Thursday May 4th, 1933

2 days until the wedding

The hysteria began to fade once my appetite had been sated. I found myself sitting on a mossy rock, arms around my knees. Esme perched delicately beside me, a few feet away.

We were safe from sunlight under the thick canopy of trees in the nearby woods, but it didn't help my unease. I felt incredibly exposed.

The light faded as the hours passed. We remained where we were until nightfall.

I oscillated between opening up and shutting down completely. I wanted Esme to understand the madness in my head, in my body. She had been the only one in my corner since my transformation.

On the other hand, I didn't want to acknowledge reality. I just wanted to mope in solitude.

She made the decision for me.

"Can I tell you something in confidence, Rosalie?"

I combed through individual threads of moss on the rock beneath me with my index fingernail. "I didn't realize it was possible to keep a secret among this company."

She laughed. "It helps when our mind-reader is in on the secret, too."

My nostrils flared when she mentioned him. "I don't foresee that particular gentleman wanting to do me any favors."

"Well then, that's good," she reasoned. "Because it's my secret, not yours."

I sighed. "Fine."

"Can I sit closer to you?"

"Sure."

She gently moved to my side, at a human pace.

"Can I hold your hand?"

"No."

"Alright." She straightened up and interlaced her own fingers. "I assume you've heard some rumors that an accident befell me years ago?"

I chewed on the inside of my cheek. "Yes."

"I'm sure you've deduced that whatever story you heard is a lie… and it is. But not for the reasons you'd think. My 'accident' wasn't my transformation," she started to explain.

I looked at her. She was already looking at me. "In fact, it wasn't an accident at all."

A sense of betrayal overwhelmed me. "You wanted this?" I whispered.

"No," she said firmly. "I did not want this any more than you did."

The sting began to ease, but confusion still clouded my emotions. "…I'm listening."

"I had a son." She said the words simply, but there was a terrifying depth that accompanied them. "During infancy, he fell ill with lung fever. He never turned one. He died in my arms."

My heart sank. The air became thick with grief. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"What was his name?"

"Gabriel."

"I can't imagine anything worse."

She swallowed. "Life without him, life after him. That was worse."

"And how did the baby's father…?" I began, but trailed off instinctively. Something about asking felt wrong.

A shadow fell across her lovely face. "I suppose now's as good a time as any to introduce my ex-husband, Charles," she sighed.

Ex-husband.

My mind started to race. Was this her accident? Was he her accident?

Had it happened to Esme, too?

Esme, the very personification of perfect womanly domesticity. Esme, who couldn't possibly have done anything wrong, or felt any worse. Esme, who had done everything right.

The words were out before I could quell my theory.

"He killed you?" I breathed.

"No." She tucked some hair behind her ear. "But he tried."

"Because of the baby?"

"He never knew about the baby."

My head was spinning. Nothing was making sense.

"Then why?"

"There is never a reason, Rosalie," she said seriously, putting her hand on my knee. "Never."

I didn't want to believe her. That wasn't supposed to be how the world worked. Men didn't just abuse women for no reason. There had to be a reason.

…There had to be.

She pressed on. "His name was Charles. He would hit me for anything; if I dropped a dish in the sink, if his dinner was too hot, if his dinner wasn't hot enough, if he'd lost at cards, if it was raining, if he'd had a hard day on the factory floor… there was always something he was upset about, and I was who he chose to take it out on. But I never told anyone. I wanted to be a good wife."

"I understand that," I muttered.

"I don't remember exactly what I left him for, but by the grace of God, it was mere days before I learned of my pregnancy. I was alone and very afraid. I had no money or belongings to my name. And yet, I was happier than I'd ever been. Despite my terror, despite my solitude, I felt affirmed in my decision to leave. I knew I could never return to him; I wouldn't allow my son to suffer the way I had.

I caught a train with the only money I had and got as far away as I could. I went by a pseudonym to ensure my child's security from his father. I made only a few friends; I barely trusted anyone. And then Gabriel came early.

I delivered in a bathtub. It was very complicated, very painful. I felt stronger than I ever had in my life. This pain had worth to me. I wasn't hurting because I hadn't dried a dish all the way… I was hurting to bring life into the world. My suffering felt divine. I felt strong, I felt proud of myself.

