Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight

My dear friend Katinki is also my beta. Her patience, generosity, kindness, and ability to inspire and challenge make this story so much better.


Chapter 13

Intermission is awkward.

Carlisle, Maggie, and Alistair chatter non-stop, covering what feels like every imaginable topic fit for a friendly conversation. They go on endlessly about who bumped into whom lately, if Bath is better than Brighton, if the newest exhibition of Ethnographic and Archaeological Artifacts at the British Museum is worth the visit, or if Our Village has more charm than Sartor Resartus—both, it seems, are the latest must-reads.

In the meantime, Edward and I just sit there. I bet we look ridiculous, both pretending to be completely absorbed in our respective programs, which consist only of a single page.

I briefly consider getting up to pour myself some wine but decide against it, since I'm not sure if this kind of self-service is appropriate. More importantly, I worry that drinking might force me to eventually search for—shudder—a public bathroom. Assuming they even exist here, which is also unclear.

Finally, I turn to Edward and ask, my voice slightly raspy, "How are you enjoying the performance, Mr. Masen?"

He blinks, twice.

Have I startled him?

"This is not my favorite opera, but the musicians are outstanding. Their performance is, by far, superior to the one I heard here two years ago." He clears his throat. "Have you heard any other work of Maestro Donizetti?"

He lifts an eyebrow as if meaning something else.

It takes me a few seconds to understand.

"Oh… you mean... Well, his best work is still ahead of him," I tell him in a low voice. "A tragic one, too. Not that this one is very joyful…" I chuckle humorlessly.

Anna Bolena is predictably gloomy, what with yet another adulterous husband and a treacherous friend. It seems to be my luck to attend only this kind of opera lately, though, to my surprise, it doesn't bother me much this time. Lucia de Lammermoor, however, is downright depressing.

"He's really good at depicting madness… Something I've been thinking a lot about recently." I smile wryly. In my periphery, Carlisle casts me a curious glance but quickly returns to his conversation with the Buchans. "So… did you invite me here to try to send me back?" His eyes widen at that. "Well, it doesn't seem to be working," I continue matter-of-factly. "Perhaps, it has to be the same opera. Or perhaps, opera has nothing to do with it." I sigh and force another humorless smile. "You'll probably have to tolerate my presence a bit longer."

"I…" Edward swallows and stares into the distance. He doesn't look particularly happy either. "I do feel that assisting you in finding your way home is what I ought to do," he says softly, his voice tinged with sadness. "You are trapped here, and as you suggested, the consequences of your prolonged stay can be unpredictable." He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a long moment as if savoring the air he's just inhaled. "To think that I want you gone could not be further from the truth."

I blush and lower my head. He instantly tenses but doesn't move.

We remain like this, still and silent, until the end of intermission.

XXX

The second act is just as bad as the first.

I endure it in much the same manner, constantly fighting the urge to turn back and touch Edward—my relatives, Carlisle, and the footman be damned—until it's finally over and the lights are restored.

We're almost out of the loge when a sudden commotion erupts outside. The door swings open, and Ms. Rosalie Hale, still in her stage attire, bursts into the room. She makes a beeline for Carlisle, greeting him with kisses on both cheeks.

Then, to my utter horror, she proceeds to do the same to Edward.

"Carlisle, Edward, you are here at last!" she exclaims, her professionally trained voice clear and affectionate. "If only I had known that you had come, I would have sent our best champagne. Was the performance to your liking?"

Neither of the Masens bat an eyelash at this rather scandalous, by current standards, PDA, which tells me that this is a normal kind of exchange between them. However, my aunt and uncle, and even the footman all have a similarly comical expression on their faces, clearly thrown into a state of shock. Maybe Rosalie is Italian… although her accent is one of an upper-class Londoner. For reasons that I don't even try to articulate, it instantly annoys me.

"It was undeniably exquisite, my darling Ms. Hale, but then, it always is," Carlisle assures her and proceeds with introductions. "Please meet my dear friend, Sir Alistair Buchan, as well as Lady Buchan and their niece, Mrs. Dwyer. I believe that they also witnessed your most recent triumph, Norma."

After the usual ceremony of bows and curtsies, Rosalie gives me a cursory glance before quickly returning her attention to Edward, who jerks his head and winces as though he's just heard something unsavory. Weird. Now focused entirely on the Masens, she completely ignores my aunt and uncle.

