Chapter 12

"I'm sorry I've been such a disappointment, Jasper."

In the quiet of the living room where they stood sentry at the window, the words broke the stillness like the shattering of glass. They had been like this for hours— silent in the dead of the night, waiting on tenterhooks for a shift, a change. It was his turn on duty— his turn to watch and to wait— and in the quiet of the night there had been no progress.

Her sleep was only shallow, hidden as she was beneath the thick comforter that she had always used when she stayed over, and Jasper could hear her moving, shifting in her sleep. The hour was late— the sun would rise in a few scant hours and she had woken two times already, all before the clock had struck midnight. She'd screamed herself hoarse on Emmett's watch, waking in a cold sweat that had at once infuriated and frightened him, and then again with Esme after she had tried to tuck her into her bed, instead letting her stay on the sofa. During each of these episodes Jasper had felt the terror seeping through the walls, fear leaching under the door like a sickness. It had spread wildly, billowing and puffing like a living mist, and he had stopped it, though Carlisle had asked him not to, for fear of what it might do if he let it touch him.

Carlisle was trying to medicate her— trying to convince her to take the chemical relief that would let her sleep— but whenever Jasper intervened, even just a little to stem the overflow of emotion, she resisted. She had refused his tablets just as she had tried to refuse Jasper's influence, but while Carlisle would not shove pills down her throat by force, Jasper had no qualms about protecting her, or himself.

They were taking it in turns to watch her, on Alice's sage advice. Since the onset of that first and only vision, the girl had not been left alone for a moment for fear of what she might do. Jasper's shift had started at three, and Alice had been more than willing to sit with him, to wait. It was she, after all, who had insisted upon this new schedule of observation, she who had demanded this intervention, this imposition. Jasper knew it came from a place of fear, but their family's quick and solemn agreement to her scheme had eased that distress somewhat, turning it from a harsh, vivid scarlet to a dull and simmering burgundy.

"I'm sorry," she said again and she reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers in hers. It always amazed him when Alice's skin met his, when her perfect, flawless touch ran patterns over his scars. That she could love him, knowing the things he'd done…

"I'm sorry, Jasper." The third apology was unbearable. "I'm sorry."

He was on her, then, his arms around her slender waist and his hands splayed on the small of her back. She fit there, like a missing piece to his puzzle, and it felt right to hold her in his arms. She was just tall enough to reach his chin, her soft, feathered hair tickling his jaw, and he pressed a kiss to it, impulsive and sweet.

"You could never be that, Alice," he murmured, and the swell of love he felt for his wife increased tenfold. "You could never disappoint me."

"But I'm not helping you, either," she returned with a sigh, nuzzling her cheek to his shoulder. "I've been so angry, Jasper. I still am. I only wonder what I do to you."

"You do nothing to me that I can't handle," he said and she frowned, tightening her grip. "You shouldn't apologize for your feelings, Alice. You can't help it."

"I can control it," she reasoned. "At least to spare you."

"I don't want to be spared," he returned. "This is all of our trouble, and we should bear it together."

She closed her eyes and he knew at once what she was looking for. The future was still muddy— too many decisions left unmade, too many worries left untended— and it complicated matters more than he would like. They relied on Alice's gift for a great many things— their finances, their work, their moves— and it was odd for them to be running blind.

"Nothing," she grumbled, and he kissed her again to soothe the agitation. "Absolutely nothing, and I don't know why."

Jasper blinked in surprise.

"Because it's not your call anymore, love," he said, and she frowned at him, confused. "It's not your choices, or any of ours, that dictate our fate. It's hers."

Jasper's gaze shifted, moving from his wife to the prone figure on the couch. The golden blankets dwarfed her, snuggled in as she was to keep herself warm in the chilly night air. The embers of the fire had burned low, leaving behind only sizzling orange coals, but there was enough light for him to see her, clearly, from where he stood. Her face was to them, frowning even in sleep, and she shivered slightly, though she could not possibly be cold. Her legs moved beneath the covers, her fingers clenched on the satin fabric, and when her lips parted, there was only garbled, muffled noise.

At once, Alice fell away from him, her forehead pinched as she took a step closer to the sleeping girl, moving just near enough to brush her fingers over the warm, sleeping cheek.

"Oh, Bella…" Alice's voice was a whisper, a breath. "What in the world are we going to do with you?"

It had been three days since the episode, so stormy and so heated, on that very same sofa where she now rested. Three days since Rosalie's return, which had sparked such a flurry of nerves and upset. Three days since the meltdown, and three days since Alice had seen anything that might be of use to them.

"You should have left me on that island. You should have left me there, Alice, and saved yourself all this trouble."

Her words, spilled so tearfully to his wife's tender ears, had stuck with him like a bad smell. He had heard them too— they all had— and it had hurt him to hear her speak so plainly. Jasper had thought he was doing her a kindness by pulling her from that water, by refusing to let that be the cause of her untimely end. She did not deserve to die that way, cold, alone, and exposed to the elements, and Jasper had wanted to do her that very small favour— to bring her back to her home where she could be with the people who loved her.

