more words were needed. "I know."
A distant shuffling sound in the hall that may have been Edward's footsteps melted into the background as they stared at each other, in an intense but strangely understanding way. No other words needed to be said – they would only serve to ruin this beautiful eye lock.
Her fingers finally traveled from his wrist down to his hand. She pried his fingers away from his palm to open it, reached for her paint brush, and into his hand it went.
Carlisle's fingers hesitated for a brief moment before they closed around it. As his eyes rose to meet hers they were gleaming with gratefulness.
With a forgiving smile, she nudged him to stand before her half-finished canvas.
Laying her head against his shoulder, she asked quietly, "What colors do you see in the snow?"
-}0{-
It was fortunate that they had all managed to finish their paintings of the snowy yard behind their house before it had all vanished before their very eyes.
The winter carelessly abandoned Wisconsin sometime in the middle of March. Stray blocks of ice and small piles of leftover snow still lingered on the otherwise healthy green landscape, making for a hilarious juxtaposition of the two seasons. Spring won the duel with a quick and easy hand, and for its heroic defeat, Esme could not have been more thrilled.
The crisp freeze of winter's residue lingered in the mornings, however. Before the sun would rise, snow might fall during the darker hours, but it never quite found the strength to stick around. There was frost on the ground, and the land was mostly barren. The scent of the world was changing, though. She could sense it. A floral note was fragrant behind that frost. Something full of life was burning like soft smoke from an unseen fire in the distant yonder. It called to her, and she opened the window to reply to it.
This morning it was not snowing. It was raining - the first rain of the season, and it was glorious.
Droplets plummeted from the clouds like gray juice, coating the air in moisture. It tasted like life and it sounded like sensuality. There was nothing quite like hearing, tasting, feeling, and smelling rain again.
"Can you believe you were once excited to see it snowing outside?" Carlisle asked. His voice was deep and low behind her, like the voice of an abandoned lover still reclining in a bedroom filled with shadows.
Esme's throat was tight as she managed a small chuckle. "Snow would seem like a curse now."
"I always find myself missing the rain during the winter," he murmured in the same indecently low voice.
She looked back to him curiously, but his eyes were guarded, flush with reflections of the shimmering atmosphere outside the open window. The collar on his shirt was unbuttoned again. Lately it seemed she was catching him with it like that more and more often.
"Something about the rain is very...pensive," he continued, placing his hand on the pane of the window. "There's a romance about it."
A sweet chill swept up her back. "Some would call it 'depressing.'"
He smiled wisely. "Now why would they say that?"
"The clouds are crying," she said with a simple sigh.
He looked out at the sky, his eyes amazingly sympathetic just from her teasing words.
Oh, his heart was so tender.
"Say something to cheer them up, Carlisle," she suggested warmly.
"More tears will bring more to life," he murmured at last, his tone rich with wisdom.
"Don't you think that will encourage the clouds to cry harder?" she challenged softly.
He thought, then tilted his head back with a heartfelt smile. "Perhaps... But they would weep tears of joy now, I should think."
This brought a smile of silent agreement to Esme's face. She stared up at the window, and her eyes reflected the clear, cool tears of a cloud.
Something about the steady rhythm of the rain made her feel safe and secure. The hard yet gentle sound seemed to encourage the sharing of secrets, drowning out the shame that may have accompanied such an intimate exchange.
It was with the rain's encouragement that Esme felt safe enough to ask Carlisle a more personal question.
"Do you ever miss being able to cry?"
The slickness of the raindrops taunted his eyes as he gazed through the glass, his hand coming out of his pocket to push the curtain back further.
"All of the time."
She had not been expecting the timbre of his reply to be so raggedly passionate. The dust of a piercing desire flirted with the edges of his soft voice.
"Sadness feels so dissatisfying when I am unable to produce tears," he said, staring out the window as if he were staring through the iron bars of a prison cell. "Ever since the very beginning I've felt this way." His eyes turned away from the window in thought. "I almost miss it more than sleep."
