embarrassment.　　No one else seemed to know quite what to say, and then Jasper was there —　　tall and leonine. A feeling of ease spread through me, and I was suddenly　　comfortable despite where I was. Edward stared at Jasper, raising one　　eyebrow, and I remembered what Jasper could do.　　"Hello, Bella," Jasper said. He kept his distance, not offering to shake　　my hand. But it was impossible to feel awkward near him.　　"Hello, Jasper." I smiled at him shyly, and then at the others. "It's　　nice to meet you all — you have a very beautiful home," I added　　conventionally.　　"Thank you," Esme said. "We're so glad that you came." She spoke with　　feeling, and I realized that she thought I was brave.　　I also realized that Rosalie and Emmett were nowhere to be seen, and I　　remembered Edward's too-innocent denial when I'd asked him if the others　　didn't like me.　　Carlisle's expression distracted me from this train of thought; he was　　gazing meaningfully at Edward with an intense expression. Out of the　　corner of my eye, I saw Edward nod once.　　I looked away, trying to be polite. My eyes wandered again to the　　beautiful instrument on the platform by the door. I suddenly remembered　　my childhood fantasy that, should I ever win a lottery, I would buy a　　grand piano for my mother. She wasn't really good — she only played for　　herself on our secondhand upright — but I loved to watch her play. She　　was happy, absorbed — she seemed like a new, mysterious being to me then,　　someone outside the "mom" persona I took for granted. She'd put me　　through lessons, of course, but like most kids, I whined until she let me　　quit.　　Esme noticed my preoccupation.　　"Do you play?" she asked, inclining her head toward the piano.　　I shook my head. "Not at all. But it's so beautiful. Is it yours?"　　"No," she laughed. "Edward didn't tell you he was musical?"　　"No." I glared at his suddenly innocent expression with narrowed eyes. "I　　should have known, I guess."　　Esme raised her delicate eyebrows in confusion.　　"Edward can do everything, right?" I explained.　　Jasper snickered and Esme gave Edward a reproving look.　　"I hope you haven't been showing off— it's rude," she scolded.　　"Just a bit," he laughed freely. Her face softened at the sound, and they　　shared a brief look that I didn't understand, though Esme's face seemed　　almost smug.　　"He's been too modest, actually," I corrected.　　"Well, play for her," Esme encouraged.　　"You just said showing off was rude," he objected.　　"There are exceptions to every rule," she replied.　　"I'd like to hear you play," I volunteered.　　"It's settled then." Esme pushed him toward the piano. He pulled me　　along, sitting me on the bench beside him.　　He gave me a long, exasperated look before he turned to the keys.　　And then his fingers flowed swiftly across the ivory, and the room was　　filled with a composition so complex, so luxuriant, it was impossible to　　believe only one set of hands played. I felt my chin drop, my mouth open　　in astonishment, and heard low chuckles behind me at my reaction.　　Edward looked at me casually, the music still surging around us without a　　break, and winked. "Do you like it?"　　"You wrote this?" I gasped, understanding.　　He nodded. "It's Esme's favorite."　　I closed my eyes, shaking my head.　　"What's wrong?"　　"I'm feeling extremely insignificant."　　The music slowed, transforming into something softer, and to my surprise　　I detected the melody of his lullaby weaving through the profusion of　　notes.　　"You inspired this one," he said softly. The music grew unbearably sweet.　　I couldn't speak.　　"They like you, you know," he said conversationally. "Esme especially."　　I glanced behind me, but the huge room was empty now.　　"Where did they go?"　　"Very subtly giving us some privacy, I suppose."　　I sighed. "They like me. But Rosalie and Emmett…" I trailed off, not sure　　how to express my doubts.　　He frowned. "Don't worry about Rosalie," he said, his eyes wide and　　persuasive. "She'll come around."　　I pursed my lips skeptically. "Emmett?"　　"Well, he thinks I'm a lunatic, it's true, but he doesn't have a problem　　with you. He's trying to reason with Rosalie."　　"What is it that upsets her?" I wasn't sure if I wanted to know the　　answer.　　He sighed deeply. "Rosalie struggles the most with… with what we are.　　It's hard for her to have someone on the outside know the truth. And　　she's a little jealous."　　"Rosalie is jealous of me?" I asked incredulously. I tried to imagine a　　universe in which someone as breathtaking as Rosalie would have any　　possible reason to feel jealous of someone like me.　　"You're human." He shrugged. "She wishes that she were, too."　　