Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight
Katinki graciously edited this story
Chapter 14
"Maida sat by the window in her old cheviot skirt and blue waist, darning a st—. Oh, doing fancy work," I mutter under my breath, cursing softly as I attempt to undo a stitch without ruining all my earlier progress.
Thankfully, someone else, usually Jessica, darns my stockings—that would be a total disaster if I had to do it myself. Instead, I decided to remember how to crochet.
That's why, right now, I'm sitting in the living room in the company of seven skeins of cotton yarn. There's a wide gap in the back of the loveseat, and I have to stay still to keep the skeins from slipping through—I wish I had a basket or something to hold them. My crochet hook is a bit large for this type of yarn, too, but I couldn't find anything smaller among Isabella's things. The hook itself is nice though, comfortable to work with and sturdy, with a beautifully carved wooden handle. It's nothing like the slippery plastic piece of junk that I picked up at my local JoAnn and that broke after a week of very gentle use. That was during one of my very first attempts at finding a hobby, as per my therapist's advice. Too bad I gave it up so quickly. While I didn't mind the idea of a distraction from my "intrusive thoughts," as my therapist called them, crocheting actually had the opposite effect. It seemed to trigger those thoughts the moment I picked up the hook. Still, I managed to learn a few stitch patterns, and surprisingly, they've stuck in my muscle memory.
It feels strange to sit here, all by myself, crocheting a blanket—well, I think it's a future blanket, though it could just as easily turn out to be a napkin—without the TV on or music playing. But maybe it's for the best. I seriously need some quiet time to think about what happened last night.
After I'd said goodnight to Maggie, I tried to make some sense of it, but the moment my head touched the pillow, I fell asleep. I slept like a baby, and this morning, I woke up rested and with more clarity than I've had in a long time.
People who say that walking is good for you might be onto something.
I'd be lying if I said that I haven't been questioning my decision to tell Edward that our strange non-relationship had to stop. But at the same time, I feel at peace with how things are going to be between us from now on.
Scratch that, I actually feel pretty proud of myself.
At least now I know that I'll be safe. And I don't mean his hints about the supposedly mortal danger that awaits anyone who knows his secrets.
Being attracted to him, indulging in certain fantasies—that's the real danger.
Seriously, Bella. This is the 19th-century equivalent of being infatuated with a rockstar. Famous, charismatic, attractive—overwhelmingly so, and chased by hordes of admirers? It's so… unoriginal of you.
Sure, he's probably mildly amused; it's not every day someone claims to know his future. Maybe it breaks the routine for an immortal, if he is one. But to expect him to reciprocate your… not even feelings, but desire for closeness and friendship?
Are you out of your mind?!
No, no, I did the right thing. I just can't afford to lose myself again in someone I don't really know… or worse, someone who doesn't want me to know him.
Yet… for the sake of the exercise and, okay, fine, out of spite, I do want to figure him out.
Yes, that's it!
Now that we're no longer in close proximity, I should be able to do just that, right? To analyze the facts in a detached manner, like Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot!
I really hope I'm not delusional.
So, how do I prove that Edward is an immortal… man, being, whatever, who will eventually become Mr. Cullen?
I mentally rub my hands in anticipation, feeling a sudden surge of mad scientist enthusiasm. This is the perfect distraction. Well, I think it is.
Let's start with something that's become obvious to me since yesterday: in this new reality of mine, whenever something unusual happens, it's always about Edward. Well, apart from the fact that I'm a time traveler who found herself inserted in another woman's life, that is... Anyway.
The rest of this world seems completely normal. Nothing I see or hear contradicts what I know about the laws of physics, human nature, or the history of this place.
With Edward, mind you, those strange things are quite subtle, and if taken one at a time, they can be easily explained, for the most part. But when I put them together?
1. He didn't make a single mistake during his recital… Just kidding. But jokes aside, the guy is phenomenal, and if he is what I think he is, he should be on a world tour in 2024, not selling dental floss and maxi pads.
Okay, back to business.
2. He's the only person I know in London's 1833, who has a "doppelganger" in the future. I'm 99.9% sure that they're the same man.
3. It's hard to trust my vision when I'm near him because sometimes I think that he moves abnormally fast.
4. His eyes possibly change color. Granted, this only happened once, right after I had a concussion, so that might have been a trick of my brain.