Meanwhile, I can't tear my eyes away from her. She's mesmerizing.

You know how some women are so effortlessly beautiful that your ego takes a blow just by merely being in the same room with them? Yep, Rosalie is one of them. Up close, even with her face flushed and sweaty from the last two and a half hours of singing, she looks impossibly more gorgeous. Tall, like a model, and just as slim, too, but without a hint of androgyny, she's got curves in all the right places. Her facial features are flawless in a natural, unretouched way: shapely lips, a delicate nose, a mane of platinum blonde hair that's never been touched by bleach, and a pair of large, expressive eyes in that 'steel blue' shade Alice loved so much that she repainted her bedroom in it… I think of Tanya's fake blue eyes and I know if there was a competition between them, Rosalie would win a hundred times over.

I'm not even jealous, either, because we're light-years apart.

Okay, maybe a tiny, tiny bit?

Carlisle is clearly delighted to see her, and Edward, although his face now betrays nothing, seems to be very comfortable in her company. Rosalie asks when they plan to attend next time, and if their mutual friend is finally expected to pay a visit—that's probably the mysterious Signor Volturi—but then someone calls her from behind the door, and after another quick round of cheek kissing, she disappears as promptly as she came.

At this point, Maggie and Alistair have almost recovered from their initial shock and immediately attack Carlisle.

"How, pray tell, do you know Ms. Hale?" Maggie demands.

"She is an old friend… almost like a daughter to me. Edward and I have been her guardians, in a way, since she was young," Carlisle replies, and at this moment, he does sound like a proud father.

Only this is weird, too… Rosalie doesn't look much younger than 25 or 27, and that's adjusting for her stage makeup. Edward is probably only a couple of years older than her, and Carlisle just a decade her senior… But then I remember that people of this time age differently, so Rosalie might actually be a lot younger than me.

"How and where did she learn the art of bel canto so well?" Alistair chimes in. "Naturally, she was given a great instrument at birth, but her technique… it is above and beyond what I have ever heard, even from born Italians."

"As a matter of fact, Rosalie is part Italian," Carlisle explains. "Her mother was the famous Letizia Cattaneo, one of the brightest La Scala primadonnas, who sadly died long before her time. It was then arranged that Rosalie be sent to London to live with her father, Captain Michael Hale, who also perished prematurely. Through one of my connections, we succeeded in finding a way for Rosalie to receive formal vocal training in Italy, after which she returned to London, and she has been delighting us with her singing ever since."

I don't have the mental energy to process yet another mystery, but thankfully, we're finally leaving.

By the time the five of us emerge out of the theatre, the crowd is already gone.

It's a beautiful December night, crisp and clear—a rarity in London. I take a deep breath of freezing air, filling my lungs completely, and end up feeling dizzy.

"Gorgeous night!" Alistair says as he dons his hat. "What do you, ladies, think about taking a stroll home? George shall follow us to ensure our safety."

George is our coachman. He's a scrawny middle-aged man of my height, so I'm not quite sure how he can take on additional bodyguard duties should the necessity arise. That being said, I would absolutely love to walk home.

As if reading my mind, Edward and Carlisle who are still waiting on the stairs, both glance at the coachman and then at each other. Then Carlisle says with a smile, "Lady Buchan, Edward and I would be honored to accompany you on your way home… if you do not mind our prolonged company, of course."

I shoot a glance at Edward, but his face shows nothing other than indifferent politeness.

Unsurprisingly, Maggie doesn't mind, and in the next moment, we're on the move. Carlisle walks ahead, followed by Maggie and Alistair, and Edward and I finish our procession. The pavement looks dry, but the temperature has clearly dropped below freezing, and some of the cobblestones are slippery. After the first attempt at tripping and falling, Edward offers me his arm.

I crave his touch, but I'm also scared. The two emotions battle for only a moment before I decide to hell with it, and hold onto him tightly, such that his elbow grazes the side of my breast, albeit through the thick fabric of my cloak.

I have no idea how long we have, so I try to walk carefully and slowly. Just to have more time with him. Edward seems to be in no hurry as well, and gradually, the distance between us and Alistair and Maggie grows. When we are out of their hearing range, he suddenly stops and turns to me.

