July 2014

Twenty-Four/Twenty-Seven

"Surveillance technology?" she repeated, and a tremor shot up her arm. She had a sneaking suspicion, having read about it somewhere, but she needed confirmation. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Edward's guilt sweetened, becoming less defiant. He looked concerned, even dismissive. The swell of dislike she felt at that moment shocked her, and she hated him. "Bee, sweetheart…"

"Don't sweetheart me," she said tiredly. "What does surveillance technology mean?"

Isabella knew him so well – she could tell exactly when he was being evasive, not because he avoided her gaze but because he looked at her head-on. His eyes were boring into hers. The tell was in his mouth and in how he bit his lower lip. "They've been featured in Wired and they're about to go public," Edward said.

Isabella was shaking her head – she felt so foggy these days like her brain was whirring like an old computer, but she knew in her gut it was a complex, controversial business. "That doesn't answer my question."

"Drones," Edward said, and there was a challenge in his posture. "Felix is an aerospace engineer."

Bella felt so befuddled by this conversation that she looked at him apprehensively. "An aerospace engineer? Where did you meet an aerospace engineer?"

Edward was still grimacing with defensiveness, and there was a challenge in his eyes – he looked defiant like he had as a teenager. "I took a stats class at MIT," he said, and his voice was cuttingly frigid. "Is that a crime, my love?"

There was poison in the irony with which he said it. My love. It was biting, and sardonic, and smooth. "If you want to fight about this, we can," Bella said, a sneer in her voice. She folded her arms across her chest, feeling like Lucy Van Pelt.

"I don't want to fight."

"When did you invest?" she asked, and then added. "I know it's none of my business, actually, but I…"

She felt conflicted. Normally, she avoided discussing Cullen finances, as if it would be in poor taste. It felt rude, crass, and invasive. Things were changing, though – they would be married. A habit of childhood returned, and she gnawed on her finger, like a rabbit chewing a carrot.

Edward sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I suppose it is your business. I was the very first investor, so I also got preferential stock options. I own a tenth of the company. I invested in 2010," he said. "I made an initial investment of 100,000, and then I topped it up to 250,000. The returns were great. 50% annualized in the last three years, after some losses initially – so I put in another two million. The gamble kept paying off."

Bella made a sound like a whimper and a cringe. She felt out of her depth – and not because she hadn't excelled at mandatory financial classes. She felt so mousy, and quaint, and mousy. Edward was making big investments while she was interviewing Kindergarten teachers and surveying preschoolers. "So – a return of three quarter million on the initial investment and then a million ever since?"

A pearly, arrogant grin spread across Edward's lips. It unsettled her – his eyes were bright with hunger and ambition. "Yes. And that doesn't even begin to cut it. I've read some offers from buyers, darling, asking for stock when Corvus goes public. We'll make at least 50 million."

"We, as in you and… Felix Musgrave?"

"We, as in you and I, love."

Edward stepped towards her. His face had lit up with happiness – but not like when they first kissed, or when she accepted his proposal. He had an eager, hungry gleam in his eyes.

A sense of uneasiness settled in her chest and started nesting.

Edward continued to speak with a hungry dreaminess. "Jenks expects it to temper off –"

"Who is Jenks?"

"An HNW advisor."

"A what, sorry?" Bella asked, her entire face contorted into a grimace.

"High net worth advisor. Jenks is hyper-competent – he's a financier with a law degree from Yale."

Bella was unimpressed and unamused. She disliked the idea of some stranger advising Edward for profit. "Did your Dad recommend him?" she asked cautiously. "What does your Dad think?" This, for her, was the pivotal question – the question that would determine her opinion of the whole affair.

Edward's face darkened, dripping with condescension. "Sweetheart, my father does not get it."

Bella did not smile back, not in the least because she felt unsettled to her bones. At that moment, Edward looked so foreign to her. For the first time, she missed him as he'd been, so many years before –a college freshman who hid his insecurities under cocksureness. This Edward was different. He brimmed with confident self-assurance and arrogant determination. He looked like his grandfathers – not like her best friend.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, hating that her voice broke, hating that she felt betrayed. It was not her business – or it had not been, anyway.

