Author's note: This is the sequel to "Solar Flare" (s/12085878/1/Solar-Flare) and "Solstice Dance" (s/12123143/1/Solstice-Dance), so it will make a lot more sense if you read those two first :)
(Wherever I've used quotes directly from the Twilight saga, I've underlined Stephenie's words to distinguish them.)
. . . . .
Prologue
7 September 2006
Before Bella, I thought of myself as dead (and it didn't bother me). After Bella, in those first fateful months, my opinion had vacillated wildly between—in my lowest moments—branding myself a demon who'd corrupted an angel, and—at my most self-aggrandizing—fancying myself her own personal superhero. (Because what superhero doesn't have a fatal flaw?)
My skewed self-perception had balanced out since then, giving me a new insight into the precious life we have, but Renesmee has given me an entirely new perspective. She gives the death of Bella's human life a higher purpose that makes watching her transformation thrilling, and I can't help feeling as though I'm allowed to enjoy it.
Bella's heart sounds out every beat with a strength that assures us the transformation will progress more swiftly than normal, and her face is so relaxed that we can all imagine her mind drifting calmly through the seconds until her new body is ready.
Carlisle and Rosalie watched Esme and Emmett just as dutifully, but neither had known their mates as well as I know Bella. It is surreal to watch the growing definition of her muscles beneath her pearlescent skin and the sharpening of her features that emphasizes her perfect bone structure, accentuating the shape of her face and focusing even more attention on her already dominating eyes. While her naturally long, dark eyelashes merely thicken, her eyebrows also refine their shape to complement and frame her face. Her hair keeps its rich, glossy brown but gains a metallic sheen. Her lips take on a darker hue of pink, an exquisite shade that's not quite natural—reflecting the loss of oxygenated blood—and draws the eye even more readily to her already shapely lips.
And then subtle differences start to appear between her new form and the one from Alice's vision all those months ago. Bella's translucent skin retains more of its warm, ivory hue; her hair lengthens more than usual, and copper highlights start to shine through, making us even more of a complementary pair; and, perhaps most surprisingly, her muscles gain more definition.
To distract myself from the thrilling implications of Bella being all but indestructible, I amuse myself by imagining that she will be permanently stronger than I am.
. . . . .
. . . . .
One: Teacher
While we wait for our family to be reunited—in two stages, because Alice and Jasper will return to us much faster than Bella can complete her transformation—I feel us already relaxing into our new, incredible reality. The moment we each met Renesmee, our individual and collective worlds reoriented so that she occupied the very center of them all. It might have been jarring were we not already strongly bound to each other, but it feels so natural that it is as though our lives already revolved around the spot she has now claimed.
It is most apparent when she falls asleep for the first time (in my arms, though there are four others eager to perform the service). Emmett is alone in celebrating the opportunity to focus on other things; the rest of us are utterly content to stay as we are and watch our baby sleep—even before she starts to dream. The jumbles of half-formed thoughts and images are disorienting for the others, but the images of our faces interspersed with words, snippets of sentences, and colorful shapes on an emotional backdrop of pure happiness make for an engrossing scene, even if the often-zany combinations and abrupt transitions make them feel a little dizzy at times.
Although Emmett enjoys her thoughts as much as the rest of us, his own are comparatively more forceful. He wrings out every millimeter of his patience, managing to wait three whole minutes before casually proposing to Rosalie that they "hunt" while Renesmee sleeps. Rosalie is torn; she is also eager to satisfy both of their physical 'needs', but Rey's abstract dreams are scarcely less captivating than her conscious thoughts. To resolve her conflicting desires, Emmett mouths kisses down her neck in the hope of convincing her. His efforts work almost instantly, but it still takes her a minute to surrender her connection to Rey's heart-warming mind.
The moment she lifts her hand, Emmett snatches it up and sweeps her into his arms even as he races outside, leaving Esme, Carlisle, and I to enjoy the unique landscapes of Renesmee's imagination in peace.
