A/N: Warning: some foul language and violence in this chapter.

Chapter 26

"Stop where you are!" The voice behind her, low with fury, growled roughly into the trees. "Stop where you are or I'll kill her where we stand!"

In that early, grey dawn, the jungle stood still. Terror pierced her like a knife and Bella stood, knees quaking and heart throbbing like a hammer on a nail, pounding a punishing drumbeat in her ears. The sound of it was deafening— Bella wondered for a brief, terrible moment if the man could hear it too, and she thought it was mocking him with its pulsing rhythm that roared with life. She was not dead, though this man might wish it otherwise, and the harder her heart pounded in her chest, the louder it grew in the overwhelming hush.

"You'd not have the courage," Rosalie bit out. Bella, frozen against the fierce grip on her neck and hair, felt her spine pop when he drew her head back further. Her breath came in short, sharp pants and her legs, trembling and weak, felt like they might give way.

"Wouldn't I?" the man snarled. He pressed the knife in harder and she felt its rough, thin edge pierce the skin. A line of blood ran down her collarbone, dripping onto her tunic, and the sting of it made her eyes water.

The man shook her, making her teeth rattle.

"Take another step!" he yelled, wild and unhinged. "Take another step, you little cunt, and just see what I do!"

Rosalie's eyes blazed with a silent, cold fury. She did not look at Bella— indeed, she did not even spare her a passing glance— but she remained where she stood, twenty feet away, her knees bent and ready to spring. She held the rusted, bloody knife aloft in her fist, and even though Bella's vision swam with sparkling tears, she could see that her companion, her friend, did not tremble, her face full of passionate vitriol.

"Bruno!" bellowed the man, and Bella heard the other assailant's crashing footsteps from the darkness. Rosalie glanced away from the man holding her only when the great, hulking figure emerged from the trees, his cheeks flushed red, his teeth bared in displeasure. He stared at the scene before him, taking it in with a relishing grin, and clucked amusedly when he saw Rose's fingers twitch on the knife.

"Got her, eh, boss?" he chuckled, glaring so fiercely at Rosalie that Bella felt her knees give way. Another bolt of fear shot through her like an arrow when the man's grip redoubled, and her scalp screamed in protest when he yanked her head to his shoulder, hissing.

"Stand up, you fool!" he snapped at her. Bella felt the knife sink deeper, and she forced her feet to hold steady in the dirt. "Stand up or I'll gut you right here!"

Those words made Bella struggle against him again, adrenaline breaking through her bone-rattling fear. She felt the warmth of tears on her cheeks that she could not stop, and the man let out an annoyed rumble before he turned back to Rosalie.

"Put the blade down, girl," he ordered sharply.

Rosalie held her ground.

"Put it down!" he screeched. The noise made Bella's ears ring. "Put it down, or…"

"Or what?" Rosalie growled, low and hateful. "Or what, you brute?"

Bella screamed when the knife cut deeper still, the blood increasing on her neck and chest. She saw Rosalie's eyes widen in terrible shock before her resolve began to waver, and she lowered the knife to her side.

The pressure on her neck let up slightly.

"Put it down," said the man again. Bella could hear the savage glee, the joy of triumph, in his reedy voice. "Put it down and kick it to Bruno."

The larger man sneered at her. Rosalie wavered, her face falling.

"Now!" Both Rosalie and Bella jumped. "Now, or I'll do it!"

As if the threat of it was too much to resist, Bella felt the edge of the blade ease on her throat. Her relief, sharp and cold, was brief as she felt, with a renewed fear, the flat edge of the blade pressed to the wound. The blood slowed— indeed, Bella could no longer feel its trickle on her neck— but when Rosalie did not relinquish her weapon as demanded, she felt the hard, immovable steel begin to press harder and harder on her throat.

Her eyes began to water and she couldn't swallow, choking when the knife pressed her windpipe.

