Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)

Edward has decided he's an only child, eh? Let's see how that works out.

Chapter 7: Siblings and Strangers

Edward's POV

The doctor knocks before entering my room.

He tries to conceal his thoughts as he assumes his preferred seat in the chair, but I know his objective.

"Edward, we need to talk."

I ignore him as I finish the third act of The Taming of the Shrew, Petruchio's psychology of recent interest. I close my copy of the Bard's work and lay it on a side table. "About?"

"Your sister."

"As far as I know," I observe, "the late Edward Masen sired but one child. Is there something you know which I do not?"

The comment hits the mark, and his mind fills with a familiar refrain of regret. After all these years, especially after my rebellion, he wonders if changing me so young was the right decision. And the reference to my father only punctuates his guilt.

Pausing to tend his wounds, I earn but a brief respite from his nonsense. "I am referring to Rosalie."

"Oh. Well, you can see my confusion." I shrug. "She is not my sister."

He refuses to voice his annoyance. "But she lives in our home and deserves your respect."

In lieu of the curses that fill my mouth, I expel a long, heavy breath. "I have gone out of my way to be respectful."

He catches my double meaning but ignores it. "Edward, she's hurting. Losing her fiancé, her family, and her humanity in one night has been most difficult."

"I am sure." My eyes harden. "But who is to blame for that?"

Another sigh, this one bordering on exasperated. "I made the best choice for Rose."

"Rose?" I snort. "If the thorn fits."

"Her injuries were quite severe," he persists. "They were far beyond any medical assistance."

"You would know."

His nostrils flare. "She would have died, Edward."

"Perhaps she should have."

He gasps at my reply, and his mind goes blank. "You should not play at being cruel," he says after a moment. "It is not who you are."

Our eyes meet for too long a minute, and I am forced to look away. The swift subject change unnerves me, and I am tempted to spill my sins just to prove him wrong.

But there is little sense in that.

One, because that's what he wants.

And two, because I am what I am.

Confession would change nothing.

But his refusal to see any evil in me softens my reply.

"I do not mean to suggest Miss Hale deserved such a cruel end. But you did not have the right to thrust her into this life. She should have had a choice."

My assessment startles him. "Have you spoken to her?"

I walk toward the window, pleased to find a stubborn band of dark clouds overhead. "I have no words for her."

"That surprises me."

"Why should it? There is nothing between us."

"Maybe not." He comes to stand at the opposite end of the pane, hands clasped behind his back. "But she resents me for stealing her choice. And as you just voiced the same opinion, I thought maybe you two were making progress toward..."

"It is a matter of logic. You condemned a virtual stranger to this life completely ignorant of her feelings. Any buffoon would reach a similar conclusion."

"Esme is uncertain." He glances my way, but I am focused on the sway of the budding trees. "She believes in the benevolence of saving Rosalie's life but sympathizes with her eternal inability to bear children."

"Does this soliloquy have a point?"

He turns toward me, his mind carefully blank. "Rosalie thinks you hate her."

The non sequitur has the intended effect, and the truth slips out with my derision. "She does not think of me at all."

"Does that bother you?" he asks, the twitch of his mouth making me angry.

"Hardly." I cut my eyes at him, coming to a decision. "I mean only to say your assessment is incorrect."

"You should tell her of your telepathic abilities."

"Why don't you tell her?"

"She is out hunting with Esme, as I am sure you know."

"She'll return at some point." I lift my jacket from the arm of the chair. "I for one feel like taking a stroll."

He watches me in faintly amused silence as I walk toward my bedroom door, calling out at the last moment. "Edward?"

"Yes, master?"

Ignoring my tone, his mind fills with anonymous medical charts. "Never mind."

I nod, uncomfortable with his sudden secrecy, and quit the room, checking my reflection once in the parlor mirror before leaving the house.

I look as human as I'll ever be.

-B-I-

Rochester in the springtime is as tolerable as any other place. The weather is temperate but moist, so an afternoon shower can never be ruled out. Watching flowers poke their heads out of the ground never holds any real interest for me, but I do appreciate the added fragrance they bring to the air.

I have little desire to be out of doors especially with two fresh Shakespearean comedies waiting in my room. But I would rather throw myself on a raging pyre than endure another moment of the doctor's blathering about Rosalie Hale.

By trying to humanize that monster he created on a misguided whim, he thinks he is helping. But his muddled musings have the opposite effect.

They only make me loathe her more.

I tried to be civil.

I honestly did.

I sat with her during her change, never leaving her side for a moment. And although my motives were selfish, they had every appearance of proper gentility.

Once she awakened, I spoke kindly, giving her the space to adjust to my troublesome presence.

When she unjustly attacked me, I did not retaliate. Instead I took myself away from the house, trying again to explain her new situation with as much tact as I possessed.

And what was her response?

'Afraid to speak, boy?'

A fortnight has passed since my first and only encounter with her, but her voice still echoes in my head, baiting and berating me. And in spite of my full support of women's rights, it takes every morsel of respect Elizabeth Masen ever taught me to keep me from crossing the hall between our rooms and ripping her blonde head from her haughty neck.

The hall between our rooms.

The other source of my considerable ire.

A perfectly suitable room sits vacant on the second floor. It overlooks the forest, gives the best view of the lake to our south, and would be ideal for someone with feminine sensibilities.

But no.

The doctor's wife feels her female progeny would be more comfortable near me.

In case you missed the logic, let me review:

Rosalie Hale hates men with a red-eyed passion, yet Mrs. Cullen believes she would be more comfortable on the third floor near me.

The doctor should have his wife committed, for she is clearly delusional.

