Posted 2023-09-27; Beta'd by Eeyorefan12

Staring at the unfamiliar word on the page, Bella closed her eyes, mentally reciting the mnemonic song Edward had taught her for the Sabellian alphabet.

"Boo-kay," she finally sounded out. "Bread, right?"

"Almost," Edward said. "Bour-kay. There's a silent 'er' when the letter curls down there."

"Right." She recalled the suffixes she'd learned. "So then . . . it means baker?"

"Yes." This earned her a wide smile, revealing the gradually extending tips of his canines, which were no longer filed down as he'd had to do on Earth. When she'd finally gotten up the courage to ask, he'd assured her it was a painless process.

"I should have remembered that," Bella mumbled, committing the written word and sound to memory.

She was as motivated by praise as the next person, and Edward's praise was won only by success, but despite her efforts to avoid errors, she was unusually irked by her mistake.

She sighed aloud.

"Learning a new language isn't easy," Edward said.

It wasn't, and she was grateful for her preexisting fluency in two. There was a certain nimbleness to being bilingual, especially when the languages straddled such varied cultures.

While learning Sabellian didn't require too many new sounds, Bella did regret not learning the phonetic alphabet.

"Stupid first-year Bella," she muttered.

"Not a description I'd agree with."

She chuckled. "Well, thank you, but I'm still kicking myself for not learning the phonetic alphabet. I'll bet you know it."

"I do."

Bella fought the urge to roll her eyes. Of course he did.

"Bella?"

She glanced up and caught Edward looking at her sympathetically.

"If it helps," he said, "you're more dedicated than I was when I first started learning to read."

She peered at her studious, formally attired tutor. "I have a hard time believing that."

"Do you see the eight figurines on the mantle?"

Bella turned to look. "There are only six."

"Exactly."

"What happened?"

"Before or after my mother got out her whip?"

"Her whip?"

"A Matriarch's tool of last resort."

Matriarch. Esme had introduced herself as one. She still wasn't sure what that meant. "Now I want the whole story."

"My father left me, Jasper, and Stolos—our neighbor—alone for a few minutes. We were to complete our reading. As the eldest, my brother decided it was his place to remind me of my task. I, however, was keen to impress my friend and decided to play the fool and juggle the weavers—the figurines."

"Ooh."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"Of course, my father had left to greet my mother, who was returning home after her first assignment, and she arrived to find me being smacked by my brother, and several of her weavers were in pieces. She was new to her role then and no doubt a little exasperated by the antics of those she was in charge of—boys not many years older than I was. To come home for respite and find me doing just the same . . ." He shook his head. "I wish I could say the incident reformed me. I think she regretted using her whip—she never used it on me again—but I spent a good deal of time in service to others affected by my foolishness."

Well, if that didn't paint an entirely different picture of the man beside her. It also made her wonder where his father was. The other night, the family had spoken of him in the past tense. Dead? Divorced?

"And you, Mis—Bella. What were you like as a young pupil?"

"Oh, a total goody two-shoes." Noticing his confused expression, she added, "I mean, eager to please and keen to learn. I liked studying because I could do well at it. There was a clarity of expectation with book learning, unlike . . . well—unlike with other things." She thought of various people at church whose approval she had never fully acquired. At school, although she hadn't been a tomboy, she'd struggled to find common ground with the other girls. Dolls, dresses, and boys hadn't interested her. When her mother had died, she'd given up on even trying to be like other girls her age, instead focusing even more on her academics.

"We all seek to please others, don't we?" Edward looked out the window. "Some more than others."

She wondered who he had focused his efforts on.

"Historical research is meticulous work. I don't doubt your skills will serve you well here," he said sincerely.

She nodded, hoping he was right.

They continued their work for another hour, but Bella's progress was mixed. After making the same mistake twice, she gave an exasperated sigh, pushing the textbook away and ignoring the itch in her forehead—or trying to.

"So," she said, "who did you spend your childhood trying to please?"

Edward looked up and blinked at her, his expression unreadable.

