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Chapter 6

He's good–oh, so very good.

In fact, you can only hear this insane level of precision in recordings (a result of hours spent in the studio and some digital editing), rarely in a live performance.

It all seems effortless for him, though. Like when you drive a powerful, expensive car, you seldom realize just how fast you're going because the movement is so smooth. No technicalities distract you from the story Mr. Masen's telling with his fingers.

And it's not just telling, he's sucking you in. There's this all-consuming passion in his music. And power. And longing.

I'm utterly mesmerized, and I'm not the only one either. The room is absolutely still. We're all dazed, far from this place, lost in his world.

When he's finished, it takes the audience a good three seconds to snap out of it and start frantically clapping and shouting. I just sit there, unable to move any part of my body, too shocked to even try to make sense of what I've just witnessed.

This is Edward Cullen–there's no way that Mr. Masen is someone else, like his great-great-great grandfather… The resemblance is too strong. Even the length of his hair and the way he runs his long fingers through those gorgeous golden streaks are identical. He must be a time traveler then, living between here and there.

I'm almost sure of it.

This, however, brings up more questions. How can the same person be a world-class pianist on one timeline and the head of a global corporation on the other? How does that work? As far as I know, I haven't developed any special skills since I found myself trapped in 1833… although that would be nice. For a second, I wish that I were an opera singer, but then I think of Norma and change my mind.

Meanwhile, the concert is over, and Mr. Masen is nowhere to be seen. That just won't do.

I turn to Maggie, who looks flushed. Her eyes glisten with tears. Even Alistair seems to be affected.

"Do you think we could introduce ourselves to Mr. Masen? Only to express our gratitude?" I ask, trying to appear nonchalant.

Maggie's face lights up, and she and Alistair share a wordless exchange.

"We certainly could," Alistair says with a teasing smile, "but only if we manage to navigate the sea of rivals, which would be no small feat. Let us see what we can do."

Alistair leads us through a series of doors like someone who knows his way around the place. After a few minutes, we find ourselves in a dead-end corridor. It's full of people, and I hear someone telling them that Mr. Masen has already left, but he is grateful for their never-failing support and that they are extremely welcome at his next concert, et cetera et cetera. The crowd emits a groan of disappointment and slowly starts dissipating. However, Alistair signals us to stay put.

Finally, there's nobody in the corridor other than us and the man who just shattered the hopes of a dozen people to see Mr. Masen up close and personal. Alistair marches straight to him and shakes his hand.

"Carlisle, it is so good to see you," he says with unusual warmth.

Maggie and I approach a second later, and I make an enormous effort not to stare because this Carlisle fellow is a sight to behold. He's probably in his late 30s, tall, blond, and very handsome, with the face of an angel from one of those old paintings, only without that weird blush they always seem to have on their cheeks. Carlisle's very pale, but somehow, it suits him. It makes his eye color stand out.

My heart suddenly begins to race: his eyes are the same unusual color as Mr. Cullen's.

Carlisle quickly looks at me, as if sensing my distress, and then bows as Alistair introduces us.

"Lady Buchan, my wife, and this is Mrs. Dwyer. Ladies, please meet Dr. Carlisle Masen. He is an excellent physician, and," Alistair chuckles, as if recalling some inside joke, "on occasion, such as this evening, his brother's impresario!"

My eyes threaten to pop out of their sockets. So, this guy is Mr. Cullen's brother–or maybe I should just call him Edward because his last names are confusing. Well, anyway, there's a lot of good genes in that family, I'll tell you that.

"Ladies, it is a pleasure to meet you," Carlisle replies with a genuine smile, and I'm immediately lulled by the caressing softness of his voice. "Sir Alistair is joking, but indeed, I often assist my brother with the more mundane aspects of organizing his recitals." He lets out a gentle laugh. "Sometimes, he assigns me the role of a scarecrow to divert everyone's attention while he withdraws to our home."

"For the role of a scarecrow, your brother could not have chosen a more unsuitable person, Dr. Masen," Maggie says with a wide grin. "It is an honor to finally meet our neighbor and a celebrated physician. Your reputation precedes you!" She hesitates and then looks at Carlisle expectantly. "I did not realize that Mr. Edward Masen was your brother. How wonderful!"