5. He can be very still, unnaturally so, as if he's not breathing.
6. He's extremely strong. That pole he held up with just one hand to keep it from falling on me? That thing was practically a tree trunk. How much do they weigh? I wish I knew… probably a lot. And then he effortlessly carried me to the house. But again, all that happened when I got hit on the head.
7. And finally, what I discovered yesterday: that his body temperature is apparently very low, and it's not just his hands. There's no way around it, I saw it with my own eyes, or rather didn't see his breath in the cold night air.
All of this points to a strong possibility that, first, he's not entirely human, and second, that his lifespan could be far longer than that of an average person.
For now, let's just call it "immortality," though it might technically be something else. Perhaps he just ages very slowly, so there's no visible difference between now and 191 years from now. Or maybe he doesn't age, but he can still die or be killed by some magic dagger or a silver bullet… not exactly immortal, but still a lot harder to kill than a human. I've read enough fantasy books filled with "immortals," where the term was used for individuals with strikingly good looks, a few superpowers, and extraordinary longevity. They could be killed and often were.
Okay, that was a lot of mental work… I suppose it's time for my usual disclaimer: I might just be unwell and imagining things, or be having a really long dream, or something like that. Sigh.
One other thing to consider. If Edward is immortal, that could certainly explain his strange willingness to accept the fact that I'm a time traveler. I suppose this stuff doesn't sound completely bonkers if you're a supernatural being yourself. Maybe despite all his secretiveness, he didn't want me to question my sanity and start going mad for real. He doesn't know anything about his future, of course—he's not a time traveler, but he knows that it's a strong possibility that he will live that long, maybe under a different name… Maybe that's even his MO, changing names throughout his immortal existence…
Maybe, maybe… so many maybes. I wish he could just trust me, but no, he "cannot." I say this last part out loud with mocking exasperation, then quickly shut my mouth and look around. You'd better have a good reason, Mr. Edward Masen Cullen. Ugh. There's probably some secret society of… whatever he is that makes its members guard their "dark and shameful secrets," as he put it.
Or else… what?
Oh, right, he actually told me that part!
"It may, and will cost you your life."
I roll my eyes. So dramatic...
"Dinner is served," Mr. Felps says, breaking me out of my reverie. I take a close look at my blanket and immediately notice a small but glaring mistake I made at least ten rows back. With a sigh of defeat, I stick my hook into the skein and get up.
I need to find myself a different hobby.
XXX
It's almost Christmas, and our house is heavily decorated with holly, fir branches, cardboard spirals, ribbons, origami-like paper balls, and other pretty things. No Christmas tree, though. Apparently, trees are considered to be a German thing and aren't popular here just yet.
The air in the rooms smells amazing for a change, especially in the living room, where the heat of the big fireplace enhances the scent of fir. Combined with the aroma coming from the kitchen—Siobhan, our cook, is making a batch of orange jam and some candied orange peel for the upcoming fruit cake—it creates a truly festive feeling, similar to when I was a kid and Christmas was still the happiest time of the year. It makes my heart swell with something that's not quite joy, but not quite sorrow either… I think it's gratitude for having these memories at all. Granted, I don't have anything physical from my old life with me here, but this is no small thing.
I try not to dwell on how much I miss Dad and Alice. And Edward… yes, I miss his arrogant, brooding, beautiful face, so much that even the fleeting thought of him makes my chest ache. But that's okay. It'll get easier.
So… what was I talking about? Ah, oranges! Interestingly, they're a surprisingly common occurrence in our house, and so are grapes and tangerines, even in the middle of winter. Maggie loves her sweet fruit, and Alistair believes that spending money on good food should always be a priority. As an aside, he could definitely lose a stone or two, just saying. Especially if he's going to start a political career soon; that's still a subject of debate between him and my aunt.
Tonight, we're having a dinner party with some friends. I meant to ask Maggie who exactly was invited, but then I decided that I couldn't care less. It's impossible to worry about everything all the time, right? I only know that Angela and Benjamin, her husband, are on the list. There's always the dangerous possibility that Isabella Dwyer was closely acquainted with those other guests, but thankfully, I've become an expert in feigning familiarity with random people. For the millionth time, I thank the Heavens for not inserting me into the skin of someone who's the life of the party and talks a lot. That I wouldn't be able to pull off. Although… not bringing me here at all would have been even better, I grumble silently and shoot the ceiling a chastising glance.