Maybe too personal. She ran her finger over the book edge. "You mentioned trying to please others. Sorry, that's a really intrusive question."

He shook his head and smiled. "It isn't, and it's easily answered: my father. Not that he was here to see it—he died when I was still very young—but I tried to be him first and then to do what I thought would please him best. A boy's hopes."

His tone was light, but Bella didn't miss the despondency in his voice, and she felt an empathetic pang. His father was not just away but gone; Edward had lost a parent at a young age too. She could relate.

"And you?" Edward asked. "Who did you hope to please with your scholarly excellence?"

She laughed. "I'm not sure there's any excellence to write home about."

Edward cocked an eyebrow. "I disagree. You noticed something most humans don't."

"And that is?"

"You noticed me."

She tried to suppress her smile. "You were wearing a suit."

"A sport coat and pants. Not inappropriate for the occasion. Mr. Morris was also wearing a suit."

"Yes, but he's old and you're not." She shook her head. "Definitely eye-catching and not just for me." She didn't plan to tell him she'd thought him eye-catching in other ways.

Edward shrugged. "I concede your point. You did notice Naera, though."

She had. "I was just seeing a pattern."

"It wasn't an obvious one and"—he cocked his head—"you're uncomfortable with compliments."

She returned his shrug. He noticed patterns too. "People flatter unnecessarily."

"I don't."

Her cheeks felt warm, the itch renewing itself. She stuck her hands under her legs. "Why were you researching Naera?"

"I wasn't. I was looking for people like Jacintha, her owner—a remnant."

"Remnant?" What an odd term.

"Someone who is part Sabellian, but not enough to travel, at least not without help. For several reasons, our people weren't supposed to have children off world, not that that ever stopped some. I was making sure the lineage was suitably diluted and the records not troublesome."

She blinked. "You mean, Mr. Morris—"

"Is part Sabellian, yes."

"Does he know?"

"No."

She paused, considering this information. She had a lot of questions, but the talk of home, of where home had been so recently, was making her throat feel tight. And yet, discussing her family had been easy enough. She shook her head, staring out the window for a moment.

"You still haven't said whose admiration you sought—when you were young," Edward said.

It was too personal a question, she decided, but she could hardly avoid answering now. "I used to think it was my mom I wanted to impress. And I guess we have that in common, working to please ghosts."

He hummed thoughtfully, nodding.

"I was pretty awful to my dad." That was putting it nicely. She'd been diligent in trying to push him away. It had been easy to find reasons. Thank god, he'd been wise enough not to let her. "It wasn't until I left home that I began to understand . . ." Thinking of her father, the rest of her words caught in her throat.

"Leaving home is . . . clarifying on many fronts."

She nodded, forcing back her tears.

Her nose itched. She gave in and rubbed at it but immediately regretted it. The itch spread, and she put her hands on the table, trying to focus on breathing.

"Do you need to rest?"

What she needed was to rip her skin off. It was only the water titration, she knew, and it would pass just as the hives had, but bearing it—

"Ugh!" She jammed her fingers under the thick lace choker, rubbing at the mole on her neck. It had always been a persistently itchy spot, but whatever the tardigrades were doing to her body, they were making the itchiness a million times worse.

Edward stood abruptly, nearly knocking the chair over. "Excuse me," he choked out, striding out the French doors and onto the porch.

What now?

Bella closed her eyes. The last days had been full of her minor breaches of etiquette, all forgiven as the family taught her what was and was not acceptable. Don't touch your hair in the presence of a man, don't touch a man you are not related to by blood or mating except at the elbow, and never make jokes about slavery—yeah, that one should have been obvious. Still.

She sighed.

Forcing her hands flat on the table, Bella told herself that her neck didn't itch. She focused instead on her toes, which had felt pleasantly tingly since she began the water regimen. Esme had begun by giving her mere drops, moving quickly at Bella's urging to upgrade to sips and then quarter cupfuls. She wanted the process over with as soon as possible.

It was the healing that would bother her the most, Edward had explained. The itchiness meant her skin had been damaged and was now being repaired—a legacy of sunny summer days and forgotten sunscreen.

