Chapter summary: I really, really, really didn't know that combing her hair could ... well, I just wish I could do something right for once, is all.

I awoke quickly, finding my bearings, quickly, because I had to go. Now.

It was the daytime. Maybe the morning? I was bundled back in the bed. Rosalie's scent was strong around me, but I realized that it was coming from my sweater that was right beside me.

I quickly pried myself out of the bed and blanket, which seemed to take way too much time.

I ran toward the triptych, where I heard sounds of bathing, the mirrors showing me a desperate girl racing past them, and I called out as turned the corner, "Rosal-..."

And I stopped. I stopped cold. Because you know that painting? "Venus on the Half-Shell" or whatever it's called?

She really had to quit taking every beautiful thing in the world and topping them all so effortlessly.

Golden eyes regarded me regally, then she asked through gritted teeth: "Wurs zhe fihre?"

That's when I realized I had been standing there like a gaping idiot for, I don't know, fifteen hours? Just standing there staring at her.

I shut my mouth (yes, my jaw had hit the floor), gulped (luckily my drool hadn't leaked out all over; that would have left a nice impression), and reconnected my brain.

"Um, what? Oh!" I said. Yes, I'm a genius. "I'm sorry, but I really, really have to go!"

Rosalie closed her eyes for a second, collecting herself, her face actually dropping. I could almost read in her expression the burden I was on her.

I couldn't even let her take a bath in peace, could I? I hated myself again.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

But Rosalie reopened those golden eyes of hers and held up one finger.

I nodded in understanding. She put down the shampoo bottle and picked up a pitcher of water, quickly rinsing off the soap from her body.

But why wasn't she breathing?

Oh, yeah, I realized: my tears and my accident from last night. I probably stunk to high heaven to her. I took a quick, furtive sniff of myself as she continued to rinse.

Yup. Stinky.

I looked back to see Rosalie finish rinsing. She was doing her feet now, first one foot, which she then carefully and gracefully placed outside the tub basin, and then the other, and I couldn't help but notice as she did this that she has cute toes.

I blushed something fierce at my thoughts, but thankfully, Rosalie didn't notice, for she was picking up a towel and was then drying herself.

This seemed to take absolutely no time at all. She just did one pass over herself, and she was dry. It wasn't that she was doing it super fast, it was just that there seemed to be no water on her skin, or something.

More magic from the goddess Rosalie.

But her hair was still wet, so at least there was one thing not supernatural about her.

She dressed herself very quickly. One second she was the envy of the goddess Venus, and the next second she was in jeans and a tee putting live coals in the pail.

She scooped me up and we were flying through the forest, but something was bugging me. She didn't put on a brassiere, but did I see her not put on panties? It all happened so fast, I wasn't sure either way.

She deposited me in the outhouse, leaving and returning with Belle Fourche river water, heating the place with its steam as the candle illuminated my own very little private part of the world ... that Rosalie was always there with me.

She was silent the whole time, my golden-eyed guardian. But I reflected on it. Every moment now I was with her, and when I wasn't with her, I was missing her.

I had to admit that to myself. When she was gone, I thought of her all the time, and I missed her.

I didn't know what to do with this revelation, so I did my business, which needed my immediate attention anyway, and then she did hers on me, washing my private areas clean.

But she still wasn't breathing.

We raced back to the cabin, and she deposited me by the basin; thankfully by the triptych side. A lacquered image of a lark ascending looked back at me. She pointed at the basin, and I nodded again.

I don't know. I guess I could speak when she couldn't, but somehow it felt more natural to be quiet when she was. It was like I was struck dumb by her silence.

I started taking off my nighttime clothes and throwing them down beside me in a pile as Rosalie collected the pitchers, stepping outside, leaving the door open, because she was gone and back again in an instant. She closed the door then filled the pitchers with hot water from the big pot on the stove, setting them down by me.

She pointed, again, this time a little imperiously, I might add, to the basin.

"Okay," I whispered, and then I winced. Yeah, it felt definitely wrong for me to be speaking, my whisper seemed to shatter the quiet of the cabin.

I knelt down by the basin. I'd shampoo my hair first.

Rosalie picked up a towel and started rubbing her hair vigorously. I looked toward her as I absently reached for the shampoo and picked it up.

I gasped in shock. It was a good thing I was kneeling down, because you know when you pick up something, thinking that it was going to be heavy, and it doesn't weigh anything? If I had been standing up, I would have toppled like one of those trees that Rosalie felled, because the full container of shampoo was now almost empty.

I looked again at Rosalie, drying her hair, and then looked back at the shampoo bottle. I unscrewed the top and looked in. About two thirds of the shampoo was gone.

I set to work, washing my hair. Very thoroughly.

...

The bath felt very, very good. By the time I finished bathing, Rosalie was standing in front of the mirrors, combing her hair. I had wrapped myself in my towel because my clothes weren't laid out for me this time by the basin.

I looked at Rosalie.

