With most books, Bella flipped and skimmed, leafing backwards and forwards through a text as she wished, notions of specified order or plot be damned. She had not done so with Carlisle's book, instead carefully locating a section in the index or table of contents and then cautiously reading it. But when her idle curiosity made her turn to the page titled, '"Incidentals,"' the illustration made her shut the book with a decisive snap.
She'd learned enough of the Volturi from living near them to determine that she didn't need to know of their entire history. At least she hoped their history was actually history, and not present practise.
But the image before her, as with all of Carlisle's careful illustrations, had been unmistakable in what it represented. She had no cause to doubt the connection she made between it and the Volturi. The curved wood of a partially concealed cylinder was expertly drawn, this placed inside a shuttered but unlocked window. The facing page featured an illustration of a popular tourist attraction she'd passed in her travels through the city, its facade now pocked with age but still recognizable from Carlisle's drawing. It seemed that Volterra had not always been so safe for its resident humans. At least, not for its youngest and unwanted ones. She supposed that birth control and better medical treatment had made for poorer hunting amongst the city's occupants.
From where did the Volturi pluck their meals these days? While she tried not to think of it, her mind wandered in the relatively formless days. She'd only seen the doomed crowds arrive twice, and her interest was nowhere near enough to motivate her to do any research on that grisly front. Still, she'd analyzed the clothing she'd recalled seeing, attempting to pin something to a geographic location. There were no patterns that she could see.
Edward had told her time and time again that his kind were monsters, but she'd seen only his goodness and that of his family. That willful blindness—for that was what it had been—was gone now. She no longer doubted Edward's claims.
And like a pigeon's habitual and near-monotonous call, her song was the same, but now it was silent: I'm so sorry, Edward.
If she was truthful with herself, she had not read all of Carlisle's words because it was too painful to hear his voice in her mind as it lifted the words from each printed page.
She glanced at her new computer. Another distraction from the narrowing tunnel of time and choices remaining. She had been in Volterra for three months, and so far had not found the slightest possibility of escape for either Edward or herself.
And Demetri . . . appeared undeterred.
Three months ago it had been easy to imagine his interest would diminish in the face of her response to him. How vastly she'd underestimated his determination.
And how much longer before they changed her? Or disposed of her? Until she was like them—red-eyed and draining children.
Her stomach turned, the high-pitched voices playing over in her head, chocolate bar wrappers crinkling.
Would she be able to resist? Could she live with herself if she didn't? Would she care if she didn't?
She thought of the Volturi's red eyes and then of the Cullen's golden ones. Then she thought of the brothers who comprised the Lower Order and their pale pink eyes. On what did they survive? Carlisle's book had not said. Picking it up, she threw her manifold anxieties into loud steps towards the library, hurrying down the first stone steps, over the carpeted pathway to the book of records.
"Marcus?" she whispered.
No one came. It wasn't the first time she'd gone unanswered, but it was rare.
Gently, she set Carlisle's book down on the small returns shelf.
Soft steps announced a sudden and quiet presence. "My lady?" Erastus said. "Marcus is attending his master. How may I assist you?"
"I . . ." she closed her mouth, suddenly uncertain of what to say. If Carlisle hadn't written it down, perhaps it was secret? Or taboo?
"Are you well?" Erastus sounded anxious. Given the way she knew Demetri had tested him, she wasn't surprised.
"I'm well, thank you. I had a question, though, about the Lower Order. I'm not sure if I'll offend or trouble you in asking."
"Your questions will not offend me." He sounded very certain of this.
"Okay," she said. "Well, it's just . . . your eyes. They're not red, and they're not gold. I wondered about their colour." She hoped her question was both specific and vague enough at the same time. She felt like a chicken for not asking her question outright.
There was a placid sort of comprehension on Erastus's face. "We touch living humans on pain of death or worse. We only touch the dead."
Her suspicion was confirmed.
"Does this answer your question, my lady?"
Bella nodded, but there was more she wanted to know. "And how, when you're new to this life, do you keep this rule?"
All comfort fled Erastus's face. He shifted his weight between his feet.
"I'm sorry. I've asked too much."
"No, you have given no offence. It is merely . . . difficult to recall. I am yet young. It was not so long ago, and my novitiate was long."
Not just dressed like monks, but with their language, too. A novitiate. She did not imagine the Volturi made anything pleasant, one's beginnings included.
"It is simple. We are restrained and exposed to that which we desire, then taught not to desire it."
Restrained and exposed. Denied food but shown it. Taught not to desire it. Torture? Likely.
"I see."
And that would be what it would take to not be a monster. Monstrous treatment or monstrous restraint, neither of which she could be sure of. No, the only thing she could be sure of was becoming a monster.
"Thank you," she said.
After a moment, Erastus spoke again. "Is there anything else you require?"
Her fingers moved slowly over the leather of Carlisle's book. She shook her head, watching him walk away. "What will I do?" she whispered to the book, wishing its author could counsel her in navigating the few choices remaining to her.
Author's postscript for 2020-08-07: If you're interested in the topic about which Bella reads in Carlisle's book, I suggest reading up about Foundling Wheels. Fascinating stuff.
As always, my thanks to chayasara, in particular this week for slapping away any disembodied actions that I seem so eager to write into my stories - mwah!
- Erin
DISCLAIMER: S. Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement intended.