Esme and Carlisle move to stand on either side of me, each holding one of Renesmee's tiny little hands while resting a hand on my back. Her gift enables them to see everything I see, so they are fortunate that her mind is less complex than their own, as they have yet to learn how to find logic in the chaotic strands of thought. Still, the additional effort doesn't remotely detract from their enjoyment of their granddaughter's beautiful mind.
"If all thoughts were like hers," Esme murmurs, "I would envy your gift, Wadie."
"If they were," I reply, "I'd understand your envy."
My parents chuckle softly, amused by the many layers of the joke (but especially the one that makes me something of a hypocrite).
"You'd still rather hear at distance than not," Esme teases, correctly thinking that, after all we've been through, there's really only one thing I would change if I could (my inability to hear Bella's thoughts).
"Yes," I agree wholeheartedly, "and I'd rather hear every thought than be any more limited."
Carlisle nods. "We're all glad you can hear the wolves' thoughts."
"Even they are."
They both chuckle, equally appreciative of that most incredible fact, which reflects our strong bond with them—although thinking of the wolves sends their thoughts down the track they've been trying to avoid (Jacob's imprinting).
"I'm dealing with it," I say, because I can't say I'm fine with it without compromising the truth. When Esme immediately asks how, I roll out a flippant non-answer embellished with a purposefully artless smile. "I'm waiting for Bella."
The smile and my easy-going tone work. Even Esme, who would usually worry that I'm masking my true feelings, thinks I must be as unperturbed as I appear. After all, she concludes, in the scheme of things, Jacob imprinting on Renesmee isn't nearly as distressing as the fears I successfully faced during Bella's pregnancy.
I am far less amenable to the accompanying thought—that Bella will not be unhappy about it. To hide my growing tension, I shrug lightly. "Let's not think about it right now."
While Carlisle accepts the not-so-subtle request for a subject change, Esme opposes it (why, oh why hadn't I found some half-truth to keep her motherly concerns at bay?). "Are you hoping Bella will be angry with him?" she asks gently.
A non-answer isn't going to work this time, so I share a little of my somewhat conflicted feelings. "Honestly, I don't know. Of course I don't want her to be angry, but there's a part of me that's still a little bitter that he always gets his way."
"If he is Renesmee's—"
"Please don't say it," I interrupt, before the word intended can link my daughter to my former, hated rival.
Esme ruffles my hair with her free hand; although she sympathizes, she thinks I'm being melodramatic. "Just remember, you can hear his thoughts, and he knows you can hear his thoughts."
That makes me smile—Esme's point is indeed comforting—but I still want to change the subject. "Now we've come full circle," I say quickly. "My gift is truly a blessing."
Esme shakes her head in mock exasperation. "You're too clever for your own good sometimes," she teases.
"He's allowed to be," Carlisle jokes, smoothly changing the subject to the spiritual epiphany that Bella, Renesmee, and I have afforded him, deeming Rey's existence "incontrovertible" proof that I still have my soul, because soulless creatures cannot create life, only warp it. Extrapolating from that, he concludes that vampires are not inherently damned.
Esme already believed that we haven't lost our souls, so she is thrilled that Carlisle has found evidence for his more stringent spiritual beliefs while Bella is undergoing her transformation, sparing him the pain of imagining her innocent soul being consumed or condemned, and I similarly agree (for the most part) with the underlying sentiment—even though I don't agree that my fertility depends on my still having a soul.
When we both simply nod in response, Carlisle is extremely amused; he knows his audience, so he jokily expresses gratitude for our indulgence. To which I tease him for viewing our agreement as indulgence when our "real" motivation is trying to avoid a sermon.
Any other day, he might have conjured up an annoyingly wise moralistic tale to remind us of the value of a good sermon, but Renesmee's exceptional mind makes any words of wisdom seem superfluous. "There is nothing left to say," he murmurs. "Life is glorious."
Esme shifts her hand from my back to rest on his arm and he likewise curls his hand around her arm, and it is both fulfilling and humbling to feel their love for each other, for me, and for Renesmee, the grandchild they had only ever dreamed of in their wildest flights of fancy.
