Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight
Katinki graciously edited this story
Chapter 16
Edward's gone.
There will be no lessons next week, nor likely the week after, as he was called away to Yorkshire on urgent business, Maggie informs me. He must attend to the needs of an elderly aunt residing there—how delightful to discover the Masens have some extended family after all. Carlisle sends his apologies on Edward's behalf, expressing the hope that Mrs. Dwyer enjoyed her lesson and will be inclined to continue upon Edward's return.
It's such a load of… rubbish that I don't even attempt to act like I believe it. I just nod stiffly and thank her for the update. It's been four days since our first and only lesson, and I fear that I might never see him again.
It wasn't easy to act normally right after Edward's disappearing act, so when Maggie came in and found me on the floor, I pretended to have hurt my knee when I tripped and fell after Mr. Masen had left. Maggie and Siobhan—I wonder if the latter even realized that she'd slept through her chaperone gig—helped me get up and walk to the chair. Maggie looked so worried and asked many questions, but I assured her that I was fine and that the lesson went very well. She then marginally relaxed and, with a twinkle of joy in her eyes, told me that she'd heard me play and that it had been so lovely, although much too quiet.
Thank Heavens for the thick walls and solid wooden doors of this house.
Since then, my mood has been all over the place, and to hide it (and to stay away from people in general), I spend hours in the living room behind closed doors and playing. I play mostly scales. They don't require my undivided attention while I freak out over what happened.
Seriously. What on earth possessed me to bring up Edward's inhuman nature? The lesson was going so well! That could have been the beginning of a beautiful… professional relationship. Yes, that's it! Couldn't it?
I roll my eyes. Duh. Who am I kidding? That ship, being neutral and professional with him, sailed a long time ago. Be real, Bella, he affects you far too much.
And it's possible that in return, you affect him, too…
Here my brain inevitably goes to where it's been dwelling almost constantly since the lesson—to the kiss and what preceded it.
To how I felt… Exhilarated, overwhelmed, and oh so horny, like I've never been before in my whole life.
What kind of magic did he unleash on me?
And what's with his cologne? Turns out, it's not a cologne after all but his natural scent? Or is it some kind of biological warfare meant to incapacitate female victims? Whatever it is, it's clearly very effective. Now, even thinking of the whole encounter makes my pulse quicken and my stomach clench in a delicious way.
I just hope that he kissed me because he felt something similar, and not because he wanted me to shut up and stop asking uncomfortable questions. Which in his usual manner, he didn't answer, by the way. Was his silence a form of admission that I had been right? Did he run away because he didn't know how to deal with it? Or was he just thinking, "Oh no, poor Mrs. Dwyer is at it again… making up crazy stories. Let's ignore and distract her!"
Who knows.
I'm again facing the fact that, with Edward, it's impossible to be certain of anything. He disappeared with inhuman speed, or so it seemed to me, but was I really a reliable source of information at the time? Being under the influence of his scent and touch as I was?
Let's be honest, I'll never be able to figure out his secret unless he straight up tells me. Now, the question is, will he?
Probably not.
Can I live with that?
It looks like I don't have much choice anyway.
Of course, he can't prevent me from burning a hole in my brain as I try to solve the Great Mystery of Edward Masen. That could actually be quite entertaining, especially for someone playing boring arpeggios.
Let's see… What kinds of immortal creatures are out there anyway? I snort. Let's make another list!
If I'm insane after all, the least I can do is try to have some fun with it.
Off the top of my head, there are, firstly, multitudes of major and minor gods. Then there's… um, Dorian Gray, sort of. Also Highlander and his buddies, the bunch from Lord of the Rings and the lore it's based on, Count Dracula, various superheroes… I'm sure I've missed a few.
With that respect, Edward is:
(and I'm going alphabetically this time—lists require a little creativity, too!)
A. Definitely not an elf – his ears are very nice and human-looking.
B. Not Dorian Gray either. Dorian was a real piece of work. He would not have saved me from a certain death.
C. Highlander and his buddies? Nah, those are supposed to be warm-blooded. Also, Highlander playing and teaching piano? Don't think so.
D. He might be a superhero with powers that include playing the piano and rescuing damsels from collapsing buildings. P.S. Even if I'm wrong, maybe I could pitch the idea to Marvel.
E. Could he be like Dracula, but pretty? Hmm… He has some traits that fit: he's pale, cold, very strong, fast, and with heightened senses, but he never attempted to drink my blood, although he does seem to have a penchant for my neck.
Sigh... This is so confusing.
F. And finally, a god, or maybe even The God. This theory seems a bit extreme and a last resort, but I must admit that it fits what I know about Edward the best. He could be some ancient deity living among mere mortals out of boredom or as a form of punishment…
Maybe he's a fallen angel. I remember that Jessica asked me if Edward resembled an angel. It would be fun if she was right after all.
XXX
The days drag slowly and uneventfully, and at last, it's Christmas.
