The third month becomes the fourth, while the fourth bleeds into the fifth, bringing with it the first snowfall of winter. It also brings Esme's first accident.
Drawn out by the snow, by the utter beauty and majesty of the forest blanketed by the white silence, she ventures away from the house without an escort. She doesn't go far, but the human hunts deep into their land, and Esme is unprepared for it when it happens.
Edward leaps from his piano bench, tearing across the room before Carlisle has even formed the question.
"Human," is all Edward manages before he's across the field at the back of the house. A gunshot rings out, cutting through the air.
Carlisle follows quickly, tracing Edward's scent. The boy is fast; much faster than him, but it doesn't take him long to come upon the scene of utter devastation. Esme kneels in the snow, white puffs of crystal curling around her legs, soaking the bottom of her skirt. She's barefoot again, preferring it to shoes.
In her arms she clutches the leeched body of a human man, his rifle abandoned several feet away. His face is pale; blue lips open around a slackened jaw.
Esme's hands cradle his head against her chest as she rocks, dry sobs shaking her shoulders.
She curls in on herself. "I'm sorry," she says, panic rising in her voice. The sound is desperate and chilled, like a wounded animal, whistled through pleading lips. "I didn't. I don't know what came over me . . . I don't even remember—" She sobs, looking first to Edward, then to Carlisle, holding his eyes the longest. "I'm sorry."
"It was an accident," Edward assures her. "I should have been paying better attention."
"No," Carlisle says. "It's my fault. I should have accompanied her."
"I'm sorry," Esme says again, rocking forwards with the body. The gash along the man's neck is crusted with blood and snow. Around her the slush is tinged pink.
"Esme," Edward says gently, falling to his knees before her. "Let go of him. Let me bury him. I'll take care of it." His brow furrows as Esme looks up, distraught and wild, the breath catching in her lungs. She apologizes again in a long stream of I'm sorry.
When Edward finally manages to pry the body away, Carlisle moves to her side. He cringes when Esme flinches at the feel of his hand on her shoulder.
After that she's limp and unfazed by his presence, mumbling again. I'm sorry. He tilts her face to him and her eyes glaze over.
"Come up to the house, Esme."
When she refuses to move he does the only thing he can and picks her up, carrying her much like that first night. Edward returns to the house later with dirt beneath his fingernails, long after Esme has sequestered herself in her room.
"No one will find him," Edward says. "But perhaps I could find out who his family is. They might need help getting through the winter."
"I'm sure Esme would appreciate that, son." Carlisle looks despondently at the stairs.
"She thinks you'll turn her away from us now," Edward whispers.
"How could she?" he asks, threading his fingers through his hair, leaving it in disarray on the top of his head.
"Think about it, Carlisle. She lived her whole life trying to please a man that took any opportunity to punish her." Edward sighs. "She feels inadequate now. Your control is unparalleled among our kind and I've never slipped before. She feels unworthy."
Carlisle hates that word. What it does to her. "Will she see me now? If I go to her?"
Edward shakes his head. "I don't know. She can't bear the thought of what you think of her right now, but she doesn't want to be alone." He frowns. "At least, I think. She's very distraught. It's hard to get a proper read."
Carlisle nods. "I'm going to telephone the hospital and tell them to cover my shift tonight."
"Do you think we'll have to move?" Edward asks.
Carlisle hesitates. The man was unfamiliar to him, so no one prominent from Ashland, but the populous is small. Disappearances tend not to go unnoticed. They had been lucky with Esme. As a single woman, who was relatively new to the area, she was tied less tightly to the town. In the weeks following her disappearance, townsfolk assumed she had picked up and let for a place with more opportunity. Or taken her child in the night and fled with some clandestine romantic partner. A working man, though. Someone who most likely had a family to support. That would be harder to explain. "It is too soon to tell," Carlisle admits. The ramifications of this slip will only reveal themselves with time.
Edward nods. "I'll go into town tomorrow and see what I can hear."