Finally, at long last, Edward looked ashamed. "I'm sorry, Bella. Really," he said, and his shame was so earnest, and crystalline. "I didn't want to – I wasn't thinking. I don't know what I was thinking. It just – it didn't seem important at the time, and now it is your business."

"I…" She felt so stressed – like she was swimming upstream in uncharted waters, in this body that wasn't just broken, but fat.

He walked towards her and fell to his knees in a controlled, graceful movement. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should tell you about our finances."

"I mean, I – You -"

"I didn't think it would hurt you not to know," Edward said, softly and pleadingly. "It just seemed like – like a separate thing. There's my life with you. There's us – you make me so happy, and you make me feel so safe, and – that's one thing. And then there's everything else."

She looked down at her lap, crestfallen. A solitary tear slipped down her cheek, and Edward's expression finally gentled. "Really? I don't feel like that at all," she said, and she sounded bitter and hurt. "I – I don't compartmentalize like that."

Feelings from her teenage years resurfaced – feelings from when Edward had led a double life, and she'd been privy to it completely. Eating lunch with Lauren Mallory, fucking her in the locker rooms – and then hanging out with Isabella. Taking her to the Chihuly Gardens, and the Seattle Zoo, building puzzles.

It made her feel like he was embarrassed, like she wasn't enough – like she was a little mouse, trying to fly with an eagle. It made her feel pitifull.

"I feel like such an idiot," she said, and she snorted self-deprecatingly. She was trembling. "I feel like an idiot, making you read about trees, for fuck's sake."

Just yesterday, Isabella had fallen asleep to his voice. Isabella had been sleeping fitfully since her mother's cancer diagnosis – an anxiety that was compounded by her wedding. As a rule, friendships that extend to looking after stumps can only be established in undisturbed forests. I myself have observed oak, fir spruce and Douglas fir stumps that were still alive long after the trees had been cut down.

When she looked up, Edward's eyes were hot with sincerity. "You could never be an idiot. You're wonderful. It was the best part of my day," he swore softly, and he sounded so genuine. Bella sputtered out a weak half-scoff. "Whatever I do with you, any day, is always the best part of my day. When I'm with you – I feel safe to be my mom's kid. My parents' kid. You make me feel safe."

"I…"

Edward kissed her temple and her cheekbone, lingering so softly. "I love you. Every bit of you," he whispered. "I'm so in love with you. I'll always love you, exactly as you are."

That felt true, and it rang true in her head. She saw it every day, at least once – in the way he looked at her, like she was sunshine and he'd been cold. She felt it in the way he kissed her, in the way he smiled at her sometimes – tenderly like he wanted to shield her and hug her all at once.

She burrowed closer, feeling like melting, feeling completely enveloped by warmth. "I love you, too," she murmured, and it was so early, but she still felt teary. "I'm just so scared. It feels like everything is changing."

It feels like I don't really know you sometimes.

"Nothing has to change," he breathed, and his eyes were pleading. "It's just us, baby. It's just us. It's just a formality that we have to get over, but in my heart, you've been my wife for years."

Bella didn't know what to say, so she hugged him.

It was a Saturday. Every second Saturday, she had physiotherapy with Stella Ramirez in the morning. Every second Saturday, with that characteristic discipline, Edward made her breakfast. It was the one weekend in their calendar that was untouchable to Edward – an appointment that he kept, undeterred by rain, snow, or bad colds.

In the car, driving to physio, Edward was sweet. Hers, again. "I caught up with Game of Thrones yesterday after you fell asleep." She hadn't wanted him to read to her, which he'd been doing religiously.

"Yeah?" Isabella's returning smile was muted, even forced – because his demeanor felt forced, even disingenuous. She felt so small – in her pursuits, in her interests. Using her hand, she pulled her ankle up to her chest and hugged it. Edward had a double life, she thought again – and she was this quaint part of it that couldn't handle the harsher bits.

"Tyrion doesn't die, right?"

Her smile widened. "I don't know," she said. "I'm waiting for you to catch up." She rested her head on the window and looked at the whirl of trees.

