Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight
Katinki graciously edited this story
Chapter 8
The morning brings more rain and more misery.
When Jessica comes to wake me at the usual time, I gather just enough strength to croak that I'm feeling unwell and will stay in bed. I must look the part, too, because unlike most mornings when I complain about getting up, she actually appears concerned and leaves me alone.
I lie in bed for what seems like hours, replaying last night's events over and over. What an epic disaster my nocturnal adventure has turned out to be! Edward insisted that he didn't know what I was talking about. If he wasn't lying, then… what? What if I'm really sick? Gone off the deep end and haven't even noticed?!
I rub my eyes and stare at the ceiling. That's a possibility, of course–always has been. But since this is the least attractive option, let's ponder the rest of them.
Option 2: Edward Masen and Edward Cullen are not the same person. They're just… full-on doppelgangers, astral twins, whatever. Edward Masen happened to be at the Norma performance with me by mere coincidence–after all, I never saw him at the Seattle Opera, only in London. If that's the case, he's no more able to help me than anyone else.
Consideration: there was something very particular about the way he asked me why I was using the name "Cullen". As if he'd heard it before. Might be my wild imagination, though. Let's be honest, I wasn't in my right mind last night.
Option 3: Edward is a member of a secret society of time travelers and doesn't want me to know their trade secrets. Maybe I traveled by accident instead of someone else. Am I in danger? Doesn't look like it. Last night, he had plenty of opportunities to finish me off, and no one would have ever known.
Consideration: he sounded very convincing when he denied any knowledge of the future. But what do I know? I always thought I could tell if someone was lying, but then James lied to me for a freaking year, and I was none the wiser.
The image of James suddenly pops into my mind, making me cringe. For some reason, I don't want Edward to be anything like him, though I can't quite figure out why. After all, Edward was a complete jerk to me last night and didn't even bother to hide it. He's spoiled and arrogant, and he clearly thinks too highly of himself… Ugh.
Feeling a headache brewing, I force myself to get up and call Jessica. I don't necessarily need her help to get ready for the day, but her chatter helps distract me. And right now, I could really use a distraction.
Downstairs, breakfast is served for one person (I should have told them not to bother), and Mr. Felps is waiting for me with a small rectangular package and a card in his hand. The package has no return address, only "Mrs. Isabella Dwyer" written in beautiful, flawless calligraphy. It's quite heavy for its small size, too. I set it aside, briefly considering the possibility of something abominable being sent to me... Should I ask Mr. Felps to open it first? No, that wouldn't be right at all.
Turns out the card is from Angela Weber. She informs me that we are going out on a walk today, whether I want it or not–it has been too long and she misses me.
Okay, I have to admit, I like this Angela already.
I'm not hungry at all, and there's no point in delaying, so I unwrap the package. Inside sits a black velvet jewelry box. It's elegant and expensive-looking, the kind you'd expect to hold something like a Cartier necklace.
The moment I open it, I burst into laughter.
Nestled in the cradle of black silk lies a steel wrench—the very one I never got to use last night.
XXX
Angela picks me up in the early afternoon, and we begin walking down the street.
She's lovely. She's quite a bit taller than me, with large grey eyes, wavy dark hair, and a very slim figure–a miracle considering she's had three kids. According to Jessica and the information that I collected from her a while ago, all three are boys, and Angela treasures every moment she can break away from her male-dominated surroundings and talk about girly stuff with me.
She also calls me "Izzy".
"Now, tell me, dearest Izzy, how did you like the opera? Did Ms. Hale prove her critics wrong and outshine every singer in this town yet again?" Angela asks me eagerly. "Oh, how I wish I had been there with you." She sighs. "Benjamin does not appreciate opera in the slightest. He thinks it causes him indigestion… although how a good three hours of sleep can be responsible for that is beyond me!"
Her laughter is infectious, and I join her.
"Ms. Hale…" I hesitate–that must be the blue-eyed goddess who sang the main part. "She was splendid. Well, I suppose she was. I was in a bit of a haze that evening."
I look at Angela sheepishly. Juggling truths and lies is hard, and doing that on the fly is even harder.
