Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight

Katinki graciously edited this story


Chapter 15

The following morning, I wake up when it's still dark.

My brain picks up right where it left off last night—obsessing over the fact that I'm such a pushover. How is it possible that just a week after deciding to stay away from Edward, not only have I failed, but I'm about to start spending even more time with him?!

I mean, I've been here once. Working with James one-on-one… Nope, not going there!

On the other hand, a week of separation has clearly done nothing for my hyperfixation on my presumably immortal boss-slash-pianist, so I might as well admit it and stop pretending that I'm not dying to check out my theories. Or maybe even confront him?

After all, if he has superpowers, maybe one of them could finally get me back to the 21st century. My curiosity is perfectly justified here, right?

As the morning mail arrives during breakfast, like it always does, I see a familiar blue envelope and I know that it's from the Masens. Indeed, in a brief note addressed to Alistair, Carlisle informs us that he and Edward have discussed the possibility of pianoforte lessons, and that Edward is in agreement and excited to start tomorrow as long as Mrs. Dwyer has not had a change of heart and the time is suitable for her. He's even willing to come to our house himself so that I don't have to walk or arrange for a ride.

It's kind of funny that the letter isn't written by Edward and that it's sent to Alistair and not me, but I dismiss it as a custom of the times, as I often do. Probably, the letter mentions the cost, something that Carlisle handles on Edward's behalf, and Alistair on mine, and, of course, none of them wants me to worry my pretty little head about silly things like money.

Maggie seems noticeably less excited about this arrangement today than she was last night. She eyes me carefully and even asks if I still feel inclined to pursue it. I assure her that I'm absolutely fine and that missing such an opportunity would be madness.

Strangely, I do feel excited to play the piano again, especially the beautiful instrument sitting in our living room. I've been longing to try it since it was tuned a couple of weeks ago, but I felt strangely reluctant to even touch it, afraid to draw attention to myself, and… generally, just afraid.

"Um, Aunt Maggie, I…" I take a deep breath. "I wondered if I might have a glance at my old sheet music… Is the room locked? Might I trouble you to assist me?" Then I give her my signature Isabella the Martyr smile.

See, last night Maggie mentioned a room full of sheet music. I'd really like to see it and maybe find some stuff to practice before my first class. However, I have no clue where that room is located, so I hint that going there by myself might be emotionally difficult—a neat trick I've been using on her far too often.

Without hesitating, Maggie grabs a ring of keys, and we go upstairs, all the way to the attic. The room turns out to be very small, more of a large closet, with floor-to-ceiling shelves full of sheet music and books. She opens the curtains of a single small window, examines my face, silently asking if I'm going to be okay here, and gives me a quick kiss on the forehead. After that, she leaves.

I start with the eye-level shelf, trying to be careful and not blow months, if not years, of dust in my face. It's a great collection, indeed, that includes not only music printed in England or Scotland, but many continental editions. There's a fair amount of German and Austrian music, both older stuff and modern, such as Schubert's Six Moments Musicaux. Most of what I find are pianoforte pieces or arrangements of popular opera arias, but there are also songs in various languages and even a few flute compositions. I wonder if anyone in the house actually played the flute.

Many names and titles are familiar, like Weber's Der Freischutz or Gluck's Orfeo, not to mention Rossini, Haydn, and Clementi, but who in the world is Madame Angelica Catalina? Her Variations arranged by Pio Cianchettini seems like a fun piece, and I set it aside, intending to take it downstairs with me. I also grab a couple of Mozart's Sonatas and Adagio from Concerto in A major. The latter is a transcription for two pianofortes, and Alistair and Maggie, well, only have one. Regardless, it's possibly my favorite piece of music in the whole world and something I don't mind playing imperfectly—in my head, it still sounds just the way it should.

Just as I finish placing the books back on the shelf and prepare to leave, a piece of paper—a letter—flies out of one of the heavier volumes. I pick it up and the first thing I notice is the words "Dearest Izzy."

I know, I know… reading other people's letters is frowned upon. But Izzy Dwyer doesn't quite fall into the "other people" category, now does she? So, I go ahead and read it.