Oddly, her thoughts were full of her father. For all his flaws, her father had taught her dignity. "You don't take handouts. If you have to work twice as hard to get half as far, that's what you gotta do. There's more dignity in sweepin' the street than in cheatin' anybody to get ahead." Isabella had been flooded with that satisfying dignity – in a job well done – when she had worked as a library clerk, making minimum wage.

She peeked at Edward thoughtfully. At her husband. They weren't married yet, but that's what he would be. Her husband. Edward – the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with – conflated dignity with prestige.

"Would you ever be a nurse?" she asked, keeping her tone light, even though the question suddenly seemed to matter enormously.

Edward snorted. "Taking blood samples, measuring cc's of urine? No, thank you. Springfield is shit enough as it is."

Something inside her shattered a little. She grimaced and looked out the window.

"Bee?" he asked softly, voice laced with concern.

Bella felt like everything around her was moving in slow motion like the strings of identity tying her to earth were being rearranged. She offered him a dazzling smile. "Can I have your phone? I want to play music."

The familiar whir of the automatic doors whooshed as Isabella steered her manual wheelchair into the physical therapy room. This Edward had accompanied her to physiotherapy for years, and while the initial shyness of having him witness her struggles had faded, a new wave of self-consciousness washed over her.

Dr. Ramirez, her silver hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, greeted them both with a warm smile. "Hi, gorgeous!"

"Hey, Doc," Bella grinned.

"Time's a-wastin'. Let's go. Today we're focusing on your core strength and balance. Let's start with some planks on the therapy ball."

Isabella swallowed, her palms growing slick with a sudden sheen of anxiety. The therapy ball, a giant, wobbly beach ball of blue, always presented a formidable challenge. As they began the exercises, a familiar frustration bubbled within her. Her core muscles, weakened by the ataxia, trembled, and her balance faltered. Shame burned in her throat, threatening to choke back the whimper that escaped her lips.

Dr. Ramirez, ever the observant therapist, interjected with a smile. "Let's modify this a bit. Isabella, how about we try these planks with your knees on the mat for now? We can gradually progress to the ball as your core strength improves."

She wasn't so sure that her core strength ever would, but she persisted. Taking a deep breath, she focused on the modified exercise.

As they progressed to more challenging exercises, a familiar shyness crept back into Isabella. Bridge poses, designed to strengthen her core and glutes, were a constant struggle. Her body, a mix of spastic diplegia's rigidity and ataxia's uncoordinated movements, rebelled against the exercise. She felt so weak.

Sensing her struggle, Edward leaned closer, his voice a gentle murmur. "You're doing amazing," he whispered, stroking her hair back from her forehead. The touch, the warmth of his breath, grounded her. It was a silent promise – he was there, every wobble, every tremor, every victory.

Taking a deep breath, Isabella pushed against the mat, her core muscles burning. Dr. Ramirez's voice, a steady drumbeat of encouragement, filled the room. And then, for a fleeting moment, her body held the pose. Not perfect, but a bridge nonetheless. A genuine smile bloomed on Isabella's face, a shared victory between therapist, boyfriend, and most importantly, herself. The shyness melted away.

"You did so good," Edward said earnestly, and he was smiling at her like she'd run a marathon – and she supposed she had.

It was 2 AM – and she was awoken by two new, ever-present companions: anxiety and hunger. Pancake chirped discontentedly when she slipped out of bed, out from underneath a thin summery blanket. Edward grunted but did not wake as she gingerly removed his hand from where it rested on her stomach. She plopped onto her wheelchair and unlocked the brakes, lifting both legs into the single footrest. Her tremors began the second her nervous system whirled to life.

Pancake chirped discontentedly as she shifted. He walked all over her body, and the weight of his little paws on her muscles – taut with spasticity all the way to her back – felt uncomfortable. She was so stressed these. Her tremors had become especially bad – signaling that she was in perpetual low-intensity emotional turmoil.

Pancake followed after her, meowing softly and running around her bare ankles.

In the kitchen, she pulled open the lid of her laptop and turned on the kettle. In the middle of the night, there was a chill in the air. She pulled on a thin cashmere cardigan. The tremors in her hands made it harder to type.

Corvus.