But now, as he tasted the flavour of her worry and her crushing, melting grief, he had begun to question that assumption and whether he had, in truth, done her more harm than good.

"Stop that." Alice's rebuke was sudden and he felt her fingers digging sharply into the flesh of his arm. She was frowning at him, her eyes dark with warning. "Don't, Jasper. Just don't."

"Sorry."

She turned away.

"We did the right thing," she said, and this time, she knelt by the edge of the sofa, smoothing her finger over the puckering frown on the sleeping girl's forehead. "You did the right thing, Jasper. Never doubt that."

He laughed, though there was no humour in it.

"How can I not?" he asked, and Alice's gaze fell, perturbed. "Just look at her, Alice. Look at what we've done."

"We," she hissed, "haven't done a thing. This is not our fault, Jasper."

"No," he agreed. "No, perhaps not, but we still played our part."

"You saved her life."

"I know."

"And that's a good thing."

He pursed his lips. Alice watched him from the corner of her eye, her fingers resting on the sleeping cheek until the silence grew long and uncomfortable. Jasper did not ease it, either with his words or with his gift, and when Alice rose her expression was unreadable.

"It is a good thing," she said. "I know it, Jasper, and deep down, so do you."

Looking down at that sleeping, perturbed face, Jasper felt only a nagging sadness, a shallow and nebulous guilt as he clenched his fists at his side. Every time he looked at her, Jasper could feel the snap of her ribs beneath his hands. He could feel the bruises, so soft and so hot…

"It should have been," he said finally, and Alice huffed. "It should have been, Alice, but now, I'm not so sure."

"Then trust me," she said, and then she was next to him, his cheeks between her palms. "Trust me, Jasper, if you don't trust yourself."

"I always trust you."

She kissed him, lingering for the barest, briefest moment.

"Then believe me," she whispered, and she hugged him hard around the neck. "Believe me when I tell you… we did the right thing."

The smell of her, so sweet and so familiar, was like a balm.

"She's miserable."

"I know."

"She's sad, Alice…"

"I know."

"She wants to die."

Alice pulled away again, her mouth set.

"I know."

Jasper watched her, inscrutable as she was, and felt, ever so slightly, for the sadness he was expecting. Instead, there was a wall of such pigheaded determination that he pulled his gift back, blinking in surprise.

"That's not going to happen," she said, and for the first time all night, Jasper truly believed that she meant what she said. "She's not going to die, Jasper. Not under my watch. She's alive because of us… because of you. I'm not going to let her throw it away again."

Jasper moved forward, his hand outstretched, but he could not bring himself to touch the girl, so warm and so soft. His hand hovered over her, feeling the warmth that seemed to radiate from every cell of her body, but he did not bring his hand down, did not dare to disturb the rest he'd so graciously given her. He could feel her breath on his hand, so steady and so strong, and the rhythmic, defiant beat of her heart. That sound soothed him, made him feel as if, perhaps, he had been right after all.

"She frightens me, Jasper." The admission was raw, tremulous. "She scares the living hell out of me."

"Why, Alice?"

"Because I can't see." The whisper was soft, and almost sad. "And because I can't know."

"Know what?"

Her eyes were liquid gold, swimming with tears she would never shed, and as he watched her, he felt her soft, careful intrusion. Alice knew better than of any of their family how to control herself, how to keep him from feeling her sorrows unless she meant him to. She knew how best to guard her feelings, how best to keep him safe from herself, at least, and when she reached out to him, so careful and so hedging, he took it in to himself, letting her anxiety roll over him like a rising tide.

"I don't know what to do," she said, and he felt her hopelessness, her worry. "I don't know how to help her, Jasper, and I'm afraid that if I don't figure it out…"

"It's not your fault."

"It doesn't matter." Like an elastic pulled too tight, he felt the snap of her control, her careful shielding of herself from him. He did not reach out— did not pry where he was not wanted— and instead he listened, impassive and calm. "It doesn't matter if it's not my fault. None of that will matter, if she finds a way around us…"

For just a moment— only the briefest, quickest moment, Jasper saw the rise of her frustration, her anger at the girl on the couch. He knew it was not rational— anger rarely was— but he felt a swell of sorrow, and of deep, protective defense for the sleeping child he was guarding.

"It's not her fault either, Alice. None of this is. She can't help feeling the way she does any more than you can… and if you think you're afraid, I wish you could feel just a morsel of what she suffers every single day. She can't help it, Alice. She really can't."

Misfiring neurons, failed chemical connections… entire systems run amok in an effort to regain equilibrium, to find a new normal in this sea of torment. Her mate lost. Her father dead, and most likely her mother, too. Her own life endangered, and their family's safety threatened…

It was no wonder she wanted out.

"I know that." Alice sounded stung. "I know, Jasper… and that makes it worse."

