Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight
Katinki graciously edited this story
Chapter 11
It takes me a few moments tofind my voice.
"What time is it?"
I shiver and, ignoring the loud, rapid beat in my ribcage, pull another blanket around my shoulders. I keep a stack of blankets near my bed, much like a perimenopausal woman. Between the lack of fireplace heat during the night and my penchant for fresh air, which means keeping the window slightly ajar, the temperature in the room can be unpredictable.
Right now, it'sfreezing, but remembering Edward's presumably sensitive nose, I decide that an open window is preferable.
"It is two o'clock in the morning,"heoffers politely, not changing his position on the windowsill. "I waiteduntileveryonein the house was asleep.Regrettably, that meant having to disturb your slumber."
He turns slightly, and I get a glimpse of that infuriating smirk on his chiseled face, illuminated by the streetlight. Wait, was he waiting outside or…
I shake my head.
"How thoughtful of you," Imurmur. "Except that you have no way of knowing if everyoneis indeed asleep. Wemustbe quiet. Jessica…"
"You have nothing to worry about," hesays quietlybut sternly. "Tell me about Mr. Cullen…please."
Bossy, aren't we?I huff.
"I will tell you everything I know, but only if you tell me how you know Mr. Cullen," I reply, mirroring his tone. Admittedly, I'm quite proud of myself right now, although I'm not sure how long this burst of confidence will stick around.
Silence. I try to gauge his reaction, but his face hides in the shadows again.
After a few moments, he says softly, as if trying to placate a child, "There is nothing to divulge, Mrs. Dwyer."
Only it sounds like, "There's nothing you need to know."
"Oh, really?" I say sweetly. "I beg to differ. If it's important enough for you to overlook my, um, unusual behavior and climb into my room in the middle of the night, I surely want to know why."
This insufferable man is getting on my nerves.
"Ihave never met Mr. Edward Cullen," says Edwardcalmly, "of which I have already informed you. But… I know the name."
He doesn't elaborate, which only adds to my growing exasperation.
Seriously, I barely get two hours of sleep, only to have this smart-ass piano prodigy wake me up and annoy me with his riddles? Irub my temples and take adeep breath, trying toregainmy temper,but let's face it, I've already lost this battle.
"Ugh!! Edward, please!" I toss the blanket aside in frustration. "Let's not play games, okay? You tell me what you know, I tell you what I know, it's simple. Or I'm not telling you anything!" The last bit comes out a little louder than I intended.
Suddenly, the windowsill is empty, and Edward appears on my bed, hunched over me but not touching, with his hands on either side of the headboard. I gulp in shock and stare at his dark form. My body forgets the chilly air and is instantly very warm, everywhere.
He'stoo close. The familiar smell of his cologne assaults me in full force.It's a clean, powerful scentwithout undertones, and it compels me to inhale.My heart leaps into my throatasI take a deep ragged breath.
Having him so near does things to me. Embarrassing things.
"You, madame, are an impossible creature," he whispers into my ear, leaning even closer, and goosebumps ripple/spread across my skin— not from the cold. "Trust me…" Now it's his turn to breathe in, slowly and deliberately, like he's savoring a rare vintage. "When I choose to engage in games with you, there shall be no room for doubt."
The moment he says it, the magic vanishes, and I can't help but giggle at the sheer theatrics of his statement. Way to ruin the moment, Mr. Masen. I roll my eyes, safely hidden by the darkness. A joke about needing a room for those games sits on the tip of my tongue, but I hold back, not wanting to appear crass.
Edward freezes for a second, andthe next momenthe'sback on the windowsill, looking away from me and out the window… Hopefully, he's not going to bolt. I worry that something is very wrong with mebecause again I didn't see him move.
Am I dreamingnow? That would bean Inception level of insanity, and I didn't even like that movie.
I clear my throat.
"Um, that sounded…sinister?Wasthatthe effect you weregoing for?You didn't scare me, by the way."I sit upright and briefly consider covering myself. The fabric of my nightgown, thin to begin with, has gradually become almost transparent thanks to the 19th-century washing techniques, but I'm so hot and sweaty right now that I just hope that the room is dark enough that decency isn't a concern.
"Listen," I say tentatively, "I get it, we are in the 1830s,the Primeof Romanticism and all that… But I'm not a damsel in the deep dark woods, and you are not a villain preying on the innocent and pure,so…like I said,can we simplytalkliketwonormal people?"
At that, Edward throws his head back and laughs and laughs… It's an eerily beautiful sound, but there's such a piercing note of bitterness to it that I involuntarily shudder. Then there's silence, again.