Carlisle nods and turns away to use the telephone in the front hallway. Once he's spoken to the operator, he ascends the stairs, feeling more and more anxious. He can't imagine what she's feeling, never having experienced it himself, but he aches for her, for the pain she suffers, and he knows then that she is inherently good. Most vampires feed from humans, and most never feel an ounce of remorse for their victims. Esme is different. If it wasn't for the fact that her heart was already dead, he might fear that it would break with her sadness.
"Esme," he says once he reaches the top landing. He stops by her door and knocks twice.
There's no answer at first and he considers breaking the lock: just wrapping his hand around it and crushing it between his fingers.
He tries again.
He can hear her shuffle on the other side of the door this time.
"Do you hate me terribly?" she asks through the door.
He can almost imagine her there, pressing her palm against it. Her caramel hair rolling in gentle waves down her back. Her dress, soft against her skin, plastered with congealed blood to her legs. And her eyes, bright now with human blood.
"I could never," he tells her sincerely. He wishes she would open the door so he could tell her to her face, so she could look in to his eyes as he promises to do better by her.
"You should," she says in reply.
He lays his palm against the door, hovering where he imagines hers might be. "But I won't."
Month eight brings with it the first buds of spring.
They've started venturing closer to town now, testing Esme in order to build up her tolerance to the scent of humans. She has not forgotten that day in the woods, but she has made amends with herself and vowed to do better, to control herself as he and Edward do, and so far she is doing marvelously.
Now that she can control herself better, she picks up a paintbrush for the first time since she was human. Over the months, she covers many canvases, reveling in the detail her new vampire eyes can see and how well it translates into her paintings. Carlisle marvels at being able to bring her things to paint. Sometimes he'll tell her of the far off lands he's seen, bringing her new oils to create these pictures. Sometimes they'll venture into the woods together as she hunts for inspiration.
Edward is rather impressed with her. He also takes interest in Esme's hidden math talent. It emerges one day when she unearths some blueprints of the house from one of the lesser used bedrooms.
After that Edward takes to bringing her books from the library. Books on math and numbers. Books on architecture. Books on houses. He goes as far as to tell her that they both one day might take classes at the local college together.
This makes her smile, genuinely, and if it's education she desires, Carlisle vows to give it to her.
Over the months, Esme begins adding little bits of home to their house, renovating and repairing, painting walls, sanding baseboards, adding bundles of flowers to the empty vases on the mantle. She revives the plants in the gardens around the house and Carlisle often finds her there, barefoot and covered in dirt, when he returns from the hospital in the early morning.
It brings him a kind of happiness he never knew he wanted, coming home to her, seeing her. Even being in the same room as her gives him a sense of overwhelming peace.
But the more time he spends with Esme, the harder he finds it is to leave her side. Even the hospital, which has been his solace over the decades, pales in comparison to her company. So that is where he finds himself this warm Sunday afternoon, curled up on the sofa in his study, with Esme by his side.
She's brought him one of the Latin fairytales from the library and begged him to read it. Unable to deny her anything, he'd happily put away his journal and welcomed her by his side, feeling a kind of indescribable joy when she'd tipped her head onto his shoulder.
The moment is broken suddenly by Edward's frantic calls, and Carlisle realizes just how far away he'd been in his thoughts.
"Carlisle!" the boy yells again, appearing in the open doorway. "There's someone coming for your help. A group of hunters from the town. Someone's been shot."
And as Carlisle stands, he can hear the heavy panting coming down the drive.
Esme has stilled beside him and ever so slowly her head turns towards the open window. She inhales sharply and Carlisle realizes his mistake.
"Esme, no!" Carlisle says, catching her as she lunges for the door. She's faster still, and stronger, though she hesitates for the smallest of seconds and he's able to wrap his hand around her forearm. In this moment, she looks up at him and he can see the frenzy in her eyes, feel his feet slipping as her newborn strength overpowers her senses. "Fight it, Esme," he says through gritted teeth.
She throws him off then and he feels his feet leave the ground before he rights himself and lands with a soft thud.
