Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight
Katinki graciously edited this story
Thank you for giving my story a shot! I realize that following this kind of a WIP (a "mystery"… sort of) can be its own brand of torture, and I'm truly grateful to all of you for sticking with me. Please let me know what you think!
Chapter 10
On the way home, Maggie dozes on her husband's shoulder, lulled by the rhythmic motion of the carriage. Alistair keeps rubbing his eyes, looking exhausted—it's way past his usual bedtime.
After struggling to suppress another jaw-cracking yawn, he shakes his head and asks me innocently, "So... did you enjoy the view from the terrace?"
They both showed incredible restraint by not bombarding me with questions about Edward, so I indulge him, sort of.
"It was pitch black," I say dryly and raise an eyebrow.
"How disappointing." His face shows no sign of disappointment. "I hear that many ladies and occasionally some gentlemen find it extraordinary." He then resumes his yawning routine.
I snort in a most unladylike manner and roll my eyes.
What a night... I feel exhausted and overstimulated, yet... happy? Like I've gulped down a pot of coffee, even though I haven't. All I did was sip on a simple strawberry drink (one of those made by adding water to jam) while watching people dance, with Alistair and Maggie occasionally joining in for a quadrille or waltz.
Of course, if this were a romance novel, I'd be portrayed as having been drunk on Edward's very presence. Which might have happened, but it didn't last very long, by the way. To everybody's disappointment, the hero left immediately after he and I came in from the terrace.
Later in bed, I toss and turn, unable to shake off the events of the evening. What I wouldn't give for the possibility of taking a long, scorching hot shower! Oh well. I felt bad enough for having sleepy Jessica help me undress when we returned, so asking her now to heat some water would be downright cruel.
My conversation with Edward keeps replaying in my head.
So, he doesn't think that something isn't right with my head… that's interesting. And nor does Carlisle? As an aside, apparently, discussing patients with other people is not a problem in 1833. But the important thing is that they both… well, they have no way of knowing. Unless, of course, they know something that I don't.
Hell, I don't know if I'm sick or not. Carlisle didn't examine me other than checking the most basic stuff. We barely said a few sentences to each other. Edward hardly talked to me that much more. You can't declare a person "sane" based on a single brief encounter, can you?
Actually, all the facts prove the opposite: I broke into their house dressed in my underwear, with a potential murder weapon in my hand nonetheless, and told Edward that I was a time traveler and that I had seen him in the future.
Yeah... When I put it like that? If I were Edward Masen, I'd call the authorities right away.
There must be something with the name "Cullen" that made him hesitate. I need to find out what exactly this is all about.
Just before dawn, I manage to get a couple of hours of sleep.
The next morning, I spend some time with Maggie planning Christmas presents for the servants and then watching her work on a new drawing. Maggie has an art teacher who comes every week and gives her instructions as she draws some random vegetables and jugs of water that I bring from the kitchen at her request. She's good with pencils, and fast, too. She rarely spends more than half an hour on a drawing, to the poorly hidden displeasure of Mr. Woods, the teacher who wants her to perfect every little stroke. Unlike her, I can't draw anything other than a stick figure, and it looks like Isabella Dwyer wasn't an artist either... I wonder what the heck she did all day. There's a pretty pianoforte standing in the living room, but I've never seen anybody open it, let alone play.
Angela pays a visit after lunch, and we spend two hours eating tiny sandwiches and chatting about the last night's "not quite ball."
"My darling friend, I shall not feign ignorance of the fact that the elusive Mr. Masen graced Viscount Howick's reception last night and spent nearly the entire time talking to you! Did he truly not remain for the dance? How scandalous!" Her caricature-like high-pitched voice is clearly mocking whatever source she got this information from, but I can sense the hurt behind the sarcasm. "How, pray tell, did you meet him?"
I wince. I never mentioned the accident to Angela. Or to anyone else for that matter, and neither did Maggie or Alistair. We'd all decided that Edward wouldn't appreciate this kind of attention on top of what he was already dealing with. And knowing Angela, she would feel guilty for not insisting on accompanying me, although that could have only changed the outcome for the worse. While the accident was talked about quite a bit and even made it to the fifth page of The Times (with reports of several workers being badly injured), no one appeared to notice me or Edward at the scene—it all happened too quickly.
Now that I'm thinking about it… did I even tell Angela that I heard Edward play at the concert?
"Um, Alistair is a good friend with his brother, Dr. Carlisle Masen. He introduced us after the concert… I did tell you that we attended Mr. Masen's recital, did I not? I have been so distracted lately. His talent is astonishing…" I trail off.
This is wrong, hiding things from her, and hate it. Angela seems so kind and smart, and I could really use a friend in this fucked up situation.
Her brows furrow and she's silent for a moment. "Ah, I see. I did not realize that Sir Alistair was acquainted with his family. What did you talk with him about? I would be terrified to utter a word. He is so intimidating… although I am not sure why." Angela giggles. "He is simply a man."
"Oh, yes, he is simply a very handsome and accomplished man who is exceedingly skilled in his pursuits, and has a reputation for being both enigmatic and unattainable." I roll my eyes. "Nothing at all to be intimidated by!"
Angela laughs, then her eyes widen, and she gasps as if struck by an idea. "You should ask him to give you piano lessons! You played so well in the past, before…" She catches herself.
Before what?
"Piano lessons with Edward Masen, I like the sound of it." I sigh. "Although that would be like asking Shakespeare to help me with my college essay..."
I bite my tongue realizing that I've just slipped, but Angela is so excited that she doesn't notice.
"Oh, Izzy, you must start playing again. And riding. What James did to you, his terrible act of betrayal, must not deprive you of the small pleasures that remain for us in life."
