Chapter 13

Rosalie did not quite know how she had come to be here.

Standing in the kitchen, her nose prickling with the smell of burning eggs, she stared in disbelief at the mess she had made, at the terrible disarray of dishes and food that had taken over the kitchen. The counter was strewn with the evidence of her struggle— bread, crumbled and stale, from a bag that had not been properly sealed, and two broken eggs in the carton that she had grabbed too tightly. The butter was hard, rammed into a mug that was meant for coffee, there were three soiled knives that had fallen to the floor, and right in the middle of it all, trying her best to do something useful, was Rosalie, her fingers slick with grease and her face screwed up in frustration.

When the eggs began to smoke, she cursed, reaching at once to snatch the sizzling pan from the raging flame of the gas range.

"Damn it." The heat of the pan did not burn her, but the oil she'd used to grease it marked the front of her shirt as it splattered, making small pinprick stains in the spots where it had landed. The food inside was nauseating, at once undercooked and too dark, and as she flipped it onto a plate one of the eggs went sliding to the floor with a wet, sticky splat.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

"What are you doing, Rosalie?"

She froze, her fingers hovering over the pitiful meal she'd patched together and she sighed, her gaze roving disgustedly over the mess she'd made. She had never cooked before— not even as a human, when she'd been able to enjoy it— and the slop on the plate seemed to mock her. Her attempt at eggs was dubious at best, at once burned around the edges and runny in the middle, and the toast, like the sampling Alice had made earlier, was nearly black. The butter was too hard and had torn through the bread, and though the bacon seemed tolerable, she doubted whether the potato hash was cooked through. She had not known how to spice it and had settled for table salt, but as she spied the great clumps of it glistening in the steam, she had to wonder if she'd gone too far.

"Honestly? I have no idea."

Jasper only watched her, bemused and rather skeptical, before he tossed her a silver packet from the pantry, which she added to the tray with a grimace.

Rosalie would never understand the girl's craving for Pop Tarts.

Stalking up the stairs, her tray in hand, Rose moved quickly to the second floor landing. The tray in her hands smelled awful, the food scorched and singed, and the toast left more crumbs on the floor with each step she took. There was nothing else for it, she knew— she could have tried again to make something a little more palatable, but that attempt would prove no better, and no matter how she tried to cut it, Rosalie did not have the luxury oftime. She knew what Alice had seen in that quick, sudden vision. She knew what was coming, and what had transpired in the interim. She knew that her brother was on his way, and if history was any indicator, he would come quickly, and soon. Edward was heedless and impulsive at the best of times, and downright reckless at the worst, and though she would love nothing more than to see him knocked down in the dirt, she rather suspected that this wounded mortal holed up in her bedroom was not nearly strong enough to do it.

She was surprised, when she reached the landing, to find it silent and deserted. There was no one here to greet her, no one to stop her as she hovered anxiously near the door that would not open of its own accord. Esme had retreated to a place unknown and she could hear Carlisle in his office, shuffling papers at his desk. She did not doubt that he could hear her, too— their hearing was impeccable, after all— but he did not come to stop her, did not offer any sage advice for her to follow. Rosalie expected that Carlisle understood her purpose here. Their kindness was not the key, now— it was not gentle whispers and empty promises that the girl needed, but honesty, as clear and as plain as it could come. Rosalie was not good at hand-holding or speaking sweet words, but she was good at telling the truth, no matter how hard or bitter.

When Rose tried the doorknob she found it locked and she frowned, laying the tray on the floor at her feet. She listened at the door, pressing her cheek to the cold, hard wood, and beyond she heard the distinct sounds of panic, and of scrambling, shuffling feet.

She could hear the sniffling, and she hoped to God the crying had stopped. There was a little gasp of surprise from within when her weight made the door shift, and another again before she heard the telltale squeak of mattress springs. The sounds grew muffled, then, as if the girl had covered herself in her blankets, and when Rosalie reached down to pick the lock, she heard the heartbeat like the canter of a racehorse.

When she entered the room, she moved with purpose, her shoes clicking noisily on the floor as she moved beyond the threshold. The tray in her hands was warm— steam from the plate made condensation on her cold hands— and as she scanned the room, she frowned.

