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Chapter 18: As a Vampire Thinketh

Rosalie's POV

Vampires, by default, have a different concept of time. They assign its meaning by years not days, months not minutes.

There are a few known exceptions to this practice:

Esme's marking of her time with Carlisle for one.

Mine of my liaison with Edward.

But though my skin is hard and my heart forever silent, this date will be significant no matter how many times I see it.

For today is Liam's birthday.

I do not think about him while Edward is around, filling my mind when tempted with assorted trifles to secure his disinterest. When that fails, I resort to more carnal considerations, making him blush and stutter as he finds sudden occupation out of doors.

I am endlessly fascinated by his reactions to my sensuality.

Equally fascinating is my recent shamelessness in that department.

But now that he has taken off for parts unknown, my thoughts are safe. And I close my eyes and indulge on my favorite fantasy.

Behind my lids, I tiptoe into Liam's room just after sunrise, avoiding the toy cars that spilled onto the floor during his wild slumber. I kneel beside him, watching the morning light caress his chubby face. He has many perfections—his inquisitive eyes and infectious laugh among them—but his cheeks are my absolute favorites. Round, ruddy, and soft, they are pillows of joy begging to be kissed or pinched. And though he hates such attention, I remain the only one he allows the privilege.

He rolls over, nearly smacking me in the face, and my hand flies to my mouth to keep from laughing. Liam's heart would break if he learned of his near-miss, his bottom lip quivering in apology. "I so saw-wee, Wozee."

It would almost be worth waking him early just for the missing r's in his version of my name.

Definitely the sweetest sounds on earth.

Father will want to be the first to give birthday greetings, so I must hurry before I am caught. I bend to his face, inhaling his precious scent, and kiss him gently. He stirs a little, wrinkling his nose with a sigh, but does not awaken. Placing my mouth to his ear, I recite the words I penned upon his birth:

Lovely one from heaven, so fair

With azure eyes and golden hair

On angel's wings, you flew so far

To take your place and claim my heart

Liam, my love, so perfect and sweet

You made me whole, my life complete

With a final kiss to his forehead, I slip out of the room and back to mine mere seconds before Father's door opens. His heavy footfalls precede three soft raps on Liam's door, and shortly thereafter will be the high-pitched squeal unique to little boys on their birthdays.

I blink my eyes from my perch in the window seat in our sitting-slash-piano room, vainly attempting to ward off the heart wrenching sting these thoughts inspire.

I wonder how they will mark the day. Will Father take Liam to the park to fly his favorite kite? Will Mother make her decadent chocolate pudding and let him lick the spoon? Or will they plan a treasure hunt for his gift, leaving a trail of trinkets throughout the house and garden?

And what will be his gift? It has been twelve weeks since I saw him, but I forget so much. Is it a new pouch for his marbles or a model plane for which he pines? Has Father purchased his gift and hidden it in plain sight as he is wont to do? Will his day be joyful without me?

I wince against the question, expecting the ache in my chest. I want Liam to be happy, to never know lack or melancholy.

But a larger part of me, the part longing to see his smile in the flesh, cannot help but wish for a touch of sadness in the midst of his revelry for the sister he has forever lost.

Who knew I could be so selfish?

I shake off the thoughts, refusing to ruin the exercise. Esme said we must remember with passion if we are to retain our human memories, and I refuse to forget my angel. I swallow past the lump in my throat, closing my eyes to concentrate.

Happy birthday, my sweet Liam. May you somehow feel my love today.

—B—I—

It is a cool, crisp autumn morning, and I am taking my walk in the woods earlier than usual. I am having trouble relaxing of late, my only respite among the wilds around our home.

Home. I am adjusting to the word.

I cannot recall having a favorite season as a human, but in my immortality, I have discovered a level of beauty unknown in my former life. The heat of summer, for instance, is more than notches on a thermometer. It is a shift in the air, an audacious coiling in the loins that does not relent until the first fall frost.

And though the colors of autumn were always splendid, I now see nuances I never knew existed. The browns are beautiful, the violets vivacious, but my eye ever returns to the auburns and golds. Their riotous tones speak of evolution and fire, of a passion so intense, it consumes itself.

Or perhaps I am confusing the leaves with something else.

Someone else, to put a proper point on it.

It has been six months since our move to Tennessee, and though I have no use for this place, I can no longer feign indifference to the state in which I find myself.

I try not to think of Edward even when alone, believing I can quarantine this madness by the flip of a mental switch. But when nature itself seems to echo his brilliance, who am I to resist?

Perhaps I shall expel my confusion at the piano after the Cullens leave for work. Though the national economy suffers, they have found fulfillment in assisting those in need however they can. Dr. Cullen toils at a free clinic in town while his bride lends a hand at the nearby soup kitchen. She has become even dearer since our relocation, but I am not ready to confide in her about Edward.