Clearly,today's conversation ratio is 10:1,with me saying 10 words to every one of Edward's. Or fewer.After a while, it just becomes really awkward, so I sigh and continue.
"Very well, I will start first. And, um… apologies for calling you by your given name—where I come from, this isthenorm, butto you,it must be socially unacceptableandsends all the wrong signals.I am sorry."
I pull my knees to my chinand hug my legs. What should I tell him? As he said himself, there isn't much to "divulge."
After a moment, I settle on the basics.
"Edward Cullen is the head of the company where I work. The company manufactures simple day-to-day things like toothbrushes, soaps,and other hygiene products.It sells them all over the world to millions of people, soit's big." I pause and rub my eyes. I guess I'm not going to get my eight hours of sleep tonight."The company is called Cullen Platt, so I suspectthatMr. Cullen orsomeone fromhisfamily foundedit, but whatever I read about them online… never mind, what I want to say is that there isverylittle public knowledge about his family."
I peer into the darkness, trying yet again to see his reaction, only to confirm that, in his usual manner, he's as still as a statue.
"Are you comfortable in the dark? I would light a candle, but Idon't keep matches in this room. They smell vile, and I'm afraid I'llburn myself."
I want to facepalm. Stop babbling, Bella.
"Ipreferthe darkness,butthank you," Edward says, his voice slightly hoarse.Then he adds in a half-whisper, "And I must offer apologies for my earlier outburst. It was uncalled for. This situation is as… unconventional for me as it is, perhaps, for you, and it has unsettledme... Though that is no excuse."
His tone sounds genuinelyremorseful, and it makes me feelwarminside. Whenever people apologize to me, unprompted—okay, in this case, almost unprompted—it always takes me by surprise.
"May I inquire… Is it customary for women in your time to work? Does this extend to married women of… respectable families?"he asks, clearlypuzzled.
I chuckle. "Yes, more often than not, women in my time work. Or they can choose not to if they can afford it.I personally cannot, and that's why I need to travel back home, like, yesterday.I'm not married, by the way... nor am I widowed like Isabella..."
Man, this sounds weird.
"So,does this mean that you take my story seriously?" I ask. "How can you possibly believe that I traveled in time?!"
He gently shushes me, pressing his index finger to his lips.The gesture is unexpectedly erotic, and for a moment, I'm lost in my tracks.
"How interesting," he says,effectively ignoring my questions. "Please continue. Tell me more about Mr. Cullen.What is he like?"
I sigh."Well, like I said, he is a copy of you. Like an identical twin. I can't tell you more than that since I have never really talked to him. He only talks to my supervisor—the lady who gives me work to do—and that only happens when he comes to work, which is not very often. That's another reason why I thought that you were him. I figuredthat you spent some time here and some time therein the future."
"Or that this Mr. Cullenhas other, more exciting engagements…" He hesitates. "Toothbrushes… How things change in a mere two hundred years..." There's a note of incredulity in Edward's voice that I can't quite place. Isabella has a toothbrush, but maybe using them is not a common practice just yet?
"Tell me aboutit!I mean, yes, a lot of things will change." A thought strikes me, and I add, "But I'd rather not talk about it." I make a zipping motion over my lips and grimace.
"And why is that, Mrs. Dwyer?"Edward sounds amused. The smirk is back. I can hear it in his voice, but I can't see it… And I want to see it. Maybe touch those lips, too…
"Um… Could you please call me Bella? That's my name," I mutter. "Mrs. Dwyer is hername, and since Mr. Dwyerwasa jerk, I'd rather not be calledbyhis name, at least when possible…"
Ugh, too much information, Mrs. Bella Not-Dwyer!Could you please stop behaving like a middle schooler talking to her crush for the first time?
I clear my throat. "Back to your question,that's the rule of time travelers. Well,at least in books since time travel is not real, right? Anyway,they must leave as little evidence of their presencein the pastas possible because of the butterfly effect and all that."
I wait for a reaction, but of course, there's none, so I continue. "It meansthatsmall changesinthe past may lead to big, sometimes devastating changes in the future.I don't want to tell you something harmless and then discover, upon returning, that my best friend wasn't even born, for instance."
Edward seems to mull over this idea, or so I hope, as he mutters a thoughtful " hmm" before falling silent once more. And by "silent," I mean he's as still as a rock. Onceagain,I get the feeling that if I didn't know for a fact that he was sitting in that dark corner of the window, I wouldn't even know that he was there.
Finally, he says, "I believe it is rather too late to be troubled by such matters. You have already altered the course of history in having undertaken actions that Isabella Dwyer might never have even contemplated."
