Chapter 19

Curled on the seat beneath the open, airy window, Bella stared, transfixed, at the bright orb of the moon.

The tea on the sill had grown cold. The fire in the grate, so blisteringly hot earlier in the day, had died down to a tolerable glow of smouldering coals, a river of rippling ebony and orange beneath a scattering of sand and cinders. The room was dark— she could barely see the floor, though the sky outside was glowing— and she sighed, resting her chin on her knees as she let her gaze roam over the yard that was so drastically changed.

Tents had been erected in the soft grass near the jungle trees. Green and grey canvas held up by poles of palm and bamboo remained motionless and still in the late night breeze. None of their occupants moved. Besides the shifting heads of the two men at the head of the path— guards, standing sentry until their shift was done— there was nothing conscious in the yard beyond her kitchen perch. In the house, only Bella was awake, her unanticipated vigil held strong by a busy and troubled conscience.

She had been going over it all in her head since the lights had gone out. She had been thinking about it, her lip between her teeth, when Esme had come out to say goodnight, and Carlisle, returning from his final round through the yard, had pressed his palm to her cheek. It had been eating at her when she'd smiled at them, bidding them good night and sweet dreams, and she'd been turning it over and over in her mind when she'd brushed away the healer's concern and ignored his advice to rest, and to sleep.

The King had asked after her, and like a coward, she'd been false. He'd spoken kind words of comfort to her, and like an idiot, she'd dismissed him. He'd asked her for help, and she'd seen in his eyes how much it had cost him, but like a complete and utter fool, Bella had done nothing but panic, babble, and whinge.

How anyone on this godforsaken Island could have ever thought her a divine Goddess, she would never know.

It had been a simple question. She had not been expecting it, that was true, but it had not been an overly taxing query. She had turned it over and over in her solitude, going over exactly what he had said, and exactly how she had responded, and each time, she felt a shiver of embarrassment ripple up her spine to make her hair stand on end.

"I don't know," she'd said. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know."

But the truth was, she did know.

Bella had never been called brave. From the time she was very small, Bella had earned many descriptors, but none of them had ever spoken of courage, or grace. Constancy had been her friend— like her Uncle Charlie, Bella had always found that she worked best when she knew what to expect. Expect the unexpected had never been her motto. Her mother had laughed at her when they had worked in the garden and Bella had screeched at the sight of a harmless, wiggling earthworm. When a common garter snake had found its way into her Uncle's basement, Bella had fled the house, leaving a scrawled, hasty note for Charlie to find taped to the front door. When she had been forced to make speeches at school, she could not call her day complete until she had thrown up at least once in the farthest stall of the girl's washroom. Cautious, some called her. Tempered. Steady. Careful…

But courageous? Never that. Bravery had never been her strength, and as she sat, brooding in the wee hours of the morning, that very fact ate away at the remnants of her broken, tattered heart.

In the mug of tea, Bella watched the loose leaves swirl in the shallow eddies stirred up by the nighttime breeze. She had made the cup hours ago— long before the hearthfire had died down, and before the last of King Edward's soldiers had made their way to bed. Bella had watched them surreptitiously from the window— had watched them strip out of their red and yellow armour, lay down their great, shining blades, and slip, tired and sore, into their tents to bunker down for a rough night's sleep. She had felt for them— a long day of riding and a long night of planning, and they had nowhere better to rest than a rough bed of woolen covers, cushioned only by Carlisle's well-kept grass. Her own back ached in sympathy, though she had said little and done nothing as she'd watched them prepare.

Courage, she thought again. How can I be brave when I'm so horribly and terribly afraid?

Her Uncle Charlie was brave. A police officer, even one in a town as small as Forks, had no choice. Every day that he woke, and rose, and dressed for duty, Bella saw the courage in his step, the calm on his face. Her mother had been brave— raising a child on her own and facing her demons all the while. Her Mama had always been an odd duck, but even Bella had seen, young though she was, the determination in her bright, sparkling eyes each time she laid eyes on her girl.

But she thought, as she stared out into the quiet night, that if there was ever a time to find some of that fearlessness for herself, that time must be now.

The King's plea ran a loop through her brain, a record on repeat that refused to quit.

