Weeks fade into the first three months of newborn life for Esme and though the memory of Charles that day may have been the first indication Carlisle had as to her past, by no means is it the last. The next episode surfaces the night of a terrible storm. Lightning flashes overhead and the thunder follows to shuddering quakes, shaking the house to its very core.

The sound triggers a memory from the depths of her mind. Carlisle imagines it has the same gritty look, like resurrecting a faded picture; at least, that's how she has described to him in the waning daylight hours, when they walk alone in the woods. In that time he's come to understand that it isn't the vision in her mind, so much as the feeling it creates, that scares her. That drives her to fear a man that can no longer bring her harm.

A flush of cold air must creep upon her suddenly as she shivers and presses herself to the wall of the library, hands flattened by her sides, crushing the plaster beneath her palms.

"Esme," he says gently, attempting to call her back from the memory. He stands from the old oak desk in the corner, positioned by the window to make use of the daylight, and crosses the room. "You're safe, Esme."

Edward appears in the doorway suddenly, clutching a pile of sheet music. His face falls into anger and Carlisle wonders what he's seen in her mind. What torment has gripped her this time. He curls and uncurls his fist, desperate to keep his composure, to keep calm. To offer her the support he so desperately wants to.

Edward bows his head as Esme flees the room, locking herself upstairs. She cries this time. A heartbreaking sound that she tries to muffle into her hands, but Carlisle finds it impossible to ignore.

Edward flees as well, a desperate attempt to escape Esme's thoughts, bursting through the back door so fast the screen pops from its frame. In his wake lies the scattered and torn remains of his sheet music.

Carlisle picks it up, laying the pieces gingerly across the top of the slick black piano that sits in the middle of what might have been the dining room in any other home. Edward had decided the acoustics were best in this room when they moved in.

He lays his hands flat against the piano top, trying to ground himself, torn between Esme, holed up in her room, sobbing into her hands, and Edward, angry and raging in the night. He can hear as his son crashes through the woods around the house, running to clear his mind, to clear the things that cannot be unseen. Carlisle is glad for this one mercy, for he simply could not bear Edward's burden, especially where Esme is concerned, and his sympathy for his son grows.

He leaves them both for a time, letting them process. The early years of a vampire's life are filled with strong and sometimes overwhelming emotions. He remembers being that way. Remembers throwing himself from rooftops and off cliffs to try to rectify the morose feelings inside him. But he also remembers wishing there was someone there in his early days. Someone who could have helped guide him through the fog that so often plagued his mind.

So, he goes to Edward first, knowing that Esme's flee was a cry for privacy. And he'll give her that. Let her mourn the memory on her own and then he'll be waiting for her.

Outside Edward has stopped running and taken to throwing rather large stones into the creek bed on the edge of the property line. The rocks shatter in the shallow water, tossing up dirt that streaks Edward's porcelain skin, only to be melted away by the sheeting rain. Lightning strikes overhead again, further as the storm draws away, but for a moment Edward looks wild in the moonlight, untamed and fierce.

Carlisle moves towards him in silence, the rain muffling his steps, each pearly bead soaking into his clothes and settling upon his skin. Edward will have noticed his scent by now, never mind his thoughts, so his words are unnecessary.

"I don't want to talk," Edward says, letting a rock fly. It crashes into a tree on the other side of the creek, pulling branches down with it.

We don't have to, Carlisle thinks. We can't just sit.

Edward sneers. "I don't want to sit either!"

With that he's off and running again, chasing a freedom he'll never find. Carlisle crouches on the edge of the creek bed, letting the trickle of water calm his racing thoughts. He trains his ears towards the house. He can still hear Esme over the rain, though her sobs have lessened some. There's an odd pain in his chest as he thinks about her. About the divide he feels being outside when all he wants is to crawl up the stairs and sit outside her bedroom until she agrees to talk to him. But he's promised himself to give her privacy, to let her come to him on her own terms. He won't be like Charles; he won't force her into anything.

When the sky turns grey and the stars begin to fade into hues of midnight blue, Edward stops racing himself and comes to stand at the creek. The water is higher now, though the rain has stopped.

"He didn't just hit her, Carlisle. He . . . he—" Edward cries out into the last of the night, frustrated with himself.

"Son, it's okay." He stands up and pulls Edward to him. "You don't have to explain. I suspected as much."

Edward grits his teeth. "Can we kill him now?"

"Son—"

"Surely the world would be better off without a man like that. I'll do it if you cannot, Carlisle. I know how sacred you think human life is. Please don't think I disregard what you have taught me. I just simply cannot see how I can leave this man alive." He shakes his head, jaw pinched tight as he grinds his teeth. "Not now."

"Please don't."

They both turn to find Esme, standing nervously by a tree. She gestures awkwardly to the house. "I came down and everyone was gone . . . I didn't . . . I mean." She tips her head and shrugs, both hands coming up before she folds them against her stomach.

Carlisle wonders if she has any idea how endearing she is. How much he wants to wash away everything of her past. How glad he is that she's returned to them.

Esme moves her head gently, and Carlisle realizes that Edward has started to shake beside him.

"He's not worth it, Edward," she tells him.

The boy looks hard at the ground, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Esme—"

"You are good," she argues. "And pure. Don't let him taint you. Not for me. Promise."

Not for me. Those words wound Carlisle more than she will ever know.

"Please don't fret, Esme." He holds his hand out to her and she takes it, wrapping both her small hands around his. Even that small touch from her is enough to calm him immensely. To settle the concern and anxiety that has been roiling inside his gut as he contemplated how to help her.

Together they return to the house. Edward sifts through his abandoned sheet music and begins to play. The melody is light and makes Esme smile.

It is only later, when Carlisle is able to pull himself away from the sight, that he realizes that Edward never promised not to kill Charles Evenson. And as he meets the boy's gaze over the top of the piano, Edward's stare is blank.