A/N: I discovered the Twilight series recently, and only read Midnight Sun off Stephenie Meyer's website last month. I was sad that it just stopped. Edward's POV is so compelling. Then I was devastated when I did a bit of research and discovered that Ms. Meyer appears to have no desire to finish the project now. Fortunately, I discovered Meadow of the Midnight Sun, a well written and true-to-canon fanfiction piece by HeartOfDarkess, which did a very nice job satisfying that void. The only problem was a gap between the two works that left me wondering Edward's view of those days. These few chapters will attempt to explore those days, and serve as a bridge between the two works. The intent is to be true to canon.
My first chapter starts directly after the end of Stephenie Meyer's last draft chapter. There is no introduction; I just start right up. If it's been a while since you read Midnight Sun, you might want to start there.
Also, if you read the first chapter when I first posted it (a looong time ago, it seems now), you might want to reread it. I wrote the original version when I was away from home, and therefore, my copy of Twilight. When I came home and got ready to write the next chapter, I discovered canon issues that I've since fixed.
Thanks to HeartOfDarkess for her encouragement to write this, and for serving as an unofficial beta. You've been so generous, with your time, thoughts, and insight. For the other 40 or so of you who are reading the story, please let me know what you think. I'm new to this, and the reviews and feedback would be very welcome.
Stephenie Meyer owns these characters, and no copyright infringement is intended.
EPOV
Driving back to her house, excited about finally getting answers to my questions, my fingers started to burn just from the thought of her. I sighed, my happy mood slightly dampened. What was I going to do about this? Logically, it seemed like touching her was a mistake. It could so clearly go wrong, and the results would be disastrous. But I wanted it. And so did she, it would seem. And clearly…clearly…I was unable to resist. Yesterday my hand had touched her without my express consent. It had its own ideas about things, and was at least as stubborn as my mind. I hadn't hurt her; it wasn't a mistake in that sense, but it left me unsatisfied, wanting more. I knew that this would be like my resolve to avoid her, which had failed so spectacularly. It would be harder to resist touching her each day, and each time I gave in, I would want to touch her even more. And if she asked me to touch her, as she had in her dream last night, I knew I would not be able to withstand that. I couldn't resist when her eyes were closed, her voice merely a whisper. If she were gazing into my eyes, as she had in the car…if she touched me first, as she had in the restaurant—now the back of my hand was burning as well—I knew I'd be helpless to resist her request. So perhaps instead of trying to completely avoid touching her, and setting myself up for daily failure, I should allow myself specific types of touches, and practice touching her carefully; being safe. Perhaps I would get used to her softness and warmth, just as I had become accustomed to her scent. After all, in both cases yesterday, I had exercised control. I had not hurt her; I had not asked for too much in my touch. And touching her in public, with witnesses to help curb my behavior, seemed much safer than holding off and then becoming overwhelmed when she gazed at me in the car, alone, the current buzzing between us. That seemed like the recipe for disaster. But small touches at school might help me acclimate to this new urge, and help me gain control over it.
I parked around the corner from Bella's house, and started listening to her conversation with her father.
…you're sure you can't make it back in time for the dance?
I'm not going to the dance, Dad.
Didn't anyone ask you?
Did they ever, I thought, grinning as I remembered all the ones she'd said no to. I would be with her that day. It still amazed me. She'd said yes to me.
It's a girl's choice. I laughed as she avoided the question.
Oh.
The conversation was over. I couldn't get anything from either of their minds—well, Charlie's mind was vaguely concerned and protective—so whatever they may have communicated silently was lost on me. Irritation flashed across my mind. I was forever bombarded with thoughts I wanted no part of, and here I was, blind to a scene that actually interested me. I heard Charlie leave the house and start his car, and moved my car into position when he left. My irritation vanished when I saw her come out wearing a thin, clinging turtleneck under her lightest jacket. She walked over to the car, but hesitated slightly before getting in. I chuckled, thinking that with all she knew about me, she was still shy.
"Good morning. How are you today?" I asked, studying her face to see if there were signs of her restless night. There were circles under her dark eyes; she looked a bit like a vampire who hadn't fed recently. I shuddered internally.
"Good, thank you." She was such a bad liar.
"You look tired," I said, gently.
"I couldn't sleep," she admitted.
"Neither could I," I said, enjoying the fact that she would finally get one of my jokes. I started toward the school.