"Yes, I think it is sleep I miss the most," Esme agreed with a nod, breathless from his personal confession. "Do you know what else I miss?" she asked, further fascinated by the intrigue written on his face as she offered it. He raised his eyebrows in permission for her to continue. "Drinking water."
She worried that it would sound foolish when she said it, but the way he looked at her made her feel as if nothing she said could ever sound foolish.
"I've never really thought about that before. It's been too long for me to remember the taste of water," he whispered as he opened the window just enough to slip his hand through. Esme watched in pleasant curiosity as he then reached out to collect raindrops in his open hand. "I'm rather ashamed to admit this, but I have trouble imagining anything could have tasted more appealing than blood tastes to me now." He turned his eyes toward her timidly, as if this confession would in some way disgust her.
"I don't think that's shameful," she said quietly. Her eyes followed the somber path of the water droplets as they sparkled and slipped over his beautiful white fingers. They congregated happily in the cup of his palm, filling him fast, as if they somehow knew the hand of a generous man when they saw it.
Oblivious to her raindrop-envy, Carlisle smiled graciously and took one step closer to where she stood.
"It is what it is," he whispered with an accepting sigh, his broad shoulder blocking the faint light from the window. His shadow swallowed her whole, leaving her no way to escape.
A little bud of lust burst inside her belly as he lifted his hand, still cupping the water, up for her to see. Without thinking, she brought her hand over his curved palm and carefully dipped the tips of her fingers into the water then raised them up again, letting tiny droplets ripple on the surface.
"They look like diamonds," she whispered, an enchanted smile on her face.
Her eyes wandered up to his face to find him staring at her, his eyes like swords, digging straight into her soul. Feeling deliriously vulnerable, she suddenly wondered how the water in his hand had become twice as warm as it was before.
Carlisle's eyes lowered slowly, a nervous hint of a half-smile on his lips, as if what he was looking at was too intimate to bear.
Esme suddenly worried that her heart was entirely in control of her actions, for the next thing she knew, she was instead letting the droplets fall directly onto his fingertips, watching them slide down his fingers into the pool of water in his palm.
He smiled gently at her antics and breathed a tiny laugh, his fingers twitching as the water trailed down them. His laughter aroused a curious sensation in her stomach, rather like the skin of a peach being peeled back slowly, exposing the succulent flesh of her most secret longings. Though it was ridiculous, she worried that he could see her innermost feelings in that moment, and her fear forced her fingers to retreat from his hand.
His smile faded softly as he leaned toward the window and parted his fingers to let the water spill from his hand into the grass outside. He turned his hand over in the light for a brief time, watching the way the remaining droplets clung to his skin.
Before she realized what was happening, he had taken her wrist in a gentle, moist grip and guided her towards the open window. A tiny gasp fled her mouth as he cupped his wet palm under the back of her hand and held her still until her palm was filled with rain as his had been.
Once the water started spilling over the sides, he slowly pulled her hand back inside the house. Her skin still felt pleasantly damp where he'd held her wrist.
"Why did you do that?" she asked with a confused giggle, holding her hand stiffly so as not to spill the water.
He smiled mysteriously before guiding her toward the other side of his desk where a small, medicinal looking herb was growing in a terracotta bowl.
"It's thirsty," he said, like a child telling a secret.
Esme grinned and approached the little plant, turning her hand over to spill the life-giving water into the soil. As she bent closer to watch the water vanish, she caught the scent of the leaves – a warm, minty fragrance that was almost familiar.
"What is this plant?" she asked, fingering the thin green leaves.
"Costmary," he replied softly.
She did not recognize the name, and this only puzzled her more. "Why does it smell so familiar to me?" she wondered out loud.
He came up behind her. "When you were growing up, your farmhouse had a garden out front, did it not?"
The memory of her childhood home strained to resurface, and idly she nodded.