"Yeah."

"I've never seen anyone try so hard," she said, and in her sleep, the girl began to titter. He felt the rising anxiety— the prelude to the storm of waking, to which they had grown so accustomed— and as if on instinct, he cast out his calm to soothe it, to soothe her. Carlisle would not be happy with him, but Jasper reasoned that he did it as much for himself as he did for her. He could not bear another bout of stormy, frightened tears, and he didn't want to look at her again and see the moment when she realized that her life was not a dream, that the things she saw in her own mind were not merely figments of an overactive imagination, but horribly, dreadfully real.

The girl settled at once, snatching the gift he gave her without so much as a whiff of resistance, and he gave it willingly, watching her settle into a deep, dreamless slumber.

"I just wish…" Alice trailed off with a shake of her head, fidgeting with the covers that had fallen loose. She fussed over the girl, tucking the blanket under her chin, her hair behind her ear, before there was nothing else to do and Jasper grew antsy.

"What do you wish, Ali?"

"I wish that we could be enough, Jas. That we could be enough for her."

He shook his head, displeased.

"It kills me," Alice continued, and Jasper bit his tongue. "She made it so easy for me to love her, Jasper. So, so easy, and she loves us, too."

"Not in the right way," said Jasper, and as if to reassure himself, he pulled Alice close, and tight. "Not in the way she needs, darlin'..."

"I know." Her arms were tight and fierce. "I know, Jas. If you ever left me…" There was a little shiver, and a frown, before she found her words again. "If it were me in her place, I might want to die too."

"Never." His lips were insistent, and she did not resist. He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her lips, and he banished the very thought of it from his head. He could never leave her, could never abandon her... not his sweet little love who had brought him out from the darkness, who had shown him what family was. Alice had given him his life back in a time when he'd thought all was lost. She had given him kindness. She had given him love.

He had no idea what she got in return for loving him the way she did, but he would not question it, would not push.

"Bella Swan is not going to die," she said, and Jasper did not answer her determination with any more words of doubt. "She is not going to die, Jasper, because our brother is coming home."

Jasper only hoped that this would be enough.


Their worry did not ease, nor did the tension lift until the darkness of the morning had given way to the weak, grey light that heralded the dawn.

Jasper had always loved a sunrise, had always admired most keenly that moment when the gloom and mystery of night gave up its secrets. The dawn was the start of a new day, the moment when the world came alive again under the power of the sun, and it was a time of warmth, of gladness. Jasper lived for new days— each one fresh, with no mistakes— and he longed each day for the slate wiped clean, for a new chance to simply be without the sorrows of yesterday. They did not sleep and so the passage of time seemed fleeting, but Jasper tracked himself by the rise and fall of that great, celestial orb, knowing that no matter what had happened, or what was wrong with the world, that the sun would go on rising just as long as there was someone there to admire it.

As Jasper watched that sunrise, each second bringing new colours and shadows to the world outside, he felt the first pangs of wakefulness from the girl on the sofa, though she was still occluded by her restless, shallow slumber. It would not be long before she woke— Jasper's influence, no matter how strong, had gone on too long, and he'd pulled it back when the light had come, knowing that if it was not desirable, it was, at least, necessary.

She shifted on her pillow, her face screwed up as if in terrible concentration, and when she spoke, the word made him freeze.

"Edward."

Jasper turned to the window again to hide his temper.

His friend— the man he had come to admire and to respect as his brother— had become something of a pariah in Jasper's mind of late. They did not speak his name— did not give him any more consideration than they might a fly— and yet, there was something unspeakably wrong about his absence, about the way of things without him here. Jasper liked his brother— on good days, he might dare to say he loved him— but he could not reconcile that love with the damage he'd done, with the havoc he'd wrought on this small and tender mortal.

Looking at her was like looking at a broken thing— something so tired and soul-weary that it was a wonder she found the strength to rise each day. Edward had allowed himself to care for her, and that care had led to the unbreakable bond of their kind. He had loved her, and that love had ruined her. Before this, Jasper would have said that it was impossible for one of her kind to feel the bond so keenly, but the evidence of his folly was right before him, plain proof that he had been so terribly, awfully wrong.

As Jasper had tested her, felt her, he had discovered the ugly truth in the span of a single heartbeat. He had tasted it in the air like rot, had felt it in the wind like a bitter, icy cold. He felt that hollow in her chest— the place where her heart had been— and he felt the emptiness, the raw, stinging edges. He felt the way it ate at her like a parasite, each day taking more and more away from the whole, and he wondered how long it would be, now, until she disappeared altogether, consumed by her own grief that would not be assuaged.

Jasper had felt that broken, frayed bond, and he had felt the destruction it had left behind from its violent, angry cleaving.

She stirred again, and he rested his fingers on his chin.