"I guess that's right! I suppose I slept just a little bit more than you did," she said, laughing.
"I'd wager you did." I looked at her and smiled.
"So what did you do last night?" she asked.
Well let's see…I hid in your closet several times so you wouldn't catch me watching you, while I thought of the best ways to probably not kill you. Oh and I touched you when you were unconscious, but I promise, it was completely innocent.
"Not a chance!" I said laughing, "It's my day to ask the questions."
"Oh, that's right. What do you want to know?" She looked perplexed.
I started with the most cliché. "What's your favorite color?" Since I was expecting her to surprise me, I felt confident it wouldn't be pink or—I shuddered as I thought of Jessica— teal.
She rolled her eyes. "It changes from day to day." Of course it does.
"What's your favorite color today?" I clarified.
"Probably brown," she said, looking down at the brown turtleneck that clung to her curves.
"Brown?" I scoffed. I'd expected her to surprise me, but brown? Was that technically even a color?
"Sure. Brown is warm. I miss brown. Everything that's supposed to be brown— tree trunks, rocks, dirt—is all covered with squashy green stuff here." I smiled at her little rant…I'd be asking more questions about her home later. I looked into her molten chocolate brown eyes, and noticed how her smooth brown hair fell over her shoulders to meet her soft brown turtleneck; I realized that brown was my new favorite color too. My hand reached up to touch her— I hesitated, checking. Yes, this was a safe touch. I swept her hair back behind her shoulder, feeling the silky strands caress the back of my hand.
"You're right, brown is warm," I said seriously. She blushed…so lovely.
I moved onto my next question as I pulled into the parking lot. "What music is in your CD player right now?" I asked seriously. I had little hope that I could share much musical taste with an actual seventeen year old. Most of what played on the radio was truly hideous, and most of these children ate it up like candy. And that's all it was; there was no substance at all. By the end of the day I would know exactly how desperately I needed to work on Bella's musical education; and whether Claire de Lune had been a sign of general good taste, or a fluke. But her answer surprised me again, and I reached down into the collection of music I kept in the car, pulling out the same CD.
"Debussy to this?" I asked incredulously. She nodded in recognition. We got out of the car and I started walking her to her English class.
"What's your favorite novel?" I asked, not able to keep to a single topic.
"I can't say."
"It's a secret?" I asked, surprised.
"No, no…it's just too big a question, I can't pick just one."
"Oh, I see. What's your favorite Jane Austen novel?" She seemed surprised that I was guessing she was an Austen fan. I was going to have to confess to all my spying at some point.
"Hmm. Well, even there it's hard to pick just one…probably Sense and Sensibility."
"Not Pride and Prejudice?" Girls always chose Pride and Prejudice.
"I like that one too; Elizabeth and Darcy are great characters, but it's all pretty pat. Everyone gets what they deserve, good and bad. Sense and Sensibility is messier…bad people have good outcomes, good people don't get what they think they want… it makes me think more."
Interesting. We were at her English room now, and people were rushing around us to get to their class.
"Favorite Shakespeare play?" I asked quickly, guessing that she'd read more than one of those.
"Romeo and Juliet." Hmm. A tragic love story. That was disappointing.
I looked into her eyes and wished we could just ditch school for the day; all these classes were going to interfere with my inquiries. "I'll see you after Spanish," I promised.
"Okay, have a good morning," she said, and turned to go into her class. I walked to Calculus, taking her scent with me on my jacket.
My morning classes dragged even more than usual. I checked in with Bella's classes now and then, but hers weren't any more interesting than mine. Gym was the worst, and I entertained myself imagining the chaos that would ensue if my siblings and I really played badminton. How many racquets would we destroy, I wondered.
I was waiting for her when she came out of Spanish, and she walked straight to me, the heat of her body nearly knocking me back.
"Hi," she said smiling.
"Hello…Favorite painter?" I asked, and she laughed at my impatience.