His what? Are you kidding me?!
Does this mean that not only did Izzy's late husband have the same name as my ex, but he was a cheater, too?!
Double bingo. That's why Maggie hates him.
For the first time, I feel like Isabella Dwyer and I finally have something in common.
"James's actions hold no significance any longer," I say and almost mean it. I raise my chin defiantly. "I am only not playing because the instrument is drastically out of tune. But I shall take care of that promptly."
XXX
Charlie was the one who bought me my first piano and insisted I take lessons.
Or rather, he made me. It was the classic case of "I didn't have the opportunity, but I'll move heaven and earth to make sure my kid does." I was five, almost six—it's easy to remember because I started two weeks before my birthday, but not the birthday when Renee, my mother, left.
Our piano was an older Baldwin. It wasn't in great mechanical shape, but it was a beautiful instrument, elegant and sleek, with a matching hard rock maple bench. Charlie took out a loan to buy it and worked double shifts for quite some time to pay it off. Thinking about it always makes my throat feel tight.
My piano teacher was the only one available in Forks. Her name was Mrs. Irina Nosik. She was in her sixties, an eccentric lady with a short silver bob, a strong, cartoonish Russian accent, and a piece of chewing gum constantly in her mouth—a habit picked up from her many attempts to quit smoking.
Mrs. Nosik was an immigrant from the former Soviet Union, where she'd taught piano at some fancy high school for musical prodigies. She started dating an American guy, a tourist she'd met literally on the streets of Moscow, fell in love, and promptly moved to Palo Alto to be with him. Just as quickly, they divorced, and for reasons nobody could ever figure out (and many tried, naturally—Mrs. Nosik was the only foreigner in Forks and somewhat of a celebrity), she moved to our one-horse town to open her private music studio. I believe I was one of her four, sometimes five, students and the only one who stuck through high school. The rest inevitably quit sooner or later–usually sooner, when parents stopped putting pressure or when other priorities such as homework or the desire to have a normal teenage life won out.
It wasn't that Irina was a bad musician, or that the students were all lazy or lacking commitment. Not at all. She seemed to know virtually every piece of music ever composed for piano and a good deal of transcriptions. Her memory was phenomenal; playing lengthy compositions by heart was natural for her. She had pretty impressive fine motor skills, too.
The main problem was that Irina expected us to follow her instructions without understanding anything about the music we played. She never gave any context, not even a, "This Prelude is so damned sad because Chopin wrote it after the Tsar kicked him out of his home country forever." And since I didn't realize that there was context, I never looked for it on my own. Playing the piano mostly felt like an obstacle course with one final goal: Irina's praise.
That, however, rarely happened.
Irina also believed that two to three hours of practice was the minimum of what a student should invest daily, and Charlie bought that hook, line, and sinker. .
I'll tell you something. Two hours of playing the piano is a lot, especially if you're not sure why you're doing it. I learned to cheat the system early on. Whenever I heard Charlie's cruiser pulling into the driveway, I'd start playing. He couldn't be happier, and that alone was worth the effort.
Despite the cheating, I did surprisingly well in Irina's class, and by my sophomore year in high school, I was likely in the best shape as a pianist that I'd ever been in my life. But then I had enough, and after a heartbreaking conversation with Charlie, I quit for good, or so I thought. It wasn't until I accidentally read a book about Mozart the year after that I started to suspect that there was more to classical music than just playing fast "with energy" or slow "with emotion."
That there was some meaning, some beautiful logic behind it all.
After my breakup with James and the drastic decision that followed, Charlie asked if he could sell the piano to Eric Yorkie, my classmate. His oldest daughter wanted to learn, with a different teacher–by then, Irina was long gone. I told him that I didn't mind. After all, instruments must be tuned and played, not just left standing there collecting dust. Plus, Charlie needed some cash. My heart still aches, though, even today, as if it were a family heirloom lost forever.
The flood of memories keeps me preoccupied for the rest of the afternoon and well into the night. I remember how at the age of 10, maybe 11, I'd sit at the piano playing my daily scales and arpeggios. To make it less tedious, I'd imagine that Charlie and I were not just a small-town cop with a shy, introverted daughter, but instead, we were two people in hiding. Our life was full of danger and adventures. Sometimes we were in witness protection because we saw someone kill the President and replace him with a clone. Sometimes we were on the run from the government because aliens had contacted us… But in those fantasies, Charlie always remained a cop. I read a lot of Sherlock Holmes stories then, so I knew that hiding in plain sight was the best strategy. I'd pose as a quiet, nerdy pre-teen who didn't talk much or have friends because people weren't supposed to know about my knife-throwing skills. My imaginary alter-ego kept her most trusted knives inside the piano, so playing was a part of her cover.
Interestingly, my mother was always dead in those scenarios. It was better that way, for the sake of the story.
Is this what's happening to me now? Is this another daydream that's gone too far?
After all, I'm once again impersonating someone else, and I don't know what to think of Edward and possibly James being in this reality, too.
I wake with a start, my heart pounding.
It feels like the middle of the night as the room is dark and cold, but it's not the usual stale cold air. A chilly draft comes in from somewhere, pebbling my skin.
When I turn toward the window, I gasp at the silhouette of a tall man with a trim, athletic figure, half-lying on the windowsill. His legs are crossed casually as if he's lounging on a beach.
A scream builds in my throat, but I think better of it and clap my palm over my mouth.
"Good evening, Mrs. Dwyer," says a familiar, cashmere-soft voice. I can't see his face, but I'm sure that the bastard is smirking. "Is this a good time for returning your visit?"
.
.
.
