Hard as it is to believe, I do not own Twilight

Chapter 4 – Costumes and Reminiscences

Bella's POV

I lean against the brickwork, pressing my fingers to my eyelids and taking a big breath. I can smell the tavern that must be nearby and concentrate on the smell until the sweet scent of warm blood reaches my nostrils. The venom in my mouth burns but I have dealt with hunger much worse than this and I manage to tune it out.

I meander aimlessly through the streets, not noticing the crowd engulfing me in a babble of noise. I didn't notice the jostling of other people, did not even notice them bang into me and fling themselves back as I did not ease their journey to their destination. I must have received hundreds of startled looks as I ambled through the streets, ignoring all else but focusing only on my thoughts. His eyes… were they like that? Human memories fade fast but he had been engraved into my skull and an outline of him, no matter how faint, was still etched onto my skull. I stopped as I reached the front of my house, the remnants of my shattered door still at the bottom of the stairs leading into the dark room of my sanctuary. A wave of emotion swept through me, causing non-existent tears to appear in my eyes as I bit on my lip to hold in the sob ready to escape. It wasn't that I was sad as such, I just felt worthless. For too many years I hadn't had any contact with anyone and when I finally saw someone I nearly ate him. I smile at how stupid it sounds until I realise the seriousness of my predicament. I cannot socialise with anyone and the loneliness may kill me.

I have managed to stay alive by imagining the day when I can finally have someone to share eternity with, have a life with of a sort. But how is that possible when I can't look at someone capable of such feelings without imagining their death, by my doing no less. Animals will suffice at this point in time, but that is because I have eaten nothing for more years than I can imagine and the sudden explosion of meals is overbearing and my system is happy with only a small amount to keep it satisfied. But I know that it will begin to want more and more and I don't want to jump in at the deep end not knowing if I can take it or not. I cannot risk lives.

Oh, what the hell am I meant to do? I shove my hands in my pockets reflexively in a moment of stress, plunging my hands straight through ancient stitches. Oh. Well isn't that just fabulous. Fan-bloody-tastic. Well, these clothes are rather modern. Dark jeans and a cotton top are hardly fitting-in materials. I shall have to get a dress made. That means interacting with someone… Crap. I am not up to this.

My shoulders slump as I look dejectedly at the gaping hole into the black pit of my room. You know what? Sod it. I will make this work. I'm off to get a dress.

OC's POV

I look up from cutting the material as the bell over the door sighs its musical tune and feel my jaw drop at what is standing in front of me: a young girl with the loveliest curls I have ever seen and the face of an angel. Awe raises through me but as I take in her attire, my jaw snaps in disgust. She is wearing next to nothing. Trousers no less. And that top. I repress a shudder. I look at myself to check my dress reaches the floor and that the collar reaches my jawbone. As she walks stiffly forward, her small hands clenching and unclenching and with a wary look upon her face, eyeing me as if I held something explosive I notice her exquisite porcelain skin shine from the murky light forcing its way through the window grime. It lights her high jawbones and the fullness of her ruby lips. I lick my own lips, my tongue feeling the roughness of them, so dry and cracked from the many sleepless nights I have been enduring in this cold weather with nothing but a thin blanket.

Her eyes dart around the room. They seem to be a burnt gold. She stands on the other side of the counter; afraid it would seem to come any closer to me. Her eyes take in the whole of the dimly lit interior, the racks of material hanging behind me, the tallow candles with the stands covered in yesterdays wax. My mistress comes in. Her friendly smile switches from smarmy to fixed as she takes in the customer and she tilts her head to the side looking at me with exasperated eyes as if it was my fault she had chosen this dressmaker's to come to. I wondered why she was here; her looks said lady but her clothes said workhouse. She must know it requires money to gain proper clothing and that we don't deal with time wasters. But her face is so welcoming.

The customer bows her silken head and enquires as to the price of a more suitable garment with a breathy tone. The fat figure to my left – my mistress – ruffles up her own dress and makes her way to the customer who takes a hasty step away (possibly too quickly that I barely noticed the step between being in front of me to slightly to the right) and freezes, eyes closed in a pained expression. My mistress, the coarse grey hair piled on top of her head quivering with either shock or indignation takes a step back herself. She also pulls down her own hem and readjusts the sleeves of her violet striped gown. She looks at the visitor with a look of superiority, trying to remind her that it is she who is the common muck that needs our services.