As they waited in the glow from the slowly rising sun, Jasper knew that there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do to make the world make sense again for her. He knew what he saw in the sunlight each day— the truths of the world laid bare at his feet, ripe for his examination— and he wondered, as the sun began to creep over the polished wood of the floor, what that same sun might show to Edward, if he would only stop to look.

His brother had always loved the twilight hours— those moments when light faded and indigo skies reigned supreme— but Jasper was a braver soul than he. Edward had always mourned the dangers of the sun— the danger of the light, of the warmth— and so he relished those few, short moments, when there was still light enough to see, but not enough to know, or to feel. Edward feared the future like a sailor feared a storm, and Jasper wondered just how often that fear had taken hold, to sink its teeth in deep.

How fitting for Edward, Jasper thought, to lend so much power to an ending. To give his love and his meager joy to the belly of the night, which held no ground at the breaking of the dawn, no life but that which skulked and creeped. In the daylight, one could see, and to see was the first step of knowing. If he looked, Jasper knew, in the bright light of day, Edward would see all of his failings, his mistakes. If he looked too hard, he might not be able to go back.

So as Jasper admired the dawn, relishing the rising warmth and light, he knew, without a doubt, that the brother they awaited would be terrified— terrified of the sun, which shone too brightly, and terrified of what it would show him once he finally stopped to look.


In the quiet of the morning, just as the clock struck eight, Alice watched as the layers of sleep were pulled away and the girl was left blinking, surprised at the dull, hazy glow coming in through the window.

"Good morning." Alice made her jump, and she fought back her grin. "Sleep well?"

"What time is it, Alice?"

"Nearly eight."

She frowned, sitting herself up. In the dimness of the living room she blinked, slowly and carefully sitting herself upright until she rested, rather breathless, against the arm of the sofa.

As she took her inventory, Alice could only stare, her smile wan.

Each morning was the same, and each morning a struggle as Bella worked to take in the changes to her body, the subtle shifts in her progress and her healing. It had been just over two weeks since her leap from the cliff, and two weeks was scarcely enough to change a thing, and yet, as Alice watched, she noticed the differences, the progress that had been made. For one, when she sat up, it was only the second time she'd done so without a helping hand behind her back. Her ribs were all knitted now— Carlisle's most recent x-ray had confirmed that for her— and so it was easier to breathe, too, and she hadn't used the oxygen tank for nearly five full days. She was still too thin— she did not eat nearly as much, or nearly as often as she should— but there was a fullness to her cheeks, now, and her colour had started to return. The bruises on her chest had gone from black, to blue, to a faintly mottled green, and the marks on her arm where Jasper had pulled her from the water had faded to a murky, muddy brown that was itchy, but no longer sore.

"My head doesn't ache," she said, "and I can't believe I slept."

"Jasper's doing," said Alice with a grin, and at once, Bella turned her shy gaze towards the stairs, where he was sitting. Her grin was quick— just a flash, to say thanks— but it warmed Alice's heart to the core.

It was the first smile she'd seen since their reunion and though it was weak and thin, it was a start.

"You must be hungry."

"Not really…" Her stomach, wasted and thin beneath her shirt that was too big, gave a snarl in defiance. "I'm not really feeling it, you know?"

Alice was up in a matter of seconds.

"Your body says otherwise," she said and Bella tried to rise, but Alice pushed her back down. "You stay right there. I'll get it. What do you want?"

"I can do it, Alice. No need to trouble yourself."

"Stay."

"Really, Alice. I'm not an invalid."

"You're close enough," laughed Alice. "Now tell me. What will it be?"

"Nothing."

"If you don't tell me, I'll pick for you. And God knows I've got terrible taste in breakfast foods."

There was another smile, and a breath of laughter, before she rested her cheek on her knees with a sigh. Alice watched her eyes fall shut, her stance relaxed and easy, before took her lip between her teeth and answered.

"Toast is fine."

"Perfect."

"Thank you, Alice. Really. You don't have to."

"It's the least I can do, until you're no longer broken. Just hang tight, Bella. I'll be back in a jiffy."

"Jiffy sounds good…"

"Peanut butter it is," laughed Alice. "Give me five minutes, Bella. It won't take long."

"Thanks."

Alice snuck away.

Finding the bread in the box on the counter, Alice fished out two pieces and popped them into the toaster that they had never used. She had plugged it into the wall, fiddling with the dial and the chrome handle that wiggled, a little too loose and too noisy. She had barely time to put the bread down to toast, pushing the lever to hear the click, before the world disappeared around her in a rush, and her vision was lost in a sea of thick, forest green.

It struck her hard— a vision like none she'd ever seen before, and one that she was sure she would never see again. Alice did not recall her first foray into the future, the moment when she'd realized that what she saw in her visions was real, but she had imagined it many times, that initiation of her Sight. She had imagined the clarity of it, the weight of the realization, and as she was pitched again into the unsettling realm of what was yet to be, she felt that jolt, that giddy, terrifying electricity that she had only ever imagined when she tried to conjure up those fleeting, feeble human memories.