The room was impeccable, as was to be expected in a house managed by Esme, and there was not a hint of disarray but for the lumpy mess on the bed. The room was clear of clutter, the floors polished to the highest shine, and even the windows, which had accumulated a coating of dust in their absence from the house, had been wiped to a gleaming, shimmering sparkle. The room was bright though the sun was obscured, and the tall floor-to-ceiling windows more than made up for the unlit lamps. There were no clothes on the floor— they were all neatly piled in the dresser and on hangers in the closet— and any dirty laundry had been tucked away in the small wicker basket in the corner. There were no books and there was no television— nothing whatsoever by way of amusement— and Rose found it rather stark, and more than a little gloomy.

When she looked at the bed, she felt her frown deepen.

On the mattress, beneath a pile of golden blankets, lay the girl, her face as white as milk and her eyes wide with shock. She had not said a word to protest this strange intrusion and she simply stared at Rosalie as if dumbfounded, as if she could not make sense of her presence here, in this room. Rose had expected this— had forseen her confusion, her bewilderment— but she did not deny that it hurt a little when she saw the glimmer of fear, a wary sort of tension. Rosalie stood equally still so as not to frighten her further, her own awkwardness as brilliant as a moonbeam, and only when she sighed, closing the door and setting the tray on the edge of the bed, did the girl finally make a sound.

"Rosalie?"

"Hello Bella."

They searched each other carefully, one nervous, the other impatient, until Bella finally looked away, resting her cheek on a trembling hand.

To be here, Rosalie knew, was a great imposition, for of all of her family, Rose suspected that she was the least welcome, the least desired. She knew this to be her own fault for she, alone, had refused to let this girl in, to give her the love that came so naturally to the others. It was not as easy for Rosalie to speak from the heart, and that her heart was so raw and sore did not help matters much. Her own bitter temper often brought the wrong words, or gave the wrong impression.

Looking at her now, cowering in the bed, Rosalie could not honestly say that she had grown to like Bella Swan, but the girl had, at the very least, earned her loyalty.

And seeing her like this, Rosalie thought that she was really quite pitiful.

"I've brought you this," she said, and the girl glanced down at the tray without comment. "You don't have to eat it… god knows I wouldn't, if I were you."

This earned her a smile— small, and wry, but a smile nevertheless— and Rosalie filed it away as a small victory. Bella surveyed the steaming slop, her eyes suddenly bright with amused trepidation, before she settled on the silver foil packet, taking it with careful fingers.

"Jasper's addition," said Rose, and the girl looked away. "I guess he doesn't trust me."

"No…" Her voice was rough, but quick to soothe. "No, Rosalie. It looks…"

She trailed off into quiet embarrassment and Rosalie was not so proud to let her temper flare. The girl looked so wary, so nervous as she reached for the fork that Rosalie laughed, openly and with great amusement.

"Don't flatter me, Bella," she said, and the girl avoided a response by snapping off the corner of her cold pastry. "I know it's disgusting, but I suppose it's the thought that counts."

She grinned again, taking another bite.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Together they sat in silence for a few minutes longer while Bella ate her pastry and Rosalie watched, fascinated. She did not know what it was to eat, what it was to taste food and enjoy it, and while the smell of it was not offensive to her, it did not call out as something edible. Rosalie missed that, the satisfaction of a craving, and when the first tart had been consumed, the foil packet was abandoned.

Carefully, as if she did not want Rose to notice, Bella began to lift herself from her pillows, sitting herself upright in the bed. Rose could see the marks of the day on her— her cheeks, flushed vivid pink, were stained with tears, and her eyes were rimmed red from crying— but there were other scars, too, fainter and more subdued.

Rosalie was not learned in the ways of mortals, as she had never made the effort to see, had never taken an interest. Humans were a mystery to her— one that she at once longed to solve and simultaneously avoided like a bad smell. She could not recall most of her own human emotions— only those that had come at the very end— and she wondered, now, just how strongly they felt.