"It doesn't go away, does it? The smell of scotch in your hair?" I asked.

Rosalie continued to look right into her eyes as she combed her hair. It looked like she was examining herself critically. It looked like she was staring herself down. It looked like she was daring her reflection to try to look more beautiful than herself, so that she could smash the mirrors. She looked that dangerous.

I suddenly thought, does she ask the mirror every day who is the most beautiful in the land? I fervently whispered to her in my mind: you are, Rosalie. You are the most beautiful.

After a moment of her self-examination, her eyes flashed black. Just like that. Her face didn't change expression at all, but her posture stiffened a little, as if she were bracing herself against my scent. Against her natural inclination that I begged so hard for her to indulge in last night.

She said: "It used to be ever-present, no matter how often I washed myself. But then Edward recently told me something very wise. I wasn't, then, in a position to hear it, but it helps me some now. Actually, it helps quite a bit."

"What did Edward tell you?" I asked.

I don't think I recall her mentioning Edward positively before.

"He said," she said, "that the bad memories don't go away. And for us, that is true: they don't. But he said that you keep adding different experiences and memories so that the bad becomes diluted by the good. So there's no time to dwell on the bad and the pain, because you have so many other experiences in front of you."

"But I brought it up again, hurting you, didn't I?" I asked to her reflection in the mirror.

Rosalie resumed combing.

"Yes and no." Rosalie's eyes shifted to mine in the mirror. "Yes, you asked, but no, because I chose to go down that path. I chose to share that with you."

"Why?" I asked, confused. Why would she share her past with me?

"Because ..." Rosalie began, but my waving silenced her.

"Never mind, never mind," I said quickly.

She said you're not supposed to ask why-questions. I had a brain. I could use it. I'd figure it out with time.

Rosalie raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Are you sure?" She asked.

"Yeah ..." I said, but then corrected quickly: "I mean yes, I'm sure."

Rosalie's expression didn't change, but she looked a little bit pleased, and a little bit proud, but also a little bit concerned.

Another thing for me to learn why. I wondered if these learnings and lessons ever ended ... or ever got any easier.

I watched Rosalie combing. "May I?" I asked.

Rosalie combed a bit more, fanned out her hair with her fingers, combed once more, and then handed me the comb. I looked at it. There wasn't any dandruff nor one single hair in it.

I put it to her hair and started combing. Her back stiffened, and she she hissed in a shocked breath.

I stopped. "What's wrong, Rosalie?" I asked in surprise.

"Nothing," she gasped. She held herself very stiffly.

"But you're ..." I started. "Am I doing something wrong?" I tried again.

She relaxed just a little bit then explained: "I thought you were going to comb your hair."

"Oh," I said. "You don't want me touching you?"

I tried to ask that factually.

"Well, you surprised me, and I had to stop my natural inclination to tear you to pieces."

"Why would you want to do that?" I asked.

Rosalie sighed, and relaxed a bit more, so I dared to continue combing. She didn't seem to mind now.

"Because only one thing surprises a vampire: its enemy, so the self-defense mechanism kicks in. We are very much reduced, very reactive creatures. Being eternal means being eternally in the moment, always primed to act or to react; always on edge, as it were."

I took in her words as I combed. Always being on edge? No wonder why she missed sleep so much!

"What's an enemy of a vampire?" I asked.

"Another vampire." Rosalie raised an eyebrow as she answered, as if she were stating the obvious.

I let the edge of my palm brush against Rosalie's hair as I combed it. I thought it would be cold and hard. Sharp, maybe, you know? It wasn't. It had dried, and it was soft and silky to the touch. Like her scent, it felt so comforting.

"But you and the Cullens were ..." I began. Rosalie gave me a sharp look in the mirror but didn't say anything, so I continued: "Well, you were together."

Rosalie closed her eyes for a second, then reopened them when she answered. "The Cullens are ... unusual." I think she wanted to use a different word. "Almost all vampires are nomadic, solitary, and if any two meet, then usually ... well." Rosalie looked away from me.

I combed for a second. "That sounds ... that sounds like a terrible way of living ... I mean, existing."

"Yes," Rosalie's eyes shifted back to mine in the mirror and penetrated mine with a stare with an intensity that matched her response.

"Oh," I said meekly.

But I continued combing, and she relaxed again.

"Nice?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, closing her eyes, relaxing completely. "It reminds me of when I was a human girl and my maid would comb my hair like that, so gently."

She was purring, but it wasn't making me sleepy.

Suddenly her hand flashed out and grabbed my wrist. I looked in surprise at her in the mirror. Her black eyes were staring at me. She looked angry for some reason.

"I think," she said quietly, "you should get dressed."

Her eyes shifted to the image of the bed in the mirror. I looked there, too.

My clothes were laid out there. They must have been there the whole time.

"Oh," I said. "... okay."

She released my wrist, and I went to the bed.

I looked back at her as I changed. She was still there, staring at herself. So still. She didn't look any different, but why did I get the feeling she felt disappointed with herself about something?