To my surprise, the holiday is a very quiet affair in this house. There's no exchange of presents among the family members (thank God! I wouldn't know where to start), although Maggie has prepared small gifts for the servants and, more importantly, has given them the day off. We go to church in the morning to hear Benjamin deliver a lovely sermon, spend the day doing our regular things, and then get together in the evening to have a very low-key dinner that Siobhan left for the three of us.
During dinner, Alistair brings up the fact that this is the first Christmas when, as per the newest Factory Act, workers are entitled to "a day of rest" to celebrate. I already know about that, too—it was in yesterday's Times. The article also mentioned that the main purpose of said Act was, however, to regulate child labor at the factories. Now, the limit is up to 12 hours for teens and up to 8 hours for children between 9 and 13 years old, with younger children finally being banned from working. That was some crazy shit that I'd honestly had no idea about, and my eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw the numbers… Industrial Revolution, my ass.
"What is your opinion on the subject of child labor, Uncle?" I suddenly ask Alistair, surprising everyone including myself. This is far from being a suitable topic for Christmas dinner conversation, but I've been in a foul mood all week, and something's gotta give. "Do you not believe that it is practically slavery? And that while we have fought hard against and recently managed to abolish enslaving adults, it seems that children do not deserve such a privilege?"
Alistair exhales forcefully, distress evident on his face. "I do agree that there ought to be far stricter legal regulations on how much children may work. However, you must understand that these families would still need their little ones to work, regardless." He sounds genuinely upset. "Otherwise, they would not be able to afford the cost of raising them; they would all starve."
I open my mouth to reply, but Maggie interrupts me.
"I think this is terrible, and something that should not be," she says. "Children need to eat well, sleep long hours, and have time to learn. I wish their parents did not have to send them to what you rightfully call slavery." She finds Alistair's hand on the table and squeezes it, and I quickly avert my gaze, feeling uneasy. "How unfair life seems at times. A family like ours has everything to welcome a child or children and give them the best start in life, yet we are not blessed with any. Meanwhile, less fortunate families struggle to keep their many children fed and alive."
Even without looking at her, I know that she has tears in her eyes.
My heart sinks in my stomach, and I immediately feel like the worst person in the world. Why, why am I such a moron?!
"Oh, no, Aunt Maggie! Please forgive me for raising this subject! I did not mean to upset you!" I'm now on the verge of tears myself. Didn't I swear to be nice to her?!
Maggie quickly blows her nose and waves a hand. "Nonsense, this is simply how life is, and you did ask a good question. My hope is that when Alistair becomes a Member of Parliament, he will give this matter the attention it deserves. We also remain hopeful that one day you will marry a good man and give us the joy of having a child in the house." This is meant as a joke, but her expression is hopeful, if not downright pleading.
"Oh," is all I can manage to say.
That's what you get for opening your mouth when you shouldn't. I give her a weak smile and ask her about tomorrow's schedule, steering the conversation away from this disastrous topic.
See, having children is not part of my plan in any century. However, it will serve me well to remember that in 1833, a woman in a relationship with a man doesn't have much choice in the matter. That's a thought I decide not to dwell on right now—luckily for me, I'm not in a relationship.
XXX
It's bedtime, and the house is eerily quiet. Jessica has been visiting her mother on the other end of town, and the rest of the servants won't be returning from wherever they're celebrating until tomorrow morning. In my bedroom, I debate whether to read a little longer or just get between the sheets and try to fall asleep, but nothing seems appealing. This Christmas has been thoroughly anticlimactic, and my sour mood worsens by the minute. It seems that all I do lately is say the wrong things, no matter how hard I try to fit in. The fact that it's "that time of the month" and I have to deal with additional hygiene-related problems doesn't help at all.
I get up and start pacing the room, corner to corner. What should I do? The room feels too small. Abruptly, I decide that I need to get out of this house, even if only for a few minutes. A short walk in the sleeping city, no big deal. So what if the air outside isn't as fresh as you'd expect from a place without automobiles? It's cold enough and will hopefully help me clear my head and maybe even fall asleep quicker afterward.
Driven by an overwhelming desire to escape—my room, my own skin—I quickly wrap myself in a woolen button-style shawl and step onto the windowsill.
This feels all too familiar, of course.
I can't help but remember the night when I escaped the house the same way and then climbed into Edward's window. Was that just over a month ago?
But no, I jerk my chin up and sniff resolutely. Today, I'm not going to Edward. Not happening.
I might, of course, pass by his house and see if there's any light in his window, and if there is, it would be clear that Carlisle lied.
XXX
The night is rather windy, and I belatedly think that taking my gloves with me might have been a good idea. Oh well. I'm not climbing back just yet. Our street is empty, but the wind brings sounds of people talking and laughing somewhere in the distance.
I start walking fast and vigorously, con fuoco as Italians say, trying to rhythmically move my arms and upper torso and concentrate solely on my breathing, like I'd walk on a treadmill. My heavy, almost floor-length woolen skirt doesn't help my movements in the least, but I ignore the inconvenience.
I walk and walk. Gradually, the itchy feeling of being annoyed with everything and everybody subsides, and I allow myself to slow down to a normal speed, take a deep breath, and look around. The city seems lifeless and gray in the unsteady light of the street lamps. All I can see are the endless rows of townhouses on both sides of the street, all dark and unfriendly.