"Monet, at the moment." That was a typical response…girls liked all those flowers. We started walking toward the lunchroom. She added, "Did you know that when he made those cathedral paintings, he had all four canvasses up at once? As the light changed over the course of the day, he would switch between them." So not the pretty flowers; the study of light. Esme would find that interesting; light was a big part of architecture. "And once I was at a museum in New York with a cousin, and I saw one of his water lily paintings that was huge…like three panels, each one twelve feet tall or so. If you sat on the bench, you couldn't take the whole painting in. Part of it was in your peripheral vision. I swear, when I saw part of it with the corner of my eye, I could see a carp below the surface of the water, but when I looked at that part of the painting straight on, I didn't see it. I tried it over and over, and sometimes the carp even seemed to move. That's just magic." Fascinating. She'd really thought about it. "I like others too: van Gogh…I like how muscular his strokes are."
"Anything not from the Impressionists?" I asked. She thought about it for a moment.
"I like some of the Dutch masters…how luminous the skin tones look. And I went through a Pre-Raphaelite phase when I was a little obsessed with Millais and Moore and Burne-Jones…but not Rossetti so much." I raised my eyebrows, questioning. "He always paints the same lips," she complained.
"Well, mostly he painted the same woman," I laughed.
"But even when he didn't, he painted the same lips…right now, though," she said, getting back on track, "I seem to be drawn to the Impressionists."
I asked her about movies while we paid for our food and made our way to our table. Most of her answers were not very surprising, until she said her favorite actor was Morgan Freeman.
"Wait, wait. You are a teenager, right? Your favorite actor is 70 years old? Not Orlando Bloom or Matt Damon?" I asked, mocking her a little.
"He's an excellent actor," she insisted.
"I don't dispute it," I said, waiting. There had to be more to this. She sighed and looked away, taking a bite of apple. She glowered at me slightly, as she swallowed.
"He has a great voice," she finally said, acting like she was caught in some compromising position, "and expressive eyes." Ah. I knew my face must have looked amused as things fell into place for me. She fidgeted under my gaze. These were qualities of mine she liked. I wondered, if she had actually known Mister Freeman and we were the same age, if I'd have some competition…well, we were close in age I realized, laughing. I shook the thought away.
"Favorite poet?" I asked as she took another bite. I was going to have to pace myself if she was going to get any food into her system.
"Cummings."
"Cummings?" I blurted out. "Don't you think his work's a little vulgar?" She blushed.
"Well, some of it, but some of it is really…intimate I guess."
"Tell me some of your favorites." She paused, struggling. "Please," I added. She smiled.
"I don't mind telling you, it's just that the don't have names, they are usually known by their first line, but I always remember them by their last line."
"Okay, give me last lines."
She held up her fingers as she listed them. "Let's see…'nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands', 'the breaking of your soul upon my lips', 'where always it is Spring and everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves"…you know some of what he does, like that last one, is not so different from Monet…he's not very linear…he paints with words." I thought about that, and realized that she'd given me reason enough to look at his work again, though I'd dismissed it decades ago. I'd been so haughty, assuming I'd have to educate her. She was surprising me again.
"You said that you mother used to play classical music in the house…besides Debussy, what were your favorites?"
"Puccini…"
"Opera?" I interrupted.
"Yeah, lots of opera, but Puccini is my favorite."
"La Boheme?" I asked, cringing at the idea of her liking another tragic love story.
"I like that one, but I think La Rondine is my favorite." Worse, much worse…much more tragic. Did she paint our story among all these star-crossed lovers?
"It's pretty sad," I said.
"Well, I really like that aria in the beginning." Hmm. I'd have to remind myself.
"What else?"
"Chopin…Bach…Rachmaninoff…"
"Which Rachmaninoff?"
"I like a lot of them. The third concerto is probably my favorite." I smirked and her face grew curious. We both watched as a group of students passed our table. "What's that look?" she asked in a low voice when they were gone.
I leaned in, making sure that the students were far enough away. "I've seen him play it."
"Who…Rachmaninoff?" she asked, a little too loudly, her eyes wide.
"Shhh. Yes. With Horowitz in Carnegie Hall. It was a gift from Carlisle and Esme…We were living on the east coast when Horowitz had his debut," I whispered.
"You saw Rachmaninoff play his own work?" she whispered incredulously. I could see her trying to work out how old I must be. I wasn't ready for that yet, so I changed the subject.
"What's your favorite gemstone?"
"Topaz." She answered still distracted by my last statement. Then she blushed. What could that mean?
"Why are you embarrassed about a gem?" I asked, amused.