Tell me what you would do… tell me how to calm the ghosts.

Bella did not believe in ghosts.

Death, as is sometimes the case, was not a mystery to Bella any more than the sun, or the sky, or the stars. She had felt its sting— felt the cold, empty hole that was left behind when someone she loved was torn away— but no matter how it burned or how the edges ached, she knew the truth of it. A death was as as natural and common as a birth, and just as fraught with change and emotion. She had never allowed that emotion to drive her— had never let her heart gain traction over her head— though as with many of her prior beliefs and customs, this, too, seemed to be breaking down.

She had seen singular death. She'd seen one body, beloved and mourned, in a casket beneath pink lights and scented flowers. She'd seen the devastation of a gunshot— how a bullet could tear through a face and leave it almost unrecognizable, though nothing had been able to completely erase the essence that had been her mother. Her laughing mother. Her singing mother. Her dancing, loving, and happy mother…

Bella bit her lip, refusing to let the memory dig yet another claw into her heart. She'd wept more than enough for one day.

"Sleep," said a voice in the darkness, and Bella, suddenly jolted, snapped up. The voice was distant— not near enough to see her lurking, at any rate— though the tenor was familiar and warm. The surprise of it shook her so deeply that she squinted out into the blackness.

There was another figure by the trailhead now. The sentries had been joined by a third— a tall, lanky figure that Bella recognized even at this distance, as she would have even if the guards hadn't bowed low over the man's outstretched hands. As she watched, her eyes glued on the trio, she saw the man wave them off as he shook his head, the reddish tints in his hair catching the merest glimmer of moonlight.

"...rest," Bella heard the voice say. The crickets never seemed louder than they did now. "I am well rested, and the night is calm."

"...orders." The word wafted to her on a breeze. One of the soldiers had spoken. "...not… angry."

"Leave him to me." King Edward spoke louder than the other two. "Do as I say. Rest, and recuperate. We've got another long day tomorrow."

"Yes, sire." The collective voice replied. Bella watched the two men shuffling their feet. The King said nothing more— in fact, he turned away from them to stare down the empty jungle path where the darkness was as thick as fog. She knew he could see nothing. Beyond the bend in the path that would bring them to the water, he could see no more from his vantage point than she could from hers, though that did not deter his steadfast, careful watching.

The two soldiers disappeared into a tent at the far end of the yard.

Bella bit her lip.

The King sat, quiet and still, on a large, round stone just beyond Esme's carved, wooden gate. The wagons sat behind him. Still wrapped in their oiled, white sheets, there was no movement, not even a breezy flutter, from their occupants. There were more dead than living in the jungle tonight, and though this thought had occurred to Bella more than once over the course of the evening, she still could not bare to look at them, covered or not.

She shuddered, heaving a sigh.

The night was quiet once again. The frogs, croaking in the garden undergrowth, lulled Bella into a daze as she gazed out, silent and still, from her windowsill perch. She watched him, her attention on him as direct and focused as his on the trail, and she saw, though he didn't know it, how his still and silent reverie grew serious.

He sat as still as a statue. Only his hair, which blew unencumbered in the breeze, and the loose hem of his tunic, fluttering gently at his waist, gave any indication of movement. He was armed— the ever-present scabbard at his waist was buckled tightly, its great, gleaming weapon sheathed and ready, though he wore no armour. No helmet, no breastplate, no greaves or mail shone under the stars. Even his breaths were invisible— no telltale rise and fall of shoulders to give him away, no deep sighs to mark him as truly there.

But Bella watched, just as still and just as silent, until she saw his spine stiffen, his head tilt back, and his hands, which had hitherto been clenched around his knees, reach back to the rock beneath him.

He stared up at the sky, his eyes closed and his lips downturned.

Bella rose from her seat.

Courage, she thought again. If there was any time in all her life for bravery and pluck, that time was now.

The floor squeaked when she walked. Silent as the night was, she had to stop herself, biting her lip and waiting, determined to go unheard. She would not disturb her hosts with needless noise at this hour— not when they had such a day ahead of them tomorrow. As it was, Bella could already feel the tiredness in her own bones, though she knew that sleep would not come.