"Oh," I muttered, still stunned. "Even Jasper, though…"　　"That's really my fault," he said. "I told you he was the most recent to　　try our way of life. I warned him to keep his distance."　　I thought about the reason for that, and shuddered.　　"Esme and Carlisle… ?" I continued quickly, to keep him from noticing.　　"Are happy to see me happy. Actually, Esme wouldn't care if you had a　　third eye and webbed feet. All this time she's been worried about me,　　afraid that there was something missing from my essential makeup, that I　　was too young when Carlisle changed me… She's ecstatic. Every time I　　touch you, she just about chokes with satisfaction."　　"Alice seems very… enthusiastic."　　"Alice has her own way of looking at things," he said through tight lips.　　"And you're not going to explain that, are you?"　　A moment of wordless communication passed between us. He realized that I　　knew he was keeping something from me. I realized that he wasn't going to　　give anything away. Not now.　　"So what was Carlisle telling you before?"　　His eyebrows pulled together. "You noticed that, did you?"　　I shrugged. "Of course."　　He looked at me thoughtfully for a few seconds before answering. "He　　wanted to tell me some news — he didn't know if it was something I would　　share with you."　　"Will you?"　　"I have to, because I'm going to be a little… overbearingly protective　　over the next few days — or weeks — and I wouldn't want you to think I'm　　naturally a tyrant."　　"What's wrong?"　　"Nothing's wrong, exactly. Alice just sees some visitors coming soon.　　They know we're here, and they're curious."　　"Visitors?"　　"Yes… well, they aren't like us, of course — in their hunting habits, I　　mean. They probably won't come into town at all, but I'm certainly not　　going to let you out of my sight till they're gone."　　I shivered.　　"Finally, a rational response!" he murmured. "I was beginning to think　　you had no sense of self-preservation at all."　　I let that one pass, looking away, my eyes wandering again around the　　spacious room.　　He followed my gaze. "Not what you expected, is it?" he asked, his voice　　smug.　　"No," I admitted.　　"No coffins, no piled skulls in the corners; I don't even think we have　　cobwebs… what a disappointment this must be for you," he continued slyly.　　I ignored his teasing. "It's so light… so open."　　He was more serious when he answered. "It's the one place we never have　　to hide."　　The song he was still playing, my song, drifted to an end, the final　　chords shifting to a more melancholy key. The last note hovered　　poignantly in the silence.　　"Thank you," I murmured. I realized there were tears in my eyes. I dabbed　　at them, embarrassed.　　He touched the corner of my eye, trapping one I missed. He lifted his　　finger, examining the drop of moisture broodingly. Then, so quickly I　　couldn't be positive that he really did, he put his finger to his mouth　　to taste it.　　I looked at him questioningly, and he gazed back for a long moment before　　he finally smiled.　　"Do you want to see the rest of the house?"　　"No coffins?" I verified, the sarcasm in my voice not entirely masking　　the slight but genuine anxiety I felt.　　He laughed, taking my hand, leading me away from the piano.　　"No coffins," he promised.　　We walked up the massive staircase, my hand trailing along the　　satin-smooth rail. The long hall at the top of the stairs was paneled　　with a honey-colored wood, the same as the floorboards.　　"Rosalie and Emmett's room… Carlisle's office… Alice's room…" He gestured　　as he led me past the doors.　　He would have continued, but I stopped dead at the end of the hall,　　staring incredulously at the ornament hanging on the wall above my head.　　Edward chuckled at my bewildered expression.　　"You can laugh," he said. "It is sort of ironic."　　I didn't laugh. My hand raised automatically, one finger extended as if　　to touch the large wooden cross, its dark patina contrasting with the　　lighter tone of the wall. I didn't touch it, though I was curious if the　　aged wood would feel as silky as it looked.　　"It must be very old," I guessed.　　He shrugged. "Early sixteen-thirties, more or less."　　I looked away from the cross to stare at him.　　"Why do you keep this here?" I wondered.　　"Nostalgia. It belonged to Carlisle's father."　　"He collected antiques?" I suggested doubtfully.　　"No. He carved this himself. It hung on the wall above the pulpit in the　　vicarage where he preached."　　I wasn't sure if my face betrayed my shock, but I returned to gazing at　　the simple, ancient cross, just in case. I quickly did the mental math;　　the cross was over three hundred and seventy years old. The silence　　stretched on as I struggled to wrap my mind around the concept of so many　　years.　　