She shook her head and took her last bite of apple. She wasn't looking at me. She did this, I realized, when she was worried about being dazzled. I tried harder, making my voice as velvety as I could. "Please, Bella, I won't laugh. I'm just trying to understand you." She stopped shaking her head, but she wasn't talking and she wouldn't look at me. Hmmm. So the voice alone wasn't enough. I reach my hand in her direction, not actually touching her, but it drew her eye and she looked at my face. "Tell me." I commanded gently. I immediately saw the resignation on her face.
"It's the color of your eyes today," she said, looking down again. "I suppose if you asked me in two weeks I'd say onyx." I couldn't tease her about this. Not when my favorite color had changed to brown just this morning. I briefly wondered what her favorite gemstone had been before we'd met, but realized it didn't matter; I'd changed her, just as she'd forever altered me.
"What flowers do you prefer?" The relief was visible on her face.
"Well, let's see. I like ocotillo." She ate a bite of pizza as I mentally ran through all of Esme's gardening books, all of the lists of Victorian flower meanings, all of the flowers that Rosalie had ever used in any of her dozens of weddings…I came up completely blank. I shook my head at her slightly. "It's a desert plant." Ah. Anything desert was not really my forte. "Most of the year they look sort of dead, but they leaf out when the rains start, and then in early March the top of each stalk suddenly develops a long cluster of bright red flowers. It's like someone went out overnight and lit candles all across the landscape. It's really stunning."
"Are they ever used in bouquets?" I asked. This made her laugh hard. I tilted my head and watched her with fascinated amusement. "What's funny," I asked, wanting in on the joke.
"Well, the stalks are about ten feet tall, and they're covered in really stiff one-inch long spines. In a bouquet I think they might send a mixed message," she said, her eyes dancing. I envisioned it too, and laughed. I motioned that we should start heading for class. She took a long sip of milk, and we cleared our things and headed to the hall.
"What flowers do you like that are used in arrangements?" I asked. I assumed it wouldn't be the normal female response: red roses, or the suddenly ubiquitous Gerber daisies.
"I like flowers that smell good. I like stock, and lilacs. I like roses," my eyebrows raised in surprise. "… but only the old fashioned ones that smell good. Oh, and tuberoses, they smell nice." These were mostly old-fashioned flowers; ones that didn't grow in the desert. I wondered what her experience with them was, since she'd been in a warm climate so long. She explained without me having to ask.
"Charlie's mom and dad lived here when Mom left him—part of why he never followed her I think—they were pretty sick. They died shortly after that, but he rented out their house for a while and I remember visiting the gardens when I'd come in the summers. There was an arch of climbing roses that you'd go under to get into the garden, and it always made me think of the Secret Garden when I was little. Charlie used to let me pick flowers to take back to his house, and it was lilacs and climbing roses and hydrangeas…I like those too," she added. "When he sold the house, it needed work, and the people who bought it basically tore out the gardens to get machinery in to stabilize the fireplace while they worked on it. If they'd done it when I was here, I would have begged him to let me transplant some of the plants into his yard, but it was all done by the time I came back the following summer. Charlie's not much of a green thumb anyway—and neither am I—so it might be just as well."
We were at the biology classroom now, and I held the door open for her and gently touched the small of her back, leading her in. It was such a soft touch that she didn't even notice, but I felt the heat from her skin through the soft fibers of her turtleneck. My fingertips buzzed with delight. She looked at my expression and raised her eyebrows, asking if something was wrong. I shook my head and walked to our table, amused that we could have silent conversations—short ones anyway—despite the fact that I couldn't hear her thoughts.
"Favorite candy?" I asked, trying to distract myself as I flexed my hand.
She sighed. "Marzipan, dipped in chocolate. Or truffles."
"Dark, milk, or white chocolate?"
"Dark, of course." I laughed when I saw her expression. She'd thought that was a ridiculous question. The answer should have been obvious. I decided to go with a harder one.
"Name five albums that are important to you for any reason. And not classical, since we've covered that a bit."
"Hmm. Okay, Miles Davis–Kind of Blue." She held up one finger. Jazz. Interesting. That opened up a whole new world to talk about. "Duncan Sheik–Phantom Moon." Didn't know it. Her fingers kept tallying them off. "Jonatha Brooke–Steady Pull, Zero 7–Simple Things" Didn't know it; like it. "And…Stevie Wonder– Songs in the Key of Life." Wait. What?
"Stevie Wonder?"
"Songs in the Key of Life was a seminal work," she insisted.