I feel for her, standing there rigid as anything, a look of pain on her face. I don't go to her for fear of upsetting her. After what seems like eternity, she opens her eyes and grins sheepishly at me. At dip my head and smile shyly back before busying myself with the velvet stencil in front of me.

"I need a dress", her voice is beautiful. I jump in before my mistress can reply with whatever nasty remark her quick mind has come up with:

"Of course", I take a tentative step toward her and I must have imagined the nod in reply. I reach her and point towards the wall of material where she just stares. Probably overwhelmed by the choice, poor thing. I busy myself, dragging my finger across the rows of colours until I reach a soft material, like clouds under my fingertips. I tug at the edges, trying to dislodge it from the bottom of the pile without success. I sigh, ready for another match but see her lifting it out easily, one arm holding the other material up so it slides out smoothly and quickly. She seems to snap out of her reverie and quickly looks toward me, startled and apologetic. I close my mouth, once again hanging open and rearrange the fabric on the counter. It is a burnt, pale purple, almost grey, and matches her complexion. It is simple but elegant and, I believe, will suit her perfectly.

She strokes the fabric carefully and gives me a small smile. I smile back reassuringly. She looks so fragile and I feel the need to be careful around her less she snap and run away like some frightened deer.

"So… what happens now?" I look up to meet her penetrating gaze, her golden eyes boring into mine. "Do you need to take measurements or something?" I pull myself back from the endless depth of those eyes to straighten my skirt and reach for the tape measure in answer. My mistress huffs out of the room as the girl in front of me obeys my every command with the stiffness of the statue in the square outside.

She asks for sleeves and as my hand measures her arm I feel her feathery skin, freezing cold and so silky yet so tough. She moves her arm away from my hand and looks at me guardedly. I get the feeling she is hiding something, something she is… ashamed of?

I wipe my hands on the skirt of my dress and thank her for her custom and she disappears. It is known that this dressmaker will, if they have the material, make the dress by the end of the week. I get to work straight away, marking the measurements with tailors chalk. I finish and straighten my back, stretching back whilst leaning my arms on the small of my back, closing my eyes as my back breaks the slouched mould of the past hour.

I look up at the ceiling and look at the shadows cast by the candle, flickering. I stare, seeing different shapes from rabbits' ears to elephants' trunks; a wooden beam creaks and I jump just as the vision of a monster looms from the shadows, jaw open wide, teeth pointed and dripping saliva.

My heart just about stops as a slim figure steps from the shadows.

I open my mouth to scream, my eyes darting around the room, looking for a weapon, an exit, anything. A delicate block of ice is placed over my mouth with exaggerated care as I look into the dark eyes of today's customer. I blink in bewilderment as realisation dawns that she will not harm me and I step back.

"Miss! It's well past closing time!" It's all I can think of to say and I feel a fool for it.

"I forgot to ask: when will it be ready?" Her reply sets suspicion in my mind. This is the best dressmakers in the country - the south anyway… She must have another reason. I look at her with raised eyebrows. It is not as respectful an attitude as I usually portray to customers but it is late and she is not telling anyone anything. Small conversation is polite in such circumstances yet there she stands, mute. Anger bubbles to the surface; it is irrational but I am tired and my back throbs.

"It will be ready by tomorrow evening", I don't know what makes me say it. Oh… damnation. And I can't go back on this promise: it is bad business. Great. Her perfectly sculpted features look surprised and I find myself smug at the final crack showing in the shield around her. "I do apologise, miss, if I seem rude, but may I enquire as to your name?"

"Not rude at all: Bella Swan. What is your name?"

Bella's POV

I am giddy with enthusiasm, interaction with people for more than five minutes without wanting to eat them! I have watched her all day just to get used to people and then the candle flickers my way and she notices me, but I am fine with such an occurrence. Maybe it's fate.

"Oh I do beg your pardon, I missed your second name", damn it, she has been talking all this while. Crap.

"Alice. I don't know my second name: I was abandoned at birth and taken on as an apprentice here. People just call me Alice".

Recognition sparks as I realise I have looked down to this height before, seen that pixie-like face before. It's her.

Darn human memories, the tricksy little things springing things up on you like that

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