"Do it," said the man lowly, pressing the knife ever harder. Bella began to squirm again, but he held her fast. "Put that blade down."

Her airway closed entirely and Bella gasped, her face reddening as her vision began to darken. Her heart, which still throbbed painfully in her breast, rose to a crescendo, and she heard a dark, deep roar in her ears before her vision went black, and she felt the world falling away.

She could not be sure what happened next.

She felt her knees go limp. She felt the hand, clutching her hair, yank her, hard, and a few pieces of her long, dark hair were pulled free, tangled in the man's grimy fingers. She heard a shout, a scream, a piercing yell of pain, and the knife was ripped away from her throat as she fell, senseless, to the dirt of the jungle floor.

She'd forgotten how to breathe, and it took her several long moments to draw her first, searing gasp, her chest alight with flames as it expanded to take in that much-needed oxygen. Pain bloomed like a flower in her breast as she took another, hacking breath, spreading all the way to her fingers and toes before she rolled over, choking and coughing.

Her vision returned last and when she blinked away the blackness, she saw nothing but the green jungle floor, and the dirt and blood crusting her torn, ragged fingernails.

Before she could so much as move, Bella felt a pair of rough, insistent hands on her arms, and she was flipped onto her back with a groan of agony. Her eyes flitted shut of their own accord, and when she felt fingers on her face, she brought her hands up sloppily to slap them away.

"Please don't be dead…" said Rosalie, breathless. "Open your eyes, Bella…"

With every ounce of willpower she possessed, Bella forced her eyes open and stared, stupid, at the pale, frightened face.

"Rose…"

Rosalie, taking her by the arms again, hauled her upright and the world began to spin. She coughed again, doubled over in the dirt, and fought to catch her breath, the burgeoning headache thrumming in her skull making her dizzy and sick.

"Thank the Gods," Rosalie breathed, her mouth very close to Bella's ear. It took her a moment to realize that Rosalie was hugging her, and Bella, astonished, brought up a weak arm to thump her on the back. "Thank the Gods, Bella… I thought you were killed."

"Not quite," she choked, her voice rough and low. "Not quite yet, anyhow…"

Rosalie laughed, and Bella heard a wet sniffle that told of tears.

With a sudden start, Bella's head shot up, her eyes squinting into the brightening dawn behind the field.

"Finn…" she said. "Finn ran off…"

"We'll find him," said Rosalie at once. "We'll find him… He did exactly as he should have. He's safe out there, though no doubt terrified…"

Bella, squirming out of the embrace, let her eyes fall to the jungle floor again where she stared, dumbstruck, at the scene before her.

The large man— the one called Bruno— was nowhere to be seen. Bella could see the footprints in the mud where he had stood, and though she could not be sure, she thought she could make out the rough trail he'd carved upon his retreat. Two weapons were strewn haphazardly on the ground— the long, steel sword that the skinny man carried, and Rosalie's rough knife, which was covered in sticky, red blood from the tip to the hilt.

Next to it, sprawled obscenely among the leaves, lay the skinny man who'd cut her, his body writhing in an agony of pain. Bella's breath caught when she saw him, blood bubbling from his lips and from two deep, angry wounds in his chest and belly. His shirt was cut where the blade had pierced him, and the blood throbbed in time with his heart— a speedy, rhythmic pulse that stained the jungle red.

Rosalie glanced back without pity, shaking her head as if to clear it, and reached down to Bella again, taking her hands in hers.

"Can you stand?" she asked gently. "If you can, we must move. I don't know where the other one went, and it's not safe for us to linger here."

Bella allowed Rosalie to help her up. A wave of lightheadedness unsteadied her for a moment before she regained her footing, taking a careful step towards the carnage.

Bella had no words, though her eyes shone with frightened tears.

"Come away," said Rosalie, and for the first time, Bella noticed the red blood splattering her front. "Don't look if it upsets you, Bella. Come away."