Bella glanced outside, where Edward stood with his back to her, trying to think what she'd done to so offend, anger, or otherwise upset him. Was it the exclamation? Touching her neck? Her eyes watering? Moving the choker? Who knew. She'd given up trying to guess. And given that she couldn't read . . . well, better to suck up the ego and go ask why.

She stepped outside, quickly looking around. They were alone. "Edward?"

"Please excuse me, Miss Swan. That was . . . very rude of me."

They were back to Miss Swan again? "I wasn't sure what I—"

"Please, no. You"—he drew in a deep breath—"you're still learning about our world, our customs, and you're learning very quickly. And I—I keep thinking I'm somewhere I'm not." He gave an uneasy laugh—a sound almost on the verge of tears. Still not making eye contact, he waved towards the house, gesturing she should move ahead of him back inside.

Bella returned to the large desk and her chair, Edward sitting down beside her. He was normally quick to explain customs and breaches of etiquette. That he hadn't unnerved her.

"I upset you," she said quietly. "Why?"

He didn't answer right away, and she tensed, expecting to be chastised for something horrible.

Finally, he shook his head. "There is a term that we use for those who return from off world: prerje. You've heard my mother mention it, I know. The literal meaning is to be cut, though it feels inadequate for what I am . . . feeling." Another apologetic smile. "You're new to our world, something I'm acutely aware of, and yet I find myself reading you like a Sabellian and members of my family as if they were human. The reversal makes no sense, and even though I'm aware of the pattern, I can't seem to switch it."

"Culture shock," Bella suggested.

"Yes, something like that." He sighed. "When we're off-world, we're to keep our interactions with others to a minimum—for a variety of reasons. The isolation is challenging. The return is . . . difficult."

That had to be an understatement. But what had she done to trigger his reaction in this instance?

"And so . . . when I touched my neck? Or my choker? Was that rude?" Bella asked.

Edward cleared his throat. "For a Sabellian woman to do so, it signals a most . . . intimate invitation to a man, especially when given in private."

A wave of mortification washed over her. "Oh. I'm so sorry. It wasn't—I didn't—"

"Of course you didn't. I also know that the titration is difficult. But please, let me apologize to you. I . . . took a meaning you clearly did not intend."

Bella looked blankly at the primer on the desk, wondering if she'd been inadvertently flirting with Edward and the other male household members all this time. She also wondered how he'd managed on earth. It must have been as difficult for him to adapt as it was for her now.

"I'm not offended, Edward, but I'm sorry I've made you uncomfortable. Is there anything else . . . uh, that might also be taken in a way I'm not aware of? You know, just in case I need to seduce someone or something."

There was a flash of something intense in Edward's eyes and Bella swallowed, looking away and wincing internally.

Talk about bad jokes.

When he spoke, Edward appeared composed again, his voice even. "I'd advise you not to touch your head or neck in the presence of a man, especially if you're alone with him."

Pretty much what she'd already done. Bella relaxed a little. "Okay. Are there any other parts of the body that are considered taboo to touch, discuss, or show?"

"You should never touch a person's head or neck, but it is acceptable for women to embrace one another, or for people to offer comfort when there is a loss, or for anyone to assist a child—perhaps to clean their face. The sexual organs—the groin—are not considered polite to discuss or show."

"So topless swimming is a go then?" Bella twirled the stylus around her fingers, immediately regretting the nervous words as soon as they were out of her mouth. She could feel the blush rising when Edward began to laugh.

"No," he finally said. "And we don't swim in mixed company. There are modest costumes for that." He smiled at her. "But thank you."

"For what?"

"Your playful sense of humor and your questions," he replied. "They help with the prerje."

"Well, that's good, because given my level of Sabellian education, I don't have a lot more to offer here." The heat in her cheeks remained. "We should, um, get back to this. Otherwise, you'll be stuck with a lot more of me and my playful sense of humor."

Edward flipped to the next page in the primer, a hint of a smile on his face. "That's hardly a disincentive."

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