"Mrs. Dwyer… Bella." My name on his tongue sounds better than music. "I wish I knew more about you. Please tell me about yourself, about your family… anything that you are willing to share." He looks at me pleadingly, as if this information is somehow critical to his well-being, not just an attempt at a light conversation to pass the time…

Despite my prior determination not to volunteer any more information, I oblige him.

Yes, I'm weak like that.

"My life is not very interesting," I tell him as we resume walking. "Like I've said, I live in the United States, on the Pacific coast in a city that hasn't been founded just yet but will be soon—in a couple of decades. I grew up in a smaller town, maybe what you'd call a village, where my father still lives and works as Chief of Police. That's like a Chief Constable but on a significantly smaller scale."

I hesitate and sigh. "Edward, I still don't understand how you can possibly believe a single word I say."

He says nothing, and I continue. "My mother had a mental illness, and on the day of my seventh birthday, she disappeared. Charlie, my dad, searched for her and eventually found her with a different husband and seemingly happy. She died soon after, however, and we never saw each other again." I pull my lips into a smile. "That's a rather sad story, really, for such a lovely evening. Now tell me about yourself. It's only fair."

"My parents are no longer alive," he says stiffly after a pause, and I have a feeling that this is the end of his reciprocation.

No dice, mister. Tonight, you're going to spill. I want to know something about you… anything!

"When did they die? How old were you?" I ask.

"It was a long time ago." His reply is curt, and I feel the familiar wave of exasperation that inevitably makes an appearance at some point in our conversations.

"Did they live here in London? How old were you, you said?" I keep pressing, determined to sway him one way or another.

Silence.

"I do not wish to lie to you, and I never have," he finally offers. "But for reasons that are beyond my power to reveal, I cannot tell you the truth. Please leave this." His voice is now very low and slightly trembling.

I shake my head. "Listen, I've already told you that this is not going to work. You can't keep me at arm's length like this all the time. I've told you my secret—something that makes me extremely vulnerable– and you still guard all of yours and expect me to be fine with that?!" My voice rises in frustration.

"I cannot." He exhales forcefully. "There is no comparison, for my secrets are dark and shameful. Being privy to them may, and will cost you your life. But even if that was not a threat, I have no desire to tell you. I am too selfish for that. Or perhaps, I am simply a coward."

He doesn't elaborate.

My head is reeling. Coward? Selfish how? Why is knowing about his parents so dangerous that it will cost me my life? Can he possibly be any more cryptic?!

We continue walking in silence, and I expect tears to start welling in my eyes at any minute, but instead, all I feel is anger.

"Very well. Just leave me alone then. No need to help me get back home or whatever reasons you are still here." My voice comes out surprisingly firm, with only a hint of hysteria that, hopefully, only I can hear.

We've been circling like this for too long.

Enough already.

I attempt to free my hand from the crook of his arm, but he doesn't let me. His grip is as strong as iron shackles. I yank my hand with all my force and as a result, trip on a particularly uneven cobblestone. Edward catches me and holds me steady.

Just five minutes ago I would have given up many things for a chance to feel his hands on me like this, but now, all I want is distance.

I don't trust myself, but I trust him even less.

"Bella, I am begging you…" he starts.

"No need to beg," I interrupt coldly, feeling just as frozen inside. "You may walk me to my house because I do not want to make a scene, and we shall be civil with each other in public, of course, but this is it. No more night visits. No more intimate discussions." The last part comes out bitter.

Edward is silent, again.

I lift my eyes to have one, probably last, close look at his unbearably beautiful profile illuminated by the eerie light of the full moon.

My heart squeezes in sharp pain, but only for a second. I know this is the right thing to do.

"If this is your wish. I would never force my company on you, and I completely comprehend your reasoning," he says gravely, without a trace of irony or playfulness.

As he says this, I suddenly have the strangest sensation that something hasn't been right throughout this conversation. That I've been seeing something important but not recognizing it. It's like a nagging fly that circles around me, sneaky and impossible to catch.

I'm quite used to things becoming weird when Edward is around, but this one is new.

Trying to forget for a moment that I've just told off the most interesting man in my life, I concentrate on pinpointing the source of this sensation. After a few seconds, it finally clicks.

My breath hitches, and Edward freezes mid-step. I desperately need to check something, so I raise my eyes at him and say, "I obviously don't know much about you—and not for lack of trying—but you come across as someone whose life is very lonely, with Carlisle and your music as your only confidants… Am I right?"