And to me, Gabriel was perfect. He was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. It gave all the suffering I'd faced at my husband's hands a purpose. But, to the fates…"

I'd nearly forgotten the story was about how she lost her son.

"Perhaps it was the conditions under which he was born. Maybe it was the stress he experienced in my womb as I hid from his father. Whatever it was, he was born sick. He only lived for a few days."

I ached for her.

"I held him and wept until nightfall, then buried him in the small garden behind my dwelling. I never went back inside; I walked to the town's edge, then six miles all the way up to the top of a hiking trail. I didn't…" she took a breath. "I didn't see a point to my life. I could not envision a life worth living without my baby, without a husband. So I walked to the cliff's edge. I was confident. I was calm. I felt completely in control. I walked off the precipice without feeling any fear at all."

I held my breath.

"I fell ninety-two feet, and was pronounced dead. But, despite my best efforts, I wasn't."

I couldn't say anything.

"I'm not sure exactly how… but while my body had certainly died, I suppose my consciousness hadn't." She shook her head. "I was furious. All I wanted was to cross to the other side, to be reunited with my son, but I wouldn't go. I wouldn't die. Believe me, I tried to. And then, I wasn't able to tell any of the people who found me that I was still with them, that I needed to be put out of my misery – my body just… well, I wasn't functional enough to communicate.

They took me to the morgue, and put me in a drawer of some kind… and within minutes of being left in there, I was pulled back out, and the burn began. I thought I was in Hell."

"I thought I was in Hell, too," I breathed.

"We were," Esme said seriously. "We were."

She really did get it. She truly understood.

We simmered in silence for several unnecessary breaths.

"Someday, I'll tell you all about how I came to love the man who pulled me out of that drawer. But I'd prefer him to be with me to tell that story," she smiled wryly. "I learned how to love my life despite the grief I held for my son, for the life I'd wanted for myself, but would never get. The day I woke up in my second life is the day I met my second son, Edward, and he –"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, that's where you're going with this."

"I can assure you that your assumption is incorrect, Rosalie," she pressed. "Have some patience."

I flinched, hissing sharply. "Don't say that word."

She stalled. "...Which word, dear?"

"Patience," I spat.

"May I ask why?"

"Someday, I'll tell you all about how I came to hate that word and the man who used it most," I threw her words back at her, mocking.

"Ah," she nodded. "Fair enough."

"In the meantime, I implore you to prove me wrong in my opinion of your darling son Edward."

"I will, gladly." She folded her hands in her lap and stared directly at me – rather, at the side of my head. I was staring petulantly into the trees.

"He didn't betray you, Rosalie."

"The hell he didn't."

"Truly. There wasn't a trace of malice in his summary of your plans. Well, no malice towards you, at least."

"So he did rat me out," I concluded. I'd figured as much.

"Hush, child."

I blinked at her tone – so authoritative, so maternal, so powerful, so gentle, so… patient.

She'd effortlessly shut me up.

"Your instinct to kill is one fostered by every newborn vampire," she began. "And your impulse for justice is only natural. Due to the conditions, the commencement of your new life has been at least twice as difficult than it is for most. You cannot be blamed for wanting them dead."

It sounded like… she wasn't angry. She didn't even sound disappointed.

"Carlisle is the only one of us who's never tasted human blood. I, regrettably, was unable to resist due to my appetite alone; I killed innocents because I could not control my thirst. Over the years, I've improved – I haven't taken a human life since 1928," she added, pleased with herself.

"Congratulations," I grumbled.

"It was an accident," she assured me, like that information was supposed to make her manslaughter somehow less heinous. "But Edward's story is a bit different. A few years into our cohabitation, Edward decided to… challenge the merits of our way of life. He wanted to know what human blood tasted like when he wasn't drinking it by accident. He set out on his own; we didn't see him for years. Eventually, he returned… and then we moved here, to Rochester."

I stared at her, incredulous. This context was overwhelming. There were too many things I wanted to ask about, and before I could voice any of them –

"He never told us how many he killed," she said, looking back at her lap. "But he told us why, and how. Because he could read the thoughts of everyone around him, he sought out the most foul among them when he became thirsty. He could identify the assailants who would act again, and knew with certainty that he was sparing others by following through. He killed many, many men – saving far more lives than he took, I reckon.