"Oh really?" I asked grinning.
"As, Summer Soft, Ordinary Pain, Knocks Me Off My Feet, If it's Magic…" she listed off the songs she valued.
"Okay," I said skeptically. The seventies were not my favorite decade for music.
"My mom used to play it when I was little, and some of the songs are really sad, but on the happy ones, we'd dance around the living room."
"You danced around the living room?" She had to be making this up…testing me, trying to see if I was actually listening to her answers.
"Well, Renee moved her feet more than I did. She can really rock out in the living room to some Stevie." Even Bella chuckled at that. I was still searching her face trying to decide if she was being serious. "I told you she was young for her age…well, when I was eight we had exactly the same love of dancing around the house. Some of it was to much more embarrassing music..."
I laughed, deciding finally that she was being honest. "Where was I wasting my time in the mid-nineties when I could have been witnessing that?" She rolled her eyes as Mr. Banner rolled in the audiovisual cart. When he went to shut off the lights, I slid my chair away from her slightly, remembering yesterday, and she flashed me a quick and slightly wicked grin. Then the lights were out and the current was back in force. I should have remembered that it was going to be dark in class before I touched her on the way into the room. My whole body was abuzz with the electricity, but that hand, so close to her, was already primed, already aware of how soft the turtleneck was, how her warmth bled right through it. Her hand twitched toward mine, and then she wrapped her arms across her chest, just as she had yesterday. I mimicked her, but it felt impossible to resist touching her, knowing that her hand had wanted mine. She slid forward, resting her chin on her arms, and grasping the edge of the desk with her fingers, as though she could only control them if they were clinging to a hard, unforgiving surface—which is actually how I would feel to her, I realized, ironically. I leaned back in my chair, hoping to put a few extra inches of distance between us and realized that it gave me a perfect view of the small of her back, the curve of her spine. From where I sat it would be easy to reach out and trace the beads of her spine, like a delicate string of pearls, down her back, and let my hand rest just above her jeans. But that would not be a safe touch. Far too intimate…I might actually scare her… and far too likely to make me want to touch her further. I clenched my fists again. This hour was going to be agonizing. The movie droned on and on, and I just watched Bella's back and shoulders, imagined touching them, and tried to find meaning in each sigh or movement of hers. I felt fairly confident that she couldn't be watching the movie, but I longed to know what she was thinking. Then again, perhaps I should be grateful that I didn't know. If I knew for certain that she longed to touch me, hold my hand, the way I felt right now I'd probably whisk her in my arms, carry her at immortal speed to the forest and…and what? There was nothing I could do that would be safe, no way to ease these longings. No, it was better that I was uncertain, that we stayed in a room full of witnesses, and that I kept my hands to myself until it was light again and this stream of electricity buzzing through me ebbed a bit. I felt certain that it would never completely disappear again. I looked at my skin to make sure I wasn't actually glowing.
Finally it ended, and the lights came up. She looked at me and her face registered surprise. The struggles of the hour must be written on my face; the teasing inquiry about her living room dancing a distant memory. We walked in silence toward the gym, and I wondered if there was any touch that could be safe when my emotions were so tumultuous. She turned to me expectantly outside the gym door. She was close, her heat and smell reaching out to me, pulling my hand up to touch her. My fingertips were too eager, too primed to be trusted. I touched her with the less-sensitive back of my hand, tracing along the outside of her face. It felt wonderful to give in just a little, and I quickly turned and went to Spanish before I could give in to any of the other urges I'd entertained over the last hour.
Emmett caught me in the hall.
What's up, bro? Are we setting up any other humans today? Going into business as lonely hearts club blind date service?
I grinned and shook my head, entering the classroom after him. Ben noticed me enter the room, and scowled. I heard him continue to plan how he would ask Angela out. He'd already managed to get her phone number. My spirits lifted a bit, and I pulled my homework out and got it ready to hand in.
Spanish turned out to be intellectually stimulating, possibly a first for Forks High School. Mrs. Goff handed out sheet of paper with a poem in English: Like a Lover. It was an English version of a Portuguese song lyric. We were to translate it to Spanish, trying to capture meaning and tenor, while maintaining the rhythm so it could still be used for lyrics. In English it was one of the more beautiful things I'd ever read, and I was curious to know what melody had been composed for a piece so full of longing and beautiful imagery. I translated it into Spanish, trying a few times before I was satisfied that I was capturing the yearning and imagery in the poem. Then, since I had time, I also translated it into Portuguese. At the end of class, we discussed the difficulties in translating meaning and tone and rhythm at the same time. None of our Spanish versions seemed to quite do justice to the English poem. I actually approached Mrs. Goff at the end of class and asked her about the song.