"Are you all right?" He sounded worried.　　"How old is Carlisle?" I asked quietly, ignoring his question, still　　staring up.　　"He just celebrated his three hundred and sixty-second birthday," Edward　　said. I looked back at him, a million questions in my eyes.　　He watched me carefully as he spoke.　　"Carlisle was born in London, in the sixteen-forties, he believes. Time　　wasn't marked as accurately then, for the common people anyway. It was　　just before Cromwell's rule, though."　　I kept my face composed, aware of his scrutiny as I listened. It was　　easier if I didn't try to believe.　　"He was the only son of an Anglican pastor. His mother died giving birth　　to him. His father was an intolerant man. As the Protestants came into　　power, he was enthusiastic in his persecution of Roman Catholics and　　other religions. He also believed very strongly in the reality of evil.　　He led hunts for witches, werewolves… and vampires." I grew very still at　　the word. I'm sure he noticed, but he went on without pausing.　　"They burned a lot of innocent people — of course the real creatures that　　he sought were not so easy to catch.　　"When the pastor grew old, he placed his obedient son in charge of the　　raids. At first Carlisle was a disappointment; he was not quick to　　accuse, to see demons where they did not exist. But he was persistent,　　and more clever than his father. He actually discovered a coven of true　　vampires that lived hidden in the sewers of the city, only coming out by　　night to hunt. In those days, when monsters were not just myths and　　legends, that was the way many lived.　　"The people gathered their pitchforks and torches, of course" — his brief　　laugh was darker now — "and waited where Carlisle had seen the monsters　　exit into the street. Eventually one emerged."　　His voice was very quiet; I strained to catch the words.　　"He must have been ancient, and weak with hunger. Carlisle heard him call　　out in Latin to the others when he caught the scent of the mob. He ran　　through the streets, and Carlisle — he was twenty-three and very fast —　　was in the lead of the pursuit. The creature could have easily outrun　　them, but Carlisle thinks he was too hungry, so he turned and attacked.　　He fell on Carlisle first, but the others were close behind, and he　　turned to defend himself. He killed two men, and made off with a third,　　leaving Carlisle bleeding in the street."　　He paused. I could sense he was editing something, keeping something from　　me.　　"Carlisle knew what his father would do. The bodies would be burned —　　anything infected by the monster must be destroyed. Carlisle acted　　instinctively to save his own life. He crawled away from the alley while　　the mob followed the fiend and his victim. He hid in a cellar, buried　　himself in rotting potatoes for three days. It's a miracle he was able to　　keep silent, to stay undiscovered.　　"It was over then, and he realized what he had become."　　I'm not sure what my face was revealing, but he suddenly broke off.　　"How are you feeling?" he asked.　　"I'm fine," I assured him. And, though I bit my lip in hesitation, he　　must have seen the curiosity burning in my eyes.　　He smiled. "I expect you have a few more questions for me."　　"A few."　　His smile widened over his brilliant teeth. He started back down the　　hall, pulling me along by the hand. "Come on, then," he encouraged. "I'll　　show you."　　===========================================================================　　16. CARLISLE　　He led me back to the room that he'd pointed out as Carlisle's office. He　　paused outside the door for an instant.　　"Come in," Carlisle's voice invited.　　Edward opened the door to a high-ceilinged room with tall, west-facing　　windows. The walls were paneled again, in a darker wood — where they were　　visible. Most of the wall space was taken up by towering bookshelves that　　reached high above my head and held more books than I'd ever seen outside　　a library.　　Carlisle sat behind a huge mahogany desk in a leather chair. He was just　　placing a bookmark in the pages of the thick volume he held. The room was　　how I'd always imagined a college dean's would look — only Carlisle　　looked too young to fit the part.　　"What can I do for you?" he asked us pleasantly, rising from his seat.　　"I wanted to show Bella some of our history," Edward said. "Well, your　　history, actually."　　"We didn't mean to disturb you," I apologized.　　"Not at all. Where are you going to start?"　　