The vision was not a long one, but it was sharp. She saw the world with perfect clarity as it would be just one hour from now, and she heard the sounds, felt the wind, on her cold, hard skin.

She was running, she knew, on feet that were as still as stone. She was taller, too, and faster, and she looked away from the path to stare into the lazy, winding stream that blew by. That blur sent a reflection back— one that was at once her own, and so completely different that she blinked, giving a double-take.

Her hair was not black, but burnished, bronze-gold. She was taller. She was stronger. She was faster, by all accounts, than even she had ever been, and as she came back with a snap, she felt the coldness of the tile beneath her hands.

She was kneeling, now, the vision bringing her to her knees. The tiles beneath her were cracked, splintered into pieces where her knees had struck, and it was Jasper who touched her, his fingers tensing on her cheek. He radiated his worry with every touch, his eyes fixed on her so fiercely that she could not look away, and though his lips were moving, forming words, she could not make out what he had said.

"...must know."

"What?"

He stared at her, then, and hauled her to her feet.

"I said we must know, Alice." His face was very close, now, and she leaned away to see. "You must tell me, love, if we are in danger."

"Danger?"

He frowned, bending down to face her.

"Victoria," he said, and at once, Alice shook her head. "The newborns, Alice…"

"No." In an instant, she had backed away, her back hitting the cabinets. "No, Jasper. Not them."

There was silence for a moment— he watching, she avoiding— and when Jasper spoke again, he chose his words most carefully.

"It's him, isn't it?"

Alice didn't need to ask who he meant.

"Yes."

"How long?"

"About an hour."

"So soon?"

"Yes…"

"We must tell her."

Alice's head snapped up, her body tense.

"We can't, Jasper. Not yet."

"We hardly have time to wait, Alice."

"We have time enough."

Jasper only sighed, his face downcast.

"It's going to hurt either way," he said. "Better do it quickly, and get it over with."

"I don't agree."

"I know." He stroked her arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. "I know you don't. But what other choice do we have?"

"Choice about what?"

At once, Alice froze, and Jasper looked guilty, though not ashamed. Alice glared at him with hot accusation but he simply ducked his head and moved away, ghosting across the floor to lurk in the shadows where he would watch, but would not be seen.

Behind her, standing in the doorway, was the girl, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her back hunched to ease the pressure on her ribs. She was watching Alice with a quiet concentration, her face screwed up as she tried to understand what she had heard, and when she said nothing, Alice was forced to speak.

"I burned your breakfast," she said, pulling the two, blackened pieces from the toaster. Bella didn't move, her frown fixed in place. "I'll have to make another. You should go and sit down."

"All I ever do is sit," she complained. "And sleep."

"You need it."

She grunted.

"I want to move," she said, and Alice did not complain when she began to make the food herself, sliding two more pieces of bread into the toaster and adjusting the dial on the front. When she was satisfied, she pushed them down. "I want to do something, Alice. I've been sitting still for far too long."

"You're healing."

Alice could almost see the eye roll she fought to contain.

"And I'll be healing for weeks yet," she said. "I don't hurt half so bad, and the headache has finally gone."

"That's good."

The toast began to darken, and Alice turned away.

"Butter here, and there's some jam in the pantry…"

"What did Jasper mean, when he was talking about choice?"

Alice closed her eyes, cursing him to the deepest bowels of hell.

"Nothing, Bella."

The girl scowled.

"Don't lie, Alice," she said, and there was hurt in her voice, affront. "If you don't want to tell me, then fine. But please don't lie."

"I'm not lying. He meant nothing by it."

"He knew I was listening."

"Yes, I daresay he did."

"Did you?"

Alice faced her again, and she saw the rising anxiety with deepest regret.

"No."

She began to butter her toast.

"Will you not tell me?" she asked. "Or am I still too damaged, too fragile, to handle it?"

"It's not like that…"

"Or maybe you think I'll go and off myself, if you tell me." The words stung and Alice growled. "Maybe you'll think I'll run back to the woods…"

"Not in your life," said Alice darkly, and the girl's mouth fell shut. "You know me better than that, Bella. I love you, and I want you to be happy, but I'm not about to let you kill yourself to make things easier for us."

"That's not the point."

"Isn't it?"

"No." She dropped the toast onto a napkin, uneaten and cooling. "It's not."

Alice bit her tongue.

"Are you going to tell me or not? I promise not to freak out."

Alice laughed.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Bella. There's been enough of that all around, I think."

When the girl flinched, her face pinching with sudden hurt, Alice knew she had gone too far. She saw the way she turned, her eyes downcast to hide her affront, and Alice reached out a hand to stop her leaving.

"I'm sorry," she said at once, and when Bella did not pull away, Alice drew her into a hug. "I'm sorry, Bella. I don't mean to be so boorish."

"It's fine… I know I'm a pain."

"That's not what I mean and you know it." She pressed her lips to the pale cheek, soaking up the warmth. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be cruel, but sometimes, I think it's kinder for you not to know."