Barely ten minutes pass, however, before Renesmee's remarkable growth rate becomes the focus of our attention: her little body is changing before our very eyes. Watching her face steadily lose some of its roundness excites all three of us, though, for Carlisle, it also rouses fresh feelings of anxiety. His once-unflappable nerves take another hit as he pictures her an old woman in less than a year. Alongside my sympathy and no small amount of amazement that I share none of his worries, I am intrigued by the strange sort of equilibrium his excitement and anxiety arrive at inside him, with neither one able to suppress the other.
"Carlisle," I murmur to rouse him from his internal conflict, "I don't think she's dying." When that wording tips the balance ever so slightly towards the feelings of hopelessness, I remind him of Seth's far more impressive growth spurt—four or five years of growing in a matter of seconds—followed by theoretically everlasting stasis.
He appreciates my ongoing confidence, but the point reminds both him and Esme of Jacob's imprinting as they consider how Renesmee is like the wolves in other ways.
"Her senses will soon be on par," I say in an effort to refocus their attention, "but her mind is already becoming more like ours than theirs."
The comment piques their curiosity; neither has noticed the more rapid expansion of Rey's mind that has been occurring alongside the physical changes, so I point out the way her dream, at times, skips across multiple thoughts at once. It won't be long before she can maintain entirely separate lines of thought whenever she likes.
"So she will be more like us," Esme concludes, hoping to help Carlisle build his confidence. "She grew from nothing into a perfect baby in a matter of days, and she is flourishing—the mix of human and vampire isn't a problem, it's an advantage. She improves upon both."
Carlisle smiles, buoyed by the truth in her words. "She is perfect," he agrees.
Esme nods, though she can't help feeling a little sad that Renesmee won't be a baby for long. "The cottage doesn't need a nursery after all," she remarks, trying to make a joke out of it. "I do hope she doesn't sleep through most of her baby years."
Carlisle wants to give her some sort of answer, but his medical knowledge seems as utterly useless in this situation as it had in predicting the course of Bella's pregnancy. So I answer in his stead, daring to make a bold prediction.
"Based on the wolves' requirements for sleep—not how much they'd like to sleep—I expect she'll sleep less than a human child."
He chuckles, freshly impressed and delighted by my seemingly irrepressible optimism. "You've been a father for a matter of hours and you're already better at it than I," he quips.
"If that's true, it's only because I have such a preeminent role model."
He quirks an eyebrow, as amused by the unexpectedly trifling protest as he is by the "inflated" compliment.
"It is my opinion of myself that has changed," I explain, "not my admiration of you."
His eyes light up as he sees the truth of it in my eyes, and the emotion wells up inside him, filling him with joy and pride. "My every hope is coming true," he murmurs.
Esme shifts from my side to Carlisle's (without losing contact with Renesmee), curling an arm around his and kissing his cheek to toast this hard-won revelation. He returns the gesture, but she can see that he's surprised by her apparent lack of surprise.
"We saw this day coming, Lee," she reminds him, looking as smug as she ever has; "we knew that Bella was special."
"You didn't care what she was," I joke, remembering telling Bella that Esme wouldn't have cared if she'd had a third eye and webbed feet.
But Esme's thoughts now make me realize I'd missed the point, and the matter is too serious for her to let the comment go undisputed. "If she weren't a good match for you temperamentally, Lee and I would've had a much harder time trusting her with your heart."
That idea makes me laugh, because neither of them had had any trouble trusting Bella—but then I'm distracted by the way the sound penetrates my daughter's subconscious, bringing my face to the forefront of her vivid dream landscape. "I wish I could have watched Bella's dreams."
Esme imagines nudging my shoulder teasingly were she closer. "Do you not think her dreams would have tested your self-control?"
Ignoring the overt teasing, I simply say I don't know—but it's a specious answer; thanks to Tanya, I know exactly what it's like to be the object of particular desire. "I am glad we can't sleep; I couldn't have risked sleeping near her."