"The Waggoner," Edward replied, placing one hand lightly on my shoulder　　and spinning me around to look back toward the door we'd just come　　through. Every time he touched me, in even the most casual way, my heart　　had an audible reaction. It was more embarrassing with Carlisle there.　　The wall we faced now was different from the others. Instead of　　bookshelves, this wall was crowded with framed pictures of all sizes,　　some in vibrant colors, others dull monochromes. I searched for some　　logic, some binding motif the collection had in common, but I found　　nothing in my hasty examination.　　Edward pulled me toward the far left side, standing me in front of a　　small square oil painting in a plain wooden frame. This one did not stand　　out among the bigger and brighter pieces; painted in varying tones of　　sepia, it depicted a miniature city full of steeply slanted roofs, with　　thin spires atop a few scattered towers. A wide river filled the　　foreground, crossed by a bridge covered with structures that looked like　　tiny cathedrals.　　"London in the sixteen-fifties," Edward said.　　"The London of my youth," Carlisle added, from a few feet behind us. I　　flinched; I hadn't heard him approach. Edward squeezed my hand.　　"Will you tell the story?" Edward asked. I twisted a little to see　　Carlisle's reaction.　　He met my glance and smiled. "I would," he replied. "But I'm actually　　running a bit late. The hospital called this morning — Dr. Snow is taking　　a sick day. Besides, you know the stories as well as I do," he added,　　grinning at Edward now.　　It was a strange combination to absorb — the everyday concerns of the　　town doctor stuck in the middle of a discussion of his early days in　　seventeenth-century London.　　It was also unsettling to know that he spoke aloud only for my benefit.　　After another warm smile for me, Carlisle left the room.　　I stared at the little picture of Carlisle's hometown for a long moment.　　"What happened then?" I finally asked, staring up at Edward, who was　　watching me. "When he realized what had happened to him?"　　He glanced back to the paintings, and I looked to see which image caught　　his interest now. It was a larger landscape in dull fall colors — an　　empty, shadowed meadow in a forest, with a craggy peak in the distance.　　"When he knew what he had become," Edward said quietly, "he rebelled　　against it. He tried to destroy himself. But that's not easily done."　　"How?" I didn't mean to say it aloud, but the word broke through my shock.　　"He jumped from great heights," Edward told me, his voice impassive. "He　　tried to drown himself in the ocean… but he was young to the new life,　　and very strong. It is amazing that he was able to resist… feeding… while　　he was still so new. The instinct is more powerful then, it takes over　　everything. But he was so repelled by himself that he had the strength to　　try to kill himself with starvation."　　"Is that possible?" My voice was faint.　　"No, there are very few ways we can be killed."　　I opened my mouth to ask, but he spoke before I could.　　"So he grew very hungry, and eventually weak. He strayed as far as he　　could from the human populace, recognizing that his willpower was　　weakening, too. For months he wandered by night, seeking the loneliest　　places, loathing himself.　　"One night, a herd of deer passed his hiding place. He was so wild with　　thirst that he attacked without a thought. His strength returned and he　　realized there was an alternative to being the vile monster he feared.　　Had he not eaten venison in his former life? Over the next months his new　　philosophy was born. He could exist without being a demon. He found　　himself again.　　"He began to make better use of his time. He'd always been intelligent,　　eager to learn. Now he had unlimited time before him. He studied by　　night, planned by day. He swam to France and —"　　"He swam to France?"　　"People swim the Channel all the time, Bella," he reminded me patiently.　　"That's true, I guess. It just sounded funny in that context. Go on."　　"Swimming is easy for us —"　　"Everything is easy for you," I griped.　　He waited, his expression amused.　　"I won't interrupt again, I promise."　　He chuckled darkly, and finished his sentence. "Because, technically, we　　don't need to breathe."　　"You —"　　"No, no, you promised." He laughed, putting his cold finger lightly to my　　lips. "Do you want to hear the story or not?"　　"You can't spring something like that on me, and then expect me not to　　say anything," I mumbled against his finger.　　He lifted his hand, moving it to rest against my neck. The speed of my　　heart reacted to that, but I persisted.　　"You don't have to breathe?" I demanded.　　"No, it's not necessary. Just a habit." He shrugged.　　"How long can you go… without breathing?"　　