To be honest, Carlisle probably hadn't written in a week. And his research had been minimal, at best. Truly, a lot of the books he read were on wood carving and repair, held tightly in his hands as he read in the hopes of restoring his father's cross. Maybe it was ridiculous to think he could repair it. Maybe he was overreacting. He and his father had never been the best of friends – not that that sort of father-son relationship existed in those days – but he had followed in the man's footsteps. He had respected him, and his only memory lay in that cross. And for that, Carlisle would do everything he could to fix it.

Unfortunately, that meant his attentions had been occupied elsewhere. He had knowingly neglected his book, which was so very close to being finished. He hadn't been hunting in over a week. And his family had been likewise ignored, even his wife, and for that he felt awful. He really had to shape up, and he ought to start now. Closing the chapter he had been reading on wood glue, Carlisle stood from behind his desk and headed out of his study.

He came downstairs to find that in her emotion and stress, Esme had cleaned the entire house from top to bottom, and was currently on her hands and knees under the dining room table, scrubbing the underside of it. Her face was concentrated and her hand was moving so fast he was surprised she hadn't broken through the heavy wood of the table.

"Esme?" he called out, bending down to look at her. She stopped in her ministrations for just a moment, glancing over at him before returning to her task.

"I must've missed the marks underneath here when I bought it," she said. "Hand me the polish?"

He gave her the small bottle, watching silently as she used an old rag to bring the already-gleaming table legs to an even brighter shine. Cleaning was her way of coping, he knew, but he had never seen her quite so intense. She wrapped the rag around the bottle when she was finished and moved out from under the table.

"I have the what-not to polish next, and the sidetables," she said quickly, distractedly. "And I suppose I'll clean the glass in the curio cabinet and sweep down the porch. Then wash out the linens and reorganize the cabinet and –"

"Esme!" Carlisle almost had to shout it to get her attention. His hands were on her shoulders, calming her with his touch, but he could still feel her body thrumming underneath his palms. "You can't keep stressing yourself like this. You need to calm down."

"I can't calm down," she said, and ever her voice was stressed. "It's a coping mechanism I suppose, to get over…well, everything that's happened in the last few months."

He nodded. "I know, darling, but you have to relax. Seeing you like this…it can't be good for the others, because it's certainly not good for me."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Come. Hunt with me. Take your mind away for a bit."

Esme frowned, a worried look on her face. "I don't know…"

"You don't know?" He smiled, seeing if perhaps a light tease would make her better. "How can you not know unless you try? When's the last time you ate?"

"Five weeks ago."

Carlisle blanched. "Five weeks?"

She nodded. "I just haven't been…hungry."

The physician in him came out and he took her face in his hands, tilting her head this way and that, peering in her eyes and throat before looking at her seriously. Something was wrong, very wrong, if she hadn't succumbed to her hunger in so long yet was still functioning at such a rate. "We're going hunting. Now."

His hands moved to hers, guiding her through the door that led from the dining room into the kitchen. Esme's eyes darted around the room as they entered, making Carlisle wonder…then see what she was looking at it, something so hard to miss he questioned how he had not seen it the second he walked in. The entire room – every plate and pan and spare inch of countertop – was crowded with cupcakes, each perfectly frosted and meticulously decorated in every color of the rainbow, enough to feed a small school. Hundreds of beautiful, scrumptious treats…that would go to rot in the Cullen household.

Carlisle tightened his grip on Esme's hand. "Hunting. Now," he said urgently, then muttered under his breath, "Before we both lose our minds."


Freelance Webmaster wanted to create and modify websites for various independent companies. Inquiries to T. Cheek, 306-555-2365.

Jasper filed the number away in his mind to call later, at a more reasonable hour than 2:47 in the morning. In the meantime, he stretched back in his rolling chair, leaning away from his laptop so he could straighten out his long legs. The apartment was entirely decorated now, or at least he thought it was. The furniture was in and a few photos and pieces of art had been hung on the walls, enough to satisfy his simple tastes. That didn't stop Alice from bringing new things back to the penthouse to "make it more homey," she said. He doubted to her it would ever be so, but he kept his mouth shut.