"You would have," Esme counters earnestly, knowing I would've struggled to leave Bella unguarded and presuming I would've coped with it as well as I have coped with everything else. "You would've found a way."
Carlisle seconds her judgment and then takes it a step further, imagining that I would have found a way to forgo sleep altogether, or effected some equally impossible feat.
"The real marvel," Esme teases, "is that Rosalie is finally grateful for the life you gave her—even though you acted for Edward's sake."
He snorts at that and the sudden amusement acts like a release valve, discharging the residual pressure that had pent up inside him since Alice lost sight of Bella and he discovered that it was his "fault". All of our mistakes, large and small, all of our choices, have brought us here—and, most miraculously of all, have given life to the precious child in my arms.
Maybe fate is a real force, he muses, before deciding that that is too big a question to ponder right now.
"There's no need to speculate on the existence of fate," I murmur. "Bella will prove it when she wakes."
His eyes gravitate to the motionless girl on the bed. "Because she was meant to be a vampire?"
"Yes."
He nods, because there can be no other truth. "I am proud to be her father," he says, claiming the full honor of that title through his kinship with me.
"And she is proud to be your daughter," I affirm.
He smiles, and then presses a tender kiss to my temple. "I owe my every happiness to you."
"And I to you."
He chuckles, deeply gratified by the reciprocal nature of our relationship, and then he closes his eyes, rests his head against Esme's, and lets his thoughts drift through Rey's beautiful mind. Of course, he reopens them in less than a minute, but as he processes the new changes, he is better able to manage his concerns.
After deciding that a visual estimate of her growth is insufficient, he gives Esme a reassuring smile, then darts downstairs to retrieve the measuring tape he used to measure Renesmee at birth. On his return, I gently shift her in my arms to help him take the measurements. He resists the urge to expose her tiny feet in order to measure them, too, but the other differences are amply awe-inspiring. At birth, she had resembled a five- or six-month-old baby; now, mere hours later, she appears almost a month older!
Although we had anticipated the possibility of her rapid growth continuing after birth, I'd never considered such an extreme rate. It saddens me that Bella is missing so much, and I feel guilty for experiencing Rey's first days of life when she cannot. But then I remind myself of my success: every minute that my efforts speed up her transformation is that much more precious. And as long as Bella can see Renesmee's thoughts (please let her luck hold out), she won't be missing out completely.
Unexpectedly, Renesmee wakes after only 47 minutes of sleep. As before, we greet her at human speed to help her learn what that is, and her movements, which are initially much too rapid, quickly relax into a more human pace. Carlisle and Esme think that our efforts are already paying off, but I'm inclined to think that, like the wolves, Renesmee has a natural human 'mode'.
She is confused at first, trying to make sense of her dream-thoughts—like human dreams, most are faint—and the sudden disappearance of Rosalie and Emmett, but my explanation of the unconscious state she just experienced, aided by her further increased reasoning capacity, quickly reassures her. When I mention that we cannot sleep, she is surprisingly irritated; although her dreams were pleasant, she would much rather be conscious (just like her mother!). To help her focus on the present, Carlisle proposes breakfast and then brings her a little bottle of O-negative blood.
The moment she realizes what's in the bottle, she remembers the warm blood she feasted on earlier—and asks for a live donor. I can't help wincing internally at her grand expectations, but at least it is easy to coax her attention back to the chilled blood. Fortunately, the temperature difference is more of a novelty than a problem, because she thinks this blood tastes boring in comparison.
After shredding the plastic teat with her teeth in a matter of seconds, she spills some blood across her cheek before I can right the bottle. Esme steps back, not daring to trust herself (because the thought of scaring Rey is too awful), so I indulge myself and remove the offending blood as quickly as possible by licking it off. Renesmee giggles and then generously tries to offer me a greater share of her breakfast. While I thank her, Carlisle guides Esme downstairs to look for a metal straw for our little biter.
