Rosalie found herself surrounded by the fat trunks of ancient trees.

She had never much cared for the outdoors. Not the uncivilized portions of it anyway. She actively avoided the woods before being turned, which was a simple enough feat in the city. To her, nature had been the distasteful domain of creeping, crawling things. It was the place where the inconsistent conditions of the weather reigned supreme, posing a constant threat to the precisely set waves of her hair, the fine lines of her makeup.

At least the cold meant the ground on which she stood was firm—not muddy. At least her status as a predator intimidated the morning birds that had not migrated away for the winter into silence.

She didn't think she could tolerate any inane squawking just then. She thought if she heard the slightest cheerful chirp, she would likely scream.

Rosalie rose from her crouch, letting the drained corpse of the deer she'd been clutching drop to the forest floor. It was a large buck with a fitting pair of antlers. The branched horns struck ground first as its rubbery neck bent at an extreme angle, the well-developed points gouging the deepening snow. Its eyes were open. They peered out emptily, uncomprehending, fixed wide with shock.

She lifted her gaze to the barren treetops. She went on staring for a blank while, watching the stubby twig ends of the branches quiver in the wind. If she looked down, it would be at the risk of catching a glimpse of her dress, and she couldn't bear to see the state of her lovely coral satin now.

It was ruined. She could feel that it was. Not only by the weight at the bottom of the skirt, the ruffled ends soaked through and attempting to fuse to her ankles, but also by the blood spatter warming a broad swath of her chest.

She struggled to pinpoint the exact moment it sprayed onto her. She hadn't felt it when it landed, her mind and body hijacked by the deafening siren call of free-flowing, human wounds. It took every scrap of willpower she possessed not to pursue the scent. Desperately scratching and clawing, she kept hold of just enough sanity to recall what Edward had said about the trees over the hill.

That hill may as well have been the steepest mountain in all the world, for all the strength it cost her to climb it. Attacking the deer hadn't been a conscious choice. She was, at that point, reduced to nothing but ash and rubble, a crazed creature willing to contort herself in any fashion that would at all dampen the flames engulfing her throat. No matter how far she ran, the scent of the battered men remained on the back of her tongue, feeding the fire.

The animal blood had come as such a bitter disappointment to her body, she had choked on the first swallow. But she forced it down, and drank, and drank, until the foul-tasting liquid was the only flavor in her mouth. Until she was capable of thinking and resisting the urgent need to turn around and devour once again.

Time seemed to have stopped. She wished there was some mechanism at her disposal to wind it backward.

A faint whistling sound interrupted the gentle hiss of the breeze. It was barely discernible at the start but grew rapidly higher and louder, like a bullet whizzing toward her ear.

Rosalie recognized the jet stream of another vampire's approach. She was well acquainted with the wiry lightness in the footfalls of the one speeding nearer to her, always that bit quicker than Carlisle's, or Esme's, or her own. She caught Edward's scent in the air, identifying it with vague relief. He had made it up the hill too. They had both made it.

He weaved between the tree trunks and past her, coming to a halt a few paces away. His back was to her, his coat gone and shirt rumpled. His bronze hair appeared even more hopelessly disheveled than before.

"Well," Rosalie said, striving for a casual tone but not quite able to manage it. "That was just dreadful."

"That's an understatement."

"Did… Was the man shot, do you know? I honestly can't recall ever hearing the gun go off."

"No, he wasn't shot." He paused. The elaboration that followed came in a burst, the flurry of words so rapidly strung together, it almost seemed as though he had slipped into another language altogether. It took a small amount of effort to break the phrases apart. "He ran off. He stumbled a few times in the rush to get away, ripped the knee of his trousers, scraped both his hands. He was quite shaken by the… by what transpired. But he'll be fine. Frank Lester—the one with the gun—never had a chance to fire."

Edward's response was altogether too confident, too detailed for anyone who had not actually witnessed what had happened to recount. There was something… peculiar about his voice as well. His pronunciation was not so precise as it typically was, the vowels stretching out a hint too long, the consonants rubbery and muddled.

The relief Rosalie had felt at the familiar smell of him thinned and wavered. She turned up her nose, taking a second, more discerning whiff. His scent wasn't markedly different. The composition seemed much the same, but, now that she was searching for it, it became evident the overall impression had undergone a change. It seemed a touch sweeter, a slight bit more appealing, perhaps.

Rosalie held her breath. "What stopped him?"

"I think you know."

She darted around the deer corpse, fearing she might choke again. Her leg collided with one of the antlers, the upswing of her calf breaking the top half of it clean off. The bony snap reverberated through the woods, the splintered piece tumbling across the ground, upsetting the decaying carpet of browned pine needles and dried, discarded leaves.

"No. I'm sure that I don't."

