Twilight Tenth Anniversary Edition

by Stephenie Meyer

  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.

  “T
he 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 express
ion, 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.”