With another sigh, I admit that he's probably not wrong. "Still, it's prudent to be cautious. Especially when you are not exactlywilling to reciprocate.Are you going to tell methe significance of Mr. Cullen's name or not?"
Edward springs from his perch andglides overto the corner of the room, and then back to the window.His shoes makeno noise at all—a stark contrast to Jessica's clanking footsteps. Moving like a big cat, stealthy and graceful,he makes a few circles in this manner.Finally, he stops in the middle of the room.
"Cullen is the name of one of Carlisle's ancestors," he says. "I must leave it at that. I am aware that my conduct may seem unfair, yet I cannottell youmore. This name is linked to dark and unsettling matters, and even the mere knowledge of it would be both unwise andpotentially dangerous."
Huh?
"Carlisle's ancestor but not yours? Aren't youguys brothers? Oh…" Realization dawns on me. "So, you are indeed half-brothers.I thought that your only common feature, apart from your generally good looks, was your eyes."
Did I just mention Edward's good looks? Good job, Bella!
"But if you are not biologically related to that ancestor… that makes no sense!" I exclaim in frustration, and Edward shushes me again.
"It is notrequiredtobe biologically related, as you so aptly phrased it, tousea particular name," hereasons.
I narrow my eyes, thinking. "Still, highly implausible. I'm telling you, Edward Cullen does not resemble you likea distant relative. He is your…doppelgänger—God, I hope this word already exists."I bury my head in my hands, tired and defeated. "It just doesn't add up."
"Does Mr. Cullen have a family of his own?" Edward asks. He's back in his spot on the windowsill, in the same pose as before.
"I don't think so. It's never been mentioned. Although… Tanya probably wouldn't be opposed to the idea." I chuckle.
"Oh…" There's a barely noticeable hint of surprise. "Who is Tanya?"
By this point, my eyes are threatening to close at any moment, so I vigorously rub them again, trying to stay awake. "My supervisor. I told you that Mr. Cullen talks to her a lot. Why? Do you happen to know her name as well?" I grumble, not even trying to hide my sarcasm.
"The name is rather uncommon. That is all," he replies smoothly, and I'm immediately suspicious. "Is that her only name?"
"Tanya Denali," I say begrudgingly. "She's gorgeous and smart, but I doubt Mr. Cullen is interested." I add that last part with petty satisfaction, but then I remember the last time we spoke, and my smugness fades. "There's a good chance that she has, um, dismissed me from her service, and that I am no longer employed at Cullen Platt."
"I hope that is not the case. I am truly sorry that you found yourself in this impossible situation." All of a sudden, his voice is gentle, without the usual mocking, and it's a welcome change. Or maybe I'm just losing my spunk. Staying awake all night makes me mushy.
There's another pause, during which I wonder if Edward has fallen asleep or somehow disappeared—it's so very quiet in his corner.
Or maybe it's me who's fallen asleep.
But then the tower bell chimes four times.
"Bella… I must leave you now. The servants will be rising shortly, and you should rest."
I open my eyes to find Edward on his knees in front of me. Somehow, I'm lying on my side, wrapped in a blanket. Gathering all my strength, I make one last attempt to shake off slumber.
"Wait, please. You didn't answer any of my questions. At least answer me this," I whisper. "Did you really play in a competition with Franz Liszt?"
He laughs quietly. "I most certainly did. What would you like to know?"
"Is he seriously that good? Like, if you close your eyes and listen, can you say that, yes, this is the greatest pianist of all time? Because that's how he is remembered… for that and for being the first-ever musical celebrity." I giggle sleepily. "For behaving like one, too."
"Do you realize that half of the time, I am entirely at a loss as to your meaning? But yes, he is that good." Edwards chuckles. "There are possibly dozens of pianists who have the same level of technique and deep understanding of music, but his performance charisma is unparalleled. He can transform a mediocre piece into a masterpiece, and you would be none the wiser." He hesitates. "What is the cause of your interest? Do you play the pianoforte yourself?"
I nod. "Not very well. I would probably need my both hands and my feet to replicate just the right-hand part of that last piece you played at the recital… so if you ever need help…" I trail off, embarrassed at my lame joke. I don't want him to leave. It's a good thing that he can't see my face because I feel a tear making its way down my cheek. My next, and last, sentence comes out wobbly. "Also, if you ever need a friend, you know how to find me."
I close my eyes, not expecting to hear another sound—he's probably already gone. Right before sleep swallows me completely, I feel the softest touch of his finger as he wipes the salty trail off my cheek, and then a breeze of a whisper.
"I wish I had the strength not to want that."
.
.
.