Edward twisted toward the jagged fragment of antler. It was overturned and rocking in place some distance away, its points extending up and curving outward like unsheathed claws. "Your control is truly remarkable, Rosalie. I know I've never told you that in so many words, and, for that, I'm sorry."

She was shaken by the amount of satisfaction that pulsed through her at his praise—his apology. The soaring sensation that bubbled beneath her skin was somehow more potent and heady than what she had felt at the party, being bathed in the balmy acknowledgments of an entire ocean of strangers. The strength of her reaction annoyed her, angered her even. Just when had Edward's opinion come to mean so much to her? But that jab of irritation didn't stand a chance of surfacing. She felt an aspect of herself she took pride in had been seen by him at last.

She approached him, steeling herself. She needed to see the proof of the horror. She wouldn't be able to fully believe her suspicions about what had become of the gunman until she'd been permitted to inspect the evidence firsthand.

"Look at me."

He didn't reply, didn't obey. His head rolled about his shoulders, seeming to follow the meandering descent of the bits of snow fluttering down before him.

"Edward."

"You don't want to see them. They're ghastly."

"It's not as though I haven't seen red eyes before—on Esme, on myself when I was new." Her shock distanced her from what she was saying. It kept her insulated from what was surely a rising tide of disgust and bitter betrayal, enabling her to give voice to more readily available, simpler impulses. "But I am curious what you look like. I've never seen the red eyes on you."

A low, rumbling chuckle made his body quake. His back seemed very loose. There were no visible points of tension at all.

"You would think of it that way, wouldn't you? A new look, a fashion experiment. Some accessories I'm trying on to see if they fit. Well, all right, then, Rosalie." Edward spun around and lurched toward her. "What do you think? Do they suit me?"

His eyes were startling and very close.

Her jaw clenched, her body hardened to stone by the eerie hue of them.

They were like Esme's had been when she'd succumbed. They were a poorly blended two-tone.

The human blood had dispersed from the inside outward, the red darkest and richest around his constricted pupils. It became more diluted the farther out one looked. The center of the iris was nearly orange, a watered down sort of color lacking in conviction. Just a tiny ring of unsullied gold remained at the outermost edge, bordering the beginnings of the whites of the eyes.

The vivid confusion had clashed with Esme. Her heart-shaped face suited her so well because she was so obviously guided by the love she felt. Everything she had ever done for Rosalie had been a display of affection, whether that meant a supportive arm wound tight round her shoulders, a kiss on her cheek, or gentle fingers helpfully unraveling tangles in her hair. It had felt impossible to reconcile the practically palpable warmth of her spirit with the grim deed the eyes signified. Rosalie had found it discomfiting to be around Esme in the immediate aftermath of her mistakes. She'd recoiled from her touches and avoided lingering in her presence anymore than necessary until enough time had passed for the gold to appear untarnished again.

It was different with Edward. The eyes looked at odds with his features too, in a way, since the overall impression of his face retained unfortunate amounts of boyish innocence. But his demeanor had always been more liberally shaded than Esme's, his commentary never shying from the dismal realities of their existence, his humor dry and often double-edged. (All much more in agreement with Rosalie's own sensibilities, if she was being altogether truthful.) Perhaps that was why she could not help forming the opinion that the pollution of the human blood fit him, notwell, butbetter than it had Esme. The stains aligned with what she knew of him a bit more logically.

Which made his stare all the more unsettling to behold.

"No." She averted her gaze, her attention fleeing from one travesty to another as she accidentally spied the wreckage she'd made of her dress. She didn't want to be honest. She disliked her own thoughts on the matter. "They don't suit you at all."

Edward laughed. Once, hard, and unkindly. "You're normally a better liar than that, you know. Much more convincing."

"What did you do with the body? I hope for all our sakes you weren't so far out of your head as to leave it out in the street."

"It's been disposed of. In a very thorough manner. No one will find it."

Rosalie did not trust the dreamy distance in his voice. She forced herself to look up. "You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. I have gotten rid of bodies before—quite a lot of awful minds and awful bodies, as we were just discussing in that delightful conversation earlier."

Far apart from the toddler's outfit in the shop window, that cursed window into everything which had been stolen from her, Rosalie's agony had dulled to the sore sense of deprivation she always toted about with her. She could think clearly again, as she hadn't been able to even before the scent of fresh blood invaded the air. When she recalled what she'd said to Edward, she immediately wished the conversation would go the way of human memories, fading and atrophying so long as she did not dwell upon it.

"I'm… sorry too, Edward, for saying all of those things to you. I was upset. I didn't mean them."

"Yes, you did. My rebellion has always repulsed you. For good reason. I happen to be in complete agreement with your conclusions."