Renesmee is initially suspicious of the straw, but she quickly gets the hang of it (after putting a few dents in it). She drinks slowly, her thoughts a mixture of general questions and questions about this blood in comparison with the blood she'd taken directly from the source. Having sampled this blood myself, I can directly compare her sense of taste with mine, and it's much more similar than I'd expected. To my taste buds, the chilled blood is perhaps akin to freeze-dried food: it bears some resemblance to its original flavor, but everything else—the aroma, texture, and resultant physiological reaction—is totally wrong. For Esme's sake (because the blood still enflames her thirst), I keep my answers brief and emphasize its deficiencies, but I promise to discuss it in more depth with Carlisle (and Renesmee) another time.
As Renesmee drinks, the rest of us agree we are no longer surprised that the "demon children" of the Ticuna legends are unknown to our kind. Carlisle and Esme are much more inclined to believe that the actions of immortal children have indeed been unfairly attributed to hybrids—because Rey would have no trouble understanding the consequences of any rash action—but I still think there is truth to the stories. After all, she is a blood-drinker much like us, and she distinctly prefers fresh blood. It is easy to imagine a naïve newborn indulging its thirst on the local populace, and any stories of their attacks were bound to be reinforced and exaggerated at each retelling: murderous children are scary. A bloodthirsty toddler taking down an adult must be one of the most unnatural feats anyone could conceive of.
When the bottle is empty, Rey keeps sucking for another moment before understanding that it's all gone. She lets go and watches intently as Carlisle takes it out of my hand. I make a point of thanking him and he compliments me telepathically on my parenting skills while giving the standard polite reply.
Renesmee declines the offer of more, so Esme, eager for the distraction, suggests telling her a story. She proffers a couple of options where sleep or dreams play an important role, and Rey chooses one about a girl with the power to create real objects from her imagination.
Carlisle and I enjoy listening to Rey's thoughts about the story, but Esme finds the immediate feedback very distracting. She hadn't considered the added complication it creates, and as she lifts her hand from Rey's to sever the connection, she apologizes for ever criticizing my aversion to socializing.
I wouldn't like your gift after all, Wadie, she jokes wryly.
I want to insist that she was right to push me—without her challenging me, I have no doubt the acute temptation of Bella's blood would have overwhelmed my willpower in that first, fateful breath—but I'll have to wait till Renesmee is next asleep. In the meantime, I assist with the storytelling, interceding to explain anything that Renesmee doesn't understand or has questions about.
We're halfway through a discussion about the potential magical functions of a unicorn's horn when I feel Emmett's mind and then Rosalie's. Emmett is carrying her, his head still buried in her bosom as he runs as slowly as she'll allow. Listening to his memory of the two of them "jumping each other's bones" after draining the blood from a lone stag, I can't help imagining Bella and me in that scenario. It may be many years before Bella will be able to share a kill, but I don't have long to wait before I'll be making love to my newly all-but-indestructible wife…
Carlisle notices my distraction and guesses that Rosalie and Emmett are on their way home. Thankfully, the amorous nature of my underlying thoughts isn't immediately discernible, and I manage to focus more completely on my daughter when Carlisle proposes measuring her again. She is growing so quickly that he thinks it'll be useful to take measurements four times a day; as it's almost noon, that seems like an appropriate time to start.
Anticipating Renesmee's curiosity, Carlisle shows her the tape and explains the meaning of the marks. He uses his finger to show her the span of her hand at birth, then encourages her to place her hand over the tape to see how much longer it is now. She is delighted by the substantial increase, as eager to be 'big' as any small child, while I'm excited by her much-improved coordination. After Carlisle talks her through all the measurements he wants to take, she decides she'd like to stand on the desk to help him measure more accurately. She stands steadily from the start, her instinctive sense of balance more than capable of making the necessary calculations while I'm still setting her on her feet. She keeps a firm hold on two of my fingers, though, not ready to go it completely alone.