At six o'clock sharp, the guests start to arrive. There are two couples that I haven't met before. One consists of a tall guy about my age with bleach-blond hair and a round friendly face and a plump brunette with an attitude. She keeps not-so-discreetly shushing her husband, which is quite embarrassing to watch. Alistair and Maggie call them, "Lord and Lady Michael Newton." I'm still mostly clueless about the whole British title system, but if I've learned anything during these months here, it's that if someone's first name is mentioned after "Lord," then he's not really a lord but a glorified commoner. Probably a younger son of a duke or a marquise. This Michael seems nice, though.
The other couple is closer in age to Alistair and Maggie. They are addressed as "just" Mr. and Mrs. Crowley, but it's obvious from everybody's behavior that they hold the highest status in the room. It's interesting, considering that Alistair is a baronet and Michael is a son of a peer, but then again, Mr. Darcy with his ten thousand pounds—an income worthy of a duke—didn't have a title either. It looks like Mr. Crowley is the one who wants Alistair in politics; they mention it in passing, briefly steering the general conversation away from the London weather.
Soon Angela and Benjamin arrive, and I exhale in relief. I've had the chance to meet Benjamin and speak with him a few times, as well as hear his sermons, and he's just as pleasant to be around as his wife. Intelligent and good-natured, he seems genuinely content with his life as a church leader, a husband, and a father to as many children as they can have. Turns out that Benjamin's dad is a baron, and from what I've heard, he's not a very nice man. However, Angela says he and his son are nothing alike. I'm truly happy for her—she seems to have a life straight out of a fairy tale, and I can't help but feel a bit envious. At the same time, I can't imagine living that life myself, so my envy remains largely theoretical.
Just minutes before 6:30, when we're supposed to move to the dining room, the last guest rushes in, and I almost drop my glass of wine on Maggie's favorite carpet.
Dr. Carlisle Masen.
"Lady Buchan, Sir Alistair, Mrs. Dwyer, my sincerest apologies," he says with a quick bow as he hands his doctor's bag—one I instantly recognize—to the footman. "A patient of mine encountered an emergency, requiring my prompt intervention to secure him from imminent danger." His shy smile suggests that saving someone's life is no big deal.
Maggie hurries to greet him, so overjoyed that he managed to come at all that for a moment I fear that she'll start giving him kisses on the cheeks, all Rosalie Hale-style. Alistair assures him that nothing is more important than his job and proceeds with introductions. That proves partly unnecessary. The Crowleys already seem to know the good doctor. They greet him like an old acquaintance, while Lord Michael and his harpy of a wife make sure that they're properly introduced and exchange pleasantries. Dr. Masen clearly has a reputation in the highest circles of this town.
As Mr. Felps announces that dinner is ready, the couples promptly form a line, reminding me of my elementary school days. Carlisle approaches and offers me his arm. Right. So much for my plan to dart into the dining room and snag the best (read: least noticeable) seat.
"My dear Isabella," he says quietly. "How do you do?"
"I am fine, Dr. Masen, thank you," I reply, just as quietly, and then continue without thinking, "I hope that you and your brother… are well also?"
I want to slap myself. Why did I say that? This is the first time I've seen Carlisle in over two weeks, and the first thing I ask him is about his brother?!
I look up and meet his eyes, so similar in color to Edward's that my heart skips a bit.
"We are well, thank you," he says, as if sensing my distress. "Isabella, I… I regret how matters concluded with my brother," he adds in an almost whisper. There's a question in his eyes, but then we're at the table, and he says nothing more.
My seat is between Lord Michael Newton and Carlisle, with Benjamin, Mrs. Crowley, and Alistair sitting on the opposite side. Could be worse, I guess. I can't imagine what I would possibly have to say to the insufferable Lady Michael. Thankfully, she's between Alistair and Mr. Crowley on the other end of the table, having the time of her life rehashing a dinner with some mutual acquaintances—real lords, from what I gather. Mr. Crowley, a fine-looking gentleman in his late fifties who reminds me of Paul Hollywood, either doesn't see through her shallow absurdity or is polite enough to turn a blind eye.
We're in the middle of the second course (beef tenderloin with mashed potatoes) when Mrs. Crowley, a striking woman with sleek gray hair, piercing blue eyes, and aristocratic posture, asks Carlisle if, by any chance, Mr. Masen, the renowned virtuoso, is a relative of his.
I freeze in my seat as my heart does its usual somersault.
"Oh," says Carlisle. "In fact, yes. Edward is my brother."