The man gurgled and spluttered as Bella turned her head. Rosalie left her for a quick moment, snatching her sullied blade from the dirt by the man's side, and when she returned to guide her away, Bella fought her recoil.

"Come away," said Rosalie again, and this time, she took Bella's hand. Rosalie led them towards the treeline, where the jungle broke suddenly into a green, rolling field of high, untamed grass that tickled Bella's feet.

The sun, cresting fully behind the bank of thick, grey clouds, turned the first drops of dew to mist, and Bella, stumbling away from those infernal trees, let Rosalie guide her into the clear.

They found Finn in the shallows of a stream, shivering in a fog that was as thick as cream. Rosalie had grown pale with worry, her eyes tuned for any sign of her wayward boy, and when they'd come upon the water, so clear and clean that it made Bella's skin itch with the anticipation of a wash, the child had come tumbling out from a copse of reeds to grab his mother in relief, pressing his face into her collar.

Bella had looked away when Rosalie had begun to cry, feeling like an intrusive and unwanted observer to this powerful, maternal relief. Bella did not know how Rosalie felt— she did not know the agony of fear and failure from a mother who had lost her child, and so could not share in the subsequent relief. Instead, Bella had lowered herself to the stream, her eyes following the silver glints of fish beneath the current, and had dunked her face into the water to take deep, cool gulps. Her headache, which had not abated since their escape, lessened somewhat with this small mercy, and when she emerged, full and sated for the time being, Bella sighed, resting her head on her knees.

Rosalie, red-eyed and smiling, came up beside her with a suddenness that made Bella jump. The child was bouncing now, grinning up at Bella with impish pride, and despite herself, she grinned back at him, giving him a quick, tired wink.

His grin turned into a cracking smile when she did, and Bella felt a sudden warmth of camaraderie bloom in her heart. Perhaps Finn was getting used to her, after all…

This suspicion was confirmed when the child, with only slight encouragement from his mother, crawled gracelessly off of her lap to wrap his skinny arms around Bella's middle, resting his head on her chest. He didn't speak to her— Bella had not expected him to— but when she felt the warmth of him, so willingly pressed against her, she dropped her face and pressed a quick kiss to the crown of his head, making the child giggle with delight.

He crawled back to Rosalie once Bella's hold had loosened, and together they sat, unspeaking, shielded by the rolling, tumbling mist.

"We should wash," said Rosalie eventually, breaking the quiet when a minnow rippled at the top of the stream. They watched the tiny fish until it disappeared into the rocks, carried off by the flow. "The water is clear, and not too cold."

Bella, shivering with anticipation, did not protest. Rosalie took her boy in her arms and moved a bit downstream and Bella, ignoring her protesting muscles, went just far enough upstream that she was invisible in the fog. She watched Rose as she went, stopping when she could see nothing more than a blurred, dark shadow of a shape, huddled and crouched at the water's edge.

Bella tried not to think of the man who had held her as, bit by bit, her body was exposed. First, she slipped out of the sandals, now cracked and torn, from her blackened and bloodied feet. The blisters, which had broken open, had morphed into raw, red sores that oozed a pink, bloody liquid that stained the suede straps and wooden soles. Her trousers, which were stiff with grime, melted like ice when she dipped them in the water, sending a swell of brown murk downstream to where Rosalie was wringing out Finn's tunic. She sat almost naked in the grass, invisible to all but herself, and scrubbed and wrung the trousers as best she could before she slipped out of her filthy tunic and dipped her toe in the current.

She slid in as quickly as she could, resting her sore, ragged feet on a cold, smooth slab of rock beneath the water. The stream came up to her waist and the current was slow and easy, so she knelt down on her knees, letting the water wash over her chest and neck.