She takes great delight in tightening the tape around her own wrist, and she even reads the measurement and then touches Carlisle's arm to share the number with him. She is more than a little distracted by the sound of Emmett barreling upstairs, but Esme, Rosalie, and I manage to capture her imagination while she patiently stands still.
Rosalie is bursting with praise at seeing Renesmee standing up. Emmett, on the other hand, immediately wants to encourage her to walk—but I manage to catch his attention before he speaks. When I tip my head in Bella's direction, he gets the message and promises to wait (as a "favor" to his new sister).
After waiting patiently for Carlisle to take what he views as every measurement possible (unlike Rosalie, Emmett isn't remotely shocked by Renesmee's visibly matured body), Emmett scoops her up into his arms and tosses her into the air. Renesmee loves it; she giggles madly, making us all laugh with her, and encourages him to throw her even higher.
She's nothing like her uptight parents, he teases me. "You'll hit the ceiling," he warns her, and then obeys her request to lift her up over his head.
Her co-ordination as she reaches up to brush her fingertips across the ceiling is the clearest evidence of all of just how rapidly she is developing. When she looks down, she giggles again, enjoying the new vantage point. But when she reaches out for me, Emmett isn't ready to let her go, so he distracts her with a new game: Scrabble. She is already fascinated with words and the way that changing a single letter creates an entirely new word, so she is immediately enraptured by the game's concept.
Emmett takes her with him to retrieve the game from his room, then sits her in the crook of his arm while he lays out the board on my desk. He proposes that he and Rey make up one team and the others—excluding me because I "cheat"—play individually, using a single board and the standard rules (as opposed to our usual "super Scrabble").
At first, they stick to words Renesmee already knows, so the numbers and calculations are more exciting for our little sponge, as are the patterns the words create across the board. Then Esme plays a word that Rey doesn't know—axle—and the game comes to a halt; Rey won't let us help her calculate the score until she understands what it means.
Fortunately, the word is relatively simple to explain, but Emmett gives everyone a meaningful stare, so they stick to familiar words—regularly sacrificing much higher scoring options—until there are no alternatives. Carlisle makes the leap first, and I love trying to explain what a quark is to a newborn who hasn't yet begun wondering about the physics of the universe.
Emmett and Rosalie are quickly bored, however, and a little irritated that Rey is so utterly enraptured by my stories of atoms, hydrogen-fueled stars, dark matter, gravity, friction, and the laws of physics; although they understand these concepts, they aren't filled with wonder at their contemplation. Rosalie tries to suggest taking a break—perhaps to make a wardrobe change or have a drink—but Renesmee isn't interested in clothes or blood right now (unless it is fresh blood). After half an hour of incremental progress, Emmett gives in and starts playing the craziest words he can come up with; then, while Carlisle, Esme, and I explain them, he and Rosalie converse discretely using their personal form of sign language, making plans for future "fun" games and activities.
After the first game takes well over an hour (Carlisle wins, thanks to twice gaining 50 bonus points for using all of his tiles in a single turn), Emmett passes Renesmee into my arms and excuses himself from the second game, leaving us "nerds" to discuss the inner workings of the universe while he turns on my computer to look for some live sports.
Rey wants to play on her own this time, and she and I quickly settle into a strategy whereby she watches me play—how I decide which word to play based on my current complement of tiles, the potential ability to use all of them at once in future, and the potential placement on the board for maximum points—and then, at her turn, she tells me how to order the tiles, trying combinations that make words she knows as well as those she doesn't. After she selects a word, I help her figure out where it might fit on the board and the points she could get, and then she decides whether to go with that option or try another. If she chooses a word she doesn't know, I wait until the others can see it before explaining its meaning.
The process is laborious, but the others love watching Rey and I work together, so the long delays don't bother anyone, least of all Rosalie. In fact, my characteristically impatient sister thinks we're utterly adorable—a word she has only ever ascribed to Vera's baby and to Emmett. It is still novel to be in such proximity without her directing any derisive thoughts at me; her mind feels almost brand new as she delights in having everything she ever wanted—breathtaking beauty, a gorgeous, utterly devoted husband, and the most perfect baby imaginable—and it is as glorious as she'd dreamed it would be. Like Esme, she is sad that Renesmee clearly won't be a baby for long, but she wouldn't want Rey to be anything other than what she is (apart from being less of a nerd!).