She must have been in front of the mirrors for minutes and minutes, looking at herself, thinking to herself, combing herself, everything. It didn't bother her at all.

But then I realized something. I was there for a little while, too. I wasn't looking at myself, yes, but she didn't have to drag me there, either.

Wow.

I went back to her by the mirror.

"So what's on the schedule for today?" I asked. "Besides breakfast," I added, reminding her.

Her eyes shifted to mine in the mirror. "Too much, and not enough," she replied.

"Then I guess we better get started, right?" I looked back at her.

"Yes," she answered. "Comb your hair while I prepare breakfast for you."

"Do I have to look in my eyes while I'm doing it?" I asked.

Rosalie's lips turned down. "No," she said, already in motion. So still in motion. So graceful.

I began combing as Rosalie put out breakfast things. She got out the bread and the eggs. I guess it would be toad in the hole this morning. I wonder if variety was unnatural for her. I mean I guess her diet was unvarying; her days were unvarying.

"Rosalie," I said as I combed.

"Yes?" she concentrated on cutting a larger hole in the bread.

"Is it okay if we do something different than chicken noodle soup tonight?" I asked.

"What did you have in mind?" She put the bread in the pan.

Well, it was good that she didn't have a serious objection to variety, but, actually I didn't have anything in mind at all. Just something different.

"Well, what're my options?" I asked.

Rosalie very gently cracked the egg. But then she reached in the pan and picked out some egg shell, I guess. It takes practice to crack an egg. But she would learn.

Or not need to. If I'm dead, she wouldn't have to cook anymore, I guess.

She looked up from her handiwork.

"I can obtain the ingredients for chicken cordon bleu," she said. "You'll have to prepare the meal yourself, but does that sound fine?"

"That sounds great!" I enthused. Then I felt a twinge of remorse. I was going to make that dish for Pa.

I repressed that feeling with a distraction. "But we'll need a veggie," I said. "Hmmm." I thought. "How about ..." Ah! "Green beans ... can you get green beans and cans of cream of mushroom soup?"

Rosalie smiled. "Yes," she said, then turned back to the stove and flipped the egg and bread with the spatula.

Perfect!

"Breakfast time for the human!" Rosalie sang out happily.

I went back to the table and handed Rosalie the comb. I had faired worse than Rosalie in my combing job, there were a few of my hairs there, but I saw one blond one.

Rosalie saw it, too.

"Ah, well," she shrugged. "It was worth it."

I felt my eyebrows crinkle as she served the toad in the hole. "What was worth what?" I asked, confused.

"You saw my hair on the comb, right?" Rosalie asked.

I nodded.

"You know I'm dead, right?" She asked continuing.

I nodded again, blanching a bit at how calmly she said that.

She waved to her glorious crown of hair.

"This is all I'll ever have anymore. Once a hair goes, it's gone."

"What?" I exclaimed.

"Yes," she said. "Early in my new existence I was going to cut away most of my hair. I just couldn't stand that my 'beauty' was actually my curse that condemned me to this existence, but Esmé stopped me before I could shear myself. She told me it doesn't grow back."

"Oh, my God! Rosalie! I'm so sorry! Why didn't you stop me?" I instantly saw that one hair gone was nothing if you lived, you know, a normal life and it grew back, but when it doesn't grow back, and there you are, a billion years later?

"Like I said," Rosalie answered easily, "it was worth it. I won't have the hair anymore, but you combing my hair? It felt ... nice. And the memory that I do now have was worth the trade."

"But ..." I said helplessly.

"Beauty and happiness, my dear girl," Rosalie said chidingly. "Neither are only skin deep. Neither depend on a hair."

Rosalie turned and got out the tea things, then served me a cup of tea.

I watched her mutely the whole time as she did this. This amazingly beautiful creature. This stunningly beautiful and complex person.

So, when she said I'm beautiful ... was she saying that I looked pretty? Did she only see my soul, and didn't see the plain exterior that everybody else saw? But she did say I look pretty, too.

The beautiful goddess waved to my plate and sat down across from me. "Eat," she commanded.

I ate. I had no idea what any of it tasted like, because I looked at pure beauty, skin deep and all the way down to her cute toes but also through and through, and wondered what she could possibly see in me that was beautiful.

Chapter End Notes:

Venus on the Half-Shell is a novel by Philip José Farmer; The Birth of Venus is the painting by Botticelli. Rosalie "looks like one of those Botticelli chicks" which Cher tells Elton in Clueless, which is a modern interpretation of Emma by, yes, Jane Austen. We clear now?

I recall reading the incident where Esmé saved Rosalie from destroying her hair, but I don't recall where. Help from an intrepid (trophy-earning) reader?

This chapter was in part the inspiration for the writer Jocelyn Torrent's "Locks" chapter of her one-shot (*ahem*), that is: story "Rose Read" (pronounced "Rose Red" ... geddit?) (even though "Rosalie" is Latin for "White Rose" ... but there it is).