She slipped outside as quietly as she could. The air in the yard was cooler than she'd expected— so cool, in fact, that she felt goosebumps rise on her exposed arms. It did not occur to her to grab a shawl— indeed, it had not occurred to her to even dress herself appropriately. Her nightdress was thin— thinner, even, than the linen dress she wore during the day— and when the wind rustled the trees overhead, Bella felt it go right through the thin muslin.

She padded nearer to him, her bare feet shuffling quietly in the grass, until she made it to the boulder where he sat. She stopped just behind the rock, suddenly shy.

"You should be asleep," said the King, without so much as opening an eye. Bella, startled, glanced down at her bare toes and frowned, ignoring the tickle of the verge against her sensitive soles.

"So should you," she countered finally. The King sighed. "But I couldn't manage it… not tonight."

"No," agreed Edward. "Nor I. I've been wandering in the back trees for some time, and I figured I should put myself to good use… give my men a break, if I'm to keep vigil regardless. I feel badly… all of yours and Esme's hard work gone to waste, preparing a bed for me."

Bella said nothing.

"Will you sit?" asked Edward finally, cracking an eye open to glance at her. If he was surprised, or shocked by her choice of dress, he did not say so. His gaze roved down from her hair to her toes, lingering with a frown on her bare feet, which were damp with dew.

In silent acquiescence, Bella shuffled awkwardly onto the rock beside him. The jungle seemed so close here— so near, and tall, and heavy. The darkness was almost palpable— not even the moon, which shone bright at their backs, could illuminate the forest floor, and Bella blinked, trying to dispel the sudden blooms of crimson and violet swimming across her vision. The King watched her, a curious, yet solemn expression on his face, and waited until she spoke again.

"I'm sorry about earlier," said Bella quietly— so quiet, that she was sure he almost missed it. "I had no business losing my head."

He grinned, wry and knowing.

"You've had a trying day," he said. "A very confusing and disheartening day."

Bella sighed.

"It's no excuse," she muttered. "I'm not usually so…"

He raised an eyebrow and Bella, sensing the laughter ready to bubble on his lips, fell silent with a chuckle.

"Nevermind." She shook her head. "The point is… I'm sorry."

"There's no need," said Edward. "You mustn't apologize for how you truly feel."

"You caught me off guard," she said. "I don't know what I was expecting from you, but that wasn't it."

He stared at her, a little guilty.

"I admit," he began, "I was a little… hasty." He glanced back at the wagons. "There are no guidelines for something like this."

"Carlisle said as much," Bella replied. "And I suppose he's right. Twenty six dead is no small number."

He shook his head, his lips pursed.

"The number does not shock me," he said sadly. "You wouldn't understand… couldn't understand, given your history…"

Bella frowned at him.

"We've had many more dead than this, and I expect we will have plenty more before my time is up," he intoned. "Although I've been lucky enough to escape the cruellest losses during my short reign, there have been many in my lifetime."

"Many deaths?" Bella was shocked. "From what?"

He glanced at her, his head cocked.

"Disease," he said gently. "Sickness spreads like wildfire through the Capital. And violence has become a most imminent threat."

"Disease?" Bella felt her stomach twist. "Sickness that kills?"

Again, he watched her, confusion and curiosity warring in every line of his face.

"Do you not have such things where you're from?" he asked gently.

"No, we do…" Bella was quick to clarify. "But it doesn't often… kill. Not in my land, at least…"

"Your land?" He leaned closer to watch her more clearly.

"My… country." The English made him frown, but she did not know the Maronese word. "My… home."

"I see," said Edward, though Bella could see that he didn't really.

"It's not that we don't get sick," she explained quickly, "it's that we've… evolved since then. Sure, people get a cold or a sniffle, but they very rarely die."

"How do you stop it?" he asked idly. He glanced up at the moon again, his tanned face basking in the light. In comparison to him Bella was a fair, brilliant white. She almost glowed in the steady, silver radiance.

"We've got… treatments," she said. "Medicines, like Carlisle has."

Edward's eyes travelled to Esme's garden, the place where, Bella knew, many of Carlisle's healing plants grew. She could almost see him running over the names and functions of each in that mysterious mind of his, before he settled on her again with a sigh.