Her immediate instinct was to accept his assurances, to cast aside the regret that plagued her like a poorly tailored frock. She grit her teeth. "Even still. It wasn't the time or place. I hate to think I cost you any amount of willpower, just before..."

He blinked at her and tilted his head, appearing startled by her words. He sounded more present, clearer, when he spoke again.

"I appreciate your concern. I do, but it's unnecessary. Really, Rosalie, you didn't inform me of anything I didn't already know. I committed the murder. No one else."

"Well, I suppose someone was going to. Commit murder. One way or another. The man was going to shoot."

"And not for the first time."

"No?"

"Far from it. Frank Lester has—had—a rather extensive history of taking bets and never placing them, pocketing the money entrusted to him for himself. He'd come to anticipate eliminating those who made a fuss about the way he conducted business. Pulling the trigger was quite a thrill for him."

Rosalie swallowed the venom pooling in her mouth. This added context made it somehow easier to cling to matters of cold, stunned practicality. She waited for the feelings of betrayal and disgust for what Edward had done to materialize, but her sentiments toward the whole ordeal remained mild and remote. Clearly Lester was no great loss to the Earth. And, after all, hadn't she felt righteous in ridding the world of those who had reveled in destroying her?

But that had been entirely different. More personal. Therefore, more justified. Even Carlisle agreed she was owedit.

She glared hard at the ground. She felt no regret over her revenge. Only immense satisfaction and a brutal, though cruelly incomplete sense of victory. So many things that had been stolen from her that night could not be regained.

"Don't interrogate yourself on my account. The situations aren't the least bit comparable," Edward told her firmly. "This was wrong of me, I know. Terribly wrong. You were right."

"What about?"

"Before the party, when you thought of my… ranking with respect to our household. I am without a doubt the weakest of us all."

Rosalie needed to wash. She was desperate to change. The buck's blood drying on her dress and skin was growing revoltingly stiff and sticky. If she squinted through the gaps between the trees, she could just make out the faint line of the dirt road which led into town.

"Let's go home," she urged.

"I can't go home. Not like this. You'll have to head back on your own."

"Edward, don't be stupid!"

He ran in the opposite direction.

Rosalie gave chase, though keeping him in sight was an even more difficult task than usual. He was faster than ever before. Though she too had just fed, the animal blood working its way through her system put her at a notable disadvantage when measured against the human blood fueling his. His strides were longer, yet his steps seemed more rapid, his movements shockingly precise even by her estimation. His navigation was also strange. He shifted direction unexpectedly, almost erratically. No sooner would she catch a glimpse of the back of his head, his bronze hair a helpfully distinctive color, than he would make a sharp, sudden turn and vanish in a renewed rush of speed.

Finally, after a particularly abrupt maneuver, Rosalie lost him entirely. She came to a halt, unable to catch any further hint as to how best to proceed, the wind blowing in such a way as to render even her sense of smell useless. She looked side to side, searching for any break in the whitening, dusty landscape.

That was when Edward started to hum. He was close, much closer than she had thought. His voice was continuous, and it got neither louder nor softer as she listened, clearly emanating from one fixed place. He was holding still.

Rosalie let the music lead her, much like the radio always crooning a path to his room at home, and found him almost instantly.

He was lying on his back now, on the ground. His lips were pressed together in wordless melody. The tune was the same as the song he had admitted to liking at the party.

She lowered herself to the forest floor—her dress was already hopeless—and sat beside him.

He cracked open one clashing eye. "I thought you wanted to go home."

"I do."

"You didn't have to follow me."

"You didn't have to follow me to the shop window either, but you did, even though it was poison for you."

"It was poison for you too."

Rosalie nodded. It had definitely been that—the little sailor's outfit a poker jabbed into a bed of hot coals. The impulse to see it, she now realized, was an undeniably destructive one. She was sorry Edward had bore the brunt of her agony, but also shuddered to think what that storm of caustic emotion might have done to her with nowhere to redirect it.

"I'm glad you were there," she admitted. Maybe that was selfish, but it was genuine as well.

It was silent for a few moments.

Edward took up humming again, but the activity didn't seem to put him at ease. His expression never smoothed. At length, he sat up, fingers pressed to his temple.

She noticed again the change in how he moved. There was a certain strain absent the motion, a sharpness missing from his gestures that she hadn't been aware of before it was gone. She had deliberately avoided observing Esme too closely after her mistakes. Any curiosity she felt about the experience of drinking human blood had been shamefully shoved aside and stomped down in Carlisle's presence.

There was no point in wondering. It simply wasn't the way her family lived, and Rosalie was leagues above such grotesque savagery.

And yet…

Carlisle wouldn't hear her now.

The question surfaced in her mind far faster than she could bring herself to say it. How does it feel?