"It's an old song, Edward," she said taking my work, and realizing I'd also translated it into Portuguese. "There are a lot of versions, if you go online. I'd recommend finding one with just one guitar and one voice…it's best if it's a bit stark." It was the most insightful thing she'd ever said to me.
"Can you recommend one?" She smiled, and wrote the names of two albums down on my Portuguese translation and handed it back to me.
"This album has one of my favorite English versions, and this has the original, actually called O Cantador, by Dori Caymmi."
"Thank you," I said pocketing the paper. I barely made it to the gym doors before Bella came out, giving me a smile that cut straight through the gloom of Forks in winter. I smiled broadly as I took in the sight of her, and then asked "Favorite American author?" She rolled her eyes and we talked about books on the way to the car and the drive to Charlie's house.
"What do you miss about home? Phoenix, I mean? Other than 'brown'?"
"Let's see, tank tops, shorts, sandals, hot pavement…"
"Okay, weather, check, what else?" I said laughing.
"I miss the shapes of things. You can see the rock formations, and how the wind and water— mostly wind— have sculpted them. And they look different in different light, with purple shadows and orange light at sunset, contrasting with the blue sky that's so big it feels heavy."
"The play of light on form…sounds like architecture," I said, thinking again that Esme might really appreciate Bella's aesthetic taste if they ever got to know one another. I looked at the forest that encroached on everything here and understood why she complained in her sleep that it was too green; you couldn't see the underlying form of any of the landscape here.
"What else?" I asked, and watched her face, so animated, as she described the sights and sounds and smells of her home for hours. She tried to draw pictures with her hands in the air, and I was distracted by the graceful way they moved as she tried to describe the shapes of the mountains, and desolate beauty of the vegetation. We sat in the car for hours, and the light outside changed to a darker grey. Finally, I decided more questions would have to wait.
"Are you finished?" she asked, when I left an unusual pause after one of her answers.
"Not even close—but your father will be home soon," I answered, watching the sky.
"Charlie!" she cried, realizing that she'd completely lost track of the time. "How late is it?"
"It's twilight," I answered, looking west, where I could tell the sun had slipped below the horizon, even though trees and clouds obscured it from her view. A brief time when I could be out, even in Phoenix, and see all the things she tried to describe for me. I looked into her face again. "It's the safest time of day for us. The easiest time. But also the saddest in a way…the end of another day, the return of the night. Darkness is so predictable, don't you think?" My thoughts turned to the brief time in my existence when I was limited to the night; when my blood red eyes prevented me from showing myself during the day. When I'd mistook to the monster within for a god, meting out justice to human monsters prowling the alleys of New York City. Sitting with this exquisite, gentle woman, hearing about her home, knowing she cared for me…it was all so infinitely better. I would not become the monster again. I could be safe for her.
"I like the night. Without the dark, we'd never see the stars. Not that you see them here much," she added, looking at the sky and frowning. I laughed at her expression, effectively pulled from my grim reverie.
"Charlie will be here in a few minutes. So unless you want to tell him you'll be with me Saturday…" I suggested, hoping she would give me this most important witness, one more tether on the beast within.
"Thanks, but no thanks." Of course. I sighed softly as she collected her books. "So is it my turn tomorrow?"
"Certainly not!" I teased. There would be plenty of time to answer her questions after I'd proven myself Saturday. I remembered Alice's advice to Jasper on the day Bella arrived at school. Thinking of them as people helped keep the monsters within us at bay. Of course I already thought of Bella as a person—the most beautiful and important person on the planet—but I wanted every piece of information that might help me fight the monster on Saturday. "I told you I wasn't done, didn't I?"
"What more is there?"
"You'll find out tomorrow." I reached across her to open the door for her, taking in her scent and wondering if there was a safe touch I could leave her with, when their thoughts intruded my mind. I hissed softly, and whispered, "Not good." Quileutes were coming here, to Bella's house, and there was no time for me to leave.
"What is it?" she asked, her eyes wide.