Bella groaned, pulling away.

"I'm sick to death of not knowing," she said, and Alice heard the truth of it, the honesty. "I just want to know what's going on. Did you… see something? Finally?"

Her silence was loud enough and it took only a moment for the girl to jerk away, her face suddenly pale and her voice thin and weak.

"What, Alice? What did you see?"

"Hush, Bella, don't look like that. It's nothing so very terrible…"

"Oh God." She pulled away completely, avoiding Alice's reaching hands. "You saw her, didn't you? You saw her here. Oh God, Alice…"

"No, I did not." She shook Bella's shoulders, as gently as she could, but when she saw the wince Alice pulled her hands away. "No, Bella. Don't put words in my mouth…"

"Then what?" Her breakfast, forgotten on the counter, was cold, though neither of them seemed to notice or care. Bella watched her with such consternation, such worry in her gaze that Alice felt her resolve crumble at her feet, and though she knew the words would hurt, she spoke them anyways.

"I saw him, Bella." The girl blinked in surprise. "I saw him back here, in little more than an hour."

The seconds ticked by like eons as the words sunk in, and as they did, Alice saw the churning feelings like a film. In the corner Jasper bristled, shifting restlessly against the far wall, but Alice spared him only a stony, rigid stare and a low, warning murmur.

"You insisted," she said, so soft that Bella did not hear. "You insisted on this, Jasper, so let it run its course."

The answering rumble was displeased, but he did not move from the spot he'd chosen.

"You mean…" There was a war on her face, and each second brought about a new victor to claim its spoils. First was surprise, so wide-eyed and innocent, before it was quashed by disbelief, and shock. Next had come worry, and a cold, steely fear, before there was sadness, and guilt. That guilt lingered too long— Alice saw it warring with everything else underneath— but when it was finally ousted and the winner set in stone, it was hurt that Alice saw, settling into every facet and every line.

"Don't look like that, Bella," she begged, but the girl only backed away, her head down. "Please don't look like that. It will be alright. You'll see…"

"No."

Alice frowned at her.

"What do you mean, no?"

"I mean no."

"I can't stop him, Bella. Not now. He's going to come, and…"

"No, Alice."

"We need him."

The girl looked up, her eyes swimming.

"We need him. We can't hope to win this fight without him, especially not if she changes any more newborns."

The terror at the thought of the threat was fleeting, and Alice watched with sinking regret how even this did not eclipse the newest worry, the newest fright. Beneath the hurt, under all that anger and grief, there was a fear, though not like the one she held for Victoria. Alice understood that fear, even if she did not agree with it, for it was the same fear that she, herself, felt at the thought of the impending violence, their defense of their family and what was theirs. Victoria, for all her posturing and her threats, could only kill— she could take a life, leaving behind nothing but piles of smoky, purple ash, and when she did, the world would go on turning. If they died, that would be the only end— but the world would go on just as it had been, and just as it always would be.

But Edward… Edward had a power over her that not even Bella herself could take back. Victoria might kill her— indeed, Alice often wondered if this was not part of Bella's grand, final scheme— but Edward… he could wreck her. And knowing that they needed him— that Edward was integral to their fight, their struggle— made Bella go silent.

It was a long, tense moment before she spoke again.

"I shouldn't be here, Alice."

At once, Alice's outrage melted into worry.

"Yes you absolutely should be. There's nowhere else you belong more than right here, honey. I won't let him ruin that for you."

But the girl was on her feet now, wincing when she moved to quickly and pulled at the tape on her ribs. She stumbled from the kitchen, lurching dangerously towards the stairs where Jasper caught her, bright with concern.

"Bella, please. Everything will be okay…"

"No, Alice." She turned now, and there were no tears glazing her cheeks, no pretty pink blush. Her face was hard, determined, and there was something about it that set Alice on edge, that made her stomach jolt with terrible, awful nerves.

"No. I shouldn't be here because I don't want to be," she said, and at once, Alice felt her fear bubble over. "I don't want to be anywhere near here when he shows up, because I don't want to look at him, Alice. I can't bear to look at him again, when I know that all he wants to do is leave."

And she was up the stairs, with more agility than Alice gave her credit for, and she heard the slamming of that spare room door before a terrible, keening cry, and the sound of a heart breaking, as delicate as crystal being shattered on the floor.


In the shadow of the trees, just out of sight of the great, white house, Alice stood motionless, her body as tense as a bowstring. She stared into the gloom of the forest, her gaze as hard as marble, and she waited, her feet poised to pounce, her hands clenched into fists.

Back at the house, where the world was calm and familiar, she had left her family without a noise or a whisper. Her parents had been talking, heads bent in consternation as they lurked outside of the bedroom whose door was locked and whose occupant had gone silent. Bella, despite their prying, had admitted no visitors and accepted no consolation. Emmett was running patrols— scanning, she knew, for Victoria and her newborns. He would find her soon— would follow the scent and find her lurking like a gargoyle in the dark. There would be questions asked, accusations flung, but as she waited on tenterhooks for what she knew was coming, she couldn't bring herself to care.