"I recall this scent being in your house when I first came to see you, Esme. I believe your mother used to keep it in her kitchen."
"Yes...I think she may have. Costmary, you say?" she repeated the name, trying to summon its familiarity.
He chuckled. "Yes. But in my time it was called a 'Bible leaf'."
"That's a curious name."
A small smile crossed his face as he reached over to pluck a leaf from the herb. "We called it that because we used it to mark the pages in our Bibles while studying. Whenever we became too tired to continue reading, we would crush the end of the leaf and release the scent to help us stay awake."
He demonstrated by rubbing the tiny leaf between his forefingers until its invigorating scent was freed to the air. Along with the moisture from the rain outside, it was especially rousing to the senses.
Finding this practice strangely humorous, Esme laughed. "Did you often fall asleep while reading your Bible?"
"Not as often as the other boys did, of course," he teased, tossing the leaf into the pot.
"You obviously don't need help from any old leaf to keep from falling asleep while you read now," she remarked, her eyes glinting with amusement. "So why are you growing costmary in your study?"
He briefly chewed his bottom lip before replying, "For pure reminiscence, I suppose." He tapped his fingers sheepishly against his thigh. "It's a bit silly, but I've started keeping a leaf in each of my books for old time's sake."
A warm wave of unfathomable fondness swept through her heart. "You cling to your humanity in the most peculiar ways, Carlisle."
The look on his face told her he would have been blushing furiously if he were human. "Edward has helped break many of my more foolish habits," he said hastily. "Not a year ago I used to carry a glass of water around the house with me," he said with an embarrassed chuckle.
She smiled but did not laugh. "I don't think that's foolish at all. I think it is...endearing."
The corner of his lip turned up shyly, offering a fleeting view of the dimple in his right cheek. He opened his mouth to speak but quickly decided against it, his expression delicately mortified as he ducked his head and began picking at the plant's limp little leaves. In that moment his bashfulness was more potent than the strong aroma of crushed herb in the room.
Taking pity on him, she reached out and stilled his restless fingers with a comforting touch. "Carlisle, your fingers will smell like costmary for the rest of the day," she warned him gleefully, discouraging him from further contact with the leaves.
A light gasp of a laugh fled his lips, and he looked down at their tangled fingers. Her neck suddenly felt hot as she watched his hand gently twist within her own. Their palms were pressed together, still wet with rain water, scented and sweet. She swallowed a lump in her throat and attempted to pull her hand away, but his fingers were too strong.
"Do you ever stop and wonder at how amazing our hands are?" he murmured, turning her hand over in wonder as he held it.
She looked up at his face in shock, never before more blatantly aware of how common a wonder it was. He licked his lip, that same soft, sheepish look on his face.
"When you think of all that they can do, it really is wonderful," he sighed, spreading the earthy moisture across her palm to the ends of her fingertips with his painstakingly gentle touch.
Esme closed her eyes briefly to regain her composure, thinking of precisely how many "wonderful" things they could do with their hands, specifically to each other. Her heart somehow learned how to pound again as she realized how his hands had proved particularly wonderful – saving lives, writing poetry, sculpting and carving, and crushing the innocent little leaves of herbs to release their scent.
"It is," she agreed, her voice raspy. "It is wonderful."
His fingers gave her hand one last tender squeeze before he let go of her with a sleepy smile. "That is one thing that does not change with the transformation," he murmured to himself.
A most glorious scent filled her nose as she looked up at him. It was a raw, sweet smell – a mixture of earth and rain and happiness. It made her feel giddy and hot all over.
She barely had time to wonder where it had come from before he asked her, "Would you like to take one?"
Distracted as she was by the mysterious scent, Esme blinked a few times in confusion to clear her head. "Hm?"
"A 'Bible leaf'," he said with a charming smile, pointing to the potted herb on his desk.
"I suppose I could use it while I'm reading," she joked, plucking a smaller leaf from the plant to put in her pocket. "I wouldn't want to fall asleep."