Bath, September 7, 1829

My Dearest Izzy,

I hope this letter finds you in the best of health and spirits. I am writing to extend my heartfelt congratulations on your upcoming eighteenth birthday! What a significant milestone to celebrate. Accept my best wishes for many happy returns of your birthday and also the accompanying trifle as a mark of my sincere affection.

I must also express my delight upon hearing the wonderful news of your engagement to Mr. James Dwyer. How fortunate you are to be uniting with such a distinguished gentleman. Despite the rumors, which we rightly decided were baseless, I am certain that your marriage will bring you immense happiness and fulfillment. Knowing the depth of your feelings for him only reinforces my confidence in your joyous future together.

Please write to me soon and share all the details of your engagement and the forthcoming nuptials. Your letters have always been a great comfort to me, and I eagerly await news of your happiness.

With all my love and best wishes,

Your affectionate friend,

Angela Weber

I sit on the floor in the middle of the room, mildly in shock. So, Isabella Dwyer is not 27 years old like I assumed based on my own age. She's only 22. So young! And since I know that she's been a widow for a year and a half, it means she was only married for a couple of years.

My desire to know what happened between her and James, and if that had anything to do with those "baseless rumors," whatever they were, is so strong that I almost decide to go to Jessica and interrogate her. I have no doubts that if anyone knows, it's her. But then I stop myself. I can't go around asking questions about... myself. Whatever happened is clearly a taboo subject in this house, and the last thing I need is to raise suspicions about my mental state—especially from someone like Jessica, who has a built-in radar for all things gossip.

XXX

My first lesson with Edward is scheduled for 11 o'clock in the morning, and because of that, I've been nauseated since before breakfast. My hands are sweaty in that unpleasant cold, sticky way that I've only experienced before in my recitals with Irina.

Usually, those concerts happened at the Forks Library. Despite the audience being sparse and very sympathetic, I was always nervous to the degree that I wanted to throw up. Not only did my anxiety affect my hands, but my legs as well. If the music piece required the use of the pedal, my right foot would shake so badly that it produced a rattling noise that unsurprisingly didn't go well with the music and distracted both the audience and myself.

Needless to say, I hated those recitals with passion.

Now, I'm going to have to play in front of one of the best musicians who has ever existed. That's quite a step from a bunch of parents and old ladies at the library.

Again, why did I agree to do this?

Worse, the whole house will hear my lame performance, and they'll realize that I'm not actually Isabella Dwyer, an accomplished pianist. Even if she hadn't played in a year or two, surely, she wouldn't forget everything she'd known before—you don't lose your skill and muscle memory that quickly. I think.

Hopefully, she was a sloppy musician.

I only have Maggie's account of her proficiency, and Maggie tends to be overly forgiving and impressionable in her judgment of people she holds dear.

With that optimistic thought, I resume sorting the sheet music I brought from upstairs, leaving bookmarks on pages I found interesting. I didn't have a chance to practice last night because there were people in the living room. The ever-busy cleaning team was dusting and mopping yet again, and I didn't feel comfortable asking them to go do something else. Maybe I'll be able to get Edward to play all these pieces and just listen… Some teachers enjoy showing off, and I wouldn't mind a private concert.

Edward arrives right on time, almost as if he'd been standing outside and was just waiting for the tower clock to strike. He looks a little nervous and even more pale than usual, but he's so very handsome in his dark blue frock coat that accentuates his trim figure. My traitorous heart starts singing as I take in the sight of him, and I mentally order it to shut up while I scramble to appear all nonplussed and cordial.

Maggie is here with me to greet Edward, but she informs us that, unfortunately, she has a prior engagement and that, instead, Mrs. O'Brian has kindly agreed to be present at the lesson as a chaperone. Mrs. O'Brian is our cook, Siobhan, and although her creativity and skill in the kitchen are impressive, I doubt that she could care less about Mozart or Liszt, nor is she familiar with those names in the first place. This is clearly Maggie's way of giving me some privacy, and for the umpteenth time, I vow to start treating this incredible woman better.