The water, which was as welcome as an oasis in a desert, made her feel weightless. Floating on a cloud, Bella let her arms extend out, hovering somewhere between the ground and the shore, bobbing leisurely in the current. Her feet, which throbbed and ached with each step she took, thanked her greatly for the reprieve, and though the water stung when it touched the wounds, she began to feel an immense relief that came with the cold. Dirt loosened and lifted from cracks and crevices as she wiggled and twisted, bringing handfuls of clear, soothing water over her face, her neck, her back. She scrubbed as hard as she dared, her palms moving gently over her mottled, bruised flesh, and once the grime was cleared away from her body, she began the laborious task of rinsing her hair.

Her days in the jungle had not been kind to her. Her hair, which had once been plaited and clean for the cleansing service at Terosankta, had loosened in snarled knots at the back of her head. Bella had tried to retie it— tried to bring some semblance of order to the wild, tangled mess— but had failed outright when her wrist, still swollen and blue, had thrummed in painful protest. Dirt and twigs, which had been caught in the mass of dark tresses, floated downstream and out of sight. Blood from the wounds on her scalp turned the water pink for the merest moments before it, too, disappeared downstream. The spot where the man had grabbed her felt tender and raw. Where he'd pulled the hair from her head, Bella felt a bruising pain beneath a thinned patch of hair. She drew her fingers through it with the utmost care, trying to detangle as much as she could,before she closed her eyes and let herself float among the reeds, her feet tickled by weeds and passing salmon.

Rosalie appeared through the gloom just as Bella cracked her eyes open, and she immediately sunk beneath the water once more, shielding her nakedness. Rosalie had dressed and plaited her hair, and though her clothes looked heavy with water, she was smiling, her eyes bright and laughing.

"Get dressed," said Rosalie gently. "We must move on. We're still very close to the jungle, and this fog will not hold for long."

Bella, red-faced, nodded quickly.

They could not dry their clothes— not here, in the dense mist, where there was no sun or wind to help it. They had no more spares— whatever supplies they'd carried with them had been left behind in their nighttime flight, and Bella, plagued by a sudden exhaustion and a biting hunger, did not complain when the damp clothes made her cold, or when her hair, sodden and dripping, was forced back into a haphazard bun to keep the water off of her neck.

Edward reached the jungle just as the sun began to sink low in the west, the great, orange orb disappearing behind the craggy peaks of La Cunamo. His arm, bound tightly to his torso, ached with a fierce and biting pain from the jolting cantor of his horse. His eyes itched with a pervasive and heavy tiredness that bit to the very marrow of his bones, making his muscles ache and his head throb. He had ridden hard— the roads, blocked by people flocking in droves to the Capital in a reactive exodus from the lands nearest the mountains, had made the journey hard and tedious. Word had spread about Bella's disappearance and the attack at Terosankta, and after the King's curfew had been announced throughout the land, the people feared another attack, and not even Edward could guarantee safety.

The truth of the matter was this: if they could not coax answers from the traitors in the dungeons, the Gods only knew what nefarious plots the westerners might carry out. The curfew had only enhanced the fear— if the King was locking the gates, then there must be some measurable, palpable threat.

Edward had moved into open wilderness to avoid the congestion.

Carlisle, who had been woken by a well-intentioned servant just after dawn with news of the Prince's missive, had insisted on accompanying Edward and his three guards on their journey west. His uncle was displeased— Edward could tell just by the pinched expression on his face that he did not approve of this outing, nor would he sanction it, but none of it mattered to Edward now. His arm was healing— no infection had set in, there had been no foul itch, no true pain to mark disorder in the process, and there was nothing in heaven or earth that would help it now. Staying in bed, Edward knew, was a likely course, and he'd been ready, if not content, to let his uncle have his way before Jasper's letter had arrived. He'd been ready to obey his healer, to relinquish his kingly right of authority at the price of his own pride, but he could not, in good conscience, let that missive go unanswered.

Jasper had done well, leading the men with as much wisdom and grace as might be expected of a boy so young. He was the greenest of the green, the youngest of the young, and yet, though he was flighty, and hasty, and unsteady, he'd grown up just enough to take on this task with a serious dedication that made Edward's heart swell. Edward was proud of his brother— proud of the command he'd taken, of the role he'd assumed, of the care he'd shown— but there was another factor in play now that put his young brother far out of his depth, and Edward could not bear to sit at home, waiting.