"She is incredibly beautiful. I have heard that she has broken many hearts," Angela says with a surprising note of regret. I have no idea what she means. Is "breaks many hearts" some kind of euphemism I'm not aware of? "Such remarkable talent surely comes with its own price... do you not agree?"
I ponder her words.
"I truly do not know. This might be precisely the life she desires," I reply, frowning. "But I cannot be the judge of that, can I?"
I feel the familiar lump in my throat and swallow hard. Self-pity much?
Angela stops and squeezes my arm. "Oh, Izzy," she says excitedly, and her eyes search my face. "You must be right. Happiness manifests itself in different forms. We simply need to learn to recognize them."
I briefly consider asking Angela about James, as it seems like a good opportunity, but this is the first time in a while that I feel light and completely at ease in the company of another person. I don't want to ruin it by bringing up a topic as heavy and full of potential pitfalls as Isabella's marriage. It's safe to assume that if Maggie didn't consider James a good husband, Angela probably didn't either. I'll let him rest in his grave for now.
Instead, we chat about her children and our servants, as well as the local gossip, which I'm finally starting to get a feel for. Once again, I'm amazed at how easy it is to make conversation with a stranger just by asking neutral questions and letting them do the talking.
Angela's house winds up being only two blocks away from the Buchans, and I insist on accompanying her there. She invites me in but I don't want to impose, so we say our goodbyes on the porch. It's broad daylight, and although Angela offers one of her maids to walk with me, I politely decline.
While the weather has improved significantly since the morning, the streets are still relatively quiet this afternoon. The sky is brighter than usual, with patches of blue here and there, although the sun remains hidden. The cobblestone sidewalks are still damp from the morning rain, and I wonder if they ever get a chance to dry out. I have to watch my every step and try not to trip over my skirt. All the while, I silently curse whoever decided that Isabella Dwyer's skirts should sweep the floors, despite the modern fashion favoring ankle-length. At least my shoes—clearly crafted by a personal shoemaker—are exceptionally comfortable and seem to be waterproof.
A block from home, I come across an unexpected obstacle that hadn't been here a few days ago. Some kind of scaffolding—a rickety structure made of timber and ropes leaning against a four-story building–blocks the sidewalk. The place swarms with workers carrying buckets filled with bricks and cement. They use long ropes and pulleys to hoist the buckets to the upper floors, and then other workers send them back down empty. There are puddles and mud everywhere, and I quickly decide that there's simply no way that I can make it through unscathed.
I look around. Unfortunately, vehicles completely block the other side. Carriages, carts, and cabs are almost piled on top of each other, no doubt due to the construction happening across the street. My only option is to use the roadway for detour.
I wait until my route is clear and step on the road.
Please don't trip, I tell myself. The cobblestones on the road are much larger than those used for the sidewalk, and I feel their roughness and unevenness through my shoes. It's not a pleasant feeling.
Right as I'm almost out of harm's way, I hear the loud neigh of a horse.
Frantic cursing follows, then the loud banging sound of some kind of collision.
I start to look back, but suddenly, there's a dreadful screeching noise–as if someone is opening a rusty iron gate.
I lift my eyes, and the next moment, it's like I'm in a movie with one of those cliché slow-motion scenes where things–heavy things–start falling out of the sky.
Onto my head.
Boards, bricks, you name it.
There's absolutely no way I can escape the collapsing scaffolding. There's just no time.
Regardless, my adrenaline-driven brain still compels me to lunge forward, and that's when the bizarre movie accelerates into a series of disconnected shots, with black frames in between.
I blink and I'm suddenly airborne…
…Black frame…
…My body sprawls on the cobblestones. Edward Masen is somehow on top of me. One hand supports my head. His other braces against a large beam, holding it back from crashing down on us.
Despite the situation, I can't tear my eyes away from his beautiful, horror-stricken face.…
…Another black frame…
…I'm cradled in his arms, and he's carrying me somewhere, bridal-style.
The surrounding houses blur past us like scenery outside the window of a speeding car, but I don't pay any attention to that because I know I need to hold his gaze—it's my beacon.
I think to myself, how strange that his eyes are actually black. Why did I think differently before?
Staring down at me, they're like bottomless black holes.
And that's the last thing I remember.