Alice had been handling the situation very well. She had been quiet, yes, but she had started smiling after about a day or so of keeping herself shut in. When they had gone hunting yesterday, she hadn't eaten anything despite his worries that she was looking too pale, but she had gone happily with him, following him into the forests just outside the city and keeping an eye on the future to make sure they'd be undiscovered. He had drunk his fill and she had been there for him after and life had been as near perfect as it could get, all things considered. Yes, he was much happier in their own place away from the turmoil and emotion at home, but he still did miss his family very much…and Alice's sadness at being away from them was too much to bear on its own sometimes.

Currently, she was shut up in the bedroom she had turned into a studio, working diligently on her next packet of designs to be sent to the production team in Europe. She didn't like anyone to see them until all 50 or so of her final sketches were completed, but Jasper could tell from her emotions – other than her intermittent melancholy – that she was pleased with what she was doing, but also very, very busy. When they weren't out on a hunt, on the phone with the family, or having quiet time together, she was shut up in her studio, emerging infrequently and asking not to be disturbed except for when her P.A. or publicist or manufacturer called. Jasper was almost happy to disturb her then, especially when it was one of the days she locked herself away for hours.

This time it was her French publicist, a twittery young woman who always called around three in the morning with a thick accent Jasper had to always take a moment to decipher. He put her on hold and knocked on the studio door. Alice poked her head out, obscuring the room behind her.

"It's Sabine," Jasper said, holding the phone out. Alice slipped from the studio, her pincushion fastened to her wrist by a little Velcro strip, and took the phone, holding it to her ear as she walked to the desk. Jasper half-listened to her fast-paced French, more focused instead on eyeing the inside of the studio beyond the door she had left slightly open. He could see her desk piled with forms and letters and a little pink laptop, a dress form half-covered in green satin strips intricately woven together, and the wall beyond where her bulletin board was absolutely covered in sketches. His curiosity got the better of him – and besides, her back was turned and Sabine could talk for hours – and Jasper tiptoed into the room to stare at his wife's magnificent work.

This time, however, it was too unsettling to be magnificent. Alice was so particular about each and every sketch that she finished, checking in her mind to make sure it would be taken well the in the fashion community; this meant she rarely had more than forty or fifty final sketches to send in per season. But there had to be at least one hundred finished sketches on the board, each fully colored and signed with her initials in the corner. Jasper turned…and found that the other wall was covered in finished designs too, at least another hundred, designs Alice had to have been working on day and night for weeks to complete. And they weren't her normal, delicately done sketches. The ones on the bulletin board were almost all perfect…but some had strange shapes coming off the figures or were colored outside the lines. The drawings on the wall were even more obscure and messy, some not even looking like dresses at all but rather like large impressionist blobs fluttering against the wall like colorful, mystifying birds. One wasn't even a dress at all, just a large charcoal scribble on a blank sheet of paper. What had happened to her? What was happening now? How had she found the time for it all? She wasn't a slave to her work…or at least he thought. This proved something to the contrary…and also something to worry him.

He moved to the desk, going through the papers there, hoping to find something that would explain her excessive amount of work…and the steady decline in her talent. Perhaps the production company had wanted more than just the normal amount. Maybe she was expanding her line and had forgotten to tell him. Maybe she was testing out some new style of drawing or wanted to change careers and become an artist again or maybe she was just expressing stress she couldn't give to him. But shouldn't he have felt that anyways? He felt her sadness so keenly. How could he have missed this?

"Jazz?"

Alice was standing in the open doorway, the phone clutched to her chest. Jasper froze, a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Sabine, je te rappelle," she murmured into the phone before hanging up and putting it down on the bookshelf just inside the studio door. He met her gaze, watching the upset and questions and strange and infrequent anger building up there and feeling it spark in the air around him.

"Alice," he said, slow and pleading, hoping to ease her down with his voice and his gift. But over time, Alice had become almost immune to his charms, and they worked only to lessen her emotions, not to erase them entirely.

"Don't you dare, Jasper," she said, waving a hand at him to stop his ministrations. "You are the one who went snooping. What are you doing in here when I asked you to wait until I was done?"