The Future of Flight: Felix Musgrave and His Drones of Controversy

By Lydia Hayes, Wired Magazine

In the dimly lit backroom of a Silicon Valley startup incubator, where ambition and caffeine mingle in the air, a figure looms large in both stature and reputation. Felix Musgrave, the enigmatic engineer whose innovations promise to redefine the skies, is making waves—and raising eyebrows. With his latest venture, Corvus, Musgrave has unveiled a new line of drones equipped with advanced data analysis software that some are hailing as revolutionary while others warn could usher in an era of unprecedented surveillance.

Musgrave, in his early thirties, is no stranger to controversy. With a past that includes multiple failed startups and a penchant for bold statements on social media, he has cultivated a persona as daring as his inventions. Now, he finds himself at the helm of a company poised to dominate the burgeoning drone market, working closely with his financier partner, Demetri Vanderboss.

The Technology: A Game Changer or a Threat?

At the heart of Corvus's innovation is the Raven drone, a lightweight, all-weather machine capable of real-time data collection and analysis. Powered by a cutting-edge artificial intelligence engine, these drones can survey vast expanses of land, monitor environmental changes, and even assist in emergency response efforts. The software is designed to process enormous amounts of data in seconds, giving users insights that were once the realm of sci-fi.

"Imagine deploying a fleet of these drones in disaster zones, pinpointing survivors or mapping damage in real-time," Musgrave told us in an exclusive interview. His enthusiasm is infectious, yet critics are quick to point out potential abuses. Privacy advocates warn that the same technology could easily be turned against citizens, leading to invasive surveillance by governments and corporations alike.

Adding fuel to the fire, the potential military applications of the Raven drone have ignited further debate. Musgrave acknowledges that the technology could be adapted for military purposes but vehemently denies ever selling to authoritarian regimes. "We do not and will not sell to any military force engaged in the Syrian Civil War," he asserted firmly, aiming to distance his company from any unethical military use.

"Ironically, Musgrave's mission to 'help humanity' may do more harm than good," says Sarah Lennox, a leading privacy researcher at the Digital Rights Coalition. "The technology is outpacing our ability to regulate it, and we're at risk of creating a society where personal freedom is compromised."

Raising Crows

Born in a small town in Oregon, Musgrave's early life was marked by a fascination with mechanics and flight. He graduated with honors in aerospace engineering and quickly became known for his unconventional approaches. Yet, his path has not been linear. Several ventures, including a solar-powered vehicle startup, faltered under financial strain and public scrutiny. Critics labeled him a "serial entrepreneur," but Musgrave remained undeterred, famously tweeting, "Failure is merely a stepping stone to success."

Today, he positions himself as a maverick willing to take risks where others fear to tread. He speaks passionately about the dual-edged nature of technology: "We can't let fear dictate innovation. The tools we create can either empower or enslave us. It's up to us to choose how we use them."

Industry Impact and the Road Ahead

With $200 million in funding from a mix of venture capitalists and angel investors, Corvus is on track to disrupt industries ranging from agriculture to urban planning. Farmers can use drones to monitor crop health, while city planners might deploy them to analyze traffic patterns.

But with great power comes great responsibility, and the ethical implications of Musgrave's technology loom large. His plans to incorporate facial recognition capabilities into future drone models have ignited debates over civil liberties. The backlash has been fierce, with protests staged outside the company's headquarters, echoing the sentiments of a public wary of invasive technologies.

In response, Musgrave maintains that transparency is key. He has pledged to work closely with regulators and to develop robust ethical guidelines for drone deployment. "This is a dialogue we need to have," he asserts. "I want to be part of the solution, not the problem."

A Visionary or a Risk-Taker?

As Felix Musgrave stands on the precipice of greatness—or potential catastrophe—the world watches with bated breath. His vision of a future filled with drones is captivating, yet fraught with ethical dilemmas that society must confront. Will he become a herald of progress or a cautionary tale of unchecked innovation?

In a world where technology often races ahead of regulation, Musgrave's journey is a reminder of the fine line between visionary and villain. Only time will tell how his story unfolds, but one thing is certain: Felix Musgrave is here to stay, whether we embrace it or not. After all, in Latin, Corvus means "raven," and like its namesake, Musgrave's innovations could soar—or cause chaos in the skies.