Mrs. Crowley's eyes light up with barely contained excitement.
"How extraordinary! Two unbelievably gifted young men in the same family—such a rarity and a blessing," she offers, and blush appears on her pale cheeks.
In the opposite corner of the table, Mrs. Michael Newton suddenly halts whatever she was telling Alistair and turns to Carlisle.
"Dr. Masen, you are full of surprises! You simply must bring Maestro Masen with you next time!" Her voice sounds like a metal door in dire need of WD-40. "I am planning to host a soirée in early January, which would present a splendid opportunity for him to make an appearance. I shall certainly send you an invitation," she declares in a brusque tone that makes me internally flinch. And by the look of it, I'm not alone.
Carlisle, however, seems unphased.
"Lady Michael, that is exceedingly kind of you. Regrettably, my brother must prepare a new program for his forthcoming series of recitals in February, and when thus engaged, he spends both day and night at the pianoforte," he says with a tiny note of satisfaction in his voice. "However, it would give me great pleasure to extend to you an invitation to his recital on his behalf."
Maggie clasps her hands in delight. "That is so wonderful! Lady Michael, we should all go," she says, radiating her trademark enthusiasm. "My husband, Mrs. Dwyer, and I heard Mr. Masen some time ago at the Hanover Square Rooms, and good Lord, what an impression he made on the audience!" She suddenly turns to me. "What was your opinion, Isabella?"
Startled, I gulp as nine pairs of eyes expectantly look at me. Even Angela, whom I can't see very well behind Carlisle, pulls herself forward to make eye contact. I feel gentle encouragement in her gaze as I open my mouth. My voice shakes a little.
"Um… There is no doubt that Mr. Masen is one of the greatest musicians of our time, both as a pianist and a composer." I smile apologetically, although I'm not sure why. Probably because sharing my inane opinion on someone as great as Edward Masen is just ridiculous. My throat turns as dry as the Sahara. "Anyone with a heart and a soul would find his music the most beautiful sound in this world. Although, I am a poor judge of the finer aspects of his performance. It has been a long time since I considered myself a musician as well." My face burns as I abruptly finish my little tirade and lower my head, suddenly finding the content of my plate very interesting.
"Oh, so you play, Mrs. Dwyer?" asks Mrs. Crowley.
I search my brain for a suitable equivalent of "kind of, sort of" when Maggie saves me.
"Isabella is a skillful musician, with a profound understanding of the instrument and a vast repertoire. Indeed, we have an entire room upstairs dedicated to her music sheets," she says with a lighthearted chuckle, but I know her. There's tension beneath her casual tone. "Regrettably, these past few years have seen her otherwise occupied, preventing her from perfecting her pianoforte skills. However, we are confident that scales and arpeggios will soon return to our house, allowing us the pleasure of hearing her play once more." Maggie's expression is now dreamy and proud, much like that of a mother recounting the accomplishments of her only child.
"How wonderful," says Mrs. Crowley. "Maybe Mr. Masen could help her restore her technique?" She turns to Carlisle. "Does your brother teach, Dr. Masen? Would he be willing to assist Mrs. Dwyer?"
My gut clenches. Angela lets out a soft gasp, and I remember that a long time ago, she suggested something similar. I expect Carlisle to remind Mrs. Crowley that Edward is extremely busy with his preparatory work.
"As a matter of fact," Carlisle says, "one of my brother's pupils—he only has a small number—has decided to travel abroad, and his spot is currently vacant. I am quite confident that he would be delighted to assist Mrs. Dwyer." He meets my gaze and holds it. "If that is what you wish, madame, it can be arranged."
There's a short pause, and then everyone begins talking at once. Alistair, Maggie, and Benjamin all point out how amazing and rare this opportunity is. Angela begs me to give it a try. Lord Michael inquires if he could have a chance to hear me play afterward. Even Mr. Crowley chimes in with something encouraging. Only Lady Michael ignores the commotion by suddenly asking Angela about her husband's family in Bath.
I never do well under pressure, and being the center of attention makes me willing to do just about anything to stop it. So, before I know it, I find myself telling Carlisle that becoming Mr. Masen's student would be a dream come true.
Carlisle flashes me a wide smile and says it's settled. Which, if you think about it, is more than a little strange since he should have run it by Edward first.
Unless, of course, they have some sort of telepathic connection. I wouldn't put it past them.
For the rest of the evening, all I can do is wonder what I've gotten myself into this time.
.
.
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