"Me?" He gawked at her. "What is all this? Why have you done so many sketches? And…and what's with the change in your work?" It was the easiest way he could make the blow, and he prayed it wouldn't make her angry…or angrier.

"How do you know this isn't the way I always work?" she asked tersely. The question was a good one; she never let anyone see her process, only the final product. Even so, she had never had her own office before, just a simple easel and a sketchbook in their bedroom, and the papers that were thrown away each time had been minimal, with Alice drawing only what she knew would be the best reviewed. This was not like before, not at all.

"I know it isn't," he replied simply.

"I never let you see before, how can you know?" Her anger was unlike her…but they had never been away from the Cullens before, at least not since becoming one of the family. She had a right to be angry at him, but he also had the responsibility of making sure she was alright. Because if something was wrong with Alice, something would most certainly be wrong with him too.

"Because I know you, Alice. This isn't like you. Why are you working this way?"

"I don't know."

"Is it your manufacturer? Are they making you do this?"

"I don't know."

"Please, Alice, just tell me. What's going on?"

"I don't know! Stop asking!"

Her scream pierced his ears and made the glass in the studio windows shake. And she shook too. His heart as well. He bit the inside of his cheek nervously, worried that things were irreparably wrong, that they would never be the same, that he had done the worst thing possible by taking her out of their home.

But then her shoulders curled inward and she started to sob and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

She buried her face in his chest, her voice breathless. "Oh, God, Jazz, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to. I don't know what came over me, I just got so mad and…I don't know where all these emotions are coming from…where anything's coming from. I'm sorry….I'm sorry….I'm…"

"Shhhhh." He smoothed a hand over her cheek. "Don't worry about it. We'll figure it out soon."

And he prayed like fury they would. Slowly, Jasper led Alice over to the sofa, easing her down next to him and letting her curl up at his side. She didn't say a word, and neither did he. There would be time for questions later, time for investigations and worries then. Not now. Not –

Alice grew stiff in his arms for a moment before sitting up and looking him in the eye, her face very pale and very frightened.

"What is it?" he asked, knowing that look on her face well; she had just seen something, and it was not good at all. Alice's lips only trembled out one word.

"Esme."


"Please, Esme, won't you at least try?" Carlisle pleaded as they emerged from the forest, his thirst satiated and his wife still unable to drink. A reluctance to hunt was something Esme occasionally experienced, especially if the prey they found was a mother with her young, but she had never gone this long without feeding. Carlisle had never known anyone who could; usually one of their kind went mad with hunger within three weeks. Yet here Esme was, five weeks since her last meal and still refusing to eat despite how much he begged.

"I can't, Carlisle," she replied, her voice upset and tense. "I can't kill something so unnecessarily. I'm just not hungry."

They walked across the backyard to the house, stopping to stand on the patio, Carlisle's hands clenched at his sides in frustration and Esme's arms curled protectively around her middle, as if she could hide her abnormal abstinence that way.

"Is there anything else wrong?" he asked, trying to sound gentle and failing in his stress. "Anything you haven't told me?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't have to eat yet I still have energy. A lot of energy. I cleaned the entire house twice yesterday."

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

"I didn't want to worry you…I was already worrying myself." He could see then the flicker of fear in her eyes, still golden despite everything, and he immediately felt guilty for being so terse. "I think there might be something really wr–"

Her voice cut off abruptly, halfway through the word, and her amber eyes glazed over as if she wasn't really there. Carlisle called her name, loudly, hoping it was just a moment's distraction. When she didn't respond…when she started to slide to the ground in an unconscious movement…he grabbed her under her arms and moved her to one of the patio lounges, laying her down on it quickly and yelling for Rosalie, Edward, anyone to come help.

She wasn't breathing and her heart wasn't beating and it took Carlisle a few seconds to remember they didn't need to be for her…but was she here? Alive, as much as she could be? He peered into her glazed eyes, forcing himself to believe that somewhere inside she was still there, able to hear him. But she wasn't here, wasn't herself, wasn't anything like he had ever seen before and –

"Carlisle?" Emmett was there first. When he s"aw Esme lying on the lounge, as still as a corpse, his face blanched, making him look as scared as Carlisle felt. "Oh God, what's wrong?"