Emmett keeps one eye on us, but even that and the half-dozen sports channels aren't engaging enough to make up for not being able to do what he really wants to do right now. After watching half a football game, a quarter or so of two basketball games, and one or two innings of three different baseball matches, he switches off the computer and goes outside to look for a pretty flower for Rey.
He returns before we've finished our game, but his present—a pretty white orchid—distracts Renesmee completely. She loves the sparkles in the petals, and we're excited that she can see most of the UV-light effects that we can (and more than the wolves can). Emmett takes charge of explaining the purpose of flowers and how the leaves convert light into energy so the plant can grow, then shows her the roots, before putting it into the "pot" he collected from downstairs (one of Esme's crystal vases).
Rey is intrigued by the soil, too. She digs her fingers into it, then picks up a piece; when she goes to put it in her mouth, I automatically stop her. Her eyes widen as she hurriedly drops it.
Esme laughs as she picks up the little clod and offers it to Renesmee. "I don't think it'll taste very nice, but you can try some if you like."
"Silly Daddy just needs something to worry about," Rosalie teases.
I roll my eyes, which makes Renesmee giggle. Forgetting the dirt for now, she thrusts her little hand toward my face, as high as she can reach, so I lean down and press a light kiss to her dirt-encrusted fingertips.
She giggles again and presses her fingers more firmly against my lips. She hasn't forgotten that she doesn't need to touch me to share her thoughts, but she enjoys the contact. Right now, she is picturing my face with such intense love that my heart feels like it's exploding out of my chest.
"I love you, too—so much. And Mommy loves you, too."
She immediately looks at her mother laid out on the bed, as always picturing Bella's face the last time she saw her awake, wearied but smiling—but now she has a better sense of time and her impatience is starting to build. "Mommy's going to open her eyes again soon, my lovely, and then you can say hello to her properly."
"But not straight away," Rosalie quickly clarifies.
The reminder makes Renesmee and me both frown. "When Mommy first wakes up," I explain, a little unwillingly, "she'll be very thirsty, but you can see her after she's taken care of her thirst."
While Rey pictures waiting here with me for her mother to wake up, Rosalie worries that we're giving her a false sense of just how long she might have to wait.
We can't expose her to a newborn, she insists, and I have to admit that she has a point. Bella will be a newborn vampire with an unfamiliar, raging thirst. If she ignores Renesmee or growls at her, they'll both be upset.
"Mommy will need some time to feel like herself again," I say, trying to explain, "so you'll have to be patient for a little while after she wakes up."
Rosalie nods to reinforce my proposal, then strokes the back of Rey's hand. "We can wait together while Mommy and Daddy go hunting."
Renesmee isn't appeased by the compromise, but she can't immediately think of a counterargument, so she makes do with looking at Bella. She studies her face, for the first time recognizing the changes in it, and then compares it to my face and her own, then to the other four vampires and the three humans she knows. She is curious about the similarities and differences between us as individuals and across the two groups, particularly in the eyes, since ours are all shades of gold and the humans' all shades of brown.
To pre-empt the shock of Bella's eyes changing color, I ask Carlisle to retrieve Esme's antique hand mirror from the desk and then direct Rey's attention to her eyes in the mirror. "Your eyes are brown," I say gently, "and Mommy's are, too, but they won't be when she wakes up again. Her body has to heal."
After a brief explanation, she understands the concept of healing, leaving us to marvel at her quickness as she immediately remembers me pulling her out of Bella's gaping stomach. She remembers the mouthwateringly delicious scent of Bella's blood and sinking her teeth into Bella's flesh—and then she abruptly worries that she caused this hurt to her mother.
"It wasn't anything you did," I assure her. "Although you can't go around biting people," I add, to reinforce the message of restraint. Except I can't help adding, "Just Jacob."