The water in the kettle had gone cold, untouched.

"Sweetheart?" Edward asked groggily. He stood behind her and kissed the crown of her head. Bella's entire body spasmed, startled.

Edward rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "You want me to make you a sandwich? You didn't have lunch, love."

"I already ate," Bella lied, and it came easily. She felt no guilt. Ice-cold dread was sprouting in her stomach, tangling with anxiety. She unlocked the wheelchair.

"Then come to bed," Edward whispered and then rested his chin on the crown of her head. His eyes scanned her screen, and she felt him stiffen behind her.

Edward groaned, a long-winded huff of frustration. "Bella..."

Her right and trembled so hard she could not move her chair. "I don't like it," she said flatly. "I don't like it at all."

Edward groaned, and she could hear his aggravation. "What don't you like, exactly?"

"It's… It's shady, Edward. Having these drones around, snapping pictures of people, and fields, and … If you have to deny you've sold drones to Al-Assad, you're already losing."

"Darling, that's a crock of shit."

"Is it? Then why would the journalist ask? For funsies?"

Edward gritted his teeth. "Bella, Felix is a genius. He's a solid guy. I would even consider him a friend."

Guiltily, Bella's first thought was mistrust. They had not hung out with Emmett in months – Edward had begrudgingly told her Emmett had been matched with Johns Hopkins for his internship. "He wants to specialize in orthopedics and that's just sawing bones," Edward had told her begrudgingly.

Bella made a face.

"You should meet Felix," Edward said, and he had that manic glint in his eye, as if he'd been struck by a burst of brilliance. "We have a longstanding invitation to his yacht."

"Edward, I…"

"I've been putting it off for months," Edward said pleadingly. "Please, babe. It'll be fun."

"I hate the idea of getting on a yacht with a shady millionaire that's been accused of selling drones to Middle Eastern dictators."

"Darling, that's baseless."

"Even if I did agree, when – when would we possibly get on his shady little yacht?"

"All I gotta do is call."

"I'm taking a ton of unpaid leave to go be with my mother during chemo infusions. You're in the middle of an internship. We don't have the time."

"Winter, love. Felix loves the Mexican Pacific."

Bella grimaced. "I'm going to bed," she declared.

Her mother's oncologist was a dark-skinned woman with ramrod straight black hair, a Dr. Williams. Isabella shook her hand, smiled, and then took her place quietly on a corner. She and Dr. Williams both wore surgical masks over their nose and mouth.

Her mother was wearing a white blouse and flowery capris that perfectly matched the turban on her head. Bella had a cashmere sweater in her lap, and a duffel bag with socks and slippers.

Bella watched quietly as Dr. Williams examined the dark lines etched on her mother's palms, as she took her vitals. "You can ask questions, my darling," Carlisle had told her encouragingly. "It helps the family to feel a sense of empowerment."

Bella had taken notes in a flowery notebook, finding that it had. She had discovered that her mother had received neoadjuvant chemotherapy before surgery, and that her mother would now receive chemotherapy through a vein – a course of trastuzumab. Dr. Williams was kind, answering every question patiently. "Every three weeks for fourteen doses," she explained kindly.

After consulting with Dr. Williams, Esme sat in a wide leathery armchair with spacious armrests. To Bella, she looked impossibly fragile. Bella watched quietly as a nurse looked for veins on her mother's arm, then expertly punctured a thin blue vein. Her mother would get anti-nausea and hydration medication first.

The attending nurse was a pleasantly plump man, a couple years older than Bella, with a thick head of hair and eyes that crinkled at the corners. Bella waved shyly, smiling softly, wishing away the sadness in her eyes.

Uncertainly, Bella wheeled forward, feeling a surge of protectiveness. Compulsively, she sprayed hand sanitizer on both hands. She placed her hand on her mother's, feeling the need to reassure her. Bella stroked her knuckles.

"This is my daughter," Esme told the nurse, and her voice was wispy. "Isn't she beautiful?"

Pinkening, Bella smiled sheepishly. "Bella," she said, hoping her eyes would convey her admiration and gratitude. She held out a hand. "Thanks for taking care of my Mom."