"I am most grateful for your kind words, Lady Buchan. Edward is all I have in this world, and I do whatever is in my power to assist his great talent. He is very shy and does not do well in the presence of big crowds. When on stage, he is consumed by his music and does not notice anything else." He smiles apologetically. "But before and after the recital, he requires privacy."

This is a very obvious hint, although nicely delivered, and I suppress a sigh of disappointment.

"Please send him our gratitude and admiration. His performance tonight was beyond anything we have ever heard," Maggie tells him with fervor, and then we say our goodbyes.

As we're about to turn around the corner, I quickly look back and see Carlisle opening the door to the room that had been previously closed. For a second, I think I see the shadow of another person, but I'm too far away to be sure.

XXX

It's late morning, and the three of us are having breakfast in the dining room. Maggie and Alistair are holding hands–again–and it's mildly nauseating. Who holds hands at ten in the morning?! Last night Maggie gave her husband an earful for not only forgetting to mention that he'd met their new neighbor-slash-doctor, of whom she had heard great things, but also for concealing the fact that the pianist was his brother. Since then, however, they clearly made up.

Alistair swears that he hadn't known anything about the brother prior to the concert and that it had only occurred to him last night that there might have been a connection. He met Carlisle at some gentlemen's club, or wherever he goes several times a week. Apparently, before he died, Carlisle's father had been a clergyman with means and connections. Alistair was under the impression most of his family had died long ago and that Carlisle had lived in France for quite some time, where he'd studied medicine at two different universities.

Of course, Maggie immediately decides that she wants to invite him for dinner, but then there's the problem of the brother, who might not come, because according to the rumors, he never attends any social functions.

I clear my throat. "So, where did you say this doctor lives?"

Alistair isn't sure, but Maggie says, "He is renting a wing at Lansdown Hall, I believe."

I nod. During our afternoon strolls "around the block" with Maggie, I had the chance to study our affluent neighborhood quite well, and I know that house. It's a spacious three-story property, only a short walk away, that belongs to some gentleman of means who currently lives on the continent.

A plan begins to cook in my head.

XXX

By dinner time, Jessica proves herself to be the most informed person in the Buchan household.

Although she's never seen either gentleman with her own eyes, she knows everything there is to know about the handsome doctor and his equally handsome but quiet and reclusive brother. My brows furrow at this remark. Carlisle is undeniably hot, but Edward… he's in a league of his own. I wonder if they're really brothers. They look nothing alike, apart from the eye color. Maybe they're half-brothers.

"They only have one servant!" she says. "And that is not because they are poor, far from it. Their carriage was brought by sea from Germany, and Beth thinks it cost £500, though that cannot be… They are not dukes!"

Jessica is so excited that I need to tell her to go easy on my hair.

She quickly apologizes and continues with the same enthusiasm. "They rent a grand house but only live in the north wing, something about the sun shining in their windows in the morning—though I wonder what sun they are talking about, given our weather! The rest of the house stands empty, with only a few servants staying there to keep it up. Beth tells me that Mr. Masen spends all day at the piano, from early morning till late evening, and hardly ever leaves the house."

This is all very valuable information, and I take mental notes. Jessica, of course, doesn't miss the opportunity to grill me about the details of last night's concert, but to her visible disappointment, I can't give her anything she doesn't know already.

"But madame, does he truly resemble an angel and is capable of hypnotizing ladies with his gaze?" she asks, looking up at me with hope that I hate to crush.

I snort. "He is a very fine-looking gentleman, no doubt, but I have not noticed any wings, unless they were discretely tucked into his frock. As to hypnotizing, yes, he has that effect on people." Her eyes widen, and I shake my head and laugh. "Only through his music, not his stare."

Jessica sighs.

A moment later, she chirps an, "All done, madame," in her usual high-pitched voice, curtsies, and then vanishes behind the door.

I bet she thinks I'm a lost cause.

XXX

It's only after a few days that I finally have a chance to set my plan in motion.

Alistair has some business to attend to in Oxford, and Maggie decides to go with him. I would absolutely love to see Oxford, but I excuse myself from the trip under the pretense of "not being the greatest company at the moment"–something I have no doubt Isabella Dwyer would say. They're not surprised in the least, but it still takes me a moment to convince them that I'll be okay on my own–as in, with just eight servants instead of the usual twelve.

It's too quiet in the house without them. I ask Mr. Felps, the butler, not to keep the fire in the living room just for me and retreat to my bedroom.