I discovered the change when I returned from an extended hunt nine days ago. The bison in Canada have a different flavor than their domestic cousins, and the recent expansion of our little clan made me thirsty for a more exotic kill.

Before then, Miss Hale seemed reluctant to acknowledge our mansion as her home, and I had hoped to find her permanently removed.

But when I returned, I was discovered she not only remained but lodged a mere five feet from my sanctuary.

I immediately took up the issue with the henpecked doctor who would never refuse his bride anything. He assured me Mrs. Cullen was in earnest and encouraged me to "make the best of it."

His foolish mind added what his mouth did not, and I slammed the door of his study in a rage, satisfied only by the answering sound of glass breaking. I continued to my room as if my floor-mate did not exist and have carried on thus in the several days hence.

They will not force my heart, no matter how relentless their tactics.

And Rosalie Hale will never be more to me than four annoying syllables.

I come out of my thoughts to see the clouds thickening above me. An hour among the humans should be enough to erase any lingering discomfort, and I can return to the house and the play in Padua.

A lovely brunette in a blue beret approaches as I enter the square. "Good morning, Miss."

Her shy smile widens as she passes. "And to you, sir."

She smells of ripe peaches and blackberries, and I fist my hand in my pocket to keep me from following her.

This is good, I think as I continue down the street. A literal baptism by fire.

Surviving the first gauntlet, I bob and weave my way through the thickening crowd, savoring without sampling the wide variety of scents.

Tobacco, talcum powder, and cedar.

Cotton, baking soda, and bay leaf.

Soil, beargrass, and lemon.

Venom floods my mouth faster than I can swallow, and I keep my darkening eyes down so as not to frighten anyone. Curt nods and tips of the hat suffice where words cannot, and I am pleased with my ability to abstain.

Perhaps a good walk is what the doctor should have ordered.

I am holding my breath to withstand the lilies and lavender of the redhead on my right when she abruptly looks up.

And the sight of her eyes knocks the very wind out of me.

I groan on the exhale as her blue-green pupils sear a hole in my chest.

She has no idea what she is doing to me, yet she refuses to look away.

"Dorothy!" someone calls from across the street.

The name reverberates within me like a long-lost song, and I fight my knees as they start to buckle.

As she waves to her friend with an answering smile, I amble away in the opposite direction, escaping before she can notice or follow. I do not slacken or breathe until I reach the sanctity of the woods near our home, praying my steps have been human enough in their speed.

I cannot afford to be discovered.

Collapsing against a sturdy fir in the heart of the forest, I hyperventilate the thick verdant air, unable to stop the throbbing in my soul.

For although Dorothy is a stranger to me, her eyes are painfully familiar:

They were shining in the mind of the last man I killed.

The memory weakens me to the point of exhaustion, and I fall to the ground in a useless heap.

I had cornered the drunken lout in an empty lot behind a house of ill-repute, the stench of his wife's fear and blood fresh on his clothing. They had argued in the kitchen, a rolling pin his weapon of choice, and he'd had plans to finish what he had earlier started.

But I'd had plans of my own.

He was listless as he stumbled from the brothel, his treatment of his ill-paid partner earning him disapproving looks from her matron. Told not to return, he was too sated to care.

Scratching his balding head as he turned the corner, he never saw me coming.

As I'd sunk my teeth into his sweaty neck, it was those blue-green eyes that lingered in his mind, their blind innocence distracting me from my task. I gathered she was his young-adult daughter, a slight resemblance in the nose and chin, and I wondered what horrors those guileless eyes had seen.

But as they stared through me in the memory of his mind, they showed me what I truly was.

That by murdering a monster, I was the blackest fiend of all.

And that was the last night I'd taken a human life.

How has she come to be in New York? I wonder. Her father's unsolved murder occurred two years ago and three whole states away.

Is she here on holiday?

Does she know her father is dead?

Will I ever escape the sins of my past?

The final question haunts me as I rise from the ground, and with nowhere else to go, I return to the house. I have never thought of the building as my home, but in light of today's confrontation, it serves its purpose.

I trudge up the front walk, grateful for the solace behind the door. A welcome emptiness greets me when I reach my room, and I cannot wait to succumb to its embrace. Dropping onto my black leather sofa, I close my eyes to ease the throbbing in my head and take a deep, cleansing breath.

And I grimace with a groan at the jasmine and black orchid that invade my senses.

I keep my eyes closed, but her emotional weight presses against me as she crosses the threshold.

"I need to talk to you."

Even the sound of her voice exacerbates my pain. "Go away."

"I am serious."

"As am I."

I feel a sharp kick where my feet are crossed at the ankles, yet I do not budge.

In spite of her surprise, her thoughts turn smug. "Still afraid to look at me?"

"More like disinterested."

Her pride has been wounded but only for a moment.

"Edward, come on." Her loaded sigh pries my left eye open. "I need you."

I should ignore her, knowing her phrasing is deliberate.

I want to ignore her, believing she sensualized her tone on purpose.

But my other eye has a mind of its own, and it opens to lay her before me.

It has been several days since I last saw her in the cold, smooth flesh, and it takes all of my concentration to stare at her beauty with indifference.

Of all the confounding creatures in the world, Carlisle had to bring me this one.

"Did you hear me?" She is unaware of my struggles. "I need your help."

"To do what?"

Her immaculate expression turns cold. "To right a wrong."

I pull out of her mind, wanting to hear the truth from her mouth. "What?"

"Mr. King and his friends," she says with a dangerous look in her eye. "I want them all dead."

Hmmm…what will Edward say?

Thanks for reading! xo