"Another complication," I answered, the pain clear in my voice. I opened the door and moved away from her quickly, hoping against hope that they wouldn't recognize me, or would think nothing of my being here, with Bella moving out of the car, and me as far from her as possible. But their headlights came towards us like a searchlight, and I was trapped, like a cornered animal or convict. I immediately heard the recognition from the old man, the hatred and fear…fear for Bella and Charlie. Fear for the tribe, as he realized that for Bella he'd have to break the treaty, and that there were so few wolves to protect the tribe. There were still wolves? I hadn't expected that. So it would be war. But I'd done nothing wrong. I would do nothing wrong. Yet now I could envision the carnage; my family in danger. Why did it have to come to that? Why couldn't the fates just let me love where I would, without jeopardizing everything? I was overwhelmed with anguish, even as I defiantly looked into his eyes, willing him to see that I hadn't hurt her, wouldn't hurt her.
"Charlie's around the corner," I said finally, for the first time actually wanting her out of my car. The further she was from me right now the safer she'd be. She quickly got out of the car, seeing my struggle, confused as I continued to stare down the old man. I couldn't even say goodbye. As soon as she was clear, I revved the engine and put as much distance as I could between the old man and myself. If there was to be war, let it be over something real, and not just tempers flaring in the night.
I started heading home and then realized that I needed to see if the treaty was being broken before I talked to Carlisle. With me out of view, perhaps the old man would calm enough to think straight. I parked the car a few blocks from Bella's house, and listened. It was harder than it should have been, without the benefit of hearing Bella's or Charlie's thoughts, but after monitoring for a while, I gleaned the information I needed. Billy Black, the old man, was shaken, but was not going to tell Charlie tonight. He was too worried for the tribe. He knew the pack was outnumbered. But he was concerned. And trying to figure out what he could say, how far he could go without breaking the treaty. Jacob was still innocent. That is, he didn't know the truth about us, and laughed with Bella about his father's reactions. In another light, though, he was far from innocent. Bella's flirting had worked too well on the poor boy. He didn't see me as an enemy, but certainly as a rival. Well, that was irritating, but far down the list right now. Further up the list of irritations was that I'd have to admit that Rosalie was right; I was endangering them all. I sighed, as I realized I could get no more information from listening, and it was time to go home.
I entered the house and went directly up to Carlisle's office. He was aware before I knocked.
Come in, Edward.
I closed the door behind me, wanting at least the illusion of privacy, and walked over to his desk. I reached into my bag, and handed him the paper from Spanish class.
"What's this?" he asked.
"A poem we translated today in Spanish…well, lyrics, actually. Do you remember when Esme first joined us…before I hunted those mountain lions that were destroying the local livestock?"
"Before Esme and I declared ourselves," he clarified, reading the page. "Oh, I see. Yes, this captures it nicely doesn't it?"
"I thought you'd like it."
"Yes. Do you mind if I share this with her?" he asked looking at me. I shook my head. "Have you been thinking about that time, or did it just strike you when you read this?" His eyes were searching my face, trying to understand the pain there.
"Both. I've been thinking about your early days with Esme…drawing parallels I think."
"Understandable." He was a bit bewildered for a moment. So, is Bella your mate then?
"It feels the same, Carlisle. It feels the same to me as your thoughts were then, but it's just so much more complicated. You had it so easy."
He chuckled at that, remembering that it hadn't felt easy at the time, but then looked at me seriously.
"Sit down, Edward. Help me understand," he said gently.
"Esme was dying. She had decided herself she had nothing left to live for…and no one was looking for her…no one would be aware of your choice, except me. It made your decision easier. Bella is so fragile. And now, a Quileute elder, Billy Black, is at her house…yes, right now," I answered his thought. "I monitored for a while, and he's not going to break the treaty tonight, but he saw me with Bella, he recognizes what I am, and he loves Charlie…he's worried, and he's trying to decide what he can do without endangering the tribe. And there are still wolves, but a small number; he was worried that the pack was outnumbered, if it came to war." I felt the shock in Carlisle's mind and covered my face with my hands. "I'm so sorry I'm doing this to you…to us. It's not intentional."
His thoughts softened and he came around the desk, knelt and put his hand on my shoulder. "If it's the same, then I know it's not intentional. You still intend to take her to the meadow on Saturday?"
"I know I probably shouldn't, but I'm not sure that I have a choice. I'm sorry I don't have your control, but I have to be with her."