"Indefinitely, I suppose; I don't know. It gets a bit uncomfortable —　　being without a sense of smell."　　"A bit uncomfortable," I echoed.　　I wasn't paying attention to my own expression, but something in it made　　him grow somber. His hand dropped to his side and he stood very still,　　his eyes intent on my face. The silence lengthened. His features were　　immobile as stone.　　"What is it?" I whispered, touching his frozen face.　　His face softened under my hand, and he sighed. "I keep waiting for it to　　happen."　　"For what to happen?"　　"I know that at some point, something I tell you or something you see is　　going to be too much. And then you'll run away from me, screaming as you　　go." He smiled half a smile, but his eyes were serious. "I won't stop　　you. I want this to happen, because I want you to be safe. And yet, I　　want to be with you. The two desires are impossible to reconcile…" He　　trailed off, staring at my face. Waiting.　　"I'm not running anywhere," I promised.　　"We'll see," he said, smiling again.　　I frowned at him. "So, go on — Carlisle was swimming to France."　　He paused, getting back into his story. Reflexively, his eyes flickered　　to another picture — the most colorful of them all, the most ornately　　framed, and the largest; it was twice as wide as the door it hung next　　to. The canvas overflowed with bright figures in swirling robes, writhing　　around long pillars and off marbled balconies. I couldn't tell if it　　represented Greek mythology, or if the characters floating in the clouds　　above were meant to be biblical.　　"Carlisle swam to France, and continued on through Europe, to the　　universities there. By night he studied music, science, medicine — and　　found his calling, his penance, in that, in saving human lives." His　　expression became awed, almost reverent. "I can't adequately describe the　　struggle; it took Carlisle two centuries of torturous effort to perfect　　his self-control. Now he is all but immune to the scent of human blood,　　and he is able to do the work he loves without agony. He finds a great　　deal of peace there, at the hospital…" Edward stared off into space for a　　long moment. Suddenly he seemed to recall his purpose. He tapped his　　finger against the huge painting in front of us.　　"He was studying in Italy when he discovered the others there. They were　　much more civilized and educated than the wraiths of the London sewers."　　He touched a comparatively sedate quartet of figures painted on the　　highest balcony, looking down calmly on the mayhem below them. I examined　　the grouping carefully and realized, with a startled laugh, that I　　recognized the golden-haired man.　　"Solimena was greatly inspired by Carlisle's friends. He often painted　　them as gods," Edward chuckled. "Aro, Marcus, Caius," he said, indicating　　the other three, two black-haired, one snowy-white. "Nighttime patrons of　　the arts."　　"What happened to them?" I wondered aloud, my fingertip hovering a　　centimeter from the figures on the canvas.　　"They're still there." He shrugged. "As they have been for who knows how　　many millennia. Carlisle stayed with them only for a short time, just a　　few decades. He greatly admired their civility, their refinement, but　　they persisted in trying to cure his aversion to 'his natural food　　source,' as they called it. They tried to persuade him, and he tried to　　persuade them, to no avail. At that point, Carlisle decided to try the　　New World. He dreamed of finding others like himself. He was very lonely,　　you see.　　"He didn't find anyone for a long time. But, as monsters became the stuff　　of fairy tales, he found he could interact with unsuspecting humans as if　　he were one of them. He began practicing medicine. But the companionship　　he craved evaded him; he couldn't risk familiarity.　　"When the influenza epidemic hit, he was working nights in a hospital in　　Chicago. He'd been turning over an idea in his mind for several years,　　and he had almost decided to act — since he couldn't find a companion, he　　would create one. He wasn't absolutely sure how his own transformation　　had occurred, so he was hesitant. And he was loath to steal anyone's life　　the way his had been stolen. It was in that frame of mind that he found　　me. There was no hope for me; I was left in a ward with the dying. He had　　nursed my parents, and knew I was alone. He decided to try…"　　His voice, nearly a whisper now, trailed off. He stared unseeingly　　through the west windows. I wondered which images filled his mind now,　　Carlisle's memories or his own. I waited quietly.　　When he turned back to me, a gentle angel's smile lit his expression.