"Please don't misunderstand me when I say that plants can only do so much," he said gently. "Carlisle does his best— I'd never suggest otherwise— but he is limited by the tools of his craft."

"We've got… different plants," Bella said. "And… chemicals."

"I do not know that word," Edward said gently.

"No," Bella agreed. Of course he wouldn't.

"But as I've said…" He glanced back at the wagons. "It isn't the number that unsettles me."

Bella, steeling herself, glanced back at the wagons as well. They were still there, just as they had been all evening, still, and silent, and unsettling. The men had done well, Bella thought, to treat them the way they had. She hadn't had the nerve to ask— not after her stomach had twisted in knots at the very thought of them— but she'd overheard the conversations between Carlisle, the soldiers, and even the King himself. She knew the care they'd taken to make the bodies suitable for transport. She'd heard Carlisle praising the Watchmen, who'd laid each individual out on the sand. She'd heard the soldiers talking— how challenging it had been to wrap each body in its own linen sheath. She'd listened as Emmett, Edward's most trusted guard, talked about the extra oil they'd brought with them to soak the shrouds— the pungent, aromatic oil that diminished the scent of decay, and kept the wild jungle scavengers at bay. The men had done their job— aside from the obvious human-shaped bundles piled neatly on those massive, strong wagons, nothing— not the sight, not the smell, or even the taste of the air around them spoke of rot or decay.

"It's them, Bella," said Edward suddenly, and she jumped, her trance broken. "It's who they are— who they were— and what all of this means for them, now that they're gone."

He didn't take his eyes off of the dead. Bella, forcing that awfully familiar, rising panic in her chest to retreat, kept her eyes fixed firmly on him.

"I know," she said. Her throat felt suddenly tight. "I know why you struggle…"

Bella did not know what she believed about life after death. In truth, she'd never given it much thought. Only when her mother had died, so suddenly and violently, did Bella even give it so much as a passing thought. She had wondered where her mother had gone— for surely, the woman she'd known and loved could not be summed up by the vessel she'd left behind— but without any solid answers for her childish, grieving heart, she'd given it up in despair.

But, she thought, such was not the way of the Maronese people. Bella did not know all of their beliefs— she suspected that she would have to live a hundred years here before she could understsand them all— but throughout her time here, she had learned some. She knew what they thought of Gods, for the people of this land thought she was one. She knew that there were Gods for crops, and rain, and protection, and war…

And so, she suspected, there would be a God of Death, whose job it was to care for those souls that had departed the world, and see to their eternal lives beyond the veil.

"Ceremony matters," said Edward gently. "It always has. From the time I was a very small boy, my father taught it to me. Know its value, he'd say. Know the value of tradition, and the value of compassion. And there is no ceremony— no tradition— that needs more compassion and care than the Rites of Passage."

Bella paid close attention, meeting his gaze when he turned to look at her.

"When our people die," he continued, "it is not the end of life." He spoke with such sincerity that even Bella— logical, rational, Earthly Bella— felt compelled to at least listen. "It is not the end for the soul, even if it is the end for the body. We've always believed that something lives on— something greater than the flesh— and that bit of us, whether it's the ghost, or the soul, or the spirit, must be put to rest."

"How?" Bella asked softly. It was the same question he'd asked her earlier in the evening.

"The Rites," said Edward again. "The words, and the deeds, and the memory."

"Memory?"

"We remember our dead," Edward explained. "Always. Their names are carved in stone— on cave walls, on stone tablets, even on the face of the mountains themselves— and we do not forget. Names upon names, all etched, all preserved."

Like a tombstone, Bella thought.

"We put them to rest," Edward continued. "After the Observation…"

Bella could not help but interrupt.

"Observation?"

"For a day, sometimes more," Edward said. "A… visitation, if you will."

A wake.

"Most of the time, it is for family," he said. "If the departed had many friends and loved ones, they might add another day for respects to be paid."

"I understand."

"And then, the Cleansing."

Bella frowned, wondering if she'd misheard. Edward missed nothing, and clarified before she could ask.

"In the days of old— long before the days of even my grandfather's grandfather— the Maronese buried their dead. I don't know how it is done in your world, but in mine, they dug holes, deep into the earth, and they returned the vessel from whence it came."