A ghost of a smile appears on his lips as he softly sighs and replies, "At least I have that. It is more than I deserve, in any case."

He doesn't look back at me. Instead, he gazes into the distance, his face so sad and resigned that I want to cry.

As we keep walking down the street, I try to come up with a single theory that would explain why my breath steams the air when I speak, but when Edward does, there's nothing.

XXX

It takes us approximately three-quarters of an hour to reach our house, and by the end of the walk, I'm so cold that I can barely feel my feet.

Carlisle never ceases to amaze me with his ability to find new subjects to talk about, so we spend another fifteen minutes standing at the front door. At last, all conversation topics are exhausted, and we say our goodbyes. I will myself not to look at Edward, although I sense his gaze on me. Right now, all I want to do is get inside and think, not feel.

The house is quiet. Once we're inside, Alistair immediately declares that he's dead tired and scurries off to his and Maggie's bedroom. Maggie, on the other hand, is restless and excited. She probably has a mild case of oxygen poisoning. She sends her maid to her room but begs me to stay up with her just a little bit. I agree because she's always so nice, and I'm a people pleaser. We quickly make some tea with the water left in the pot on the hearth and have a light supper of bread and cheese.

We talk about the opera and the loge, about Ms. Hale's sudden appearance (Maggie thinks that she's eccentric and a bit standoffish), and then inevitably get to the subject of Mr. Masen.

"He seems quite taken with you, my dear," Maggie says. Her tone is soft, but there's concern in it, too. "What do you make of him?"

I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second. What do I tell her?

"He is brilliant, of course, and he does seem to pay me some extra attention, although I cannot fathom a possible reason for that." I wince inwardly, as outright lying is still hard even after two and a half months of living a lie. "But he has his own demons, and they are strong. Desiring more than just friendship from Mr. Masen would be unwise. Thankfully, I am perfectly content with being mere acquaintances. Romantic engagements are not on my mind in the least." I smile at Maggie, and her expression changes to the one of relief.

"I do share your opinion that Mr. Masen is not the most suitable candidate for a husband, should you ever desire to seek one. His craft requires all his devotion, most probably not leaving any room for a wife and children." She clasps her hand in front of her, back to her good spirits. "But I am so glad that you find him a pleasant acquaintance. It would be most unfortunate to lose their company, Mr. Masen's and his brother's, especially as the latter is an excellent physician, and Dr. Clemence is becoming too old to tend to his patients."

At this, we both burst into laughter. Maggie is nothing if not practical.

"Would you truly desire Carlisle's examination and treatment, should the occasion demand?" I make a face of fake disgust. "You are practically the closest of friends now."

Maggie giggles. "He examined you, and you did not protest too much. I agree that it is a little awkward, but good doctors are rare, and if a mild sense of awkwardness is the price, then I shall pay it." She fans herself with her hands. "Goodness, why is it so warm in this place?!"

The air in the kitchen is indeed hot and stuffy because of the fire being kept on 24/7. Maggie walks to the large French window, opens it wide, and peeks outside.

"What a truly magical night…" she says dreamily. "Isabella, come and look. The moon and the stars… so many, so far away… magnificent." She sighs and turns to me. "How are we to fathom that such beauty existed long before our arrival and shall remain unchanged long after we are gone? It is wholly beyond comprehension!"

I look into the shimmering darkness of the skies, and then, just like that, I have my epiphany.

It's kind of anticlimactic, too.

There's no drumroll, nothing that hits me like a bolt of lightning, and not even a single light bulb goes on in my head. It's more of a "Fuck, why didn't I think about this sooner" moment. Still, it doesn't stop my body from catching up a few seconds later. I break out in a sweat, and my heart starts racing. It feels like it's shaking my whole body. I stumble back to the kitchen table and drop into a chair, trying to pull myself together.

Edward said that he wasn't a time traveler and had never heard of Mr. Edward Cullen of Seattle from the year 2024. He also insisted he'd never lied to me, and I believed him. I still do. Yet, deep in my heart, I know that Mr. Masen and Mr. Cullen are, somehow, the same person.

But… could all of these things be true?

The answer is yes.

All I need to do is accept the absolutely insane idea that the supernatural exists.

That Edward Masen is very much like the stars Maggie and I admired a few moments ago… Just as beautiful and just as unchanging.

That he will be here long after we are gone.

That he is maybe, just maybe, immortal.

.

.

.