"I don't know," Carlisle said hoarsely. "Open the door. Let me take her inside."

Emmett wrenched the door open with such force that the top hinge snapped and it sagged on its frame. Neither of them stopped to contemplate it as Carlisle scooped up his comatose wife and brought her into the house, speeding up the stairs to their room and laying her out on the bed.

"My bag," he said urgently. "In my office."

Emmett was gone for less than five seconds, returning with it, as well as Bella.

"Esme?" the girl asked, her voice high and frightened. "Is she alright?"

"I don't know," he repeated as he took a small light from his bag, using it to peer in her ears and throat and eyes. Those eyes, so glossy and unfeeling and…deadened…he had to close them gently, a sob choking in his throat.

"You don't think she…" Emmett let the sentence hang in the air, unable to finish such an awful thought. "She can't be. Can she, Carlisle?"

I don't know. The phrase was on his tongue, but he couldn't say it again. Because with each passing second, he worried he did know, knew the worst thing that could possibly happen to him had occurred.

"I'll go get Edward. Maybe he can hear her," Bella offered, returning in a moment's time with her husband and Rosalie in tow.

"Carlisle?" Edward asked and reached out to touch his father's arm as the two girls clasped hands nervously.

He couldn't even phrase his worries aloud, but sent his eldest son his frantic thoughts instead. Edward…she's so still…I can't think…if she…

Edward nodded curtly, moving to Esme's bedside and leaning over her, his face heavily concentrated. A moment…then two…and he stepped aside, his eyes almost angry.

"Nothing," he murmured. "But that doesn't mean she isn't…remember, I can't hear Bella and –"

"She isn't Bella!" Carlisle found himself shouting, the stress much too much for him to keep up a calm façade.

"Perhaps we should call Alice," Rosalie suggested. "She might know what to do."

The phone rang just as she finished her sentence. Bella, the nearest to it, picked up, her face hopeful. "Alice?"

The entire room waited expectantly…then fell as they heard Jasper's muffled voice through the receiver asking to speak to Carlisle.

"I can't," Carlisle mumbled. "Bella, tell him…"

She spoke into the phone quietly, listening for a moment…before holding it out to the father figure. "He says it's an emergency."

He winced as he took the receiver and held it up to his ear, somehow managing to mutter out a "Hello?"

"Carlisle?" Jasper must've felt the tension even through the phone; his voice reflected everything Carlisle felt.

"Jasper, I…I can't talk now."

"Is it Esme?"

He perked, slightly, hoping perhaps… "Did Alice see something? Please, Jasper, tell me if she knows…"

"No, Alice…" Jasper's voice broke. "Alice said…said something was wrong with Esme and then she…she…Carlisle, she looks like she's…"

It became apparent then. Whatever was happening to Esme had struck Alice too. Was he to lose a daughter as well as his wife? The cruelties of life were too hard to bear.

"Yes, we're…" Carlisle cleared his throat before going on, admitting the unthinkable. "We're getting no response from Esme. She's…she's gone."

Each time her gave those words to a patient's family, it struck his heart. But it was never, never like this, this gut-wrenching, soul-tearing pain he doubt would ever leave again.

"But Carlisle…I can feel Alice. She's not gone, I know it."

A spark of hope. He tried to beat it down, just in case… "What do you mean?"

"When a life ends, I feel nothing. With her…I can still feel her. Or…well, I feel something. She's at rest. She's calm. Nothing more, but it's still something."

Carlisle closed his eyes, praying for a silent, desperate moment. Please…don't let her go…if I lost her, what would I be?

"Carlisle, I need to figure out what's wrong. Alice lately…she's been…off. I can't lose her like this."

Jasper's words were Carlisle's thoughts reflected. They were two men of the same vein, and there was strength in that.

Jasper went on. "Let me bring her home. Maybe you can help her, and maybe I can see if Esme…maybe I can help."

Carlisle half wanted to deny him, fearing that if Jasper came…if he didn't feel anything coming from her…if he would have to finally admit that she…

"Yes. Come, and quickly."