Edward is almost as fast as her now, and heads her off, taking the back stairwell. He launches himself over the banister and drives himself into Esme. When they land, he wraps his arms around her waist, hauling her away from the door. "Hold your breath, Esme," he begs, fumbling as she struggles.
Carlisle joins them then and it takes them both to wrestle her into the kitchen. To calm her down. Behind the blood-lust she's terrified and when she manages to pull herself from the frenzy she lets out a helpless sob. "No," she murmurs.
"They're almost here," Edward says, looking frantically from Esme to the door, then back to Carlisle.
"You're doing wonderfully," Carlisle assures her, rubbing her arm gently. "Just don't breathe until they're gone. I'll try to be fast." He glances at Edward quickly, who nods, and Carlisle prays, for Esme's sake more than anything, that she doesn't fall victim to the scent. He couldn't bare to see her so distraught again.
When Carlisle returns, he washes his hands in the sink and burns his shirt, changing into a clean one that he buttons and tucks into his trousers. Once the blood is gone he finds Edward at his piano, plucking haplessly at the keys and he suspects that the boy is listening for Esme more than anything.
"Was it bad?" Edward wonders, letting a hollow cord float around the room.
"A through and through," Carlisle says. "He'll have to rest his shoulder for a while, but he was lucky." A pause "Where is Esme?"
"Upstairs in her room. She's rather shaken. The loss of control doesn't get any easier and I think it's scared her."
Carlisle looks towards the stairs. "Would she mind company?"
"Does she ever mind your company?" Edward teases. He presses his fingers into a new cord, this one sounding brighter.
Carlisle can't help but smile at his words.
"Besides, women have a tendency of letting you know exactly how they feel. And in Esme's case she could literally throw you from the room. So you'll know if you're not wanted."
"I think you're picking the brain of all the luncheon ladies again, son."
Edward gives him a wicked grin. "How else am I to keep up with all the latest gossip?"
Carlisle shakes his head, looking back at Edward fondly as he ascends the stairs; Edward's music picks up as he reaches the top of the landing and he thinks it's the boys way of trying to give them some privacy. Either way, he appreciates the effort.
He knocks gently and hovers in the doorway when the door creaks open to reveal Esme seated on her bed, clutching one of the downy pillows to her stomach. She stares forlornly at the window.
"Did I hurt you?" she asks.
Carlisle's mouth falls open, but no words emerge. He's struck dumb by her concern for his welfare. Him.
"When I tossed you," she explains, perhaps registering his look of confusion, staring at him so tenderly he can do nothing but sigh. "I'm a great deal stronger than I used to be. So much so that sometimes it scares me. I could hurt someone on accident, you or Edward, even. I almost did today."
"You did not hurt me, Esme. Please know that. Your reaction was instinctual, but at no time was I, nor Edward, in any danger." He tips his head and gives her a grin, hoping to soften her worry.
"You're not just saying that, are you?" She hugs the pillow tighter, looking down at her finger nails. "Sometimes you say things to spare my feelings, Carlisle. I know you do, and I appreciate your concern, but I threw you—"
He chuckles.
She pauses, looking up at him. "What's so funny."
"Nothing, really. It's just, I think my mild manners and perhaps even my profession tend to erase what is so blatantly obvious to me—the fact that I am indeed a vampire."
Esme raises a delicate brow and he continues.
"I may not look it, but I have lived many, many" he smiles wryly, "years on this earth. In that time I have learned to fend for myself. If you had in fact meant me any harm, Esme, I would have been able to defend myself. I do not often speak of it, for I hope better for our kind, but the life of a vampire is often vicious and over almost as quickly as it begins. Our kind tend to be territorial. We fight to kill. To protect what is ours. And the longer we've been immortal, the more proficient, and, dare I say it, deadly we are. Even a newborn, with superior strength and speed, is no match for a seasoned vampire. Especially when they are so often wild and ignorant and impulsive."
Her lips turn up at that. "So you find me wild and ignorant and impulsive?"