He doesn't view his deviance as something to be proud of, necessarily, but I don't believe he has any regrets. Truth be told… I'm quite proud of him." She smiled conspiratorially at me. "That's a secret between Edward and I, something not even Carlisle really knows the details of. He and I both believe, in the end, that humanity benefits from not having as many predators walking among them."

"The beauty of the food chain," I offered with a lighthearted snark.

"Indeed," she nodded. "Predator became prey. The circle of life."

"Esme, I'm… a little stunned," I admitted. "A woman – a woman like you, nonetheless – having such a… dismissive view of the situation… it doesn't fit your narrative. It certainly doesn't fit Carlisle's. Edward's, I can see, sure. But…"

"My husband and I never agreed regarding this, but we came to… an understanding," she told. "It's the one time he and I haven't seen eye to eye. It's the only time the three of us have ever truly had a philosophical quandary where our values are at odds with each other."

"You and Edward against Carlisle?" I clarified.

"Essentially, yes," she nodded. "Because before Edward returned home, he killed Charles."

My mouth actually fell open. I felt a swell of emotion in my chest. My head felt like it was filled with helium.

She let me gape until it became apparent that I was at a loss for words.

"Edward did what he believed was the right thing. I, too, believed it was the right thing. Even though I didn't want to. Even though I wanted to rise above, to be merciful and forgiving, to be a good wife, even then… but my body wouldn't let me. I could not do right by myself and not see his death as anything but justice. Knowledge of his death brought me comfort and security.

My beloved, as you know, has a temperament more placid than any I've encountered. He's able to maintain that temperament because he'll never know fear like we do. He can't know what it's like to live at the mercy of men. He is one. One of the good ones, to be sure," she rushed to clarify, "and though he can sympathize, he'll never truly understand. It's an impossibility. Edward, on the other hand… well, he does understand, because whether he likes it or not, he's feeling your torment just as you are. He can know that fear through experiencing it in our heads. I believe that's the difference – hence, where the lines were drawn regarding the ethics of murder."

There was more silence as I absorbed this.

On the one hand, it made his whole mind-reading thing feel less like a violation. My memories were indeed none of his business, and it sounded like he didn't want them any more than I did. He was subject to the horror of what happened to me in a similar way that I was; against my will and out of my control. Involuntarily.

It wasn't the same, not at all. But he understood.

"Which brings us full circle," Esme said, sounding like she was reaching her conclusion. I looked into her eyes, letting her words wash over me with this new context. "Edward did not betray you. He came to us to raise that moral issue again; he knew of your plans, and he wanted to assist you in carrying them out."

I turned to stone. "And… what was the verdict?"

Esme smiled. "It would appear that my husband's opinion, once again, is the least popular among us. But, if you'd like, we can have another formal vote, with your participation."

I flashed back to Election Day. "I've never voted in my life."

"Nor have you ever had the desire to challenge a man," she countered. "A husband's opinion, no less. And I know how much you value male opinions."

I had no choice but to eat my words and have humble pie for dessert. "...I've since changed my mind about that."

I peeked at her. She was smiling – proudly. An unfamiliar warmth spread through me in response. "Maybe you're changing for the better, Rosalie."

"But how… how can I follow through without Carlisle's… blessing?" I searched for the right word, but couldn't find it. I wasn't comfortable challenging the head of the household. Not yet.

"Well… Carlisle would say that forgiveness is divine," she said breezily. "Therefore, I recommend asking for forgiveness rather than permission."

"Whoever's sins you forgive, they are forgiven," I quoted him, a wicked smile growing from my lips. "Whoever's sins you retain, they have been retained."

She smirked back at me. "The book of fucking John."

/

I can't WAIT to hear what y'all think of this chapter. I've always felt like Carlisle's sense of morality around justice for women after SA or DV was warped; in Midnight Sun he says he "looked the other way in Rochester" for Rosalie, as if he made an exception for her, when it was never up to him to look the other way in the first place...? He should've looked to the women involved, listened to what they had to say, then shut the fuck up and let them do their thing. Just my opinion :)

Hence, the conspiracy. Sneaking around Carlisle's back to get the job done is gonna be super fun for all involved. And though it might seem kinda OOC for Esme, I'd argue that Esme is criminally underwritten, and that she should have a great sense of when to get into good trouble. It's a mama bear instinct. It's solidarity between women, between survivors. And we all know how Edward feels about murdering guys like Royce - he just needs a good reason :)

Til next time! M