What time is it even?
With a pang of unease, I realize that I'm a little further from home than I planned to be, and not at all on the street where Edward and Carlisle live. How did I miss the turn? This is not a problem though. I know this neighborhood very well.
I quickly make a U-turn and begin walking back. My hands feel like ice after waving them so much in the cold air, while the rest of my body is now overheated and sweaty. I increase my speed, suddenly longing for the confines of my bedroom, a place that I hated just half an hour ago.
Carefully watching my step, I turn the corner onto the street that should bring me to Lansdown Hall.
A group of men suddenly appears right in my way. I nearly collide with one of them but jump back at the last moment, and my heart thuds in my throat.
I don't understand how I didn't hear them. Probably the wind carried their voices in the opposite direction? This part of the sidewalk is well-lit, and we stare at each other for a second.
I quickly count three of them. They look completely out of place in this part of London—clearly working-class, broad-shouldered, and with worn, grubby clothes and boots that have likely seen years, if not generations, of wear. It's hard to say how old they are, probably in their late 20s, but deep creases line their faces. There are other signs of premature aging, either from working too hard or drinking too much, or both. The staggering reek of cheap alcohol mixed with the undertones of sweat and feces floods my nostrils.
Don't get me wrong, I know that London circa 1833, isn't exactly a safe place for a woman walking alone, both at night and in the daylight. Damn it, Carlisle told me. But somehow, I thought this part of town wasn't that bad. It's like knowing that Seattle can be dangerous, but if you don't do outright stupid things, like walking around the corner of 3rd and Pine after 9 pm or having dinner at McStabby's, you should be fine.
Well, clearly, I was wrong.
After a second, I snap out of my trance with a brisk, "Pardon me," and scurry to the other side of the street.
The trio erupts in laughter.
"A fine night for a stroll, miss!" one of them shouts in a Northern accent (I still have a hard time telling them apart). After that, the laughter of his buddies becomes even more voracious.
I hunch my shoulders, look down, and walk as quickly as I can without breaking into a run. Unfortunately, I catch sight of the men in my peripheral vision—they've crossed the road and are now following me.
"Fuck," I curse silently. If all this time travel thing is a dream, now would be a really good time to wake up.
Stupid, stupid! What should I do?! Should I try to outrun them or start screaming?
I don't have time to weigh the pros and cons of either.
I pick up my skirt and run, praying that they are drunk enough to eventually trip and fall. Too bad, they seem to be quite fit, and if the cat calls coming from behind me are any indication, they're quickly gaining on me.
I gather all my remaining energy and race even faster. As I'm about to dive into the side street that should take me to the back of my house, one of the men lunges forward and grabs me by the sleeve. He shoves me against the wall with the force of a plow truck, and in the next moment, I'm scrambling over wet, slimy bricks, trying to stay upright, cornered by all three of them.
"Look at you!" sneers one of them, the same one who shouted at me before. "Smile for me, love!"
His own smile is so vile and devoid of humanity that I might just pass out from shock and fear, but the potent stench of their bodies keeps me conscious just like a bottle of smelling salts would. They pant in my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut, simultaneously trying to get away from the stomach-turning smell and find it in me to scream.
When one of them puts his hand on my mouth and gags me, instinct finally kicks in.
I scratch whatever flesh I can reach. I kick, and I bite…
For a second, I manage to break loose, only to slip and fall in the mud and be pulled up by my hair. Someone slaps me in the face so hard that I feel the burning pain of the broken skin. At the same moment, a hand roughly palms my breast, and I burst into angry tears, realizing that all my bravery doesn't change a thing.
The next moment I hear a loud boom.
All of a sudden, I'm free. There's a strange commotion on the ground that reminds me of a mini tornado I once saw on YouTube—a little pet tornado whooshing around someone's backyard in British Columbia, deadly despite its size.
Then, there's silence.
I blink as numbness quickly spreads through my body. I see the three men lying on the ground, with their necks broken and their eyes empty of life. I look up.
Edward. Edward is here.
He stands motionless in the middle of the carnage, tall, lethal, and more beautiful than I've ever seen him. His black eyes are wide with shock, probably just like my own.
How could I ever have mistaken him for a human?
In this light, he looks like an avenging angel… or maybe an ancient god of war.
So, Jessica was right then.
As I slide down the wall, fighting to stay conscious, he approaches me and kneels to meet my gaze. Gently, as if afraid to startle me, he touches my face, gathers a drop of blood from my cheek, and slowly brings it to his lips. His eyes close for a few seconds, and a tremor passes through his entire body.
"Bella," he whispers, "I require a moment to tend to the bodies. Then I shall take you home."
.
.
.
A/N:
Con fuoco: (Italian) literally, "with fire"— in music, playing with great force and speed
McStabby's is a McDonald's in Downtown Seattle that got its nickname for the number of stabbings and other acts of violence that have happened inside and nearby. That area, 3rd Ave & Pine St., is also a famous drug use and deal spot. Not recommended.
.
.
.