As Siobhan appears and Maggie bids us goodbye, I lead Edward to the pianoforte. There's another chair placed for him close to my bench, but he chooses to stand on the other side, behind the wooden curve of the instrument, facing me.

His expression is absolutely blank. Again, a statue, beautiful and cold.

Why did he agree to do this? That's the big question.

I sit down in front of the keyboard and purse my lips in concentration. Before we start, I want us to come to some understanding.

"Mr. Masen, thank you for agreeing to help me," I tell him. "I completely understand that after hearing me play, you might no longer wish to waste your time. That is perfectly fine, and you do not have to find an excuse to discontinue our lessons… just tell me at once. Please, do not feel like you are trapped here." I let out a lighthearted chuckle. "I have not played for a very long time. And even before that…"

"My dearest Bella," he cuts me off softly. "Do not apologize, I want to hear you play, and you do not waste my time in any way." He smiles, but his voice is breathy and almost pleading.

The way he says my name slices through my already weak defenses like a knife.

I quickly look back and see that Siobhan has fallen asleep in her chair—poor thing wakes up at 4 am to start the bread, so no wonder. This short distraction helps me to find my bearings, and by the time I turn back to Edward, I'm almost myself again. Almost.

"Um, I think for the sake of propriety, it is best if you call me Mrs. Dwyer," I say in a clipped tone, smiling with just my lips. "Lead the way, Mr. Masen. What should I play first? Scales perhaps?"

He can't keep throwing me off like this!

I look at him expectantly, hoping that my message was received and noted.

He returns my gaze, and for a long moment, we remain locked in a staring competition. Then his lips pull into a mischievous smirk, and I feel like I just lost this Vorspiel, although I'm not sure how and what that entails.

"That is precisely what I intended to propose, Mrs. Dwyer," he says in a perfectly light and neutral tone. "Please start with E flat major, both hands, four octaves, and then proceed with the arpeggios." He adds that last part sweetly.

The sudden mood change takes me aback, but it's only fair—he is doing what I asked. The scale he wants me to play is relatively difficult, but thankfully, where scales are concerned, Sergeant Irina drilled me so well that you could probably wake me up in the middle of the night, and I'd be able to play it for you. Even when I'm sixty.

So, I go ahead and start playing.

The pianoforte sounds very different from the pianos I used to play as a kid and then later in college. The sound is quiet and intimate but, at the same time, dry and relatively thin. I have to adjust my touch as I go. Each note sounds separate no matter how much I try for legato. Gradually, I get a hang of how to produce the sound I like, and it makes me feel a little calmer.

By the time I finish with the arpeggios, my hands are no longer sweaty, and I feel somewhat content. This isn't perfect, but it's not a disaster either. Whatever he thinks of me, he's here to teach, right? I don't mind learning a thing or two.

I lift my hands from the keyboard and place them on my lap in that exaggerated gesture Irina was adamant every pianist must adhere to. Then I look up at him, and he's staring at me with a mixture of surprise and excitement, which is clearly a disproportionate reaction to what and how I just played.

"This was executed marvelously, Be… Mrs. Dwyer," he offers me warmly. "You possess great control over your touché,which I rarely see in female students—almost never, honestly. I enjoyed your precision as well. What would you like to play for me next?"

I lift an eyebrow and give him a pointed look, unconvinced.

What he just said could be easily translated as, "Someone actually bothered to teach you how to press the keys, and you managed to get all seven notes right, I can't believe it."

The remark about female students doesn't sit well with me either, so I reply, "Oh! Why, thank you. My teacher was basically a man. Almost. As to what to play next, I found a few books in the house, but I cannot really decide. Maybe you could choose and play something for me?" I bat my eyelashes and flash him a comically seductive smile, channeling Sugar from Some Like It Hot.

Edward narrows his eyes at me but doesn't take the bait. "I would rather have you play first. Please, anything you wish. Then we shall choose your next piece together based on your level of proficiency."

I let out a loud sigh. It looks like my humiliation is inevitable. What can I play? It's been so long, and I don't remember much by heart… only a few lines here and there.