"Bernie. You're welcome, Bella."

"She's getting married next year," Esme told Bernie.

"I saw the bling on her. Congratulations, sweetie."

"Show Bernard your engagement picture," Esme instructed, and even chalky-lipped and faint, Esme was formidably commanding.

Clumsily, Bella she fumbled for her phone. Pancake was the star of her photo gallery, and she found herself showing Bernie a picture of a regal-looking Pancake, showing off a white chest and a paw-shaped placard. "We have a cat," she said happily. "Isn't he handsome?"

Bella was smiling brightly, showing Pancake to the good nurse.

Nurse Bernie laughed. "He's a handsome boy."

"Who, Edward?" Esme said croakily.

"No, Pancake."

"I have two Scottish Folds at home," Bernie told her. "Duke and Ellie."

"Edward. Show Edward."

Bernie whistled at a picture of Edward, and Bella laughed. "Damn, gurl. Damn."

"Edward just graduated from medical school," Esme told Bernie self-importantly, eyes still closed. "Back East. They're getting married in June of next year."

Bella stroked the papery, powdery skin of her mother's knuckles.

"We're all set here," Bernie said. Bernie hung the medicine from the pole. "That should be a while. I'll be back to check on you in a bit to start with the chemo course."

They were all alone, and Bella's guilt stabbed at her. "Are you cold, mom?"

Eyes still closed, Esme nodded. "I bought you slippers," Bella murmured. "Here. Can I take off your shoes?"

Gently, hands trembling, Bella took off her mom's shoes by placing her feet on her lap. She put wool socks on her mother's feet, and then slippers. It felt good to do something. That anxiety Bella felt all month had been mitigated – she had been completely at her mother's beck-and-call. Caretaking felt good – like she was swimming instead of being dragged by undetow currents.

"I'm sorry this is my first time here, Mom." A sob caught in Bella's throat, and she stroked the length of her arm with painstaking tenderness. Her eyes were burning.

"People would ask where my daughter was," Esme chortled with dark amusement. "I wouldn't know what to tell them. You really hurt me. Abandoned me. Nobody has ever treated me as ungratefully as you."

Though she had promised herself she wouldn't, Bella started to cry. Fat tears slipped down her cheeks. "I don't want you to contact that other woman ever again. Renée Dwyer. Ever again." Esme's eyes opened, and they were a burst of hazel in a very chalky face. "Do you promise?"

Bella nodded tearfully. "I…"

"Promise me, Isabella."

She felt the sting of coercion, and everything in her recoiled. Behind her back, her arms trembled so hard she could hardly cross her fingers. "Yes, mom."

Bella kissed the back of Esme's palm, telling herself that she would not call Renée Dwyer – for as long as her mother was sick.

"My sweet girl," Esme whispered contentedly. Her eyes fluttered close, and Bella put her sweater on her, tucking her under a blanket.

Nurse Bernie came around after thirty minutes and changed Esme's medication without jostling the catheter inserted into her vein. He hung a plastic bag of pale yellow liquid, which began to drip into her mother's veins.

Esme grimaced at the sensation. The nurse secured the catheter with surgical tape and gauze. "It feels cold, as per usual," Esme told the nurse.

Waiting for a chemotherapy infusion to finish was horrible. Though the treatment center gave her mother anti-nausea medications, her mother gagged and shivered after the first thirty minutes.

Bella watched the medicine, a pale-yellow fluid, drip down the catheter and into her mother's veins.

Awkwardly, she transferred from her wheelchair to a couch – one upholdered with ugly, scratchy fabric. She tucked her knees to her chest, and wrapped her sweater tightly. The air conditioning in the hospital was frosty. Every moment of every day, she felt so cold. She had been subsisting on protein for weeks, advised by an internet blog.

Edward called her after minute 45. "Babe. Sorry I'm just calling now. I had to scrub in for surgery and I couldn't get out until right now."

"It's OK, love," Bella said earnestly, her voice warm with affection. "It's good to hear your voice." She felt her nostrils burning.

"How is Esme doing?"

"She's doing… fine, I suppose? She felt a bit nauseous earlier but she's taken a nap. They're giving her infusions of tras-tu-zumab with pertuzumab. I should have been here before, for the other rounds."