The disconcerting truth is that it's been three weeks since I "arrived" in London, and I'm no closer to getting back home than I was on day one. My only hope is to find Edward and ask him to help. He must know how to get back to the future, as he seems to be quite comfortable having two amazing careers both here and there. He probably travels back and forth: that would explain why he's rarely in the office.

I can't wait here indefinitely for an opportunity to stumble into him. He doesn't attend balls or parties, doesn't call on his neighbors, and it seems unlikely that he'll ever host a meet and greet after one of his concerts.

No, my only chance is to go and see him.

And since I'm pretty sure that ladies, especially single ladies from good families like myself, are not supposed to visit single gentlemen, I'll have to do it secretly, and not through the front door.

Yes, that's quite unconventional, even by 21st-century standards, and in my home time and country, I might legitimately get shot for that, but here and now, it seems like my only option.

I critically review my wardrobe. On my walk with Maggie yesterday, I'd looked for a possible point of entry into the house, and the only feasible option included some climbing. Well, I can do that! I think. After all, I grew up in the Pacific Northwest and even climbed Mailbox Peak once. Surely, that counts for something. Climbing into the first-floor window of a Regency house shouldn't be more difficult than that. Only, my dresses aren't even suitable for walking up and down the stairs, so I'll have to improvise.

October days are short, and by the time I yawn and say goodnight to Jessica, it's already been dark for hours. She leaves, and I carefully lock the door. Thankfully, the street lamps are bright, and it's not pitch-black outside of my room. I quickly get dressed, making sure to choose my warmest and longest pair of underdrawers. They look like actual pants and not some role-play undergarments with a slit in the most interesting place. Briefly, I considered "borrowing" Alistair's pants for this excursion but changed my mind. I like Alistair, but wearing his pants just feels… wrong.

I grab a light woolen cape, take a calming breath, and open the window.

Getting to the ground from my window turns out to be relatively easy. I lift my skirts with one hand and use the other to hold onto the wrought iron decorations as I jump onto a narrow strip of bricks just above the kitchen window. From there, a tiny ladder takes me all the way down. All the while, I try not to think about how I'm going to do this in reverse when I need to get back to my room.

Here in the back of the house, the stench of rot and sewer is almost overwhelming.

Without wasting a moment, I wrap myself in my cape, pull on the hood, and briskly walk to Lansdown Hall. Running would be too conspicuous, and although the street seems absolutely empty, I don't want to attract the unnecessary attention of whoever might be lurking in the dark.

Five minutes later, I finally reach Edward's house and look up at the window that I chose earlier. The north wing is dark and quiet, and I pray for several things at once: that Edward is at home and not on a tour–how did I not think about this possibility earlier?–that it's his room behind the window and not Carlisle's, because that would just be awkward, and that neither of them will shoot me on the spot for breaking and entering.

I feel slightly nauseous, and sweat trickles down my spine despite it being a cold, crispy night. After a short consideration, I decide to leave my cape on the nearby bush and try not to forget it on the way back.

Now, comes the trickiest part of my plan.

Pulling up the skirt of my muslin dress, I gather the hem in two bunches and tie them into a knot at the waist. The fabric is very thin, so hopefully, the knot will hold. Then, I start climbing.

Thankfully, the ground floor of this house is not as tall as Alistair's, and I find myself at the window in just a few minutes. Trying to hold tight to the brick wall and not fall, I reach for the wrench that I stole in the kitchen. It's then that I realize the window isn't locked.

I can't believe my luck.

With the wrench still in my hand, I gently push the window open, and it produces no noise whatsoever. In a second, I climb over the windowsill, and just like that, I'm inside.

My heart pounds, pumping adrenaline through my body.

Mind racing, I scan the room. Where am I? Oh, how I would love to have a flashlight. Why couldn't my stupid phone make it through time with me? I would at least be able to use it as a light, although the battery might be a problem. I sigh.

Sticking my hands out in front of me, I move in complete darkness until I reach a wall.

This is something I did not think through.

How am I supposed to find Edward if I can't see anything?!

I call out in a low, shaky voice, "Edward?"

Silence. This house might as well be a graveyard.

"Edward? Mr. Cullen?"

I begin to think that coming here wasn't such a good idea after all.

But then, something very fast and solid suddenly lunges at me. It slams me into the wall and presses a large, ice-cold palm over my mouth, right as I start screaming at the top of my lungs.