Except for that one piece.

I started playing it during my last year at UW. It was unquestionably the most technically challenging composition I ever attempted, and I kind of wanted to eventually be able to play it well. That never happened. Later, after the end of my disastrous relationship with James, I often caught myself drumming bits and pieces of it on my desk at Cullen Platt as the music played in my head. I could probably play that one now from start to finish—slowly, carefully.

There's one caveat, though. This particular piece doesn't exist just yet.

I drop the Marilyn act and look at Edward seriously. "Well, there is something I want to work on, but the problem is that the composer hasn't written it yet. He's already alive, though… Oh! Maybe you even know him! Anyway, all I remember is that he didn't want to publish it for some reason, and it was only discovered after his death."

As I speak, I become vaguely aware that I'm now half-standing and that my body is involuntarily leaning to Edward, but that's not all. His posture somehow mirrors mine. His eyes are on my face, searching, and I don't know how to read his expression…

Is he trying to determine the degree of my madness? Is he listening to me at all?

I get a whiff of his cologne, and I just know that if I'm not careful and inhale it, I'll be a goner. Thankfully, I quickly catch myself and sink back onto the bench at the same moment as he straightens and clears his throat.

With a somewhat sheepish look on his face, he says, "Madame, you know how to pique my curiosity… But then you have always known. Pray, go on. What is this author's name? Is he well-known?"

"As a matter of fact, the composer is currently quite young, likely in his early twenties," I say, forehead wrinkling. "I wish I were better with dates. Have you heard of Frederic Chopin?"

"Oh. Of course. Heard of him, and heard him as well last year." Edward smiles. "An extremely gifted young man from Poland. Liszt was introducing him to everyone of importance in Paris. It seemed as if he were there to stay for a long time." His eyes sparkle with anticipation. "Very well, Mrs. Dwyer, please play it for me. Does this non-existent composition have a name?"

I give my temples a quick massage, allowing myself a moment to think, for the last time, if it's wise to do what I'm about to do.

Well, like Edward said, I've already disturbed the course of history, so why not?

"It's called Fantasie-Impromptu," I tell him. "For someone like you, it's not difficult at all, but for me, it is, especially the ending. So, I'll be playing it much slower than I should. Use your imagination." I flash him another toothy grin and, before I lose my nerve, start playing.

XXX

If you wanted to squeeze the content of the Fantasie-Impromptu, or the whole of Chopin's work, for that matter, in one sentence, you'd probably end up with something like this:

Life is a tempestuous river that pulls you into its whirlwind and carries you in directions you neither chose nor like, but thankfully, there are dream-like moments when you believe you're happy—although there's a strong possibility that you're actually dead.

Gotta love the Romantics and their endless supply of optimism…

My fingers are clearly out of practice for such a vigorous exercise, so navigating through the whirlwind part is not easy. I mostly manage to get it right, and without ruining the steady pace of it. The middle part—the dream—is way easier technically, so I can concentrate more on the sound quality and phrasing. I dread the coda—the eerie ending where the melody of the dream merges with the insane tempo of the whirlwind, but thankfully, I manage not to screw it up completely. As the last chord dies out far too quickly for my liking, I allow the silence to hang for a second and lower my hands on my lap. Then I raise my eyes to Edward.

I guess I'm afraid that he's going to laugh at me. Or worse, at Chopin.

But he doesn't laugh. He stands in front of me with his eyes closed, his marble face consumed by such profound anguish that my heart squeezes painfully in my chest.

Do Renaissance statues cry?

"Absolutely extraordinary," he whispers. Then he opens his eyes, walks over to my bench, and asks, "May I?"

His voice trembles.

I nod and silently stand, offering him my seat. After a moment of concentration, he begins to play, and he performs the entire piece.

At the correct tempo. Without a single mistake or hesitation.

A five-minute-long piece that he just heard for the first time in his life.

My heart is fully in my throat as I realize that I'm witnessing a miracle. A genuine miracle that this human (or likely not human) man is showing me. It's a lot to take in.