The world had grown quiet now. Only the hoofbeats of the horses, sprinting through the fields, and the low creak of crickets beneath their feet made any sound. Magnus was slick with sweat though his flanks, heaving with exertion, were the only hint of his efforts. Carlisle's mount, however, seemed to be lagging. She was a borrowed horse from the castle stables— a tall, dust-coloured mare— and she was unused to such long, arduous travel.

"Edward!" Carlisle called over the pounding hoofbeats and Edward slowed down just enough to let Carlisle catch up, his mare panting and foaming at the mouth. A pang of pity struck him for the beast and he fell short, stopping just shy of a low, wooden fence.

"We must pause and think," said Carlisle, stretching his back. His face was grim, as it had been all day, and Edward wondered, not for the first time, just what kinds of imaginings were occuring behind those grey, inscrutable eyes.

"The party is south, though not far. We've ridden well, and we've made good time," said Edward. "We'll make it just after dark. They know we're coming."

Edward had sent a bird, bound for Jasper's hunting party, with a small, brusque message.

We're coming.

Carlisle brought his horse around.

"I must ask you," Carlisle said somberly, "what you will do when we get there." His eyes, liquid and soft, made Edward falter. "What will you do with her, if we find her?"

Edward's throat felt tight.

What would he do with her, if he found her?

The thought was inconceivable. He did not want to think it— not even here, when they were so close to discovery. He did not want to think of her, lying still in the dirt, her body worn by travel and thin with hunger. He did not want to see her, unmoving and still, her pretty face contorted in the agonies of death. He did not want to see her wounded, did not want to see the damage done by birds and wild cats, did not want to feel her, cold and stiff from his own negligence, his own lack of care to keep her safe.

"It may not be her," said Edward slowly, his voice thick and his face stormy. "It may be some other soul, lost to the trees…"

Carlisle's pitying glance said more than words ever could. Riding had put Edward off, had dulled that ache in his chest that had arisen when his page had woken him that morning, telling of destruction in the west. The thunderous path he'd carved through the countryside had been just enough to tamp down the grief. When he was riding, he could forget what they were running to. When he felt Magnus beneath him, strong and sure-footed, Edward could, for even the briefest moment, push the terrible fear aside. Riding made him strong. It made him fierce.

And he did not like to stop, for when they did, he felt the crushing weight of that loss all over again, and a bubble rose like a sparrow in his chest, lumping in his throat and pricking his eyes.

Carlisle, catching the brightness in his nephew's gaze, fell into pitying silence, his head hung low. He had not told Esme the purpose of their trip— only that Jasper had called for aid, and he dared not let Edward go alone— and Edward knew that he, too, prayed for that very miracle, though he would never voice it aloud.

"Perhaps not," he agreed dubiously, his voice as thin as parchment. "Perhaps you are right, Edward, and we will not find tragedy tonight."

But as Edward swung Magnus back around, his eyes fixed on the south, the heaviness did not allay. Someone, somewhere, would be missing their family. A daughter, a son, a mother, a father… someone, somewhere was lost to the world, was nothing more than an empty shell left behind to rot and decay. And someone else was missing them, was grieving them, was railing to the Gods and shouting to the heavens…

Death was always a tragedy.

When they reached the camp just two hours after sunset, Edward saw the smoke from the cookfire, hazy against the glow of the moon. The clouds had cleared just enough to let it loose and it shone, bright and silver, to illuminate their makeshift path to the south. The camp was small— one tent for the Prince, set nearest the fire, was surrounded by four others, each with five men within. Guards, dressed in standards of red and gold, peered into the black jungle with blind, searching eyes, their swords unsheathed and shields resting comfortably against bent knees. Two more ran patrol— Edward could see them walking, shoulder-to-shoulder, around the perimeter of the camp, and when they caught sight of the travellers coming their way, a blast from a horn rang noisily through the trees.