She isn't fully comforted, but the mention of Jacob—I don't like how possessive she already feels about him—helps her feel better as she remembers his blood and his warmth.
To get her thoughts off my least favorite wolf, I dare to suggest that we move a little closer to Mommy. Of course, she can't agree fast enough.
She is soothed by Bella's stillness, and it's easier for her to discern the separate beats of Bella's heart, too. She wants me to let go of her hand so she can touch her, but I have to tell her what I've been telling myself: we have to be patient. "Mommy needs to sleep, and we might wake her up if we touch her."
Renesmee sighs, but accepts that and settles for touching me. Rosalie reluctantly relinquishes her hand so that Rey can run both hands up my arm. I lift her higher so she can reach my shoulders, and then she deftly traces the right side of my neck and across my jaw and my lips, enjoying their subtly softer feel.
I hold her up higher still, and she runs her fingers across my cheek and over my nose—including shoving a couple of fingers up my nostrils. She giggles when I give a little snort and my cold breath ghosts over her fingers.
As she feels her way up the bridge of my nose, I tilt my head forward and close my eyes. She slides her fingers across my eyelids and through my brows, enjoying the wiriness of the hair. I tilt my head lower and to the side, so she can reach the hair on my head, and she makes a happy sound as she buries both fists in my thick locks—she loves the texture, which is wirier than her own or any other hair she's felt (even wolf Seth's).
She thinks I am perfect.
"You're my favorite, too," I tell her, opening my eyes, though that isn't quite true. "Equal favorite," I amend; "with Mommy."
Renesmee looks at Bella again. She wants to touch her the way she is touching me, but I don't have to remind her that she has to wait. She heaves an adorably large sigh and then goes back to playing with my hair.
Though she is already impressively strong, she isn't remotely strong enough to hurt me. I consider warning her not to tug as hard on Seth's or Jacob's hair, before deciding that they can tell her themselves… and if Jacob doesn't mind, I'm fine with that.
Rosalie is thrilled when Renesmee asks to play with her hair again, too. Then, when Rey asks about her new clothes, Rosalie somehow turns it into a full conversation. I'm a little appalled by Rey's burgeoning interest in clothes, but I know it will make Alice just as happy as Rosalie is right now—and at least Bella and I will have two siblings to direct our daughter to whenever she wants to discuss styles of hems or fabric matches or whatever else takes her fancy.
I am all too happy to let the two of them immerse themselves in Alice's wardrobe without me, and Esme soon follows. While Renesmee dresses up in a dozen different outfits, Esme takes photos to create an album documenting Rey's growth. For each ensemble, the three of them move from room to room, playing around with different scenes and poses that include as little of Rosalie as possible. Emmett joins them for that segment, directing his equally imaginative niece in all sorts of inventive scenarios.
When Rey falls asleep once more, Rosalie is too energized to settle down with her; she wants to change up the pace. After delivering her precious charge into my arms, she presses her lips against Emmett's ear and whispers two words that have him throwing her over his shoulder and leaping out the nearest window in less than half a second.
Esme and Carlisle share a knowing grin, and then Esme decides it's a good time for them to leave, too. When she gestures toward the window with a tilt of her head, he wants to oblige but hesitates because he feels a duty to be here for me, and for Renesmee and Bella.
"Go," I tell him firmly. "I'll call if we need you—otherwise, forget about us."
He rolls his eyes, but resists when Esme starts to lead him to the window. "I need to get my phone."
"I've got mine," she shoots back and he chuckles, capitulating at once.
"Please, take your time," I urge as they disappear from sight.
We will, Esme assures me, already planning a visit to the cottage on their way home, so I'm confident she'll disrupt Carlisle's plan to return in half an hour.
As their thoughts fade from my mind—more quickly than usual thanks to Renesmee's powerful thoughts and my willingness to let them dominate—I fix my gaze on my beautiful wife and my attention on my daughter's magical, eclectic mind.