After he's finished, we're silent for a few moments. I want to say, "That was beautiful," or, "You played it so well," but that would be such a laughable understatement that I don't even bother.

Instead, I say, "Wow. I heard that Mozart was able to pull off a similar trick. That he could write down the parts of every single instrument after listening to an orchestra piece just once." I clear my throat. "Can you do the same?"

Edward stands up and walks to his previous position behind the pianoforte.

"I happen to have a very good memory," he says as his lips pull into his usual arrogant smirk, and I can tell that he's snapped out of Chopin completely.

The smart thing for me is to do the same, and quickly, but I can't. I'm still under the spell.

"You shall be able to play this composition at the same tempo as I did, and very soon," he continues cheerfully. "We shall work on a few passages, and I can teach you a movement that will minimize mistakes in that last part… but you are right, this is a wonderful piece for you to practice, Bella." The sound of my name startles me again, but he just goes on as if he didn't notice. "I shall introduce a few additional pieces to your studies, perhaps some études to refine your touch and other exercises to enhance the agility of your left hand, which currently lags a bit. The sheet music will be dispatched later today."

With that, he suddenly bows in a business-like manner and turns to leave the room.

I'm completely unprepared for this to be over already, so I loudly blurt out, "Mr. Masen!"

Siobhan jerks in her chair but doesn't wake up.

"Wait!" I whisper to him. "Um… Thank you. For coming here and being kind to me…" I frantically rack my brain for something to keep him here longer. "It probably goes without saying, but just in case, you must never take the Fantasie-Impromptu outside of this room. Can you promise me that?"

Another bow. "You have my word, madame. I will never perform this masterpiece until it is discovered and made known to the public," he says in a grave tone.

My heart pounds. Edward blinks and suddenly takes a step back.

I swallow and take a step forward. "Thank you. Although this is an interesting way to phrase it."

His face is blank. I hesitate but then decide, to hell with it.

"I'm curious… what makes you think that you will outlive Chopin, who is a decade or so your junior?" I watch him like a hawk.

He freezes for a fraction of a second and then replies nonchalantly, a slightly apologetic smile playing on his face. "Monsieur Chopin looked a little sickly when I saw him. I do hope that he has long years ahead of him."

"Did he now?" I look him straight in the eyes. "But isn't that irrelevant? Even if he lived one hundred years, would it even matter?"

He doesn't say a word.

"Edward," I whisper, "I think I know your secret, and it's driving me insane. It's worse than dealing with my own time travel situation."

Abruptly he leans closer to me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, stunned by his proximity.

"I think that you are not like anybody else…" I manage to say. It's hard to talk, let alone think, when his scent envelops me like this. I let out a ragged breath.

"I mean, not exactly human. That you… do not age."

He doesn't say a word, but suddenly I feel his icy fingers picking up a lock of my hair and tucking it behind my ear in a slow, languid movement. My heart pounds frantically.

"That's how I know you in the future." My voice trembles. "You'll go on living until then… and beyond? Am I right?"

His fingers trace along my jawline, briefly brushing over my lips, and I shiver violently at his cool, barely-there touch.

"You never lied to me, so tell me the truth. Answer my question… What are you? Can you please tell me?" My last words come out almost hysterical, but I don't care.

I open my eyes.

He freezes mid-touch, and his irises are wild and… black, just like after the accident.

Some old instinct screams at me to run away.

Fast.

Now.

But my feet are of a different opinion—they seem to have grown into the floor—and the moment when I could have fled and saved myself is gone.

In a flash, his fingers are on the nape of my neck. He holds me close while his thumb caresses the length of my throat. It's such a wildly erotic experience that I lean into his touch and moan out loud. His mouth is so close to mine that I can feel his sweet breath against my lips. It has the same scent as his cologne, only a million times stronger, and it makes me drunk. My whole body prickles with goosebumps, and I feel so overwhelmed and insanely aroused that I'm either on the edge of the most intense orgasm of my life or passing out, or both.

I barely hear him whisper, "Oh, Bella," before his cool lips crash into mine.

But in the next moment, he's gone, and I collapse to the floor in the most ungraceful way possible.

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