"The King!" shouted one man. "The King is come!"

"Make way!"

"Stand aside!"

"We've been spotted," said Carlisle, and Edward saw the ghost of a smile playing around his lips. The three guards Edward had brought closed in behind him, shielding him from the darkness of the trees.

"We should move on, then," said Edward easily. The horses, who had begun to lag about an hour prior, moved sluggishly towards the camp. Edward reached it in minutes, dismounting and handing the reins to a nearby soldier, who took Magnus away to the stream at once.

"My King." A soldier Edward did not recognize bowed low, and Edward nodded in greeting. "We welcome you…"

"Ed!" Jasper, hearing the commotion, emerged from his tent at once. His hair was wet— he'd evidently washed himself before Edward's arrival— but he still wore his day clothes, dusty and scuffed from the day's work.

Edward took him by the shoulders at once, his injured arm pricking at the motion, and surveyed the boy with deep concern.

"Where is it?" Edward said lowly. "Where's the body?"

Jasper, frowning, glanced back at Carlisle.

"I think Uncle should see, too," he said at once and Edward, his heart hammering, saw that there was no sadness in the boy's face. Carlisle followed without comment. "It's just back here, near the trees. We moved it from the jungle, but…"

Edward, lagging only slightly, felt his brother's grip on his hand.

"It's not… her," said Jasper at once, reading Edward's fear like a book. "I'm sorry, Ed. It's not her. But it is… something."

Relief like a wave washed over him at once, and Edward halted, feeling his knees tremble like a newborn colt. Carlisle grabbed him, fearing he would fall, and Jasper went white with worry, but Edward shook his head, laughing, and brushed them both off.

"Praise the Gods," said Edward seriously, turning his face up to the sky. "Praise every single God in every single sky…"

"I suppose I should have written that down, too," said Jasper, frowning and embarrassed. "I was in rather a rush this morning…"

Edward, feeling Jasper stiffen with surprise, kissed the boy on the cheek, making Jasper pull awkwardly away.

"Stop it, Ed…" He glanced back, abashed, towards the camp. The soldiers were not looking— indeed, they all seemed to be huddled around the fire, sharing news— but it did not stop Jasper from scowling irritatedly at him, his lips pursed.

"What's the matter with you?" he complained, glancing at Carlisle as he wiped all evidence of the kiss from his face. "Did he hurt his head, as well as his arm?"

Carlisle, sagging with similar relief, laughed.

"No, I rather think we're just relieved, is all," he said easily. "It's been a very tense day. We thought…"

Jasper frowned, turning quickly away.

"It's not her," he said again. "I don't know who it is— no one in our party does— but we know for a fact that it isn't her."

"How do you know?" asked Edward gently. They continued their walk and Edward, squinting, thought he could make out a shape on the ground some fifty feet ahead. "Are you positive?"

"Yes," said Jasper easily. "Absolutely certain. It's not a woman."

Edward frowned, suddenly curious.

"A man?" he asked. He sped up his pace, closing the gap between himself and the shape with haste. They'd covered the body with a sheet, but it did little to hide the blood. Great, red spots had bloomed up over the fabric, stunningly dark against the pale cloth.

Edward reached down and pulled it back, revealing the thin, haggard face of a man he did not know. The face was gaunt and white, eyes staring sightlessly to the stars, and there was a frothy, bloody foam dried at the corners of his mouth. Edward frowned down at him, dumb with surprise, but Carlisle, concerned and cautious, pulled the sheet completely away and grimaced, his eyes growing dark.

The man was tall, but thin. Perhaps thirty, maybe forty, his hair had just begun to grey, and his teeth were yellow and chipped. Carlisle bent over the man's face, taking in the rolling, brown eyes and crooked, pockmarked nose, before he bent the man's head to the side, taking in the profile with the same, unmovable frown.

