Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight.

Katinki graciously edited this story.


Chapter 12

Breakfast at the Buchans is usually a quiet affair. Alistair is always buried in his newspaper, mechanically chewing his muffin and spooning his egg, while Maggie sips her black tea, planning her day and occasionally sharing whatever comes to her mind with Alistair—who likely doesn't register a thing but still skillfully nods.

Today, however, when I come downstairs, they're deep in conversation. Apparently, some friends in high places want Alistair to get involved in local politics and eventually run in the elections. Only Alistair isn't interested in giving up his comfortable life to help his Whig buddies in any way other than financially. Maggie, on the other hand, thinks differently. She believes that running would be "most desirable" for both the country and Alistair himself. They continue arguing until they notice me.

"Isabella, my dear," Maggie greets me excitedly. "What are your thoughts on the prospect of your uncle becoming a member of Parliament? Do you not agree it is a more preferable activity for him than spending his days in the library, lost in books?"

Her gaze is full of hope, and I stifle a snort.

Why anyone would willingly leave the refuge of a library for a job with six hundred loud men in the same room is beyond me. On the other hand… maybe hanging out at the Palace of Westminster, surrounded by its timeless beauty, is sufficient compensation for all that suffering? Who knows.

"I truly have no opinion on the matter," I mumble cautiously. This is the first time my family is not on the same page about something, and I'm not sure how to maneuver this. "I do not doubt that Uncle Alistair would prove most capable of accomplishing such a task…" I hesitate and then add, unable to resist a jab, "But perhaps you should seek the opinion of someone who, unlike me, is eligible to vote."

Maggie's eyes widen, and I mentally curse myself, but Alistair just barks out a laugh.

See, voting is a hot topic right now—thanks to my habit of stealing Alistair's newspapers, I know as much. Apparently, until recently, the situation was a complete mess. Despite all of the constituencies sending the same number of members to Parliament, some of them had just a dozen voters, while others had tens of thousands. In some places, you needed to own land to be eligible, while in others, a rented house would suffice. The current system is considered "improved", but still, only a fraction of the population—middle and upper-class men—has the right to cast a ballot. Unsurprisingly, the House of Commons is full of people who are not "common" by any means. They're mostly younger sons of lords, baronets like Alistair, and other high-standing citizens who don't qualify for the upper House.

"If only it were within my power, my darling niece, I would grant suffrage to you and my dear wife in an instant." Alistair chuckles. "It does appear unjust, particularly for women in circumstances like your own—with no husband to represent them. To make matters even worse, many good men of lesser means suffer from similar injustices due to the flaws of our legislation," he adds in a more serious tone.

I want to ask why should a woman need anyone other than herself to represent her, but I bite my tongue.

My twenty-first-century views on the matter have no place here, and Alistair is actually quite radical in his thinking and might indeed be a good addition to the Parliament. I give him my best reconciliatory smile.

"Should you decide to stand for election, dear Uncle, I wish you every success. If, however, the duties of serving your constituents prove less gratifying than anticipated, I hear that The Red Lion, which is only a short walk from the Palace, is a highly esteemed establishment with excellent beer."

XXX

Just as we're getting ready to finish breakfast and part ways, Mr. Felps arrives with a silver tray full of letters. Maggie snatches an elegant blue envelope from the bottom of the pile and hands it to her husband.

"This is from Dr. Masen. I have, at last, mustered the courage to invite him and his brother to dinner." She lets out a nervous laugh. "I sincerely hope that those two shall not disappoint me." Anticipation gleams in her eyes as Alistair opens the envelope.

My heart leaps to my throat, as it always seems to do when the name "Masen" is mentioned in conversation. I routinely ignore it and pretend to sift through the stack of mail in search of anything addressed to me.

Alistair quickly scans the letter and makes a face.

"Unfortunately, Carlisle has a new patient, who requires his absolute attention most evenings," he says with a sigh. "Although… oh! This is most unexpectedly intriguing! Instead, he invites us to join him and his brother at the Opera this very evening… At his loge, no less! He sends his apologies for the short notice…" He looks up at Maggie in bewilderment. "Carlisle is a man of many talents, is he not? How is it possible that a physician should possess a private box at the Opera?!"