The girl before her was the greatest mystery of all, and as Rosalie watched her fidget, she did not know what to say. Bella's heart thrummed anxiously in her chest— a mark of her discomfort, too— and though she was not crying, her cheeks were flushed red with emotion, her eyes swimming with something that Rosalie could not read. She did not have her brother's gift— did not have his knack for knowing just where the hurt might be— and so she settled for watching, trying to discern that which she should already know.

Bella did not like being watched and as she took in Rose's stare, she grew first awkward, and then uncomfortable. She did not voice it— even now, she was too meek, too mild— but Rosalie did her the favour of averting her gaze when she reached for a piece of the burned toast. The butter had not melted— Rosalie could not explain why— and when Bella nibbled at a corner of it, she could not hide her sudden grimace.

Rosalie lifted herself from the bed, turning her face to the window.

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here," she said, and the girl only stared, the toast held limply in her fingers. "I suppose you're wondering why me."

"I just assumed that Emmett…"

Rosalie grinned, shaking her head.

"Emmett's still out on patrol," she said. "He has no idea I'm here with you."

At the word patrol Rosalie saw her body stiffen, her throat bobbing as she swallowed back her worry.

"You know what he's patrolling for?"

"Yes."

"And what do you think of that?"

The girl blinked at her, frowning.

"I… don't know."

"Yes you do." Rose was sharp. "You know exactly what you think."

Bella stared at her, eyes narrowed.

"I think it's stupid," she said finally, and Rosalie thought she saw a fissure in that armor, so weak, yet so determined. "I think the whole thing is ridiculous."

"Why?"

She scoffed, running a tissue over her nose.

"Because all she wants is me."

"Do you know why?"

"Because of what happened. Last year."

"Exactly." Rosalie recalled it clearly, that vivid game of cat and mouse. The tracker on the loose, hunting like a mad thing. The furious flight of the girl in the night. Her lies. Her deception.

And the look on Edward's face when he'd found out what she'd done— how she'd escaped— before he'd flown on wings of steel to bring her back again.

"Exactly, Bella."

The girl did not understand, and it showed quite plainly on her face.

"You know what Alice saw?" she asked, and this time, Bella flinched away. "I know she told you… that's why you're up here, isn't it?"

"I…"

"He's not coming back for us, Bella," said Rose, and then the girl did turn away, curling her knees up to her chest. "He's coming back for you, not us."

"He shouldn't."

"Oh yes he should."

She peeked, now, through the gap in her arms, and Rose saw the confusion there, the wonder.

"He absolutely should, Bella, because he shouldn't have left you in the first place. Even I can see that, now."

"He doesn't want me, Rosalie."

Oh, if only that were true.

"There have been things set in motion, Bella, that not even I can fully understand," she said, and the girl did not move, did not answer. "Things that even Carlisle can't comprehend, for all he's tried to study it."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Your bond," said Rose, and the girl flinched away. "Your bond with him."

"Not anymore…"

"I think there is."

"There isn't," she said darkly. "At least… not for him."

"Did he ever explain it to you?" asked Rose. "What it's like, for us? Has anyone ever told you?"

"He didn't have to."

"He should have."

"Well he didn't." The words were harder now, and petulant. "He didn't, Rosalie, and neither should you. I don't want to know…"

"No, but I think you already do."

She swallowed thickly.

"I just… I wanted things to be different, you know?"

"Different how?"

"Like they were… before."

Before…

"Before all of this." She pointed at herself, at the bed beneath her. "Before everything was so wrong."

"But we can't go back, can we?" Rose replied, and even to her, the question sounded bitter, rhetorical. "We can't go back, Bella, any more than we can go forward."

"I move forward every day."

"Yes, you do."

Bella's head snapped around, her face stormy and displeased.

"Is that what you want?" she asked, and at once, Rose saw her realization. "Is that really what you long for? To move forward?"

"It's the only thing I've ever wanted, Bella. It's all any of us really want."

The girl chewed on this for a moment.

"You don't know what it is to be frozen," said Rose. "To be stuck the way you are, forever held back. I know you've suffered— God knows, you've suffered— but you will recover, Bella, whether you believe it or not."

