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Chapter 7

After about a minute of muffled screaming that accomplishes nothing, I pause.

Whoever captured me, doesn't move. At all. Like the infamous statue of il Commendatore from Mozart's Don Giovanni, it holds me tightly in its deadly embrace. Tears stream down my face. But I desperately need to blow my nose, so I take a couple of shaky breaths and will my body to calm down.

The moment I do, il Commendatore leans into me and whispers, "I shall release you now, but you must be quiet."

I nod frantically. I can do quiet!

Suddenly, I'm free, and a handkerchief appears in my hands. Under normal circumstances, I'd stop for a second to think if it'd been previously washed, but these circumstances are far from normal, so I don't waste time and quickly wipe my face.

"You scared me!" I rasp, somewhat annoyed. I still can't see a thing!

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?" the statue asks, clearly not amused.

Oh.

This sexy baritone is all too familiar, and despite the menacing words and tone, I momentarily relax.

Found him!

"I'm so terribly sorry for intruding like this, but there was no other way to see you," I sputter, fearing he'll kick me out before I can make my case. "Mr. Cullen, my name is Bella Swan, or I guess here they call me Isabella Dwyer. I work in the marketing department on the 11th floor." I hesitate, just long enough to take a breath, then continue apologetically, "I don't think you know me, but I obviously know you… So, the problem is that I don't understand how I got here… in London, I mean. I don't know how this time travel thing works, but I really need to go back. Could you please help me?"

Mr. Cullen is silent.

It's strange, too—absolutely no sounds betray his presence in the blinding darkness of the room. No rustling of fabric, no creaking floorboards, not even a breath. The only indication that he's still here at all is the lingering trace of his cologne. It's an enticing scent, and frankly, it makes me a little light-headed… that is, until I recall my own lack of proper hygiene over the last three weeks.

"Um, could you please turn on some light, I mean, bring a candle?" I ask timidly, fighting a growing sense of unease.

No reaction.

"Mr. Cullen?"

"Why do you call me by that name?" he asks. His voice is soft and smooth, but there's an underlying threat in it. I didn't know Edward Cullen had this dangerous streak in him, but then again, I didn't know him at all.

"Because it's your name, Edward Cullen? That's what you're called… there. In Seattle."

Okay, I feel really stupid. Why is he doing this? Is he still mad at me for breaking into his bedroom?

Hmm. He might be.

There's faint movement and the soft strike of a match. A candle flickers to life, revealing Edward, fully dressed, sitting in an armchair at the far end of the room. I look down at my legs and blush. My skirt is still twisted in that ridiculous knot around my waist, and it takes me a few seconds to undo it.

Edward doesn't look away. He actually stares right at me with a smirk. Asshole.

"Haven't seen a woman in her underwear in a while? How scandalous for a man whose company manufactures menstrual pads!" I blurt out without thinking.

He blinks, and then his smirk becomes downright carnivorous. "Are you propositioning me, Mrs. Dwyer? However, the second part of your speech makes no sense. Nor does the first." He leans forward in his chair, looking straight at me. "My name is Edward Masen. I do not know Mr. Edward Cullen, nor do I have a company, and you would do well to go home, right now. I am willing to forget this intrusion if you make haste."

No! No-no-no. I'm here for answers! What do I do?!

"Mr. Cullen. Or, okay, Masen, if you insist," I say hurriedly as I press my palms together, pleading for him to listen. "I'd love to go home, to my home in Seattle, that is, but I don't know how! I thought you would tell me how you travel." I search his face for a sign of… anything, but his expression remains absolutely blank. "All I know is that I found myself here, in 1833, after Norma, where I blacked out, and I just can't seem to wake up and get back. My Dad and my roommate must be searching the morgues by now." I rub my eyes. Suddenly, I feel very weak–it's late, and my earlier adrenaline rush is starting to crash.

Head tilted to one side, he studies me for a moment. I'm tempted to approach him but think better of it. Here, in this room and this light, he reminds me of a wild animal watching his prey from a distance. It might be my imagination–he's too far–but I think his nostrils quiver slightly, and once again, I have the humiliating thought that I probably stink. Something niggles, telling me that his sense of smell is very good.

"So, you believe that you live in Seattle, Mrs. Dwyer. Where is that? And correct me if I am wrong, but the appropriate question should probably begin with when. When and where do you think is your home, madame?"

His voice is soft and deadly. I shiver. What game is he playing?

"You know perfectly well where Seattle is–in Washington state, the United States of America, where your family decided to build the headquarters of your high dollar company that sells FMCG," I reply, trying, unsuccessfully, not to sound like a smartass. "In case you forgot, that stands for Fast Moving Consumer Goods–something I'd really love to use here in this medieval city… well, not actually medieval, but, gosh, I miss my shower and shampoo..."

I know I'm babbling, and the words spill out before my brain can filter them. On top of that, it's getting increasingly hard to stay upright. Where are his manners anyway? Why hasn't he offered me a chair? I'm so tired. With a gigantic effort, I attempt to focus.

"Anyway. As to when, I was there last, it was September 23rd, 2024. I'd seen you there a few hours before I traveled here, five thousand miles and 191 years back. Now, how did you do that?"

Another stretch of silence meets my words. Mentally rolling my eyes, I give up and sit down on the floor, making sure to cover my legs. Without warning, he jumps up and opens a window behind him–not the one I used to get into his house. Then, he starts speaking, slowly, clearly, as though he's talking to a disobedient child or, better yet, an idiot.

"Mrs. Dwyer. If this is some elaborate ruse to encounter me, you must drop this act at once. I do not know you, and I have never been to the United States, let alone to a place called Seattle or Washington State, both of which I am certain do not exist." He pauses and narrows his eyes, making sure I'm paying attention. "If this is not an act, and you are simply unwell, you need to seek help with your family. In either case, you must leave. Your presence here is not welcome."

His words break through my fatigue and hit me like a truck. I gasp, feeling as though there's not enough air in my lungs.

This is it. Either he can't help me, or he won't. Worse, he thinks that I'm a groupie and/or a psycho.

Either way, I'm on my own.

Loneliness crashes over me so intensely that I'm paralyzed for a few seconds. My legs feel numb, and my body completely drains of energy. Thankfully, this wave passes quickly, and I manage to get on my feet and stumble toward the door. I'll be damned if I'm making a spectacle of myself and leaving the same way I came.

Edward remains motionless in his chair, and I can't help but notice how tightly he grips the armrests.

"I'm sorry you don't trust me," I tell him calmly, clinging to the remains of my dignity. "I'm not mentally ill and I'm telling you the truth. Also, I'm definitely not your groupie… although, I admit that you are an amazing musician. Enjoy your secret, Mr. Masen."

With that, I grab my skirt and sprint down the stairs and out of the house. I run like a lunatic all the way back to Alistair's and as I climb into my bedroom, I manage to get only a few bruises and a scratch.

There, I cry myself to sleep.