I'm in shock, too. In my brain, the word "loge" is strongly associated with Count Monte Cristo and the Opéra Garnier, where the mysterious Count paid a not-so-small fortune to have a loge at his permanent disposal. Are the Masen brothers Edmond Dantès level rich?

That would be… weirdly fitting.

However, Maggie reassures us that the loge does not, in fact, belong to Carlisle.

"There is an Italian aristocrat, a Signor Volturi, who is a great supporter of the Opera and who rents it every year on the off chance he is in London, though he never appears," she informs us. "Or so it is said, for no one has ever seen him. Which, indeed, is quite understandable. Why should he attend an Italian opera in London when he resides in Italy, where he may enjoy the genuine experience?" She giggles. "The rumor is that he allows Dr. Masen and his brother to use the loge whenever they please. We simply must go and see them, even if it means enduring another opera in the process."

Alistair snorts, and the three of us hurry upstairs, thrilled by this unexpected change of plans. Though to be honest, I'm more unsettled than excited.

XXX

Eight hours later, we find ourselves in the carriage, headed to the Italian Opera House on Haymarket—the same theatre where we (or rather Alistair, Maggie, and Isabella) saw Norma—and I'm just praying that I don't have a panic attack tonight.

It's been two and a half months since I woke up there and had a glimpse of Edward Masen outside. It's been a week since he and I talked in my bedroom. I silently snicker. By today's standards, Mr. Masen and I have made very quick progress.

The question is, why did his brother invite us to the Opera?

It's impossible to tell if Edward actually believes that I traveled from the future, or if he thinks I'm insane and just humors me. Since I myself am not quite sure about my mental health, the latter seems more plausible. Maybe Carlisle told him that the best way to deal with someone that delusional is to simply agree with every crazy statement and even encourage them… Who knows? The medical sciences of this time are full of the strangest beliefs, and psychiatry is probably the craziest of them all, pardon the pun.

But if he does believe me, for whatever reason, then… what is this? Is he trying to help me get back home? Is he offering me a return to the place where it all happened?

More importantly, could it actually work?!

The idea of going back, however, has an unexpected impact. Rather than experiencing renewed hope and anticipation, a heavy, oppressive weight suddenly settles in my chest. I'm not entirely oblivious to the fact that a certain enigmatic pianist may have something to do with it… Yet I also realize how incredibly foolish this infatuation has become.

If James was simply wrong for me, Edward is an impossibility. We are two parallel lines that never should have crossed.

"But they have," a voice whispers inside my head, taunting me, and I stomp my foot in frustration, accidentally startling Alistair who has just fallen asleep.

I apologize and wipe my damp palms against my silky, turquoise-and-gold skirt, a reminder of the obscene amount of time I spent getting dressed for the evening. If she didn't before, Jessica surely hates me now, as do the other two maids, who had to draw me another bath, the second in less than 24 hours, and then help me try on four different outfits. This is so not me, all this dressing up and being nervous to see someone who can't even answer a single question without being evasive.

Ugh. Seriously, Swan, get a grip.

What happened to the "no Highland warriors" vow?! Focus on the task. This is your opportunity to finally get back home! Well, maybe. Think of Charlie, of Alice. They need you!

Repeating this mantra clears the fog in my head. A little.

The theater looks just as stunning as I remember it, but today it feels easier to breathe inside... Or maybe I'm finally adjusting to living in 1833. Alistair asks a nearby footman about Dr. Masen, and we're immediately invited to follow him up a flight of stairs to the third floor. There, another footman opens a barely noticeable door, and we enter the "loge."

The loge is a relatively small area, with five plush red armchairs arranged to face the stage and a small round table. A bottle of some liquid, probably a sweet wine, and an assortment of fruits sit in the center.

Carlisle and Edward are there, too, standing in perfectly relaxed, photoshoot-ready poses. As we come in, Carlisle steps forward to greet us in his usual cordial manner, while Edward remains behind, offering a reserved bow to nobody in particular.

Then, he looks at me.