Edward didn't appear troubled by her asking. If anything, he developed an air of gratitude, as if the request to describe the effects had drawn him out of some much more unpleasant preoccupation. The hand pressed to the side of his head fell away.

"Physically speaking? There aren't words," he sighed. His speech became slightly less clear as he went on, as if dwelling upon the sensations was strengthening the blood's influence. "Euphoric might apply, I suppose, but the pleasure is secondary… the pleasure's not even the best of it. Not by a mile. The best part—the very best—is the total absence of pain. Just now, there is no fire, Rosalie. There is no burn in my throat."

Rosalie was suddenly all too aware of the lingering irritation in hers, the dry, scratchy, always grating lack which she could never be rid of. She had only just hunted. There were no human scents in the air. The need was at its lowest, least insistent level—well, nearly. If she had happened upon some pointy-toothed carnivore in lieu of the deer, it would have resulted in something a bit closer to relief. But that was the most a vampire could hope for on their diet. The goal was a pale shadow of satisfaction only a few notches nearer to inner peace on a sliding scale than to maddening torture. There was no victory to be achieved in their fight. Fulfillment was only ever defined in terms of keeping strong enough to sustain the battle.

She couldn't fathom anything else. She'd never tasted it.

"You don't feel the thirst? Not even a little?"

"Not at all."

"How… how long does that last?"

"Too long." Edward took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, as though luxuriating in that single, incredibly basic and apparently painless act. "On the other hand, it's never permanent, so nowhere near long enough."

"I can't imagine."

"Good. It's better that way. Much easier to abstain if you can't call to mind why, exactly, you want so badly to indulge in the first place."

Rosalie finally felt an inkling of disgust, but it didn't stem from the place she expected. It gave her pause. How was it that talk of killing and the dead man had not repulsed her, while the mere mention of indulgence did?

When she took her revenge, the sense that the blood of her attackers would contaminate her in some way, the hard certainty that she had wanted no part of them inside her, had been overpowering enough to prevent her from drinking from them. Her feelings at that time, in that particular situation, made complete sense to her. However, she hadn't realized her sentiments then had farther reaching implications.

"I don't care that you killed him," she said, voice harsh in the wake of her revelation. "I thought I should, but I don't. I don't think I care that you killed any of them. You stopped them from destroying anyone else. It's just vile that you let them become a part of you."

Edward didn't even blink, not as shaken as she was by this fresh insight. Perhaps he had worked this out from the tenor of her thoughts awhile ago. "That's how I persuaded myself, once, but I didn't want to act like them anymore, think like them. Ah, well..." He picked at bits of snow in the pine needles beneath him. "And I don't see consuming blood the same way you do."

"What other way is there to see it?"

He shrugged one shoulder, continuing to gaze down. There were no signs he had any intention of continuing the conversation. His legs bent, visibly drawing inward.

"I'm going home," Rosalie announced and stood. She couldn't bear to wear the blood or the soggy dress a minute longer. "You really won't come with me?"

"I'd rather stay here awhile."

"Fine," she spat, suddenly seething with frustration. "Spend the next eternity in the middle of nowhere, sulking. At least I won't have to watch."

She waited for a retort, hoped for it, but he said nothing.

Rosalie spun round and put her back to him, tossing the knotted net of her hair over one shoulder. As she tried to determine the most expedient route back to civilization, images from earlier in the evening intruded on her evaluation of the dormant forest. A matter of hours before, she had been hoisting an untouched glass of golden, fizzy champagne high into the air and going through the motions of wishing all a happy new year. There was a chorus of cheering. People regarded her with an absolutely ideal mix of envy and admiration. It was a very natural thing to hold very still as she remembered.

"It isn't exactly a promising start to 1935, is it?" Edward piped up from behind her. There was a slight breeze. Leaves rustled. Now standing beside her, he continued, "I'm sorry I ruined your New Year's Eve."

She pictured the people, the applause, their dancing… "It wasn't all ruined."

"I suppose you could consider it an educational experience." Edward's tone lightened, though it was a hopeless, hollow sort of change, as if he'd been emptied and wrung out. "A little lesson, shall we say. Disgraced vampires, 101. With a specific focus on human blood consumption and how it feels to give in."

Rosalie needed the joke. She wasn't entirely sure she found it funny, but she laughed. She laughed hard –with great whooshing exhalations and a touch of hysteria.

When the fit passed, she felt much steadier, more resolved. She looked ahead without any golden flickers obstructing her vision, and she knew which path she wanted to take.

"When you come home," she told Edward with pointed emphasis, "we'll go dancing again."

The corner of his mouth lifted just the smallest bit. "I look forward to it."

She took off running. She couldn't wait to return to the house.

Once she got out of her dress, she was going to burn it.