Carlisle and Esme live in an enormous brownstone, a block from Lake Michigan. If I'd thought the Cullen home in Forks was impressive, I really had no idea. This house is gorgeous and understated, packed with priceless pieces of art and furniture that, while clearly antique, manage somehow to feel comfortable and homey.

Esme shows me to a room on the second floor, and looks almost nervous as she opens the door. I let out a little squeal of delight. The room has huge bay windows with a windowseat, and warm afternoon light is flooding in. There are floor to ceiling bookshelves, packed with books and cds. On one wall two stunning black and white photos are hanging, one of Charlie and one of Renee. The bed is made up with rich, cream linens. I flit around the room at top speed, touching everything, picking things up and putting them down again, gasping in wonder. I run a finger across the framed photographs. They are perfect. Charlie looks just as I remember him.

I whirl back toward Esme, who is smiling warmly, her insecurity evaporated.

"Esme! How did you do this? Some of these are my books! This is my cactus!"

She laughs a glorious laugh, like windchimes. I leap across the room to swing her into a hug.

"I was so worried. I wasn't sure if you would want reminders of your other life, but I know that I did after my change. I wanted to keep that part of myself close by, a tangible piece of my humanity. It wasn't hard. I helped Charlie pack your things, after the funeral, so I told him I would take care of donating them."

I sink onto the bed, my fingers luxuriating in the thick covers, overcome with mixed emotions. I love this thoughtful, caring woman so much. Esme sits beside me.

"I also wasn't sure about the bed. Edward never had one but personally, I like to lie down now and again. To read, listen to music..." she drifts off, studying my face. I try to remain impassive, but it's too hard.

"Did Edward live here with Carlisle? After his change?"

Esme sweeps my hair back away from my face, and rests a comforting arm around my shoulders. "Edward has lived in this house a number of times," she says quietly, "but never in this room."

I nod, but don't look at her, suddenly choked up at the thought of him here.

"Bella, Edward is my son, in every way that matters. But you, you're my daughter. Edward is old enough to understand the decisions he is making right now and to live with the consequences. You, on the other hand, are young. You need your family around, and you need to know how much we all want you to be here."

She squeezes me to her, and then leaves me to think in peace.

My second favorite room in the house quickly becomes the kitchen. Esme, it turns out, is a wonderful cook, and I discover that the activity is just as soothing to me as when I was alive, even if I can no longer enjoy the spoils. Esme volunteers at a local women's shelter, and the baking and frozen meals go there. There is something inordinately comforting about standing side by side in the kitchen, rolling pastry, or kneading dough. And while we work she tells me stories about their past. A stretch in West Berlin after the war, living in upstate New York in the 60s. The things she has seen, the travel, I am awed at what lies ahead of me, what I might be able to do when I'm strong enough.

Talking about the past makes me curious, and I quiz the whole family about what they've seen and experienced. Jasper tells me stories of the newborn wars in the South. My heart breaks for this beautiful man, covered in scars, for the horrors he has witnessed. He reaches out one afternoon and tips my chin up with one forefinger.

"Don't be sad about it, Bella," he murmurs softly. "I'm telling you because it's part of our history. But it's just that...history. It ceased to mean anything the day Alice found me in that diner."

Alice nods fiercely from the sofa beside him, twining her hand in his.

My favorite room in the house is the music room. At first I avoided it like the plague, because the shiny black Steinway baby grand was clearly his, and it just made me think about my lullaby. Then I discovered the record collection. Shelves upon shelves of vinyl, dating back to some of the very first commercially produced gramophone records. It's like being let loose in a musical museum. I suddenly don't care that they obviously belong to Edward. I spend hours lying on my back on the floor in front of the turntable, fixated with the Andrews Sisters, Glen Miller, Ella Fitzgerald and Cole Porter.

Playing these records must bring back memories for the others, and they take to spending time in here too. Jasper is currently working his way through a stack of new civil war histories that were published while we were in the north. He is tucked up in a dark leather club chair opposite me, his long legs draped over one arm and an annoyed scowl on his face. Inaccuracies irritate Jasper.

"Jazz, who are the guys in the painting with Carlisle?"

Above the fireplace there is a dark oil canvas depicting Carlisle in Italy with three other men. Jasper looks up in surprise, staring at the painting as if he hasn't paid any attention to it in a long time.

"That's Aro, Marcus and Caius. They're the Volturi."

"What's a Volturi?"

"A very old, very powerful family. They're as close as we get to a royal family, I guess. Carlisle lived with them for a while in Italy. He didn't tell you?"

"He told me about Italy. Not about those guys."

Jasper's face clouds over, as if he's not sure how much he should be telling me.

"I guess, well, they've taken on a certain responsibility for our ... community. They enforce the rule."

"We have rules?" This was news to me. Was there a rule book? Was I supposed to know a handshake?

"Just one. We have to keep our existence a secret."

I think about Edward, and his veiled remarks about the danger I was in, knowing what he was.

I don't ask any more questions.

After six months, Chicago becomes a kind of home. One afternoon as I'm taking gingerbread loaf out of the oven Esme asks me whether I am happy.

I pause for a long time before answering.

There are lots of things here that make me happy. Carlisle is teaching me to play chess. Jasper is teaching me to speak Spanish. I've discovered that even shopping with Alice can be fun, if I let her treat me a little like a dress-up doll and just enjoy her company without complaining.

I love this family.

But there are empty places in my heart that long for Edward, and I know I am not the only one who feels them.

If I'm fast enough when I come back from my evening walks around the lake, I can sometimes catch them arguing. They sense me almost immediately, and the house goes still, but I know. No one will talk about Edward, and the silence is becoming louder than I can bear.