The cause of the man's death was obvious, even to Edward's untrained eye. His tunic, which had been torn up the front, exposed two great wounds— one between the ribs on his right side, and one just above his navel on the left. Both cuts were caked with blood, their edges ragged and raw, and when Carlisle reached down to press a hand to the man's sternum, he grimaced.

"Stabbed," said Carlisle in wonder. "By a dull blade, by the looks of things."

"Dull?" asked Jasper, confused. "How can you know that?"

"See the edges?" Jasper leaned in closer, his face a mask of apprehension, and stared at the wound with concentration. "They're ragged."

Jasper said nothing.

"A sharp blade makes clean edges," explained Carlisle. "It cuts, where a duller blade tears."

"That's foul," said Jasper disgustedly, pulling away from the corpse. "How do you know it was even a knife?"

"See the shape?" Carlisle said easily. "Oblong, like a blade, not round or square as a branch or another object. He was impaled, not simply cut, and so it must be some kind of knife, or sword."

"Not a sword," said Edward gently. "There are only two wounds."

Verifying this truth, Carlisle turned the body onto its side, looking for additional wounds that might tell of a longer blade.

"A knife, then," Carlisle agreed. "A dull knife. But this still begs the question…"

Edward stared at the man, unblinking and serious.

"Who is he, and why was he killed?" Carlisle asked. He drew himself back to his feet, tossing the sheet back over the man's face before he turned to Edward, wiping his hands on his trousers.

"What will we do, now?" he asked gently.

"Sleep," said Edward at once, his eyes roving back to the camp. Now that the discovery had been made, he felt that queer, empty worry returning in his belly again. "Eat, and sleep."

"There's something else," said Jasper quickly. "Something else we found…"

"Indeed?" Edward raised an eyebrow. "And what might that be, little brother?"

Jasper, pursing his lips, reached into the pocket of his breeches. His fist clenched beneath the fabric, and he hesitated, glancing back at the body.

"We found it in his hand," said Jasper softly. "We don't know where it came from, or why he had it, but…"

"Show me," said Edward at once, the fear rising like a snake. It was a constant battle, he thought, between terror and courage, and he was determined that fear would not win out.

Jasper put his fist in Edward's gloved hand. Edward felt nothing there, not even when Jasper's hand went flat in his, and Jasper curled Edward's stiff fingers protectively around the mystery thing when he pulled away.

Edward pulled the glove off of his free hand with his teeth, reaching carefully into the palm of the other.

What he felt made him freeze.

A bundle of hair, soft, and sleek, and as thick as his baby finger, coursed over and through his fingers to tickle the sensitive flesh of his wrist. He pressed it between his fingers, running down its length as he brought it to his face, his breath leaving him in a sharp, troubled sigh.

The bundle, dirty though it was, hung down his arm with a familiar curl that made his stomach clench. It shone in the moonlight, dark and thick, and where the edge of the ringlet caught the light, it shone red-brown in the gloom. Edward held it to his face, his fingers running delicately down the length until he came to the end, which was held and caked with a hard, crumbling stiffness.

When he rubbed his fingers against it, pulling some of that mysterious mess free, his fingers came away stained with crimson.

A/N: I'm glad so many of you are still enjoying this story. Thanks to all my reviewers!

This week, my inbox was filled by reviews from felicitie, who asked a pertinent question that I thought might be of interest to anyone who's been keeping up with the story. She asked me how old Bella is, and so I figured I'd give you a breakdown of everyone's ages. Most are approximate, but should help to give you some guidance.

Bella: 24
Edward: 25
Jasper: 13
Emmett: 25
Rosalie: 24
Finn: 3
Alice: 12
Esme: 42
Carlisle: 44

I always imagined Esme as the younger sister of the late Queen Elizabeth (Edward's mother). She would have been 44. King Edward I (Edward's father) would have been 45.

Hope that helps! Thanks again for reading!