"It's the same where I'm from…"

"But as I mentioned before, disease is a most unwelcome visitor. Death breeds pestilence, and pestilence breeds sickness, you see. The King of the time— my own ancestor— was the first to Cleanse."

That word, again, made Bella's lips purse.

"Fire," explained Edward. "Glorious and dangerous, it is the cleansing force that helped rid our people of the threat of disease from the dead."

"We call it cremation," Bella said softly. "When you burn them."

"I'm glad you understand," said Edward. "I would ask you again, what I asked before, if I thought I might get a different response."

Flushed red with shame, Bella nodded her head.

"You will," she promised. "I'm sorry for my…"

"Hush," admonished Edward. "You've nothing to be sorry for." She opened her lips for the merest second, ready to rebut and argue, but fell silent when she met his soft, understanding gaze.

They stared at each other for a long minute. Bella could see the gears turning in his head, the way his eyes flickered over her face, searching for signs of the nervous upset he'd unwittingly caused earlier in the evening. Bella still dreaded the question— she knew what he would ask and she knew how she would respond, though she felt woefully unqualified to give that response.

He spoke softly in the hush.

"What do you think I should do?" he asked, and Bella, feeling her resolve crumbling, gave a quiet, shaky answer.

"Everything you've said sounds exactly as it should be," she said quietly. "I can't speak for all of these people, you understand… I don't know them, or their Gods, or their holy books…"

"None of us do," said Edward quickly.

"It doesn't feel right," she admitted, "to make these kinds of choices for them."

"No," he agreed.

"It should be their families," she went on. "Their loved ones, or their friends… they all have someone, and those are the only people with the right to choose."

"But they are not here," Edward reminded her quietly. "If they were here, they would take them home, and put them to rest with those who have gone before them. They would give them to the sky before they gave them to the earth, and they would weep tears of grief and joy as they watched the smoke ascend. That is our way. That is how we let go, and how we put the souls at ease."

"Those souls are at ease," Bella said gently. The King's head snapped around to watch her. "I know you think they're not…"

"I know they're not," he murmured. Bella could hear his agitation. "How could they be?"

"They're not suffering," said Bella quietly. "That much I do know. Wherever they are— whether they're sleeping, or living a whole new life in a world away from this— they're not suffering. Not anymore."

"You cannot know," said Edward. "There is no way to tell."

He was staring at the wagons again.

"We have many customs," said Bella quickly, "from many different faiths."

"Faiths," repeated Edward, the word thick and foreign on his tongue. "What is… faiths?"

"Beliefs," she explained. "Gods. Books. A lifestyle."

He listened, rapt.

"Some are buried, and some are burned, like yours," she went on. "When they are burned, some put the ashes in the ground, and some keep them above, in homes or other special places. Some are preserved before they're buried, to stave off the decay and rot, and some, though not many, are preserved in other ways."

"Preserved," mused Edward. "Preserved for what?"

"Exactly my point," said Bella. "I don't know."

He frowned, thinking.

"Each person— each family— has their own customs and practices," she finished. "I cannot speak for everyone that's gone. I don't know their beliefs, and I don't know their wishes…"

But she did, she thought, know basic human decency.

"But I think you should do for them as you'd do for anyone else. If it had been any other stranger, without kith or kin to speak for them, what would you do for them if they washed up on your beaches?"

The King blew out a long, quiet breath. Glancing up at the sky, his bright, green eyes roving over the multitude of bright, white stars, he seemed to ponder for a moment, his resolve growing stronger the longer he stared. Bella saw the set of his jaw, watched as some solution came over him like a tidal wave, before he sat up straight, stretching his back, and nodded.

"Thank you," he said gently. "I know it's not an easy question…"

"No, but the answer is simple," she replied, "difficult though the problem may be."

"We have a place," said Edward quietly. "It's not far from the Southern Watchtower."

Bella cocked her head.

"The people call it Terosankta," said Edward. "It means sacred place. It is where we…"

Bella waited.

"It is where the Cleansing takes place," he finished delicately. "There, the smoke will rise above the trees and the ashes can be given back to the world, either by sea or by land. It is a beautiful spot, really, on the edge of the Bay of Tears, opposite the cliffs that overlook the Western half of the island. If you go at dawn, the cliffs turn red with the rising sun."