There's a flicker of pure joy and something else in his golden eyes that I can't identify. It lasts only a fraction of a second before he shifts his attention to the Buchans. I feel the loss of his gaze almost physically—as if he lifted me to the skies and then let me fall.

(My inner cynic chokes a little on the metaphor, but honestly, screw her. That's exactly how I feel. Also, I'm at the Italian Opera House, and therefore entitled to some melodrama.)

Feeling slightly dizzy from nerves, from seeing Edward, and just from being in this place again, I walk to the semi-transparent privacy curtain, open it slightly, and peek at the stage and the audience. Immediately, several heads turn in my direction, openly staring back. Heart racing, I quickly let the fabric fall and jump back.

What the hell is wrong with me? We've been here for only a few minutes, and I'm already a quivering mess.

Could it be the start of another time travel "episode"? I feel different from the last time, though. Too stressed to stand and be a part of the conversation, I grab the nearest seat and discreetly try to calm myself with deep, slow breaths.

Thankfully, the footman informs us that the performance is about to start. Maggie takes the seat next to me, with Alistair on her other side. Carlisle and Edward, like the gracious hosts they are, take the chairs in the second row. Edward sits right behind me, and just knowing that he's so close makes the skin on my neck prickle.

All of a sudden, I feel a gentle touch on my arm. A program materializes in front of my face... Oh, right. It hadn't even crossed my mind to ask which opera we're here to see. I turn to find Edward smirking in his usual manner—today, it's probably 40% arrogant, 60% adorable. Feeling marginally better, I mouth "thanks" and return to my previous position.

Today's performance is Anne Boleyn, or Anna Bolena as the program calls it, composed by Gaetano Donizetti. My memory of this opera is almost non-existent. I do, however, remember the unfortunate details of Donizetti's death from an STD that had been affecting his brain for many years. I know, you'd think my music history lessons were sourced from tabloids like The Daily Mail or worse—well, not really, but I guess those were the only facts that stuck.

Unsurprisingly, I don't recognize the names of most of the performers. They're all Italian except one. The role of Anna is sung by none other than Ms. Rosalie Hale, the goddess-like blonde from Norma.

As the performance begins, the theatre remains brightly lit, but inside the loge, the footman stationed by the door dutifully extinguishes all the candles, plunging us into relative darkness. Ms. Hale appears on stage, dressed in a dark blue Renaissance gown that starkly contrasts with her platinum blond hair. She exudes the same regal confidence as when I saw her the first time, and her voice, as it turns out, is truly extraordinary. It's as soft as a caress on piano, rich and powerful on forte, and try as I might, I can't spot a single false note. Her Italian, without a hint of an accent, seems flawless, too. I wonder if she's part Italian… although, she looks nothing like what I'd expect.

Unfortunately, Ms. Hale only distracts me for a few minutes. What's happening on stage isn't nearly as interesting as the people in the loge... Okay, fine, just one person.

In the past, when I couldn't see Edward in the dark, I could convince myself he wasn't even there. Now, I'm so acutely aware of his presence that it feels like the air in his vicinity is somehow denser. It's like there's a magnet pulling me to him.

And on top of everything else, his cologne seeps into my pores, doing all sorts of things to my body again.

Out of nowhere, a weird, possessive feeling comes over me, and I hope he's far enough away from Maggie that she can't smell it.

I want it to be just for me.

My inner cynic rolls her eyes. Hard.

At some point, I can't stand it anymore and glance back at Edward. He isn't looking at the stage either. Instead, he stares straight at me with his hands tightly gripping the armrest. I hold his gaze for a few seconds, and then in a sudden bold move, I touch his hand with the tips of my now-ungloved fingers.

His skin is as cold as ice.

I think he shudders…

I want to take his hand in mine and warm it, but… what would happen? What would that mean?

I haven't thought this through at all, but something tells me that there might be no going back after that.

That the consequences might be devastating for my poor, battered heart.

So, I play it smart. I turn back and remain absolutely motionless for the rest of Act 1.

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Act 2 will follow next week.) Thank you for reading! I'd love to know your thoughts.)

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