"How could you have been?" Edward countered gently. "She told you three weeks ago, angel."

"Right," Bella said squeakily. "Right, I think you're right."

"Don't let her bully you, Bella," Edward cautioned, but his voice was soft.

"I – she's very weak right now," Bella whispered into the mouthpiece. "She's not – you know, that."

"If you say so," Edward hummed uncertainly. "I gotta go, sweetheart. I have another surgery at 12:30. I love you."

"I love you, too."

Even in the throes of a cycle of chemo, her mother mustered the energy for one activity – advising her daughter on her wedding and marriage. "Have you reviewed the latest guest list?" Esme asked, and this matter so enthused her that her lips twisted up. She opened her eyes.

"Yeah," Bella said uncertainly, wishing away her frown. "I think it's – I haven't met some of the people on it."

"That's irrelevant."
"It is?"

"If I – well, if I had married Carlisle, I would have done a much larger ceremony than Auntie Lizzie," Esme explained, in that voice like wind soughing wispily. "It's important for Edward's business partners to attend."

"About that," Bella said, and she played with the hem of the sweater she wore. She was always freezing. "Mama, I… I don't like the business partners, either. He invested in a company that makes drones, and it just seems suspect."

"Has he lost money?" Esme yelped, suddenly shrill.

Bella gently shushed her mother, stroking her arm. "No, no, not at all. He's made money."

Esme glowered her displeasure, settling back into the armchair.

"Then I don't see what the problem is," Esme said snippily. "It's normal for your husband to have a robust investment portfolio."

"Um, my – uh. I think Uncle Carlisle doesn't like it either," Bella said uncertainly.

"Carlisle has never been reputationally inclined," Esme sniffed, like she was speaking of a truant.

"At any rate. I think it's good that you'll be going to the Voltaire wedding," Esme continued, pivoting delightedly. "It'll give you useful ideas."

The thought alone made her mother smile thinly. Bella didn't respond immediately. "The Voltaires are now relatives to the Cullens, didn't you know?"

"What?"

"Carlisle's mother recently remarried Aro Voltaire. I was surprised you and Edward were not at the ceremony. My father and I attended."

Bella blinked stupidly. "The politician?"

"The politician. Jane and Alec's Uncle."

Her mother grimaced at the mere mention of Carlisle, so Isabella had clandestinely arranged to meet her Uncle Carlisle for lunch, on an off-chemo day. Carlisle, without a hint of offense, had even offered to pick her up a block away from Esme's townhouse.

"Sweetheart, you look so thin," Carlisle blurted concernedly. It had been the first thing to come out of his mouth. "Are you eating well?"

In that sweet, unassuming way of his, her Uncle Carlisle persuaded her to a double-decker burger and bought her a milkshake.

Bella had spilled out all her stressors and concerns, and Carlisle had listened.

"Aunt Lizzie and I had a small wedding," he had said consolingly. "You shouldn't be afraid to do that if that's what you want, Bell."

"That's what I want," Bella said, feeling her sadness cresting. "I just don't think Edward and I agree."

"It's not just the wedding ceremony He's inviting two shady business partners, and I hate the Corvus thing," she said flatly and finally. "It makes me feel like…"

She stopped herself. She looked at her kindly Uncle Carlisle, who had become the only uncomplicated parental figure in her life. He had written her prescriptions for vitamins in his spidery script, concerned about her weight loss. Edward's father, who would be solidly in his corner.

Carlisle prodded her gently. "It makes you feel like…"

"It makes me feel like I don't know him."

The words hung in the air between them. Articulated out loud, they gutted her. If she didn't know Edward – what did she know? Who did she know?

Carlisle responded in the most unlikely way, grimacing sympathetically. His blue eyes were filled with pain, and Bella wanted to retract her statement. "Edward is a good man," Carlisle said, almost forcefully. "I wish – after Aunt Lizzie died, I virtually abandoned him, and I wish I hadn't. I think that maybe if I had steered him more in those formative years…"

Instinctively, Bella squeezed his hand. "He is," she told her favorite Uncle, trying to convince them both. "He is a good man."