"It sounds lovely," said Bella. A perfect place for a funeral, she thought. "Is that where we'll take them?"

"If you're amenable, I think we will," he said. "It is a respectable place— a holy place— and one that is nearest to the Gods that they may or may not have loved."

And so, their decision made, Bella and Edward sat, side by side on the large, grey stone, each as silent as the other while they watched the flickering stars. Bella felt a yawn bubbling up— not a dainty, pretty yawn, but a full-mouthed, squeaking monstrosity that made her blush to the roots of her hair as she turned away to hide it. But the King was observant— he didn't miss the sight, and he sure didn't miss the sound, chuckling to himself as he caught it as well, letting out one of his own.

"It seems the night is catching up," said Edward. "Are you tired, Bella?"

"No." The lie was feeble. "I just want to sit out here a while longer."

"You're more than welcome," Edward said softly, "but aren't you cold?"

"No," she lied again. She could feel the hard coldness of the stone seeping through her nightdress. She suppressed a shiver that threatened to roll down her spine.

"You're a terrible liar, you know that?" Edward asked idly, and Bella, indignant, turned to face him. He was grinning at her again, amused to have caught her out, and she deflated at once, shaking her head.

"I don't want to go to sleep," she admitted quietly. "I don't like the dreams, and the house feels too cramped tonight."

"We have rather descended like an unwelcome caravan," Edward sighed, glancing back at the multitude of tents. "Carlisle and Esme are very gracious hosts… and even greater still for allowing our… cargo to join us."

"They're good people," said Bella easily, always ready to praise the healer and his wife. The way they had taken her in, so selfless and sure, would always earn Bella's thanks. She owed them more than she dared to consider.

"The best," agreed Edward. "Esme and my mother were of the same mould."

"Were they?" Aside from the brief stories she'd heard about the late King and Queen's demise, Bella did not know much about Edward's mother or father.

"Kind, gentle, spirited, generous…" Edward spoke fondly, and Bella could see the love he held for both of them. "The best kinds of women, through and through."

"I agree," said Bella. "She's done so much for me."

"It is her way," said Edward simply. "You became very important to her, during your days of confinement."

"Did I?" Bella blinked up at him. "I don't remember."

"No, you wouldn't," said Edward easily. "You were hardly conscious for any of it. But Esme took to you like a bee to nectar from the minute you set foot in that house. I'll never forget the way she and Uncle fought when I came to take you to the Castle…"

"Fought?" Bella shook her head. She could not imagine Carlisle or Esme ever growing heated. "Why would they fight?"

"Uncle was worried," said Edward softly. "Esme can be… too generous."

Bella nodded.

"You were cared for beyond all reasonable expectation," Edward said, delicate and kind. "She bathed you, changed your dressings, brushed your hair, sang to you…"

Her cheeks pinkened.

"But all the while, she became more and more out of sorts," continued Edward. "She didn't eat as she should. Didn't sleep properly either. She became pale, and thin, and Carlisle worried that she would lose her strength, and so he asked me— as his nephew, not his King— if I would take you with me to the castle so that Esme might realize that there were others who could see to your needs as well as she."

Bella did not know what to say. Esme had been a wonderful companion these past weeks since her waking, but never— not once in a million years— would she have thought that Esme felt so strongly for her.

"Why?" Bella asked in bewilderment. "Why was she so concerned?"

"It is her way." Edward shrugged again. "She always has been… she and Carlisle were never able to bring a living child into the world…"

Unable to help herself, Bella glanced back at the garden. Esme had told her about the roses— how each bush, full and lush, had been planted on a tiny grave before the garden had grown so high.

"No children, but she is a mother at heart," finished Edward. "She's just that kind of person."

"Was your mother the same?" asked Bella quietly. Edward smiled.

"She was," he said. "The best mother any boy could want, even if she did scold us something terrible."

"Were you so awful?" she teased. "What could your mother have possibly scolded you for?"

"Oh, don't make me answer those questions just yet," chuckled Edward. Bella was pleased to see the genuine joy he exuded, even though she knew the subject must be raw and painful. "I'd like us to be friends, and I'm sure you'd want nothing to do with me if you heard even half of the mischief my younger self pursued."