"My dad…"

"I know." Rose's words were soft, almost apologetic, as she saw the tears well up. "I know. It was a terrible tragedy— and worse, an avoidable one— and even I will tell you that I'm sorry because we should have done more."

"You didn't kill him."

"We may as well have." The words were sticky, somehow, thick and hot, but she got them out anyways, letting them hover in the air between them. "We may not have put our hands on him, but it was our negligence that caused it."

"You didn't…"

"We knew the risks," said Rose, and this time Bella did let her tears fall. "We knew how volatile our kind could be, and yet we left anyways. Edward thought you would be safe. He never dreamed—"

"Don't. Don't make excuses for him, please."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be that, either." She was angry now, and more than a little riled, and Rose reached out a hand to soothe her, but she was refused. Bella ducked away from her, shimmying awkwardly away before her hand could touch, and Rose felt the sting of rejection, of her refusal.

Not that she blamed her...

"Don't, Rosalie. Don't pretend. You don't even like me."

Rosalie frowned.

"I'm sorry about that," she said, and the frankness of it seemed to hurt her. "I'm sorry it's been that way… I won't deny it."

"Right…"

"Does that bother you? Me not liking you?"

There was embarrassment, then, and a little pinch of discomfort, and when she did not answer, Rose chuckled again. This piqued her, brought her little, kitten temper to the forefront, and Rose saw, for the first time, a spark of something that was not sadness, but irritation.

"No."

"You're a terrible liar," accused Rose, and the girl only huffed, turning away again.

"Why are you here?" she demanded, and at once, Rose fell short. "Why did you come here, really? I know it wasn't to deliver my breakfast on a tray."

"I'm sorry if I've upset you. It was never my intention…"

"What was your intention, then?" she demanded, her temper fizzling when Rose did not rise to it. "I don't understand you, Rosalie."

"No," Rose laughed. "I hardly understand myself, most days…"

"Why are you here?"

"I want to talk to you," she said. "And given the events of the day, I'm running rather short on time."

"Time?"

Rosalie did not answer.

"It's not your fault, you know."

"What isn't?"

"Me not liking you."

This time, her hurt showed plainly.

"Then why?" she asked, and Rose heard the desperation, the curiosity burning in her question. "I've never done anything to you. So why do you hate me so much?"

"Hate you?" Rose shook her head, lowering herself to the bed. "No. I've never hated you."

"What, then?" Bella demanded, and Rose felt a hot flush of shame. "What's the problem with me? I tried so hard to win you, Rosalie, and I failed at every turn…"

Rose ducked her chin, her lips pursed as her tongue struggled with the words.

"It's not hatred," she said, and Bella simply stared. "I mean it. I don't hate you, and I never have. I never got to know you well enough for my feelings to morph into something so strong…"

The silence drew on.

"I was jealous, Bella," she said finally, and the girl stared at her with perplexity. "I am jealous… as awful as that is, and as nonsensical as it might seem to you. I'm envious.

The bark laughter that came was sudden, and so sharp that it made Rosalie start. She eyed the girl with some concern, watching as tears welled up in those big, brown eyes, and when she laughed again, without a hint of humour, and let one roll down her cheek, she wiped it with her sleeve and turned away. When Rosalie caught her eye she seemed more bewildered than ever before and she stared in wonder before Rosalie, rather put off, schooled her features into something akin to disapproval.

"You're jealous of me?" The words were giddy, almost foolish. "Jesus Christ, Rosalie. What in the hell for? What could I possibly have that you want?"

Rose felt the scowl on her face before she could control it, but it did nothing to ease the incredulity on that tired, pale face.

"A great many things." She stood now, pacing the floor. "You have no idea, Bella, what it's like for us. What it's like to see what might have been…"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you!" The girl jumped and her laughter fell away. "I'm talking about all of the things you have that we never can. All of the wonder, the possibility…"

"The possibility of what?"

"Of life, Bella." Rose's voice went soft, and wistful. "Of real life. You've got the world at your fingertips, and yet you're so eager to throw it away."

The girl blushed, but did not refute her.