Especially as I have no idea what we are about.

Yet I see Esme's looks when she thinks I do not, the way her eyes dance when he and I are together. I know her hopes, feel them pressing upon me, and when honest I admit they are not entirely unwelcome.

But what does that mean?

Coming within earshot of the house, an unexpected sound reaches my ears.

Esme.

She is in trouble, acutely so.

Her rapid, shallow breaths send frightening shivers down my spine, and I am instantly alarmed.

Lifting my skirts in preparation to run toward the house, I freeze in place when another sound follows the first.

Carlisle.

He is with her, his voice sighing her name like a prayer.

I cover my gaping mouth as my eyes widen, embarrassment washing through me like an uncomfortable flood. I know they engage in such activities—their winks and smiles are telling enough—but in seven months in their company, I have never heard anything beyond a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Until now.

Stumbling backwards, I sit on the nearest boulder and try to calm down. They seem unaware I can hear them, and given the deliberation with which they tease and undress, I do not think they would care.

Either way, there is nothing stopping me from fleeing to town, the north, or any location beyond earshot.

Yet I do not move.

As Edward is pursuing panthers on the other side of the mountain and there are no humans within two miles of this spot, it is safe to acknowledge a secret truth.

I want to hear them.

Need to hear them.

Lest my curiosity seem inappropriate, it is not for the sake of any misdirected attraction. I dread the matching images my mind will soon supply, and I can only hope my naivete will save my sanity.

No, my need to observe is of a clinical nature.

I need to understand how they do it.

Esme in particular.

I know her history, a tragedy surpassing my own as a young, precious life was also lost. And I know Dr. Cullen is nothing like that odious man to whom she was wed.

But I do not know… and cannot fathom… how she does this. How she allows herself to be so vulnerable, so naked before him. How she relinquishes control to something, to someone stronger than herself, trusting his motives and movements to cause pleasure not pain.

It is this I must understand before giving myself to Edward.

Seven months is a long time to flirt with fulfillment, an eternity by vampiric standards. Though he has never implied impatience nor given me reason to feel rushed, I know the clock ticks toward our eventual endgame. I feel the tension in his touch, notice the restraint he employs while kissing me.

Our naughty games are now fraught with frustration, resulting in more rules and fewer laughs. Hide and seek is an impossibility. The last time we attempted the piano together was an unmitigated failure. And he insists I tether myself to the Cullens whenever he hunts within thirty miles of the house, a restriction I do not understand.

Though some elusive instinct warns me not to mention it to Esme.

There is so much unsaid between us, so many questions to be asked and answered. Yet I cannot bring myself to speak them. And though my prickly nature wants to assign blame, Edward does not deserve it. He graciously handed me the reins in Rochester, and I now understand the depth of that vow. This reticence is his gift to me, the hallmark of his adoration.

He yearns, yet he waits.

And in so doing becomes more intoxicating.

I cannot feign ignorance of my feelings, jumbled though they may be. I know what I want, what we both want, even as much of it remains undefined.

But for all my desire and dreams, I cannot yield. Even to that beautiful boy who seeks to be mine, I am not ready to surrender.

And as Esme's cry of freedom swells around me, I wonder if I ever will.

—B—I—

It is late when I return to the house. Dr. Cullen and his bride are within, enveloped in benign conversation. Edward is not here, and I stifle sadness at the realization. I can only hope those stupid big cats will stop eluding him and release him to my care.

The waiting is terrible.

I pass the living room where the Cullens are seated, and Esme looks up. "How was your walk, dear?"

"Quite relaxing, thank you." I betray nothing of my earlier eavesdropping. "I am ever amazed at the fall foliage."

"It is spectacular, isn't it?" she beams, turning to her husband. "Perhaps we should take a midnight stroll."

Dr. Cullen glances at the window. "The moon seems to approve. It is high and full and begging us to indulge in its light."

"Did you see Edward in your travels?" Esme asks with that look in her eye. "I thought you would return together."

"No." My reply deflates her, and I stifle the guilt. "I have not seen him."

Her husband strokes her arm. "I am sure he will return soon."

"And I am sure you are right," she replies, her good humor restored.

With the sounds of their love fresh in my mind, I cannot endure their smiles, no matter how kind. "May I go now?"

"Please do," the doctor says. "We would not dream of delaying you."

Their sudden glee puzzles me, but I am in no humor to question it. With Edward out of doors and nothing else to amuse me, I want nothing more than to drown in the solace of my room.

I cross the threshold of my sacred space, turn on the lamp out of human habit, and am stunned by what I find lying upon my bed.

Oooooh, what could this be? Find out next time, dear readers! xoxo