Hate, for her, was not a common feeling, despite her years and her experience. Alice did not hate many, and she did not hate lightly, for she knew that this hatred, no matter how deep a satisfaction it brought, would hold more power over her than it would her target. She had learned through bitter, hard experience that it did no good to harbour judgment, that it did not serve to collect her hurts like trophies on display, but as she enumerated each and every blow her brother had dealt, she found that it was hard to let them go. Each harsh word, each angry tirade… she felt each one as keenly as a knife, as sharp and unrelenting as a sickening, festering wound. Hatred, she knew, was strong, but it was this that welled inside her like a poison, like a threat. It was hatred that she felt in the stirrings of her heart, and hatred that drove her to stand here, waiting.

Alice loved her brother. Even now, even when she was so filled with toxic, noxious ire, Alice could not deny that she loved him. She had been close to Edward— closer, in truth, than any of the others, save perhaps their father. Edward trusted her. Edward cared for her. It had been she he'd trusted with the secret of his love, and she who had been the first to welcome the girl into her heart, before she'd even had the chance to know her. He had pleaded with her, begged her on bended knee not to judge him too harshly, and Alice had obliged. That was her folly, she knew, and her downfall— she always gave in too quickly, distributed her love too freely, and this was her consequence, her punishment.

In all her years of life, and from all the people she knew and loved, Alice had never before felt so deceived, so completely and utterly betrayed by someone to which she had opened her heart, her soul. He was her brother— as much as if they'd been born from the same flesh and blood— and he had used her, and left her behind. He'd given her a sister and then had yanked her away in the blink of an eye. He'd given her himself, so joyous and complete, and he, too, had been stolen. He had broken their family, left them scrounging in the dust, and all because he couldn't find it in him to give Bella the life she wanted, the life she had so richly and honestly deserved.

It was all too much, and Alice would not stand for it.

When she heard his footsteps in the distance, she readied herself to spring. It was only a moment before she could see him, only a second before he stopped, and when he did, Alice was able to finally look, to really look at him, for the first time in nearly half a year.

He emerged from the gloom like a ghost, his pale, white face a shadow of the man he had been just months ago. Time did not hold the same power over them as it did humans, but even Alice could tell that something had changed. She had known Edward well before he had met his mate, and this new version of him was quite similar to the man he'd been then, but there was something else, something wilder, that gave her reason to pause.

He found her quickly, though she did not move, and she saw the way he surveyed her as if in surprise. His pallor was as white as paper, his lips set in such a hard, immovable line that it was a wonder it hadn't fused shut. His body was tense, as wiry as she remembered it, and his face as handsome and soft, but his eyes— those angry, ebony pits— were so far gone from the boy she remembered that Alice felt a stirring of actual fear before he began to step forward.

"Alice…"

At once, her teeth were on edge.

"You came."

"Of course I came." His voice was a growl, so low and so righteous. "Of course I came…"

"Why did you?"

He blinked in surprise.

"Because my father asked me to," he said, and Alice felt venom in her throat. "Because he called me, Alice, and…"

"I called you."

He ducked his head.

"I know."

"Did you listen to what I said?"

"Some."

"And?"

"There is nothing left to say."

"You know what you did?" His eyes flashed a warning, but she did not relent. "You know what you did to her?"

"It was for her own safety."

"Fat lot of good it did."

"I asked you to stay away."

"I know."

"And you didn't listen."

"No, I didn't."

His gaze was hot, then, accusatory.

"She deserves better, Alice," he said. "She deserves so much more…"

"Don't you dare tell me what Bella deserves."

"What would you have me say, then?" He turned from her, his black eyes searching the forest, instead. "What do you want me to tell you?"

"It's not about what I want…"

"Then what is it about?"

She rounded on him with a vengeance.

"It's about what you've done, Edward! It's about what we've all done! It's about the life we ruined, and the life we've saved, and the life you so carelessly abandoned, knowing what was out there, just lying in wait!"

He glared at her, suddenly hot with anger.

"I knew nothing!" he hissed and his advance was threatening. "I knew nothing of these dangers, Alice… you think I would have left her, had I known?"

Alice only laughed at him.

"It was your job to know," she spat, and she, too, began to stalk forward. "Your job, Edward. She's your mate… and yet where were you?"

"Trying to keep her safe!"

"She's as far from safety as she's ever been in her life," snapped Alice. "She's got nothing, Edward, and no one."

"Her father…"

"Is dead!" Her voice rang through the trees, bouncing back in mocking echoes. "By our folly!"

He did not answer, but the shock was evident on his face.

"And then she…"

"She what?"

"Did you hear anything I said to you on the phone?"

He only growled, his temper rolling like thunder.

"Of course not." She turned from him, her jaw set. "Of course not. So high and mighty, Edward… but never mind. You'll find out soon enough."