"I didn't exhibit much control once I knew Esme felt the same as I did," he said smiling. I looked up.
"But Esme was already one of us then. How can Bella be my mate if she's still human? I don't understand it, Carlisle! I just know if feels the same."
He sighed. "You listed all the justifications I had for changing her. And there were others. I wanted to understand how that happy child I'd treated years earlier had come to such a tragic end. But if you knew my thoughts as well as you seem to, you know those were not the reasons I changed her, just the rationalizations." I looked at him, reading his thoughts, remembering his thoughts from all those years ago.
"You just felt a compulsion."
"Yes. I didn't understand it. I didn't know why it was important to me that I save this one woman, of all the hundreds of women I'd seen die in hospitals over my many years. Why did I want to save her, as I'd saved you? I just knew I had to try. Some part of me recognized her as my mate, even when she was human and half dead. And she told me later she'd recognized me too, all those years earlier. This is not so unbelievable, what you are feeling for Bella…complicated, though, as you point out." He looked away, thinking of the possibility of taking the family away before there was a war.
"I don't think I can leave," I said softly. "I'm sorry."
He looked back into my face and smiled gently. "Edward, you never have to apologize to me for being who you are. You've done remarkably well, considering everything."
"But the Quileutes…"
"It might yet come to nothing. Billy Black may choose not to say anything. If he does tell Charlie, he might not be believed. I work with Charlie sometimes, and he seems like a very practical man. Even if they break the treaty, we can choose not to go to war. You've done nothing wrong, Edward."
"Yet," I said, covering my face again.
"If you survived that first day, I think you are capable of anything. You're taking precautions?"
"Anything I can think of. I'm keeping her scent with me all the time, so that sudden proximity won't catch me off guard. I've been asking her questions, trying to understand her, trying to get all the information I can to see her as a whole person, and keep the monster at bay. I've been practicing touching her safely, in public. I'm going to ask Alice to hunt with me tomorrow afternoon, even though I just fed. I think it will be enough, Carlisle, but the stakes are so high." He nodded, approving my measures.
"You just worry about keeping Bella safe; the rest we'll deal with together."
I looked into his face. "Thank you, Carlisle."
He smiled, "You were generous with me, back then, if you'll remember." I nodded, smiling too.
I went to my room and got my iPod. Then I went downstairs to the rows of computers and downloaded all the music she'd mentioned today—as well as Mrs. Goff's suggestions—and all the books and poems. I looked up a picture of ocotillo, and laughed aloud as I could finally appreciate her joke. Alice looked at me from across the room, and I just shook my head. It was getting late now, and I wanted to get going…Bella should be asleep soon.
We'll leave after lunch, Alice thought, not bothering to wait for me to ask her to hunt.
"Sounds good," I said on my way out the door.
As I crept into Bella's window, I immediately noticed the difference in her compared with the night before. She was completely peaceful. Perhaps the meeting with the Blacks had been uneventful…it seemed nothing was troubling her subconscious tonight. I felt the burn in my throat. After watching her for several minutes, I decided to take this time to get my jacket permeated with her scent again. I draped it over her gently; she sighed and rolled over, and continued sleeping peacefully. I retreated to the rocking chair and put in my ear buds. We'd all tinkered with our music players. If I set the volume to its lowest setting, I could still hear her breathing clearly, as well as the music. I started with the Puccini. I knew the opera, and just remembered it being sad. I went directly to the aria she mentioned, and listened to it carefully. My Italian was quite good; I had no trouble understanding the stilted singing. The melody was truly beautiful, and the words described a kiss…the madness surrounding a first kiss. Even with her across the room, I could feel the buzzing electricity flowing through my body. I'd dismissed this opera before, because I'd never been touched by the desire for a kiss or romance before; I'd only known the irony of what an unlikely hero I would be in such a story. But now the song felt powerful, beautiful, and tragic. I spent the next several hours like that, listening to her breath and her music: Longing Town, Your House…songs that might have felt trite to me before, now seemed eloquent and intimate. I read her poems: Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond…I felt like every word, every note brought me closer to her. Finally I got to the Stevie Wonder album. I went immediately to the first song she'd listed: As. While I listened, I imagined her at eight years old, dancing around the room with her mother, joy lighting her face. I sat back in the chair with my eyes closed and smiled.
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