"There are things out there, in the world, that you've only ever dreamed of," said Rose. "Things that you can have, if that's what you want."

"I don't."

"You don't know what you want, because you're still so young. So young, Bella, and so hurt."

The girl said nothing.

"You've got your whole life ahead of you…" Rose snorted at her own sentimentality. "You've got everything waiting for you, but you have to be willing to take it."

"I don't want it."

Rosalie sighed.

"Not right now, but…"

"Not ever."

Rosalie opened her mouth again, but before she could speak, the girl interrupted.

"I don't want it, Rose, because I don't want anything without him." The admission seemed to hurt her, to sting. "I don't want any of it, because it means nothing to me, if he's not there."

And Rosalie did not refute her— did not feed her asinine lies about love and duty— for she knew, in her deepest heart, that the girl spoke the truth.

Without Emmett, Rosalie would be nothing. She was all of herself when he was with her and should he be taken from her, as Edward had taken himself from his mate, Rosalie knew that she, too, would have no hope. They would live forever, each entwined in the other's love, and should the worst happen, Rosalie knew that she would burn with him. Together they formed a whole— one soul, one purpose— and without that other half, there could be nothing left of her.

But still, she spoke.

"You don't know what you're going to miss, Bella," she said, and she peeled herself away to kneel at the bedside. The girl had covered her face with her hands, burying herself away so that her distress would not show, but Rosalie was quick, and careful. When her hands gripped those wrists, so thin that she could easily wrap her fingers all the way around, Rosalie was keenly aware of the heady pulse, the thrum of blood beneath her fingers. It was the first time Rosalie had ever touched her— the first time since her earliest years since she had placed her hands on any human— and the feel of it shocked her, so warm and so soft. Rosalie had always made a point of keeping her distance— of putting as much space between her and them as she possibly could— but there was nothing for it now, as she held those slender wrists in each of her hands. Her grip was unmovable, though Bella did not try to flee, and as Rosalie felt the swell of veins and capillaries with each breath and heartbeat, it saddened her to know that it might all be snuffed out.

"You don't know what you're giving up."

"I do know, Rosalie…" Her eyes were streaming now, and desperate. "I do know what I'm giving up, and that's the problem. What I'm giving up is the whole point."

And in that moment Rose felt it, like a quick, sharp crack in smooth glass.

The eyes that watched her were young— so infuriatingly, terribly young— and filled with all the naivety that her tender years demanded. There was no guile on Bella's face— no learned deception, or careful, calculated misguidance— and the sudden, overwhelming pity hit her with such force that it almost hurt. Rosalie had thought of Bella as an equal, as a rival in the realms of love and affection, but the truth of it was much gentler, and so much harder for Rose to take. By the law, she was a woman— grown up and ready to make her way in the world, as all adults should— but in reality, she was far, far less, and yet so wholly, obtrusively more. Rosalie had longed for a child all her life— had wanted to feel the swell of it beneath her skin, the little feet kicking from the inside— and she had wanted to love it, to watch it grow. It had been, and always would be, the utmost desire of her heart, and as she watched this pitiful face— this downcast, sorrowful thing— she finally understood where the tragedy came in. In that moment of quiet, Rosalie thought that she could see the child that the girl must have been, the child she had been just a year or so earlier, when she was still full of life and joy. Rosalie, herself, had witnessed the very end of that childhood when Edward had brought her home, though at the time she hadn't noticed hadn't seen this newcomer for the child that she was, did not give even the most basic care for her youth and inexperience, but instead, had thrust upon her all of the regrets from her own sorry youth, from her own failed attempts to return to the life she'd left behind.

Eighteen years was hardly a drop in the bucket compared to her own decades of experience, and this creature before her had as much of the child in her as she did the woman.

"You're giving up more than you think," Rose whispered, and the girl only scoffed, pulling herself away. "More than you could ever dream, Bella…"

"I'm useless…"

"You are not."

"I am," she argued. "It's all I've ever been. Stupid, and weak, and a liability…"

"You have life, Bella, and that's never without hope."

"I couldn't even die properly…"

"And that is a blessing."