"You'll tell me now."

She rounded on him, furious.

"I will not take orders from you!"

"I have a right to know! She's my mate!"

"Yes, she is." Her voice was flat and unkind, "but you forfeited that right the instant you left her."

"I'm warning you, Alice…"

She laughed outright then, the threat of his words gliding over her without a wink.

"You should be thanking me," she said, and he growled, low and deep. "You should thank all of us for refusing to abide your asinine plan for even a minute longer, and—"

"And what?" his voice was a hiss, so sudden and so sharp. "What do you want me to say, Alice? You want me to thank you for defying me? You want me to kiss your feet because you disobeyed?"

And at once, she was on him.

Alice could not remember a time when she had felt so viscerally, frighteningly angry. It crawled through her belly and up her throat to choke her, and she moved with a purpose and a goal as she leapt through the wet, green forest. Edward saw her coming— Alice registered the mild surprise, the sudden twist of sorrow— but it did him no good. She was on him like a cat, her fingers scratching at whatever bits of him that she could reach and he only just held her off. He would not hit her— even as angry as he was, Alice knew that— but this lapse only made her angrier, desperate for a fight.

When he tried to hold her off, to take her hands and pull her away from him, she felt her ire bubble over and she slapped him, the noise snapping through the trees like a gunshot.

"You absolute coward!" she hissed as he touched the spot where she had hit. "You absolutely hateful fool!"

"Alice…"

She slapped him again.

"This is all your fault!"

"Please…"

"Shut your mouth!" Her voice was raised now, and shrill. "Shut up, Edward, just shut up!"

"Alice, that's enough." Edward's hands, gentle and coaxing, pushed her far enough away so that her third blow did not land. She was spitting with rage, wanting to ruin the brother she had loved, to wreck him like he'd wrecked her. She wanted him to feel her ire, to taste the heat of the flame that burned so brightly in her heart, and so she struck him down in other ways, her mind screaming as loudly as she could to make him understand.

In the perfect recall of her memory she watched the girl's fall again, her desperate, whispered pleas as she threw herself from the cliff. She watched her slip into the water, the glint of that golden heart pendant, before she showed him her face in vivid, awful clarity. He was cowering before her, now, his face a tortured mask of disbelief, of horror, but Alice did not relent, taking him through the whole, terrible ordeal from her resuscitation on the beach to Carlisle's skillful, worried intervention. He saw the tube in her throat, felt Alice's overwhelming, hopeless terror, and when she showed him how she'd woken, and how she cried, she saw him turn away, his face as white as bone.

She was out of Edward's hold in an instant when he stumbled back, his eyes swimming with horror at the things she'd shown him.

"Look at me, you coward," she growled, and she forced him to look, to see. Her eyes were bright with tears that could never fall, her lips trembling with the absolute fury that had welled over in her heart, and as she stared at the brother she was supposed to love she felt nothing but disgust— nothing but absolute, unyielding disdain for the things that he had done.

"You've ruined her," she said, and his frown fell again. "You've ruined her, Edward. You've ruined us."

"I only wanted…"

"I don't care what you wanted!" She was shouting again. "Your wants are the very least of my worries… I only care about her, and what we're trying to do to keep her alive!"

He snapped up, shocked.

"Alive?" His voice was weak, trembling. "What do you mean, Alice, alive?"

She laughed at him, cruel and unfeeling, and bombarded him again with another piercing memory— Bella's tearful tirade, her hopeless resentment at having been rescued and saved. The vision of death she'd seen in her future, so murky and so faded. The girl weeping in Emmett's arms when Alice had foiled her plans, preventing her from running to her death in the forest.

Edward could only stare, horrified, as she ran the reel over and over again in her mind. She watched the gamut run its course, watched the truth settle on him like an anvil before he turned, too stunned for words.

"I'm sorry…"

"I hope it kills you." She flung the words at him like a weapon, and they dug deep into his heart. "I hope she kills you, for it's the very least that you deserve, Edward. You disgust me."

And when he began to tremble, his face like tragedy personified, she could look on him no longer. She turned away, without even a hint of conscience for the damage she had done, and stalked away towards the cold, dark house, leaving him behind to tremble in the trees.

A/N: Another long one, folks, and I hope you're still enjoying it. This one gave me some trouble (as my Twitter followers will already know), but it finally made it to you, after many revisions and rewritings. Edward is an arrogant, demanding fool, and while Alice and Jasper were very easy to write, he became difficult when he refused to cooperate and follow directions. I had many versions of his return planned in my head, and there are a few elements from each that showed up here, and though I know a lot of you absolutely despise him and everything he stands for, I hope you can find some consolation in Alice's treatment of him. Bella is healing, and she's doing much better, but she wasn't quite ready yet for an all-out brawl with this pigheaded idiot. I figured I'd let Alice in to hand it to him before he gets anywhere near our girl.

Thanks for sticking with me. XO