Her interest piqued, Bella began to laugh.

"Someday," she promised. "Someday I'll get it out of you."

"I don't doubt it." He shook his head. Bringing one knee up to his chest, he rested his chin on top of it and gazed idly up at the glowing face of the moon. Bella, stretching her stiff back, laid herself down on the rock with her hands beneath her head, staring up at the great, glittering band of the Milky Way. She had never seen stars like this— so numerous and bright, without the harsh glow of city lights to mar the view.

Edward copied her, and soon they lay side by side, their elbows brushing in the dark.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" asked Edward after a long moment of quiet meditation. "The sky, I mean."

"I love the stars," Bella said softly. She always had. Renee had taught her the constellations back when she was just a girl, and Bella had never missed an opportunity to go outside and trace pictures in the sky.

"Someday, I'll tell you all the legends," said Edward indulgently. "Someday, when we've got more time and we're well-rested and fed. I'll tell you about Tagiĝo, whose great, bright eye brings the dawn each morning." He pointed at a star in the constellation of Orion that Bella could identify as Rigel. "And of Stelina, whose tears of joy pepper the night when the sun slips away. Florino is there too, with her bouquet of lilac and myrtle," He gestured to a cluster of stars, so close together they seemed but a blur of whitish blue, "and Verina, who is the keeper of memory, and the patron of truth."

He pointed to Cassiopeia on her regal, celestial seat.

"I'd like that," said Bella quietly, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Edward's head turn to look at her. He stared for a long moment— his eyes fixed on her face, her arms beneath her head, until he seemed to realize what he was doing, and looked away with a short cough.

When the wind picked up again, Bella shivered, tucking her toes beneath the hem of her skirt.

"You're cold," Edward said suddenly, sitting up to survey her properly. "And no wonder…"

His thumb, resting on the rock, moved to touch the edge of her nightdress, though he stopped himself before he could. He frowned at the thinness of it— she knew he could see the darkness of the stone through the double layer of her skirt.

"Here." Next to his satchel, which rested on the ground, Edward pulled up a long, thick riding cloak. He offered it freely, his hands winding it around her back and shoulders, until she felt its quick warmth snuff out any lingering chill from the stone. It smelled like straw, as if it had been hanging in a loft, and Bella brought the furry edge to her nose.

"Thank you," said Bella, her words muffled by the hem. Edward tied the leather straps around her shoulders.

"It should keep you warm enough," said Edward, "if you don't want to go inside."

"I don't."

He bit his lip.

"Are you tired?" he asked. "You will not sleep inside, I know, but are you tired?"

She could not stifle her yawn this time, and there was no hiding it, either.

"Lay back," he said softly. "If you won't go to your bed, then take your rest here. I promise you, you'll be quite safe."

"Aren't you tired?" asked Bella, not liking the idea of abandoning him to his post, alone. "You've had a longer day than me…"

"A guard must never sleep on the job," he laughed, "and in case you've forgotten, I've taken over that duty until dawn." There was still no hint of light in the east. "But you've made no such vow."

"No, but…"

"Rest," said Edward. "Carlisle will be cross enough with me as it is."

"Why?"

"You're still healing from those frightening wounds," said Edward quietly, "you've had a long day, and you've had a shock. All three very good reasons for you to take your leave."

"I'd be pretty poor company, if I sleep on the job…"

"Your company has been most welcome." Through the cloak, between the blades of her shoulders, Bella felt his hand, gently urging her down to the flat, hard stone beneath. She didn't fight him. The fur cuff around her neck was drawn up high enough to be a pillow, and as she curled her feet beneath the cloak as well— she was short enough to make it work— she felt exhaustion rolling over her in waves.

"Watch the stars as you go," said Edward softly. The sky twinkled and blinked. "Watch them well, and if you're lucky, you'll see one Stelina's teardrops fall."

And just as he spoke the words, high above the trees, Bella saw the glowing, fiery tail of a golden shooting star.

A/N: A shorter, but sweeter consolation prize for your everlasting patience. Thank you again for sticking with me. I hope to get more chapters out soon.