"I've got nothing." Her voice was hard now, and pinched. "There's nothing left for me here. Not with all that's happened."

Rosalie sat back on her heels, surveying the girl with a critical eye. She was not used to this pity— to the queer ache that had taken up residence in her heart for this creature she had so heartily disliked just an hour ago— and it threw her off-kilter, made her wary. That pale face was resolute, so certain in her proclamation that it took Rosalie a moment to gather herself, and when she did, she spoke as kindly as she could.

"And what would you call us, then?" she asked, and the girl froze in place. "If you've got nothing, what do you call us?"

"You left," she said, and there was sorrow this time, and confusion. "You all left…"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Rosalie blew out a breath.

"Because he asked us to," she said simply. "Because he asked, Bella, and we obliged."

"Alice didn't even say goodbye."

This childish regret, so poignant, made Rosalie pause as she surveyed her. Bella tried to hide it, though she was not a good liar, and there was hurt there, and resentment. It stuck in her like a fine, sharp needle, just thick enough to sting, and Rosalie saw how she had nursed that wound until it festered, leaving an ugly, sour mark.

"None of us did," she pointed out. "He thought it would be easier that way. To give you a clean break."

"It didn't work."

"Evidently not."

"And he's coming back."

"Yes…"

"Why, Rosalie?" Her gaze was suddenly fierce, fiery with passion and grief. "Why is he coming back?"

And Rosalie froze, her words raining down like fire.

"He's coming back because he loves you, Bella. Because he wants you safe."

"He doesn't."

"Yes, he does."

Rosalie did not approve of it— had never approved of Edward's corruption of her innocence, his brazen disregard for their one and only rule of secrecy— but not even she could deny the truth of it.

"No…"

"Yes." Her word was hard, and final. "Yes, Bella, he does. No matter what he's said to you, or what he's done…"

"He left."

"I never said he was smart."

She didn't even crack a smile.

"He's coming back to die for me," she said, and Rose saw her fear, then, her terror. "He's coming back to risk his life… and for what? For me?"

"Yes," said Rose, because this was the hard, ugly truth of it. They had all come back for this— Carlisle and Esme to protect their family, with Emmett, Alice and Jasper in tow. Rose would not let Emmett fight alone— not unless she, too, could be there to defend him— and Edward…

"He's coming back for you, Bella," said Rose. "I don't think he gives a damn about any of us right now. His one and only worry is, and always has been, you."

She began to cry in earnest, and Rose was as bewildered as she was frustrated.

"Is that not what you want?" asked Rose, and the girl began to tremble, to shake. "Is that not what you've wanted all along?"

"I don't know," she said, and Rose handed her a tissue. "I don't know what I want, Rosalie, because I don't know who he is."

"He's your mate, Bella… no matter how much we all skirt around it. He's your mate."

"I don't have a mate."

"Yes, you do…"

"But he chose to leave."

"I can't make excuses for him, as you so plainly told me," said Rose, though her words seemed to have no effect. "I can't tell you why he does the things he does… I don't think he even understands it, really. All I know is that he wants you safe, and that he'd do anything— be anything— to make sure that happens."

"It didn't work…"

"No," said Rose. "No, it didn't. And do you know why?"

"No."

"Because he didn't factor in the most important thing," she said, and when she stroked her hand down Bella's back, she felt her shiver. "He didn't factor in you, and that has been his greatest oversight. He never thought you'd disobey him— never thought you'd break your promises— and so he never realized that the greatest threat to your safety was yourself, the one thing he couldn't take away from you."

"I don't matter, Rosalie…"

"Have you heard nothing I've said?"

The girl turned away, pressing her face into the pillow.

"He wants you, Bella, of that, I'm sure."

She said nothing.

"And whether you like it or not, my brother is coming back," she said, and the answering sigh was heavy, and full. "Whether he likes it or not, he's coming back. He won't refuse Carlisle's call— not when we need him— and when he gets here, I know he's going to want to see you."

At once, she shook her head.

"I would be the last person on the face of the earth to tell you what you must do, Bella," she said, and the girl listened, perturbed. "I would be the last person in the world to tell you to give him the time of day. As far as I'm concerned, he doesn't deserve it. Not after what he's done. But I do know that that's exactly what he'll want— what I'm sure he already wants."