He knows she teases him, and cannot resist teasing her back. "Most definitely. You are even more wild then Edward was, living as a newborn in the middle of Chicago."
"That must have been a disaster," Esme muses.
"I admit I had not thought it through. It had been so long since I'd been around a newborn. The mind reading only compounded issues."
"Did you have to smuggle him out of the city in the dead of night?"
Carlisle laughs. "Very much so. It was every bit as nerve wrecking as you could imagine. I believe Edward thinks quite fondly of it now, however. He refers to something as my 'terror face' when he speaks of it."
Esme's smile widens, until her dimples are visible, and Carlisle feels a kind of victorious roar erupt in his chest.
"May I?" he asks, gesturing inside her room and she nods.
He hesitates slightly, unsure of where to move to. He feels awkward just standing in the middle of the room, but the only place to sit is the bed, right next to her. She wiggles a bit, making room for him, and that seems to eliminate his decision.
He's never sat on a bed with a woman before, not one that isn't a hospital bed, and even that's been rare.
"Did he survive?" Esme asks. "The man that came to the house?"
"Oh, yes," Carlisle says. "I believe he'll make a full recovery." He presses his hands to his knees, rubbing at them awkwardly. There's a sense of propriety he feels like he's breaking, though he doesn't mind in the least. He'd hug her now if she'd let him. Scoop her into his arms and . . .
For a moment, these thoughts shock him, because he's never felt that particular way about a woman before either.
Perhaps it's born of some need to protect her, as her creator, though he seeks to protect and shelter Edward as well, but with Esme it's different. He wants to comfort her. He doesn't just want her to be happy, he wants to make her happy.
He wants to be the reason she smiles and laughs and he just wants her. In some fantastical kind of way. He wants her questions and curiosities and pain and frustration. He wants her happiest moments. He wants her wonder at the world.
It all hits him so fast that he almost launches off the bed. At the very least he tries to stand and goes stumbling instead and she reaches out, her hand pressing against his upper arm. Steadying. Supporting.
"Carlisle," she says quickly. "Are you alright?"
And what a ridiculous question it is, as if he's feeling unwell or something. A vampire cannot be unwell. It's simply impossible. But if he were to describe it, the sudden lightheadedness he feels. The buzzing in his gut. The jitteriness of his limbs. Something is definitely wrong with him.
He looks towards her, caught off guard at how acutely she affects him. He wants her, with every fiber of his being, but he has no idea if she wants him in return. If she even wants to stay here, under the same roof as he and Edward.
She'll be a year old soon. And then . . . well, if she can control her blood lust perhaps she'll choose to leave. Choose to explore the world far away from him. The idea causes him a sort of pain he imagined was impossible for his kind.
"Carlisle?" she says again and he realizes he's been staring and gaping and probably looking quite strange as he contemplates the things in his head.
"Yes," he says. "I'm quite alright."
She nods, unsure.
He takes a step towards the bed again. "You did very well today," he says, grabbing her hands in his because he simply can't resist touching her anymore.
She turns her head away. "Please, Carlisle."
"I sincerely mean it. You were a wonder. You were able to gain control of yourself once we were in the kitchen. You didn't want to kill that man, did you Esme?"
"No," she says. "I didn't. I wanted the blood. But I didn't want to kill him. I knew that much."
Carlisle nods. "You've really come so far in such a short amount of time. I am proud of you."
Esme slowly turns towards him, a genuine smile on her lips. "Thank you."
"I have to get to work soon," he says when the silence has lingered for many minutes. He's still holding her hands and revels in the fact that she has yet to pull away.
"I know." She sighs.
Does he detect longing there? Or is he simply projecting now?
Has he been reduced to some quivering fifteen year old who can't control himself around a pretty woman? A beautiful woman, actually. He's struggled not to think of her that way, to let himself grow attached; standing before her now, her hands in his, the fact of the matter is that he's lost himself to her. To her charms, to her quite, unassuming grace, and even to her love of the simplicity in the world.
But mostly, he realizes with a sudden sharp and relieving clarity, he's lost himself to her heart.