Another deep breath brought the welcome fragrance back into her lungs. It was heavier now, sweeter than before. It was most definitely not the plant, she decided. It was too strong, too exotic to be that. She felt a tickle in her throat and a pleasant thump in her heart.
"You do miss it, though, don't you?" Carlisle asked her.
Still distracted, Esme reluctantly repeated the question. "Miss what?"
"Falling asleep," he whispered, his voice terribly soft.
Oh, how many times had she wished to fall asleep? Too many.
"I think I would miss it more if I could remember what it felt like," she murmured, watching as he turned his head to look out the rainy window. He lifted one bent arm to rest his elbow against the glass, supporting his head against his fist. A lock of fair blond hair tumbled out of place on his forehead as he shook his head slowly in wonder.
"I do long for it sometimes – to give into sleep, to surrender to a dream," he confessed, his words as smooth as they were deep, and somehow secretive. "To escape the world in bliss for those few precious hours before the sun would rise again."
His voice burned a hole straight through her soul as she listened to it. It was the way his eyes stared so honestly out through the rain, the way he trusted her so fully to speak in such intimate tones, the way the raindrops' reflections streamed down his face like real tears while he spoke.
"Well, when you put it that way..." she considered breathlessly, her body swaying slightly where she stood.
Everything was suddenly too intimate for her heart to handle. Being so close to Carlisle in the place he called his haven while the rain beat down around them...
"It is appealing, isn't it?" he whispered knowingly.
Squeezing her eyes shut to try and brace herself from the desire and nerves, she answered in a small, strained voice. "We shouldn't wish for what we cannot have."
"That is true," he said with a sigh. He seemed unaware of her distress, his gaze preoccupied with the scene outside. "But do you believe it is possible, that sometimes the things we wish for are already in our grasp?"
It was then that he turned to her, his face full of unfamiliar confidence, his eyes smoldering like the embers of a lavish fire. His arm dropped to his side as he stood up proud and straight before her, his body becoming tense with a tender attention. Everything in his demeanor had changed drastically in the instant it took him to finish the sentence. She had no idea what had caused it. Perhaps it had something to do with the intoxicating scent that taken over his study.
His lips opened slightly as he stared at her, expecting a response.
Barely able to manage more than a whisper, Esme replied mutely, "Yes, sometimes I do wonder..."
He stepped forward. "Esme…"
The air shifted around her, becoming tighter, warmer.
Was this it? Was this the moment?
She could see something so different, so new shining in his eyes. Yet now that she was seeing it, it was not something she wanted to see. It was like a magical spell gone horribly wrong.
His chest lifted with each breath as he stood across from her, so close that their hands were only inches apart where they hung helplessly at their sides.
The scent was so strong by now, she felt about to faint from the strength of it. She could not tell if it was only the frightening fragrance or his nearness alone that was injecting her with such wanton fear.
Was it only him? Was that all that was driving her mad inside?
No, it could not have been just him, she decided. Then a new spark of fear filled her chest.
Had he accidentally left a vial of blood open from one of their tests? Was there fresh blood spilling at this very moment inside that cabinet just behind his desk?
It was the only way she could explain the scent. It was too consuming to be anything other than blood. Now she was certain of it.
A soft moan escaped her lips, a fervently telltale sound she instantly regretted making. All at once the fire in Carlisle's eyes changed from calm to raging.
But it was not from arousal.
And nor was the sound she uttered.
There was blood in the air. She could feel it as much as she could smell it. She could even hear it – beating, pulsing, racing.
This was not the blood in any vial. This was not even the blood of any animal.
This was the blood of a living, breathing human. And it was coming closer by the instant.
So, will Esme succeed in her restraint with blood this time? We will find out in the next chapter!
You can find this chapter from Carlisle's POV in Behind Stained Glass, "Chapter 30: Hot-Blooded Surrender"