"I don't want to see him…"

"You wanted to be him, once. You wanted to be like us."

Her stare was hard, and plaintive.

"Not anymore. God, Rosalie… not anymore." she whispered and Rose stood, her eyes downcast.

She could not deny the joy of those words— the utter gladness that this girl, at least, had gained some sense— but there was a sadness in it too, a regret. Rosalie knew the ramifications of her choice either way— she knew the sacrifice of the Change and the inevitable decay of fleeting human life. No matter what, there was a cost: should she live, as she was now, her death was unavoidable— it would be her inevitable, foreseeable end, as it was for all of her kind. She would age and she would wither, and when her life was over she would slip away. The beauty Rosalie had envied would fade— her complexion of cream and roses would dull to wasted grey, her smooth, satin-soft skin loosening with wrinkles. The nutty red-brown of her hair would lighten to silver, and she would lose her senses— sight and sound. She would grow old and her trials would leave their marks on her like a roadmap, and Rosalie would follow each one, watching where they might lead. The end would come for her, too soon and yet so far off, and at the very last her family would be waiting— her father, her mother, and everyone else that had gone before her.

But before that end, there would be love— not like the love of her mate, but perhaps something to satisfy, to soothe— and there would be children, and maybe grandchildren. Rosalie had no doubt that she would be a mother— she had the kindness for it, and the patience— and though her envy was strong, Rosalie did not begrudge her. She could live the life that Rosalie only dreamed of— a life with porch swings, and babies, and sweet, summer nights… a life of warmth, and a life of joy.

She had wanted to be like them— to undergo that terrible, halting change that would leave her eighteen forever— and the thought of it made Rosalie sick, and sad. They were not the natural way of things— their life was not to be envied, for all its longevity. Bella had asked for this, had demanded it so impertinently from her brother before their great undoing, and Rosalie knew how close he'd been to giving in, to obliging. Bella had wanted it, had been willing to embrace it, but now…

Not anymore.

"That is your right," said Rose, and she spoke with such ferocity that the girl looked up, surprised. "That is your right, Bella, to choose. We will not take that choice from you… it is yours, and yours alone."

Outside the door, she heard the quiet sigh of her father as he listened to her words.

"Too many choices have been made for you already," said Rose, and when her father cracked the door open, neither of them took notice. "Too many decisions made, for you and without you… but not anymore."

Carlisle's face was pinched, his eyes swimming with terrible, awful regret.

"Rose…"

She looked up at him, frowning.

"It's alright."

"No, it's not." He was beside her then, his eyes flickering between his eldest daughter and his youngest. "It's not, Rose, and I'm sorry."

When he hugged her, she did not resist him, letting him bring his arms around her to hold her to him, as he so rarely did. Her father seldom hugged her— she was not as receptive to it as Alice, or Esme— but when he did, Rosalie knew that she was loved. For all his mistakes, each action he'd taken to save her, to preserve her, had come from the heart and she could not fault him for that, no matter how angry she was.

"You've been forgiven ten times over," she said, and it was the truth, no matter how it hurt. "You did what you thought was right. You acted out of love."

He laughed, strained and sorry, before he sat on the edge of the bed, his hand on Bella's face.

"Love," said Carlisle, and the word hung in the air like a ghost. "Sometimes, I wonder if it's all really worth it."

And when he kissed the girl, so soft and so gentle on the apple of her cheek, Rosalie knew that despite his pessimism, he was just as much a slave to it as the rest of them.

A/N: Thanks for your love and support. This one, like a few before it, gave me quite a bit of trouble and I didn't get nearly as far as I would have liked. We're heading into crunch time soon, with only 20-ish chapters planned, and while I wanted to reintroduce Edward and Bella in this one, it didn't quite happen. Next chapter we'll deal more with Ed, and hopefully we'll get to see what Bella does with him when they come face to face.

Also, I hope that this helps to redeem Rosalie, even just a little. She's still a little prickly, but not so heartless as she might have seemed before.

XO